11025	----	Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk PHAETHON; LOOSE THOUGHTS FOR LOOSE THINKERS. 1852. Templeton and I were lounging by the clear limestone stream which crossed his park and wound away round wooded hills toward the distant Severn. A lovelier fishing morning sportsman never saw. A soft gray under-roof of cloud slid on before a soft west wind, and here and there a stray gleam of sunlight shot into the vale across the purple mountain-tops, and awoke into busy life the denizens of the water, already quickened by the mysterious electric influences of the last night's thunder-shower. The long-winged cinnamon-flies spun and fluttered over the pools; the sand-bees hummed merrily round their burrows in the marly bank; and delicate iridescent ephemerae rose by hundreds from the depths, and, dropping their shells, floated away, each a tiny Venus Anadyomene, down the glassy ripples of the reaches. Every moment a heavy splash beneath some overhanging tuft of milfoil or water hemlock proclaimed the death- doom of a hapless beetle who had dropped into the stream beneath; yet still we fished and fished, and caught nothing, and seemed utterly careless about catching anything; till the old keeper who followed us, sighing and shrugging his shoulders, broke forth into open remonstrance: "Excuse my liberty, gentlemen, but what ever is the matter with you and master, sir? I never did see you miss so many honest rises before." "It is too true," said Templeton to me with a laugh. "I must confess I have been dreaming instead of fishing the whole morning. But what has happened to you, who are not as apt as I am to do nothing by trying to do two things at once?" "My hand may well be somewhat unsteady; for to tell the truth, I sat up all last night writing." "A hopeful preparation for a day's fishing in limestone water! But what can have set you on writing all night after so busy and talkative an evening as the last, ending too, as it did, somewhere about half-past twelve?" "Perhaps the said talkative evening itself; and I suspect, if you will confess the truth, you will say that your morning's meditations are running very much in the same channel." "Lewis," said he, after a pause, "go up to the hall, and bring some luncheon for us down to the lower waterfall." "And a wheelbarrow to carry home the fish, sir?" "If you wish to warm yourself, certainly. And now, my good fellow," said he, as the old keeper toddled away up the park, "I will open my heart-a process for which I have but few opportunities here-to an old college friend. I am disturbed and saddened by last night's talk and by last night's guest." "By the American professor? How, in the name of English exclusiveness, did such a rampantly heterodox spiritual guerilla invade the respectabilities and conservatisms of Herefordshire?" "He was returning from a tour through Wales, and had introductions to me from some Manchester friends of mine, to avail himself of which I found he had gone some thirty miles out of his way." "Complimentary to you, at least." "To Lady Jane, I suspect, rather than to me; for he told me broadly enough that all the flattering attentions which he had received in Manchester-where, you know, all such prophets are received with open arms, their only credentials being that, whatsoever they believe, they shall not believe the Bible-had not given him the pleasure which he had received from that one introduction to what he called 'the inner hearth-life of the English landed aristocracy.' But what did you think of him?" "Do you really wish to know?" "I do." "Then, honestly, I never heard so much magniloquent unwisdom talked in the same space of time. It was the sense of shame for my race which kept me silent all the evening. I could not trust myself to argue with a gray-haired Saxon man, whose fifty years of life seemed to have left him a child in all but the childlike heart which alone can enter into the kingdom of heaven." "You are severe," said Templeton, smilingly though, as if his estimate were not very different from mine. "Can one help being severe when one hears irreverence poured forth from reverend lips? I do not mean merely irreverence for the Catholic Creeds; that to my mind-God forgive me if I misjudge him- seemed to me only one fruit of a deep root of irreverence for all things as they are, even for all things as they seem. Did you not remark the audacious contempt for all ages but 'our glorious nineteenth century,' and the still deeper contempt for all in the said glorious time who dared to believe that there was any ascertained truth independent of the private fancy and opinion of- for I am afraid it came to that-him, Professor Windrush, and his circle of elect souls? 'You may believe nothing if you like, and welcome; but if you do take to that unnecessary act, you are a fool if you believe anything but what I believe-though I do not choose to state what that is.' Is not that, now, a pretty fair formulisation of his doctrine?" "But, my dear raver," said Templeton, laughing, "the man believed at least in physical science. I am sure we heard enough about its triumphs." "It may be so. But to me his very 'spiritualism' seemed more materialistic than his physics. His notion seemed to be, though heaven forbid that I should say that he ever put it formally before himself-" "Or anything else," said Templeton, sotto voce. "-that it is the spiritual world which is governed by physical laws, and the physical by spiritual ones; that while men and women are merely the puppets of cerebrations and mentations, and attractions and repulsions, it is the trees, and stones, and gases, who have the wills and the energies, and the faiths and the virtues and the personalities." "You are caricaturing." "How so? How can I judge otherwise, when I hear a man talking, as he did, of God in terms which, every one of them involved what we call the essential properties of matter-space, time, passibility, motion; setting forth phrenology and mesmerism as the great organs of education, even of the regeneration of mankind; apologising for the earlier ravings of the Poughkeepsie seer, and considering his later eclectico-pantheist farragos as great utterances: while, whenever he talked of Nature, he showed the most credulous craving after everything which we, the countrymen of Bacon, have been taught to consider unscientific-Homoeopathy, Electro-biology, Loves of the Plants a la Darwin, Vestiges of Creation, Vegetarianisms, Teetotalisms-never mind what, provided it was unaccredited or condemned by regularly educated men of science?" "But you don't mean to assert that there is nothing in any of these theories?" "Of course not. I can no more prove a universal negative about them than I can about the existence of life on the moon. But I do say that this contempt for that which has been already discovered-this carelessness about induction from the normal phenomena, coupled with this hankering after theories built upon exceptional ones-this craving for 'signs and wonders,' which is the sure accompaniment of a dying faith in God, and in nature as God's work-are symptoms which make me tremble for the fate of physical as well as of spiritual science, both in America and in the Americanists here at home. As the Professor talked on, I could not help thinking of the neo- Platonists of Alexandria, and their exactly similar course-downward from a spiritualism of notions and emotions, which in every term confessed its own materialism, to the fearful discovery that consciousness does not reveal God, not even matter, but only its own existence; and then onward, in desperate search after something external wherein to trust, towards theurgic fetish worship, and the secret virtues of gems and flowers and stars; and, last of all, to the lowest depth of bowing statues and winking pictures. The sixth century saw that career, Templeton; the nineteenth may see it re- enacted, with only these differences, that the Nature-worship which seems coming will be all the more crushing and slavish, because we know so much better how vast and glorious Nature is; and that the superstitions will be more clumsy and foolish in proportion as our Saxon brain is less acute and discursive, and our education less severely scientific, than those of the old Greeks." "Silence, raver!" cried Templeton, throwing himself on the grass in fits of laughter. "So the Professor's grandchildren will have either turned Papists, or be bowing down before rusty locomotives and broken electric telegraphs? But, my good friend, you surely do not take Professor Windrush for a fair sample of the great American people?" "God forbid that so unpractical a talker should be a sample of the most practical people upon earth. The Americans have their engineers, their geographers, their astronomers, their scientific chemists; few indeed, but such as bid fair to rival those of any nation upon earth. But these, like other true workers, hold their tongues and do their business." "And they have a few indigenous authors too: you must have read the 'Biglow Papers,' and the 'Fable for Critics,' and last but not least, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin'?" "Yes; and I have had far less fear for Americans since I read that book; for it showed me that there was right healthy power, artistic as well as intellectual, among them, even now-ready, when their present borrowed peacocks' feathers have fallen off, to come forth and prove that the Yankee Eagle is a right gallant bird, if he will but trust to his own natural plumage." "And they have a few statesmen also." "But they are curt, plain-spoken, practical-in everything antipodal to the knot of hapless men, who, unable from some defect or morbidity to help on the real movement of their nation, are fain to get their bread with tongue and pen, by retailing to 'silly women,' 'ever learning and never coming to the knowledge of the truth,' second-hand German eclecticisms, now exploded even in the country where they arose, and the very froth and scum of the Medea's caldron, in which the disjecta membra of old Calvinism are pitiably seething." "Ah! It has been always the plan, you know, in England, as well as in America, courteously to avoid taking up a German theory till the Germans had quite done with it, and thrown it away for something new. But what are we to say of those who are trying to introduce into England these very Americanised Germanisms, as the only teaching which can suit the needs of the old world?" "We will, if we are in a vulgar humour, apply to them a certain old proverb about teaching one's grandmother a certain simple operation on the egg of the domestic fowl; but we will no less take shame to ourselves, as sons of Alma Mater, that such nonsense can get even a day's hearing, either among the daughters of Manchester manufacturers, or among London working men. Had we taught them what we were taught in the schools, Templeton-" "Alas, my friend, we must ourselves have learnt it first. I have no right to throw stones at the poor Professor, for I could not answer him." "Do not suppose that I can either. All I say is-mankind has not lived in vain. Least of all has it lived in vain during the last eighteen hundred years. It has gained something of eternal truth in every age, and that which it has gained is as fresh and young now as ever; and I will not throw away the bird in the hand for any number of birds in the bush." "Especially when you suspect most of them to be only wooden pheasants, set up to delude poachers. Well, you are far more of a Philister and a Conservative than I thought you." "The New is coming, I doubt not; but it must grow organically out of the Old-not root the old up, and stick itself full-grown into the place thereof, like a French tree of liberty-sure of much the same fate. Other foundation can no man lay than that which is laid already, in spiritual things or in physical; as the Professor and his school will surely find." "You recollect to whom the Bible applies that text?" "I do." "And yet you say you cannot answer the Professor?" "I do not care to do so. There are certain root-truths which I know, because they have been discovered and settled for ages; and instead of accepting the challenge of every I-know-not-whom to re- examine them, and begin the world's work all over again, I will test his theories by them; and if they fail to coincide, I will hear no more speech about the details of the branches and flowers, for I shall know the root is rotten." "But he, too, acknowledged certain of those root-truths," said Templeton, who seemed to have a lingering sympathy with my victim; "he insisted most strongly, and spoke, you will not deny, eloquently and nobly on the Unity of the Deity." "On the non-Trinity of _it_, rather; for I will not degrade the word 'Him,' by applying it here. But, tell me honestly-c'est le timbre qui fait la musique-did his 'Unity of the Deity' sound in your English Bible-bred heart at all like that ancient, human, personal 'Hear, O Israel! the Lord thy God is one Lord'?" "Much more like 'The Something our Nothing is one Something.'" "May we not suspect, then, that his notion of the 'Unity of the Deity' does not quite coincide with the foundation already laid, whosesoever else may?" "You are assuming rather hastily." "Perhaps I may prove also, some day or other. Do you think, moreover, that the theory which he so boldly started, when his nerves and his manners were relieved from the unwonted pressure by Lady Jane and the ladies going upstairs, was part of the same old foundation?" "Which, then?" "That, if a man does but believe a thing, he has a right to speak it and act on it, right or wrong. Have you forgotten his vindication of your friend, the radical voter, and his 'spirit of truth'?" "What, the worthy who, when I canvassed him as the Liberal candidate for ---, and promised to support complete freedom of religious opinion, tested me by breaking out into such blasphemous ribaldry as made me run out of the house, and then went and voted against me as a bigot?" "I mean him, of course. The Professor really seemed to admire the man, as a more brave and conscientious hero than himself. I am not squeamish, as you know; but I am afraid that I was quite rude to him when he went as far as that." "What-when you told him that you thought that, after all, the old theory of the Divine Right of Kings was as plausible as the new theory of the Divine Right of Blasphemy? My dear fellow, do not fret yourself on that point. He seemed to take it rather as a compliment to his own audacity, and whispered to me that 'The Divine Right of Blasphemy' was an expression of which Theodore Parker himself need not have been ashamed." "He was pleased to be complimentary. But, tell me, what was it in his oratory which has so vexed the soul of the country squire?" "That very argument of his, among many things. I saw, or rather felt, that he was wrong; and yet, as I have said already, I could not answer him; and, had he not been my guest, should have got thoroughly cross with him, as a pis-aller." "I saw it. But, my friend, used we not to read Plato together, and enjoy him together, in old Cambridge days? Do you not think that Socrates might at all events have driven the Professor into a corner?" "He might: but I cannot. Is that, then, what you were writing about all last night?" "It was. I could not help, when I went out on the terrace to smoke my last cigar, fancying to myself how Socrates might have seemed to set you, and the Professor, and that warm-hearted, right-headed, wrong-tongued High-Church Curate, all together by the ears, and made confusion worse confounded for the time being, and yet have left for each of you some hint whereby you might see the darling truth for which you were barking, all the more clearly in the light of the one which you were howling down." "And so you sat up, and-I thought the corridor smelt somewhat of smoke." "Forgive, and I will confess. I wrote a dialogue;-and here it is, if you choose to hear it. If there are a few passages, or even many, which Plato would not have written, you will consider my age and inexperience, and forgive." "My dear fellow, you forget that I, like you, have been ten years away from dear old Alma-Mater, Plato, the boats, and Potton Wood. My authorities now are 'Morton on Soils' and 'Miles on the Horse's Foot.' Read on, fearless of my criticisms. Here is the waterfall; we will settle ourselves on Jane's favourite seat. You shall discourse, and I, till Lewis brings the luncheon, will smoke my cigar; and if I seem to be looking at the mountain, don't fancy that I am only counting how many young grouse those heath-burning worthies will have left me by the twelfth." So we sat down, and I began: PHAETHON Alcibiades and I walked into the Pnyx early the other morning, before the people assembled. There we saw Socrates standing, having his face turned toward the rising sun. Approaching him, we perceived that he was praying; and that so ardently, that we touched him on the shoulder before he became aware of our presence. "You seem like a man filled with the God, Socrates," said Alcibiades. "Would that were true," answered he, "both of me and of all who will counsel here this day. In fact, I was praying for that very thing; namely, that they might have light to see the truth, in whatsoever matter might be discussed here." "And for me also?" said Alcibiades; "but I have prepared my speech already." "And for you also, if you desire it-even though some of your periods should be spoiled thereby. But why are you both here so early, before any business is stirring?" "We were discussing," said I, "that very thing for which we found you praying-namely, truth, and what it might be." "Perhaps you went a worse way toward discovering it than I did. But let us hear. Whence did the discussion arise?" "From something," said Alcibiades, "which Protagoras said in his lecture yesterday-How truth was what each man troweth, or believeth, to be true. 'So that,' he said, 'one thing is true to me, if I believe it true, and another opposite thing to you, if you believe that opposite. For,' continued he, 'there is an objective and a subjective truth; the former, doubtless, one and absolute, and contained in the nature of each thing; but the other manifold and relative, varying with the faculties of each perceiver thereof.' But as each man's faculties, he said, were different from his neighbour's, and all more or less imperfect, it was impossible that the absolute objective truth of anything could be seen by any mortal, but only some partial approximation, and, as it were, sketch of it, according as the object was represented with more or less refraction on the mirror of his subjectivity. And therefore, as the true inquirer deals only with the possible, and lets the impossible go, it was the business of the wise man, shunning the search after absolute truth as an impious attempt of the Titans to scale Olympus, to busy himself humbly and practically with subjective truth, and with those methods-rhetoric, for instance-by which he can make the subjective opinions of others either similar to his own, or, leaving them as they are-for it may be very often unnecessary to change them-useful to his own ends." Then Socrates, laughing: "My fine fellow, you will have made more than one oration in the Pnyx to-day. And indeed, I myself felt quite exalted, and rapt aloft, like Bellerophon on Pegasus, upon the eloquence of Protagoras and you. But yet forgive me this one thing; for my mother bare me, as you know, a man-midwife, after her own trade, and not a sage." ALCIBIADES. "What then?" SOCRATES. "This, my astonishing friend-for really I am altogether astonished and struck dumb, as I always am whensoever I hear a brilliant talker like you discourse concerning objectivities and subjectivities, and such mysterious words; at such moments I am like an old war-horse, who, though he will rush on levelled lances, shudders and sweats with terror at a boy rattling pebbles in a bladder; and I feel altogether dizzy, and dread lest I should suffer some such transformation as Scylla, when I hear awful words, like incantations, pronounced over me, of which I, being no sage, understand nothing. But tell me now, Alcibiades, did the opinion of Protagoras altogether please you?" A. "Why not? Is it not certain that two equally honest men may differ in their opinions on the same matter?" S. "Undeniable." A. "But if each is equally sincere in speaking what he believes, is not each equally moved by the spirit of truth?" S. "You seem to have been lately initiated, and that not at Eleusis merely, nor in the Cabiria, but rather in some Persian or Babylonian mysteries, when you discourse thus of spirits. But you, Phaethon" (turning to me), "how did you like the periods of Protagoras?" "Do not ask me, Socrates," said I, "for indeed we have fought a weary battle together ever since sundown last night, and all that I had to say I learnt from you." S. "From me, good fellow?" PHAETHON. "Yes, indeed. I seemed to have heard from you that truth is simply 'facts as they are.' But when I urged this on Alcibiades, his arguments seemed superior to mine." A. "But I have been telling him, drunk and sober, that it is my opinion also as to what truth is. Only I, with Protagoras, distinguish between objective fact and subjective opinion." S. "Doing rightly, too, fair youth. But how comes it then that you and Phaethon cannot agree?" "That," said I, "you know better than either of us." "You seem both of you," said Socrates, "to be, as usual, in the family way. Shall I exercise my profession on you?" "No, by Zeus!" answered Alcibiades, laughing; "I fear thee, thou juggler, lest I suffer once again the same fate with the woman in the myth, and after I have conceived a fair man-child, and, as I fancy, brought it forth; thou hold up to the people some dead puppy, or log, or what not, and cry: 'Look what Alcibiades has produced!'" S. "But, beautiful youth, before I can do that, you will have spoken your oration on the bema, and all the people will be ready and able to say 'Absurd! Nothing but what is fair can come from so fair a body.' Come, let us consider the question together." I assented willingly; and Alcibiades, mincing and pouting, after his fashion, still was loath to refuse. S. "Let us see, then. Alcibiades distinguishes, he says, between objective fact and subjective opinion?" A. "Of course I do." S. "But not, I presume, between objective truth and subjective truth, whereof Protagoras spoke?" A. "What trap are you laying now? I distinguish between them also, of course." S. "Tell me, then, dear youth, of your indulgence, what they are; for I am shamefully ignorant on the matter." A. "Why, do they not call a thing objectively true, when it is true absolutely in itself; but subjectively true, when it is true in the belief of a particular person?" S. "-Though not necessarily true objectively, that is, absolutely and in itself?" A. "No." S. "But possibly true so?" A. "Of course." S. "Now, tell me-a thing is objectively true, is it not, when it is a fact as it is?" A. "Yes." S. "And when it is a fact as it is not, it is objectively false; for such a fact would not be true absolutely, and in itself, would it?" A. "Of course not." S. "Such a fact would be, therefore, no fact, and nothing." A. "Why so?" S. "Because, if a thing exists, it can only exist as it is, not as it is not; at least my opinion inclines that way." "Certainly not," said I; "why do you haggle so, Alcibiades?" S. "Fair and softly, Phaethon! How do you know that he is not fighting for wife and child, and the altars of his gods? But if he will agree with you and me, he will confess that a thing which is objectively false does not exist at all, and is nothing." A. "I suppose it is necessary to do so. But I know whither you are struggling." S. "To this, dear youth, that, therefore, if a thing subjectively true be also objectively false, it does not exist, and is nothing." "It is so," said I. S. "Let us, then, let nothing go its own way, while we go on ours with that which is only objectively true, lest coming to a river over which it is subjectively true to us that there is a bridge, and trying to walk over that work of our own mind, but no one's hands, the bridge prove to be objectively false, and we, walking over the bank into the water, be set free from that which is subjectively on the farther bank of Styx." Then I, laughing: "This hardly coincides, Alcibiades, with Protagoras's opinion, that subjective truth was alone useful." "But rather proves," said Socrates, "that undiluted draughts of it are of a hurtful and poisonous nature, and require to be tempered with somewhat of objective truth, before it is safe to use them-at least in the case of bridges." "Did I not tell you," interrupted Alcibiades, "how the old deceiver would try to put me to bed of some dead puppy or log? Or do you not see how, in order, after his custom, to raise a laugh about the whole question by vulgar examples, he is blinking what he knows as well as I?" S. "What then, fair youth?" A. "That Protagoras was not speaking about bridges, or any other merely physical things, on which no difference of opinion need occur, because every one can satisfy himself by simply using his senses; but concerning moral and intellectual matters, which are not cognisable by the senses, and therefore permit, without blame, a greater diversity of opinion. Error on such points, he told us-on the subject of religion, for example-was both pardonable and harmless; for no blame could be imputed to the man who acted faithfully up to his own belief, whatsoever that might be." S. "Bravely spoken of him, and worthily of a free state. But tell me, Alcibiades, with what matters does religion deal?" A. "With the Gods." S. "Then it is not hurtful to speak false things of the Gods?" A. "Not unless you know them to be false." S. "But answer me this, Alcibiades. If you made a mistake concerning numbers, as that twice two made five, might it not be hurtful to you?" A. "Certainly; for I might pay away five obols instead of four." S. "And so be punished, not by any anger of two and two against you, but by those very necessary laws of number, which you had mistaken?" A. "Yes." S. "Or if you made a mistake concerning music, as that two consecutive notes could produce harmony, that opinion also, if you acted upon it, would be hurtful to you?" A. "Certainly; for I should make a discord, and pain my own ears, and my hearers'." S. "And in this case also, be punished, not by any anger of the lyre against you, but by those very necessary laws of music which you had mistaken?" A. "Yes." S. "Or if you mistook concerning a brave man, believing him to be a coward, might not this also be hurtful to you? If, for instance, you attacked him carelessly, expecting him to run away, and he defended himself valiantly, and conquered you; or if you neglected to call for his help in need, expecting him falsely, as in the former case, to run away; would not such a mistake be hurtful to you, and punish you, not by any anger of the man against you, but by your mistake itself?" A. "It is evident." S. "We may assume, then, that such mistakes at least are hurtful, and that they are liable to be punished by the very laws of that concerning which we mistake?" A. "We may so assume." S. "Suppose, then, we were to say: 'What argument is this of yours, Protagoras?-that concerning lesser things, both intellectual and moral, such as concerning number, music, or the character of a man, mistakes are hurtful, and liable to bring punishment, in proportion to our need of using those things: but concerning the Gods, the very authors and lawgivers of number, music, human character, and all other things whatsoever, mistakes are of no consequence, nor in any way hurtful to man, who stands in need of their help, not only in stress of battle, once or twice in his life, as he might of the brave man, but always and in all things both outward and inward? Does it not seem strange to you, for it does to me, that to make mistakes concerning such beings should not bring an altogether infinite and daily punishment, not by any resentment of theirs, but, as in the case of music or numbers, by the very fact of our having mistaken the laws of their being, on which the whole universe depends?'-What do you suppose Protagoras would be able to answer, if he faced the question boldly?" A. "I cannot tell." S. "Nor I either. Yet one thing more it may be worth our while to examine. If one should mistake concerning God, will his error be one of excess, or defect?" A. "How can I tell?" S. "Let us see. Is not Zeus more perfect than all other beings?" A. "Certainly, if it be true that, as they say, the perfection of each kind of being is derived from him; he must therefore be himself more perfect than any one of those perfections." S. "Well argued. Therefore, if he conceived of himself, his conception of himself would be more perfect than that of any man concerning him?" A. "Assuredly; if he have that faculty, he must needs have it in perfection." S. "Suppose, then, that he conceived of one of his own properties, such as his justice; how large would that perfect conception of his be?" A. "But how can I tell, Socrates?" S. "My good friend, would it not be exactly commensurate with that justice of his?" A. "How then?" S. "Wherein consists the perfection of any conception, save in this, that it be the exact copy of that whereof it is conceived, and neither greater nor less?" A. "I see now." S. "Without the Pythia's help, I should say. But, tell me-We agree that Zeus's conception of his own justice will be exactly commensurate with his justice?" A. "We do." S. "But man's conception thereof, it has been agreed, would be certainly less perfect than Zeus's?" A. "It would." S. "Man, then, it seems, would always conceive God to be less just than God conceives himself to be?" A. "He would." S. "And therefore to be less just, according to the argument, than he really is?" A. "True." S. "And therefore his error concerning Zeus, would be in this case an error of defect?" A. "It would." S. "And so on of each of his other properties?" A. "The same argument would likewise, as far as I can see, apply to them." S. "So that, on the whole, man, by the unassisted power of his own faculty, will always conceive Zeus to be less just, wise, good, and beautiful than he is?" A. "It seems probable." S. "But does not that seem to you hurtful?" A. "Why so?" S. "As if, for instance, a man believing that Zeus loves him less than he really does, should become superstitious and self- tormenting. Or, believing that Zeus will guide him less than he really will, he should go his own way through life without looking for that guidance: or if, believing that Zeus cares about his conquering his passions less than he really does, he should become careless and despairing in the struggle: or if, believing that Zeus is less interested in the welfare of mankind than he really is, he should himself neglect to assist them, and so lose the glory of being called a benefactor of his country: would not all these mistakes be hurtful ones?" "Certainly," said I: but Alcibiades was silent. S. "And would not these mistakes, by the hypothesis, themselves punish him who made them, without any resentment whatsoever, or Nemesis of the Gods being required for his chastisement?" "It seems so," said I. S. "But can we say of such mistakes, and of the harm which may accrue from them, anything but that they must both be infinite; seeing that they are mistakes concerning an infinite Being, and his infinite properties, on every one of which, and on all together, our daily existence depends?" P. "It seems so." S. "So that, until such a man's error concerning Zeus, the source of all things, is cleared up, either in this life or in some future one, we cannot but fear for him infinite confusion, misery, and harm, in all matters which he may take in hand?" Then Alcibiades, angrily: "What ugly mask is this you have put on, Socrates? You speak rather like a priest trying to frighten rustics into paying their first-fruits, than a philosopher inquiring after that which is beautiful. But you shall never terrify me into believing that it is not a noble thing to speak out whatsoever a man believes, and to go forward boldly in the spirit of truth." S. "Feeling first, I hope, with your staff, as would be but reasonable in the case of the bridge, whether your belief was objectively or only subjectively true, lest you should fall through your subjective bridge into objective water. Nevertheless, leaving the bridge and the water, let us examine a little what this said spirit of truth may be. How do you define it?" A. "I assert that whosoever says honestly what he believes, does so by the spirit of truth." S. "Then if Lyce, patting those soft cheeks of yours, were to say: 'Alcibiades, thou art the fairest youth in Athens,' she would speak by the spirit of truth?" A. "They say so." S. "And they say rightly. But if Lyce, as is her custom, wished, by so saying, to cheat you into believing that she loved you, and thereby to wheedle you out of a new shawl, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?" A. "I suppose so." S. "But if, again, she said the same thing to Phaethon, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?" "By no means, Socrates," said I, laughing. S. "Be silent, fair boy; you are out of court as an interested party. Alcibiades shall answer. If Lyce, being really mad with love, like Sappho, were to believe Phaethon to be fairer than you, and say so, she would still speak by the spirit of truth?" A. "I suppose so." S. "Do not frown; your beauty is in no question. Only she would then be saying what is not true?" "I must answer for him after all," said I. S. "Then it seems, from what has been agreed, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth, whether it speak truth or not. The spirit seems to be of an enviable serenity. But suppose again, that I believed that Alcibiades had an ulcer on his leg, and were to proclaim the same now to the people, when they come into the Pnyx, should I not be speaking by the spirit of truth?" A. "But that would be a shameful and blackguardly action." S. "Be it so. It seems, therefore, that it is indifferent to the spirit of truth whether that which it affirms be honourable or blackguardly. Is it not so?" A. "It seems so, most certainly, in that case at least." S. "And in others, as I think. But tell me-Is not the man who does what he believes, as much moved by this your spirit of truth as he who says what he believes?" A. "Certainly he is." S. "Then if I believed it right to lie or steal, I, in lying or stealing, should lie or steal by the spirit of truth?" A. "Certainly: but that is impossible." S. "My fine fellow, and wherefore? I have heard of a nation among the Indians who hold it a sacred duty to murder every one not of their own tribe, whom they can waylay: and when they are taken and punished by the rulers of that country, die joyfully under the greatest torments, believing themselves certain of an entrance into the Elysian fields, in proportion to the number of murders which they have committed." A. "They must be impious wretches." S. "Be it so. But believing themselves to be right, they commit murder by the spirit of truth." A. "It seems to follow from the argument." S. "Then it is indifferent to the spirit of truth whether the action which it prompts be right or wrong?" A. "It must be confessed." S. "It is therefore not a moral faculty, this spirit of truth. Let us see now whether it be an intellectual one. How are intellectual things defined, Phaethon? Tell me, for you are cunning in such matters." P. "Those things which have to do with processes of the mind." S. "With right processes, or with wrong?" P. "With right, of course." S. "And processes for what purpose?" P. "For the discovery of facts." S. "Of facts as they are, or as they are not?" P. "As they are." S. "And he who discovers facts as they are, discovers truth; while he who discovers facts as they are not, discovers falsehood?" P. "He discovers nothing, Socrates." S. "True; but it has been agreed already that the spirit of truth is indifferent to the question whether facts be true or false, but only concerns itself with the sincere affirmation of them, whatsoever they may be. Much more then must it be indifferent to those processes by which they are discovered." P. "How so?" S. "Because it only concerns itself with affirmation concerning facts; but these processes are anterior to that affirmation." P. "I comprehend." S. "And much more is it indifferent to whether those are right processes or not." P. "Much more so." S. "It is therefore not intellectual. It remains, therefore, that it must be some merely physical faculty, like that of fearing, hungering, or enjoying the sexual appetite." A. "Absurd, Socrates!" S. "That is the argument's concern, not ours: let us follow manfully whithersoever it may lead us." A. "Lead on, thou sophist!" S. "It was agreed, then, that he who does what he thinks right, does so by the spirit of truth-was it not?" A. "It was." S. "Then he who eats when he thinks that he ought to eat, does so by the spirit of truth?" A. "What next?" S. "This next, that he who blows his nose when he thinks that it wants blowing, blows his nose by the spirit of truth." A. "What next?" S. "Do not frown, friend. Believe me, in such days as these, I honour even the man who is honest enough to blow his nose because he finds that he ought to do so. But tell me-a horse, when he shies at a beggar, does not he also do so by the spirit of truth? For he believes sincerely the beggar to be something formidable, and honestly acts upon his conviction." "Not a doubt of it," said I, laughing, in spite of myself, at Alcibiades's countenance. S. "It is in danger, then, of proving to be something quite brutish and doggish, this spirit of truth. I should not wonder, therefore, if we found it proper to be restrained." A. "How so, thou hair-splitter?" S. "Have we not proved it to be common to man and animals; but are not those passions which we have in common with animals to be restrained?" P. "Restrain the spirit of truth, Socrates?" S. "If it be doggishly inclined. As, for instance, if a man knew that his father had committed a shameful act, and were to publish it, he would do so by the spirit of truth. Yet such an act would be blackguardly, and to be restrained." P. "Of course." S. "But much more, if he accused his father only on his own private suspicion, not having seen him commit the act; while many others, who had watched his father's character more than he did, assured him that he was mistaken." P. "Such an act would be to be restrained, not merely as blackguardly, but as impious." S. "Or if a man believed things derogatory to the character of the Gods, not having seen them do wrong himself, while all those who had given themselves to the study of divine things assured him that he was mistaken, would he not be bound to restrain an inclination to speak such things, even if he believed them?" P. "Surely, Socrates; and that even if he believed that the Gods did not exist at all. For there would be far more chance that he alone was wrong, and the many right, than that the many were wrong, and he alone right. He would therefore commit an insolent and conceited action, and, moreover, a cruel and shameless one; for he would certainly make miserable, if he were believed, the hearts of many virtuous persons who had never harmed him, for no immediate or demonstrable purpose except that of pleasing his own self-will; and that much more, were he wrong in his assertion." S. "Here, then, is another case in which it seems proper to restrain the spirit of truth, whatsoever it may be?" P. "What, then, are we to say of those who speak fearlessly and openly their own opinions on every subject? for, in spite of all this, one cannot but admire them, whether rationally or irrationally." S. "We will allow them at least the honour which we do to the wild boar, who rushes fiercely through thorns and brambles upon the dogs, not to be turned aside by spears or tree-trunks, and indeed charges forward the more valiantly the more tightly he shuts his eyes. That praise we can bestow on him, but, I fear, no higher one. It is expedient, nevertheless, to have such a temperament as it is to have a good memory, or a loud voice, or a straight nose unlike mine; only, like other animal passions, it must be restrained and regulated by reason and the law of right, so as to employ itself only on such matters and to such a degree as they prescribe." "It may seem so in the argument," said I. "Yet no argument, even of yours, Socrates, with your pardon, shall convince me that the spirit of truth is not fair and good, ay, the noblest possession of all; throwing away which, a man throws away his shield, and becomes unworthy of the company of gods or men." S. "Or of beasts either, as it seems to me and the argument. Nevertheless, to this point has the argument, in its cunning and malice, brought us by crooked paths. Can we find no escape?" P. "I know none." S. "But may it not be possible that we, not having been initiated, like Alcibiades, into the Babylonian mysteries, have somewhat mistaken the meaning of that expression, 'spirit of truth'? For truth we defined to be 'facts as they are.' The spirit of truth then should mean, should it not, the spirit of facts as they are?" P. "It should." S. "But what shall we say that this expression, in its turn, means? The spirit which makes facts as they are?" A. "Surely not. That would be the supreme Demiurgus himself." S. "Of whom you were not speaking, when you spoke of the spirit of truth?" A. "Certainly not. I was speaking of a spirit in man." S. "And belonging to him?" A. "Yes." S. "And doing-what, with regard to facts as they are? for this is just the thing which puzzles me." A. "Telling facts as they are." S. "Without seeing them as they are?" A. "How you bore one! of course not. It sees facts as they are, and therefore tells them." S. "But perhaps it might see them as they are, and find it expedient, being of the same temperament as I, to hold its tongue about them? Would it then be still the spirit of truth?" A. "It would, of course." S. "The man then who possesses the spirit of truth will see facts as they are?" A. "He will." S. "And conversely?" A. "Yes." S. "But if he sees anything only as it seems to him, and is not in fact, he will not, with regard to that thing, see it by the spirit of truth?" A. "I suppose not." S. "Neither then will he be able to speak of it by the spirit of truth." A. "Why?" S. "Because, by what we agreed before, it will not be there to speak of, my wondrous friend. For it appeared to us, if I recollect right, that facts can only exist as they are, and not as they are not, and that therefore the spirit of truth had nothing to do with any facts but those which are." "But," I interrupted, "O dear Socrates, I fear much that if the spirit of truth be such as this, it must be beyond the reach of man." S. "Why then?" P. "Because the immortal gods only can see things as they really are, having alone made all things, and ruling them all according to the laws of each. They therefore, I much fear, will be alone able to behold them, how they are really in their inner nature and properties, and not merely from the outside, and by guess, as we do. How then can we obtain such a spirit ourselves?" S. "Dear boy, you seem to wish that I should, as usual, put you off with a myth, when you begin to ask me about those who know far more about me than I do about them. Nevertheless, shall I tell you a myth?" P. "If you have nothing better." S. "They say, then, that Prometheus, when he grew to man's estate, found mankind, though they were like him in form, utterly brutish and ignorant, so that, as AEschylus says: Seeing they saw in vain, Hearing they heard not; but were like the shapes Of dreams, and long time did confuse all things At random: being, as I suppose, led, like the animals, only by their private judgments of things as they seemed to each man, and enslaved to that subjective truth, which we found to be utterly careless and ignorant of facts as they are. But Prometheus, taking pity on them, determined in his mind to free them from that slavery and to teach them to rise above the beasts, by seeing things as they are. He therefore made them acquainted with the secrets of nature, and taught them to build houses, to work in wood and metals, to observe the courses of the stars, and all other such arts and sciences, which if any man attempts to follow according to his private opinion, and not according to the rules of that art, which are independent of him and of his opinions, being discovered from the unchangeable laws of things as they are, he will fail. But yet, as the myth relates, they became only a more cunning sort of animals; not being wholly freed from their original slavery to a certain subjective opinion about themselves, that each man should, by means of those arts and sciences, please and help himself only. Fearing, therefore, lest their increased strength and cunning should only enable them to prey upon each other all the more fiercely, he stole fire from heaven, and gave to each man a share thereof for his hearth, and to each community for their common altar. And by the light of this celestial fire they learnt to see those celestial and eternal bonds between man and man, as of husband to wife, of father to child, of citizen to his country, and of master to servant, without which man is but a biped without feathers, and which are in themselves, being independent of the flux of matter and time, most truly facts as they are. And since that time, whatsoever household or nation has allowed these fires to become extinguished, has sunk down again to the level of the brutes: while those who have passed them down to their children burning bright and strong, become partakers of the bliss of the Heroes, in the Happy Islands. It seems to me then, Phaethon and Alcibiades, that if we find ourselves in anywise destitute of this heavenly fire, we should pray for the coming of that day, when Prometheus shall be unbound from Caucasus, if by any means he may take pity on us and on our children, and again bring us down from heaven that fire which is the spirit of truth, that we may see facts as they are. For which, if he were to ask Zeus humbly and filially, I cannot believe that He would refuse it. And indeed, I think that the poets, as is their custom, corrupt the minds of young men by telling them that Zeus chained Prometheus to Caucasus for his theft; seeing that it befits such a ruler, as I take the Father of gods and men to be, to know that his subjects can only do well by means of his bounty, and therefore to bestow it freely, as the kings of Persia do, on all who are willing to use it in the service of their sovereign." "So then," said Alcibiades, laughing, "till Prometheus be unbound from Caucasus, we who have lost, as you seem to hint, this heavenly fire, must needs go on upon our own subjective opinions, having nothing better to which to trust. Truly, thou sophist, thy conclusion seems to me after all not to differ much from that of Protagoras." S. "Ah dear boy! know you not that to those who have been initiated, and, as they say in the mysteries, twice born, Prometheus is always unbound, and stands ready to assist them; while to those who are self-willed and conceited of their own opinions, he is removed to an inaccessible distance, and chained in icy fetters on untrodden mountain-peaks, where the vulture ever devours his fair heart, which sympathises continually with the follies and the sorrows of mankind? Of what punishment, then, must not those be worthy, who by their own wilfulness and self-confidence bind again to Caucasus the fair Titan, the friend of men?" "By Apollo!" said Alcibiades, "this language is more fit for the tripod in Delphos, than for the bema in the Pnyx. So fare-thee- well, thou Pythoness! I must go and con over my oration, at least if thy prophesying has not altogether addled my thoughts." But I, as soon as Alcibiades was gone, for I was ashamed to speak before, turning to Socrates said to him, all but weeping: "Oh Socrates, what cruel words are these which you have spoken? Are you not ashamed to talk thus contemptuously to one like me, even though he be younger and less cunning in argument than yourself; knowing as you do, how, when I might have grown rich in my native city of Rhodes, and marrying there, as my father purposed, a wealthy merchant's heiress, so have passed my life delicately, receiving the profits of many ships and warehouses, I yet preferred Truth beyond riches; and leaving my father's house, came to Athens in search of wisdom, dissipating my patrimony upon one sophist after another, listening greedily to Hippias, and Polus, and Gorgias, and Protagoras, and last of all to you, hard-hearted man that you are? For from my youth I loved and longed after nothing so much as Truth, whatsoever it may be; thinking nothing so noble as to know that which is Right, and knowing it, to do it. And that longing, or love of mine, which is what I suppose Protagoras meant by the spirit of truth, I cherished as the fairest and most divine possession, and that for which alone it was worth while to live. For it seemed to me, that even if in my search I never attained to truth, still it were better to die seeking, than not to seek; and that even if acting by what I considered to be the spirit of truth, and doing honestly in every case that which seemed right, I should often, acting on a false conviction, offend in ignorance against the absolute righteousness of the gods, yet that such an offence was deserving, if not of praise for its sincerity, yet at least of pity and forgiveness; but by no means to be classed, as you class it, with the appetites of brutes; much less to be threatened, as you threaten it, with infinite and eternal misery by I know not what necessary laws of Zeus, and to be put off at last with some myth or other about Prometheus. Surely your mother bare you a scoffer and pitiless, Socrates, and not, as you boast, a man-midwife fit for fair youths." Then, smiling sweetly, "Dear boy," said he, "were I such as you fancy, how should I be here now, discoursing with you concerning truth, instead of conning my speech for the Pnyx, like Alcibiades, that I may become a demagogue, deceiving the mob with flattery, and win for myself houses, and lands, and gold, and slave-girls, and fame, and power, even to a tyranny itself? For in this way I might have made my tongue a profitable member of my body; but now, being hurried up and down in barren places, like one mad of love, from my longing after fair youths, I waste my speech on them; receiving, as is the wont of true lovers, only curses and ingratitude from their arrogance. But tell me, thou proud Adonis-This spirit of truth in thee, which thou thoughtest, and rightly, thy most noble possession- did it desire truth, or not?" P. "But, Socrates, I told you that very thing, and said that it was a longing after truth, which I could not restrain or disobey." S. "Tell me now, does one long for that which one possesses, or for that which one does not possess?" P. "For that which one does not possess." S. "And is one in love with that which is oneself, or with that which is not?" P. "With that which is not oneself, thou mocker. We are not all, surely, like Narcissus?" S. "No, by the dog! not quite all. But see now: it appears that when any one is in love with a thing, and longs for it, as thou didst for truth, it must be something which is not himself, and which he does not possess?" P. "True." S. "You, then, while you were loving facts as they are, and longing to see them as they are, yet did not possess that which you longed for?" P. "True, indeed; else why should I have been driven forth by the anger of the gods, like Bellerophon, to pace the Aleian plain, eating my own soul, if I had possessed that for which I longed?" S. "Well said, dear boy. But see again. This truth which you loved, and which was not yourself or part of yourself, was certainly also nothing of your own making?-Though they say that Pygmalion was enamoured of the statue which he himself had carved." P. "But he was miserable, Socrates, till the statue became alive." S. "They say so; but what has that to do with the argument?" P. "I know not. But it seems to me horrible, as it did to Pygmalion, to be enamoured of anything which cannot return your love, but is, as it were, your puppet. Should we not think it a shameful thing, if a mistress were to be enamoured of one of her own slaves?" S. "We should; and that, I suppose, because the slave would have no free choice whether to refuse or to return his mistress's love; but would be compelled, being a slave, to submit to her, even if she were old, or ugly, or hateful to him?" P. "Of course." S. "And should we not say, Phaethon, that there was no true enjoyment in such love, even on the part of the mistress; nay, that it was not worthy of the name of love at all, but was merely something base, such as happens to animals?" P. "We should say so rightly." S. "Tell me, then, Phaethon-for a strange doubt has entered my mind on account of your words. This truth of which you were enamoured, seems, from what has been agreed, not to be a part of yourself, nor a creation of your own, like Pygmalion's statue-how then has it not happened to you to be even more miserable than Pygmalion till you were sure that truth loved you in return?-and, moreover, till you were sure that truth had free choice as to whether it should return or refuse your love? For, otherwise, you would be in danger of being found suffering the same base passion as a mistress enamoured of a slave who cannot resist her." P. "I am puzzled, Socrates." S. "Shall we rather say, then, that you were enamoured, not of truth itself, but of the spirit of truth? For we have been all along defining truth to be 'facts as they are,' have we not?" P. "We have." S. "But there are many facts as they are, whereof to be enamoured would be base, for they cannot return your love. As, for instance, that one and one make two, or that a horse has four legs. With respect to such facts, you would be, would you not, in the same position as a mistress towards her slave?" P. "Certainly. It seems, then, better to assume the other alternative." S. "It does. But does it not follow, that when you were enamoured of this spirit, you did not possess it?" P. "I fear so, by the argument." S. "And I fear, too, that we agreed that he only who possessed the spirit of truth saw facts as they are; for that was involved in our definition of the spirit of truth." P. "But, Socrates, I knew, at least, that one and one made two, and that a horse had four legs. I must then have seen some facts as they are." S. "Doubtless, fair boy; but not all." P. "I do not pretend to that." S. "But if you had possessed the spirit of truth, you would have seen all facts whatsoever as they are. For he who possesses a thing can surely employ it freely for all purposes which are not contrary to the nature of that thing; can he not?" P. "Of course he can. But if I did not possess the spirit of truth, how could I see any truth whatsoever?" S. "Suppose, dear boy, that instead of your possessing it, it were possible for it to possess you; and possessing you, to show you as much of itself, or as little, as it might choose, and concerning such things only as it might choose: would not that explain the dilemma?" P. "It would assuredly." S. "Let us see, then, whether this spirit of truth may not be something which is capable of possessing you, and employing you, rather than of being possessed and employed by you. To me, indeed, this spirit seems likely to be some demon or deity, and that one of the greatest." P. "Why then?" S. "Can lifeless and material things see?" P. "Certainly not; only live ones." S. "This spirit, then, seems to be living; for it sees things as they are." P. "Yes." S. "And it is also intellectual; for intellectual facts can be only seen by an intellectual being." P. "True." S. "And also moral; for moral facts can only be seen by a moral being." P. "True also." S. "But this spirit is evidently not a man; it remains therefore, that it must be some demon." P. "But why one of the greatest?" S. "Tell me, Phaethon, is not God to be numbered among facts as they are?" P. "Assuredly; for he is before all others and more eternal and absolute than all." S. "Then this spirit of truth must also be able to see God as he is." P. "It is probable." S. "And certain, if, as we agreed, it be the very spirit which sees all facts whatsoever as they are. Now tell me, can the less see the greater as it is?" P. "I think not; for an animal cannot see a man as he is, but only that part of him in which he is like an animal, namely, his outward figure and his animal passions; but not his moral sense or reason, for of them it has itself no share." S. "True; and in like wise, a man of less intellect could not see a man of greater intellect than himself as he is, but only a part of his intellect." P. "Certainly." S. "And does not the same thing follow from what we said just now, that God's conceptions of himself must be the only perfect conceptions of him? For if any being could see God as he is, the same would be able to conceive of him as he is: which we agreed was impossible." P. "True." S. "Then surely this spirit which sees God as he is, must be equal with God." P. "It seems probable; but none is equal to God except himself." S. "Most true, Phaethon. But what shall we say now, but that this spirit of truth, whereof thou hast been enamoured, is, according to the argument, none other than Zeus, who alone comprehends all things, and sees them as they are, because he alone has given to each its inward and necessary laws?" P. "But, Socrates, there seems something impious in the thought." S. "Impious, truly, if we held that this spirit of truth was a part of your own self. But we agreed that it was not a part of you, but something utterly independent of you." P. "Noble would the news be, Socrates, were it true; yet it seems to me beyond belief." S. "Did we not prove just now concerning Zeus, that all mistakes concerning him were certain to be mistakes of defect?" P. "We did, indeed." S. "How do you know, then, that you have not fallen into some such error, and have suspected Zeus to be less condescending towards you than he really is?" P. "Would that it were so! But I fear it is too fair a hope." S. "Do I seem to thee now, dear boy, more insolent and unfeeling than Protagoras, when he tried to turn thee away from the search after absolute truth, by saying sophistically that it was an attempt of the Titans to scale heaven, and bade thee be content with asserting shamelessly and brutishly thine own subjective opinions? For I do not bid thee scale the throne of Zeus, into whose presence none could arrive, as it seems to me, unless he himself willed it; but to believe that he has given thee from thy childhood a glimpse of his own excellence, that so thy heart, conjecturing, as in the case of a veiled statue, from one part the beauty of the rest, might become enamoured thereof, and long for that sight of him which is the highest and only good, that so his splendour may give thee light to see facts as they are." P. "Oh Socrates! and how is this blessedness to be attained?" S. "Even as the myths relate, the nymphs obtained the embraces of the gods; by pleasing him and obeying him in all things, lifting up daily pure hands and a thankful heart, if by any means he may condescend to purge thine eyes, that thou mayest see clearly, and without those motes, and specks, and distortions of thine own organs of vision, which flit before the eyeballs of those who have been drunk over-night, and which are called by sophists subjective truth; watching everywhere anxiously and reverently for those glimpses of his beauty, which he will vouchsafe to thee more and more as thou provest thyself worthy of them, and will reward thy love by making thee more and more partaker of his own spirit of truth; whereby, seeing facts as they are, thou wilt see him who has made them according to his own ideas, that they may be a mirror of his unspeakable splendour. Is not this a fairer hope for thee, oh Phaethon, than that which Protagoras held out to thee-that neither seeing Zeus, nor seeing facts as they are, nor affirming any truth whatsoever, nor depending for thy knowledge on any one but thine own ignorant self, thou mightest nevertheless be so fortunate as to escape punishment: not knowing, as it seems to me, that such a state of ignorance and blindfold rashness, even if Tartarus were a dream of the poets or the priests, is in itself the most fearful of punishments?" P. "It is, indeed, my dear Socrates. Yet what are we to say of those who, sincerely loving and longing after knowledge, yet arrive at false conclusions, which are proved to be false by contradicting each other?" S. "We are to say, Phaethon, that they have not loved knowledge enough to desire utterly to see facts as they are, but only to see them as they would wish them to be; and loving themselves rather than Zeus, have wished to remodel in some things or other his universe, according to their own subjective opinions. By this, or by some other act of self-will, or self-conceit, or self-dependence, they have compelled Zeus, not, as I think, without pity and kindness to them, to withdraw from them in some degree the sight of his own beauty. We must, therefore, I fear, liken them to Acharis, the painter of Lemnos, who, intending to represent Phoebus, painted from a mirror a copy of his own defects and deformities; or perhaps to that Nymph, who finding herself beloved by Phoebus, instead of reverently and silently returning the affection, boasted of it to all her neighbours, as a token of her own beauty, and despised the god; so that he, being angry, changed her into a chattering magpie; or again to Arachne, who having been taught the art of weaving by Athene, pretended to compete with her own instructress, and being metamorphosed by her into a spider, was condemned, like the sophists, to spin out of her own entrails endless ugly webs, which are destroyed, as soon as finished, by every slave-girl's broom." P. "But shall we despise and hate such, Oh Socrates?" S. "No, dearest boy, we will rather pity and instruct them lovingly; remembering always that we shall become such as they the moment we begin to fancy that truth is our own possession, and not the very beauty of Zeus himself, which he shows to those whom he will, and in such measure as he finds them worthy to behold. But to me, considering how great must be the condescension of Zeus in unveiling to any man, even the worthiest, the least portion of his own loveliness, there has come at times a sort of dream, that the divine splendour will at last pierce through and illumine all dark souls, even in the house of Hades, showing them, as by a great sunrise, both what they themselves, and what all other things are, really and in the sight of Zeus; which if it happened, even to Ixion, I believe that his wheel would stop, and his fetters drop off of themselves, and that he would return freely to the upper air, for as long as he himself might choose." Just then the people began to throng into the Pnyx; and we took our places with the rest to hear the business of the day, after Socrates had privately uttered this prayer: "Oh Zeus, give to me and to all who shall counsel here this day, that spirit of truth by which we may behold that whereof we deliberate, as it is in thy sight!" "As I expected," said Templeton, with a smile, as I folded up my manuscript. "My friend the parson could not demolish the poor Professor's bad logic without a little professional touch by way of finish." "What do you mean?" "Oh-never mind. Only I owe you little thanks for sweeping away any one of my lingering sympathies with Mr. Windrush, if all you can offer me instead is the confounded old nostrum of religion over again." "Heydey, friend! What next?" "Really, my dear fellow, I beg your pardon, I forgot that I was speaking to a clergyman." "Pray don't beg my pardon on that ground. If what you say be right, a clergyman above all others ought to hear it; and if it be wrong, and a symptom of spiritual disease, he ought to hear it all the more. But I cannot tell whether you are right or wrong, till I know what you mean by religion; for there is a great deal of very truly confounded and confounding religion abroad in the world just now, as there has been in all ages; and perhaps you may be alluding to that." Templeton sat silent for a few minutes, playing with the tackle in his fly-book, and then murmured to himself the well-known lines of Lucretius: "Humana ante oculos foede cum vita jaceret In terris oppressa gravi sub Relligione Quae caput a coeli regionibus ostendebat, Horribili super aspectu mortalibus instans. There!-blasphemous reprobate fellow, am I not?" "On the contrary," I said, "I think that in the sense in which Lucretius intended that the lines should be taken, they contain a great deal of truth. He had seen the basest and foullest crimes spring from that which he calls Relligio, and he had a full right to state that fact. I am not aware that one blasphemes the Catholic and Apostolic Faith by saying that the devilries of the Spanish Inquisition were the direct offspring of that 'religious sentiment' which Mr. Windrush's school-though they are at all events right in saying that its source is in man himself, and not in the 'regionibus Coeli'-are now glorifying, as something which enables man to save his own soul without the interference of 'The Deity'-indeed, whether 'The Deity' chooses or not." "Do leave these poor Emersonians alone for a few minutes, and tell me how you can reconcile what you have just said with your own dialogue." "Why not?" "Is not Lucretius glorying in the notion that the gods do not trouble themselves with mortals, while you have been asserting that 'The Deity' troubles Himself even with the souls of heathens?" "Certainly. But that is quite a distinct matter from his dislike of what he calls Relligio. In that dislike I can sympathise fully: but on his method of escape Mr. Windrush will probably look with more complaisance than I do, who call it by the ugly name of Atheism." "Then I fear you would call me an Atheist, if you knew all. So we had better say no more about it." "A most curious speech, certainly, to make to a parson, or soul- curer by profession!" "Why, what on earth have you to do but to abhor and flee me?" asked he, with a laugh, though by no means a merry one. "Would your having a headache be a reason for the medical man's running away from you, or coming to visit you?" "Ah, but this, you know, is my 'fault,' and my 'crime,' and my 'sin.' Eh?" and he laughed again. "Would the doctor visit you the less, because it was your own fault that your head ached?" "Ah, but suppose I professed openly no faith in his powers of curing, and had a great hankering after unaccredited Homoeopathies, like Mr. Windrush's; would not that be a fair cause for interdiction from fire and water, sacraments and Christian burial?" "Come, come, Templeton," I said; "you shall not thus jest away serious thoughts with an old friend. I know you are ill at ease. Why not talk over the matter with me fairly and soberly? How do you know till you have tried, whether I can help you or not?" "Because I know that your arguments will have no force with me; they will demand of me or assume in me, certain faculties, sentiments, notions, experiences-call them what you like; I am beginning to suspect sometimes with Cabanis that they are 'a product of the small intestines'-which I never have had, and never could make myself have, and now don't care whether I have them or not." "On my honour, I will address you only as what you are, and know yourself to be. But what are these faculties, so strangely beyond my friend Templeton's reach? He used to be distinguished at college for a very clear head, and a very kind heart, and the nicest sense of honour which I ever saw in living man; and I have not heard that they have failed him since he became Templeton of Templeton. And as for his Churchmanship, were not the county papers ringing last month with the accounts of the beautiful new church which he had built, and the stained glass which he brought from Belgium, and the marble font which he brought from Italy; and how he had even given for an altar-piece his own pet Luini, the gem of Templeton House?" "Effeminate picture!" he said. "It was part and parcel of the idea- " Before I could ask him what he meant, he looked up suddenly at me, with deep sadness on his usually nonchalant face. "Well, my dear fellow, I suppose I must tell you all, as I have told you so much without your shaking the dust off your feet against me, and consulting Bradshaw for the earliest train to Shrewsbury. You knew my dear mother?" "I did. The best of women." "The best of women, and the best of mothers. But, if you recollect, she was a great Low-Church saint." "Why 'but'? How does that derogate in any wise from her excellence?" "Not from her excellence; God forbid! or from the excellence of the people of her own party, whom she used to have round her, and who were, some of them, I do believe, as really earnest, and pious, and charitable, and all that, as human beings could be. But it did take away very much indeed from her influence on me." "Surely she did not neglect to teach you." "It is a strange thing to say, but she rather taught me too much. I don't deny that it may have been my own fault. I don't blame her, or any one. But you know what I was at college-no worse than other men, I dare say; but no better. I had no reason for being better." "No reason? Surely she gave you reasons." "There-you have touched the ailing nerve now. The reasons were what you would call paralogisms. They had no more to do with me than with those trout." "You mistake, friend, you mistake, indeed," said I. "I don't mistake at all about this; that whether or not the reasons in themselves had to do with me, the way in which she put them made them practically so much Hebrew. She demanded of me, as the only grounds on which I was to consider myself safe from hell, certain fears and hopes which I did not feel, and experiences which I did not experience; and it was my fault, and a sign of my being in a wrong state-to use no harder term-that I did not feel them; and yet it was only God's grace which could make me feel them: and so I grew up with a dark secret notion that I was a very bad boy; but that it was God's fault and not mine that I was so." "You were ripe indeed then," said I sadly, "like hundreds more, for Professor Windrush's teaching." "I will come to that presently. But in the meantime-was it my fault? I was never what you call a devout person. My 'organ of veneration,' as the phrenologists would say, was never very large. I was a shrewd dashing boy, enjoying life to the finger-tips, and enjoying above all, I will say, pleasing my mother in every way, except in the understanding what she told me-and what I felt I could not understand. But as I grew older, and watched her, and the men round her, I began to suspect that religion and effeminacy had a good deal to do with each other. For the women, whatsoever their temperaments, or even their tastes might be, took to this to me incomprehensible religion naturally and instinctively; while the very few men who were in their clique were-I don't deny some of them were good men enough-if they had been men at all: if they had been well-read, or well-bred, or gallant, or clear-headed, or liberal- minded, or, in short, anything but the silky, smooth-tongued hunt- the-slippers nine out of ten of them were. I recollect well asking my mother once, whether there would not be five times more women than men in heaven-and her answering me sadly and seriously, that she feared there would be. And in the meantime she brought me up to pray and hope that I might some day be converted, and become a child of God-And one could not help wishing to enjoy oneself as much as possible before that event happened." "Before that event happened, my dear fellow? Pardon me, but your tone is somewhat irreverent." "Very likely. I had no reason put before me for regarding such a change as anything but an unpleasant doom, which would cut me off, or ought to do so, from field sports, from poetry, from art, from science, from politics-for Christians, I was told, had nothing to do with the politics of this world-from man and all man's civilisation, in short; and leave to me, as the only two lawful indulgences, those of living in a good house, and begetting a family of children." "And did you throw off the old Creeds for the sake of the civilisation which you fancied that they forbid?" "No. I am a Churchman, you know; principally on political grounds, or from custom, or from-the devil knows what, perhaps-I do not." "Probably it is God, and not the devil, who knows why, Templeton." "Be it so-Frightful as it is to have to say it-I do not so much care-I suppose it is all right: if it is not, it will all come right at last. And in the meantime, I compromise, like the rest of the world; and hear Jane making the children every week-day pray that they may become God's children, and then teaching them every Sunday evening the Catechism, which says that they are so already. I don't understand it-I suppose if it was important, one would understand it. One knows right from wrong, you know, and other fundamentals. If that were necessary, one would know that too." "But can you submit quietly to such a barefaced contradiction?" "I? I am only a plain country squire. Of course I should call such dealing with an Act of Parliament a lie and a sham-But about these things, I fancy, the women know best. Jane is ten thousand times as good as I am-you don't know half her worth-And I haven't the heart to contradict her-nor the right either; for I have no reasons to give her; no faith to substitute for hers." "Our friend, the High-Church curate, could have given you a few plain reasons, I should think." "Of course he could. And I believe in my heart the man is in the right in calling Jane wrong. He has honesty and common sense on his side, just as he has when he calls the present state of Convocation, in the face of that prayer for God's Spirit on its deliberations, a blasphemous lie and sham. Of course it is. Any ensign in a marching regiment could tell us that from his mere sense of soldier's honour. But then-if she is wrong, is he right? How do I know? I want reasons: he gives me historic authorities." "And very good things too; for they are fair phenomena for induction." "But how will proving to me that certain people once thought a thing right prove to me that it is right? Good people think differently every day. Good people have thought differently about those very matters in every age. I want some proof which will coincide with the little which I do know about science and philosophy. They must fight out their own battle, if they choose to fight it on mere authority. If one could but have the implicit faith of a child, it would be all very well: but one can't. If one has once been fool enough to think about these things, one must have reasons, or something better than mere ipse dixits, or one can't believe them. I should be glad enough to believe; do you suppose that I don't envy poor dear Jane from morning to night?-but I can't. And so-" "And so what?" asked I. "And so, I believe, I am growing to have no religion at all, and no substitute for it either; for I feel I have no ground or reason for admiring or working out any subject. I have tired of philosophy. Perhaps it's all wrong-at least I can't see what it has to do with God, and Christianity, and all which, if it is true, must be more important than anything else. I have tired of art for the same reason. How can I be anything but a wretched dilettante, when I have no principles to ground my criticism on, beyond bosh about 'The Beautiful'? I did pluck up heart and read Mr. Ruskin's books greedily when they came out, because I heard he was a good Christian. But I fell upon a little tract of his, 'Notes on Sheepfolds,' and gave him up again, when I found that he had a leaning to that 'Clapham sect.' I have dropped politics: for I have no reason, no ground, no principle in them, but expediency. When they asked me this summer to represent the interests of the county in Parliament, I asked them how they came to make such a mistake as to fancy that I knew what was their interest, or anyone else's? I am becoming more and more of an animal; fragmentary, inconsistent, seeing to the root of nothing, unable to unite things in my own mind. I just do the duty which lies nearest, and looks simplest. I try to make the boys grow up plucky and knowing-though what's the use of it? They will go to college with even less principles than I had, and will get into proportionably worse scrapes, I expect to be ruined by their debts before I die. And for the rest, I read nothing but "The Edinburgh" and "The Agricultural Gazette." My talk is of bullocks. I just know right from wrong enough to see that the farms are in good order, pay my labourers living wages, keep the old people out of the workhouse, and see that my cottages and schools are all right; for I suppose I was put here for some purpose of that kind-though what it is I can't very clearly define-And there's an end of my long story." "Not quite an animal yet, it seems?" said I with a smile, half to hide my own sadness at a set of experiences which are, alas! already far too common, and will soon be more common still. "Nearer it than you fancy. I am getting fonder and fonder of a good dinner and a second bottle of claret-about their meaning there is no mistake. And my principal reason for taking the hounds two years ago was, I do believe, to have something to do in the winter which required no thought, and to have an excuse for falling asleep after dinner, instead of arguing with Jane about her scurrilous religious newspapers-There is a great gulf opening, I see, between me and her- And as I can't bridge it over I may as well forget it. Pah! I am boring you, and over-talking myself. Have a cigar, and let us say no more about it. There is more here, old fellow, than you will cure by doses of Socratic Dialectics." "I am not so sure of that," I replied. "On the contrary, I should recommend you in your present state of mind to look out your old Plato as quickly as possible, and see if he and his master Socrates cannot give you, if not altogether a solution for your puzzle, at least a method whereby you may solve it yourself. But tell me first-What has all this to do with your evident sympathy for a man so unlike yourself as Professor Windrush?" "Perhaps I feel for him principally because he has broken loose from it all in desperation, just as I have. But, to tell you the truth, I have been reading more than one book of his school lately; and, as I said, I owe you no thanks for demolishing the little comfort which I seemed to find in them." "And what was that then?" "Why-in the first place, you can't deny that however incoherent they may be they do say a great many clever things, and noble things too, about man, and society, and art, and nature." "No doubt of it." "And moreover, they seem to connect all they say with-with-I suppose you will laugh at me-with God, and spiritual truths, and eternal Divine laws; in short, to consecrate common matters in that very way, which I could not find in my poor mother's teaching." "No doubt of that either. And therein is one real value of them, as protests in behalf of something nobler and more unselfish than the mere dollar-getting spirit of their country." "Well, then, can you not see how pleasant it was to me to find someone who would give me a peep into the unseen world, without requiring as an entrance-fee any religious emotions and experiences? Here I had been for years, shut out; told that I had no business with anything eternal, and pure, and noble, and good; that to all intents and purposes I was nothing better than a very cunning animal who could be damned; because I was still 'carnal,' and had not been through all Jane's mysterious sorrows and joys. And it was really good news to me to hear that they were not required after all, and that all I need do was to be a good man, and leave devotion to those who were inclined to it by temperament." "Not to be a good man," said I, "but only a good specimen of some sort of man. That, I think, would be the outcome of Emerson's 'Representative Men,' or of those most tragic 'Memoirs of Margaret Puller Ossoli.'" "How then, hair-splitter? What is the mighty difference?" "Would you call Dick Turpin a good man, because he was a good highwayman?" "What now?" "That he would be an excellent representative man of his class; and therefore, on Mr. Emerson's grounds, a fit subject for a laudatory lecture." "I hate reductiones ad absurdum. Let Turpin take care of himself. I suppose I do not belong to such a very bad sort of men, but that it may be worth my while to become a good specimen of it?" "Certainly not; only I think, contrary to Mr. Emerson's opinion, that you will not become even that, unless you first become something better still, namely, a good man." "There you are too refined for me. But can you not understand, now, the causes of my sympathy even with Windrush and his 'spirit of truth'?" "I can, and those of many more. It seems that you thought you found in that school a wider creed than the one to which you had been accustomed?" "There was a more comprehensive view of humanity about them, and that pleased me." "Doubtless, one can be easily comprehensive if one comprehends good and bad, true and false, under one category, by denying the absolute existence of either goodness or badness, truth or falsehood. But let the view be as comprehensive as it will, I am afraid that the creed founded thereon will not be very comprehensive." "Why then?" "Because it will comprehend so few people; fewer even than the sect of those who will believe, with Mr. Emerson, that Harvey and Newton made their discoveries by the 'Aristotelian method.' The sect of those who believe that there is no absolute right and wrong, no absolute truth external to himself, discoverable by man, will, it seems to me, be a very narrow one to the end of time; owing to a certain primeval superstition of our race, who, even in barbarous countries, have always been Platonists enough to have some sort of instinct and hope that there was a right and a wrong, and truths independent of their own sentiments and faculties. So that, though this school may enable you to fancy that you understand Lady Jane somewhat more, by the simple expedient of putting on her religious experiences an arbitrary interpretation of your own, which she would indignantly and justly deny, it will enable her to understand you all the less, and widen the gulf between you immeasurably." "You are severe." "I only wish you to face one result of a theory, which, while it pretends to offer the most comprehensive liberality, will be found to lead in practice to the most narrow and sectarian Epicurism for a cultivated few. But for the many, struggling with the innate consciousness of evil, in them and around them-an instinctive consciousness which no argumentation about 'evil being a lower form of good' will ever explain away to those who 'grind among the iron facts of life, and have no time for self-deception'-what good news for them is there in Mr. Emerson's cosy and tolerant Epicurism? They cry for deliverance from their natures; they know that they are not that which they were intended to be, because they follow their natures; and he answers them with: 'Follow your natures, and be that which you were intended to be.' You began this argument by stipulating that I should argue with you simply as a man. Does Mr. Emerson's argument look like doing that, or only arguing as with an individual of that kind of man, or rather animal, to which some iron Fate has compelled you to belong?" "But, I say, these books have made me a better man." "I do not doubt it. An earnest cultivated man, speaking his whole mind to an earnest cultivated man, will hardly fail of telling him something he did not know before. But if you had not been a cultivated man, Templeton, a man with few sorrows, and few trials, and few unsatisfied desires-if you had been the village shopkeeper, with his bad debts, and his temptations to make those who can pay for those who cannot,-if you had been one of your own labourers, environed with the struggle for daily bread, and the alehouse, and hungry children, and a sick wife, and a dull taste, and a duller head-in short, if you had been a man such as nine out of ten are- what would his school have taught you then? You want some truths which are common to men as men, which will help and teach them, let their temperament or their circumstances be what they will-do you not? If you do not, your complaint of Lady Jane's exclusive Creed is a mere selfish competition on your part, between a Creed which will fit her peculiarities, and a Creed which will fit your peculiarities. Do you not see that?" "I do-go on." "Then I say you will not find that in Professor Windrush's school. I say you will find it in Lady Jane's Creed." "What? In the very Creed which excludes me?" "Whether that Creed excludes you or not is a question of the true meaning of its words. And that again is a question of Dialectics. I say it includes you and all mankind." "You must mistake her doctrines, then." "I do not, I assure you. I know what they are; and I know, also, the misreading of them to which your dear mother's school has accustomed her, and which has taught her that these Creeds only belong to the few who have discovered their own share in them. But whether the Creeds really do that or not-whether Lady Jane does not implicitly confess that they do not by her own words and deeds of every day, that, I say, is a question of Dialectics, in the Platonic sense of that word, as the science which discovers the true and false in thought, by discovering the true and false concerning the meanings of words, which represent thought." "Be it so. I should be glad to hold what Jane holds, for the sake of the marvellous practical effect on her character-sweet creature that she is!-which it has produced in the last seven years." "And which effect, I presume, was not increased by her denying to you any share in the same?" "Alas, no! It is only when she falls on that-when she begins denouncing and excluding-that all the old faults, few and light as they are, seem to leap into ugly life again for the moment." "Few and light, indeed! Ah, my dear Templeton, the gulf between you and happiness looks wide; but only because it is magnified in mist." "Which you would have me disperse by lightning-flashes of Dialectics, eh? Well, every man has his nostrum." "I have not. My method is not my own, but Plato's." "But, my good fellow, the Windrush school admire Plato as much as you do, and yet certainly arrive at somewhat different conclusions." "They do Plato the honour of patronising him, as a Representative Man; but their real text-book, you will find, is Proclus. That hapless philosophaster's a priori method, even his very verbiage, is dear to their souls; for they copy it through wet and dry, through sense and nonsense. But as for Plato-when I find them using Plato's weapons, I shall believe in their understanding and love of him." "And in the meanwhile claim him as a new verger for the Reformed Church Catholic?" "Not a new verger, Templeton. Augustine said, fourteen hundred years ago, that Socrates was the philosopher of the Catholic Faith. If he has not seemed so of late years, it is, I suspect, because we do not understand quite the same thing as Augustine did, when we talk of the Catholic Faith and Christianity." "But you forget, in your hurry of clerical confidence, that the question still remains, whether these Creeds are true." "That, too, as I take it, is a question of Dialectics, unless you choose to reduce the whole to a balance-of-probabilities argument- rather too narrow a basis for a World-faith to stand upon. Try all 'mythic' theories, Straussite and others, by honest Dialectics. Try your own thoughts and experiences, and the accredited thoughts and experiences of wise men, by the same method. Mesmerism and 'The Development of Species' may wait till they have settled themselves somewhat more into sciences; at present it does not much matter what agrees or disagrees with them. But using this weapon fearlessly and honestly, you will, unless Socrates and Plato were fools, arrive at absolute eternal truths, which are equally true for all men, good or bad, conscious or unconscious; and I tell you-of course you need not believe me till you have made trial-that those truths will coincide with the plain honest meaning of the Catholic Creeds, as determined by the same method-the only one, indeed, by which they or anything else can be determined." "You forget Baconian induction, of which you are so fond." "And pray what are Dialectics, but strict Baconian induction applied to words, as the phenomena of mind, instead of to things, the phenomena of-" "What?" "I can't tell you; or, rather, I will not. I have my own opinion about what those trees and stones are; but it will require a few years' more verification before I tell." "Really, you and your Dialectics seem in a hopeful and valiant state of mind." "Why not? Can truth do anything but conquer?" "Of course-assuming, as every one does, that the truth is with you." "My dear fellow, I have seldom met a man who could not be a far better dialectician than I shall ever be, if he would but use his Common Sense." "Common Sense? That really sounds something like a bathos, after the great big Greek word which you have been propounding to me as the cure for all my doubts." "What? Are you about to 'gib' after all, just as I was flattering myself that I had broken you in to go quietly in harness?" "I am very much minded to do so. The truth is, I cannot bring myself to believe that the universal panacea lies in an obscure and ancient scientific method." "Obscure and ancient? Did I not just say that any man might be a dialectician? Did Socrates ever appeal to any faculty but the Common Sense of man as man, which exists just as much in England now, I presume, as it did in Athens in his day? Does he not, in pursuance of that method of his, draw his arguments and illustrations, to the horror of the big-worded Sophists, from dogs, kettles, fishwives, and what not which is vulgar and commonplace? Or did I, in my clumsy attempt to imitate him, make use of a single argument which does not lie, developed or undeveloped, in the Common Sense of every clown; in that human Reason of his, which is part of God's image in him, and in every man? And has not my complaint against Mr. Windrush's school been, that they will not do this; that they will not accept the ground which is common to men as men, but disregard that part of the 'Vox Populi' which is truly 'Vox Dei,' for that which is 'Vox Diaboli'-for private sentiments, fancies, and aspirations; and so casting away the common sense of mankind, build up each man, on the pin's point of his own private judgment, his own inverted pyramid?" "But are you not asking me to do just the same, when you propose to me to start as a Scientific Dialectician?" "Why, what are Dialectics, or any other scientific method, but conscious common sense? And what is common sense, but unconscious scientific method? Every man is a dialectician, be he scholar or boor, in as far as he tries to use no words which he does not understand, and to sift his own thoughts, and his expression of them, by that Reason which is at once common to men, and independent of them." "As M. Jourdain talked prose all his life without knowing it. Well- I prefer the unconscious method. I have as little faith as Mr. Carlyle would have in saying: 'Go to, let us make'-an induction about words, or anything else. It seems to me no very hopeful method of finding out facts as they are." "Certainly; provided you mean any particular induction, and not a general inductive and severely-inquiring habit of mind; that very 'Go to' being a fair sign that you have settled beforehand what the induction shall be; in plain English, that you have come to your conclusion already, and are now looking about for facts to prove it. But is it any wiser to say: 'Go to, I will be conscious of being unconscious of being conscious of my own forms of thought'? For that is what you do say, when, having read Plato, and knowing his method, and its coincidence with Common Sense, you determine to ignore it on common-sense questions." "But why not ignore it, if mother-wit does as well?" "Because you cannot ignore it. You have learnt it more or less, and cannot forget it, try as you will, and must either follow it, or break it and talk nonsense. And moreover, you ought not to ignore it. For it seems to me, that you were sent to Cambridge by One greater than, your parents, in order that you might learn it, and bring it home hither for the use of the M. Jourdains round you here, who have no doubt been talking prose all their life, but may have been also talking it very badly." "You speak riddles." "My dear fellow, may not a man employ Reason, or any other common human faculty, all his life, and yet employ them very clumsily and defectively?" "I should say so, from the gross amount of human unwisdom." "And that, in the case of uneducated persons, happens because they are not conscious of those faculties, or of their right laws, but use them blindly and capriciously, by fits and starts, talking sense on one point and nonsense on another?" "Too true, Heaven knows." "But the educated man, if education mean anything, is the man who has become conscious of those common human faculties and their laws, and has learnt to use them continuously and accurately, on all matters alike." "True, O Socraticule!" "Then is it not his especial business to teach the right use of them to the less educated?-unless you agree with the old Sophists, that the purpose of education is to enable us to deceive or coerce the uneducated for our own aggrandisement." "I am therefore, it seems, to get up Platonic Dialectics simply in order to teach my ploughmen to use their common sense?" "Exactly so. Teach yourself first, and every one around you afterwards, not the doctrines, nor the formulas-though he had none- but the habit of mind which Socrates tried in vain to teach the Athenian youth. Teach them to face all questions patiently and fearlessly: to begin always by asking every word, great or small, from 'Predestination' to 'Protection,' what it really means. Teach them that 'By your words you shall be justified, and by your words you shall be condemned,' is no barren pulpit-test, but a tremendous practical law for every day, and for every matter. Teach them to be sure that man can find out truth, because God his Father and Archetype will show it to those who hunger after it. Try to make them see clearly the Divine truths which are implied, not only in their creeds, but in their simplest household words; and-" "And fail as Socrates failed, or rather worse; for he did teach himself: but I shall not even do that." "Do not despair in haste. In the first place, I deny that Socrates taught himself, for I believe that One taught him, who has promised to teach every man who desires wisdom; and in the next place, I have no fear but that the sound practical intellect which that same One has bestowed on the Englishman, will give you a far better auditory in any harvest field, than Socrates could find among the mercurial Athenians of a fallen age." "Well, that is, at all events, a comfort for poor me. I will really take to my Plato again, till the hunting begins." "And even then, you know, you don't keep two packs; so you will have three days out of the six wherein to study him." "Four, you mean-for I have long given up reading Sunday books on Sunday." "Then you read your Bible and Prayer-book; or even borrow some of Lady Jane's devotional treatises; and try, after you have translated the latter into plain English, to make out what they one and all really do mean, by the light which old Socrates has given you during the week. You will find them wiser than you fancy, and simpler also." "So be it, my dear Soul-doctor. Here come Lewis and the luncheon." And so ended our conversation. 
43886	----	[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] [Illustration: At last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was Goodwill. (_Page 15_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] BUNYAN'S PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. IN WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE. BY SAMUEL PHILLIPS DAY, AUTHOR OF "THE RARE ROMANCE OF REYNARD THE FOX," IN WORDS OF ONE SYLLABLE. _ILLUSTRATED._ A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK. COPYRIGHT, 1895, BY THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. _All rights reserved._ Contents I. THE DEN AND THE DREAM 5 II. THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND 8 III. WORLDLY-WISEMAN 10 IV. THE WICKET-GATE 15 V. THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE 18 VI. THE CROSS AND THE CONTRAST 19 VII. THE HILL DIFFICULTY 28 VIII. THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL 30 IX. APOLLYON 39 X. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH 42 XI. CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL 44 XII. TALKATIVE 50 XIII. VANITY FAIR 56 XIV. CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL 64 XV. DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR 69 XVI. THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS 77 XVII. THE ENCHANTED GROUND AND THE WAY DOWN TO IT 81 XVIII. THE LAND OF BEULAH--THE FORDS OF THE RIVER--AT HOME 87 THE PILGRIM'S PROGRESS. CHAPTER I. THE DEN AND THE DREAM. AS I went through the wilds of this world, I came to a place where was a den, and I laid me down in that place to sleep; and as I slept I dreamt a dream; and lo, I saw a man clad in rags, with a book in his hand, and a great load on his back! I saw him read in the book, and as he read, he wept and shook. In this plight, then, he went home, and kept calm as long as he could, that his wife and bairns should not see his grief; but he could not long hold his speech, for that his woe grew more hard to bear. "Oh, my dear wife," said he, "and you, the bairns of my heart, I am quite lost, for a load lies hard on me. More than this, I am told that this our town will be burnt with fire from the skies, and you, my sweet babes, shall come to grief, save some way can be found to get clear of harm." At this his kin were in sore fear; for that they had just cause to dread some dire ill had got hold of his head. So, when morn was come, they would know how he did: and he told them, "Worse and worse." He spoke to them once more, but they gave no heed to his words. Hence he went to his room to pray for them, and to ease his grief. He would, too, take long walks in the fields, and read and pray at times: and thus for some days he spent his time. Now I saw on a time, when he took a stray walk in the fields, that he was bent on his book and in deep grief of mind; and as he read he burst out, "What shall I do?" I saw, too, that his eyes went this way and that way, as if he would run: yet he could not tell which way to go. I then saw a man whose name was Evangelist come to him and ask, "Why dost thou cry?" Quoth he, "Sir, I see by the book in my hand that death is my doom, and that I am then to meet my Judge: and I find that I do not will to do the first, while I dread the last." Then said Evangelist, "Why not will to die, since this life is full of ills?" The man said, "The cause is I fear that this load that is on my back will sink me more low than the grave, and I shall go down to hell." Then said Evangelist, "If this be thy state, why dost thou stand still?" Said he, "It is for that I know not where to go." Then he gave him a roll of smooth skin, on which were writ the plain words, "Flee from the wrath to come." The man read it, and said, "To what place must I flee?" Then said Evangelist, "Do you see yon small gate?" The man said, "I think I do." Then said his guide, "Go up at once to it; at which, when thou dost knock, it shall be told thee what thou shalt do." So I saw in my dream that the man did run. Now he had not run far from his own door, but his wife and bairns saw it, and in a loud voice they strove to get him to come back; but the man put the tips of his thumbs in his ears and ran on. His friends also came out, and some bade him haste back. Of those who did so, there were two that sought to fetch him back by force. The name of the one was Obstinate; and the name of the next, Pliable. Now by this time the man was a good way off; but they went in quest of him, and in a short time came up with him. Then said he, "Friends, for what are ye come?" Quoth they, "To urge you to go back with us": but he said, "That can by no means be. You dwell in the City of Destruction: and when you die there, you will sink down to a place that burns with fire. Take heed, good friends, and go with me." [Illustration: OBSTINATE GOES BACK TO THE CITY OF DESTRUCTION.] "What!" said Obstinate, "and leave our friends and all that brings us joy and ease?" "Yes," said Christian (for that was his name); "I seek a life that fades not. Read it so, if you will, in my book." "Tush!" said Obstinate, "I heed not your book: will you go back with us or no?" "No, not I," said Christian. _Obs._--"Come then, friend Pliable, let us go home." Then said Pliable, "The things he looks for are of more worth than ours. My heart urges me to go with him." _Obs._--"What! Be led by me and go back." _Chr._--"Come with me, friend Pliable; there are such things to be had which I spoke of, and much more bliss. If you heed not what I say, read here in this book." "Well, friend Obstinate," said Pliable, "I mean to go with this good man, and to cast in my lot with him. But, my good mate, do you know the way to this place?" _Chr._--"I am told by a man, whose name is Evangelist, to speed me to a small gate that is in front of us, where we shall be put in the right way." "And I will go back to my place," said Obstinate. "I will not make one of such flat fools." CHAPTER II. THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. NOW Christian and Pliable spoke as they did walk on the plain; and this was what they said: _Chr._--"Come, friend Pliable. I am glad you have been led to go with me. Had but Obstinate felt what I have felt, he would not have set his back on us." _Pli._--"And do you think that your book is true?" _Chr._--"Yes: there is a realm where we shall not taste of death, that we may dwell in it for aye." _Pli._--"This is right good; and what else?" _Chr._--"There we shall not weep or grieve more; for he that owns the place will wipe all tears from our eyes." _Pli._--"To hear this doth fill one's heart with joy. But are these things to form our bliss? How shall we get to share in them?" _Chr._--"The Lord hath set down _that_ in this book, the pith of which is, if we in truth seek to have it, he will, of his free grace, grant it to us." _Pli._--"Well, my good friend, glad am I to hear of these things. Come on, let us mend our pace." Now I saw in my dream that just as they had put an end to this talk they drew up nigh to a deep slough that was in the midst of the plain; and as they did not heed it, both fell swap in the bog. The name of the slough was Despond. Then said Pliable, "Ah, friend Christian, where are you now?" "In sooth," said Christian, "I do not know." At this Pliable said in sharp tones, "Is this the bliss you have told me all this while of? If we have such ill speed as we first set out, what may we not look for ere the time we get to the end of our road? May I once get out with my life, you shall hold the brave land for me." And with that he gave a bold stride or two, and got out of the mire on that side of the slough which was next his own house. So off he went, and Christian saw him no more. Hence Christian was left to sprawl in the Slough of Despond. But I saw in my dream that a man came to him whose name was Help, and did ask him what he did there. "Sir," said Christian, "I was bade go this way by a man known as Evangelist, who sent me in like way to yon gate, that I might scape the wrath to come." So he gave him his hand, and drew him out, and set him on sound ground, and let him go on his way. Then I went to him that did pluck him out, and said, "Sir, whence is it that this plat is not made whole, that those who pass this way may run no risk?" And he said to me, "This slough is such a place that none can mend it. It goes by the name of the Slough of Despond; for still, as he who sins is wrought up to a sense of his lost state, there spring forth in his soul fears, and doubts, and dark thoughts that scare, which all of them form in a heap and fix in this place; and this is the cause why the road is so bad. True, there are, by the help of him who frames the laws, some stout and firm steps found through the midst of this slough; these steps are all but hid, or if they be seen, men step on one side, and then they get all grime with mire, though the steps be there; but the ground is good when they are once got in at the gate." CHAPTER III. WORLDLY-WISEMAN. AS Christian took his lone walk he saw one cross the field to meet him, and their hap was to meet just as they did cross the same way. The man's name was Mr. Worldly-wiseman. Hence Mr. Worldly-wiseman thus held some talk with Christian. _Wor._--"How now, good friend; where dost thou go bent down with such a weight?" [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND WORLDLY-WISEMAN] _Chr._--"As big a load, in sooth, as I think a poor wight had in his life! I am bound for yon small gate in front of me; for there, as I am told, I shall be put in a way to be rid of my huge load." _Wor._--"Wilt thou give heed to me, if I tell thee what course to take?" _Chr._--"If what you say be good, I will; for I stand in need of a wise guide." _Wor._--"Who bid thee go this way to be rid of thy load?" _Chr._--"A man that I thought was high and great; his name, as my mind serves me, is Evangelist." _Wor._--"There is not a more rough way to be found in the world than is that he hath bade thee take; and that thou shalt find if thou wilt be led by him. Hear me: I have seen more years than thou. Thou art like to meet with, on the way which thou dost go, great griefs, pain, lack of food and clothes, sword, fierce beasts, gloom, and, in a word, death, and what not! And why should a man run such risks, just on the word of a strange guide?" _Chr._--"Why, sir, I think I care not what things I meet with in the way, if so be I can get ease from my pack." _Wor._--"But why wilt thou seek for ease this way, as such dire ills go with it? the more so, hadst thou but borne with me, I could aid thee to get what thou dost wish, free from the risks that thou in this way wilt run." _Chr._--"Pray, sir, make known this boon to me." _Wor._--"Why, in yon town (the town is known as Morality) there dwells a squire whose name is Legality, a man of good name, that has skill to help men off with such loads as thine from their backs. To him, as I said, thou canst go and get help in a trice; and if he should not be at home, he hath a fair young son, whose name is Civility, that can do it as well as his sage sire." Now was Christian at a stand what to do; but soon he thought, "If this be true which this squire hath said, my best course is to be led by him"; and with that he thus spake more. _Chr._--"Sir, which is the way to this good man's house?" _Wor._--"By that hill you must go, and the first house you come at is his." So Christian went out of his way to go to Mr. Legality's house for help. But lo, when he was got now hard by the hill, that side of it that was next the path did hang so much, that Christian durst not move on, lest the hill should fall on his head: for which cause there he stood still, and he wot not what to do. But soon there came fierce flames of fire out of the hill, each flash of which made Christian dread he should be burnt. And now he was wroth for the heed he gave to Mr. Worldly-wiseman's words. And with that he saw Evangelist come forth to meet him; and thus did he speak with Christian: "What dost thou here?" said he. At which words Christian knew not what to say. Then said Evangelist to him, "Art not thou the man that I found in tears back of the walls of the City of Destruction?" _Chr._--"Yes, dear sir, I am the man. I met with a squire, so soon as I had got clear of the Slough of Despond, who made me think that I might, in the town which did face me, find a man that could take off my load." _Evan._--"What said that squire to you?" _Chr._--"He bid me with speed get rid of my load; and said I, 'I am hence bound for yon gate to gain more news how I may get to the place where my load may be cast off.' So he said that he would show me the best way: 'which way,' said he, 'will take you to a squire's house that hath skill to take off these loads.' So I put faith in him, and set out of that way till I came to this, if so be I might soon get ease from my load." Then said Evangelist, "Stand still a short time, that I may show thee the words of God." Then Christian fell down at his feet as dead, and did cry, "Woe is me, for I am lost!" At the sight of which Evangelist caught him by the right hand, and said, "Be not frail, but have faith." Then Evangelist went on, and said, "Give heed to the things that I shall tell thee of. The man that met thee is one Worldly-wiseman, and he bears a fit name; in part, for that his creed is what the world holds; and in part, for that he loves such faith best, for it saves him from the cross. Now, there are three things in this man's words that thou must be sure and shun--his scheme to turn thee out of the way; his wish to make the cross a shame to thee; and his guile, which did tempt thee to set thy feet in that way that leads to death. "And for this thou must bear in mind to whom he sent thee, no less than his lack of skill to rid thee of thy load. He to whom thou wast sent for ease, by name Legality, has not the gift to set thee free from thy load. No man, as yet, got rid of his load by him: no, nor till the end of time is like to be. 'By the works of the law none can be made just,' for by the deeds of the law no man that lives can be rid of his load; and as for his son, Civility, though he wears soft looks, he is but a knave, and must fail to help thee. Trust me, there is naught else in all this noise that thou hast heard of this spot but a scheme to lure thee of thy soul's bliss." Now Christian felt sure fear of death, and burst out in a shrill cry, full of woe, as he did curse the time in which he met with Mr. Worldly-wiseman. Still did he say he was the chief of fools for the heed he gave to him. This done, he spoke to Evangelist in words and sense thus: _Chr._--"Sir, what think you? Is there hope? May I now go back and go up to the small gate? Shall I not be sent back from thence in shame?" Then said Evangelist to him, "Thy sin is most great, for by it thou hast done two bad deeds: thou hast left the way that is good to tread in wrong paths, yet will the man at the gate let thee pass, for he has _good-will_ for men." Then did Christian make up his mind to go back, and Evangelist, when he did kiss his cheek, gave him a smile, and bid him God speed. CHAPTER IV. THE WICKET-GATE. SO Christian went on with haste, nor spake he to a man by the way; nor if a man spoke to him, would he deign him a word; so in course of time Christian got up to the gate. Now at the top of the gate there were writ these words: ="Knock, and it shall ope to you."= Hence he did knock more than once or twice. At last there came a grave man to the gate, whose name was Goodwill, who sought to know who was there? and whence he came? and what he would have? _Chr._--"Here is a poor vile wight; I come from the City of Destruction, but am bound for Mount Zion, that I may get safe from the wrath to come. I would, for this cause, sir, know if you will let me in." "I will, with all my heart," said he; and with that he drew back the gate. So when he was got in, the man of the gate said to him, "Who told him to come to that place?" _Chr._--"Evangelist bid me come here and knock, as I did; and he said that you, sir, would tell me what I must do." _Good._--"But how is it that no one came with you?" _Chr._--"For that none of those who dwelt near me saw their plight as I saw mine." _Good._--"Did one or more of them know that you meant to come here?" _Chr._--"Yes; my wife and bairns saw me at the first, and did call to me to turn round." _Good._--"But did none of them go in quest of you, to urge you to go back?" _Chr._--"Yes, both Obstinate and Pliable; but when they saw that they could not gain their end, Obstinate went back, and did rail the while, but Pliable came with me a short way." _Good._--"But why did he not come through?" _Chr._--"We, in truth, came on side by side till we came to the Slough of Despond, in the which he fell souse. But as he got out on that side next to his own house, he told me I should hold the brave land for him. So he went his way, and I came mine." Then said Goodwill, "Ah, poor man!" "In sooth," said Christian, "I have said the truth of Pliable; but I, too, did turn on one side to go in the way of death, and I was led to this by the base arts of one Mr. Worldly-wiseman." [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AT THE WICKET-GATE.] _Good._--"Oh, did he light on you? What! he would have had you seek for ease at the hands of Mr. Legality: they are both of them true cheats. But were you led by him?" _Chr._--"Yes, as far as I durst. I went to find out Mr. Legality, till I thought the mount that stands by his house would have come down on my head." _Good._--"That mount has been the death of a host, and will be the death of still more." _Chr._--"Why, in truth, I do not know what hap had come to me there, had not Evangelist by good luck met me once more, while I did muse in the midst of my dumps: but it was God's grace that he came to me twice, for else I could not have got to this place." _Good._--"We shut out none, and take no note of what they have done up to the time they come here: 'they in no wise are cast out': and hence, good Christian, come a wee way with me, and I will teach thee in what way thou must go. Look right in front of thee; dost thou see this strait way? That is the way thou must go." "But," said Christian, "are there no turns or bends by which one who has not trod it may lose his way?" _Good._--"Yes, there are some ways butt down on this; and they are bent and wide: but thus thou canst judge the right from the wrong, that the first is straight and not broad." Then Christian strove to gird up his loins, and to set out on his way. So he with whom he had held speech told him, "That by that he had gone some way from the gate he would come at the house of the Interpreter, at whose door he should knock, and he would show him good things." CHAPTER V. THE INTERPRETER'S HOUSE. THEN he went on till he came to the house of the Interpreter, at which he gave some smart knocks. At last one came to the door, and did ask who was there? "Sir," said Christian, "I am a man that am come from the City of Destruction, and am bound for the Mount Zion; and I was told by the man that stands at the gate at the head of this way, that if I came here you would show me good things, such as would be a help to one on the road." Then said the Interpreter, "Come in; I will show thee that which will be of use to thee." So he told his man to light the lamp, and bid Christian go in his track. Then he had him in a room where none else could come, and bid his man fold back the door, the which when he had done Christian saw the print of one, most grave of look, hung up on the wall, and this was the style of it: It had eyes that did stare at the sky, the best of books in its hand, and the law of truth was writ on its lips; the world was at its back, it stood as if it did plead with men, and a crown of gold did hang nigh its head. Then said Christian, "What means this?" _Inter._--"I have shown thee this print first for this cause, that the man whose print this is, is the sole man whom the Lord of the place where thou dost go hath sent as thy guide through all the twists and turns thou wilt meet with in the way; hence take good heed to what I have shown thee, and bear well in thy mind what thou hast seen, lest, in thy route, thou meet with some that say they can lead thee right; but their way goes down to death." Then he took him by the hand, and led him to a large room on the ground floor that was full of dust; the which the Interpreter did call for a man to sweep. Then said the Interpreter to a girl that stood by, "Bring hence from yon brook the means to lay this dust." Then said Christian, "What means this?" The Interpreter thus spoke: "This room on the ground floor is the heart of man that has not been made pure by the sweet grace of Christ's Word. The _dust_ is the sin that cleaves to him through the Fall, and the lust that hath made foul the whole man. He who at first swept is the Law; but she that brought the means to lay the dust is the Gospel." I saw too, in my dream, that the Interpreter took him by the hand, and had him in a small room, where sat two youths, each one in his chair. The name of the most grown was Passion, and of the next, Patience: Passion did not seem at rest, but Patience was quite still. Then I saw that one came to Passion and brought him a bag of rich gifts, and did pour it down at his feet; the which he took up and felt joy in it, while at Patience he gave a laugh of scorn. But I saw but a time, and he had got rid of all, and had naught left but rags. Then said Christian to the Interpreter, "I would have you make this thing more clear to me." So he said, "These two lads are signs: Passion of the men of this world, and Patience of the men of that which is to come; for, as here thou dost see, Passion will have all now, this year, that is to say in this world, so are the men of this world; they must have all their good things now; they durst not stay till next year, that is till the next world, for their share of good." Then said Christian, "Now I see that Patience has the best sense, and that on more grounds than one; for that he stays for the best things, and in like way for that he will have the gain of his when Passion has naught but rags." [Illustration: INTERPRETER SHOWS CHRISTIAN THE ROOM FULL OF DUST] _Inter._--"Nay, you may add one more, to wit, the joys of the next world will not wear out, but these are soon gone." I saw, in like way, that the Interpreter took him once more by the hand, and led him to a choice place, where was built a great house, fine to look at; at the sight of which Christian felt much joy; he saw, too, on the top of it some folk that did walk to and fro, who were clad all in gold. Then the Interpreter took him, and led him up nigh to the door of the great house; and lo, at the door stood a host of men as did wish to go in, but durst not. There, too, sat a man a short way from the door, at the side of a board, with a book and his desk in front of him, to take the name of him that should come in. More than this, he saw that in the porch stood groups of men, clad in coats of mail, to keep it, who meant to do all the hurt and harm they could to the man that would go in. Now was Christian in a sore maze. At last, when all the men did start back for fear of the men who bore arms, Christian saw a man of a bold face come up to the man that sat there to write, and say, "Set down my name, sir"; the which when he had done, he saw the man draw his sword, and put a casque on his head, and rush to the door on the men who had arms, who laid on him with fierce force; but the man, not at all put out of the way, fell to, and did cut and hack with all his might: so, when he had got and dealt scores of wounds to those that strove to keep him out, he cut his way through them all, and made straight for the great house. "Now," said Christian, "let me go hence." "Nay, stay," said the Interpreter, "till I have shown thee some more; and then thou shalt go on thy way." [Illustration: Just as Christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back. (_Page 25_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] So he took him by the hand once more, and led him to a room dark as pitch, where there sat a man in a steel cage. Now the man to look on was most sad; and he gave sighs as if he would break his heart. The man said, "I once did seem to be what I was not fair in mine own eyes, and in the eyes of those that knew me. I was once, as I thought, fair for the Celestial City, and went so far as to have joy at the thoughts that I should get there." _Chr._--"Well, but what art thou now?" _Man._--"I am now a man lost to hope." _Chr._--"But how didst thou get in this state?" _Man._--"I did sin in face of the light of the World, and the grace of God. I made the Spirit grieve, and he is gone." Then said Christian, "Is there no hope, but you must be kept in the steel cage of gloom?" _Man._--"None at all." _Chr._--"But canst thou not now grieve and turn?" _Man._--"God hath not let me; his Word gives me no aid to faith; yea, he hath shut me up in this steel cage; nor can all the men in the world let me out." Then said the Interpreter to Christian, "Let this man's wails be dwelt on by thee, and cease not to teach thee how to act." So he took Christian and led him to a room where one did rise out of bed; and as he put on his clothes he did shake and quake. Then said Christian, "Why doth this man thus shake?" So he spoke and said, "This night as I was in my sleep I dreamt, and lo, the sky grew black as ink, when flame flit from the clouds; on which I heard a dread noise, that put me in throes of pain. So I did lift up my eyes in my dream, and saw a man sit on a cloud, with a huge host near to him. I heard, then, a voice that said, 'Come forth, ye dead, and meet your Judge!' And with that the rocks rent, the graves did gape, and the dead that were in them came forth. Then I saw the man that sat on the cloud fold back the book and bid the world draw near. I heard it, in like way, told to them that were near the man that sat on the cloud, 'Bind up the tares, and the chaff, and the stalks, and cast them in the lake that burns with fire.' Then said the voice to the same men, 'Put up my wheat in the barn!' and with that I saw a host caught up in the clouds, but I was left stay." _Chr._--"But what was it that made you so quake at this sight?" _Man._--"Why, I thought that the day of doom had come, and that I was not fit to meet it. But this made me fear most, that some were caught up while I was left." Then said the Interpreter to Christian, "Hast thou thought well on all these things?" _Chr._--"Yes; and they put me in hope and fear." _Inter._--"Well, keep all things so in thy mind that they may be as a goad in thy sides, to prick thee on in the way thou must go." Then Christian girt up his loins, and thought but of the long road he had to tread. [Illustration: So I saw that just as Christian came up to the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back.--Page 25. _Pilgrim's Progress._] CHAPTER VI. THE CROSS AND THE CONTRAST. NOW I saw in my dream that the high road had on each side a wall for a fence, and that wall went by the name of Salvation. Up this way, then, did Christian run with his load, till he came to a place where was a high slope, and on that place stood a cross, and a short way from it in the vale, a tomb. So I saw in my dream that just as Christian came up with the cross, his load got loose from his neck, and fell from off his back, and did roll till it came to the mouth of the grave, where it fell in, and I saw it no more. Then was Christian full glad, and said, with a gay heart, "He hath brought me rest by his grief, and life by his death." Then he stood still for a short time to look with awe, for it was a strange thing to him that the sight of the cross should thus ease him of his load. I saw then in my dream that he went on thus till he came to a vale, where he saw three men in deep sleep, with gyves on their heels. The name of the one was Simple; the next, Sloth; and the third, Presumption. Christian went to them, if so be he might rouse them; so he said in a loud voice, "You are like them that sleep on the top of a mast, for the Dead Sea is low down at your feet, a gulf that no plumb line can sound; get up, hence and come on." With this they gave a glum look at him, and spoke in this sort: Simple said, "I see no cause for fear"; Sloth said, "Yet some more sleep"; and Presumption said, "Each tub must stand on its own end." And so they lay down to sleep once more, and Christian went on his way. [Illustration: FORMALIST AND HYPOCRISY COMING INTO THE WAY OVER THE WALL.] Yet felt he grief to think that men in that sad plight should so spurn the kind act of him that of his own free will sought to help them. And as he did grieve from this cause, he saw two men roll off a wall, on the left hand of the strait way. The name of the one was Formalist, and the name of the next Hypocrisy. So they drew up nigh him, who thus held speech with them: _Chr._--"Sirs, whence came you, and where do you go?" _Form. and Hyp._--"We were born in the land of Vainglory, and are bent for praise to Mount Zion." _Chr._--"Why came you not in at the gate which stands at the head of the way?" They said, "That to go to the gate to get in was by all their horde thought too far round." _Chr._--"But will it not be thought a wrong done to the Lord of the town where we are bound, thus to break his law which he hath made known to us?" They told him, "That this act of theirs, as it stood for so long a time, would no doubt be thought good in law by a just judge; and more than this," said they, "if we get in the way, what boots it which way we get in? If we are in, we are in. Thou art but in the way, who, as we see, came in at the gate; and we too are in the way, that fell from the top of the wall. In what, now, is thy state a whit more good than ours?" _Chr._--"I walk by the rule of my Lord; you walk by the rude quirks of your vague whims. At this time you count but as thieves in the sight of the Lord of the way hence I doubt you will not be found true men at the end of the way. By laws and rules you will not get safe, since you came not in by the door. I have, too, a mark on my brow, which you may not have seen, which one of my Lord's most stanch friends put there, in the day that my load fell from off my back. More than this, I will tell you that I then got a roll with a seal on it, to cheer me while I read it, as I go on the way: I was told to give it in at the Celestial Gate, as a sure sign that I, too, should go in at the right time: all which things I doubt you want, and want them for that you came not in at the gate." CHAPTER VII. THE HILL DIFFICULTY. I SAW then that they all went on till they came to the foot of the Hill Difficulty, at the end of which was a spring. There were in the same place two ways more than that which came straight from the gate: one bent to the left hand, and the next to the right, at the base of the hill; but the strait way lay right up the hill; and the name of that path up the side of the hill is known as Difficulty. Christian now went to the spring and drank of it to cool his blood and quench his thirst, and then he set forth to go up the hill. The two with whom he had held speech in like way came to the foot of the hill; but when they saw that the hill was steep and high, and that there were two more ways to go, and as they thought that these two ways might meet in the long run with that up which Christian went, on the rear side of the hill,--hence they made up their minds to go in those ways. Now the name of one of those ways was Danger, and the name of the next Destruction. So the one took the way which is known as Danger, which led him to a great wood; and he who was with him took straight up the way to Destruction, which led to a wide field full of dark cliffs, where he made a slip, and fell, and rose no more. I then cast my eyes on Christian, and I saw that from a run he came to a walk, and at last had to climb on his hands and his knees, so steep was the place. [Illustration: Timorous was afraid of wild beasts and ran down the hill.--Page 29. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Now half the way to the top of the hill was a nook made of trees, fair to look on, made by the Lord of the hill for the good of such as trod that place. There, then, Christian got; there, too, he sat down to rest him. Thus sought he cheer a while, when he fell to doze, and then went off in a fast sleep. Now as he slept there came one to him, who woke him and said, "Go to the ant, thou man of sloth; think of her ways, and be wise." And with that Christian did start up, and went on till he came to the top of the hill. Now when he was got up to the top of the hill, there came two men who ran right up to him so as to push him. The name of the one was Timorous, and of the next Mistrust; to whom Christian said, "Sirs, what doth ail you? You run the wrong way." Timorous said that they were bound to the City of Zion, and had got up to that hard place; "but," said he, "the more we go on the more risks we meet with; hence did we turn, and mean not to go back." "Yes," said Mistrust, "for just in front of us lie a brace of wild beasts in the way--that they sleep or wake we know not--and we could not think if we came in their reach but they would at once pull us in bits." Then Mistrust and Timorous ran down the hill, and Christian went on his way. But as he dwelt on what he heard from the men, the sun went down; and this made him once more think how vain it was for him to have sunk to sleep. Now, he brought to mind the tale that Mistrust and Timorous had told him of how they took fright at the sight of the wild beasts. Then did Christian muse thus: "These beasts range in the night for their prey; and if they should meet with me in the dark, how should I shift them? how should I get free from their fangs? they would tear me to bits." Thus he went on his way. But, while he did mourn his dire hap, he lift up his eyes, and lo, there was a grand house in front of him, the name of which was Beautiful, and it stood just on the side of the high road. CHAPTER VIII. THE PALACE BEAUTIFUL. SO I saw in my dream that he made haste and went forth, that, if so be, he might get a place to lodge there. Now ere he had gone far, he saw two wild beasts in the way. (The beasts were made fast, but he saw not the chains.) Then he took fright, and thought to go back; for he thought death of a truth did face him. But when the man at the lodge, whose name is Watchful, saw that Christian made a halt, he did cry to him and say, "Is thy strength so small? Fear not the wild beasts, for they are in chains, and are put there for test of faith where it is, and to make known those that have none: keep in the midst of the path, and no hurt shall come to thee." Then did he clap his hands, and went on till he came and stood in front of the gate where the Porter was. Then said Christian to the Porter, "Sir, what house is this? and may I lodge here this night?" The Porter said, "This house was built by the Lord of the hill, and he built it to aid and guard such as speed this way." The Porter, in like way, sought to know whence he was; and to what place he was bound? [Illustration: This is Mistrust, whom Christian met going the wrong way.--Page 29. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"I am come from the City of Destruction; and am on my way to Mount Zion; but as the sun is now set, I wish, if I may, to lodge here this night." _Por._--"But how doth it hap that you come so late? The sun is set." _Chr._--"I had been here ere this, but that, mean man that I am, I slept in the nook that stands on the side of the hill." _Por._--"Well, I will call out one of the maids of this place, who will, if she likes your talk, bring you in to the rest of the folk, as such are the rules of the house." So Watchful rang a bell, at the sound of which came out at the door of the house a grave and fair maid, whose name was Discretion, who would know why she had got a call. The Porter said, "This man is in the way from the City of Destruction to Mount Zion, but as he doth tire, and as night came on, he sought to know if he might lodge here for the night: so I told him I would call for thee, who, when thou dost speak with him, may do as seems to thee good, and act up to the law of the house." Then she would know whence he was, and to what place he was bound, and his name. So he said, "It is Christian." So a smile sat on her lips, but the tears stood in her eyes; and, when she gave a short pause, she said, "I will call forth two or three more of those who dwell here." So she ran to the door, and did call out Prudence, Piety, and Charity; and when she had held more speech with him, he was brought in, and made known to all who dwelt in the house, some of whom met him at the porch, and said, "Come in, thou whom the Lord doth bless; this house was built by the Lord of the hill, to give good cheer to such who, like you, grow faint by the way." Then he bent his head, and went in with them to the house. So when he was come in and set down, they gave him to drink, and then they thought that till the last meal was brought up, some of them should have some wise talk with Christian, so as to make good use of time. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN IS QUESTIONED BY DISCRETION.] _Pi._--"Come, good Christian, since we have shown such love for you as to make you our guest this night, let us, if so be we may each get good by it, talk with you of all things that you have met with on your way." [Illustration: This is Formalist, whom Christian saw roll from the top of a wall, as if to go to Zion.--Page 33. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"With a right good will; and I am glad your mind is so well bent." _Pi._--"How was it that you came out of your land in this way?" _Chr._--"It was as God would have it; for when I was full of the fears of doom, I did not know where to go; but by chance there came a man then to me, whilst I shook and wept, whose name is Evangelist, and he told me how to reach the small gate, which else I should not have found, and so set me in the way that hath led me straight to this house." _Pi._--"But did you not come by the house of the Interpreter?" _Chr._--"Yes, and did see such things there, the thoughts of which will stick by me as long as I live; in chief, three things; to wit, how Christ, in spite of the Foe of Man, keeps up his work of grace in the heart; how the man, through sin, had got quite out of hopes of God's ruth; and, in like way, the dream of him that thought in his sleep the day of doom was come." _Pi._--"And what saw you else in the way?" _Chr._--"Saw! Why, I went but a wee way and I saw One, as I thought in my mind, hang and bleed on a tree; and the sheer sight of him made my load fall off my back; for I did groan through the great weight, but then it fell down from off me." _Pi._--"But you saw more than this, did you not?" _Chr._--"The things that I have told you were the best; yet some more things I saw, as, first of all, I saw three men, Simple, Sloth, and Presumption, lie in sleep, not far out of the way as I came, with gyves on their heels; but do you think I could rouse them? I saw, in like way, Formalist and Hypocrisy come and roll from the top of a wall, to go, as they fain would have me think, to Zion; but they were lost in a trice, just as I did tell them; but they would not heed my words." _Pr._--"Do you think at times of the land from whence you came?" _Chr._--"Yes, but with much shame and hate." _Pr._--"Do you not yet bear hence with you some of the things that you well knew there?" _Chr._--"Yes, but much in strife with my will; the more so the crass thoughts of my heart, with which all the folk of my land, as well as I, would find joy; but now all those things are my grief, and might I but choose mine own things, I would choose not to think of those things more; but when I would do that which is best, that which is worst is with me." _Pr._--"And what is it that makes you so long to go to Mount Zion?" _Chr._--"Why, there I hope to see Him live that did hang dead on the cross; and there I hope to be rid of all those things that to this day are in me and do vex me: there they say there is no death; and there I shall dwell with such folk as I like best." Then said Charity to Christian, "Have you bairns, and have you a wife?" _Chr._--"I have a wife and four small bairns." _Char._--"And why did you not bring them on with you?" Then Christian wept and said, "Oh, fain would I have done it! but they were all of them loath to let me leave them." _Char._--"But you should have sought to show them the risks they ran when they held back." [Illustration: Hypocrisy would fain have Christian think he was on the way to Zion.--Page 34. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"So I did; and told them, too, that God had shown to me how that our town would come to wrack; but they thought I did but mock, and they put no faith in what I said." _Char._--"But what could they say to show cause why they came not?" [Illustration: CHRISTIAN TELLS CHARITY AND HER SISTERS ABOUT HIS FAMILY.] _Chr._--"Why, my wife was loath to lose this world; and my bairns were bent on the rash joys of youth; so, what by this thing, and what by that thing, they left me to roam in this lone way." _Char._--"But did you not with your vain life damp all that you by words made use of as force to bring them off with you?" _Chr._--"In sooth, I must not say aught for my life, as I know full well what blurs there are in it. I know, too, that a man by his deeds may soon set at naught what by sound speech and wit of words he doth strive to fix on some for their good. Yet this I can say, I took heed not to give them cause, by a false act, to shirk the step I took, and not set out with me. Yea, for this sole thing they would tell me I was too nice; and that I would not touch of things in which they saw no guile." _Char._--"In truth, Cain did hate him who came of the same blood, for that his works were bad, and Abel's not so; and if thy wife and bairns have thought ill of thee for this, they show by it that they are foes to good; and thou hast set free thy soul from their blood." Now I saw in my dream that thus they sat and spoke each to each till the meal was laid on the board; and all their talk while they ate was of the Lord of the hill; as, in sooth, of what he had done, and why it was he did what he did, and why he had built that house. They, in like way, gave prompt proof of what they said, and that was, he had stript him of his rich robes, that he might do this for the poor; and that they heard him say, with stern stress, that he would not dwell in the Mount of Zion in a lone way. They said, too, that he made a host of poor ones kings, though by the law of their birth they were born to live on bare alms, and their first state had been low and bad. Thus they spoke, this one to that one, till late at night; and when they had put them in the Lord's care they went to rest. [Illustration: Then he set forth: but Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. (_Page 38_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] The next day they took him and had him in the place in which arms were kept, where he was shown all sorts of things which their Lord had put there for such as he, as sword, shield, casque, plate for breast, _All-prayer_, and shoes that would not wear out. And there was here as much of this as would fit out a host of men to serve the Lord. In like way did they show him some of the means with which some of his friends had done things that strike one with awe. He was shown the jaw-bone of the ass with which Samson did such great feats. More than this, he was shown the sling and stone with which David slew Goliath of Gath. But more things still were shown to him, in all of which Christian felt much joy. This done, they went to their rest once more. Then I saw in my dream that on the morn he got up to go forth, but they fain would have him stay till the next day; "and then," said they, "we will, if the day be clear, show you the Delectable Mountains, which," they said, "would yet the more add to his bliss, for that they were yet more nigh the port than the place where at that time he was." So he thought it well to stay. When the morn was up, they had him to the top of the house, and bid him look south; so he did, and lo, a long way off, he saw a fair land, full of high hills, clad with woods, vine grounds, fruits of all sorts, plants as well, with springs and founts, most bright to look on. They said it was Immanuel's Land; "and it is as free," said they, "as this hill is to and for all that are in the way. And when thou dost come there from thence," said they, "thou canst see to the gate of the Celestial City, as those who watch their flocks and live there will show thee." Now he thought it was due time to set forth, and they were glad that he should. "But first," said they, "let us go once more to where the arms are kept." So they did. And when he came there they clad him in coat of mail, which was of proof, from head to foot, lest he should chance meet with foes in the way. He then, in this gear, came out with his friends to the gate, and there he would know of the Porter "if he saw one pass by?" Then the Porter said "Yes." _Chr._--"Pray did you know him?" _Por._--"I did ask his name, and he told me it was Faithful." "Oh," said Christian, "I know him: he is from the same town, and lives nigh to where I dwell: he comes from the place where I was born. How far do you think he may be on the road?" _Por._--"He has got by this time more than to the foot of the hill." Then he set forth: but Discretion, Piety, Charity, and Prudence would go with him down to the foot of the hill. Then said Christian, "As it was _hard_ to come up, so, so far as I can see, it is a _risk_ to go down." "Yes," said Prudence, "so it is; for it is a hard thing for a man to go down in the Vale of Humiliation, as thou art now, and to catch no slip by the way; hence," said they, "we are come out to see thee safe down the hill." So he strove to go down, but with great heed; yet he caught a slip or two. Then I saw in my dream that these good friends, when Christian was gone down to the foot of the hill, gave him a loaf of bread, a flask of wine, and a bunch of dry grapes; and then he went on his way. CHAPTER IX. APOLLYON. BUT now, in this Vale of Humiliation, poor Christian was hard put to it; for he had gone but a short way, when he saw a foul fiend come through the field to meet him: his name is Apollyon. So he went on, and Apollyon met him. Now the ghoul did shock one's eyes to look on: he was clad with scales like a fish; he had wings like a huge bat, feet like a bear, and out of his throat came fire and smoke, and his mouth was as the mouth of the king of beasts. When he came up to Christian he gave him a look of scorn, and thus sought to sift him. _Apol._--"Whence came you? and to what place are you bound?" _Chr._--"I am come from the City of Destruction, which is the place of all ill, and am on my way to Mount Zion." _Apol._--"By this I know thou art one of my serfs; for all that land is mine; and I am the prince and god of it. How is it, then, that thou hast run off from thy king? Were it not that I hope thou wilt serve me yet more, I would strike thee now at one blow to the ground." _Chr._--"I was born, in sooth, in your realm, but to serve thee was hard, and your pay such as a man could not live on; 'for the meed of sin is death': for this cause, when I was come to years, I did, as some who think do, look out if so be I might mend my state. I have let my help to some one else; and to no less than the King of Kings." _Apol._--"Think yet, while thou art in cool blood, what thou art like to meet with in the way that thou dost go. Thou art not blind that for the most part those who serve him come to an ill end, for that they spurn my laws and walk not in my paths. What a host of them have been put to deaths of shame! And still thou dost count that to serve him is best; when, in sooth, he has not yet come from the place where he is, to save one that stood by his cause, out of my hands." _Chr._--"He does not seek so soon to save them, so as to try their love, and find if they will cleave to him to the end; and as for the ill end thou dost say they come to, that tells for their good: for to be set free now they do not much look for it; for they stay for their meed; and they shall have it when their Prince comes in the might of the bright hosts that wait on him." _Apol._--"Thou hast erst been false in thy turns to serve him; and how dost thou think to get pay of him?" _Chr._--"All this is true; but the Prince whom I serve and love is sure to show ruth. But, let me say, these faults held hold of me in thy land; for there I did suck them in, and they have made me groan and grieve for them; whence I have got the grace of my Prince." Then Apollyon broke out in a sore rage, and said, "I am a foe to this Prince: I hate him, his laws, and they who serve him. I am come out with the view to make thee yield." _Chr._--"Apollyon, take heed what you do; for I am on the King's high road, the way of grace; for which cause mind how you act." Then did Christian draw; for he saw it was time for him to stir; and Apollyon as fast made at him, and threw darts as thick as hail, by the which, in spite of all that Christian could do to shift it, Apollyon hit him in his head, his hand, and foot. This made Christian give some back: Apollyon then went to his work with heart, and Christian once more took heart, and met his foe as well as he could. Then Apollyon, as he saw his time had come, made up close to Christian, and as he strove to throw him gave him a dread fall; and with that Christian's sword flew out of his hand. Then said Apollyon, "I am sure of thee now!" and with that he did nigh press him to death; so that Christian had slight hope of life. But, as God would have it, while Apollyon dealt his last blow, by that means to make a full end of this good man, Christian at once put out his hand for his sword, caught it, and said, "When I fall, I shall then rise"; and with that gave him a fierce thrust, which made him give back as one that had got his death wound. Christian saw that, and made at him once more, while he said, "Nay, in all these things we more than gain the prize through him that loves us"; and with that Apollyon spread forth his foul wings and sped him off, that Christian saw no more of him. So when the fight came to a close, Christian said, "I will here give thanks to him that hath kept me out of the mouth of the chief of beasts, to him that did help me in the strife with Apollyon." Then there came to him a hand with some of the leaves of the "tree of life," the which Christian took and laid them on the wounds that he had got in the strife, and was made whole at once. CHAPTER X. THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH. NOW at the end of this vale was one more, known as the Vale of the Shade of Death, and Christian must needs go through it, for this cause, that the way to the Celestial City lay through the midst of it. I saw then in my dream, so far as the bounds of the vale, there was on the right hand a most deep ditch; that ditch is it to which the blind have led the blind in each age, and have both there lost their lives. Once more, lo, on the left hand there was a fell quag, in the which, strange to say, if a good man falls he finds no ground for his foot to stand on. The path was here quite strait, and hence good Christian was the more put to it; for when he sought in the dark to shun the ditch on the one hand, he was prone to tip on one side souse in the mire on the next. Nigh the midst of the vale I saw the mouth of hell to be, and it stood, too, hard by the side of the way. And at times the flame and smoke would come out so thick and with such force, that he had to put up his sword and seize more fit arms, known as _All-prayer_; so I heard him cry, "O Lord, I pray thee save my soul!" Thus he went on a great while; and as he came to a place where he thought he heard a band of fiends come forth to meet him, he stopt, and did muse what he had best to do. He brought to mind how he had of late held his foes at bay, and that the risk to go back might be much more than to go on. So he made up his mind to go on: yet the fiends did seem to come near and more near. But when they were come just at him he did cry with a loud voice, "I will walk in the strength of the Lord God": so they gave back, and came on no more. When Christian had trod on in this lorn state some length of time, he thought he heard the voice of a man, as if in front of him, say thus: "Though I walk through the vale of the shade of death I will fear no ill: for Thou art with me." Then was he glad for that he learnt from thence that some who fear God were in this vale as well as he; that God was with them, though in that dark and dire state. So he went on. And by and by the day broke. Then said Christian, "He doth turn the shade of death to morn." Now as morn had come, he gave a look back to see by the light of the day what risks he had gone through in the dark. So he had a more clear view of the ditch that was on the one hand, and the quag that was on the next; in like way he saw how strait the way was which lay twixt them both. And just at this time the sun rose; and this was one more boon to Christian: for, from the place where he now stood as far as to the end of the vale, the way was all through set so full of snares, traps, gins, and nets, here; and so full of pits, falls, deep holes, and slopes, down there; that had it now been dark, as it was when he came the first part of the way, had he had five times ten score souls, they had for this cause been cast off. But, as I said just now, the sun did rise. In this light hence he came to the end of the vale. CHAPTER XI. CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL. NOW as Christian went on his way he came to a small height, which was cast up so that those who came that way might see in front of them. Up there, then, Christian went: and, with a glance, saw Faithful some way on the road. At this Christian set out with all his strength, and soon got up with Faithful, and did, in sooth, leave him lag, so that the last was first. Then did Christian wear a proud smile, for that he had got the start of his friend: but as he did not take good heed to his feet, he soon struck some tuft and fell, and could not rise till Faithful came up to help him. Then I saw in my dream, they went on with good will side by side, and had sweet talk of all things that they had met with on their way: and thus Christian first spoke: "My most dear friend Faithful, I am glad I have come up with you; and that God hath so made us of one mind that we can walk as friends in this so fair a path. Tell me now what you have met with in the way as you came: for I know you have met with some things, or else it may be writ for a strange pass." [Illustration: FAITHFUL COMES TO THE HELP OF CHRISTIAN] _Fai._--"I got clear of the slough that I see you fell in, and came up to the gate free from that risk. When I came to the foot of the hill known as Difficulty, I met with an old man, who would know what I was, and to what place I was bound? Then said the old man, 'Thou dost look like a frank soul: wilt thou stay and dwell with me for the pay that I shall give thee?' Then I did ask his name, and where he dwelt? He said, 'His name was Adam the First, and he dwelt in the Town of Deceit.' He told me, 'That his work was fraught with joys, and his pay, that I should be his heir at last.' I then would know what kin he had? He said, 'He had but three maids, "the Lust of the flesh, the Lust of the eyes, and the Pride of life," and that I should wive with one of them, if I would.'" _Chr._--"Well, and what close came the old man and you to at last?" _Fai._--"Why, at first I would lief go with the man, for I thought he spake full fair; but when I gave a look in his brow, as I spoke with him, I saw there writ, 'Put off the old man with his deeds.' Then it came red hot to my mind, that spite of all he said, and his smooth ways, when he got me home to his house he would sell me for a slave. So I went off from him: but just as I set round to go thence, I felt him take hold of my flesh, and give me such a dread twitch back, that I thought he did pull part of me with him. So I went on my way up the hill. "Now, when I had got nigh half way up, I gave a look back, and saw one move on in my steps, swift as the wind; so he came up with me just by the place where the bench stands. So soon as the man came up with me, it was but a word and a blow, for down he flung me, and laid me for dead. But, when I got free from the shock, I would know why it was he dealt with me so? He said, 'For that I did in my heart cleave to Adam the First': and with that he struck me one more fierce blow on the breast, and beat me down on the back. He had, no doubt, made an end of me, but that one came by and bid him stay his hand." [Illustration: This is Discontent, who would fain have Christian go back with him once more.--Page 47. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Who was that that bid him stay his hand?" _Fai._--"I did not know him at first, but as he went by I saw the holes in his hands and in his side: then I felt sure that he was our Lord. So I went up the hill." _Chr._--"That man that came up with you was Moses. He spares not, nor knows he how to show grace to those that break his law. But did you not see the house that stood there on the top of the hill, on the side of which Moses met you?" _Fai._--"Yes, and the wild beasts, too, ere I came at it: but, as I had so much of the day to spend, I came by the man at the lodge, and then down the hill." _Chr._--"But, pray tell me, did you meet with no one in the Vale of Humility?" _Fai._--"Yes, I met with one Discontent, who would fain have me to go back once more with him: his cause was, for that the vale did not bear a good name." _Chr._--"Met you with naught else in that vale?" _Fai._--"Yes, I met with Shame: but of all men that I met with in my way, he, I think, bears the wrong name." _Chr._--"Why, what did he say to you?" _Fai._--"What! Why, he did flout at faith. He said it was a poor, low, mean thing for a man to mind faith; he said that a soul that shrinks from sin is not fit for a man. He said, too, that but few of the great, rich, or wise held my views; nor did those till they were led to be fools, and to be of a free mind to run the loss of all for none else knows what. More than this, he said such were of a base and low caste, and knew naught of those things which are the boast of the wise. Yea, he did hold me to it that it was a shame to ask grace of folk for slight faults, or to give back that which I did take. He said, too, that faith made a man grow strange to the great, and made him own and prize the base: 'and is not this,' said he, 'a shame?'" _Chr._--"And what did you say to him?" [Illustration: FAITHFUL RESISTS SHAME.] _Fai._--"Say! I could not tell what to say at first. Yea, he put me so to it that my blood came up in my face; aye, this Shame did fetch it up, and had, too, beat me quite off. But at last I thought that that which men prize was base in the sight of God. Hence, thought I, what God says is best, _is_ best, though all the men in the world are foes to it. As, then, God likes his faith; as God likes a soul that shrinks from sin; and as they are most wise who wear the guise of fools to gain a crown: and that the poor man that loves Christ more rich than the man that sways a world, that hates him; Shame, go thy way, thou art a foe to my soul's weal. But, in sooth, this Shame was a bold knave; I could scarce shake him out of my way: but at last I told him it was but in vain to strive with me from that time forth. And when I shook him off, then I sang-- "The tests that those men meet, with all men else That bow their wills to the high call of God, Are great; and well, I wist, do suit the flesh, And come, and come, and come e'en yet once more; That now, or some time else, we by them may Be held in thrall, flung down, and cast sheer off: O, let those in the way, let all such, then, Be sharp, and quick, and quit them like true men." _Chr._--"I am glad, my friend, that thou didst strive with this knave in so brave a way; for he is so bold as to trace our steps in the streets, and to try to put us to shame in the sight of all men; that is, to make us feel shame in that which is good." _Fai._--"I think we must cry to Him for help in our frays with Shame, that would have us 'Stand up for truth on the earth.'" _Chr._--"You say true: but did you meet none else in that vale?" _Fai._--"No, not I; for I had the sun with me all the rest of the way through that, as well as through the Vale of the Shade of Death." _Chr._--"It was well for you; I am sure it did fare far worse with me. I thought I should have lost my life there more than once: but at last day broke, and the sun rose, and I went through that which was to the front of me with far more ease and peace." CHAPTER XII. TALKATIVE. MORE than this, I saw in my dream, that as they went on, Faithful saw a man whose name is Talkative, walk some way off by the side of them: for in this place there was full room for them all to walk. To this man Faithful spoke in such wise: "Friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?" _Talk._--"I am bound to that same place." _Fai._--"Come on then, and let us go side by side, and let us spend our time well, by wise speech that tends to use." _Talk._--"To talk of things that are good, I like much, with you or with some one else. For, to speak the truth, there are but few that care thus to spend their time, as they are on their way." _Fai._--"That is, in sooth, a thing to mourn; for what thing so meet for the use of the tongue and mouth of men on earth, as are the things of the great God on high?" _Talk._--"I like you right well, for what you say is full of force; and, I will add, what thing doth so please or what brings such a boon as to talk of the things of God?" _Fai._--"That is true; but to gain good by such things in our talk, should be that which we seek." [Illustration: Faithful saw a man whose name is Talkative, who said, "Friend, to what place dost thou go? dost thou go to the blest land?"--Page 50. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Talk._--"That is it that I said; for to talk of such things is of great use: for by this means a man may get to know a fair share of things; as how vain are the things of earth; and how good are the things that fail not. Then, by this, a man may learn by talk what it is to mourn for sin, to have faith, to pray, to bear grief, or the like. By this, too, a man may learn what it is that soothes, and what are the high hopes set forth in the Word of the Grace of God; to his own peace." "Well, then," said Faithful, "what is that one thing that we shall at this time found our speech on?" _Talk._--"What you will: I will talk of things not of earth, or of things of earth; things of life, or things of grace; things pure, or things of the world; so that we but gain good by it." Now did Faithful think this strange; so he came up to Christian, and said to him in a soft voice, "What a brave friend have we got! Of a truth, this man will do well in the way." At this Christian gave a meek smile, and said, "This man, whom you so take to, will cheat with this tongue of his a score of them that know him not." _Fai._--"Do you know him then?" _Chr._--"Know him! Yes; his name is Talkative; he dwells in our town. I wist not how you should be strange to him." _Fai._--"Well, he seems to be a man of good looks." _Chr._--"That is, to them that know him not through and through: for he is best out of doors; near home his looks are as bad as you could find." _Fai._--"But I fain think you do but jest, as I saw you smile." _Chr._--"God grant not that I should jest in this case, or that I should speak false of one. I will let you see him in a clear light. This man cares not with whom he picks up, or how he talks: as he talks now with you, so will he talk when he is on the bench, with ale by his side; and the more drink he has in his crown, the more of these things he hath in his mouth." _Fai._--"Say you so? then am I wrong in my thoughts of this man." _Chr._--"Wrong! You may be sure of it. He talks of what it is to pray; to mourn for sin; of faith, and of the new birth; but he knows but how to talk of them. I have been in his home, and have seen him both in and out of doors, and I know what I say of him is the truth. His house is as void of the fear of God as the white of an egg is of taste. They pray not there, nor is there a sign of grief for sin: yea, the brute, in his kind, serves God more than he." _Fai._--"Well, my friend, I am bound to trust you; not for that you say you know him, but in like way, for that, like one who has the mind of Christ, you judge of men." _Chr._--"Had I known him no more than you I might, it may be, have thought of him as at the first you did; but all these things, yea, and much more as bad, which I do bring to mind, I can prove him to have the guilt of." _Fai._--"Well, I see that _to say_ and _to do_ are two things; and by and by I shall take more note of this." _Chr._--"They are two things, in sooth, and are no more like than are the soul and flesh; for, as the flesh void of the soul is but a dead lump: so to _say_, if it stand loose, is but a dead lump too. This Talkative does not know. He thinks that to _hear_ and to _say_ will make a good man, and thus he cheats his own soul. To hear is but to sow the seed; to talk is not full proof that fruit is deep in the heart and life; and let us feel sure that at the day of doom men shall reap just as they have sown. It will not be said then, 'Did you have faith?' but 'Did you _do_ or _talk_?' when they shall have their due meed." _Fai._--"Well, I was not so fond to be with him at first, but am as sick of him now. What shall we do to be rid of him?" _Chr._--"Be led by me, and do as I bid you, and you shall find that he will soon be sick of you, too, save God shall touch his heart and turn it." _Fai._--"What would you have me to do?" _Chr._--"Why, go to him, and take up some grave theme on the _might_ of faith." Then Faithful gave a step forth once more, and said to Talkative, "Come, what cheer? how is it now?" _Talk._--"Thank you, well; I thought we should have had a great deal of talk by this time." _Fai._--"Well, if you will, we will fall to it now; and since you left it with me to state the theme, let it be this: How doth the grace of God that saves, show forth signs when it is in the heart of man?" _Talk._--"I see, then, that our talk must be of the _might_ of things. Well, it is a right good theme, and I shall try to speak on it; and take what I say in brief, thus: First, where the grace of God is in the heart it makes one cry out on sin. In the next place----" _Fai._--"Nay, hold; let us dwell on one at once: I think you should say in lieu of this, it shows by the way in which the soul loathes its sin. A man may cry out on sin to aid his own ends, but he fails to loathe it, save God makes him do so. Some cry out on sin, just as the dame doth cry out on her child in her lap, when she calls it bad girl, and then falls to hug and kiss it." _Talk._--"You lie at the catch, I see." _Fai._--"No, not I; I but try to set things right. But what is the next thing by which you would prove to make known the work of grace in the heart?" _Talk._--"To know much of the deep things of God." _Fai._--"This sign should have been first; but, first or last, it too is false: for to know, and know well, the deep things in God's Word, may still be, and yet no work of grace in the soul. Yea, if a man know all things he may yet be naught; and so, for this cause, be no child of God. When Christ said, 'Do you know all these things?' and those who heard him said, 'Yes'; he did add, 'Blest are ye if ye do them.' He doth not lay the grace in that one _knows_, but in that one _does_ them." _Talk._--"You lie at the catch, once more: this is not for good." _Fai._--"Well, if you please, give one more sign how this work of grace doth show where it is." _Talk._--"Not I, for I see we shall not be of one mind." _Fai._--"Well, if you will not, will you give me leave to do it?" _Talk._--"You may do just as you like." _Fai._--"A work of grace in the soul doth show quite clear to him that hath it or to those that stand by. To him that hath it, thus: it gives him a deep sense of sin, of the ill that dwells in him. This sight and sense of things work in him grief and shame for sin; he finds, too, brought to view the Saviour of the world, and he feels he must close with him for life; at the which he finds he craves and thirsts for a pure life, pure at heart, pure with his kin, and pure in speech in the world: which in the broad sense doth teach him in his heart to hate his sin, to spurn it from his home, and to shed his light in the world; not by mere talk, as a false knave, or one with a glib tongue, may do, but by the force of faith and love to the might of the Word. And now, sir, as to these brief thoughts on the work of grace, if you have aught to say, say on; if not, then give me leave to ask one thing more of you." _Talk._--"Nay, my part is not now to say aught, but to hear; let me hence hear what you have got to speak." _Fai._--"It is this: do you in your heart feel this first part of what I said of it? and doth your life and walk bear proof of the same?" Then Talkative at first did blush, but when he got through this phase, thus he said: "You come now to what one feels in his heart, to the soul, and God. But I pray, will you tell me why you ask me such things?" _Fai._--"For that I saw you prone to talk, and for that I knew not that you had aught else but vague views. More than this, to tell you all the truth, I have heard of you that you are a man whose faith lies in talk, and that what you do gives the lie to what you say." _Talk._--"Since you are so quick to take up tales, and to judge in so rash a way as you do, I would lief think that you are some cross or dull mope of a man, not fit to hold talk with; and so, I take my leave." Then came up Christian, and said to his friend, "I told you how it would hap; your words and his lusts could not suit. He thought it best to leave you, than change his life." _Fai._--"But I am glad we had this brief talk; it may hap that he will think of it some time." _Chr._--"You did well to talk so plain to him as you did; there is not much of this straight course with men in these days. I wish that all men would deal with such as you have done: then should they have to change their ways, or the guild of saints would be too hot for them." Thus they went on and told of what they had seen by the way, and so made that way light which would, were not this the case, no doubt have been slow to them; for now they went through a wild. CHAPTER XIII. VANITY FAIR. NOW when they were got all but quite out of this wild, Faithful by chance cast his eye back, and saw one come in his wake, and he knew him. "Oh!" said Faithful to his friend, "who comes yon?" Then Christian did look, and said, "It is my good friend Evangelist." "Ay, and my good friend, too," said Faithful, "for it was he that set me the way to the gate." Then said Evangelist, "How did it fare with you, my friends, since the time we last did part? what have you met with, and what has been your life?" Then Christian and Faithful told him of all things that did hap to them in the way; and how, and with what toil, they had got to that place. "Right glad am I," said Evangelist, "not that you met with straits, but that you have come safe through them, and for that you have, in spite of some faults, kept in the way to this day. The crown is in sight of you, and it is one that will not rust; 'so run that you may gain it.' You are not yet out of the range of the foul fiend: let the joy of the Lord be not lost sight of, and have a firm faith in things not seen." [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND FAITHFUL ENTER THE TOWN OF VANITY] Then did Christian thank him for his sage words, but told him at the same time, that they would have him speak more to them for their help the rest of the way. So Evangelist spoke thus: "My sons, you have heard in the truth of God's Word, that you must pass through sharp straits to reach the realm of bliss; for now as you see you are just out of this wild, and hence you will ere long come to a town that you will by and by see in front of you; and in that town you will be set round with foes, who will strain hard but they will kill you: and be you sure that one or both of you must seal the faith, which you hold, with blood. But when you are come to the town, and shall find what I have said come to pass, then think of your friend, and quit you both like men." Then I saw in my dream that, when they were got out of the wild, they soon saw a town in front of them; the name of that town is Vanity; and at the town there is a fair kept, known as Vanity Fair; at this fair are all such goods sold as lands, trades, realms, lusts, and gay things of all sorts, as lives, blood, souls, gold, pearls, stones of great worth, and what not. Now, as I said, the way to the Celestial City lies just through this town where this huge fair is kept: and he that will go there, and yet not go through this town, "must needs go out of the world." The Lord of Lords, when here, went through this town to his own realm, and that, too, on a day when a fair was held: yea, and as I think, it was Beelzebub, the chief lord of this fair, that sought of him to buy of his vain wares. But he had no mind to the goods, and hence left the town, nor did he lay out so much as a mite on these wares. Now these folk, as I said, must needs go through this fair. Well, so they did; but lo, just as they got to the fair, all the crowd in the fair rose up, and the town, too, as it were, and made much noise and stir for that they came there; they, of course, spoke the tongue of Canaan; but they that kept the fair were the men of this world; so that, from end to end of the fair, they did seem strange each to each. But that which made the crowd most laugh was, that these men set quite light by all their wares: they did not care so much as to look on them; and, if they sought for them to buy, they would stop their ears, and cry, "Turn off mine eyes, lest they see vain things," and look up, to show that their trade and wares were in the skies. At last things came to a sad pass, which led to great stir in the fair, so that all was noise and din, and law was set at naught. Now was word soon brought to the great one of the fair, who at once came down, and sent some of his best friends to sift those men by whom the fair was put in such a state. So the men were brought in their sight. But they that were sent to sift them did not think them to be aught than fools and mad, or else such as came to put all things out of gear in the fair. Hence they took them and beat them, and made them grime with dirt, and then put them in the cage, that they might be made a foul sight to all the men of the fair. But as the men bore up well, and gave good words for bad, some men in the fair, that were more just than the rest, sought to check and chide the base sort for the vile acts done by them to the men. One said, "That for aught they could see, the men were mild, and of sound mind, and sought to do harm to no one: and that there were some, that did trade in their fair, that ought far more to be put in the cage, than the men to whom they had done such ill." Thus, as soon as hot words did pass on both sides, they fell to some blows, and did harm each to each. Then were these two poor men brought up once more, when a charge was made that it was they who had got up the row that had been made at the fair. But Christian and Faithful bore the shame and the slur that was cast on them in so calm and meek a way that it won to their side some of the men of the fair. This put one part of the crowd in a still more fierce rage, so that they were bent on the death of these two men. Then were they sent back to the cage once more, till it was told what should be done with them. So they put them in, and made their feet fast in the stocks. Here, then, they once more brought to mind what they had heard from their true friend Evangelist, and were the more strong in their way and woes by what he told them would fall out to them. They, too, now sought to cheer the heart of each, that whose lot it was to die that he should have the best of it: hence each man did wish in the depth of his soul that he might have the crown. Then in due time they brought them forth to court, so that they might meet their doom. The name of the judge was Lord Hate-good; their plaint was "that they had made broils and feuds in the town, and had won some to their own most vile views, in scorn of the law of their prince." Then Faithful said "that he did but spurn that which had set up in face of Him that is the Most High. And," said he, "as for broils, I make none, as I am a man of peace; those that were won to us were won by their view of our truth and pure lives and they are but gone from the worst to the best." [Illustration: Then Superstition said: "My lord, I know not much of this man; but he is a most vile knave."--Page 61. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Then was it made known that they that had aught to say for their lord the king, to prove the guilt of him at the bar, should at once come forth and give in their proof. So there came in three men, to wit, Envy, Superstition, and Pickthank. Then stood forth Envy and said in this strain: "My lord, this man, in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land. He does all that he can to fill all men with some of his wild views, which tend to the bane of our realm, and which he for the most part calls 'grounds of faith and a pure life.' And in chief I heard him once say that the faith of Christ and the laws of our town of Vanity could not be at one, as they were foes each to each." Then did they call Superstition, and sware him: so he said: "My lord, I know not much of this man, nor do I care to know more of him; but he is a most vile knave; I heard him say that our faith was naught, and such by which no man could please God. Which words of his, my lord, you quite well know what they mean, to wit, that we still work in vain, are yet in our sins, and at last shall be lost. And this is that which I have to say." Then was Pickthank sworn, and bid say what he knew in the cause of their lord the king to the hurt of the rogue at the bar. _Pick._--"My lord, and you great folk all, this wight I have known of a long time, and have heard him speak things that ought not to be said; for he did rail on our great prince, Beelzebub, and spoke ill of his firm friends; and he hath said, too, that if all men were of his mind, if so be there is not one of these great men should from that time forth stay in this town. More than this, he hath not felt dread to rail on you, my lord, who are now sent to be his judge." When this Pickthank had told his tale, the judge spoke to the man at the bar, and said, "Thou vile, base wretch, hast thou heard what those just and true men have sworn to thy bane?" _Fai._--"I say then, as a set off to what Mr. Envy hath said, I spoke not a word but this, 'That what rule, or laws, or rights, or men, are flat down on the Word of God, are foes to the faith of Christ.' "As to the next, to wit, Mr. Superstition, and his charge to my hurt, I said but this, 'That to serve God one needs a faith from on high; but there can be no faith from on high void of the will of God made known from the same source. Hence, all that is thrust on us that does not square with this will of God, is but of man's faith; which faith will not serve the life that is to come.' "As to what Mr. Pickthank hath said, 'That the prince of this town, with all the roughs, his slaves, are more fit for one in hell than in this town and land'; and so the Lord be good to me." Then the judge said to those who were to bind or loose him from the charge: "Ye who serve here to weigh this case, you see this man of whom so great a din hath been made in this town. It doth lie now on your souls to hang him, or save his life; but yet I think meet to teach you a few points of our law. [Illustration: Then stood forth Envy and said: "My lord, this man in spite of his fair name, is one of the most vile men in our land."--Page 61. _Pilgrim's Progress._] "There was an act made in the days of Pharaoh the great, friend to our prince, that, lest those of a wrong faith should spread and grow too strong for him, their males should be thrown in the stream. There was, in like way, an act made in the days of Nebuchadnezzar the great, who, too, did serve him, that such as would not fall down and laud the form he had set up, should be flung in a pit of fire. Now the pith of these laws this rogue has set at naught, not in mere thought but in word and deed as well. Twice, nay thrice, he speaks of our creed as a thing of naught; and for this, on his own words, he needs must die the death." Then went out those who had to weigh the case, whose names were Mr. Blind-man, Mr. No-good, Mr. Malice, Mr. Love-lust, Mr. Live-loose, Mr. Heady, Mr. High-mind, Mr. Enmity, Mr. Liar, Mr. Cruelty, Mr. Hate-light, and Mr. Implacable; who each one gave in his voice to Faithful's hurt, in his own mind; and then meant to make known his doom in face of the judge. And Mr. Blind-man, the chief, said, "I see, most plain, that this man is a foe; let us at once doom him to death." And so they did. The judge then put on the black cap, and said, "That he should be led from the place where he was to the place from whence he came, and there to be put to the worst death that could be thought off." They then brought him out to do with him as the law set forth: and first they whipt him; then they did pelt him with stones; and, last of all, they burnt him to dust at the stake. Thus came Faithful to his end. Now I saw that there stood in the rear of the crowd a state car, with two steeds, that did wait for Faithful; who, as soon as his foes had got rid of him, was caught up in it and straight sent off through the clouds, with sound of trump, the most near way to the Celestial Gate. But as for Christian, he was put back to jail; so there he lay for a space: but He that rules all things, in whose hand was the might of their rage, so wrought it that Christian, for that time got free from them and went his way. CHAPTER XIV. CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL. NOW I saw in my dream that Christian went not forth with none to cheer him; for there was one whose name was Hopeful, who set out with him, and made a grave pact that he would be his friend. So I saw that when they were just got out of the fair they came up with one that had gone on in front of them, whose name was By-ends. He told them that he came from the town of Fair-speech, and was bound for the Celestial City; but he told them not his name. _Chr._--"Pray, sir, what may I call you?" _By._--"I know not you, nor you me: if you mean to go this way, I shall be glad to go with you: if not, I must take things as they come." Then Christian stept on one side to his friend Hopeful, and said, "It runs in my mind that this is one By-ends, of Fair-speech, and if it be he, we have as keen a knave in our midst as dwells in all these parts." Then said Hopeful, "Ask him; I think he should not blush at his name." So Christian came up with him once more, and said, "Sir, is not your name Mr. By-ends, of Fair-speech?" _By._--"This is not my name; but, in sooth, it is a name I got in scorn from some that do not like me." _Chr._--"I thought, in sooth, that you were the man that I had heard of; and, to tell you what I think, I fear this name suits you more than you would wish we should think it doth." [Illustration: HOPEFUL joins company with CHRISTIAN] _By._--"Well, if you will thus think, I durst not help it: you shall find me a fair man, if you will make me one of you." _Chr._--"If you will go with us, you must go in the teeth of wind and tide; you must, in like wise, own Faith in his rags, as well as when in his sheen shoes; and stand by him, too, when bound in chains, as well as when he walks the streets with praise." _By._--"You must not curb my faith, nor lord it in this way: leave me free to think, and let me go with you." _Chr._--"Not a step more, save you will do in what I shall speak as we." Then said By-ends, "I shall not cast off my old views, since they bring no harm, and are of use. If I may not go with you, I must do as I did ere you came up with me, that is, go on with no one, till some will come on who will be glad to meet me." Now I saw in my dream that Christian and Hopeful left him, and went on in front of him: but one of them did chance to look back, and saw three men in the wake of Mr. By-ends, and lo, as they came up with him, he made them quite a low bow. The men's names were Mr. Hold-the-world, Mr. Money-love, and Mr. Save-all; men that Mr. By-ends had erst known; for when boys they were mates at school, and were taught by one Mr. Gripeman, who keeps a school in Love-gain, which is a large town in the shire of Coveting, in the north. Well, when they, as I said, did greet in turn, Mr. Money-love said to Mr. By-ends, "Who are they on the road right in front of us?" _By._--"They are a pair from a land far off, that, in their mode, are bent on a long route." [Illustration: Then Christian saw three men in the wake of Mr. By-ends, and lo, as they came up with him he made them a very low bow.--Page 66. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Money._--"Ah! why did they not stay; that we might have gone on with them? for they, and we, and you, sir, I hope, are all bent on the same road." _By._--"Why, they, in their fierce mood, think that they are bound to rush on their way at all times; while I wait for wind and tide. They like to risk all for God at a clap; while I like to seize all means to make safe my life and lands. They are for Faith when in rags and scorn; but I am for him when he walks in his sheen shoes in the sun, and with praise." _Hold._--"Ay, and hold you there still, good Mr. By-ends: for my part I can count him but a fool, that with the means to keep what he has, he shall be so lack of sense as to lose it. For my part, I like that faith best that will stand with the pledge of God's good gifts to us. Abraham and Solomon grew rich in faith: and Job says that a good man 'shall lay up gold as dust.' But he must not be such as the men in front of us, if they be as you have said of them." _Save._--"I think that we are all of one mind in this thing; and hence there need no more words be said of it." Mr. By-ends and his friends did lag and keep back, that Christian and Hopeful might go on in front of them. Then Christian and Hopeful went till they came to a nice plain known as Ease; which did please them much: but that plain was but strait, so they were soon got through it. Now at the far side of that plain was a small hill, which went by the name of Lucre, and in that hill a gold mine, which some of them that had been that way had gone on one side to see; but, as they got too near the brink of the pit, the ground, as it was not sound, broke when they trod on it, and they were slain. Then I saw in my dream that a short way off the road, nigh to the gold mine, stood Demas, a man of fair looks, to call to such as went that way to come and see; who said to Christian and his friend, "Ho! turn hence on this side, and I will show you a thing. Here is a gold mine, and some that dig in it for wealth: if you will come, with slight pains you may gain a rich store for your use." [Illustration: DEMAS TEMPTS CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL.] Then Christian did call to Demas, and said, "Is not the way rife with risks? Hath it not let some in their way?" _Dem._--"Not so much so, save to those that take no care." But a blush came on his face as he spake. Then said Christian to Hopeful, "Let us not stir a step, but still keep on our way." By this time By-ends and those who were with him came once more in sight, and they, at the first beck, went straight to Demas. Now, that they fell in the pit, as they stood on the brink of it, or that they went down to dig, or that they lost their breath at the base by the damps that, as a rule, rise from it, of these things I am not sure; but this I saw, that from that time forth they were not seen once more in the way. Which strange sight gave them cause for grave talk. CHAPTER XV. DOUBTING CASTLE AND GIANT DESPAIR. I SAW then, that they went on their way to a fair stream. Here then Christian and his friend did walk with great joy. They drank, too, of the stream, which was sweet to taste, and like balm to their faint hearts. More than this, on the banks of this stream, on each side, were green trees with all kinds of fruit: and the leaves they ate to ward off ills that come of too much food and heat of blood, while on the way. On each side of the stream was a mead, bright with white plants; and it was green all the year long. In this mead they lay down and slept. When they did wake they felt a wish to go on, and set out. Now the way from the stream was rough, and their feet soft, for that they came a long road so the souls of the men were sad, from the state of the way. Now, not far in front of them, there was on the left hand of the road a mead, and a stile to get right to it: and that mead is known as By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his friend, "If this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." Then said Christian to his friends, "If this mead doth lie close by the side of our way, let us go straight to it." Then he went to the stile to see, and lo, a path lay close by the way on the far off side of the fence. "It is just as I wish," said Christian; "come, good Hopeful, and let us cross to it." _Hope._--"But how if this path should lead us out of the way?" "That is not like to be," said the next. "Look, doth it not go straight on by the side of the way?" So Hopeful, when he thought on what his friend said, went in his steps, and did cross the stile; and at the same time, while they cast their eyes in front of them, they saw a man that did walk as they did, and his name was Vain-Confidence: so they did call to him, and ask him to what place that way led. He said, "To the Celestial Gate." "Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so? by this you may see we are right." So they went in his wake, and he went in front of them. But, lo, the night came on, and it grew quite dark; so that they that were in the rear lost the sight of him that went in front. He then that went in front, as he did not see the way clear, fell in a deep pit, which was there made by the prince of those grounds to catch such vain fools with the rest, and was torn in bits by his fall. Now Christian and his friend heard him fall: so they did call to know the cause: but there was none to speak. Then Hopeful gave a deep groan, and said, "Oh, that I had kept on my way!" [Illustration: This is Vain-Confidence whom Christian and Hopeful saw in the way as they did walk.--Page 70. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Good friend, do not feel hurt. I grieve I have brought thee out of the way, and that I have put thee in no slight strait; pray, my friend, let this pass; I did not do it of a bad will." _Hope._--"Be of good cheer, my friend, for I give thee shrift; and trust, too, this shall be for our good." Then, so as to cheer them, they heard the voice of one that said, "Let thine heart be set on the high road; and the way that thou didst go turn once more." But by this time the way that they should go back was rife with risk. Then I thought that we get more quick out of the way when we are in it, than in it when we are out. Nor could they, with all the skill they had, get once more to the stile that night. For which cause, as they at last did light neath a slight shed, they sat down there till day broke: but as they did tire they fell to sleep. Now there was not far from the place where they lay a fort, known as Doubting Castle, and he who kept it was Giant Despair: and it was on his grounds that they now slept. Hence, as he got up at dawn, and did walk up and down in his fields, he caught Christian and Hopeful in sound sleep on his grounds. They told him they were poor wights, and that they had lost their way. Then said the Giant, "You have this night come where you should not; you did tramp in, and lie on, my grounds, and so you must go hence with me." So they were made to go, for that he had more strength than they. They, too, had but few words to say, for they knew they were in a fault. The Giant hence drove them in front of him, and put them in his fort, in a dank, dark cell, that was foul and stunk to the souls of these two men. Here then they lay for full four days, and had not one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or one to ask how they did: they were, hence, here in bad case, and were far from friends and all who knew them. Now in this place Christian had more than his own share of grief, for it was through his bad words that they were brought to such dire bale. Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence: so when he was gone to bed he told his wife what he had done. Then he did ask her, too, what he had best do more to them. Then she said to him that when he got up in the morn he should beat them, and show no ruth. So when he rose he gets him a huge stick of crab, and goes down to the cell to them, and falls on them and beats them in such sort that they could do naught to ward off his blows, or to turn them on the floor. This done, he goes off and leaves them there to soothe each one his friend, and to mourn their grief. The next night, she spoke with her lord more as to their case, and when she found that they were not dead, did urge him to tell them to take their own lives. So when morn was come he told them that since they were not like to come out of that place, their best way would be at once to put an end to their lives, with knife, rope, or drug. But they did pray him to let them go; with that he gave a frown on them, ran at them, and had no doubt made an end of them with his own hand, but that he fell in one of his fits. From which cause he went off, and left them to think what to do. Then did the men talk of the best course to take; and thus they spoke: "Friend," said Christian, "what shall we do? The life that we now live is fraught with ill: for my part, I know not if it be best to live thus, or die out of hand: the grave has more ease for me than this cell." _Hope._--"Of a truth, our state is most dread, and death would be more of a boon to me than thus hence to stay: but let us not take our own lives." With these words Hopeful then did soothe the mind of his friend: so they did stay each with each in the dark that day, in their sad and drear plight. Well, as dusk came on the Giant goes down to the cell once more, to see if those he held bound there had done as he had bid them: but when he came there he found they still did live, at which he fell in a great rage, and told them that, as he saw they had lent a deaf ear to what he said, it should be worse for them than if they had not been born. At this they shook with dread, and I think that Christian fell in a swoon; but as he came round once more, they took up the same strain of speech as to the Giant's words, and if it were best give heed to them or no. Now Christian once more did seem to wish to yield, but Hopeful made his next speech in this wise: "My friend," said he, "dost thou not know how brave thou hast been in times past? The foul fiend could not crush thee; nor could all that thou didst hear, or see, or feel in the Vale of the Shade of Death; what wear and tear, grief and fright, hast thou erst gone through, and art thou naught but fears? Thou dost see that I am in the cell with thee, and I am a far more weak man to look at than thou art: in like way, this Giant did wound me as well as thee, and hath, too, cut off the bread and drink from my mouth, and with thee I mourn void of the light. But let us try and grow more strong: call to mind how thou didst play the man at Vanity Fair, and wast not made blench at the chain or cage, nor yet at fierce death; for which cause let us, at least to shun the shame that looks not well for a child of God to be found in, bear up with calm strength as well as we can." Now night had come once more, and his wife spoke to him of the men, and sought to know if they had done as he had told them. To which he said, "They are stout rogues; they choose the more to bear all hard things than to put an end to their lives." Then said she, "Take them to the garth next day, and show them the bones and skulls of those that thou hast put to death, and make them think thou wilt tear them in shreds, as thou hast done to folk like to them." So when the morn was come the Giant takes them to the garth, and shows them as his wife had bade him: "These," said he, "were wights, as you are, once, and they trod on my ground, as you have done; and when I thought fit I tore them in bits, and so in the space of ten days I will do you: go, get you down to your den once more." And with that he beat them all the way to the place. They lay for this cause all day in a sad state, just as they had done. Now, when night was come, and when Mrs. Diffidence and her spouse the Giant were got to bed, they once more spoke of the men; and, with this, the Giant thought it strange that he could not by his blows or words bring them to an end. And with that his wife said, "I fear that they live in hopes that some will come to set them free, or that they have things to pick locks with them, by the means of which they hope to scape." "And dost thou say so, my dear?" said the Giant; "I will hence search them in the morn." Well, in the depth of night they strove hard to pray, and held it up till just break of day. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN & HOPEFUL escape from DOUBTING CASTLE] Now, not long ere it was day, good Christian, as one half wild, brake out in this hot speech: "What a fool," quoth he, "am I, thus to lie in a foul den when I may as well walk in the free air: I have a key in my breast known as Promise, that will, I feel sure, pick each lock in Doubting Castle." Then said Hopeful, "That is good news, my friend; pluck it out of thy breast and try." Then Christian took it out of his breast, and did try at the cell door, whose bolt as he did turn the key gave back, and the door flew back with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out. Then he went to the front door that leads to the yard of the fort, and with this key did ope that door in like way. Then he went to the brass gate (for that he must ope too), but that lock he had hard work to move; yet did the key pick it. Then they thrust wide the gate to make their scape with speed. But that gate as it went back did creak so, that it woke Giant Despair, who, as he rose in haste to go in search of the men, felt his limbs to fail, for his fits took him once more, so that he could by no means go in their track. Then they went on, and came to the King's high road once more, and so were safe, for that they were out of his grounds. Now, when they had got clear of the stile, they thought in their minds what they should do at that stile, to keep those that should come in their wake from the fell hands of Giant Despair. So they built there a pile and wrote on the side of it these words: "To cross this stile is the way to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, who spurns the King of the good land, and seeks to kill such as serve him." CHAPTER XVI. THE DELECTABLE MOUNTAINS. THEY went then till they came to the Delectable Mountains, which mounts the Lord of that hill doth own of whom we erst did speak: so they went up to the mounts, to see the plants, trees rife with fruit, the vines and founts; where, too, they drank, did wash, and eat of the grapes till no gust was left for more. Now there were on the top of these mounts, Shepherds that fed their flocks, and they stood by the side of the high road. Christian and Hopeful then went to them, and while they leant on their staves (as is the case with wights who tire when they stand to talk with folk by the way), they said, "Whose Delectable Mountains are these? and whose be the sheep that fed on them?" _Shep._--"These mounts are Immanuel's Land, and they can be seen from this town: and the sheep in like way are his, and he laid down his life for them." _Chr._--"Is this the way to the Celestial City?" _Shep._--"You are just in your way." I saw, too, in my dream that when the Shepherds saw that they were men on the road, they in like way did ask them things, to which they spoke, as was their wont: as, "Whence came you? and how got you in the way? and by what means have you so held on in it? for but few of them that set out to come hence do show their face on these mounts." But when the Shepherds heard their speech, which did please them, they gave them looks of love, and said, "Good come with thee to the Mounts of Joy." The Shepherds, I say, whose names were Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, and Sincere, took them by the hand and had them to their tents, and made them eat and drink of that which was there at the time. They said, too, "We would that you should stay here a short time, to get known to us, and yet more to cheer your heart with the good of these Mounts of Joy." They told them that they would much like to stay; and so they went to their rest that night, for that it was so late. Then I saw in my dream, that in the morn the Shepherds did call on Christian and Hopeful to walk with them on the mounts. Then said the Shepherds, each to his friend, "Shall we show these wights with staves some strange sights?" So they had them first to the top of a hill, known as Error, and bid them look down to the base. So Christian and Hopeful did look down, and saw at the foot a lot of men rent all to bits, by a fall that they had from the top. Then said Christian, "What doth this mean?" The Shepherds said, "Have you not heard of them that were made to err, in that they gave heed to Hymeneus and Philetus, who held not the faith that the dead shall rise from the grave? Those that you see lie rent in bits at the base of this mount are they; and they have lain to this day on the ground as you see, so that those who come this way may take heed how they climb too high, or how they come too near the brink of this mount." Then I saw that they had them to the top of the next mount, and the name of that is Caution, and bid them look as far off as they could; which when they did they saw, as they thought, a group of men that did walk up and down through the tombs that were there: and they saw that the men were blind, for that they fell at times on the tombs, and for that they could not get out from the midst of them. Then said Christian, "What means this?" [Illustration: THE HILL ERROR.] The Shepherds then said, "Did you not see, a short way down these mounts, a stile that leads to a mead on the left hand of this way?" They said, "Yes." Then said the Shepherds, "From that stile there goes a path that leads straight to Doubting Castle, which is kept by Giant Despair, and these men (as he did point to them in the midst of the tombs) came once on the way, as you do now--ay, till they came to that same stile! And as they found the right way was rough in that place, they chose to go out of it to that mead, and there were caught by Giant Despair and shut up in Doubting Castle; where, when they had a while been kept in a cell, he at last did put out their eyes, and led them in the thick of those tombs, where he has left them to stray till this day: that the words of the Wise Man might be brought to pass, 'He that strays out of the way of truth shall dwell in the homes of the dead.'" Then did Christian and Hopeful look each on each, while tears came from their eyes; but yet said they not a word to the Shepherds. Then I saw in my dream, that the Shepherds had them to one more place, in a steep, where was a door in the side of a hill; and they flung wide the door and bid them look in. They did look in, hence, and saw that it was dark and full of smoke; they thought, too, that they heard a hoarse noise, as of fire, and a cry of some in pain. Then said Christian, "What means this?" The Shepherds told them, "This is a nigh way to Hell; a way that such as seem to be what they are not go in at: to wit, such as sell the right they had at birth, with Esau; such as sell their Lord, with Judas; such as speak ill of God's Word, with Alexander; and that lie and shift, with Ananias, and Sapphira his wife." Then said Hopeful to the Shepherds, "I see that these had on them, each one, a show of the road, as we have now, had they not?" _Shep._--"Yes, and held it a long time too." _Hope._--"How far might they go on in the way, in their days, since they, in spite of this, were thus cast off?" _Shep._--"Some yon, and some not so far as these mounts." By this time Christian and Hopeful had a wish to go forth, and the Shepherds meant that they should: so they sped side by side till they got nigh the end of the mounts. Then said the Shepherds, each to his friend, "Let us here show these wights the gates of the Celestial City, if they have skill to look through our kind of glass." The men then did like the hint: so they had them to the top of a high hill, the name of which was Clear, and gave them the glass to look. Then did they try to look, but the thought of that last thing that the Shepherds had shown them made their hands shake; by means of which let they could not look well through the glass; yet they thought they saw a thing like the gate, and, in like way, some of the sheen of the place. Just ere they set out, one of the Shepherds gave them _a note of the way_; the next bid them _take heed of such as fawn_; the third bid them _take heed that they slept not on ground that had a spell_; and the fourth bid them God speed. So I did wake from my dream. CHAPTER XVII. THE ENCHANTED GROUND AND THE WAY DOWN TO IT. AND I slept and dreamt once more, and saw the same two wights go down the mounts, by the high road that led to the town. Now nigh the base of these mounts, on the left hand, lies the land of Conceit, from which land there comes, right in the way in which the men trod, a small lane with twists and turns. Here, then, they met with a brisk lad that came out of that land, and his name was Ignorance. So Christian would know from what parts he came, and whence he was bound. _Ignor._--"Sir, I was born in the land that lies off there a short way on the left hand, and I am bound to the Celestial City." _Chr._--"But how do you think to get in at the gate? for you may find some let there." "As some good folk do," said he. _Chr._--"But what have you to show at that gate, that the gate should be flung wide to you?" _Ignor._--"I know my Lord's will, and have led a good life; I pay each man his own; I pray, fast, pay tithes, and give alms; and have left my land for the place to which I go." _Chr._--"But thou didst not come in at the Wicket-gate that is at the head of this way; thou didst come in here through that same lane with the twists and turns; and hence, I fear, in spite of what thou dost think of thy right, when the last day shall come, thou wilt have laid to thy charge that thou art a thief, in lieu of a free pass to the town." _Ignor._--"Sirs, ye be not known to me in the least; I know you not; you be led by the faith of your land, and I will be led by the faith of mine. I hope all will be well. And as for the gate that you talk of, all the world knows that that is a great way off our land. I do not think that one man in all our parts doth so much as know the way to it; nor need they care if they do or no; since we have, as you see, a fine, gay, green lane, that comes down from our land, the next road that leads to the way." [Illustration: Then Christian met with a brisk lad who said his name was Ignorance.--Page 82. _Pilgrim's Progress._] When Christian saw that the man was wise in his own eyes, he said to Hopeful in a soft voice, "'There is more hope of a fool than of him'"; and said, in like way, "'When he that is a fool walks by the way, his sense fails him, and he saith to each one that he is a fool.' What! shall we talk more with him, or move on now, and so leave him to think of what he hath erst heard, and then stop once more for him in a while, and see if by slow steps we can do aught of good to him?" Then said Hopeful, "It is not good, I think, to say so to him all at once; let us pass him by, if you will, and talk to him by and by, just as he has 'strength to bear it.'" So they both went on, and Ignorance came in their track. Now, when they had left him a short way, they came to a dark lane, where they met a man whom some fiends had bound with strong cords, and took back to the door that they saw on the side of the hill. Now good Christian could not help but shake, and so did Hopeful, who was with him; yet, as the fiends led off the man, Christian did look to see if he knew him; and he thought it might be one Turnaway, that dwelt in the town of Apostacy. But he did not well see his face, for he did hang his head like a thief that is found. But when he had gone past, Hopeful gave a look at him, and saw on his back a card, with these words, "Vile cheat, that has left his faith." So they went on, and Ignorance went in their track. They went till they came at a place where they saw a way put right in their way, and did seem, at the same time, to lie as straight as the way which they should go. And here they knew not which of the two to take, for both did seem straight in front of them: hence they stood to think. And as they thought of the way, lo, a man black of flesh, but clad with a light robe, came to them, and did ask them why they stood there. They said they were bound to the Celestial City, but knew not which of these ways to take. "Go with me," said the man; "it is to that place I am bent." So they went with him in the way that but now came to the road, which each step they took did turn and turn them so far from the town that they sought to go to, that in a short time their heads did turn off from it; yet they went with him. But by and by, ere they well knew of it, he led them both in the bounds of a net, in which they were both so caught that they knew not what to do; and with that the white robe fell off the black man's back: then they saw where they were. For which cause there they lay in tears some time, for they could not get their limbs out. Then said Christian to his friend, "Now do I see that I am wrong. Did not the Shepherds bid us take heed of the Flatterer? As are the words of the Wise Man, so we have found it this day, 'A man that fawns on his friend spreads a net for his feet.'" _Hope._--"They, too, gave us some notes as to the way, so that we may be the more sure to find it; but in that we have not thought to read." [Illustration: Then did Hopeful tell Christian his experience, and Christian said: "Let us not sleep, as some do; but let us watch and pray."--Page 86. _Pilgrim's Progress._] Thus they lay in sad plight in the net. At last they saw a Bright One come nigh to where they were, with a whip of small cords in his hand. When he was come to the place where they were, he did ask them whence they came, and what they did there? They told him they were poor wights bound to Zion, but were led out of their way by a black man clad in white, "who bid us," said they, "go with him, for he was bound to that place too." Then said he with the whip, "It is one who fawns, a false guide who wore the garb of a sprite of light." So he rent the net, and let the men out. Then said he to them, "Come with me, that I may set you in your way once more": so he led them back to the way they had left to go with the Flatterer. Then he did ask them and said, "Where did you lie the last night?" They said, "With the Shepherds on the Mounts of Joy." He did ask, then, if they had not of those men a note as a guide for the way. They said, "Yes." "But did you not," said he, "when you were at a stand, pluck out and read your note?" Quoth they, "No." He did ask them, "Why?" They said, "They did not think of it." He would know, too, "If the Shepherds did not bid them take heed of the Flatterer?" They said, "Yes; but we thought not," said they, "that this man of fine speech had been he." Then I saw in my dream that he told them to lie down; which when they did, he gave them sore stripes, to teach them the good way in which they should walk. This done, he bids them go on their way, and take good heed to the next hints of the Shepherds. I then saw in my dream, that they went on till they came to a land whose air did tend to make one sleep. And here Hopeful grew quite dull and nigh fell to sleep: for which cause he said to Christian: "I do now grow so dull that I can scarce hold ope mine eyes; let us lie down here and take one nap." "By no means," said Christian, "lest if we sleep we wake not more." _Hope._--"Why, my friend? Sleep is sweet to the man that toils: it may give us strength if we take a nap." _Chr._--"Do you not know that one of the Shepherds bid us take heed of the Enchanted Ground? He meant by that, that we should take care and not go to sleep. 'Let us not sleep, as do some; but let us watch and be of sound mind.'" _Hope._--"I know I am in fault; and, had not you been with me here, I had gone to sleep and run the risk of death. I see it is true that the wise man saith, 'Two are more good than one.' Up to this time thou hast been my ruth and thou shalt 'have a good meed for thy pains.'" [Illustration: HOPEFUL TELLS CHRISTIAN HIS EXPERIENCE.] I saw then in my dream, that Hopeful gave a look back, and saw Ignorance, whom they had left in their wake, come in their track. "Look," said he to Christian, "how far yon youth doth lag in the rear." [Illustration: "Come on, man, why do you stay back so?" said Christian. "I like to walk alone," said Ignorance.--Page 87. _Pilgrim's Progress._] _Chr._--"Ay, ay, I see him: he cares not to be with us." _Hope._--"But I trow it would not have hurt him had he kept pace with us to this time." _Chr._--"That is true: but I wot he doth not think so." _Hope._--"That I think he doth: but, be it so or no, let us wait for him." So they did. Then Christian did call to him, "Come you on, man: why do you stay back so?" _Ignor._--"I like to walk in this lone way; ay, more a great deal than with folk: that is, save I like them much." Then said Christian to Hopeful (but in a soft voice), "Did I not tell you he sought to shirk us? But, be this as it may, come up, and let us talk off the time in this lone place." Then, when he had a long speech with Ignorance, Christian spoke thus to his friend, "Well, come, my good Hopeful, I see that thou and I must walk side by side once more." So I saw in my dream, that they went on fast in front, and Ignorance, he came with lame gait in their track. Then said Christian to his friend, "I feel much for this poor man: it will of a truth go hard with him at last." CHAPTER XVIII. THE LAND OF BEULAH--THE FORDS OF THE RIVER--AT HOME. NOW I saw in my dream that by this time the wights had got clear of the Enchanted Ground, and had come to the land of Beulah, whose air was most sweet: as the way did lie straight through it, they took rest there for a while. Yea, here they heard at all times "the songs of birds," and saw each day the plants bud forth in the earth, and heard "the voice of the dove" in the land. In this realm the sun shines night and day: for this was far from the Vale of the Shade of Death, and, in like way, out of the reach of Giant Despair; nor could they from this place so much as see Doubting Castle. Here they were in sight of the City to which they were bound: here, too, met them some of the folk who dwelt there, for in this land the Bright Ones did walk, for that it was on the verge of bliss. [Illustration: CHRISTIAN AND HOPEFUL ENTER THE LAND OF BEULAH.] Now as they did walk in this land they had more joy than in parts not so nigh the realm to which they were bound: and as they drew near the City they had yet a more clear view of it. It was built of pearls and rare gems: its streets, too, were of gold: so that, from the sheen of the place, and the glow of the sun on it, Christian did long so much that he fell sick. Hopeful, in like way, had a fit or two of the same kind. But when they got some strength, and could bear their sick state, they went on their way, and came near and yet more near where were grounds that bore fruits, vines, and plants; and their gates did ope on the high road. Now, as they came up to these parts, lo, the Gardener stood in the way; to whom the men said, "Whose fine vine and fruit grounds are these?" He said, "They are the King's, and are put there for his own joy, as well as to cheer such as come this way." So he took them to where the vines grew, and bid them wet their mouths with the fruit: he, too, did show them there the King's walks, and the shades that he sought: and here they staid and slept. Now I saw in my dream that they spoke more in their sleep at this time than erst they did in all their way: and as I did muse on it, the Gardener said to me, "Why dost thou muse at this? It is a charm in the fruit of the grapes of these grounds 'to go down in so sweet a way as to cause the lips of them that sleep to speak.'" So I saw that when they did wake they girt up their loins to go up to the City. So as they went on, there met them two men in robes that shone like gold, while the face of each was bright as the light. These men did ask them whence they came; and they told them. They would know, too, where they did lodge, and what straits and risks and joys they had met with in the way; and they told them. Then said the men that met them, "You have but two straits more to meet with, and then you are in the City." Christian then, and his friend, did ask the men to go with them: so they told them that they would; but said they, "You must gain it by your own faith." So I saw in my dream that they went on each with each, till they came in sight of the gate. Now I saw still more, that a stream ran in front of them and the gate; but there was no bridge to cross, and the stream was deep. At the sight of this stream, the wights with staves took fright; but the men that went with them said, "Thou must go through, or thou canst not come at the gate." The wights then sought to know if there was no way but that to the gate. To which they said, "Yes; but none, save two--to wit, Enoch and Elijah--hath been let to tread that path since the world was made, nor shall till the last trump shall sound." The wights then (and Christian in chief) grew as if they would give up hope, and did look this way and that, but no way could be found by which they might get clear of the stream. Then they did ask the men if it was all the same depth. They said, "No"; yet they could not help them in that case: "for," said they, "you shall find it more or less deep as you trust in the King of the place." Then they did wade in the stream, and as Christian sank he did cry to his good friend Hopeful, and said, "I sink." [Illustration] Then said Hopeful, "Be of good cheer, my friend: I feel the ground, and it is good." Then said Christian, "Ah! my friend, I shall not see the land I seek." And with that all grew dark, and fear fell on Christian, so that he could not see in front of him. All the words that he spoke still did tend to show that he had dread of mind and fears of heart that he should die in that stream, and fail to go in at the gate. Hopeful, from this cause, had here hard work to hold up the head of his friend; yea, at times he would be quite gone down, and then, ere a while, he would rise up once more half dead. Hopeful would try to cheer him, and said, "Friend, I see the gate, and men stand by to greet us": but Christian would say, "'Tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time I knew you." Then said Hopeful, "These fears and griefs that you go through are no sign that God has left you, but are sent to try you; if you will call to mind that which of yore you have had from him, and live on him in your griefs." Then I saw in my dream that Christian was in a muse for a while. To whom, too, Hopeful did add these words, "Be of good cheer, Christ doth make thee whole." And with that Christian brake out with a loud voice, "Oh, I see Him once more! and he tells me, 'When thou dost pass through the stream, I will be with thee.'" Then they both took heart, and the foe then grew as still as a stone, till they were gone through. Christian then straight found ground to stand on, and so it came to pass that the rest of the stream was but of slight depth: thus they did ford it. Now on the bank of the stream, on the far off side, they saw the two Bright Men once more, who there did wait for them. When they came out of the stream these did greet them, and said: "We are sprites sent forth to aid them who shall be heirs of Christ." Thus they went on to the gate. Now you must note that the City stood on a high hill: but the wights went up that hill with ease, for that they had these two men to lead them up by the arms: more than this, they had left the garb they wore in the stream; for though they went in with them they came out freed from them. They hence went up here with much speed, though the rise on which the City was built was more high than the clouds. They then went up through the realms of air, and held sweet talk as they went, as they felt joy for that they had got safe through the stream, and had such Bright Ones to wait them. The talk that they had with the Bright Ones was of the place; who told them that no words could paint it. "You go now," said they, "to the sphere where God dwells, in which you shall see the Tree of Life, and eat of the fruits of it that fade not: and when you come there you shall have white robes to wear, and your walk and talk shall be each day with the King, while time shall be known no more. There you shall not see such things as you saw when low on earth, to wit, grief, pain, and death; for these things are gone. You now go to Abraham, to Isaac, and Jacob, and to men that God 'took from the woe to come.'" These men then did ask, "What must we do in this pure place?" To whom it was said, "You must there get the meed of all your toil, and have joy for all your grief; you must reap what you have sown, ay, the fruit of all your tears and toils for the King by the way. In that place you must wear crowns of gold, and bask for aye in the sight of the Lord of Hosts, for there you 'shall see Him as he is.' There, too, you shall serve Him with praise, with shouts, with joy, whom you sought to serve in the world, though with much pain, for that your flesh was weak. There you shall join with your friends once more that are gone there ere you; and there you shall with joy greet each one that comes in your wake. When the King shall come with sound of trump in the clouds, as on the wings of the wind, you shall come with Him; and, when He shall sit on the Throne to judge all the realms of the earth, you shall sit by Him: yea, and when He shall pass doom on all that did work ill, let them be sprites or men, you shall too have a voice in that doom, for that they are His and your foes. More than this, when He shall go back to the City, you shall go too, with sound of trump, and be for aye with Him." Now while they thus drew nigh to the gate, lo a troop of the Bright Host came to meet them; to whom it was said by the first two Bright Ones, "These are the men that did love our Lord, when they were in the world, and that have left all for His name, and He hath sent us to fetch them, and we have brought them thus far on their way, that they may go in and look their Lord in the face with joy." There came, too, at this time to meet them a group of the King's men with trumps, clad in white and sheen robes, who, with sweet and loud notes, made the whole arch of the sky full of the sound. These men did greet Christian and his friend with much warmth; and this they did with shouts and sound of trump. [Illustration: "'Tis you, 'tis you they wait for; you have had hope since the time I knew you." (_Page 92_) (_The Pilgrim's Progress._)] This done, they went round them on each side; some went in front, some in the rear, and some on the right hand, some on the left (as it were to guard them through the vast realms), and did sound as they went, with sweet noise, in notes on high; so that the bare sight was to them that could look on it as if all the blest were come down to meet them. Thus then did they walk on side by side. And now were these two men, as it were, in bliss ere they came at it. Here, too, they had the City in view; and they thought they heard all the bells in it to ring, so as to greet them. But, more than all, the warm and rare thoughts that they had of the place to which they went, and of those that dwelt there, and that for aye; oh! by what tongue or pen can such vast joy be told? Thus they came up to the gate. Then I saw in my dream that the Bright Men bid them call at the gate: the which when they did, some from on high did look down, to wit, Enoch, Moses, and Elijah, and so forth, to whom it was said, "These wights are come from the City of Destruction, for the love that they bear to the King of this place"; and then the wights gave in to them each man his roll, which they had got at first: those, then, were brought in to the King, who, when he had read them, said, "Where are the men?" To whom it was told, "They are at the porch of the gate." Then spoke the King, "Ope the gate, that the just land that keeps truth may come in." Now I saw in my dream, that these two men went in at the gate: and lo! as they did so, a change came on them; and they had robes put on that shone like gold. There were, too, that met them with harps and crowns, and gave them to them; the harps to praise with, the crowns in sign of rank. Then I heard in my dream that all the bells of the place rang for joy, and that it was said to them, "Come ye to the joy of our Lord." Now, just as the gates did ope to let in the men, did I peer at them, and lo, the place shone like the sun: the streets, too, were of gold; and in them did walk men with crowns on their heads, palms in their hands, and gold harps to aid in songs of praise. There were some of them that had wings, and they sang, with not a pause, songs to the "Lamb that was slain!" Then they shut up the gates; which when I had seen I did wish to be with them. Now, while I did gaze on all these things, I saw Ignorance come up to the side of the stream: but he soon got through, and that void of half the toil which the two men that I of late saw met with. So he did climb the hill to come up to the gate; but none came with him, nor did one man meet or greet him. When he was come up to the gate, he gave a look up at what was writ in front of it, and then gave a knock. So they told the King, but he would not come down to see him; but told the two Bright Ones, that led Christian and Hopeful to the City, to go out and take Ignorance, and bind him hand and foot, and have him off. Then they took him up, and bore him through the air to the door that I saw in the side of the hill, and put him in there. Then I saw that there was a way to Hell, ay, from the gates of bliss, as well as from the City of Destruction! So I did wake, and lo, it was a dream! THE END. BURT'S SERIES of ONE SYLLABLE BOOKS 14 Titles. Handsome Illuminated Cloth Binding. 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BURT COMPANY. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original text did not contain a table of contents. One was created by the transcriber to aid the reader. Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 14, "Heto" changed to "He to" (He to whom thou) Page 52, "Cha." changed to "Chr." (_Chr._--"They are two) Page 76, "their" changed to "they" (So they built there) Page 89, "bonnd" changed to "bound" (bound: and as they drew near) 
49450	----	PETRARCH'S SECRET OR THE SOUL'S CONFLICT WITH PASSION THREE DIALOGUES BETWEEN HIMSELF AND S. AUGUSTINE TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN BY WILLIAM H. DRAPER WITH TWO ILLUSTRATIONS LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS MDCCCCXI FRANCIS PETRARCH EMILIAE AUGUSTAE PER ANNUS XXII COLLABORANTI MECUM, COMPATIENTI, COLLAETANTI PETRARCAE HOC COLLOQUIUM MEMORABILE AMORIS DULCEDINE LACRIMISQUE TINCTUM IAM DEMUM ANGLICE REDDITUM GRATUS DEDICO A. S. MDCCCCXI CONTENTS INTRODUCTION AUTHOR'S PREFACE DIALOGUE THE FIRST DIALOGUE THE SECOND DIALOGUE THE THIRD INTRODUCTION Most modern writers on Petrarch agree in stating that of all his works the Dialogues which he calls _Secretum meum_ are the one which throws most light upon the man himself. Yet no English translation has hitherto been published. A French version by M. Victor Develay was issued a few years ago, and received the recognition of the French Academy; and, considering the great importance of Petrarch in the history of the Renaissance, not merely in Italy but in Europe, it is time that a similar opportunity of knowing him more fully was offered to English readers; for there are signs on both sides of the Atlantic that the number of those interested in him is steadily growing. The reason for this is undoubtedly the fact that, as the whole work of Petrarch comes to be better known, interest in him as a man increases. Mr. Sidney Lee has lately reminded us of his wide range and predominating influence in the matter of the sonnet in France and in Elizabethan England, as well as in his own country; and yet that influence was very far indeed from revealing all that Petrarch was. It was largely an influence of style, a triumph of the perfection of form, and his imitators did not trouble much about the precise nature of the sentiment and spirit informing the style. When this came to be weighed in the balances of a later day, the tendency of English feeling was to regard his sentiment as a trifle too serious and weak. The love-making of the Cavaliers brought in a robuster tone. When once the question was raised, "Why so pale and wan, fond lover?" there was really no good answer to it on Petrarchan lines, and the consequence was that his name and fame suffered something of eclipse among us. But eclipses are transient events, and when literary England felt once more the attraction of Italy in the end of the eighteenth century it was not only Dante who began to resume his sway and to provoke translation, but Petrarch also. Then attention was turned chiefly to his Italian poetry, but also in some degree to the general body of his Latin works and to his Letters, of which it is reported that Fox was among the first to perceive the high value. In England the pioneers in this direction were Mrs. Susannah Dobson, who published first a Life of Petrarch in two volumes in 1775, which had by 1805 reached a sixth edition, and, soon after, another volume called _Petrarch's View of Life_, purporting to be a translation, but in fact a very loose and attenuated abstract of the treatise _De remediis utriusque Fortunæ,_ which nevertheless reached a new edition in 1797. Then came a volume of Essays on Petrarch (Murray 1823) by the Italian exile Ugo Foscolo, and a little later a second Life of the Poet by no less a person than Thomas Campbell, also in two volumes. Testifying to the re-awakened interest in Petrarch, numerous translations also of his poetry were published by Lady Dacre, Hugh Boyd, Leigh Hunt, Capel Lofft, and many others, who took up after a long interval the tradition begun by Chaucer and handed on by Surrey, Wyatt, Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, Drummond of Hawthornden, and George Chapman. Then for a while there was a pause, and the main drift of such attention in England as could be spared for things Italian in mid-Victorian days was concentrated on the greater luminary of the _Divine Comedy_ and the exciting political events of the sixties; though some attention was drawn to things connected with Petrarch by Lytton's novel of _Rienzi_, which was first published in 1835 and had a considerable vogue. Meanwhile in Italy itself his fame was well served by the excellent collection and reprint of his Latin letters by Fracasetti in three vols. (1859-63), and since that time there have appeared several important works dealing with the larger aspects of his life and work, most notable among them being Koerting's _Petrarka's Leben und Werke_ (Leipsig 1878), and in France M. P. de Nolhac's _Pétrarque et l'Humanisme_ (two vols., 1907, new edition), with other subsidiary works, and four small volumes by M. Henri Cochin, elucidating what is known of Petrarch's brother Gherardo and some of his many friends. Amongst ourselves in late years, following the labours of J. A. Symonds in his history of the Renaissance, we have Henry Reeve's small but well-planned volume in the "Foreign Classics for English Readers," and, more recently still, Mr. Hollway Calthrop's _Petrarch: his Life, Work and Times_ (1907), and Mrs. Maud Jerrold's _Francesco Petrarca: Poet and Humanist_ (1909). It is significant that both the last writers single out the _Secretum_ for its psychological interest, the former stating that "to those who feel the charm of Petrarch's nature and the intense humanity of his character, these three Dialogues are the most fascinating of all his writings"; and the latter "that this conflict of the dual self is of quite peculiar interest." Mrs. Jerrold indeed goes so far as to say that Petrarch "plunges into the most scathing self-examination that any man ever made. Whether the book was intended for the public we may well doubt, both from the words of the preface and from the fact that it does not appear to have been published till after the author's death. But however this may be, it remains one of the world's great monuments of self-revelation and ranks with the _Confessions of S. Augustine_"--a verdict which to some critics will seem to have a touch of overstatement, though hardly beyond the opinion of Petrarch's French students, and not altogether unpardonable in so enthusiastic an admirer of her subject, and a verdict which at least would not have been displeasing to Petrarch himself. Among the many points of human interest to be found in the Dialogues not the least is the one connected with Accidie, a theme which has of itself attracted special study in the present day, particularly since attention was called to it by the late Bishop of Oxford in his well-known introduction to the _Spirit of Discipline._ Observers of mental life incline to the view that the form of depression denoted by the mediæval word was not confined to those times or met with only in monasteries, and it is curious that he who is sometimes called the "first of the moderns" should take us into his confidence as to his sufferings from this trouble, and exemplify the truth of the observation to which reference has been made. M. P. de Nolhac, in his interesting work entitled _Le Frère de Pétrarque,_ calls particular attention to this trait in Petrarch's character, and in an appendix on the subject writes, "Mais il faut surtout lire l'émouvante discussion que Pétrarque, dans le second dialogue du _Secretum_, suppose entre Saint Augustin et lui-meme, les aveux entrecoupés de sanglots qu'il laisse échapper. Cette torture, dit-il, où il passe des jours et des nuits, a pourtant en elle je ne sais quelle atroce volupté tellement que parfois il en conte de s'y arracher" (p. 220). It is the remarking on this note of self-will, this _voluptas dolendi,_ that M. de Nolhac considers is Petrarch's special contribution to the subject and furnishes a new point beyond what is in previous definitions. The fundamental question raised by these Dialogues is the question of what was the real nature and character of Petrarch, and wherein lay the secret of his extraordinary charm and influence among his contemporaries, and especially among contemporary men? It is difficult to convey in few words how great an impression the study of his Latin works makes in regard to this influence in his own lifetime. Of course, a reader is soon aware of the trait of personal vanity in Petrarch and of certain unconscious littlenesses, as in the matter of his appreciation of Dante; but the strange thing is how little this interfered with the regard and admiration extended to him by many sorts and conditions of men. In the ordinary intercourse of life one is apt to think such a trait fatal to anything like respect, and it must always detract somewhat from the full stature of any mind, but in the case of Petrarch it seems evident that he was one to whom much was forgiven, and that the reason is to be found in the presence in him of so rich an assemblage of other and better qualities that this one hardly counted at all, or was looked on with kindly amusement by friends large-hearted enough to think it nothing compared with what was good and admirable in his mind. We may take it for granted that, as he hints in his "Letter to Posterity," he started with the advantage of a good presence and a sufficient care of his own person and appearance in younger days; and it is evident that he had by nature a certain engaging frankness and impulsiveness, which nevertheless were not inconsistent with the contrasted qualities of gravity and dignity, learned at first from his father and mother and their friends, and cultivated by his study of the Law and afterwards by his attendance on the Papal court at Avignon. One can discern this in his Letters and see it reflected in those that were written to him or about him. But beyond these introductory qualities, as they may be called, there were other deeper traits, of rarer kind, that must be noted before one can understand the position he attained and has held so long. Studying his work from the cool distance of six centuries, one is inclined to judge that the most fundamental quality of his nature was his love of literature, and that every other trait took a subordinate place to this. It is perhaps doubtful whether this or the life of personal affection, or even of devotion in a monastery, would have gained the upper hand if the circumstances of his life had been different in the matter of his love for Laura; but taking into consideration that she was separated from him apparently by temperament and circumstance, the one course that remained open to him without let or hindrance was the life of literature in the sense of devotion to the great writers of the Past and the practice of the art of writing for himself. He loved this for its own sake, and at the same time he was quickened by the sense of a new learning, which, since his time and largely by the impetus he gave it, has taken form and outline in a wonderful way, but was then only like the first streak of dawn upon the sky. Petrarch was not the first man to find a certain contradiction between his desires and the possibilities of life around him, and to pass many years under the pain of contrary attractions that could not all be followed to fulfilment This conflict is what gives interest to the _Secretum._ Some have thought, and the idea was expressed by one of his correspondents, that his love for Laura was very much of a literary pose. Yet that such a view is an insufficient account of it seems pretty clearly established by the work here translated. It is, indeed, plain that his feelings ran a course, and not a smooth one, and did not continue in one stay; he came to see the whole matter in a changed light, and yet not wholly changed; his relation was transfigured, not abandoned, and after the death of Laura, which took place when he was forty-four, it continued as a memory from which the pain had faded away and only what was uplifting remained. That which persisted unchanged all through his life and seems most to have had the colour and substance of a passion was the love of Letters. To this his friendship, his very real patriotism, and (must we not add?) his religion also were in a sense second. But the mention of this last factor in the life of Petrarch leads one to express the opinion that this has not yet been quite sufficiently reckoned with. That it should not have been thought worthy of such reckoning has probably arisen from the one ugly fact in his life which he himself does not conceal, and indeed expressly refers to in his "Letter to Posterity," in the following words:-- "As for the looser indulgences of appetite, would indeed I could say I was a stranger to them altogether; but if I should so say, I should lie. This I can safely affirm that, although I was hurried away to them by the fervour of my age and temperament, their vileness I have always inwardly execrated. As soon as I approached my fortieth year I repelled these weaknesses entirely from _my_ thoughts and my remembrance, as if I had never known them. And this I count among my earliest happy recollections, thanking God, who has freed me, while yet my powers were unimpaired and strong, from this so vile and always hateful servitude."[1] Now, although Petrarch did not, as some other men have done, including his own brother, express his repentance by retiring to a monastery, yet there is evidence enough that the change of will here referred to, and professed in the _Secretum_, was real, and that the older he grew the more he lifted up his heart. Among other signs of this there is the curious little group of what he calls _Penitential Psalms,_ which were translated into English by George Chapman, into whose translation of Homer Keats looked and was inspired In his Will also there are not a few passages through which one hears a note of genuine penitence. Among other curious points in it is the mention of the exact spot in which he would wish to be laid to rest in some one of seven different places where he might happen to die, the last being the city of Parma, of which he says, "At si Parmæ, in ecclesiâ majori, ubi per multos annos archidiaconus fui inutilis et semper fere absens." Petrarch must have fully weighed in his own case the pros and cons for such retirement. His treatise _De Otio Religiosorum_ shows that he understood what good side that kind of life has, and his whole attitude towards his brother--generous, and attached, almost to the point of romance--reveals how he could admire it. But in his own case he felt that it would cramp his faculties too much to be endurable, and hinder more than it would help the kind of work to which he had put his hand. There was also another influence that told strongly on this father of Humanism. He whose nature was so full of unsatisfied natural affection had begun in his latter years to find some rest and blessing in the love and tendance of a daughter, the light of whose care and companionship for him shines through his declining days like the rays of the sun in the evening after a dark and troubled day. But if we are right in judging that the love of Letters was the dominant factor in the life of Petrarch, it was but the main thread in a singularly complex nature. Not much less in substance and strength was his genius for friendship. Indeed, his study of the writers of past ages partook of the nature of friendship, just as his friendship with living men had a deep literary tinge. He loved books and he loved men, and he loved them in the same way. This is by no means a frequent combination in the degree in which it was shown in Petrarch. More often the book-lover becomes a recluse, and the lover of his fellow-men loses his ardour for study. But not even the love of books and of men took up all the activities of this rich nature. He was also a keen traveller and among the first to write of natural scenery in the modern spirit. He had that in him which, in spite of his love for reading and writing, sent him forth into other lands and made him eager to see men and cities. Yet the love of the country in him prevailed over the love of cities. His many references to his life at Vaucluse, though to readers of to-day they may seem sometimes affected, yet show only a superficial affectation, a mere mode, which does not seriously lessen the impression of his simple taste and his genuine delight in his garden and his fishing, and his talk with the charming old farmer-man and that sun-burnt wife for whom he had such an unbounded respect. In the two recent lives of Petrarch in English a reader may make closer acquaintance with this side of his character, and will find much that falls in with modern feeling as to simplicity of living and the joys of escaping from "the man-stifled town." But what is still a desideratum is a good English translation of his Letters to his friends, which will add many glimpses of his daily interests and thoughts, and fill up the picture of his interior life as it is disclosed to us in the Dialogues here presented. What the _Secretum gives_ us is the picture of Petrarch as he was in the crisis of his middle years. It was written in or about the year 1342 when he was thirty-eight, and in these Dialogues we find him looking back over his youth and early life--the sap and vigour of his mind as strong as ever, the recollection of many sensations green and still powerful--but finding that the sheer march of time and experience of manhood are forcing him now to see things with more mature vision. Five years later he will be seen suddenly kindled into surprising excitement in that strange Rienzi episode, but in one of his letters to that unhappy politician there is a sentence which might have been penned by Bishop Butler, and has in it the accent of grave experience:[2] _"Ibunt res quâ sempiterna lex statuit: mutare ista non possum, fugere possum"_ (Things will go as the law eternal has decided: to alter their course is out of our power; what we can do is to get out of their way). The interest of the _Secretum_ is heightened by remembering the time of life in which it was composed.[3] Some will find most pleasure in reading what men have written _De Senectute_, and others prefer the charm that belongs to youth; but is there not much to be said for the interest of what men write from that high tableland that lies between the two, in the full strength of their mind when they have lived long enough to know what is hidden from the eyes of youth and not long enough to be wearied and broken with the greatness of the way? Such is the tone that seems to pervade the Dialogues between S. Augustine and Petrarch. In the preface he looks forward to cherishing the little book himself in future years, like some flower that keeps alive remembrance of past days and yet is not cherished for memory only, but to guard the resolution which has been taken to go forward and not back, and, as his French translator suggests, "Is it to be wondered at that these pages, written with such _abandon_, in which he has laid bare his whole soul, should have been his own favourite work? It was the book he kept at his bedside, his faithful counsellor and friend, and to which he turned ever and again with pleasure in the hours of remembering the time past." It is not necessary to tell over again the story of Petrarch's lifelong devotion to the study of S. Augustine's _Confessions,_ or to dwell on the obvious reasons for that devotion. Every man loves the book which tells the history of conflicts like his own, and which has helped to give him courage in his warfare and its sorrows and joys. "That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more;" sings the poet, but if one reads the experience of those who have suffered and contended and conquered, and is sure that their load was as heavy as his own, then there is a spirit which is breathed over from one life to another, and which even though it tells us how great is the burden of sorrow in the world, yet also tells us that a man is not alone, but that there are companions in patience who a little strengthen each other and give the sense of fellowship from age to age, _donec aspiret dies et inclinentur umbrae._ Many of the letters of Petrarch's later years show how wistfully he waited for that day. But they also show how gallant a heart he kept, and how faithful to those friends that remained, including the one so lovable and generous and true, Giovanni Boccaccio, who survived him little more than a year. Petrarch passed the end of his life in a modest house which he built in one of the loveliest parts of Italy, that to English readers will be for ever dear because of the haunting music that Shelley wove around its name. It was in the Euganæan Hills at Arqua where Petrarch chose to wait for the dawn, and, till it came, to go on working among the books he loved as his own soul. "Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery," and to read the story of his last years there is to think of one of those green isles. These were days of calm, and the book of the Secret ends with the expression of hope for a deeper calm still. In due time it came, but, as the English Poet sang, after more than six centuries-- The love from Petrarch's urn Yet amid yon hills doth burn, [1] Translation by H. Reeve. [2] _De rebus fam.,_ vii. 7. [3] The profile portrait, reproduced by kind permission of Mr. T. Fisher Unwin, publisher of Mr. E. J. Mills' book on Petrarch, is from Lombardo's copy of the _De viris illustribus,_ finished about five years after the death of Petrarch, and is believed to be an authentic picture of him in later life. A QUENCHLESS LAMP. [Illustration] [Illustration: S. AUGUSTINE GREETING A FRIEND _From a picture by Benozzo Gozzoli at San Gimignano_] PETRARCH'S SECRET AUTHOR'S PREFACE Often have I wondered with much curiosity as to our coming into this world and what will follow our departure. When I was ruminating lately on this matter, not in any dream as one in sickness and slumber, but wide awake and with all my wits about me, I was greatly astonished to behold a very beautiful Lady, shining with an indescribable light about her. She seemed as one whose beauty is not known, as it might be, to mankind. I could not tell how she came there, but from her raiment and appearance I judged her a fair Virgin, and her eyes, like the sun, seemed to send forth rays of such light that they made me lower my own before her, so that I was afraid to look up. When she saw this she said, Fear not; and let not the strangeness of my presence affright you in any wise. I saw your steps had gone astray; and I had compassion on you and have come down from above to bring you timely succour. Hitherto your eyes have been darkened and you have looked too much, yes, far too much, upon the things of earth. If these so much delight you, what shall be your rapture when you lift your gaze to things eternal! When I heard her thus speak, though my fear still clung about me with trembling voice I made reply in Virgil's words-- "What name to call thee by, O Virgin fair, I know not, for thy looks are not of earth And more than mortal seems thy countenance."[1] I am that Lady, she answered, whom you have depicted in your poem _Africa_ with rare art and skill, and for whom, like another Amphion of Thebes, you have with poetic hands built a fair and glorious Palace in the far West on Atlas's lofty peak. Be not afraid, then, to listen and to look upon the face of her who, as your finely-wrought allegory proves, has been well-known to you from of old. Scarcely had she uttered these words when, as I pondered all these things in my mind, it occurred to me this could be none other than Truth herself who thus spoke. I remembered how I had described her abode on the heights of Atlas; yet was I ignorant from what region she had come, save only that I felt assured she could have come from none other place than Heaven. Therefore I turned my gaze towards her, eagerly desiring to look upon her face; but lo, the eye of man is unable to gaze on that ethereal Form, wherefore again was I forced to turn them towards the ground. When she took note of this, after a short silence, she spoke once more; and, questioning me many times, she led me to engage with her in long discourse. From this converse I was sensible of gaining a twofold benefit for I won knowledge, and the very act of talking with her gave me confidence. I found myself by degrees becoming able to look upon the face which at first dismayed me by its splendour, and as soon as I was able to bear it without dread, and gaze fixedly on her wondrous beauty, I looked to see if she were accompanied with any other, or had come upon the retirement of my solitude alone; and as I did so I discerned at her side the figure of an aged man, of aspect venerable and full of majesty. There was no need to inquire his name. His religious bearing, modest brow, his eyes full of dignity, his measured step, his African look, but Roman speech, plainly declared him to be that most illustrious Father, Augustine. Moreover, he had so gracious a mien, and withal so noble, that one could not possibly imagine it to belong to any other than to him. Even so I was on the point of opening my lips to ask, when at that moment I heard the name so dear to me uttered from the lips of Truth herself. Turning herself to him, as if to intervene upon his deep meditation, she addressed him in these words: "Augustine, dear to me above a thousand others, you know how devoted to yourself this man is, and you are aware also with how dangerous and long a malady he is stricken, and that he is so much nearer to Death as he knows not the gravity of his disease. It is needful, then, that one take thought for this man's life forthwith, and who so fit to undertake the pious work as yourself? He has ever been deeply attached to your name and person; and all good doctrine is wont more easily to enter the mind of the disciple when he already starts with loving the Master from whom he is to learn. Unless your present happiness has made you quite forget your former sorrow, you will remember that when you were shut in the prison of the mortal body you also were subject to like temptation as his. And if that were so, most excellent Physician of those passions yourself experienced, even though your silent meditation be full of sweetness to your mind, I beg that your sacred voice, which to me is ever a delight, shall break its silence, and try whether you are able by some means to bring calm to one so deeply distressed." Augustine answered her: "You are my guide, my Counsellor, my Sovereign, my Ruler; what is it, then, you would have me say in your presence?" "I would," she replied, "that some human voice speak to the ears of this mortal man. He will better bear to hear truth so. But seeing that whatever you shall say to him he will take as said by me, I also will be present in person during your discourse." Augustine answered her, "The love I bear to this sick man, as well as the authority of her who speaks, make it my duty to obey." Then, looking kindly at me and pressing me to his heart in fatherly embrace, he led me away to the most retired corner he could find, and Truth herself went on a few steps in front. There we all three sat down. Then while Truth listened as the silent Judge, none other beside her being present, we held long converse on one side and the other; and because of the greatness of the theme, the discourse between us lasted over three days. Though we talked of many things much against the manners of this age, and on faults and failings common to mankind, in such wise that the reproaches of the Master seemed in a sense more directed against men in general than against myself, yet those which to me came closest home I have graven with more especial vividness on the tablet of my memory. That this discourse, so intimate and deep, might not be lost, I have sot it down in writing and made this book; not that I wish to class it with my other works, or desire from it any credit. My thoughts aim higher. What I desire is that I may be able by reading to renew as often as I wish the pleasure I felt from the discourse itself. So, little Book, I bid you flee the haunts of men and be content to stay with me, true to the title I have given you of "My Secret": and when I would think upon deep matters, all that you keep in remembrance that was spoken in secret you in secret will tell to me over again. To avoid the too frequent iteration of the words "said I," "said he," and to bring the personages of the Dialogue, as it were, before one's very eyes, I have acted on Cicero's method and merely placed the name of each interlocutor before each paragraph.[2] My dear Master learned this mode himself from Plato. But to cut short all further digression, this is how Augustine opened the discourse. [1] _Æneid,_ i. 327-28. [2] _De Amicitiâ_, i. DIALOGUE THE FIRST S. AUGUSTINE--PETRARCH _S. Augustine._ What have you to say, O man of little strength? Of what are you dreaming? For what are you looking? Remember you not you are mortal? _Petrarch._ Yes, I remember it right well, and a shudder comes upon me every time that remembrance rises in my breast. _S. Augustine._ May you, indeed, remember as you say, and take heed for yourself. You will spare me much trouble by so doing. For there con be no doubt that to recollect one's misery and to practise frequent meditation on death is the surest aid in scorning the seductions of this world, and in ordering the soul amid its storms and tempests, if only such meditation be not superficial, but sink into the bones and marrow of the heart. Yet am I greatly afraid lest that happen in your case which I have seen in so many others, and you be found deceiving your own self. _Petrarch_. In what way do you mean? For I do not clearly understand the drift of your remarks. _S. Augustine._ O race of mortal men, this it is that above all makes me astonished and fearful for you, when I behold you, of your own will clinging to your miseries; pretending that you do not know the peril hanging over your heads and if one bring it under your very eyes, you try to thrust it from your sight and put it afar off. _Petrarch._ In what way are we so mad? _S. Augustine._ Do you suppose there is any living man so unreasonable that if he found himself stricken with a dangerous ailment he would not anxiously desire to regain the blessing of health? _Petrarch._ I do not suppose such a case has ever been heard of. _S. Augustine._ And do you think if one wished for a thing with all one's soul one would be so idle and careless as not to use all possible means to obtain what one desired? _Petrarch._ No one, I think, would be so foolish. _S. Augustine._ If we are agreed on these two points, so we ought also to agree on a third. _Petrarch._ What is this third point? _S. Augustine._ It is this: that just as he who by deep meditation has discovered he is miserable will ardently wish to be so no more; and as he who has formed this wish will seek to have it realised, so he who seeks will be able to reach what he wishes. It is clear that the third step depends on the second as the second on the first. And therefore the first should be, as it were, a root of salvation in man's heart. Now you mortal men, and you yourself with all your power of mind, keep doing your best by all the pleasures of the world to pull up this saving root out of your hearts, which, as I said, fills me with horror and wonder. With justice, therefore, you are punished by the loss of this root of salvation and the consequent loss of all the rest. _Petrarch_. I foresee this complaint you bring is likely to be lengthy, and take many words to develop it. Would you mind, therefore, postponing it to another occasion? And that I may travel more surely to your conclusion, may we send a little more time over the premisses? _S. Augustine_. I must concede something to, your slowness of mind; so please stop me at any point where you wish. _Petrarch_. Well, if I must speak for myself, I do not follow your chain of reasoning. _S. Augustine_. What possible obscurity is there in it? What are you in doubt about now? _Petrarch_. I believe there is a multitude of things for which we ardently long, which we seek for with all our energy, but which nevertheless, however diligent we are, we never have obtained and never shall. _S. Augustine_. That may be true of other desires, but in regard to that we have now under discussion the case is wholly different. _Petrarch._ What makes you say that? _S. Augustine._ Because every man who desires to be delivered from his misery, provided only he desires sincerely and with all his heart, cannot fail to obtain that which he desires. _Petrarch_. O father, what is this I hear? There are few men indeed who do not feel they lack many things and who would not confess they were so far unhappy. Every one who questions his own heart will acknowledge it is so. By natural consequence if the fulness of blessing makes man happy, all things he lacks will so far make him unhappy. This burden of unhappiness all men would fain lay down, as every one is aware; but every one is aware also that very few have been able. How many there are who have felt the crushing weight of grief, through bodily disease, or the loss of those they loved, or imprisonment, or exile, or hard poverty, or other misfortunes it would take too long to tell over; and yet they who suffer these things have only too often to lament that it is not permitted them, as you suggest, to be set free. To me, then, it seems quite beyond dispute that a multitude of men are unhappy by compulsion and in spite of themselves. _S. Augustine_. I must take you a long way back, and as one does with the very young whose wits are slight and slow, I must ask you to follow out the thread of my discourse from its very simplest elements. I thought your mind was more advanced, and I had no idea you still needed lessons so childish. Ah, if only you had kept in mind those true and saving maxims of the wise which you have so often read and re-read with me; if, I must take leave to say, you had but wrought for yourself instead of others; if you had but applied your study of so many volumes to the ruling of your own conduct, instead of to vanity and gaining the empty praise of men, you would not want to retail such low and absurd follies. _Petrarch._ I know not where you want to take me, but already I am aware of the blush mounting to my brow, and I feel like schoolboys in presence of an angry master. Before they know what they are accused of they think of many offences of which they are guilty, and at the very first word from the master's lips they are filled with confusion. In like case I too am conscious of my ignorance and of many other faults, and though I perceive not the drift of your admonition, yet as I know almost everything bad may be brought against me, I blush even before you have done speaking. So pray state more clearly what is this biting accusation that you have made. _S. Augustine_. I shall have many things to lay to your charge presently. Just now what makes me so indignant is to hear you suppose that any one can become or can be unhappy against his will. _Petrarch_. I might as well spare my blushes. For what more obvious truth than this can possibly be imagined? What man exists so ignorant or so far removed from all contact with the world as not to know that penury, grief, disgrace, illness, death, and other evils too that are reckoned among the greatest, often befall us in spite of ourselves, and never with our own consent? From which it follows that it is easy enough to know and to detest one's own misery, but not to remove it; so that if the two first steps depend on ourselves, the third is nevertheless in Fortune's hand. _S. Augustine._ When I saw you ashamed I was ready to give you pardon, but brazen impudence angers me more than error itself. How is it you have forgotten all those wise precepts of Philosophy, which declare that no man can be made unhappy by those things you rattle off by name? Now if it is Virtue only that makes the happiness of man, which is demonstrated by Cicero and a whole multitude of weighty reasons, it follows of necessity that nothing is opposed to true happiness except what is also opposed to Virtue. This truth you can yourself call to mind even without a word from me, at least unless your wits are very dull. _Petrarch._ I remember it quite well. You would have me bear in mind the precepts of the Stoics, which contradict the opinions of the crowd and are nearer truth than common custom is. _S. Augustine._ You would indeed be of all men the most miserable were you to try to arrive at the truth through the absurdities of the crowd, or to suppose that under the leadership of blind guides you would reach the light. You must avoid the common beaten track and set your aspirations higher; take the way marked by the steps of very few who have gone before, if you would be counted worthy to hear the Poet's word-- "On, brave lad, on! your courage leading you, So only Heaven is scaled."[1] _Petrarch._ Heaven grant I may hear it ere I die! But I pray you to proceed. For I assure you I have by no means become shameless. I do not doubt the Stoics' rules are wiser far than the blunders of the crowd. I await therefore your further counsel. _S. Augustine_. Since we are agreed on this, that no one can become or be unhappy except through his own fault, what need of more words is there? _Petrarch._ Just this need, that I think I have seen very many people, and I am one of them, to whom nothing is more distressful than the inability to break the yoke of their faults, though all their life long they make the greatest efforts so to do. Wherefore, even allowing that the maxim of the Stoics holds good, one may yet admit that many people are very unhappy in spite of themselves, yes, and although they lament it and wish they were not, with their whole heart. _S. Augustine_. We have wandered somewhat from our course, but we are slowly working back to our starting-point. Or have you quite forgotten whence we set out? _Petrarch._ I had begun to lose sight of it, but it is coming back to me now. _S. Augustine._ What I had set out to do with you was to make clear that the first step in avoiding the distresses of this mortal life and raising the soul to higher things is to practise meditation on death and on man's misery; and that the second is to have a vehement desire and purpose to rise. When these two things were present, I promised a comparatively easy ascent to the goal of our desire. Unless haply to you it seems otherwise? _Petrarch_. I should certainly never venture to affirm this, for from my youth upwards I have had the increasing conviction that if in any matter I was inclined to think differently from yourself I was certain to be wrong. _S. Augustine._ We will please waive all compliments. And as I observe you are inclined to admit the truth of my words more out of deference than conviction, pray feel at liberty to say whatever your real judgment suggests. _Petrarch._ I am still afraid to be found differing, but nevertheless I will make use of the liberty you grant. Not to speak of other men, I call to witness Her who has ever been the ruling spirit of my life; you yourself also I call to witness how many times I have pondered over my own misery and over the subject of Death; with what floods of tears I have sought to wash away my stains, so that I can scarce speak of it without weeping; yet hitherto, as you see, all is in vain. This alone leads me to doubt the truth of that proposition you seek to establish, that no man has ever fallen into misery but of his own free will, or remained, miserable except of his own accord; the exact opposite of which I have proved in my own sad experience. _S. Augustine_. That complaint is an old one and seems likely to prove unending. Though I have already several times stated the truth in vain, I shall not cease to maintain it yet. No man can become or can be unhappy unless he so chooses; but as I said at the beginning, there is in men a certain perverse and dangerous inclination to deceive themselves, which is the most deadly thing in life. For if it is true that we rightly fear being taken in by those with whom we live, because our natural habit of trusting them tends to make us unsuspicious, and the pleasantly familiar sound of their voice is apt to put us off our guard,--how much rather ought you to fear the deceptions you practise on yourself, where love, influence, familiarity play so large a part, a case wherein every one esteems himself more than he deserves, loves himself more than he ought, and where Deceiver and Deceived are one and the same person? _Petrarch._ You have said this kind of thing pretty often to-day already. But I do not recollect ever practising such deception on myself; and I hope other people have not deceived me either. _S. Augustine._ Now at this very moment you are notably deceiving yourself when you boast never to have done such a thing at all; and I have a good enough hope of your own wit and talent to make me think that if you pay close attention you will see for yourself that no man can fall into misery of his own will. For on this point our whole discussion rests. I pray you to think well before answering, and give your closest attention, and be jealous for truth more than for disputation, but then tell me what man in the world was ever forced to sin? For the Seers and Wise Men require that sin must be a voluntary action, and so rigid is their definition that if this voluntariness is absent then the sin also is not there. But without sin no man is made unhappy, as you agreed to admit a few minutes ago. _Petrarch._ I perceive that by degrees I am getting away from my proposition and am being compelled to acknowledge that the beginning of my misery did arise from my own will. I feel it is true in myself, and I conjecture the same to be true of others. Now I beg you on your part to acknowledge a certain truth also. _S. Augustine._ What is it you wish me to acknowledge? _Petrarch_. That as it is true no man ever fell involuntarily, so this also is true that countless numbers of those who thus are voluntarily fallen, nevertheless do not voluntarily remain so. I affirm this confidently of my own self. And I believe that I have received this for my punishment, as I would not stand when I might, so now I cannot rise when I would. _S. Augustine._ That is indeed a wise and true view to take. Still as you now confess you were wrong in your first proposition, so I think you should own you are wrong in your second. _Petrarch._ Then you would say there is no distinction between falling and remaining fallen? _S. Augustine._ No, they are indeed different things; that is to say, different in time, but in the nature of the action and in the mind of the person concerned they are one and the same. _Petrarch._ I see in what knots you entangle me. But the wrestler who wins his victory by a trick is not necessarily the stronger man, though he may be the more practised. _S. Augustine._ It is Truth herself in whose presence we are discoursing. To her, plain simplicity is ever dear, and cunning is hateful. That you may see this beyond all doubt I will go forward from this point with all the plainness you can desire. _Petrarch._ You could give me no more welcome news. Tell me, then, as it is a question concerning myself, by what line of reasoning you mean to prove I am unhappy. I do not deny that I am; but I deny that it is with my own consent I remain so. For, on the contrary, I feel this to be most hateful and the very opposite of what I wish. But yet I can do nothing except wish. _S. Augustine._ If only the conditions laid down are observed, I will prove to you that you are misusing words. _Petrarch._ What conditions do you mean, and how would you have me use words differently? _S. Augustine._ Our conditions were to lay aside all juggling with terms and to seek truth in all plain simplicity, and the words I would have you use are these: instead of saying you _can_not, you ought to say you _will_ not. _Petrarch._ There will be no end then to our discussion, for that is what I never shall confess. I tell you I know, and you yourself are witness, how often I have wished to and yet could not rise. What floods of tears have I shed, and all to no purpose? _S. Augustine._ O yes, I have witnessed many tears, but very little will. _Petrarch._ Heaven is witness (for indeed I think no man on this earth knows) what I have suffered, and how I have longed earnestly to rise, if only I might. _S. Augustine_. Hush, hush. Heaven and earth will crash in ruin, the stars themselves will fall to hell, and all harmonious Nature be divided against itself, sooner than Truth, who is our Judge, can be deceived. _Petrarch._ And what do you mean by that? _S. Augustine_. I mean that your tears have often stung your conscience but not changed your will. _Petrarch._ I wonder how many times I must tell you that it is just this impossibility of change which I bewail. _S. Augustine._ And I wonder how many times I must reply that it is want of will, not want of power, which is the trouble. And yet I wonder not that now you find yourself involved in these perplexities; in which in time past I too was tossed about, when I was beginning to contemplate entering upon a new way of life.[2] I tore my hair; I beat my brow; my fingers I twisted nervously; I bent double and held my knees; I filled the air of heaven with most bitter sighs; I poured out tears like water on every side: yet nevertheless I remained what I was and no other, until a deep meditation at last showed me the root of all my misery and made it plain before my eyes. And then my will after that became fully changed, and my weakness also was changed in that same moment to power, and by a marvellous and most blessed alteration I was transformed instantly and made another man, another Augustine altogether. The full history of that transformation is known, if I mistake not, to you already in my _Confessions._ _Petrarch._ Yes, in truth I know it well, and never can I forget the story of that health-bringing fig-tree, beneath whose shade the miracle took place.[3] _S. Augustine._ Well indeed may you remember it. And no tree to you should be more dear: no, not the myrtle, nor the ivy, nor the laurel beloved of Apollo and ever afterwards favoured by all the band of Poets, favoured too by you, above all, who alone in your age have been counted worthy to be crowned with its leaves; yet dearer than these should be to you the memory of that fig-tree, for it greets you like some mariner coming into haven after many storms; it holds out to you the path of righteousness, and a sure hope which fadeth not away, that presently the divine Forgiveness shall be yours. _Petrarch_. I would not say one word in contradiction. Go on, I beseech you, with what you have begun. _S. Augustine._ This is what I undertook and will go on with, to prove to you that so far you are like those many others of whom it may be said in the words of Virgil-- "Unchanged their mind while vainly flow their tears."[4] Though I might multiply examples, yet I will rather content myself with this alone, that we might almost reckon as belonging to ourselves, and so all the more likely to come home. _Petrarch_. How wisely you have made choice; for indeed it were useless to add more, and no other could be so deeply graven in my heart. Great as the gulf which parts us may be--I mean between you in your safe haven and me in peril of shipwreck, you in felicity, me in distress--still amid my winds and tempests I can recognise from time to time the traces of, your own storm-tossed passions. So that as often as I read the book of your _Confessions_, and am made partaker of your conflict between two contrary emotions, between hope and fear, (and weep as I read), I seem to be hearing the story of my own self, the story not of another's wandering, but of my own. Therefore, since now I have put away every inclination to mere dispute, go on, I beg, as you desire. For all my heart wishes now is not to hinder but only to follow where you lead. _S. Augustine_. I make no such demand on you as that. For though a certain very wise man[5] has laid it down that "Through overmuch contention truth is lost," yet often it happens that a well-ordered discussion leads to truth. It is not then expedient to accept everything advanced, which is the token of a slack and sleepy mind, any more than it is expedient to set oneself to oppose a plain and open truth, which indicates only the mind of one who likes fighting for fighting's sake. _Petrarch_. I understand and agree with you and will act on your advice. Now, pray go on. _S. Augustine_. You admit, therefore, that the argument is just and the chain of reasoning valid, when we say that a perfect knowledge of one's misery will beget a perfect desire to be rid of it, if only the power to be rid may follow the desire. _Petrarch_. I have professed that I will believe you in everything. _S. Augustine._ I feel there is still something you would like to urge, even now. Do, please, confess it, no matter what it may be. _Petrarch._ Nothing, only that I am much amazed I to think I should never yet have wished what I have believed I always wished. _S. Augustine._ You still stick at that point. O well, to put an end to this kind of talk I will agree that you have wished sometimes. _Petrarch._ What then? _S. Augustine._ Do you not remember the phrase of Ovid-- "To wish for what you want is not enough; With ardent longing you must strive for it."[6] _Petrarch._ I understand, but thought that was just what I had been doing. _S. Augustine._ You were mistaken. _Petrarch._ Well, I will believe so. _S. Augustine._ To make your belief certain, examine your own conscience. Conscience is the best judge of virtue. It is a guide, true and unerring, that weighs every thought and deed. It will tell you that you have never longed for spiritual health as you ought, but that, considering what great dangers beset you, your wishes were but feeble and ineffective. _Petrarch._ I have been examining my conscience, as you suggested. _S. Augustine._ What do you find? _Petrarch._ That what you say is true. _S. Augustine._ We have made a little progress, if you are beginning to be awake. It will soon be better with you now you acknowledge it was not well hitherto. _Petrarch._ If it is enough to acknowledge, I hope to be able to be not only well but quite well, for never have I understood more clearly that my wishes for liberty and for an end to my misery have been too lukewarm. But can it be enough to desire only? _S. Augustine._ Why do you ask? _Petrarch._ I mean, to desire without doing anything. _S. Augustine._ What you propose is an impossibility. No one desires ardently and goes to sleep. _Petrarch._ Of what use is desire, then? _S. Augustine._ Doubtless the path leads through many difficulties, but the desire of virtue is itself a great part of virtue. _Petrarch._ There you give me ground for good hope. _S. Augustine._ All my discourse is just to teach you how to hope and to fear. _Petrarch._ Why to fear? _S. Augustine._ Then tell me why to hope? _Petrarch._ Because whereas so far I have striven, and with much tribulation, merely not to become worse, you now open a way to me whereby I may become better and better, even to perfection. _S. Augustine._ But maybe you do not think how toilsome that way is. _Petrarch._ Have you some now terror in store for me? _S. Augustine._ To desire is but one word, but how many things go to make it up! _Petrarch._ Your words make me tremble. _S. Augustine._ Not to mention the positive elements in desire, it involves the destruction of many other objects. _Petrarch._ I do not quite take in your meaning. _S. Augustine._ The desire of all good cannot exist without thrusting out every lower wish. You know how many different objects one longs for in life. All these you must first learn to count as nothing before you can rise to the desire for the chief good; which a man loves less when along with it he loves something else that does not minister to it. _Petrarch_. I recognise the thought. _S. Augustine_. How many men are there who have extinguished all their passions, or, not to speak of extinguishing, tell me how many are there who have subdued their spirit to the control of Reason, and will dare to say, "I have no more in common with my body; all that once seemed so pleasing to me is become poor in my sight. I aspire now to joys of nobler nature"? _Petrarch_. Such men are rare indeed. And now I understand what those difficulties are with which you threatened me. _S. Augustine_. When all these passions are extinguished, then, and not till then, will desire be full and free. For when the soul is uplifted on one side to heaven by its own nobility, and on the other dragged down to earth by the weight of the flesh and the seductions of the world, so that it both desires to rise and also to sink at one and the same time, then, drawn contrary ways, you find you arrive nowhither. _Petrarch._ What, then, would you say a man must do for his soul to break the fetters of the world, and mount up perfect and entire to the realms above? _S. Augustine._ What leads to this goal is, as I said in the first instance, the practice of meditation on death and the perpetual recollection of our mortal nature. _Petrarch._ Unless I am deceived, there is no man alive who is more often revolving this thought in his heart than I. _S. Augustine._ Ah, here is another delusion, a fresh obstacle in your way! _Petrarch._ What! Do you mean to say I am once more lying? _Augustine._ I would sooner hear you use more civil language. _Petrarch._ But to say the same thing? _S. Augustine._ Yes, to say nothing else. _Petrarch._ So then you mean I care nothing at all about death? _S. Augustine._ To tell the truth you think very seldom of it, and in so feeble a way that your thought never touches the root of your trouble. _Petrarch._ I supposed just the opposite. _S. Augustine._ I am not concerned with what you suppose, but with what you ought to suppose. _Petrarch._ Well, I may tell you that in spite of that I will suppose it no more, if you prove to me that my supposition was a false one. _S. Augustine._ That I will do easily enough, provided you are willing to admit the truth in good faith. For this end I will call in a witness who is not far away. _Petrarch_. And who may that be, pray? _S. Augustine._ Your conscience. _Petrarch_. She testifies just the contrary. _S. Augustine._ When you make an obscure, confused demand no witness can give precise or clear answers. _Petrarch._ What has that to do with the subject, I would like to know? _S. Augustine._ Much, every way. To see dearly, listen well. No man is so senseless (unless he be altogether out of his mind) as never once to remember his own weak nature, or who, if asked the question whether he were mortal and dwelt in a frail body, would not answer that he was. The pains of the body, the onsets of fever, attest the fact; and whom has the favour of Heaven made exempt? Moreover, your friends are carried out to their burial before your eyes; and this fills the soul with dread. When one goes to the graveside of some friend of one's own age one is forced to tremble at another's fall and to begin feeling uneasy for oneself; just as when you see your neighbour's roof on fire, you cannot fool quite happy for your own, because, as Horace puts it-- "On your own head you see the stroke will fall."[7] The impression will be more strong in case you see some sudden death carry off one younger, more vigorous, finer looking than yourself. In such an event a man will say, "This one seemed to live secure, and yet he is snatched off. His youth, his beauty, his strength have brought him no help. What God or what magician has promised me any surer warrant of security? Verily, I too am mortal." When the like fate befalls kings and rulers of the earth, people of great might and such as are regarded with awe, those who see it are struck with more dread, are more shaken with alarm; they are amazed when they behold a sudden terror, or perchance hours of intense agony seize on one who was wont to strike terror into others. From what other cause proceed the doings of people who seem beside themselves upon the death of men in highest place, such as, to take an instance from history, the many things of this kind that, as you have related, were done at the funeral of Julius Cæsar? A public spectacle like this strikes the attention and touches the heart of mortal men; and what then they see in the case of another is brought home as pertaining also to themselves. Beside all these, are there not the rage of savage boasts, and of men, and the furious madness of war? Are there not the falls of those great buildings which, as some one neatly says, are first the safeguards, then the sepulchres of men? Are there not malignant motions of the air beneath some evil star and pestilential sky? And so many perils on sea and land that, look wheresoever you will, you cannot turn your gaze anywhither but you will meet the visible image and memento of your own mortality. _Petrarch_. I beg your pardon, but I cannot wait any longer, for, as for having my reason fortified, I do not think any more powerful aid can be brought than the many arguments you have adduced. As I listened I wondered what end you were aiming at, and when your discourse would finish. _S. Augustine._ As a matter of fact, you have interrupted me, and it has not yet reached its end. However, here is the conclusion--although a host of little pin-pricks play upon the surface of your mind, nothing yet has penetrated the centre. The miserable heart is hardened by long habit, and becomes like some indurated stone; impervious to warnings, however salutary, you will find few people considering with any seriousness the fact that they will die. _Petrarch_. Then few people are aware of the very definition of man, which nevertheless is so hackneyed in the schools, that it ought not merely to weary the ears of those who hear it, but is now long since scrawled upon the walls and pillars of every room. This prattling of the Dialecticians will never come to an end; it throws up summaries and definitions like bubbles, matter indeed for endless controversies, but for the most part they know nothing of the real truth of the things they talk about. So, if you ask one of this set of men for a definition of a man or of anything else, they have their answer quite pat, as the saying goes; if you press him further, he will lie low, or if by sheer practice in arguing he has acquired a certain boldness and power of speech, the very tone of the man will tell you he possesses no real knowledge of the thing he sets out to define. The best way of dealing with this brood, with their studied air of carelessness and empty curiosity, is to launch at their head some such invective as this, "You wretched creatures, why this everlasting labour for nothing; this expense of wit on silly subtleties? Why in total oblivion of the real basis of things will you grow old simply conversant with words, and with whitening hair and wrinkled brow, spend all your time in babyish babble? Heaven grant that your foolishness hurt no one but yourselves, and do as little harm as possible to the excellent minds and capacities of the young." _S. Augustine._ I agree that nothing half severe enough can be said of this monstrous perversion of learning. But let me remind you that your zeal of denunciation has so carried you away that you have omitted to finish your definition of man. _Petrarch_. I thought I had explained sufficiently, but I will be more explicit still. Man is an animal, or rather the chief of all animals. The veriest rustic knows that much. Every schoolboy could tell you also, if you asked him, that man is, moreover, a rational animal and that he is mortal. This definition, then, is a matter of common knowledge. _S. Augustine._ No, it is not. Those who are acquainted with it are very few in number. _Petrarch._ How so? _S. Augustine._ When you can find a man so governed by Reason that all his conduct is regulated by her, all his appetites subject to her alone, a man who has so mastered every motion of his spirit by Reason's curb that he knows it is she alone who distinguishes him from the savagery of the brute, and that it is only by submission to her guidance that he deserves the name of man at all; when you have found one so convinced of his own mortality as to have that always before his eyes, always to be ruling himself by it, and holding perishable things in such light esteem that he ever sighs after that life, which Reason always foresaw, wherein mortality shall be cast away; when you have found such a man, then you may say that he has some true and fruitful idea of what the definition of man is. This definition, of which we were speaking, I said it was given to few men to know, and to reflect upon as the nature of the truth requires. _Petrarch._ Hitherto I had believed I was of that number. _S. Augustine_. I have no doubt that when you turn over in your mind the many things you have learned, whether in the school of experience or in your reading of books, the thought of death has several times entered your head. But still it has not sunk down into your heart as deeply as it ought, nor is it lodged there as firmly as it should be. _Petrarch_. What do you call sinking down into my heart? Though I think I understand, I would like you to explain more clearly. _S. Augustine._ This is what I mean. Every one knows, and the greatest philosophers are of the same opinion, that of all tremendous realities Death is the most tremendous. So true is this, that from ever of old its very name is terrible and dreadful to hear. Yet though so it is, it will not do that we hear that name but lightly, or allow the remembrance of it to slip quickly from our mind. No, we must take time to realise it. We must meditate with attention thereon. We must picture to ourselves the effect of death on each several part of our bodily frame, the cold extremities, the breast in the sweat of fever, the side throbbing with pain, the vital spirits running slower and slower as death draws near, the eyes sunken and weeping, every look filled with tears, the forehead pale and drawn, the cheeks hanging and hollow, the teeth staring and discoloured, the nostrils shrunk and sharpened, the lips foaming, the tongue foul and motionless, the palate parched and dry, the languid head and panting breast, the hoarse murmur and sorrowful sigh, the evil smell of the whole body, the horror of seeing the face utterly unlike itself--all these things will come to mind and, so to speak, be ready to one's hand, if one recalls what one has seen in any close observation of some deathbed where it has fallen to our lot to attend. For things seen cling closer to our remembrance than things heard. And, moreover, it is not without a profound instinct of wisdom that in certain Religious Orders, of the stricter kind, the custom has survived, even down to our own time (though I do not think it makes for good character altogether), of allowing the members to watch the bodies of the dead being washed and put in shrouds for their burial; while the stern professors of the Rule stand by, in order that this sad and pitiful spectacle, thrust forsooth beneath their very eyes, may admonish their remembrance continually, and affright the minds of those who survive from every hope of this transitory world. This, then, is what I meant by sinking down deeply into the soul. Perchance you never name the name of Death, that so you may fall in with the custom of the time, although nothing is more certain than the fact or more uncertain than the hour. Yet in daily converse you must often speak of things connected with it, only they soon fly out of mind and leave no trace. _Petrarch._ I follow your counsel the more readily because now I recognise much in your words that I have myself revolved in my own breast. But please, if you think it well, will you impress some mark on my memory which will act as a warning to me and prevent me from this time henceforth from telling lies to myself and fondling my own mistakes. For this, it seems to me, is what turns men from the right way, that they dream they have already reached the goal, and make therefore no effort any more. _S. Augustine._ I like to hear you speak so. Your words are those of a man alert and watchful, who will not bear to be idle and trust to chance. So here is a test which will never play you false: every time you meditate on death without the least sign of motion, know that you have meditated in vain, as about any ordinary topic. But if in the act of meditation you find yourself suddenly grow stiff, if you tremble, turn pale, and feel as if already you endured its pains; if at the same time you seem to yourself as if you were leaving your body behind, and were forced to render up your account before the bar of eternal judgment, of all the words and deeds of your past life, nothing omitted or passed over; that nothing any more is to be hoped for from good looks or worldly position, nothing from eloquence, or riches, or power: if you realise that this Judge takes no bribe and that all things are naked and open in His sight; that death itself will not turn aside for any plea; that it is not the end of sufferings, but only a passage: if you picture to yourself a thousand forms of punishment and pain, the noise and wailing of Hell, the sulphurous rivers, the thick darkness, and avenging Furies,--in a word, the fierce malignity everywhere of that dark abode; and, what is the climax of its horror, that the misery knows no end, and despair thereof itself is everlasting, since the time of God's mercy is passed by; if, I say, all these things rise up before your eyes at once, not as fictions but as truth, not as being possible, but inevitable, and of a surety bound to come, yes, and even now at the door; and if you think on these things, not lightly, nor with desperation, but full of hope in God, and that His strong right hand is able and ready to pluck you out of so great calamities; if you but show yourself willing to be healed and wishful to be raised up; if you cleave to your purpose and persist in your endeavour, then you may be assured you have not meditated in vain. _Petrarch_. I will not deny you have terrified me greatly by putting so huge a mass of suffering before my eyes. But may God give me such plenteous mercy as that I may steep my thought in meditations like these; not only day by day, but more especially at night, when the mind, with all its daily interests laid aside, relaxes and is wont to return upon itself. When I lay my body down, as those who die, and my shrinking mind imagines the hour itself with all its horrors is at hand: so intently do I conceive it all, as though I were in the very agony of dying, that I shall seem to be already in the place of torment, beholding what you speak of and every kind of anguish. And so stricken shall I be at that sight, so terrified and affrighted, that I shall rise up (I know it) before my horrified household and cry aloud, "What am I doing? What suffering is this? For what miserable destruction is Fate keeping me alive? Jesu, by Thy mercy, "Thou whom none yet hath conquered, succour me,"[8] "Give Thy right hand to me in misery Through the dark waves, O bear me up with Thee, That dying I may rest and be in peace."[9] Many other things shall I say to myself, as one in a fever whose mind every chance impression carries hither and thither in his fear; and then I go talking strangely to my friends, weeping and making them weep, and then presently after this we shall return to what we were before. And since these things are so, what is it, I ask, which holds me back? What little hidden obstacle is there which makes it come to pass that hitherto all these meditations avail nothing but to bring me troubles and terrors: and I continue the same man that I have ever been; the same, it may be, as men to whom no reflections like these have ever come? Yet am I more miserable than they, for they, whatever may be their latter end, enjoy at least the pleasures of the present time; but as for me, I know not either what my end will be, and I taste no pleasure that is not poisoned with these embittering thoughts. _S. Augustine._ Vex not yourself, I pray you, when you ought rather to rejoice. The more the sinner feels pleasure in his sin, the more unhappy should we think him and the more in need of pity. _Petrarch._ I suppose you mean that a man whose pleasures are uninterrupted comes to forget himself, and is never led back into virtue's path; but that he who amid his carnal delights is sometime visited with adversity will come to the recollection of his true condition just in proportion as he finds fickle and wayward Pleasure desert him. If both kind of life had one and the same end, I do not see why he should not be counted the happier who enjoys the present time and puts off affliction to another day, rather than the man who neither enjoys the present nor looks for any joy hereafter; unless you are perhaps moved by this consideration that in the end the laughter of the former will be changed to more bitter tears? _S. Augustine._ Yes, much more bitter. For I have often noticed that if a man throws away the rein of reason altogether (and in the most excessive pleasure of all this is commonly the case), his fall is more dangerous than that of the man who may come rushing down from the same height, but keeps still some hold, though feebly, on the reins. But before all else I attach importance to what you said before, that in the case of the one there is some hope of his conversion, but in that of the other nothing remains but despair. _Petrarch._ Yes, that is my view also; in the meanwhile, however, have you not forgotten my first question? _S. Augustine._ What was it? _Petrarch_. Concerning what keeps me back. I asked you why I am the only one to whom the profound meditation on Death, that you said was so full of benefit, brings no good whatever. _S. Augustine._ In the first place it is perhaps because you look on death as something remote, whereas when one thinks how very short life is and how many divers kinds of accidents befall it, you ought not to think death is far away. "What deludes almost all of us," as Cicero says, "is that we regard death from afar off." Some correctors--I would prefer to call them corruptors--of the text have wished to change the reading by inserting a negative before the verb, and have maintained that he ought to have said, "We do NOT regard death from afar off." For the rest, there is no one in his senses who does not see death one way or another, and in reality Cicero's word _prospicere_ means to see from afar. The one thing that makes so many people suffer illusion in their ideas on death is that they are wont to forecast for their own life some limit, which is indeed possible according to nature, but at which, nevertheless, very few arrive. Hardly any one, in fact, dies of whom the poet's line might not be quoted-- "Grey hairs and length of years he for himself Expected."[10] The fault may touch you nearly, for your age, your vigorous constitution and temperate way of life perchance have fostered a like hope in your heart. _Petrarch._ Please do not suspect that of me. God keep me from such madness-- "As in that monster false to put my trust!"[11] If I may borrow the words Virgil puts in the mouth of his famous pilot Palinurus. For I too am cast upon a wide ocean, cruel and full of storms. I sail across its angry waves and struggle with the wind; and the little boat I steer shivers and seems to be letting in the water in every part. I know well she cannot hold out for long, and I see I have no hope at all of safety unless the Almighty Pity put forth His strong right hand and guide my vessel rightly ere it be too late, and bring me to shore-- "So that I who have lived upon the waters may die in port."[12] Of this I think I should have a good hope, because it has never been my lot to put any confidence in those riches and power on which I see so many of my contemporaries, yes, and older men as well, relying. For what folly would it be to pass all one's life in toil and poverty and care, heaping up riches, just to die at last and have no time to enjoy them? So, then, in truth, I regard this dark shadow of death, not as something afar off, but very nigh and ever at the doors. And I have not forgotten a certain little verse I wrote in my youth at the end of a letter to a friend-- "E'en while we speak, along a thousand ways With stealthy steps up to our very door Death creeps." If I could say words like these at that time of life, what shall I say now that I am more advanced in age and more experienced in what life is? For everything I see or hear or feel or think seems, unless I deceive myself, connected in my mind with that last end. And yet the question still remains, what is it that holds me back? _S. Augustine._ Give humble thanks to God who so regards you and guides you with his merciful rein, and so pricks you with his spur. It is not surely possible, that he who thus has the thought of death before him day by day should ever be doomed to death eternal. But since you feel, and rightly so, that something still is wanting, I will try and unfold to you what it is, and, if God so please, remove it also; to the end that you may arise and with free, uplifted mind shake off that old bondage that so long has kept you down. _Petrarch_. O would that indeed you may prove able so to help me, and I on my part be capable of receiving such a boon! _S. Augustine._ It shall be yours if you wish. The thing is not impossible. But in the nature of man's actions two things are required, and if either be wanting, the action will come to nought. There must be will, and that will must be so strong and earnest that it can deserve the name of purpose. _Petrarch._ So let it be. _S. Augustine_. Do you know what stands in the way of your purpose of heart? _Petrarch._ That is what I want to know; what for so long I have earnestly desired to understand. _S. Augustine_. Then listen. It was from Heaven your soul came forth: never will I assert a lower origin than that. But in its contact with the flesh, wherein it is imprisoned, it has lost much of its first splendour. Have no doubt of this in your mind. And not only is it so, but by reason of the length of time it has in a manner fallen asleep; and, if one may so express it, forgotten its own beginning and its heavenly Creator. And these passions that are born in the soul through its connection with the body, and that forgetfulness of its nobler nature, seem to me to have been touched by Virgil with pen almost inspired when he writes-- "The souls of men still shine with heavenly fire, That tells from whence they come, save that the flesh And limbs of earth breed dullness, hence spring fears, Desire, and grief and pleasures of the world, And so, in darkness prisoned, they no more Look upward to heaven's face."[13] Do you not in the poet's words discern that monster with four heads so deadly to the nature of man? _Petrarch_. I discern very clearly the fourfold passion of our nature, which, first of all, we divide in two as it has respect to past and future, and then subdivide again in respect of good and evil. And so, by these four winds distraught, the rest and quietness of man's soul is perished and gone. _S. Augustine._ You discern rightly, and the words of the Apostle are fulfilled in us, which say, "The corruptible body presseth down the soul, and the earthly tabernacle weigheth down the mind that museth upon many things."[14] Of a truth the countless forms and images of things visible, that one by one are brought into the soul by the senses of the body, gather there in the inner centre in a mass, and the soul, not being akin to these or capable of learning them, they weigh it down and overwhelm it with their contrariety. Hence that plague of too many impressions tears apart and wounds the thinking faculty of the soul, and with its fatal, distracting complexity bars the way of clear meditation, whereby it would mount up to the threshold of the One Chief Good. _Petrarch_. You have spoken admirably of that plague in many places, and especially in your book on _True Religion_ (with which it is, indeed, quite incompatible). It was but the other day that I lighted on that work of yours in one of my digressions from the study of philosophy and poetry, and it was with very great eagerness that I began to peruse it. Indeed, I was like a man setting out from his own country to see the world, and coming to the gate of some famous city quite new to him, where, charmed by the novelty of all around, he stops now here, now there, and looks intently on all that meets his gaze. _S. Augustine._ And yet in that book, allowing for a difference of phraseology such as becomes a teacher of catholic truth, you will find a large part of its doctrine is drawn from philosophers, more especially from those of the Platonist and Socratic school. And, to keep nothing from you, I may say that what especially moved me to undertake that work was a word of your favourite Cicero. God blessed that work of mine so that from a few seeds there came an abundant harvest. But let us come back to the matter in hand. _Petrarch._ As you wish; but, O best of Fathers, do not hide from me what that word was which gave you the starting-point of so excellent a work. _S. Augustine._ It was the passage where in a certain book Cicero says, by way of expressing his detestation of the errors of his time: "They could look at nothing with their mind, but judged everything by the sight of their eyes; yet a man of any greatness of understanding is known by his detaching his thought from objects of sense, and his meditations from the ordinary track in which others move."[15] This, then, I took as my foundation, and built upon it the work which you say has given you pleasure. _Petrarch._ I remember the place; it is in the _Tusculan Orations._ I have been delighted to notice what a habit it is of yours to quote those words here and elsewhere in your works; and they deserve it, for they are words that seem to blend in one phrase truth and dignity and grace. Now, since it seems good to you, pray return to our subject. _S. Augustine._ This, then, is that plague that has hurt you, this is what will quickly drive you to destruction, unless you take care. Overwhelmed with too many divers impressions made on it, and everlastingly fighting with its own cares, your weak spirit is crushed so that it has not strength to judge what it should first attack or to discern what to cherish, what to destroy, what to repel; all its strength and what time the niggard hand of Fate allows are not sufficient for so many demands. So it suffers that same evil which befalls those who sow too many seeds in one small space of ground. As they spring up they choke each other. So in your overcrowded mind what there is sown can make no root and bear no fruit. With no considered plan, you are tossed now here now there in strange fluctuation, and can never put your whole strength to anything. Hence it happens that whenever the generous mind approaches (if it is allowed) the contemplation of death, or some other meditation that might help it in the path of life, and penetrates by its own acumen to the depths of its own nature, it is unable to stand there, and, driven by hosts of various cares, it starts back. And then the work, that promised so well and seemed so good, flags and grows unsteady; and there comes to pass that inward discord of which we have said so much, and that worrying torment of a mind angry with itself; when it loathes its own defilements, yet cleanses them not away; sees the crooked paths, yet does not forsake them; dreads the impending danger, yet stirs not a step to avoid it. _Petrarch._ Ah, woe is me! Now you have probed my wound to the quick. There is the seat of my pain, from there I fear my death will come. _S. Augustine._ It is well. You are awakening to life. But as we have now prolonged our discussion enough for to-day, let us, if you will, defer the rest until to-morrow, and let us take a breathing space in silence. _Petrarch._ Yes, I am tired somewhat, and most gladly shall I welcome quiet and rest. [1] _Æneid,_ ix. 641. [2] _S. Augustine Confessions_, viii. 8. [3] _S. Augustine Confessions,_ viii. 12. [4] _Æneid_, iv. 449. [5] Publius Cyrus. [6] Ovid, _Pontic._, III i. 35. [7] Horace, _Epist.,_ I. 18, 83. [8] _Æneid,_ vi 365. [9] _Ibid.,_ vi 370. [10] _Æneid,_ x. 649. [11] _Ibid.,_ v. 849. [12] Seneca, _Letters,_ xix. [13] _Æneid,_ vi. 730-34. [14] Book of wisdom, ix. 15 [15] _Tusculan Orations,_ i. 16. DIALOGUE THE SECOND S. AUGUSTINE--PETRARCH _S. Augustine_. Well, have we rested long enough? _Petrarch._ Certainly, if it so please you. _S. Augustine._ Let me hear if you feel now in good heart and confidence. For when a man has been ill, a hopeful spirit in him is no small sign of returning health. _Petrarch._ What hope I have is no whit in myself: God is my hope. _S. Augustine._ It is wisely spoken. And now I return to our theme. Many things are against you, many temptations assail, but you yourself still seem ignorant both of their numbers and their strength. And what in warfare generally happens to one who, from a distance, sees some closely marshalled battalion, has happened to you. Such a man is often deceived into thinking his foes fewer in number than they are. But when they draw nearer, when they have deployed their serried ranks before his eyes in all their martial pomp, then his fears soon increase, and he repents him of his boldness. So likewise will it be with you when I shall display before your eyes, on this side and on that, all the evils that are pressing upon you and hemming you in from every quarter. You will be ashamed of your own boldness, you will be sorry you were so light-hearted, and begin to bewail that in its sore straits your soul has been unable to break through the wedged phalanx of your foes. You will discover presently how many foolish fancies of too easy victory you have let come into your mind, excluding that wholesome dread to which I am endeavouring to bring you. _Petrarch_. Indeed, you make me horribly afraid. That my danger was great I have always been aware; and now, in spite of this, you tell me I have very much under-estimated it, and indeed that, compared with what they should be, my fears have been nothing at all. What hope have I then left? _S. Augustine_. It is never time to despair. Be sure of that. Despair is the very last and worst of evils, and therefore I would have you make it a first principle to put it away wholly. _Petrarch_. I knew the truth of the maxim, but in my dread forgot it at the moment. _S. Augustine_. Now give me all your attention, look and listen while I recall words of your favourite seer. "Behold what foemen gather round your walls And at your gates make sharp their gleaming sword To murder you and yours."[1] Look what snares the world spreads for you; what vanities it dangles before your eyes; what vain cares it has to weigh you down. To begin at the beginning, consider what made those most noble spirits among all creatures fall into the abyss of ruin; and take heed lest in like manner you also fall after them. All your forethought, all your care will be needed to save you from this danger. Think how many temptations urge your mind to perilous and soaring flights. They make you dream of nobleness and forget your frailty; they choke your faculties with fumes of self-esteem, until you think of nothing else; they lead you to wax so proud and confident in your own strength that at length you hate your Creator. So you live for self-pleasing and imagine that great things are what you deserve. Whereas if you had a truer remembrance, great blessings ought to make you not proud but humble, when you realise that they came to you for no merit of your own. What need for me to speak of the Eternal Lord God when even to earthly lords men feel their minds more humbly bound if they experience any bounty of theirs which they are conscious of being undeserved. Do we not see them striving to merit afterwards what they feel they should have earned before? Now let your mind realise, as it easily can, on what paltry grounds your pride is set up. You trust in your intellect; you boast of what eloquence much reading has given you; you take pleasure in the beauty of your mortal body. Yet do you not feel that in many things your intellect fails you? Are there not many things in which you cannot rival the skill of the humblest of mankind? Nay, might I not go further and, without mentioning mankind, may I not say that with all your labour and study you will find yourself no match in skill for some of the meanest and smallest of God's creatures? Will you boast, then, of intellect after that? And as for reading, what has it profited you? Of the multitude of things you have perused how many have remained in your mind? How many have struck root and borne fruit in due season? Search well your heart and you will find that the whole of what you know is but like a little shrunken stream dried by the summer heat compared to the mighty ocean. And of what relevance is it to know a multitude of things? Suppose you shall have learned all the circuits of the heavens and the earth, the spaces of the sea, the courses of the stars, the virtues of herbs and stones, the secrets of nature, and then be ignorant of yourself? Of what profit is it? If by the help of Scripture you shall have discovered the right and upward path, what use is it if wrath and passion make you swerve aside into the crooked, downward way? Supposing you shall have learned by heart the deeds of illustrious men of all the ages, of what profit will it be if you yourself day by day care not what you do? What need for me to speak of eloquence? Will not you yourself readily confess how often the putting any confidence in this has proved vain? And, moreover, what boots it that others shall approve what you have said if in the court of your own conscience it stands condemned? For though the applause of those who hear you may seem to yield a certain fruit which is not to be despised, yet of what worth is it after all if in his heart the speaker himself is not able to applaud? How petty is the pleasure that comes from the plaudits of the multitude! And how can a man soothe and flatter others unless he first soothe and flatter himself? Therefore you will easily understand how often you are deluded by that glory you hope for from your eloquence, and how your pride therein rests but upon a foundation of wind. For what can be more childish, nay, might I not say more insane, than to waste time and trouble over matters where all the things themselves are worthless and the words about them vain? What worse folly than to go on blind to one's real defects, and be infatuated with words and the pleasure of hearing one's own voice, like those little birds they tell of who are so ravished with the sweetness of their own song that they sing themselves to death? And furthermore, in the common affairs of every-day life does it not often happen to you to find yourself put to the blush to discover that in the use of words you are no match even for some whom you think are very inferior men? Consider also how in Nature there are many things for which names are altogether wanting, and many more to which names have indeed been given, but to express the beauty of them--as you know by experience--words are altogether inadequate. How often have I heard you lament, how often seen you dumb and dissatisfied, because neither your tongue nor your pen could sufficiently utter ideas, which nevertheless to your reflecting mind were very clear and intelligible? What, then, is this Eloquence, so limited and so weak, which is neither able to compass and bring within its scope all the things that it would, nor yet to hold fast even those things that it has compassed? The Greeks reproach you, and you in turn the Greeks, with having a paucity of words. Seneca, it is true, accounts their vocabulary the richer, but Cicero at the beginning of his treatise _On the Distinctions of Good and Evil_ makes the following declaration, "I cannot enough marvel whence should arise that insolent scorn of our national literature. Though this is not the place to discuss it, yet I will express my conviction, which I have often maintained, not only that the Latin tongue is not poor, as it is the fashion to assert, but that it is, in fact, richer than the Greek;"[2] and as he frequently repeats elsewhere the same opinion, so, especially in the _Tusculan Orations_, he exclaims, "Thou Greek that countest thyself rich in words, how poor art thou in phrases."[3] This is the saying, mark you, of one who know quite well that he was the prince of Latin oratory, and had already shown that he was not afraid to challenge Greece for the palm of literary glory. Let me add that Seneca, so notable an admirer of the Greek tongue, says in his _Declamations_, "All that Roman eloquence can bring forward to rival or excel the pride of Greece is connected with the name of Cicero."[4] A magnificent tribute, but unquestionably true! There is, then, as you see, on the subject of the primacy in Eloquence a very great controversy, not only between you and the Greeks, but among our own most learned writers themselves. There are in our camp those who hold for the Greeks, and it may be among them there are some who hold for us, if at least we may judge from what is reported of the illustrious philosopher Plutarch. In a word, Seneca, who is ours, while doing all justice to Cicero, gives his final verdict for the Greeks, notwithstanding that Cicero is of the contrary opinion. As to my own opinion on the question in debate, I consider that both parties to the controversy have some truth on their side when they accuse both Latin and Greek of poverty of words: and if this judgment be correct in regard to two such famous languages, what hope is there for any other? Bethink you therefore what sort of confidence you can have in your own simple powers when the whole resources of that people of which you are but a little part are adjudged poor, and how ashamed you should be to have spent so much time in pursuing something which cannot be attained, and which, if it could be, would prove after all but vanity itself. I will pass on to other points. Are you perhaps inclined to plume yourself on your physical advantages? But think what a thread they hang upon! What is it you are most pleased with in this way? Is it your good health and strength? But truly nothing is more frail. It is proved by the fatigue you suffer from even little things. The various maladies to which the body is liable; the stings of insects; a slight draught of air, and a thousand other such small vexations all tell the same tale. Will you perchance be taken in by your own good-looking face, and when you behold in the glass your smooth complexion and comely features are you minded to be smitten, entranced, charmed? The story of Narcissus has no warning for you, and, content with gazing only at the outward envelope of the body, you consider not that the eyes of the mind tell you how vile and plain it is within. Moreover, if you had no other warning, the stormy course of life itself, which every day robs you of something, ought to show you how transient and perishing that flower of beauty is. And if, perhaps, which you will hardly dare affirm, you fancy yourself invincible by age, by illness, and whatever else may change the grace of bodily form, you have at least not forgotten that Last Enemy which destroys all, and you will do well to engrave in your inmost heart and mind this word of the satirist-- "'Tis death alone compels us all to see What little things we are."[5] Here, unless I am mistaken, are the causes that inflate your mind with pride, forbid you to recognise your low estate, and keep you from the recollection of death. But others there still are that I now propose to pass in review. _Petrarch._ Stop a little, I beg you, lest, overwhelmed by the weight of so many reproaches, I have no strength or spirit to reply. _S. Augustine._ By all means say on. Gladly will I hold my peace. _Petrarch._ You have astonished me not a little by casting in my teeth a multitude of things of which I am perfectly sure they have never entered my head at all. You allege that I trusted in my own intelligence. But surely the one sign I have given of possessing some little intelligence is that never have I counted on that faculty at all. Shall I pride myself on much reading of books, which with a little wisdom has brought me a thousand anxieties? How can you say I have sought the glory of eloquence, I, who, as you yourself acknowledged a moment ago, am wont above all things to complain that speech is inadequate to my thoughts? Unless you wish to try and prove the contrary, I may say that you know I am always conscious of my own littleness, and that if by chance I have ever thought myself to be anything, such a thought has come but rarely and then only from seeing the ignorance of other men; for, as I often remark, we are reduced to acknowledge, according to Cicero's celebrated phrase, that "what powers we may possess come rather from the feebleness of others than from any merit in ourselves." But even were I endowed as richly as you imagine with those advantages of which you speak, what is there so magnificent about them that I should be vain? I am surely not so forgetful of myself nor so feather-brained as to let myself trouble about cares of that sort. For what use in the world are intellect, knowledge, eloquence, if they can bring no healing to a soul diseased? I remember having given expression already in one of my letters to my sad sense of this truth. As to what you remarked with an air of quasi gravity about my physical advantages, I must confess it makes me smile. That I of all men should be thought to have plumed myself on my mortal and perishing body, when every day of my life I feel in it the ravages of time at work! Heaven save me from such folly! I will not deny that in the days of my youth I took some care to trim my head and to adorn my face; but the taste for that kind of thing has gone with my early years, and I recognise now the truth of that saying of the Emperor Domitian who, writing of himself in a letter to a lady friend, and complaining of the too swift decay of the goodliness of man, said, "Know you that nothing is so sweet, but nothing also is so fleeting, as the beauty of the body."[6] _S. Augustine._ It would be an easy task to refute all you have advanced, but I prefer that your own conscience should send the shaft of shame to your heart rather than words of mine. I will not labour the point or draw the truth from you by torture; but as those who take revenge magnanimously, I will merely prefer a simple request that you will continue to avoid what you profess you have hitherto avoided. If by any chance the fashion of your countenance should at any time have stirred the least motion of conceit, then I beg you to reflect what soon those bodily members must become, though now they please your eye: think how their destiny is to be foul and hideous, and what repulsion they would cause even in yourself were you able to see them then. Then call often to mind this maxim of the Philosopher: "I was born for some higher destiny than to be the slave of my body."[7] Assuredly it is the very climax of folly to see men neglect their real selves in order to cosset the body and limbs in which they dwell. If a man is imprisoned for a little while in some dungeon, dark, damp, and dirty, would he not seem to have lost his senses if he did not shield himself as far as he was able from any contact with the walls and soil? And with the expectation of freedom would he not eagerly listen for the footsteps of his deliverer? But if giving up that expectation, covered with filth and plunged in darkness, he dreads to leave his prison; if he turns all his attention to painting and adorning the walls which shut him in, in a vain endeavour to counteract the nature of his dripping prison-house, will he not rightly be counted a wretched fool? Well, you yourself know and love your prison-house, wretched that you are! And on the very eve of your issuing or being dragged therefrom you chain yourself more firmly in it, labouring to adorn what you ought to despise, if you would follow the advice you yourself had tendered to the father of the great Scipio in your poem called _Africa._ "The bonds and fetters known and suffered long, The clogs on liberty are hateful to us, And the new freedom now attained we love."[8] Wonderful is it if you made others give the counsel which you yourself refuse! But I cannot disguise from you one word in your discourse which to you may seem very humble, but to me seems full of pride and arrogance. _Petrarch._ I am sorry if I have in any way expressed myself arrogantly, but if the spirit is the true rule of one's deeds and words, then my own bears me witness that I intended nothing in that sense. _S. Augustine._ To depreciate others is a kind of pride more intolerable than to exalt oneself above one's due measure; I would much rather see you exalt others and then put yourself above them than degrade all the world in a heap at your feet, and by a refinement of pride fashion for yourself a shield of humanity out of scorn for your neighbour. _Petrarch._ Take it how you will, I profess but small esteem either for others or myself. I am ashamed to tell you what experience has made me think of the majority of mankind. _S. Augustine_. It is very prudent to despise oneself; but it is very dangerous and very useless to despise others. However, let us proceed. Are you aware of what still makes you turn from the right way? _Petrarch._ Pray say anything you like, only do not accuse me of envy. _S. Augustine_. Please God may pride have done you as little hurt as envy! So far as I judge, you have escaped this sin, but I have others whereof to accuse you. _Petrarch_. Still you will not vex me whatever reproaches you may bring. Tell me freely everything that leads me astray. _S. Augustine._ The desire of things temporal. _Petrarch._ Come, come! I truly have never heard anything so absurd. _S. Augustine._ There! you see everything vexes you. You have forgotten your promise. This is not, however, any question of envy. _Petrarch._ No, but of cupidity, and I do not believe there is a man in the world more free of this fault than myself. _S. Augustine._ You are great at self-justification, but, believe me, you are not so clear of this fault as you think you are. _Petrarch._ What? do you mean to say that I, I am not free from the reproach of cupidity? _S. Augustine._ I do, and that you are likewise guilty of ambition. _Petrarch._ Go on, ill-treat me more still, double your reproaches, make full proof of your work of an accuser. I wonder what fresh blow you have in store for me. _S. Augustine._ What is mere truth and right testimony you call accusation and ill-treatment. The satirist was quite right who wrote-- "To speak the truth to men is to accuse."[9] And the saying of the comic poet is equally true-- "'Tis flattery makes friends and candour foes."[10] But tell me, pray, what is the use of this irritation and anger that makes you so on edge? Was it necessary in a life so short to weave such long hopes? "Have no long hopes! life's shortness cries to man."[11] You read that often enough but take no count of it. You will reply, I suppose, that you do this from a tender solicitude for your friends, and so find a fair pretext for your error; but what madness it is, under pretext of friendship to others, to declare war on yourself and treat yourself as an enemy. _Petrarch._ I am neither covetous nor inhuman enough to be without solicitude for my friends, especially for those whose virtue or deserts attach me to them, for it is those whom I admire, revere, love, and compassionate; but, on the other hand, I do not pretend to be generous enough to court my own ruin for the sake of my friends. What I desire is so to manage my affairs as to have a decent subsistence while I live; and as you have delivered a shot at me from Horace, let me also from the same poet put up a shield in self-defence and profess my desire is the same as his,-- "Let me have books and stores for one year hence, Nor make my life one flutter of suspense!"[12] And further how I shape my course so that I may in the same poet's words-- "Pass my old age and not my honour lose, And, if I may, still serve the lyric Muse."[13] Let me own also that I dread very much the rocks ahead if life should be prolonged, and so would provide beforehand for this double wish of mine to blend with my work for the Muses some simpler occupation in household affairs. But this I do with such indifference that it is plain enough I only descend to such necessities because I am so obliged. _Augustine._ I see clearly how these pretexts texts which serve as an excuse for your folly have penetrated deeply into your very spirit. How is it, then, you have not engraved equally deeply in your heart the words of the satirist-- "Why keep such hoarded gold to vex the mind? Why should such madness still delude mankind? To scrape through life on water and dry bread That you may have a fortune when you're dead?"[14] Undoubtedly it is more because you think that it is a fine thing to die in a winding-sheet of purple, and rest in a marble tomb, and leave to your heirs the business of disputing over a great succession, than that you yourself care for the money which wins such advantages. It is a futile trouble, believe me, and quite devoid of good sense. If you will steadily observe human nature, you will discover that in a general way it is content with very little, and, in your case particularly, there is hardly a man who needs less for his satisfaction, unless you had been blinded by prejudices. Doubtless the poet was thinking of the average run of men, or possibly his own actual self, when he said-- "My sorry fare is dogwood fruit; I pluck Wild herbs and roots that in the fields do grow, And a few berries."[15] But, unlike him, you will acknowledge yourself that such a mode of life is far from sorry, and that in fact nothing would be pleasanter if you were to consult only your own taste and not the customs of a deluded world. Why, then, continue to torment yourself? If you order your life as your nature dictates, you were rich long ago, but you never will be able to be rich if you follow the standard of the world; you will always think something wanting, and in 'rushing after it you will find yourself swept away by your passion. Do you remember with what delight you used to wander in the depth of the country? Sometimes, laying yourself down on a bed of turf, you would listen to the water of a brook murmuring over the stones; at another time, seated on some open hill, you would let your eye wander freely over the plain stretched at your feet; at others, again, you enjoyed a sweet slumber beneath the shady trees of some valley in the noontide heat, and revelled in the delicious silence. Never idle, in your soul you would ponder over some high meditation, with only the Muses for your friends--you were never less alone than when in their company, and then, like the old man in Virgil who reckoned himself "As rich askings, when, at the close of day, Home to his cot he took his happy way, And on his table spread his simple fare, Fresh from the meadow without cost or care,"[16] you would come at sunset back to your humble roof; and, contented with your good things, did you not find yourself the richest and happiest of mortal men? _Petrarch._ Ah, well-a-day! I recall it all now, and the remembrance of that time makes me sigh with regret. _S. Augustine._ Why--why do you speak of sighing? And who, pray, is the author of your woes? It is, indeed, your own spirit and none other which too long has not dared to follow the true law of its nature, and has thought itself a prisoner only because it would not break its chain. Even now it is dragging you along like a runaway horse, and unless you tighten the rein it will rush you to destruction. Ever since you grew tired of your leafy trees, of your simple way of life, and society of country people, egged on by cupidity, you have plunged once more into the midst of the tumultuous life of cities. I read in your face and speech what a happy and peaceful life you lived; for what miseries have you not endured since then? Too rebellious against the teachings of experience, you still hesitate! It is without a doubt the bonds of your own sins that keep you back, and God allows that, as you passed your childhood under a harsh muster, so, though you once became free, you have again fallen into bondage, and there will end your miserable old age. Verily, I was at your side once, when, quite young, unstained by avarice or ambition, you gave promise of becoming a great man; now, alas, having quite changed your character, the nearer you get to the end of your journey the more you trouble yourself about provisions for the way. What remains then but that you will be found, when the day comes for you to die--and it may be even now at hand, and certainly cannot be any great way off--you will be found, I say, still hungering after gold, poring half-dead over the calendar? For those anxious cares, which increase day after day, must by necessity at last have grown to a huge figure and a prodigious amount. _Petrarch_. Well, after all, if I foresee the poverty of old age, and gather some provision against that time of weariness, what is there so much to find fault with? _S. Augustine._ Ah! ludicrous anxiety and tragic neglect, to worry and trouble yourself about a time at which you may never arrive and in which you assuredly will not have long to stay, and yet to be quite oblivious of that end at which you cannot help arriving, and of which there is no remedy when you once have reached it. But such is your execrable habit--to care for what's temporal, and be careless for all that's eternal. As for this delusion of providing a shield against old age, no doubt what put it into your head was the verse in Virgil which speaks of "The ant who dreads a destitute old age."[17] And so you have made an ant your mentor and you are as excusable as the satiric poet who wrote-- "Some people, like the ant, fear hunger and cold,"[18] but if you are going to put no limit to the following of ants, you will discover that there is nothing more melancholy and nothing more absurd than to ward off poverty one day by loading yourself with it all your days. _Petrarch._ What will you say next! Do you counsel me to court Poverty? I have no longing for it, but I will bear it with courage if Fortune, who delights to overturn human affairs, reduces me to it. _S. Augustine._ My opinion is that in every condition man should aim at the golden mean. I would not then restrict you to the rules of those who say, "All that is needed for man's life is bread and water; with these none is poor; whosoever desires no more than these will rival in felicity the Father of the Gods."[19] No, I do not tie man's life down to dry bread and water; such maxims are as extreme as they are troublesome and odious to listen to. Also, in regard to your infirmity, what I enjoin is not to over-indulge natural appetite, but to control it. What you already have would be sufficient for your wants if you had known how to be sufficient to yourself. But as it is you are yourself the cause of your own poverty. To heap up riches is to heap up cares and anxieties. This truth has been proved so continually that there is no need to bring more arguments. What a strange delusion, what a melancholy blindness of the soul of man, whose nature is so noble, whose birth is from above, that it will neglect all that is lofty and debase itself to care for the metals of the earth. Every time you have been drawn by these hooks of cupidity you come down from your high meditations to these grovelling thoughts, and do you not feel each time as if hurled from heaven to earth, from the bosom of the stars to a bottomless pit of blackness? _Petrarch_. Yes; in truth, I feel it, and one knows not how to express what I have suffered in my fall. _S. Augustine_. Why, then, are you not afraid of a danger you have so often experienced? And when you were raised up to the higher life, why did you not attach yourself to it more firmly? _Petrarch_. I make all the efforts I can to do so; but inasmuch as the various exigencies of our human lot shake and unsettle me, I am torn away in spite of myself. It is not without reason, I imagine, that the poets of antiquity dedicated the double peaks of Parnassus to two different divinities. They desired to beg from Apollo, whom they called the god of Genius, the interior resources of the mind, and from Bacchus a plentiful supply of external goods, way of regarding it is suggested to me not only by the teaching of experience, but by the frequent testimony of wise men whom I need not quote to you. Moreover, although the plurality of deities may be ridiculous, this opinion of the Poets is not devoid of common sense. And in referring a like twofold supplication to the one God from whom all good comes down, I do not think I can be called unreasonable, unless indeed you hold otherwise. _S. Augustine_. I deny not you are right in your view, but the poor way you divide your time stirs my indignation. You had already devoted your whole life to honourable work; if anything compelled you to spend any of your time on other occupations, you regarded it as lost. But I now you only concede to what is Good and Beautiful the moments you can spare from avarice. Any man in the world would desire to reach old age on such terms as that; but what limit or check would be to such a state of mind? Choose for yourself some defined goal, and when you have attained it, then stay there and breathe awhile. Doubtless you know that the saying I am about to quote is from lips of man, but has all the force of a divine oracle-- "The miser's voice for ever cries, Give, give; Then curb your lusts if you would wisely live."[20] _Petrarch._ Neither to want nor to abound, neither to command others or obey them--there you have my heart's wish. _S. Augustine_. Then you must drop your humanity and become God, if you would want nothing. Can you be ignorant that of all the creatures Man is the one that has most wants? _Petrarch_. Many a time have I heard that said, but I would still like to hear it afresh from your lips and lodge it in my remembrance. _S. Augustine._ Behold him naked and unformed, born in wailings and tears, comforted with a few drops of milk, trembling and crawling, needing the hand of another, fed and clothed from the beasts of the field, his body feeble, his spirit restless, subject to all kinds of sickness, the prey of passions innumerable, devoid of reason, joyful to-day, to-morrow sorrowful, in both full of agitation, incapable of mastering himself, unable to restrain his appetite, ignorant of what things are useful to him and in what proportion, knowing not how to control himself in meat or drink, forced with great labour to gain the food that other creatures find ready at their need, made dull with sleep, swollen with food, stupefied with drink, emaciated with watching, famished with hunger, parched with thirst, at once greedy and timid, disgusted with what he has, longing after what he has lost, discontented alike with past, present and future, full of pride in his misery, and aware of his frailty, baser than the vilest worms, his life is short, his days uncertain, his fate inevitable, since Death in a thousand forms is waiting for him at last. _Petrarch._ You have so piled up his miseries and beggary that I feel it were good if I had never been born. _S. Augustine._ Yet, in the midst of such wretchedness and such deep destitution of good in man's estate, you go on dreaming of riches and power such as neither emperors nor kings have ever fully enjoyed. _Petrarch_. Kindly tell me who ever made use of those words? Who spoke either of riches or of power? _S. Augustine._ You imply both, for what greater riches can there be than to lack nothing? What greater power than to be independent of every one else in the world? Certainly those kings and masters of the earth whom you think so rich have wanted a multitude of things. The generals of great armies depend on those whom they seem to command, and, kept in check by their armed legions, they find the very soldiers who render them invincible also render them in turn helpless. Give up, therefore, your dreams of the impossible, and be content to accept the lot of humanity; learn to live in want and in abundance, to command and to obey, without desiring, with those ideas of yours, to shake off the yoke of fortune that presses even on kings. You will only be free from this yoke when, caring not a straw for human passions, you bend your neck wholly to the rule of Virtue. Then you will be free, wanting nothing, then. you will be independent; in a word, then you will be a king, truly powerful and perfectly happy. _Petrarch_. Now I do indeed repent for all that is past, and I desire nothing. But I am still in bondage to one evil habit and am conscious always of a certain need at the bottom of my heart. _S. Augustine._ Well, to come back to our subject, there is the very thing which keeps you back from the contemplation of death. It is that which makes you harassed with earthly anxieties; you do not lift up your heart at all to higher things. If you will take my counsel you will utterly cast away these anxieties, which are as so many dead weights upon the spirit, and you will find that it is not so hard after all to order your life by your nature, and let that rule and govern you more than the foolish opinions of the crowd. _Petrarch_. I will do so very willingly, but may I ask you to finish what you were beginning to say about ambition, which I have long desired to hear? _S. Augustine_. Why ask me to do what you can quite well do for yourself? Examine your own heart; you will see that among its other faults it is not ambition which holds the least place there. _Petrarch._ It has profited me nothing then to have fled from towns whenever I could, to have thought scorn of the world and public affairs, to have gone into the recesses of the woods and silence of the fields, to have proved my aversion from empty honours, if still I am to be accused of ambition. _S. Augustine._ You renounce many things well,--all you mortal men; but not so much; because you despise them as because you despair of getting them. Hope and desire inflame each other by the mutual stings of those passions, so that when the one grows cold the other dies away, and when one gets warm the other boils over. _Petrarch._ Why, then, should I not hope? Was I quite destitute of any accomplishment? _S. Augustine._ I am not now speaking of your accomplishments, but certainly you had not those by help of which, especially in the present day, men mount to high places; I mean the art of ingratiating yourself in the palaces of the great, the trick of flattery, deceit, promising, lying, pretending, dissembling, and putting up with all kinds of slights and indignities. Devoid of these accomplishments and others of the kind, and seeing clearly that you could not overcome nature, you turned your steps elsewhere. And you acted wisely and with prudence, for, as Cicero expresses it, "to contend against the gods as did the giants, what is it but to make war with nature itself."[21] _Petrarch_. Farewell such honours as these, if they have to be sought by such means! _S. Augustine._ Your words are golden, but you have not convinced me of your innocence, for you do not assert your indifference to honours so much as to the vexations their pursuit involves, like the man who pretended he did not want to see Rome because he really would not endure the trouble of the journey thither. Observe, you have not yet desisted from the pursuit of honour, as you seem to believe and as you try to persuade me. But leave off trying to hide behind your finger, as the saying goes; all your thoughts, all your actions are plain before my eyes: and when you boast of having fled from cities and become enamoured of the woods, I see no real excuse, but only a shifting of your culpability. We travel many ways to the same end, and, believe me, though you have left the road worn by feet of the crowd, you still direct your feet by a side-path towards this same ambition that you say you have thought scorn of; it is repose, solitude, a total disregard of human affairs, yes, and your own activities also, which just at present take you along that chosen path, but the end and object is glory. _Petrarch_. You drive me into a corner whence I think, however, I could manage to escape; but, as the time is short and we must discriminate between many things, let us proceed, if you have no objection. _S. Augustine_. Follow me, then, as I go forward. We will say nothing of gourmandising, for which you have no more inclination than a harmless pleasure in an occasional meeting with a few friends at the hospitable board. But I have no fear for you on this score, for when the country has regained its denizen, now snatched away to the towns, these temptations will disappear in a moment; and I have noticed, and have pleasure in acknowledging, that when you are alone you live in such a simple way as to surpass your friends and neighbours in frugality and temperance. I leave on one side anger also, though you often get carried away by it more than is reasonable, yet at the same time, thanks to your sweet natural temperament, you commonly control the motions of your spirit, and recall the advice of Horace-- "Anger's a kind of madness, though not long; Master the passion, since it's very strong; And, if you rule it not, it will rule you, So put the curb on quickly."[22] _Petrarch._ That saying of the poet, and other words of philosophy like it, have helped me a little, I own; but what has helped me above all is the thought of the shortness of life. What insensate folly to spend in hating and hurting our fellow-men the few days we pass among them! Soon enough the last day of all will arrive, which will quite extinguish this flame in human breasts and put an end to all our hatred, and if we have desired for any of them nothing worse than death, our evil wish will soon be fulfilled. Why, then, seek to take one's life or that of others? Why let pass unused the better part of a time so short? When the days are hardly long enough for honest joys of this life, and for meditating on that which is to come, no matter what economy of time we practise, what good is there in robbing any of them of their right and needful use, and turning them to instruments of sorrow and death for ourselves and others? This reflection has helped me, when I found myself under any temptation to anger, not to fall utterly under its dominion, or if I fell has helped me quickly to recover; but hitherto I have not been able quite to arm myself at all points from some little gusts of irritation. _S. Augustine._ As I am not afraid that this wind of anger will cause you to make shipwreck of yourself or others, I agree willingly that without paying attention to the promises of the Stoics, who set out to extirpate root and branch all the maladies of the soul, you content yourself with the milder treatment of the Peripatetics. Leaving, then, on one side for the moment these particular failings, I hasten to treat of others more dangerous than these and against which you will need to be on guard with more care. _Petrarch_. Gracious Heaven, what is yet to come that is more dangerous still? _S. Augustine._ Well, has the sin of lust never touched you with its flames? _Petrarch_. Yes, indeed, at times so fiercely us to make me mourn sorely that I was not born without feelings. I would sooner have been a senseless stone than be tormented by so many stings of the flesh. _S. Augustine_. Ah, there is that which turns you most aside from the thought of things divine. For what does the doctrine of the heavenly Plato show but that the soul must separate itself far from the passion of the flesh and tread down its imaginings before it can rise pure and free to the contemplation of the mystery of the Divine; for otherwise the thought of its mortality will make it cling to those seducing charms. You know what I mean, and you have learned this truth in Plato's writings, to the study of which you said not long ago you had given yourself up with ardour. _Petrarch_. Yes, I own I had given myself to studying him with great hopefulness and desire, but the novelty of a strange language and the sudden departure of my teacher cut short my purpose.[23] For the rest this doctrine of which you speak is very well known to me from your own writings and those of the Platonists. _S. Augustine._ It matters little from whom you learned the truth, though it is a fact that the authority of a great master will often have a profound influence. _Petrarch._ Yes, in my own case I must confess I feel profoundly the influence of a man of whom Cicero in his _Tusculan Orations_ made this remark, which has remained graven in the bottom of my heart: "When Plato vouchsafes not to bring forward any proof (you see what deference I pay him), his mere authority would make me yield consent."[24] Often in reflecting on this heavenly genius it has appeared to me an injustice when the disciples of Pythagoras dispense their chief from submitting proofs, that Plato should be supposed to have less liberty than he. But, not to be carried away from our subject, authority, reason and experience alike have for a long time so much commended this axiom of Plato to me that I do not believe anything more true or more truly holy could be said by any man. Every time I have raised myself up, thanks to the hand of God stretched out to me, I have recognised with infinite joy, beyond belief, who it was that then preserved me and who had cast me down in times of old. Now that I am once more fallen into my old misery, I feel with a keen sense of bitterness that failing which again has undone me. And this I tell you, that you may see nothing strange in my saying I had put Plato's maxim to the proof. _S. Augustine._ Indeed, I think it not strange, for I have been witness of your conflicts; I have seen you fall and then once again rise up, and now that you are down once more I determined from pity to bring you my succour. _Petrarch._ I am grateful for your compassionate feeling, but of what avail is any human succour? _S. Augustine._ It avails nothing, but the succour of God is much every way. None can be chaste except God give him the grace of chastity.[25] You must therefore implore this grace from Him above all, with humbleness, and often it may be with tears. He is wont never to deny him who asks as he should. _Petrarch_. So often have I done it that I fear I am as one too importunate. _S. Augustine_. But you have not asked with due humbleness or singleness of heart. You have ever kept a corner for your passions to creep in; you have always asked that your prayers may be granted presently. I speak from experience, for I did likewise in my old life. I said, "Give me chastity, but not now. Put it off a little while; the time will soon come. My life is still in all its vigour; let it follow its own course, obey its natural laws; it will feel it more of a shame later, to return to its youthful folly. I will give up this failing when the course of time itself shall have rendered me less inclined that way, and when satiety will have delivered me from the fear of going back."[26] In talking thus do you not perceive that you prayed for one thing but wished another in your heart? _Petrarch_. How so? _S. Augustine._ Because to ask for a thing to-morrow is to put it aside for to-day. _Petrarch._ With tears have I often asked for it to-day. My hope was that after breaking the chain of my passions and casting away the misery of life, I should escape safe and sound, and after so many storms of vain anxieties, I might swim ashore in some haven of safety; but you see, alas, how many shipwrecks I have suffered among the same rocks and shoals, and how I shall still suffer more if I am left to myself. _S. Augustine._ Trust me, there has always been something wanting in your prayer; otherwise the Supreme Giver would have granted it or, as in the case of the Apostle, would have only denied you to make you more perfect in virtue and convince you entirely of your own frailty.[27] _Petrarch._ That is my conviction also; and I will go on praying constantly, unwearied, unashamed, undespairing. The Almighty, taking pity on my sorrows, will perchance lend an ear to my prayer, sent up daily to His throne, and even as He would not have denied His grace if my prayers had been pure, so He will also purify them. _S. Augustine._ You are quite right, but redouble your efforts; and, as men wounded and fallen in battle raise themselves on their elbow, so do you keep a look out on all sides for the dangers that beset you, for fear that some foe; unseen come near and do you hurt yet more, where you lie on the ground. In the mean time, pray instantly for the aid of Him who is able to raise you up again. He will perchance be nearer to you just then when you think Him furthest off. Keep ever in mind that saying of Plato we were speaking of just now, "Nothing so much hinders the knowledge of the Divine as lust and the burning desire of carnal passion." Ponder well, therefore, this doctrine; it is the very basis of our purpose that we have in hand. _Petrarch._ To let you see how much I welcome this teaching, I have treasured it with earnest care, not only when it dwells in the court of Plato's royal demesne, but also where it lurks hidden in the forests of other writers, and I have kept note in my memory of the very place where it was first perceived by my mind. _S. Augustine._ I wonder what is your meaning. Do you mind being more explicit? _Petrarch._ You know Virgil: you remember through what dangers he makes his hero pass in that last awful night of the sack of Troy? _S. Augustine._ Yes, it is a topic repeated over and over again in all the schools. He makes him recount his adventures thus-- "What tongue could tell the horrors of that night, Paint all the forms of death, or who have tears Enough to weep so many wretched wights? Hath the great city that so long was queen Fallen at last? Behold in all the streets The bodies of the dead by thousands strewn, And in their homes and on the temple's steps! Yet is there other blood than that of Troy, What time her vanquished heroes gathering up Their quenchless courage smite anon their foes, They, though triumphant, fall. Everywhere grief, Dread everywhere, and in all places Death!"[28] _Petrarch._ Now wherever he wandered accompanied by the goddess of Love, through crowding foes, through burning fire, he could not discern, though his eyes were open, the wrath of the angered gods, and so long as Venus was speaking to him he only had understanding for things of earth. But as soon as she left him you remember what happened; he immediately beheld the frowning faces of the deities, and recognised what dangers beset him round about. "Then I beheld the awe-inspiring form Of gods in anger for the fall of Troy."[29] From which my conclusion is that commerce with Venus takes away the vision of the Divine. _S. Augustine._ Among the clouds themselves you have clearly discerned the light of truth. It is in this way that truth abides in the fictions of the poets, and one perceives it shining out through the crevices of their thought. But, as we shall have to return to this question later on, let us reserve what we have to say for the end of our discourse. _Petrarch._ That I may not get lost in tracks unknown to me, may I ask when you propose to return to this point? _S. Augustine._ I have not yet probed the deepest wounds of your soul, and I have purposely deferred to do so, in order that, coming at the end, my counsels may be more deeply graven in your remembrance. In another dialogue we will treat more fully of the subject of the desires of the flesh, on which we have just now lightly touched. _Petrarch._ Go on, then, now as you proposed. _S. Augustine._ Yes, there need be nothing to hinder me, unless you are obstinately bent on stopping me. _Petrarch._ Indeed, nothing will please me better than to banish for ever every cause of dispute from the earth. I have never engaged in disputation, even on things perfectly familiar, without regretting it; for the contentions that arise, even between friends, have a certain character of sharpness and hostility contrary to the laws of friendship. But pass on to those matters in which you think I shall welcome your good counsel. _S. Augustine._ You are the victim of a terrible plague of the soul--melancholy; which the moderns call _accidie_, but which in old days used to be called _ægritudo._ _Petrarch._ The very name of this complaint makes me shudder. _S. Augustine._ Nor do I wonder, for you have endured its burden long enough. _Petrarch._ Yes, and though in almost all other diseases which torment me there is mingled a certain false delight, in this wretched state everything is harsh, gloomy, frightful. The way to despair is for ever open, and everything goads one's miserable soul to self-destruction. Moreover, while other passions attack me only in bouts, which, though frequent, are but short and for a moment, this one usually has invested me so closely that it clings to and tortures me for whole days and nights together. In such times I take no pleasure in the light of day, I see nothing, I am as one plunged in the darkness of hell itself, and seem to endure death in its most cruel form. But what one may call the climax of the misery is, that I so feed upon my tears and sufferings with a morbid attraction that I can only be rescued from it by main force and in despite of myself. _S. Augustine._ So well do you know your symptoms, so familiar are you become with their cause, that I beg you will tell me what is it that depresses you most at the present hour? Is it the general course of human affairs? Is it some physical trouble, or some disgrace of fortune in men's eyes? _Petrarch._ It is no one of these separately. Had I only been challenged to single combat, I would certainly have come off victorious; but now, as it is, I am besieged by a whole host of enemies. _S. Augustine_. I pray you will tell me fully all that torments you. _Petrarch._ Every time that fortune pushes me back one step, I stand firm and courageous, recalling to myself that often before I have been struck in the same way and yet have come off conqueror; if, after that, she presently deals me a sterner blow, I begin to stagger somewhat; if then she returns to the charge a third and fourth time, driven by force, I retreat, not hurriedly but step by step, to the citadel of Reason. If fortune still lays siege to me there with all her troops, and if, to reduce me to surrender, she piles up the sorrows of our human lot, the remembrance of my old miseries and the dread of evils yet to come, then, at lost, hemmed in on all sides, seized with terror at these heaped-up calamities, I bemoan my wretched fate, and feel rising in my very soul this bitter disdain of life. Picture to yourself some one beset with countless enemies, with no hope of escape or of pity, with no comfort anywhere, with every one and everything against him; his foes bring up their batteries, they mine the very ground beneath his feet, the towers are already falling, the ladders are at the gates, the grappling-hooks are fastened to the walls, the fire is seen crackling through the roofs, and, at sight of those gleaming swords on every side, those fierce faces of his foes, and that utter ruin that is upon him, how should he not be utterly dismayed and overwhelmed, since, even if life itself should be left, yet to men not quite bereft of every feeling the loss of liberty alone is a mortal stroke? _S. Augustine._ Although your confession is a little confused, I make out that your misfortunes all proceed from a single false conception which has in the past claimed and in futuro will still claim innumerable victims. You have a bad conceit of yourself. _Petrarch._ Yes, truly, a very bad one. _S. Augustine._ And why? _Petrarch._ Not for one, but a thousand reasons. _S. Augustine._ You are like people who on the slightest offence rake up all the old grounds of quarrel they ever had. _Petrarch._ In my case there is no wound old enough for it to have been effaced and forgotten: my sufferings are all quite fresh, and if anything by chance were made better through time, Fortune has so soon redoubled her strokes that the open wound has never been perfectly healed over. I cannot, moreover, rid myself of that hate and disdain of our life which I spoke of. Oppressed with that, I cannot but be grieved and sorrowful exceedingly. That you call this grief _accidie_ or _ægritudo_ makes no difference; in substance we mean one and the same thing. _S. Augustine._ As from what I can understand the evil is so deep-seated, it will do no good to heal it slightly, for it will soon throw out more shoots. It must be entirely rooted up. Yet I know not where to begin, so many complications alarm me. But to make the task of dividing the matter easier, I will examine each point in detail. Tell me, then, what is it that has hurt you most? _Petrarch_. Whatever I see, or hear, or feel. _S. Augustine._ Come, come, does nothing please you? _Petrarch_. Nothing, or almost nothing. _S. Augustine._ Would to God that at least the better things in your life might be dear, to you. But tell me what is it that is to you the most displeasing of all? I beg you give me an answer. _Petrarch._ I have already answered. _S. Augustine._ It is this melancholy I spoke of which is the true cause of all your displeasure with yourself. _Petrarch._ I am just as displeased with what I see in others as with what I see in myself. _S. Augustine._ That too comes from the same source. But to get a little order into our discourse, does what you see in yourself truly displease you as much as you say? _Petrarch._ Stop worrying me with your petty questions, that are more than I know how to reply to. _S. Augustine._ I see, then, that those things which make many other people envy you are nevertheless in your own eyes of no account at all? _Petrarch._ Any one who envies a wretch like me must indeed himself be wretched. _S. Augustine._ But now please tell me what is it that most displeases you? _Petrarch._ I am sure I do not know. _S. Augustine._ If I guess right will you acknowledge it? _Petrarch._ Yes, I will, quite freely. _S. Augustine._ You are vexed with Fortune. _Petrarch._ And am I not right to hate her? Proud, violent, blind, she makes a mock of mankind. _S. Augustine._ It is an idle complaint. Let us look now at your own troubles. If I prove you have complained unjustly, will you consent to retract? _Petrarch._ You will find it very hard to convince me. If, however, you prove me in the wrong, I will give in. _S. Augustine._ You find that Fortune is to you too unkind. _Petrarch_. Not too unkind; too unjust, too proud, too cruel. _S. Augustine_. The comic poets have more than one comedy called "The Grumbler." There are scores of them. And now you are making yourself one of the crowd. I should rather find you in more select company. But as this subject is so very threadbare that no one can add anything new on it, will you allow me to offer you an old remedy for an old complaint? _Petrarch_. As you wish. _S. Augustine_. Well then, has poverty yet made you endure hunger and thirst and cold? _Petrarch_. No, Fortune has not yet brought me to this pass. _S. Augustine._ Yet such is the hard lot of a great many people every day of their lives. Is it not? _Petrarch_. Use some other remedy than this if you can, for this brings me no relief. I am not one of those who in their own misfortunes rejoice to behold the crowd of other wretched ones who sob around them; and not seldom I mourn as much for the griefs of others as for my own. _S. Augustine_. I wish no man to rejoice in witnessing the misfortunes of others, but they ought at any rate to give him some consolation, and teach him not to complain of his own lot. All the world cannot possibly occupy the first and best place. How could there be any first unless there was also a second following after? Only be thankful, you mortal men, if you are not reduced to the last of all; and that of so many blows of outrageous Fortune you only bear her milder strokes. For the rest, to those who are doomed to endure the extremes of misery, one must offer more potent remedies than you have need of whom Fortune has wounded but a little. That which casts men down into these doleful moods is that each one, forgetting his own condition, dreams of the highest place, and, like every one else, as I just now pointed out, cannot possibly attain it; then when he fails he is discontented. If they only knew the sorrows that attend on greatness they would recoil from that which they now pursue. Let me call as witnesses those who by dint of toil have reached the pinnacle, and who no sooner have arrived than they forthwith bewail the too easy accomplishment of their wish. This truth should be familiar to every one, and especially to you, to whom long experience has shown that the summit of rank, surrounded as it is with trouble and anxieties, is only deserving of pity. It follows that no earthly lot of man is free from complaint, since those who have attained what they desire and those who have missed it alike show some reason for discontent. The first allege they have been cheated, and the second that they have suffered neglect. Take Seneca's advice then, "When you see how many people are in front of you, think also how many are behind. If you would be reconciled with Providence and your own lot in life, think of all those you have surpassed;" and as the same wise man says in the same place, "Set a goal to your desires such as you cannot overleap, even if you wish." _Petrarch._ I have long ago set such a goal to my desires, and, unless I am mistaken, a very modest one; but in the pushing and shameless manners of my time, what place is left for modesty, which men now call slackness or sloth? _S. Augustine._ Can your peace of mind be disturbed by the opinion of the crowd, whose judgment is never true, who never call anything by its right name? But unless my recollection is at fault, you used to look down on their opinion. _Petrarch._ Never, believe me, did I despise it more than I do now. I care as much for what the crowd thinks of me as I care what I am thought of by the beasts of the field. _S. Augustine._ Well, then? _Petrarch._ What raises my spleen is that having, of all my contemporaries whom I know, the least exalted ambitions, not one of them has encountered so many difficulties as I have in the accomplishment of my desires. Most assuredly I never aspired to the highest place; I call the spirit of Truth as witness who judges us, who sees all, and who has always read my most secret thoughts. She knows very well that whenever after the manner of men I have gone over in my mind all the degrees and conditions of our human lot. I have never found in the highest place that tranquillity and serenity of soul which I place above all other goods; and for that matter, having a horror of a life full of disquiet and care, I have ever chosen, in my modest judgment, some middle position, and given, not lip-service, but the homage of my heart to that truth expressed by Horace-- "Whoso with little wealth will live content, Easy and free his days shall all be spent; His well-built house keeps out the winter wind, Too modest to excite an envious mind."[30] And I admire the reasons he gives in the same Ode not less than the sentiment itself. "The tallest trees most fear the tempest's might, The highest towers come down with most affright, The loftiest hills feel first the thunder smite." Alas! it is just the middle place that it has never been my lot to enjoy. _S. Augustine._ And what if that which you think is a middle position is in truth below you? What if as a matter of fact you have for a long while enjoyed a really middle place, enjoyed it abundantly? Nay, what if you have in truth left the middle far behind, and are become to a great many people a man more to be envied than despised? _Petrarch._ Well, if they think my lot one to be envied, I think the contrary. _S. Augustine._ Yes, your false opinion is precisely the cause of all your miseries, and especially of this last. As Cicero puts it, "You must flee Charybdis, with all hands to the oars, and sails as well!"[31] _Petrarch._ Whither can I flee? where direct my ship? In a word, what am I to think except what I see before my eyes? _S. Augustine._ You only see from side to side where your view is limited. If you look behind you will discover a countless throng coming after, and that you are somewhat nearer to the front rank than to that in the rear, but pride and stubbornness suffer you not to turn your gaze behind you. _Petrarch._ Nevertheless from time to time I have done so, and have noticed many people coming along behind. I have no cause to blush at my condition, but I complain of having so many cares. I deplore, if I may yet again make use of a phrase of Horace, that I must live "only from day to day."[32] As to this restlessness of which I have suffered more than enough, I gladly subscribe to what the same poet says in the same place. "What prayers are mine? O may I yet possess The goods I have, or, if heaven pleases, less! Let the few years that Fate may grant me still Be all my own, not held at others' will."[33] Always in a state of suspense, always uncertain of the future, Fortune's favours have no attraction for me. Up to now, as you see, I have lived always in dependence on others; it is the bitterest cup of all. May heaven grant me some peace in what is left of my old age, and that the mariner who has lived so long amid the stormy waves may die in port! _S. Augustine._ So then in this great whirlpool of human affairs, amid so many vicissitudes, with the future all dark before you; in a word, placed as you are at the caprice of Fortune, you will be the only one of so many millions of mankind who shall live a life exempt from care! Look what you are asking for, O mortal man! look what you demand! As for that complaint you have brought forward of never having lived a life of your own, what it really amounts to is not that you have lived in poverty, but more or less in subservience. I admit, as you say, that it is a thing very troublesome. However, if you look around you will find very few men who have lived a life of their own. Those whom one counts most happy, and for whom numbers of others live their lives, bear witness by the constancy of their vigils and their toils that they themselves are living for others. To quote you a striking instance, Julius Cæsar, of whom some one has reported this true but arrogant saying, "The human race only lives for a small number,"[34] Julius Cæsar, after he had subdued the human race to live for himself alone, did himself live for other people. Perhaps you will ask me for whom did he live? and I reply, for those who slew him--for Brutus, Cimber, and other traitorous heads of that conspiracy, for whom his inexhaustible munificence proved too small to satisfy their rapacity. _Petrarch_. I must admit you have brought me to my senses, and I will never any more complain either of my obligations to others or of my poverty. _S. Augustine._ Complain rather of your want of wisdom, for it is this alone that can obtain for you liberty and true riches. For the rest, the man who quietly endures to go without the cause of those good effects, and then makes complaint of not having them, cannot truly be said to have any intelligent understanding of either the cause or the effects. But now tell me what is it that makes you suffer, apart from what we have been speaking of? Is it any weakness of health or any secret trouble? _Petrarch_. I confess that my body has always been a burden every time I think of myself; but when I cast my eyes on the unwieldiness of other people's bodies, I acknowledge that I have a fairly obedient slave. I would to Heaven I could say as much of my soul, but I am afraid that in it there is what is more than a match for me. _S. Augustine_. May it please God to bring that also under the rule of reason. But to come back to your body, of what do you complain? _Petrarch._ Of that of which most other people also complain. I charge it with being mortal, with implicating me in its sufferings, loading me with its burdens, asking me to sleep when my soul is awake, and subjecting me to other human necessities which it would be tedious to go through. _S. Augustine._ Calm yourself, I entreat you, and remember you are a man. Presently your agitation will cease. If any other thing troubles you, tell me. _Petrarch._ Have you never heard how cruelly Fortune used me? This stepdame, who in a single day with her ruthless hand laid low all my hopes, all my resources, my family and home?[35] _S. Augustine._ I see your tears are running down, and I pass on. The present is not the time for instruction, but only for giving warning; let, then, this simple one suffice. If you consider, in truth, not the disasters of private families only, but the ruins also of empires from the beginning of history, with which; you are so well acquainted; and if you call to mind the tragedies you have read, you will not perhaps be so sorely offended when you see your own humble roof brought to nought along with so many palaces of kings. Now pray go on, for these few warning words will open to you a field for long meditation. _Petrarch._ Who shall find words to utter my daily disgust for this place where I live, in the most melancholy and disorderly of towns,[36] the narrow and obscure sink of the earth, where all the filth of the world is collected? What brush could depict the nauseating spectacle --streets full of disease and infection, dirty pigs and snarling dogs, the noise of cart-wheels grinding against the walls, four-horse chariots coming dashing down at every cross-road, the motley crew of people, swarms of vile beggars side by side with the flaunting luxury of the wealthy, the one crushed down in sordid misery, the others debauched with pleasure and riot; and then the medley of characters--such diverse rôles in life--the endless clamour of their confused voices, as the passers-by jostle one another in the streets? All this destroys the soul accustomed to any better kind of life, banishes all serenity from a generous heart, and quite upsets the student's habit of mind. So my prayers to God are earnest as well as frequent that he would save my barque from imminent wreck, for whenever I look around I seem to myself to be going down alive into the pit. "Now," I say in mockery, "now betake yourself to noble thoughts "-- "Now go and meditate the tuneful lyre."[37] S. _Augustine._ That line of Horace makes me realise what most afflicts you. You lament having lighted on a place so unfavourable for study, for as the same poet says-- "Bards fly from town, and haunt the wood and glade."[38] And you yourself have expressed the same truth in other words-- "The leafy forests charm the sacred Muse, And bards the noisy life of towns refuse."[39] If, however, the tumult of your mind within should once learn to calm itself down, believe me this din and bustle around you, though it will strike upon your senses, will not touch your soul. Not to repeat what you have been long well aware of, you have Seneca's letter[40] on this subject, and it is very much to the point. You have your own work also on "Tranquillity of Soul"; you have beside, for combating this mental malady, an excellent book of Cicero's which sums up the discussions of the third day in his _Tusculan Orations_, and is dedicated to Brutus.[41] _Petrarch._ You know I have read all that work and with great attention. _S. Augustine_. And have you got no help from it? _Petrarch._ Well, yes, at the time of reading, much help; but no sooner is the book from my hands than all my feeling for it vanishes. _S. Augustine._ This way of reading is become common now; there is such a mob of lettered men, a detestable herd, who have spread themselves everywhere and make long discussions in the schools on the art of life, which they put in practice little enough. But if you would only make notes of the chief points in what you read you would then gather the fruit of your reading. _Petrarch._ What kind of notes? _S. Augustine._ Whenever you read a book and meet with any wholesome maxims by which you feel your spirit stirred or enthralled, do not trust merely to the resources of your wits, but make a point of learning them by heart and making them quite familiar by meditating on them, as the doctors do with their experiments, so that no matter when or where some urgent case of illness arises, you have the remedy written, so to speak, in your head. For in the maladies of the soul, as in those of the body, there are some in which delay is fatal, so that if you defer the remedy you take away all hope of a cure. Who is not aware, for instance, that certain impulses of the soul are so swift and strong that, unless reason checks the passion from which they arise, they whelm in destruction the soul and body and the whole man, so that a tardy remedy is a useless one? Anger, in my judgment, is a case in point. It is not for nothing that, by those who have divided the soul into three parts, anger has been placed below the seat of reason, and reason set in the head of man as in a citadel, anger in the heart, and desire lower still in the loins. They wished to show that reason was ever ready to repress instantly the violent outbreaks of the passions beneath her, and was empowered in some way from her lofty estate to sound the retreat. As this check was more necessary in the case of anger, it has been placed directly under reason's control. _Petrarch._ Yes, and rightly; and to show you I have found this truth not only in the works of Philosophers but also in the Poets, by that fury of winds that Virgil describes hidden in deep caves, by his mountains piled up, and by his King Æolus sitting above, who rules them with his power, I have often thought he may have meant to denote anger and the other passions of the soul which seethe at the bottom of our heart, and which, unless controlled by the curb of reason, would in their furious haste, as he says, drag us in their train and sweep us over sea and land and the very sky itself.[42] In effect, he has given us to understand he means by the earth our bodily frame; by the sea, the water through which it lives; and by the depths of the sky, the soul that has its dwelling in a place remote, and of which elsewhere he says that its essence is formed out of a divine fire.[43] It is as though he said that these passions will hurl body, soul, and man himself into the abyss. On the other side, these mountains and this King sitting on high--what can they mean but the head placed on high where reason is enthroned? These are Virgil's words-- "There, in a cave profound, King Æolus Holds in the tempests and the noisy wind, Which there he prisons fast. Those angry thralls Rage at their barrier, and the mountain side Roars with their dreadful noise, but he on top Sits high enthroned, his sceptre in his hand."[44] So writes the Poet. As I carefully study every word, I have heard with my ears the fury, the rage, the roar of the winds; I have heard the trembling of the mountain and the din. Notice how well it all applies to the tempest of anger. And, on the other hand, I have heard the King, sitting on his high place, his sceptre grasped in his hand, subduing, binding in chains, and imprisoning those rebel blasts,--who can doubt that with equal appropriateness this applies to the Reason? However, lest any one should miss the truth that all this refers to the soul and the wrath that vexes it, you see he adds the line-- "And calms their passion and allays their wrath."[45] _S. Augustine_. I cannot but applaud that meaning which I understand you find hidden in the poet's story, familiar as it is to you; for whether Virgil had this in mind when writing, or whether without any such idea he only meant to depict a storm at sea and nothing else, what you have said about the rush of anger and the authority of reason seems to me expressed with equal wit and truth. But to resume the thread of our discourse, take notice in your reading if you find anything dealing with anger or other passions of the soul, and especially with this plague of melancholy, of which we have been speaking at some length. When you come to any passages that seem to you useful, put marks against them, which may serve as hooks to hold them fast in your remembrance, lest otherwise they might be taking wings to flee away. By this contrivance you will be able to stand firm against all the passions, and not least against sorrow of heart, which, like some pestilential cloud utterly destroys the seeds of virtue and all the fruits of understanding, and is, in the elegant phrase of Cicero-- "The fount and head of all miseries."[46] Assuredly if you look carefully at the lives of others as well as your own, and reflect that there is hardly a man without many causes of grief in his life, and if you except that one just and salutary ground, the recollection of your own sins--always supposing it is not suffered to drive you to despair--then you will come to acknowledge that Heaven has assigned to you many gifts that are for you a ground of consolation and joy, side by side with that multitude of things of which you murmur and complain. As for your complaint that you have not had any life of your own and the vexation you feel in the tumultuous life of cities, you will find no small consolation in reflecting that the same complaint has been made by greater men than yourself, and that if you have of your own free will fallen into this labyrinth, so you can of your own free will make your escape. If not, yet in time your ears will grow so used to the noise of the crowd that it will seem to you as pleasant as the murmur of a falling stream. Or, as I have already hinted, you will find the same result easily if you will but first calm down the tumult of your imagination, for a soul serene and tranquil in itself fears not the coming of any shadow from without and is deaf to all the thunder of the world. And so, like a man on dry land and out of danger, you will look upon the shipwreck of others, and from your quiet haven hear the cries of those wrestling, with the waves, and though you will be moved with tender compassion by that sight, yet even that will be the measure also of your own thankfulness and joy at being in safety. And ere long I am sure you will banish and drive away all the melancholy that has oppressed your soul. _Petrarch_. Although not a few things rather give me a twinge, and especially your notion that it is quite easy and depends only on myself to get away from towns, yet, as you have on many points got the better of me in reasoning, I will here lay down my arms ere I am quite overthrown. _S. Augustine_. Do you feel able, then, now to cast off your sorrow and be more reconciled to your fortune? _Petrarch_. Yes, I am able, supposing always that there is any such thing as fortune at all. For I notice the two Greek and Latin Poets are so little of one mind on this point that the one has not deigned to mention the word even once in all his works, whereas the other mentions the name of fortune often and even reckons her Almighty.[47] And this opinion is shared by a celebrated historian and famous orator. Sallust has said of fortune that "all things are under her dominion."[48] And Cicero has not scrupled to affirm that "she is the mistress; of human affairs."[49] For myself, perhaps I will declare what I think on the subject at some other time and place. But so far as concerns the matter of our discussion, your admonitions have been of such service to me, that when I compare my lot with that of most other men it no longer seems so unhappy to me as once it did. _S. Augustine_. I am glad indeed to have been of any service to you, and my desire is to do everything I can. But as our converse to-day has lasted a long while, are you willing that we should defer the rest for a third day, when we will bring it to a conclusion? _Petrarch._ With my whole heart I adore the very number three itself, not so much because the three Graces are contained in it, as because it is held to be nearest of kin to the Deity; which is not only the persuasion of yourself and other professors of the true faith, who place all your faith in the Trinity, but also that of Gentile philosophers who have a traditional use of the same number in worshipping their own deities. And my beloved Virgil seems to have been conversant with this when he wrote-- "Uneven number to the gods is dear."[50] For what goes before makes it clear that three is the number to which he alludes. I will therefore presently await from your hands the third part of this your threefold gift. [1] _Æneid_, viii. 385-86. [2] _De bonis et malis_, i. 3. [3] _Tusculan Orations_, ii. 15. But Cicero's words are more guarded, "_inops interdum._" [4] _Declamations_, i. [5] Juvenal, _Sat._ x. 172-73. [6] Suetonius Domitian, xviii. [7] Seneca, _Epist.,_ 65. [8] Scipio is speaking of the souls admitted to heaven, freed from the body. _Africa,_ i. 329. [9] Juvenal, i. 161 (not correctly quoted). [10] Terence L'Audrienne, 68. [11] Horace, _Odes_, i. 4, 15. [12] Horace, _Epist._ i. 18, 109. Conington's translation. [13] Horace, _Odes_, I. xxxi. 19, 20. [14] Juvenal, _Sat.,_ xiv. 135. [15] _Æneid,_ iii. 629. [16] _Georgics,_ iv. 132. [17] _Georgics_, i. 106. [18] Juvenal, vi. 361. [19] Seneca, _Epist.,_ xxv. [20] Horace, _Epist.,_ i. 2, 56. [21] _De Senectute,_ xi. [22] Horace, _Epist._ i. 2, 62-3. [23] Petrarch refers to a Calabrian monk who had begun giving him lessons in Greek, but left him on being appointed to a bishopric. [24] _Tusculan Orations,_ i. 21. [25] Wisdom, viii. 21. [26] _Cor_. xii. 9. [27] _Confessions_, viii. 7. [28] _Æneid_, ii. 361-9. [29] _Æneid_, ii. 622. [30] Horace, _Odes,_ xi. 10, 6-8. [31] _Tusculan Orations,_ iii. 11. [32] Horace, _Epist.,_ i. 18, 110. [33] Horace, _Epist.,_ i. 18, 106-8. [34] Lucian, 343. [35] He refers to the fact that his father was banished from Florence, and he himself was born in exile at Arezzo. [36] Avignon. [37] Horace, _Epist._, ii. 2, 76. [38] _Epist.,_ ii. 2, 77 (Conington). [39] Petrarch's _Epist.,_ ii. 2, 77. [40] Seneca's _Letters,_ lvi. [41] _Tusculan Orations,_ cxi. [42] _Æneid,_ i. 58. [43] _Ibid.,_ vi. 730. [44] _Ibid.,_ i. 52-57. [45] _Æneid_ i. 57. [46] _Tusculan Orations_, iv. 38. [47] _Æneid,_ viii. 334. [48] _Pro Marcello,_ ii. [49] _Catilina_, viii. [50] _Eclogue_, vii. 75. DIALOGUE THE THIRD PETRARCH--S. AUGUSTINE _S. Augustine_. Supposing that hitherto you have found some good from my words, I beg and implore you in what I have still to say to lend me a ready ear, and to put aside altogether the spirit of dispute and contradiction. _Petrarch._ You may be sure I will so do, for I feel that, owing to your good counsels, I have been set free from a large part of my distress, and am therefore the better disposed to listen to what you may still have to say. _S. Augustine._ I have not at all as yet touched upon the deep-seated wounds which are within, and I rather dread the task when I remember what debate and murmuring were caused by even the lightest allusion to them. But, on the other hand, I am not without hope that when you have rallied your strength, your spirit will more firmly bear without flinching a severer handling of the trouble. _Petrarch._ Have no fear on that score. By this time I am used to hearing the name of my maladies and to bearing the touch of the surgeon's hand. _S. Augustine_. Well, you are still held in bondage, on your right hand and on your left, by two strong chains which will not suffer you to turn your thoughts to meditate on life or on death. I have always dreaded these might bring you to destruction; and I am not yet at all reassured, and I shall only be so when I have seen you break and cast away your bonds and come forth perfectly free. And this I think possible but difficult enough to achieve, and that until it is accomplished I shall only be moving in a futile round. They say that to break a diamond one must use the blood of a goat, and in the same way to soften the hardness of these kinds of passions, this blood is of strange efficacy. No sooner has it touched even the hardest heart but it breaks and penetrates it. But I will tell you what my fear is. In this matter I must have your own full assent as we proceed, and I am haunted by the fear you will not be able, or perhaps I should say will prove unwilling, to give it. I greatly dread lest the glittering brilliance of your chains may dazzle your eyes and hinder you, and make you like the miser bound in prison with fetters of gold, who wished greatly to be set free but was not willing to break his chains. Now such are the conditions of your own bondage that you can only gain your freedom by breaking your chains. _Petrarch_. Alas, alas, I am more wretched than I thought. Do you mean to tell me my soul is still bound by two chains of which I am unconscious? _S. Augustine_. All the same they are plain enough to see; but, dazzled by their beauty, you think they are not fetters but treasures; and, to keep to the same figure, you are like some one who, with hands and feet fast bound in shackles of gold, should look at them with delight and not see at all that they are shackles. Yes, you yourself with blinded eyes keep looking at your bonds; but, oh strange delusion! you are charmed with the very chains that are dragging you to your death, and, what is most sad of all, you glory in them! _Petrarch._ What may these chains be of which you speak? _S. Augustine._ Love and glory. _Petrarch._ Great Heavens! what is this I hear? You call these things chains? And you would break them from me, if I would let you? _S. Augustine._ Yes, I mean to try, but I doubt if I shall succeed. All the other things that held you back were less strong and also less pleasant to you, so you helped me to break them. These, on the contrary, are pleasant though they injure, and they deceive you by a false show of beauty; so they will demand greater efforts, for you will make resistance as if I were wishing to rob you of some great good. Nevertheless I mean to try. _Petrarch._ Pray what have I done that you should desire to relieve me of the finest passions of my nature, and condemn to everlasting darkness the clearest faculties of my soul? _S. Augustine._ Ah, unhappy man, have you forgotten quite this axiom of philosophy, that the climax of all evils is when a man, rooted in some false opinion, by degrees grows fatally persuaded that such and such a course is right? _Petrarch._ I have by no means forgotten that axiom, but it has nothing to do with the subject, for why in the world should I not think that the course which I indicated is right? No, I never have thought and I never shall think any truth more indisputable than that these two passions, which you cast at me as a reproach, are the very noblest of all. _Augustine._ Let us take them separately for the present, while I endeavour to find the remedies, so that I may not blunt the edge of my weapon by striking first at one and then the other indiscriminately. Tell me then, since we have first mentioned love, do you or do you not hold it to be the height of all madness? _Petrarch._ To tell you the whole truth as I conceive it, I judge that love may be either described as the vilest passion or the noblest action of the soul. _S. Augustine._ Do you mind giving me some example to confirm the view you have put forward? _Petrarch._ If my passion is for some low woman of ill fame, my love is the height of folly. But if, fascinated by one who is the image of virtue, I devote myself to love and honour her, what have you to say to that? Do you put no difference between things so entirely opposed? Do you wish to banish all remains of honour from the case? To tell you my real feeling, just as I regard the first kind of love as a heavy and ill-starred burden on the soul, so of the second I think there is hardly any greater blessing to it; if it so happen that you hold an opposite view, let each one follow his own feeling, for, as you are well aware, truth is a large field and every man should have freedom to judge for himself. _S. Augustine_. In matters directly contradictory opinions also may be diverse. But truth itself is one and always the same. _Petrarch_. I admit that is so. But what makes us go wrong is that we bind ourselves obstinately to old opinions, and will not easily part from them. _S. Augustine._ Heaven grant you may think as wisely on the whole matter of love as you do on this point. _Petrarch_. To speak briefly, I think I am so certainly right that those who think the opposite I believe to be quite out of their senses. _S. Augustine_. I should certainly maintain that to take for truth some ancient falsehood, and to take as falsehood some newly-discovered truth, as though all authority for truth were a matter of time, is the very climax of madness. _Petrarch._ You are wasting your labour. Whoever asserts that view of love I shall never believe him. And I will rest on Cicero's saying, "If I err here I err willingly, and I shall never consent to part with this error as long as I live."[1] _S. Augustine._ When Cicero uses those words he is speaking of the immortality of the soul, and referring to it as the noblest of conceptions, and declaring his own belief in it to be so firm that he would not endure to listen to any one who maintained the contrary. You, however, to urge the ignoblest and most false of all opinions, make use of those same terms. Unquestionably, even if the soul were mortal, it would be better to think it immortal. For error though it were, yet would it inspire the love of virtue, and that is a thing to be desired for its own sake alone, even if all hope of future reward were taken away from us; and as to which the desire for it will certainly become weaker, as men come to think the soul a mortal thing; and, on the other hand, the promise of a life to come, even if it were to turn out a delusion, is none the less a powerful incentive to the soul, human nature being what it is. But you see what will be the consequences of that error in which you stand; it will precipitate your soul into all manner of folly, when shame, and fear, even reason, that now acts as some check on passion, and the knowledge of truth itself shall all have disappeared. _Petrarch._ I have already told you you were wasting your time. My own remembrance tells mo that I have never loved anything to be ashamed of, and, on the contrary, have ever loved what is most noble. _S. Augustine._ Even noble things may be loved in a shameful way; it is beyond doubt. _Petrarch._ Neither in the object of love nor in the manner of loving am I guilty. So you may as well give up tormenting me. _S. Augustine._ Well, well! Do you wish, like those with fever on the brain, to die laughing and joking? Or will you rather take some remedy for your mind so pitiable and so far from its true health? _Petrarch._ I will not refuse a remedy if you will prove to me that I am ill, but, when a man is quite well, to begin taking remedies is often fatal. _S. Augustine._ As soon as you have reached the stage of convalescence you will perceive quickly enough, as men generally do, that you have been seriously ill. _Petrarch._ After all, I cannot but show deference to one who often in the past, and especially in these last two days, has given me proof how good were his counsels. So please go on. _S. Augustine._ In the first place I ask you to forgive me if, compelled by the subject, I have to deal severely with what has been so delightful to you. For I cannot but foresee that the truth will sound bitterly in your ears. _Petrarch_. Just one word before you begin. Do you thoroughly know the matter you are to touch upon? _S. Augustine._ I have gone into it all carefully beforehand. It is about a mortal woman, in admiring and celebrating whom you have, alas! spent a large part of your life. That a mind like yours should have felt such an insensate passion and for so long a time does greatly astonish me. _Petrarch_. Spare your reproaches, I pray. Thais and Livia were both mortal women; but you should be aware that she of whom you have set out to speak is a mind that has no care for things of earth, and burns only with the love of what is heavenly. In whose face, unless truth is an empty word, a certain divine loveliness shines out; whose character is the image and picture of perfect honour; whose voice and the living expression of whose eyes has nothing mortal in it; whose very form and motion is not as that of others. Consider this again and again, I entreat you, and I trust you may have understanding in what words to speak. _S. Augustine._ Ah! out of all reason have you grown! Have you then for sixteen long years been feeding: with false joys this flame of your heart? Of a truth not longer did Italy once suffer the assaults of her most famous enemy, the great Hannibal; nor did she then endure more frequent onsets of her would-be lover, nor was consumed with more furious fires. You to-day carry within you as hot a flame of passion, you endure as fierce stings. Yet was there found one who forced him to retreat and, though late, to take his leave! But who shall expel this invader from your soul if you yourself forbid him to depart; if you of your own will invite him to stay long with you; if you, unhappy as you are, delight in your own calamity? Far other will be your thoughts when the fatal day shall come that will close for ever those eyes that are now so pleasing to you to look upon; when you shall see that face and those pale limbs changed by death; then you will be filled with shame to have so knit your mortal affections to a perishing body such as this, and what now you so obstinately maintain you will then blush to remember. _Petrarch_. Heaven forbid any such misery. I shall not see your threats fulfilled. _S. Augustine_. They will inevitably come to pass. _Petrarch_. I know it. But the stars in their courses will not so fight against me as to prevent the order of Nature by hastening her death like that. First came I into this world and I shall be first to depart. _S. Augustine._ I think you will not have forgotten that time when you feared the contrary event, and made a song of your beloved as if she were presently to die, a song full of moving sorrow. _Petrarch._ Certainly I remember very well, but the thought that filled me then with grief, and the memory of which makes me shiver, was a jealous indignation at the bare possibility of my outliving her who is the best part of my life and whose presence makes all its sweetness. For that is the motive of that song; I remember it well, and how I was overcome with tears. Its spirit is still with me, if with you perchance are the words. _S. Augustine._ I was not complaining how many tears the fear of her death made you shed, nor of how much grief you felt. I was only concerned that you should realise how this fear of yours in the past may certainly return; and more easily, in that every day is a step nearer to death, and that that fair form, worn by sicknesses and the bearing of many children, has already lost much of its first strength. _Petrarch._ I also am borne down with cares and am worn with age, and in that onward path towards death I have outrun her whom I love. _S. Augustine._ What folly it is to calculate the order of death by that of birth! For what are those sad lamentations of the old but because of the early deaths of their young children? What is it that yonder aged nurse is grieving over but that she sees the loss of her little nursling-- "Whom some dark day Has stripped of his sweet life; and cruel fate Snatched from his mother's breast and covered him In a too early grave."[2] In your own case the small number of years by which you have preceded her gives you a very uncertain hope that you will be gone before the fire of your passion shall be extinguished; and yet you indulge the fiction that this order of Nature is unchangeable. _Petrarch_. Not exactly unchangeable, but I pray without ceasing that it may not be changed, and whenever I think of death I remember Ovid's line-- "Late may her time arrive, and after mine."[3] _S. Augustine._ I can listen to these trifles no more; but since you now admit that she may possibly die before you, I ask what should you say if she really were dead? _Petrarch_. What should I say but that such a calamity would be the climax of all my miseries? Yet I should try and comfort myself with what was past. But may the winds bear away the words from our lips and the hurricane scatter such an omen to the ends of the earth! _S. Augustine._ Ah, blindfold one! you see not yet what foolishness it is so to subject your soul to things of earth, that kindle in it the flames of desire, that have no power to give it rest, that cannot endure; and, while promising to charm you with their sweetness, torment you with perpetual agitations. _Petrarch_. If you have any more effectual remedy, I beg you will point it out. You will never frighten me with talk like this; for I am not, as you suppose, infatuated with any creature that is mortal. You might have known that I have loved her physical charm loss than her soul, that what has captivated me has been a life above that of ordinary lives, the witnessing of which has shown me how the blessed live above. Therefore, since you inquire of me (and the mere question is a torture to listen to) what I should do supposing she were to leave me and be the first to die--well, I should try and console myself in sorrow with Lælius, the wisest of the Romans. With him I should say, "It is her goodness that I loved and that is not dead;" and I would say to myself those other words that he pronounced after the death of him for whom he had conceived an affection surpassing all common affection.[4] _S. Augustine._ You retire to Error's inaccessible fastness, and it will not be easy to dislodge you. But as I notice you are inclined to listen much more patiently to the truth about yourself and her, sing the praises of your darling lady as much as you will, and I will gainsay nothing. Were she a queen, a saint-- "A very goddess, or to Apollo's self Own sister, or a mother of the nymphs,"[5] yet all her excellence will in nowise excuse your error. _Petrarch_. Let us see what fresh quarrel you seek with me? _S. Augustine._ It is unquestionably true that oftentimes the loveliest things are loved in a shameful way. _Petrarch._ I have already met that insinuation on a previous occasion. If any one could see the image of the love that reigns in my heart, he would recognise that there is no difference between it and that face that I have praised indeed much, but less by far than it deserves to be praised. I call to witness the spirit of Truth in whose presence we are speaking when I assert that in my love there has never been anything dishonourable, never anything of the flesh, never anything that any man could blame unless it were its mere intensity. And if you add that even so it never passed the line of right, I think a fairer thing could never be conceived. _S. Augustine._ I might reply to you with a word of Cicero and tell you, "You are talking of putting boundary lines in vice itself."[6] _Petrarch_. Not in vice, but in love. _S. Augustine_. But in that very passage he was speaking of love. Do you remember where it occurs? _Petrarch._ Do I remember indeed? Of course I have read it in the _Tusculans_. But he was speaking of men's common love; mine is one by itself. _S. Augustine._ Other people, I fancy, might say the same of theirs; for true it is that in all the passions, and most of all in this, every man interprets his own case favourably, and there is point in the verse though from a common poet-- "To every man his lady, Then one to me assign; To every man his love affairs, And so let me have mine!"[7] _Petrarch._ Would you like, if you have time, to hear me tell you a few of those many charms of hers that would strike you with astonishment and admiration? _S. Augustine._ Do you think I am ignorant of all "Those pleasant dreams that lovers use to weave"? Every schoolboy knows the line, but I confess I am ashamed to hear such silliness from the lips of one whose words and thoughts should seek a higher range. _Petrarch._ One thing I will not keep silence on,--call it silliness, call it gratitude, as you please,--namely, that to her I owe whatever I am, and I should never have attained such little renown and glory as I have unless she by the power of this love had quickened into life the feeble germ of virtue that Nature had sown in my heart. It was she who turned my youthful soul away from all that was base, who drew me as it were by a grappling chain, and forced me to look upwards. Why should you not believe it? It is a sure truth that by love we grow like what we love. Now there is no backbiter alive, let his tongue be as sharp as it may, that has ventured to touch her good name, or dared to say he had seen a single fault, I will not say in her conduct, but even in any one of her gestures or words. Moreover, those whisperers who leave no one's reputation untouched if they can help it, have been obliged in her, case to utter only reverence and respect. It is no wonder, then, if such a glory as hers should have fostered in my heart the longing for more conspicuous glory, and should have sweetened those hard toils which I had to endure if I would attain that which I desired. What were all the wishes of my youth but solely to please her who above all others had pleased me? And you are not ignorant that to gain my end I scorned delights a thousand times, I gave myself before my time to labour and to cares without number; and now you bid me forget or diminish somewhat of my love for her who first taught me how to escape the vulgar crowd, who guided all my steps, spurred on my lagging mind, and wakened into life my drowsy spirit. _S. Augustine._ Poor man! you would have done better to be silent than to speak, although even if you had been silent I should have discerned what you are within. But such stout words as these stir my indignation and anger. _Petrarch._ I wonder why? _S. Augustine._ To have a false opinion shows ignorance, but to keep on boldly proclaiming it shows pride as well as ignorance. _Petrarch_. Suppose you try and prove that what I think and say is false. _S. Augustine._ It is all false; and, first, what you say as to owing all you are to her. If you mean that she has made you what you are, there you certainly lie; but if you were to say that it is she. who has prevented you being any more than you are, you would speak the truth. O what long contention would you have been spared if by the charm of her beauty she had not held you back. What you are you owe to the bounty of Nature; what you might have been she has quite cut off, or rather let me say you yourself have cut it off, for she indeed is innocent. That beauty which seemed so charming and so sweet, through the burning flame of your desire, through the continual rain of your tears, has done away all that harvest that should have grown from the seeds of virtue in your soul. It is a false boast of yours that she has held you back from base things; from some perhaps she may, but only to plunge you into evils worse still. For if one leads you from some miry path to bring you to a precipice, or in lancing some small abscess cuts your throat, he deserves not the name of deliverer but assassin. Likewise she whom you hold up as your guide, though she drew you away from some base courses, has none the less overwhelmed you in a deep gulf of splendid ruin. As for her having taught you to look upwards and separate yourself from the vulgar crowd, what else is it than to say by sitting at her feet you became so infatuated with the charm of her above as to studiously neglect everything else? And in the common intercourse of human life what can be more injurious than that? when you say she has involved you in toils without number, there indeed you speak truth. But what great gain is there in that? When there are such varied labours that a man is perforce obliged to engage in, what madness is it of one's own accord to go after fresh ones! As for your boasting that it is she who has made you thirst for glory, I pity your delusion, for I will prove to you that of all the burdens of your soul there is none more fatal than this. But the time for this is not yet come. _Petrarch_. I believe the readiest of warriors first threatens and then strikes. I seem, however, to find threat and wound together. And already I begin to stagger. _S. Augustine_. How much more will you stagger when I deliver my sharpest thrust of all? Forsooth that woman to whom you profess you owe everything, she, even she, has been your ruin. _Petrarch._ Good Heavens! How do you think you will persuade me of that? _S. Augustine._ She has detached your mind from the love of heavenly things and has inclined your heart to love the creature more than the Creator: and that one path alone leads, sooner than any other, to death. _Petrarch._ I pray you make no rash judgment. The love which I feel for her has most certainly led me to love God. _S. Augustine._ But it has inverted the true order. _Petrarch._ How so? _S. Augustine._ Because 'every creature' should be dear to us because of our love for the Creator. But in your case, on the contrary, held captive by the charm of the creature, you have not loved the Creator as you ought. You have admired the Divine Artificer as though in all His works He had made nothing fairer than the object of your love, although in truth the beauty of the body should be reckoned last of all. _Petrarch._ I call Truth to witness as she stands here between us, and I take my conscience to witness also, as I said before, that the body. of my lady has been less dear to me than her soul. The proof of it is here, that the further she has advanced in age (which for the beauty of the body is a fatal thunderstroke) the more firm has been my admiration; for albeit the flower of her youth has withered visibly with time, the beauty of her soul has grown with the years, and as it was the beginning of my love for her, even so has it been its sustainer. Otherwise if it had been her bodily form which attracted me, it was, ere this, time to make a change. _S. Augustine._ Are you mocking me? Do you mean to assert that if the same soul had been lodged in a body ill-formed and poor to look upon, you would have taken equal delight therein? _Petrarch._ I dare not say that. For the soul itself cannot be discerned, and the image of a body like that would have given no indication of such a soul. But were it possible for the soul to be visible to my gaze, I should most certainly have loved its beauty even though its dwelling-place were poor. _S. Augustine._ You are relying on mere words; for if you are only able to love that which is visible to your gaze, then what you love is the bodily form. However, I deny not that her soul and her character have helped to feed your flame, for (as I will show you before long) her name alone has both little and much kindled your mad passion; for, as in all the affections of the soul, it happens most of all in this one that oftentimes a very little spark will light a great fire. _Petrarch._ I see where you would drive me. You want to make me say with Ovid-- "I love at once her body and her soul."[8] _S. Augustine._ Yes, and you ought to confess this also, that neither in one or the other case has your love been temperate or what it should be. _Petrarch._ You will have to put me to the torture ere I will make any such confession. _S. Augustine._ And you will allow that this love has also cast you into great miseries. _Petrarch._ Though you place me on the block itself, I will not acknowledge any such thing. _S. Augustine._ If you do not ignore my questions and conclusions, you will soon make both those confessions. Tell me, then, can you recall the years when you were a little child, or have the crowding cares of your present life blotted all that time out? _Petrarch._ My childhood and youth are as vividly before my eyes as if they were yesterday. _S. Augustine._ Do you remember, then, how in those times you had the fear of God, how you thought about Death, what love you had for Religion, how dear goodness and virtue were to you? _Petrarch._ Yes, I remember it all, and I am sorry when I see that as my years increased these virtues grew less and less in me. _S. Augustine._ For my part I have ever been afraid lest the wind of Spring should cut that early blossom off, which, if only it might be left whole and unhurt, would have produced a wondrous fruitage. _Petrarch._ Pray do not wander from the subject; for what has this to do with the question we were discussing? _S. Augustine._ I will tell you. Recall each step in your life, since your remembrance is so complete and fresh; recall all the course of your life, and recollect at what period this great change you speak of began. _Petrarch._ I have run over in my mind all the course and number of my years. _S. Augustine._ And what do you find? _Petrarch._ I see that the doctrine in the treatise of Pythagoras, of which I have heard tell and have read, is by no means void of truth. For when travelling the right road, still temperate and modest, I had reached the parting of the ways and had been bidden to turn to the right hand, whether from carelessness or perversity I know not, behold I turned to the left; and what I had read in my boyhood was of no profit to me-- "Here the ways part: the right will thee conduct To the walled palace of the mighty King And to Elysium, but the left will lead Where sin is punished and the malefactor Goes to his dreaded doom."[9] Although I had read of all this before, yet I understood it not until I found it by experience. Afterwards I went wrong, in this foul and crooked pathway, and often in mind went back with tears and sorrow, yet could not keep the right way; and it was when I left that way, yes, that was certainly the time when all this confusion in my life began. _S. Augustine_. And in what period of your age did this take place? _Petrarch._ About the middle of my growing youth. But if you give me a minute or two, I think I can recall the exact year when it took place. _S. Augustine_. I do not ask for the precise date, but tell me about when was it that you saw the form and feature of this woman for the first time? _Petrarch._ Never assuredly shall I forget that day. _S. Augustine._ Well now, put two and two together; compare the two dates. _Petrarch._ I must confess in truth they coincide. I first saw her and I turned from my right course at one and the same time. _S. Augustine._ That is all I wanted. You became infatuated. The unwonted dazzle blinded your eyes, so I believe. For they say the first effect of love is blindness. So one reads in the poet most conversant with Nature-- "At the first sight was that Sidonian dame Blinded," and then he adds presently-- "With love was Dido burning."[10] And though, as you well know, the story is but on ancient fable, yet did the Poet in making it follow the order of Nature. And when you had been struck blind by this meeting, if you chose the left-hand path it was because to you it seemed more broad and easy; for that to the right is steep and narrow, and of its hardship you were afraid. But that woman so renowned, whom you imagine as your most safe guide, wherefore did not she direct you upward, hesitating and trembling as you were? Why did she not take you by the hand as one does the blind, and set you in the way where you should walk? _Petrarch_. She certainly did so, as far as it was in her power. What but this was in her heart when, unmoved by my entreaties, unyielding to my caress, she safeguarded her woman's honour, and in spite of her youth and mine, in spite of a thousand circumstances that would have bent a heart of adamant, she stood her ground, resolute and unsubdued? Yes, this womanly soul taught me what should be the honour and duty of a man; and to preserve her chastity she did, as Seneca expresses it-- "What was to me at once an example and a reproach."[11] And at last, when she saw the reins of my chariot were broken and that I was rushing to the abyss, she chose rather to part from me than follow where I went. _S. Augustine_. Base desires, then, sometimes you felt, though not long since you denied it? But it is the common folly of lovers, let me say of mad folk. One may say of them all alike-- "I would not, yet I would; I would, yet would not."[12] You know not, any of you, what you want or what you want not. _Petrarch_. Without seeing, I fell into the snare. But if in past days my feelings were other than they are now, love and youth were the cause. Now I know what I wish and what I desire, and I have at last made firm my staggering soul. She for her part has ever been firm in her mind and always the same. The more I understand this woman's constancy, the more I admire it; and if sometimes I regretted her resolution, now I rejoice in it and give her thanks. _S. Augustine._ It is not easy to believe a man who has once taken you in. You may have changed the outside fashion of your life, but have not yet persuaded me that your soul is also changed. If your flame is calmed and softened somewhat, yet it is not for certain quite put out. But you who set such price on her you love, do you not see how deeply by absolving her you condemn yourself? You delight in seeing in her the model of purity, and you avow yourself to be without any feeling and a criminal; and you protest that she is the most happy of women, while her love has made you the most unhappy of men. If you remember, it is just what I said at the beginning. _Petrarch._ Yes, I remember. I cannot deny that what you say is true, and I see whither you are gradually leading me. _S. Augustine._ To see it better still, lend me all your attention. Nothing so much leads a man to forget or despise God as the love of things temporal, and most of all this passion that we call love; and to which, by the greatest of all desecrations, we even gave the name of God, without doubt only that we may throw a heavenly veil over our human follies and make a pretext of divine inspiration when we want to commit an enormous transgression. In the case of the other passions, the sight of the object, the hope of enjoying it, and the ardour of the will take us captive. Love also demands all that, but in addition it asks also a reciprocal passion, without which it will be forced to die away. So, whereas in the other cases one loves singly and alone, in this case we must give love for love, and thus man's heart is stung and stung again. Therefore, Cicero was right when he wrote that "Of all the passions of the soul, assuredly the most violent is love,"[13] and he must have been very certain of his ground when he added that "assuredly"--he who in four books shows he was aware how Plato's Academy doubted everything.[14] _Petrarch_. I have often noticed that reference, and wondered that of the passions he should call this the most violent of all. _S. Augustine._ Your surprise would have vanished if you had not lost your powers of memory. But I must recall you by a short admonition to a recollection of its many evils. Think what you were when that plague seized upon your soul; how suddenly you fell to bemoaning, and came to such a pitch of wretchedness that you felt a morbid pleasure in feeding on tears and sighs. Passing sleepless nights, and murmuring ever the name of your beloved, scorning everything, hating life, desiring death, with a melancholy love for being alone, avoiding all your fellow-men, one might well apply to you, for they exactly fit your case, the lines in which Homer describes Bellerophon-- "There in the pleasant fields he wandered sad, Eating his heart, far from the ways of men."[15] What meant that pale face and wasted figure? that flower of your age withering before its time, those heavy eyes, ever bathed in tears, your mind in a state of agitation, your broken rest and troubled moans, even when you were asleep? Why was your voice weak and altered through your sorrow of heart, and the very sound of your words, indistinct and broken, with whatever other token can be imagined, of a heart distressed and in disorder? Do you call these the signs of one in good health? Was it not this lady with whom for you every day, whether feast or fast, began and ended? Was it not at her coming the sun shone forth, and when she left you, night returned? Every change of her countenance brought a change in your heart; and if she were sad, you forthwith were filled with sadness. In a word, your life became wholly dependent upon hers. You know that I say but what is true and what is in every one's mouth. And what could be more senseless than that, not content with the presence of her living face, the cause of all your woes, you must needs obtain a painted picture by an artist[16] of high repute, that you might carry it everywhere with you, to have an everlasting spring of tears, fearing, I suppose, lest otherwise their fountain might dry up? Of all such things you were only too vigilant, and you neglected everything else. But to come to that which is the very crowning instance of your folly, and of which I gave you warning a little while ago, who could sufficiently utter his indignation and amazement at this sign of a distempered mind, that, infatuated as much by the beauty of her name as of her person, you have with perfectly incredible silliness paid honour to anything that has the remotest connection with that name itself? Had you any liking for the laurel of empire or of poetry, it was forsooth because the name they bore was hers; and from this time onwards there is hardly a verse from your pen but in it you have made mention of the laurel, as if indeed you were a denizen of Peneus' stream,[17] or some priest on Cirrha's[18] Mount. And finally, discovering that the laurel of empire was beyond your reach, you have, with as little self-restraint as you showed in the case of your beloved herself, now coveted the laurel of Poetry of which the merit of your works seemed to give more promise. Although to gain your reward you were borne up on the wings of genius, yet will you shudder to remember with what trouble you attained it. I clearly divine what excuse you will make, and I see your thought the moment you open your lips. You will allege that you were devoted to these studies some time before you became a lover at all, and that desire for the glory of the poet's crown had kindled your heart from childhood. I neither deny it or forget it; but the fact of the usage being obsolete for centuries, and this being an epoch very unfavourable for studies like yours, the dangers also of long voyages, which would have brought you to the threshold of prison and of death itself, not to mention other obstacles of fortune no less violent than those--all these difficulties, I say, would perhaps have broken your resolve entirely, if the remembrance of a name so sweet, always entwining itself with your inmost soul, had not banished every other care, and drawn you over sea, over land, across mountains of difficulty, to Rome and to Naples, where at length you attained what you had longed for with such ardour. If all this seems to you the token of but a moderate passion, then at least shall be quite certain you are the victim of the moderate delusion. I purposely leave out what Cicero was not ashamed to imitate from Terence when he wrote, "Wrongs, suspicions, fierce quarrels, jealousies, war, and then again peace--behold the miseries of love." Do you not recognise at once in his words the madness and, above all, the madness of jealousy which, as one knows too well, is the ruling power in love as love is the ruling passion among all others? Perhaps you may reply: "I admit it is so, but reason will be there to temper such excess." Terence himself had anticipated your answer when he added-- "Such fickle things to settle by sane rule Is to be sanely insane."[19] The phrase, the truth of which you will scarcely question, puts an end, unless I am mistaken, to all those subterfuges of yours. Such, then, are the miseries of love, the particulars of which it is needless to mention to those who have proved them, and which would not be believed by those who never tried. But the worst of them all, to come back to our subject, is that it engenders a forgetfulness of God and of man's real state. For how should the soul thus crushed beneath these weights ever arise to that one and only most pure fountain of true Good? And since it is so, you may lay aside your wonder that Cicero should tell us no passion of man's soul seemed to him more violent than love. _Petrarch_. I must own myself beaten; for it appears all you have said is taken from the very heart of the book of experience. And as you have quoted from the play of Terence, let me please myself by bringing from there also this sad complaint-- "O deed of shame! now am I foil of woe. Weary I burn with love; with open eyes, Brain clear, I am undone; and what to do I know not."[20] I would also call to mind this counsel from the same poet's words-- "Think, while there's time, again and yet again."[21] _S. Augustine._ And I likewise from the lips of Terence will give you my reply-- "What in itself contains no rule or reason, By rule or reason you can never hold."[22] _Petrarch._ What is to be done, then? Am I to despair? _S. Augustine._ That is the last thing in the world to do. However, let me briefly tell you the remedy I propose. You know that on this subject there are not only special treatises compiled by philosophers of eminence, but that some of the most famous poets have written on it whole books. It would be almost an insult to point out which they are, above all, to you who are a past-master in the whole field, or to offer any advice as to reading them; but perhaps I might say a word without offence to suggest in what way their study might be applied for your own welfare. First, then, notice what is said by Cicero-- "Some think that an old love can best be driven out by a new, as one nail is by another."[23] And Ovid agrees, giving this general rule-- "Old love affairs must always yield to new."[24] And without a doubt it is the truth, for the mind thus divided and parcelled out between different objects feels itself moved with less force towards each one. So the river Ganges, they tell us, was divided up by the Persian king into countless channels, and this river, that was so deep and formidable, was cut up into a thousand inconsiderable streamlets. And so an army, broken up and scattered, becomes vulnerable by the enemy; so Fire dispersed dies down; in a word, every power in the world, if concentrated, increases, but by dispersion is reduced. On the other hand, I think this is not to be overlooked, that there may be great danger when you lay aside a passion and, if one may say so, a passion of the nobler kind; you may, if you are not watchful, fall into dissipation of another sort, run after women and become a loose libertine. In my judgment, then, if one must die for certain, there is some consolation in dying of a nobler rather than a less noble wound. So if you ask my advice, it is this: Take your courage in both hands. Fly, if you possibly can; and I would even say, go from one prison to another; perchance you might escape by the way or else find a milder discipline to be under. Only beware, when your neck is freed from one such yoke as this, that you place it not under the weight of a crowd of more base and vile oppressions. _S. Petrarch._ While the doctor is finishing his advice, will he allow the patient, in the throes of his malady, to interrupt him for a minute? _Augustine._ Of course. Why not? Many a doctor, guided by the symptoms of his patient thus declared, has been able to find the very remedy he needed. _Petrarch._ Then what I want to say is just this: For me to love another is impossible. My mind has grown only to love her; my eyes to look only for her; excepting her, all to them is nothing, or is mere darkness. And so if your remedy is that in order to be healed of this love I should love another, your condition is an impossible one. In that case all is over, and I am lost. _S. Augustine._ Your senses are dulled, your appetite is lost; since then you can take no internal remedy, one must have recourse to other treatment and see what can be done by change of scene. Can you bring your mind to think of flight or exile and going right away from the places that you know? _Petrarch_. Though I feel that her attraction draws me to her with hooks of steel, nevertheless if I have to go, I can. _S. Augustine_. If you can, you will be safe. What else can I say, then, but this advice of Virgil's, changing only two little words-- "Ah! flee this land beloved, and leave behind shore to thee so dear."[25] For how can you continue in safety in these scenes where there are so many memories of your wounds, where things present and the memory of things past cling always to you? So that I say, as Cicero also advises, "Seek change of scene; take care to do as one does who is recovering from some illness."[26] _Petrarch_. Think of what you are prescribing. For how often and often, longing to get well, and familiar with advice like this, have I tried this remedy of flight; and though I have feigned various other reasons for it, yet the end and aim of all my peregrinations and all my retirement to the country was this one thing--to become free! For that I have wandered far away to the West, to the North, to the very confines of the ocean. Far and wide have I roamed. You see what good it has done me. And so Virgil's simile has many a time come home to my heart,-- "E'en as the stricken deer, that unaware Rooming afar in pleasant groves of Crete, The hunter pierces with his weapon keen. And she unknowing o'er Mount Dicte's side Flees wounded, and the fatal arrow cleaves To her poor side."[27] I am even as that deer. I have fled, but I bear everywhere my wound with me. _S. Augustine._ Yourself have given me the answer for which you look. _Petrarch._ How so? _S. Augustine_. Why, do you not see that if a man bears his wound with him, change of scone is but an aggravation of his pain and not a means of healing it? One might say your case is just that of the young man who complained to Socrates that he had been a tour and it had done him no good whatever. "You went touring with yourself,"[28] said the Sage. You must first break off the old load of your passions; you must make your soul ready. _Then_ you must fly. For it is proved to demonstration, not only in things physical but in moral also, that unless the patient is well disposed, the doctor's help is in vain. Otherwise were you to go to the far-off Indies, you will find that Horace only spoke truth when he said-- "Who cross the ocean making peace their goal, Change but their sky and cannot change their soul." Or thus-- "We come to this; when o'er the world we range, 'Tis but our climate, not our mind, we change."[29] _Petrarch_. I must say I cannot follow you. You give me a prescription to cure and heal my soul and tell me I must first heal it and then flee. Now, my difficulty is I do not know how to heal it. If it is cured, what more do I need? But if, again, it is not cured, what good will change of scene bring me? The help you offer me is useless. Tell me briefly what are the remedies I must use? _S. Augustine._ I did not say that you must cure and heal your soul. What I said was you must make it ready. As for the rest, either you will be cured, and the change of scene will then establish your health on a firm footing; or you will not yet be cured, but only made ready, and then the change of scene will have the same ultimate result. But, if your soul is neither cured nor made ready, this change and frequent moving from place to place will only stir up its grief. I will still advise you to take a leaf out of Horace's book-- "For if the cure of mental ills is due To sense and wisdom, not a fine sea view,"[30] --what he says is true. You will set out full of the hope and the wish to return, carrying along with you all that has ensnared your soul. In whatever place you are, to whatever side you turn, you will behold the face, you will hear the voice of her whom you have left. By that sad enchantment that belongs to lovers, you will have power to see her though you are absent, and to hear her though she is far away; and do you imagine that love is to be extinguished by subterfuges like this? Believe me, it will rather burn more fiercely. Those who call themselves masters in the art of love enjoin among their other maxims short absences one from another on the part of lovers, for fear they should become tired of seeing each other face to face or from their importunity. Therefore I advise, I recommend, I enjoin upon you that you learn to wholly sever your soul from that which weighs it down and go away without hope of return. You will discover then, but not before, what absence is able to do for the soul's healing. If fate had placed your lot in some unhealthy plague-stricken region where you were liable to constant illness, should you not flee from it never to return? And so I counsel you to do now, unless, as I much fear, men care more for their body than their soul. _Petrarch_. That is their affair. But undoubtedly if I found myself ill on account of the unhealthiness of the place I was in, I should choose for my recovery some place with a healthier climate, and I should act in the same way, and with stronger reasons still, in case of maladies of the soul. Yet, as far as I can see, the cure of these is a more difficult matter. _S. Augustine_. The united testimony of the greatest philosophers proves the falsity of that assertion. It is evident that all the maladies of the soul can be healed if only the patient puts no obstacle in the way, although many diseases of the body are incurable by any known means. For the rest, and not to go too far from our subject, I stick to my judgment. You must, as I said, make your soul ready, and teach it to renounce the object of its love, never once to turn back, never to see that which it was wont to look for. This is the only sure road for a lover; and if you wish to preserve your soul from ruin, this is what you must do. _Petrarch._ That you may see how perfectly I have learned all you have said, let me recapitulate that to go for change of scene is useless, unless the soul is first made ready; such journeys will cure it when made ready, and will establish it when once cured. Is not that the conclusion of your threefold precept? _S. Augustine._ Yes, it is precisely that, and you sum up very well what I have unfolded. _Petrarch._ I could have divined your two first truths by myself, without you pointing them out; but as for the third, that the soul, when it is cured and established in health, still needs absence, I do not understand it, unless it is the fear of a relapse that is the motive of what you say. _S. Augustine._ But you surely do not suppose that to be a slight point even in bodily health? And how much more grave a matter ought one to think it in regard to the soul, where a relapse is so much more rapid and dangerous. So I would say, let us refer once more to what seems one of the soundest remarks of Seneca, where in a letter he writes, "If any man wishes to have done with love he must avoid all recollection of the beloved form," and adds as his reason, "For nothing is so easily rekindled to life again as love."[31] O how true a saying is that, and from what profound experience of life is he speaking! But it is needless to call any other witness of this than your own knowledge will supply. _Petrarch._ Yes, I agree he speaks truth, but if you notice he is speaking not of one who already has done with love, but of one who wishes to have done with it. _S. Augustine_. He speaks of any man who is in danger. Any kind of blow is more dangerous if there is some wound before unhealed, or some disease not yet cured; and even afterwards it is not safe. And since we remember most, instances that have come home to us in our own experience, let me ask how often have you who speak to me not found yourself, as you went about these well-known spots, by their mere look, though no person met you, reminded of your former vanities; standing speechless, full of sighs, as you pace this town that has been, I will not say the cause, but at any rate the scene of all your evils; though before you came back to it you thought you were cured, and would have been to a very great extent if only you had remained away? And then with difficulty restraining your tears, half-wounded to death, you have fled, and cried to your own heart, "Here in these places I see at every turn the ambush of my ancient foe. The signs of death are ever about me!" So, then, were you healed already, if you would take counsel of me, I should say, "Do not stay long in this place. It is not wise for the prisoner who has broken his chains to go wandering round the prison gates, ever ready to take him in again, before which the jailer is ever on guard, laying his traps with special care to recapture those whose escape he regrets. "The downward path to hell is ever smooth, Its dismal gate is open night and day."[32] If precautions like these are needful for men in health, how much more are they in the case of those who have not yet shaken off their sickness. It is of the latter that Seneca was thinking when he wrote that maxim. He was giving counsel to those who were most in danger, for it was no use to speak of those whom the flame had already devoured and who were past all care for their safety. He addressed himself to those in another stage, who still felt the heat but tried to come forth of the flame. Many a sick man on the way to recovery has been thrown back by a draught of water which before his illness would have done him no harm; and often has one wearied out, with a long day's work, been knocked down by some trifling shake which when he was in his full strength would not have moved him at all. It needs but a trifle sometimes, when the soul is emerging from its miseries, to plunge it quite back once more into the abyss. To see the purple on the shoulders of another will rouse again all our sleeping ambition; the sight of a little pile of money sets up our thirst for gold; one look at some fair lady will stir again our desire; the light glance of an eye will awaken sleeping love. It is no wonder plagues like these take possession of your minds, when you see the madness of the world; and when once they have found their way back to the soul, they come with fatal ease. And since it is so, it is not enough merely to leave a plague-stricken spot, but you, O man, must keep on in your flight for life, till you have escaped everything that might drag the soul back to its old passions; for fear lest, when you return from the pit with Orpheus and look back, you lose your Eurydice once more. Such is the sum of my counsel. _Petrarch_. I accept it heartily and with thankfulness, for I feel that the remedy is suited to my wound. My intention is to fly, but I know not yet where lies the direction I should choose. _S. Augustine._ A thousand ways are open to you to make choice of on every side; a thousand ports are ready to receive you. I know that, more than to other lands, your heart turns to Italy, and that a love of your native soil is inborn in you; and you are right, for-- "Not Media's forests rich, nor Ganges' stream, Though fair it be, nor Hermus rolling gold, May vie with Italy; Bactria and Ind, And all Pachaia with its odours rare Shall not be mentioned."[33] I think you have yourself not long ago, in a letter to one of your friends,[34] treated this theme of the famous Poet at fuller length in a Latin poem. Italy then would be my choice for you; because the ways of its people, its climate, the sea washing its shores, the Apennine range coming between them, all promise that a sojourn there would be better suited to extirpate your troubles than going anywhere else in the world. I would not, however, wish to confine you only to one corner of the land. Go under good auspices wherever inclination may lead; go without fear and with a free mind; take no backward glances, forget the past and step forward to the future. See how long you have been a stranger to your own country and your own self. It is time to return, for-- "O now 'tis evening, and the night Is chiefly friend to thieves."[35] I warn you in words of your own. One further counsel I must urge which I had nearly forgotten. You must avoid solitude, until you are quite sure that you have not a trace of your old ailment left. You told me that a country life had done you no good. There is nothing surprising in that. What remedy were you likely to find in a place all lonely and remote? Let me confess that often when you were retreating thither all by yourself, sighing, and turning longing eyes back to the town, I have laughed heartily and said to myself: "What a blindfold fool love has made of this unhappy wight! and led him to quite forget the verse that every schoolboy knows, about flying from his trouble and finding his death." _Petrarch_. I am afraid you are right, but what are the lines to which you allude? _S. Augustine._ Ovid, of course. "Lover! whoe'er you be, dwell not alone; In solitude you're sure to be undone. You're safer in a crowd; the word is true, Lone woods are not the place for such as you."[36] _Petrarch_. Yes, I remember them perfectly, and knew them almost by heart from my childhood. _S. Augustine._ Much good has it done you to know so many things yet not know how to suit them to your need. When you not only know all the testimony of the ancients, but have yourself proved the evils of solitude, it astonishes me that you should commit such a blunder as to seek it. You have, in fact, often complained that there was no good in being alone. You have expressed it in a thousand places, and especially in the fine poem you composed on your own misfortune. The sweet accents of it charmed me while you were writing.[37] It surprised me to hear a song so harmonious arise from a soul so full of agitation, and come from the lips of a man so far out of his senses and I asked myself what power of love can stay the offended Muses from abandoning so dire a nest of troubles, and, scared by such aberration of mind in their host, forsaking utterly their wonted dwelling? I thought of words of Plato, "Let no man wholly sane knock at Poe try'd door," and then of Aristotle, who followed him and said, "All great genius has a touch of madness in it,"[38] but I remembered that in these sayings of theirs they were thinking of a frenzy far indeed removed from yours. However, we will return to this subject at some other time. _Petrarch_. I must fain own what you say is the truth; but I never thought to have made verses so harmonious as to be worth your praise and commendation. They will be all the dearer to me now that I know it. If you have other remedy to offer me, I beg you withhold it not from him who is in need. _S. Augustine_. To unfold all one knows is the act of a braggart more than of a wise friend. And remember that men did not invent all the sundry kinds of remedies, internal and external, for diverse kinds of sickness, on purpose that each and every one should be tried on every occasion; but that, as Seneca remarks to Lucilius, "Nothing is so contrary to the work of healing as a frequent change of remedy; and no wound will ever be healed perfectly, to which first one and then another medicine is continually applied. The true way is only to try the new when the old remedy has failed."[39] So, then, although the remedies for this kind of ailment are many and varied, I will content myself with only pointing out a few, and I will choose those which in my judgment will best suit your need. For indeed, I have no wish merely to show you what is new, but only to tell you, of all those which are known, what remedies, so far as I can judge, are most likely in your case to be efficacious. There are three things, as Cicero says, that will avert the mind of man from Love,--Satiety, Shamefastness, Reflection.[40] There may indeed be more; there may be less. But, to follow the steps of so great an authority, let us suppose there are three. It will be useless for me to speak of the first in your case, because you will judge it is impossible you should ever come to satiety of your love. But still if your passion will hear the voice of reason and judge the future from the past, you will readily agree that an object, even the most beloved, can produce, I do not say satiety only, but even weariness and disgust. Now, as I am quite sure I should be entering on a vain quest if I embark on this track, because, even if it were granted that satiety is a possible thing, and that it kills love, you will pretend that by the ardour of your passion you are a thousand leagues removed from any such possibility, and, as I am not at all disposed to deny it, what remains is for me to touch only upon the other two remedies that are left. You will not wish to dispute my assertion that Nature has endowed you with a certain power of reason, and also with some talent for forming a weighty judgment. _Petrarch._ Unless I am deceived by acting as judge in my own cause, what you say is so true that I am often inclined to fear I am too wanting in what is due both to my sex and this age; wherein, as you doubtless observe, everything goes to the shameless. Honours, prosperity, wealth--all these hold the field; and to these, virtue itself, nay even fortune, must give way.[41] _S. Augustine._ Do you not see what conflict there is between Love and Shamefastness? While the one urges the soul forward, the other holds it back; the one drives in the spur, the other pulls hard at the bridle; the one looks at nothing, the other watches carefully on every side. _Petrarch_. This is only too familiar to me, and I feel to my cost how distracted is my life by passions so contrary. They come upon me by turn, so that my poor spirit, tossed hither and thither, knows not which impulse to obey. _S. Augustine._ Do you mind telling me if you have looked in your glass lately? _Petrarch._ And, pray, what do you ask that question for? I have only done as usual. _S. Augustine._ Heaven grant you do it no oftener, neither with more self-complacency, than you should! Well, and have you not noticed that your face is changing from day to day, and that from time to time grey hairs begin to show themselves around your temples? _Petrarch._ Is that all? I thought you were about to ask me something out of the common; but to grow up, to grow old, to die is the common lot of all that are born. I have observed what befalls almost all my contemporaries; for nowadays men seem to age more quickly than they used to, though I know not why or wherefore. _S. Augustine._ The growing old of others will not give you back your youth, neither will their dying bring you immortality. So let us leave on one side everything else and return to your own case. Tell me; when you have noticed these signs of change in your body, has it not brought some change also in your soul? _Petrarch._ It has certainly made some impression on me, but not exactly a change. _S. Augustine._ What, then, were your thoughts, and what did you say to yourself? _Petrarch._ What would you have me say, except what was said by Domitian the Emperor, "With even mind I brook the sight of watching, though still young, my hairs grow grey."[42] So illustrious an example has consoled me for what grey hairs I too behold. And if I needed more, I brought to mind a king beside that emperor; I mean Numa Pompilius the Second, who, as the historian relates, had grey hair even from his youth. And Poetry as well as History comes to my aid, since in his Bucolics our own Virgil, writing when he was but five-and-twenty, speaking of himself in the person of a shepherd, exclaims-- "When now my whitening beard the razor knew."[43] _S. Augustine._ What vast abundance of examples you can command! Pray heaven you have as many recollections of your own death. For I praise not those exemplars that lead one to dissemble grey hairs which are the heralds of old age, and the _avant-couriers_ of Death. And good those examples are not, if their effect is to take you off the trouble of remembering how time flies, and to lead you to forget your own last hour; to the recollection of which the whole of my discourse is entirely and without ceasing directed. When I bid you think on your own whitening forehead, do you quote me a crowd of famous men whose locks were white also? What does it prove? Ah, if you were able to say these were immortal, then you might from their example put away the dread of your changing brow. If instead of mentioning greyness I had ventured to hint that you were getting bald, you would, I suppose, have thrown Julius Cæsar in my teeth! _Petrarch_. Certainly. What more illustrious example could I need? Now, unless I am mistaken, it is in fact a great comfort to find oneself surrounded by companions so famous. Yes, I will freely admit that I am not disposed for a moment to reject such examples, which are, for me, part of the luggage I carry daily in my mind; for it is a pleasure to me not only in such misfortunes as Nature or chance have already allotted me, but also in those which they may still have in store; it is a pleasure, I say, to have ever at hand such matter of comfort and consolation as I can obtain only from some truly cogent reason or outstanding example. If, then, you meant to reproach me for being afraid of thunder--a charge I could not deny (and one of the chief reasons why I love the laurel is because it is said that thunder will not strike this tree), then I shall reply to you that this was a weakness Cæsar Augustus shared; if you allege that I am getting blind (and there also you would be right), I should quote you Appius Cæcus and also Homer, the Prince of Poets; if you call me one-eyed, I will, shield myself behind Hannibal, the Punic leader, or Philip, King of Macedon; call me deaf, and Marcus Crassus shall be my defence; say I cannot stand the heat, and I will say I am but like Alexander, Prince of Macedonia. It were tedious to go through all the list; but after these you can judge who they would be. _S. Augustine._ Yes, perfectly. I am nowise displeased with your wealth of instances, provided it does not make you self-negligent and only serves to disperse the clouds of fear and sadness. I applaud anything that helps a man to face with courage the coming of old age, and keeps him from bewailing its presence when it has arrived. But I loathe and abominate profoundly everything that conceals from him the truth that old age is the port of departure from this life, and blinds him to the need of reflecting on death. To take with equanimity the going grey before one's time is the sign of a good natural disposition; but to try and interpose artificial checks, to cheat time of his years, to raise an outcry and declare grey hairs are come too soon, to begin dyeing or plucking them out, is a piece of folly, which, common as it may be, is none the less egregious for all that. You perceive not, O blind that you are, how swiftly the stars roll in their course, and how soon the flight of time consumes the space of your short life, and you marvel when you see old age coming on, hastening quickly the despatch of all your days. Two causes seem to foster this delusion. The first is that even the shortest life is partitioned out by some people into four, by others into six, and by others again into a still larger number of periods; that is to say, the reality is so small, and as you cannot make it longer, you think you will enlarge it by division. But of what profit tis all this dividing? Make as many particles as you like, and they are all gone in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye. "Yesterday was born the baby, See to-day the lovely boy, Then the young man quick as may be, Then an end of life and joy." You observe with what quick hurrying words the subtle poet has sketched out the swift course of our life. So it is in vain you strive to lengthen out what Nature, the mother of us all, has made so short. The second cause is that you will persist in letting old age find you still in the midst of games and empty pleasures; like the old Trojans who in their customary ways passed the last night without perceiving. "The cunning, fatal horse, who bore within Those armed bands, had overleapt the wall Of Pergamos."[44] Yes, even so you perceive not that old age, bringing in his train the armed warrior Death, unpitying and stem, has over-leapt the weakly-guarded rampart of your body; and then you find your foe has already glided by stealth along his rope-- "And now the invader climbs within the gate And takes the city in its drunken sleep."[45] For in the gross body and the pleasure of things temporal, not less drunk are you than those old Trojans were, as Virgil saw them, in their slumber and their wine. Or, looking to another quarter, no less truth is to be found in the neat lines of the Satirist-- "Our lives unfold in morning air As lilies of a day, 'Come bring us wine,' we shout. 'Ho, there, Fetch garlands, odours, damsels fair.' But ah! before we are aware, Old Age sweeps all away."[46] Now, to come back to our subject and to yourself, when this old age comes stealing on and knocks at your door, you make an effort to bar him out. You pretend that by some infraction of the order of Nature he has come too soon. You are delighted when you come across some rather elderly person who declares he knew you when you were a child, especially if, as people generally do, he makes out it was but yesterday or the day before. You find it convenient to forget that one can say as much about any old dotard however decrepit. Who was not a child yesterday, or to-day, as far as that goes? We can look here and there and find infants of ninety quarrelling about trifles and even now occupied with infantine toys. The days flee away, the body decays, the soul is where it was. Though everything is rotten with age, the soul has never grown up, never come to maturity, and it is a truth, as the proverb says, "One soul uses up many bodies." Infancy passes, but, as Seneca remarks, "childishness remains."[47] And, believe me, perhaps you are not so young as you imagine, for the greater part of mankind have not yet reached the age which you have. Blush, therefore, to pass for an aged lover; blush to be so long the Public's jest; and if true glory has no charm for you and ridicule no terror, at least let change of heart come to the rescue and save you from disgrace. For, if I see things at all truly, a man should guard his reputation, if only to spare his own friends the shameful necessity of telling lies. All the world owes this to itself, but especially such a man as yourself, who have so great a public to justify, and one which is always talking of you. "Great is the task to guard a great man's name."[48] If in your poem of _Africa_ you make a truculent enemy tender such good counsel to your beloved Scipio, you may well allow, for your own profit, a father, who loves you tenderly, to utter with his lips the very same monition. Put away the childish things of infancy; quench the burning desires of youth; think not all the time of what you are going to be and do next; look carefully what you are now; do not imagine that the mirror has been put before your eyes for nothing, but remember that which is written in the Book of Questions on Nature:-- "Mirrors were invented that men might know themselves. Much profit comes thereby. First, knowledge of self; second, wise counsel. You are handsome, then beware of what disfigures: plain, then make up by virtue what is wanting in good looks. You are young, then remember youth's springtime is the time for study and for manly work: old, then lay aside the ugly vices off the flesh and turn your thoughts to what will be the latter end."[49] _Petrarch_. It has dwelt in my remembrance always, from the first day that ever I read it; for the thing itself is worth remembering and its warning is wise. _S. Augustine._ Of what profit has it been to you to read and remember? You had better excused yourself had you pleaded ignorance for your shield. Knowing what you do, are you not ashamed to see that your grey hairs have brought no change in you? _Petrarch._ I am ashamed, I regret it, I repent of it, but as for doing more, I cannot. Moreover, you know I have this much of consolation, that she too is growing old with me. _S. Augustine._ The very word of Julia, Cæsar Augustus' daughter! Doubtless it has lain fixed in your mind, has it not? When her father found fault because she would not have older people round her, as did Livia, she parried the paternal reproof by the neat rejoinder--"They will be older as soon as I am."[50] But pray, tell me, do you suppose that at your age it will be more becoming to doat upon an old woman than to love a young one? On the contrary, it is the more unbecoming, as the reason for loving is less. Well may you take shame to yourself never to grow any wiser though you see your body daily growing older. That is all I can say on the subject of shame. But, as Cicero tells us, it is but a poor thing to make shame do the work of reason; and so to reason, the true source of all remedies, let us now turn for help. You will assuredly find it through using deep Reflection--the third of the things that turn the soul away from love. Remember what you are now called to is that citadel wherein alone you can be quite safe against the incursions of passion and by which alone you will deserve the name of Man. Consider, then, first how noble a thing is the soul, and that so great is it that were I to discourse as I should wish, I must needs make a whole book thereon. Consider, again, the frailty and vileness of the body, which would demand no less full treatment than the other. Think also of the shortness of our life, concerning which many great men have left their books. Think of the flight of time, that no one yet has been able to express in words. Think of Death, the fact so certain, the hour so uncertain, but everywhere and at all times imminent. Think how men are deceived just in this one point, that they believe they can put off what in fact never can be put off: for no one is really such a fool as, supposing the question is asked him, not to answer that of course some day he will die. And so let not the hope of longer life mock you, as it mocks so many others, but rather lay up in your heart the verse that seems as it were an oracle of heaven-- "Count every day that dawns to be your last,"[51] For is it not so that to mortal men every day is in truth the last, or all but the last? Consider, moreover, how shameful it is to have men point the finger at you, and to become a public laughing-stock; remember, too, how ill your profession accords with a life like this. Think how this woman has injured your soul, your body, your fortune. Remember what you have borne for her, all to no purpose: how many times you have been mocked, despised, scorned; think what flatteries, what lamentations, and of all the tears you have cast upon the wind; think how again and again she has heaped all this on you with an air of haughty disdain, and how if for a moment she showed herself more kind, it was but for the passing of a breath and then was gone. Think, moreover, how much you have added to her fame, and of what she has subtracted from your life: how you have ever been jealous for her good name, but she has been always regardless of your very self and condition. Remember how she has turned you aside from loving God, and into how great miseries you have fallen, known to me, but which I pass in silence lest the birds of the air carry the matter abroad. Think, moreover, what tasks on all sides are claiming your attention, and by which you may do far more good and deserve far more honour: how many things you have on hand, as yet uncompleted, to which it would be far better for you to return, and devote more time, instead of attempting them so perfunctorily as you have en doing lately. Finally, ponder well what that thing is for which you have such consuming desire. But think like a man and with your wits about you; for fear lest while you are in the act of flying you be cunningly entangled, as not a few have been when Beauty's fascinating charm steals upon them by some little, unlooked-for channel, and then is fed and strengthened by evil remedies. For how be there that have once tasted this seductive pleasure and can retain enough manliness, not to say courage, to rate at its true value that poor form of woman of which I speak. Only too easily Man's strength of mind gives way, and with nature pressing on, he falls soonest on that side to which he has long leaned. Take most earnest heed that this happen not to you. Banish every recollection of those old cares of yours: put far away from you every vision of the past, and, as one has said in a certain place, "dash the little children against the stones,"[52] lest if they grow up you yourself be cast into the mire. And defer not to knock at Heaven's door with prayers; let your supplications weary the ears of the heavenly King; day and night lift up your petition with tears and crying, if perchance the Almighty will take compassion upon you and give an end to your sore trouble and distress. These are the things that you must do, these the safeguards you must employ; if you will observe them faithfully the Divine Help will be at hand, as I trust; and the right hand of the Deliverer whom none can resist will succour you. But albeit I have spoken on this one malady what is too short for your needs but too long for the briefness of our time, let us pass now to another matter. One evil still is left, to heal you of which I now will make a last endeavour. _Petrarch._ Even so do, most gentle Father. For though I be not yet wholly set free from my burdens, yet, nevertheless, from great part of them I do feel in truth a blessed release. _S. Augustine._ Ambition still has too much hold on you. You seek too eagerly the praise of men, and to leave behind you an undying name. _Petrarch._ I freely confess it. I cannot beat down that passion in my soul. For it, as yet, I have found no cure. _S. Augustine_. But I greatly fear lest this pursuit of a false immortality of fame may shut for you the way that leads to the true immortality of life. _Petrarch._ That is one of my fears also, but I await your discovering to me the means to save my life; you, of a truth, will do it, who have furnished me with means for the healing of evils greater still. _S. Augustine_. Think not that any of your ills is greater than this one, though I deny not that some may be more vile. But tell me, I pray you, what in your opinion is this thing called glory, that you so ardently covet? _Petrarch._ I know not if you ask me for a definition. But if so, who so capable to give one as yourself? _S. Augustine._ The name of glory is well enough known to you; but to the real thing, if one may judge by your actions, you are a stranger. If you had known what it is you would not long for it so eagerly. Suppose you define glory, with Cicero, as being "the illustrious and world-wide renown of good services rendered to one's fellow citizens, to one's country, or to all mankind"; or as he expresses it elsewhere, "Public opinion uttering its voice about a man in words of praise."[53] You will notice that in both these cases glory is said to be reputation. Now, do you know what this reputation is? _Petrarch._ I cannot say any good description of it occurs to me at the moment; and I shrink from putting forward things I do not understand. I think, therefore, the truer and better course is for me to keep silence. _S. Augustine_. You act like a wise and modest man. In every serious question, and especially when the matter is ambiguous, one should pay much less attention to what one will say than to what one will not say, for the credit of having said well is something much less than the discredit of having said ill. Now I submit to you that reputation is nothing but talk about some one, passing from mouth to mouth of many people. _Petrarch._ I think your definition, or, if you prefer the word, your description, is a good one. _S. Augustine_. It is, then, but a breath, a changing wind; and, what will disgust you more, it is the breath of a crowd. I know to whom I am speaking. I have observed that no man more than you abhors the manners and behaviour of the common herd. Now see what perversity is this! You let yourself be charmed with the applause of those whose conduct you abominate; and may Heaven grant you are only charmed, and that you put not in their power your own everlasting welfare! Why and wherefore, I ask, this perpetual toil, these ceaseless vigils, and this intense application to study? You will answer, perhaps, that you seek to find out what is profitable for life. But you have long since learned what is needful for life and for death. What was now required of you was to try and put in practice what you know, instead of plunging deeper and deeper into laborious inquiries, where new problems are always meeting you, and insoluble mysteries, in which you never reach the end. Add to which the fact that you keep toiling and toiling to satisfy the public; wearying yourself to please the very people who, to you, are the most displeasing; gathering now a flower of poesy, now of history--in a word, employing all your genius of words to tickle the ears of the listening throng. _Petrarch_. I beg your pardon, but I cannot let that pass without saying a word. Never since I was a boy have I pleased myself with elegant extracts and flowerets of literature. For often have I noted what neat and excellent things Cicero has uttered against butchers of books, and especially, also, the phrase of Seneca in which he declares, "It is a disgrace for a man to keep hunting for flowers and prop himself up on familiar quotations, and only stand on what he knows by heart."[54] _S. Augustine._ In saying what I did, I neither accuse you of idleness nor scant memory. What I blame you for is that in your reading you have picked out the more flowery passages for the amusement of your cronies, and, as it were, packed up boxes of pretty things out of a great heap, for the benefit of your friends--which is nothing but pandering to a desire of vainglory; and, moreover, I say that, not being contented with your duty of every day (which, in spite of great expense of time, only promised you some celebrity among your contemporaries), you have let your thoughts run on ages of time and given yourself up to dreams of fame among those who come after. And in pursuit of this end, putting your hand to yet greater tasks, you entered on writing a history from the time of King Romulus to that of the Emperor Titus, an enormous undertaking that would swallow up an immensity of time and labour. Then, without waiting till this was finished, goaded by the pricks of your ambition for glory, you sailed off in your poetical barque towards Africa; and now on the aforesaid books of your _Africa_ you are hard at work, without relinquishing the other. And in this way you devote your whole life to those two absorbing occupations--for I will not stop to mention the countless others that come in also--and throw utterly away what is of most concern and which, when lost, cannot be recovered. You write books on others, but yourself you quite forget. And who knows but what, before either of your works be finished, Death may snatch the pen from your tired hand, and while in your insatiable hunt for glory you hurry on first by one path, then the other, you may find at last that by neither of them have you reached your goal? _Petrarch._ Fears of that kind have sometimes come over me, I confess. And knowing I suffered from grave illness, I was afraid death might not be far off. Nothing then was more bitter to me than the thought of leaving my _Africa_ half finished. Unwilling that another hand should put the finishing touch, I had determined that with my own I would cast it to the flames, for there was none of my friends whom I could trust to do me this service after I was gone. I knew that a request like that was the only one of our Virgil's which the Emperor Cæsar Augustus declined to grant. To make a long story short, this land of Africa, burnt already by that fierce sun to which it is for ever exposed, already three times by the Roman torches devastated far and wide, had all but yet again, by my hands, been made a prey to the flames. But of that we will say no more now, for too painful are the recollections that it brings. _S. Augustine._ What you have said confirms my opinion. The day of reckoning is put off for a short time, but the account remains still to be paid. And what can be more foolish than thus to waste such enormous labour over a thing of uncertain issue? I know what prevents you abandoning the work is simply that you still hope you may complete it. As I see that there will be some difficulty (unless I am mistaken) in getting you to diminish this hope, I propose we try to magnify it and so set it out in words that you will see how disproportionate it is to toils like yours. Suppose, therefore, that you have full abundance of time, leisure, and freedom of mind; let there be no failure of intellect, no languor of body, none of those mischances of fortune which, by checking the first onrush of expression, so often stop the ready writer's pen; let all things go better even than you had dared to wish--still, what considerable work do you expect to achieve? _Petrarch._ Oh, certainly, one of great excellence, quite out of the common and likely to attract attention. _S. Augustine._ I have no wish to seem contradictory: let us suppose it may be a work of great excellence. But if you knew of what greater excellence still is the work which this will hinder, you would abhor what you now desire. For I will go so far as to assert that this work of yours is, to begin with, taking off your attention from cares of a nobler kind; and, greatly excellent as you think it, has no wide scope nor long future before it, circumscribed as it must be by time and space. _Petrarch._ Well do I know that old story bandied about by the philosophers, how they declare that all the earth is but a tiny point, how the soul alone endures for infinite millions of years, how fame cannot fill either the earth or the soul, and other paltry pleas of this sort, by which they try to turn minds aside from the love of glory. But I beg you will produce some more solid arguments than these, if you know any; for experience has shown me that all this is more specious than convincing. I do not think to become as God, or to inhabit eternity, or embrace, heaven and earth. Such glory as belongs to man is enough for me. That is all I sigh after. Mortal myself, it is but mortal blessings I desire. _S. Augustine._ Oh, if that is what you truly mean, how wretched are you! If you have no desire for things immortal, if no regard for what is eternal, then you are indeed wholly of the earth earthy: then all is over for you; no hope at all is left. _Petrarch._ Heaven defend me from such folly! But my conscience is witness, and knows what have been my desires, that never have I ceased to love with burning zeal the things eternal. I said--or if, perchance, I am mistaken, I intended to say--that my wish was to use mortal things for what they were worth, to do no violence to nature by bringing to its good things a limitless and immoderate desire, and so to follow after human fame as knowing that both myself and it will perish. _S. Augustine._ There you speak as a wise man. But when you declare you are willing to rob yourself of the riches that will endure merely for the sake of what you own is a perishing breath of applause--then you are a fool indeed. _Petrarch_. True, I may be postponing those riches, but not relinquishing them altogether. _S. Augustine._ But how dangerous is such delay, remembering that time flies fast and how uncertain our short life is. Let me ask you a question, and I beg you to answer it. Suppose that He who alone can fix our time of life and death were this day to assign you one whole year, and you had the definite certainty of how would you propose to use that year? _Petrarch_. Assuredly I should use great economy of time, and be extremely, careful to employ it on serious things; and I suppose no man alive would be so insolent or foolish as to answer your question in any other way. _S. Augustine._ You have answered rightly. And yet the folly men display in this case is matter of astonishment, not to me only but to all those who have ever written on this subject. To set forth what they feel, they have combined every faculty they possess and employed all their eloquence, and even then the truth itself will leave their utmost efforts far behind. _Petrarch._ I fear I do not understand the motive of so great astonishment. _S. Augustine._ It is because you are covetous of uncertain riches and altogether wasteful of those which are eternal, doing the very contrary of what you ought to do, if you were not quite devoid of wisdom. So this space of a year, though short enough indeed, being promised you by Him who deceives not, neither is deceived, you would partition out and dissipate on any kind of folly, provided you could keep the last hour for the care of your salvation! The horrible and hateful madness of you all is just this, that you waste your time on ridiculous vanities, as if there were enough and to spare, and though you do not in the least know if what you have will be long enough for the supreme necessities of the soul in face of death. The man who has one year of life possesses something certain though short; whereas he who has no such promise and lies under the power of death (whose stroke may fall at any moment), which is the common lot of all men--this man, I say, is not sure of a year, a day; no, not even of one hour. He who has a year to live, if six months shall have slipped away, will still have another half-year left to run; but for you, if you lose the day that now is, who will promise you to-morrow?[55] It is Cicero who says: "It is certain that we must die: what is uncertain is whether it will be to-day; and there is none so young that-he can be sure he will live until the evening."[56] I ask, then, of you, and I ask it likewise of all those who stand gaping after the future and pay no heed to the present, "Who knows if the high gods will add even one morrow to this your little day of life?"[57] _Petrarch_. If I am to answer for myself and for all: No one knows, of a truth. But let us hope for a year at least; on which, if we are still to follow Cicero, even the most aged reckons! _S. Augustine._ Yes; and, as he also adds, not old men only but young ones too are fools in that they cherish false hope, and promise themselves uncertain goods as though they were certain.[58] But let us take for granted (what is quite impossible) that the duration of life will be long and assured: still, do you not find it is the height of madness to squander the best years and the best parts of your existence on pleading only the eyes of others and tickling other men's ears, and to keep the last and worst--the years that are almost good for nothing--that bring nothing but distaste for life and then its end--to keep these, I say, for God and yourself, as though the welfare of your soul were the last thing you cared for? Even supposing the time were certain, is it not reversing the true order to put off the best to the last? _Petrarch._ I do not think my way of looking at it is so unreasonable as you imagine. My principle in that, as concerning the glory which we may hope for here below, it is right for us to seek while we are here below. One may expect to enjoy that other more radiant glory in heaven, when we shall have there arrived, and when one will have no more care or wish for the glory of earth. Therefore, as I think, it is in the true order that mortal men should first care for mortal things; and that to things transitory things eternal should succeed; because to pass from those to these is to go forward in most certain accordance with what is ordained for us, although no way is open for us to pass back again from eternity to time. _S. Augustine._ O man, little in yourself, and of little wisdom! Do you, then, dream that you shall enjoy every pleasure in heaven and earth, and everything will turn out fortunate and prosperous for you always and everywhere? But that delusion has betrayed thousands of men thousands of times, and has sunk into hell a countless host of souls. Thinking to have one foot on earth and one in heaven, they could neither stand here below nor mount on high. Therefore they fell miserably, and the moving breeze swept them suddenly away, some in the flower of their age, and some when they were in midst of their years and all their business. And do you suppose what has befallen so many others may not befall you? Alas! if (which may God forefend!) in the midst of all your plans and projects you should be cut off--what grief, what shame, what remorse (then too late!) that you should have grasped at all and lost all! _Petrarch._ May the Most High in His mercy save me from that misery! _S. Augustine._ Though Divine Mercy may deliver a man from his folly, yet it will not excuse it. Presume not upon this mercy overmuch. For if God abhors those who lose hope, He also laughs at those who in false hope put their trust. I was sorry when I heard fall from your lips that phrase about despising what you called the old story of the philosophers on this matter. Is it, then, an old story, pray, by figures of geometry, to show how small is all the earth, and to prove it but an island of little length and width? Is it an old story to divide the earth into five zones, the largest of which, lying in the centre, is burned by the heat of the sun, and the two utmost, to right and left, are a prey to binding frost and eternal snow, which leave not a corner where man can dwell; but those other two, between the middle and two utmost zones, are inhabited by man? Is it an old story that this habitable part is divided again into two parts, whereof one is placed under your feet, guarded by a vast sea, and the other is left you to inhabit everywhere, or, according to some authorities, is again in two parts subdivided, with but one part habitable and the other surrounded by the winding intricacies of the Northern Ocean, preventing all access to it? As to that part under your feet, called the antipodes, you are aware that for a long time the most learned men have been of two opinions whether it is inhabited or not: for myself, I have set forth my opinion in the book called _The City of God_, which you have doubtless read. Is it also an old story that your habitable part, already so restricted, is yet further diminished to such an extent by seas, marshes, forests, sand and deserts, that the little corner left you, of which you are so proud, is brought down to almost nothing? And, finally, is it an old story to point out to you that on this narrow strip, where you dwell, there are divers kinds of life, different religions which oppose one another, different languages and customs, which render it impossible to make the fame of your name go far? But if these things are to you nought but fables, so, to me, all I had promised myself of your future greatness must be a fable also; for I had thought, hitherto, that no man had more knowledge of these things than you yourself To say nothing of the conceptions of Cicero and Virgil and other systems of knowledge, physical or poetic, of which you seemed to have a competent knowledge, I knew that not long since, in your _Africa,_ you had expressed the very same opinions in these pretty lines-- "The Universe itself is but an isle Confined in narrow bounds, small, and begirt By Ocean's flowing waves."[59] You have added other developments later on, and now that I know you think them all fables, I am astonished you have put them forth with such hardihood. What shall I say now of the brief existence of human fame, the short, short span of time, when you know too well how small and recent even the oldest memory of man is if compared to eternity? I spare to call to your mind those opinions of the men of old, laid up in Plato's _Timæus_ and in the sixth book of Cicero's _Republic,_ where it is foretold what floods and conflagrations shall be coming not seldom on the earth. To many men such things have seemed probable; but they wear a different aspect to those who, like yourself, have come to know the true religion. And besides these, how many other things there are that militate against, I do not say the eternity, but even the survival of one's name. First there is the death of those with whom one has passed one's life; and that forgetfulness which is the common bane of old age: then there is the rising fame, ever growing greater, of new men; which always, by its freshness, is somewhat derogatory to that of those who went before, and seems to mount up higher just in so far as it can depress this other down. Then you must add, also, that persistent envy which ever dogs the steps of those who embark on any glorious enterprise; and the hatred of Truth itself, and the fact that the very life of men of genius is odious to the crowd. Think, too, how fickle is the judgment of the multitude. And alas for the sepulchres of the dead! to shatter which-- "The wild fig's barren branch is strong enough,"[60] as Juvenal has told us. In your own _Africa_ you call this, elegantly enough, "a second death"; and if I may here address to you the same words you have put in the mouth of another-- "The animated bust and storied urn Shall fall, and with them fall thy memory, And thou, my son, thus taste a second death."[61] Lo, then, how excellent, how undying that glory must be which the fall of one poor stone can bring to nought! And, then, consider the perishing of books wherein your name has been written, either by your own hand or another's. Even though that perishing may appear so much more delayed as books outlast monuments, nevertheless it is sooner or later inevitable; for, as is the case with everything else, there are countless natural or fortuitous calamities to which books are ever exposed. And even if they escape all these, they, like us, grow old and die-- "For whatsoever mortal hand has made, With its vain labour, shall be mortal too,"[62] if one may be allowed, for choice, to refute your childish error by your own words. What need to say more? I shall never cease to bring to your recollection lines of your own making which only too truly fit the case. "When your books perish you shall perish too; This is the third death, still to be endured."[63] And now you know what I think about glory. Perhaps I have used more words in expressing it than was needful for you or me; and yet fewer, I believe, than the importance of the subject demands--unless perchance you still think all these things only an old story? _Petrarch_. No indeed. What you have been saying--so far from seeming to me like old stories--has stirred in me a new desire to get rid of my old delusions. For albeit that these things were known to me long ago, and that I have heard them oftentimes repeated, since, as Terence puts it-- "Everything that one can say Has all been said before,"[64] nevertheless the stateliness of phrase, the orderly narration, the authority of him who speaks, cannot but move me deeply. But I have yet a last request to make, which is that you will give me your definite judgment on this point. Is it your wish that I should put all my studies on one side and renounce every ambition, or would you advise some middle course? _S. Augustine._ I will never advise you to live without ambition; but I would always urge you to put virtue before glory. You know that glory is in a sense the shadow of virtue. And therefore, just as it is impossible that your body should not cast a shadow if the sun is shining, so it is impossible also in the light of God Himself that virtues should exist and not make their glory to appear. Whoever, then, would take true glory away must of necessity take away virtue also; and when that is gone man's life is left bare, and only resembles that of the brute beasts that follow headlong their appetite, which to them is their only law. Here, therefore, is the rule for you to live by--follow after virtue and let glory take care of itself; and as for this, as some one said of Cato, the less you seek it the more you will find it. I must once more allow myself to invoke your own witness-- "Thou shalt do well from Honour's self to flee, For then shell Honour follow after thee."[65] Do you not recognise the verse? It is your own. One would surely think that man a fool who at midday should run here and there in the blaze of the sun, wearing himself out to see his shadow and point it out to others; now the man shows no more sense or reason who, amid the anxieties of life, takes huge trouble, first one way, then another, to spread his own glory abroad. What then? Let a man march steadily to the goal set before him, his shadow will follow him step by step: let him so act that he shall make virtue his prize, and lo! glory also shall be found at his side. I speak of that glory which is virtue's true companion; as for that which comes by other means, whether from bodily grace or mere cleverness, in the countless ways men have invented, it does not seem to me worthy of the name. And so, in regard to yourself, while you are wearing your strength out by such great labours in writing books, if you will allow me to say so, you are shooting wide of the mark. For you are spending all your efforts on things that concern others, and neglecting those that are your own; and so, through this vain hope of glory, the time, so precious, though you know it not, is passing away. _Petrarch._ What must I do, then? Abandon my unfinished works? Or would it be better to hasten them on, and, if God gives me grace, put the finishing touch to them? If I were once rid of these cares I would go forward, with a mind more free, to greater things; for hardly could I bear the thought of leaving half completed a work so fine and rich in promise of success. _S. Augustine._ Which foot you mean to hobble on, I do not know. You seem inclined to leave yourself derelict, rather than your books. As for me, I shall do my duty, with what success depends on you; but at least I shall have satisfied my conscience. Throw to the winds those great loads of histories; the deeds of the Romans have been celebrated quite enough by others, and are known by their own fame. Get out of Africa and leave it to its possessors. You will add nothing to the glory of your Scipio or to your own. He can be exalted to no higher pinnacle, but you may bring down his reputation, and with it your own. Therefore leave all this on one side, and now at length take possession of yourself; and to come back to our starting-point, let me urge you to enter upon the meditation of your last end, which comes on step by step without your being aware. Tear off the veil; disperse the shadows; look only on that which is coming; with eyes and mind give all your attention there: let nought else distract you. Heaven, Earth, the Sea--these all suffer change. What can man, the frailest of all creatures, hope for? The seasons fulfil their courses and change; nothing remains as it was. If you think you shall remain, you are deceived. For, Horace beautifully says-- "The losses of the changing Heaven, The changing moons repair; But we, when we have gone below, And our rich land no longer know, And hear no more its rivers flow, Are nought but dust and air."[66] Therefore, as often as you watch the fruits of summer follow the flowers of spring, and the pleasant cool of autumn succeed the summer heat, and winter's snow come after autumn's vintage, say to yourself: "The seasons pass, yet they will come again; but I am going, never again to return." As often as you behold at sunset the shadows of the mountains lengthening on the plain, say to yourself: "Now life is sinking fast; the shadow of death begins to overspread the scene; yonder sun to-morrow will again be rising the same, but this day of mine will never come back." Who shall count the glories of the midnight sky, which, though it be the time that men of evil heart choose for their misdoing, yet is it to men of good heart the holiest of all times? Well, take care you be not less watchful than that admiral of the Trojan fleet;[67] for the seas you sail upon are no more safe than his; rise up at the mid hour of night, and "All the stars, that in the silent sky Roll on their way, observe with careful heed."[68] As you see them hasten to their setting in the west, think how you also are moving with them; and that as for your abiding you have no hope, saving only in Him who knows no change and suffers no decline. Moreover, when you meet with those whom you knew but yesterday as children, and see them now growing up in stature to their manhood, stage by stage, remember how you in like manner, in the same lapse of time, are going down the hill, and at greater speed, by that law in nature under which things that are heavy tend to fall. When your eyes behold some ancient building, let your first thought be, Where are those who wrought it with their hands? and when you see new ones, ask, Where, soon, the builders of them will be also? If you chance to see the trees of some orchard, remember how often it falls out that one plants it and another plucks the fruit; for many a time the saying in the _Georgics_ comes to pass-- "One plants the tree, but eh, the slow-grown shade His grandchild will enjoy."[69] And when you look with pleased wonder at some swiftly flowing stream, then, that I bring no other poet's thought, keep ever in mind this one of your own-- "No river harries with more rapid flight Than Life's swift current."[70] Neither let multitude of days or the artificial divisions of time deceive your judgment; for man's whole existence, let it be never so prolonged, Is but as one day, and that not a day entire. Have oftentimes before your eyes one similitude of Aristotle's, whom I know to be a favourite of yours; and his words I am sure you never read or hear without feeling them deeply. You will find it reported by Cicero in the _Tusculan Orations_, and in words possibly even more clear and impressive than the original. Here is what he says, or very nearly so, for at the moment I have not his book at hand:-- "Aristotle tells us that on the banks of the river Hypanis, which on one side of Europe empties itself into the Euxine Sea, there exists a race of little animals who only live one day. Any one of them that dies at sunrise dies young; he that dies at noon is middle-aged; and should one live till sunset, he dies in old age: and especially is this so about the time of the solstice. If you compare the time of man's life with eternity, it will seem no longer than theirs."[71] So far I give you Cicero; but what he says seems to me so beyond all cavil that now for a long time the saying has passed from the tongue of philosophers into common speech. Every day you hear even ignorant and unlearned men, if they chance to see a little child, make use of some expression like this--"Well, well, it's early morning with him yet"; if they see a man they will say, "Oh, it's high noon with him now," or "He's well in the middle of his day"; if they see one old and broken down they will remark, "Ah! he's getting toward evening and the going down of the sun." Ponder well on these things, my very dear son, and on others akin to them, which will, I doubt not, flock into your thoughts, as these on the spur of the moment have come into mine. And one more thing I beseech you to have in mind: look at the graves of those older, perhaps, than you, but whom nevertheless you have known; look diligently, and then rest assured that the same dwelling-place, the same house, is for you also made ready. Thither are all of us travelling on; that is our last home. You who now, perchance, are proud and think that your springtime has not quite departed, and are for trampling others underfoot, you in turn shall underfoot be trampled. Think over all this; consider it by day and by night; not merely as a man of sober mind and remembering what nature he is of, but as becomes a man of wisdom, and so holding it all fast, as one who remembers it is written "A wise man's life is all one preparation for death."[72] This saying will teach you to think little of what concerns earthly things, and set before your eyes a better path of life on which to enter. You will be asking me what is that kind of life, and by what ways you can approach it? And I shall reply that now you have no need of long advice or counsel. Listen only to that Holy Spirit who is ever calling, and in urgent words saying, "Here is the way to your native country, your true home." You know what He would bring to mind; what paths for your feet, what dangers to avoid. If you would be safe and free obey His voice. There is no need for long deliberations. The nature of your danger calls for action, not words. The enemy is pressing you from behind, and hastening to the charge in front; the walls of the citadel, where you are besieged, already tremble. There is no time for hesitation. Of what use is it to make sweet songs for the ears of others, if you listen not to them yourself? I must draw to an end. Shun the rocks ahead, at all costs; drop anchor in a place of safety; follow the lead which the inspirations of your own soul give you. They may, on the side of what is evil, be evil; but towards that which is good they are themselves of the very best. _Petrarch_. Ah! would that you had told me all this before I had surrendered myself over to these studies! _S. Augustine._ I have told you, many a time and oft. From the moment when I saw you first take up your pen, I foresaw how short life would be, and how uncertain: how certain, too, and how long the toil. I saw the work would be great and the fruit little, and I warned you of all these things. But your ears were filled with the plaudits of the public, which, to my astonishment, took you captive, although you talked as if you despised them. But as we have now been conferring together long enough, I beg that if any of my counsels have seemed good to you, you will not allow them to come to nothing for want of energy or recollection; and if, on the other hand, I have sometimes been too rough, I pray you take it not amiss. _Petrarch_. Indeed I owe you a deep debt of gratitude, as for many other things, so, especially, for this three days' colloquy; for you have cleansed my darkened sight and scattered the thick clouds of error in which I was involved. And how shall I express my thankfulness to Her also, the Spirit of Truth, who, unwearied by our much talking, has waited upon us to the end? Had She turned away her face from us we should have wandered in darkness: your discourse had then contained no sure truth, neither would my understanding have embraced it. And now, as She and you have your dwelling-place in heaven, and I must still abide on earth, and, as you see, am greatly perplexed and troubled, not knowing for how long this must be, I implore you, of your goodness, not to forsake me, in spite of that great distance which separates me from such as you; for without you, O best of fathers, my life would be but one long sadness, and without Her I could not live at all. _S. Augustine._ You may count your prayer already granted, if you will only to yourself be true: for how shall any one be constant to him who is inconstant to himself? _Petrarch._ I will be true to myself, so far as in me lies. I will pull myself together and collect my scattered wits, and make a great endeavour to possess my soul in patience. But even while we speak, a crowd of important affairs, though only of the world, is waiting my attention. _S. Augustine._ For the common herd of men these may be what to them seem more important; but in reality there is nothing of more importance, and nothing ought to be esteemed of so much worth. For, of other trains of thought, you may reckon them to be not essential for the soul, but the end of life will prove that these we have been engaged in are of eternal necessity. _Petrarch._ I confess they are so. And I now return to attend to those other concerns only in order that, when they are discharged, I may come back to these. I am not ignorant that, as you said a few minutes before, it would be much safer for me to attend only to the care of my soul, to relinquish altogether every bypath and follow the straight path of the way of salvation. But I have not strength to resist that old bent for study altogether. _S. Augustine_. We are falling into our old controversy. Want of will you call want of power. Well, so it must be, if it cannot be otherwise. I pray God that He will go with you where you go, and that He will order your steps, even though they wander, into the way of truth. _Petrarch._ O may it indeed be as you have prayed! May God lead me safe and whole out of so many crooked ways; that I may follow the Voice that calls me; that I may raise up no cloud of dust before my eyes; and, with my mind calmed down and at peace, I may hear the world grow still and silent, and the winds of adversity die away. _Francis Petrarch, Poet, Most illustrious Orator; his Book, which he entitled Secretum; in which a Three days' Discussion concerning Contempt of the World is carried on._ Finis. [1] _De Senectute_, xxiii. [2] _Æneid_, vi. 428-29. [3] "Tarda sit illa dies et nostro serior ævo."--_Met._ xv. 868. [4] This refers to the second Scipio Africanus, and the words alluded to are these: "It is his goodness that I loved, and that is not dead; it lives not alone for me, who have had it ever before my eyes, but it will go down in all its beauty to those who come after. Whenever a man is meditating some great undertaking, or shall be nourishing in his breast great hopes, his shall be the memory, and his the image that such a man shall take for a pattern."--Cicero, _De Amicitiâ_, xxvii. [5] _Æneid,_ i. 328-29. [6] Cicero, _Tusculan Orations,_ iv. 18. [7] Quoted from Attilius in Cicero's _Letters to Atticus,_ xiv. [8] Ovid, _Amores_, I. x. 13. [9] _Æneid_, vi. 540-43. [10] _Æneid_, i. 613 [11] Seneca, _De Beneficiis,_ vii. 8. [12] Terence, _Phormio_, 949. [13] _Tusculan Orations_, iv. 35 [14] Academica. [15] Quoted from Tusculan Orations, iii. 26. [16] Simone Martini, of Siena. [17] A river in Thessaly. [18] A town in Phocis, near Delphi. [19] Terence, _Eunuch,_ 59-63. [20] Terence, _Eunuch,_ 70-73. [21] _Ibid.,_ 56. [22] _Ibid._ 57, 58. [23] _Tusculan Orations_, iv. 35. [24] _De Remediis Amoris,_ I. 162. [25] _Æneid,_ iii. 44. [26] _Tusculan Orations,_ iv. 35. [27] _Æneid_, iv. 69-73. [28] Seneca, _Epist._, xxviii. [29] Horace, _Epistles_, Book I., _Epist._, xi. 27 (Conington). [30] Horace, _Epist.,_ Book I., xi. 25-26 (Conington). [31] Seneca's _Epist.,_ lxiv. [32] _Æneid,_ vi. 126-27. [33] _Georgics,_ ii. 136-39. [34] Ildebrandino di Conte, Bishop of Padua, _Epist._ cxi. 25. [35] Petrarch's _Penitential Psalms,_ iii. (translated by George Chapman). [36] Ovid's _De Remediis Amoris_, 579-80. [37] Petrarch's _Epistles,_ i. 7. [38] Quoted in Seneca's treatise, _De Animæ tranquillitate_, xv. [39] Seneca's _Epistles,_ ii. [40] _Tusculan Orations,_ iv. 35. [41] The text here is obscure. [42] Suetonius Domitian, xviii. [43] Virgil, _Eclogues,_ i. 29. [44] _Æneid,_ vi. 615-16. [45] _Ibid.,_ ii. 265. [47] Seneca, _Epistles,_ iv. [48] Petrarch's _Africa_, vii. 292. [49] Seneca, _De Natura Quæstiones,_ i. 17. [50] Macrobius _Saturnalia,_ ii 5. [51] Horace, _Epistles_, i 4, 13. [52] PS. cxxxi. 9. [53] Cicero, _Pro Marcello_, viii. [54] Seneca, _Letters_. [55] _De Senectute_, xx. [56] _Ibid.,_ xix. [57] Horace, _Odes,_ iv. 7,17. [58] _De Senectute_, xix. [59] _Africa_, ii. 361, 363. [60] _Satira,_ x. 145. [61] _Africa,_ ii. 481, &c. [62] _Africa_, ii. 455-6. [63] _Ibid._, ii. 464-5. [64] Terence's _Eunuch,_ 41. [65] _Africa_, ii 486. [66] Horace, _Odes_, iv. 7, 13-16. [67] Palinurus. [68] <b>Æneid</b>, iii. 515. [69] _Georgics_, ii. 58. [70] Petrarch's Epist., I. iv. 91-2. [71] _Tusculan Orations_, i. 39. [72] _Tusculan Orations_, i. 30. 
52356	----	(Images generously made available by the Bodleian Libraries, Oxford.) ESSAYS AND DIALOGUES OF GIACOMO LEOPARDI. _TRANSLATED_ BY CHARLES EDWARDES. _With Biographical Sketch._ LONDON: TRÜBNER & CO., LUDGATE HILL. 1882. CONTENTS. BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH PRIZE COMPETITION OF THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER PARINI ON GLORY DIALOGUE BETWEEN RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI DIALOGUE BETWEEN COLUMBUS AND GUTIERREZ PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO COPERNICUS DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. "Manure with Despair, but let it be genuine, and you will have a noble harvest."--RAHEL. The name of Giacomo Leopardi is not yet a household word in the mouths of Englishmen. Few of us have heard of him; still fewer have read any of his writings. If known at all, he is probably coupled, in a semi-contemptuous manner, with other foreign representatives of a phase of poetic thought, the influence of which has passed its zenith. As a contemporary of Byron, Leopardi is perhaps credited with a certain amount of psychological plagiarism, and possibly disregarded as a mere satellite of the greater planet. But if this be so, it is unjust. His fame is his own, and time makes his isolation and grand individuality more and more prominent. What Byron and Shelley, Millevoye, Baudelaire and Gautier, Heine and Platen, Pouchkine and Lermontoff, are to England, France, Germany, and Russia respectively, Leopardi is, in a measure, to Italy. But he is more than this. The jewel of his renown is triple-faceted. Philology, poetry, and philosophy were each in turn cultivated by him, and he was of too brilliant an intellect not to excel in them all. As a philologist he astonished Niebuhr and delighted Creuzer; as a poet he has been compared with Dante; as a philosopher he takes high rank among the greatest and most original men of modern times. One of his biographers (Dovari: "Studio di G. Leopardi," Ancona, 1877) has termed him "the greatest philosopher, poet, and prose-writer of the nineteenth century." Though such eulogy may be, and doubtless is, excessive, the fact that it has been given testifies to the extraordinary nature of the man who is its subject. In Germany and France, Leopardi is perhaps as well known and highly appreciated as in Italy. His poems have been translated into the languages of those countries; and in France, within the last year, two more or less complete versions of his prose writings have appeared. Biographies, reviews, and lighter notices of the celebrated Italian are of repeated and increasing occurrence on the Continent. England, however, knows little of him, and hitherto none of his writings have been made accessible to the English reading public. The following brief outline of his life may in part help to explain the peculiarly sombre philosophical views which he held, and of which his works are chiefly an elaboration. Giacomo Leopardi was born at Recanati, a small town about fifteen miles from Ancona, on the 29th June 1798. He was of noble birth, equally on the side of his father and mother. Provided with a tutor at an early age, he soon left him far behind in knowledge; and when only eight years old, he discarded the Greek grammar he had hitherto used, and deliberately set himself the task of reading in chronological order the Greek authors of his father's library. It was due to his own industry, and his father's care, that later he acquired a perfect acquaintance with classical literature. In 1810 he received his first tonsure, in token of his dedication to the Church; but this early promise was not destined to be fulfilled. Before he was eighteen years of age Leopardi had attained recognised distinction for the amount and matter of his erudition. The mere catalogue of his writings--chiefly philological--by that time is of sufficient length to excite wonder, and their nature is still more surprising. Latin commentaries and classical annotations were apparently child's play to him. Writing in 1815 to the Roman scholar Cancellieri, who had noticed one of these classical productions, Leopardi says: "I see myself secured to posterity in your writings.... Commerce with the learned is not only useful, but necessary for me." He was only seventeen when he completed a task which represented the sum of all his early study. This was an "Essay on the Popular Errors of the Ancients," of considerable length (first published posthumously), in the course of which he cites more than four hundred authors, ancient and modern. A single extract will suffice to show that his youthful powers of expression were as precocious as his learning, though his judgment was doubtless at fault. He thus reviews the wisdom of the Greeks: "The philosophy of the ancients was the science of differences; and their academies were the seats of confusion and disorder. Aristotle condemned what Plato had taught. Socrates mocked Antisthenes; and Zeno scandalised Epicurus. Pythagoreans, Platonians, Peripatetics, Stoics, Cynics, Epicureans, Sceptics, Cyrenaics, Megarics, Eclectics scuffled with and ridiculed one another; while the truly wise laughed at them all. The people, left to themselves during this hubbub, were not idle, but laboured silently to increase the vast mound of human errors." He ends this Essay with a eulogy of the Christian religion: "To live in the true Church is the only way to combat superstition." Shortly afterwards, increasing knowledge, which Goethe has called "the antipodes of faith," enabled him to perceive that Roman Catholicism, the antidote which he then prescribed for superstition, was itself full charged with the poison he sought to destroy. In 1817 Leopardi made acquaintance by letter with Pietro Giordani, one of the leading literary men of the day, and a man of varied experience and knowledge. In his first letter Leopardi opens his heart to his new friend: "I have very greatly, perhaps immoderately, yearned for glory ... I burn with love for Italy, and thank Heaven that I am an Italian. If I live, I will live for literature; for aught else, I would not live if I could." (21st March 1817.) A month later, from the same source we are able to discern traces of that characteristic of Leopardi's temperament which by certain critics is thought to explain his philosophy. Writing to Giordani, he expatiates on the discomforts of Recanati and its climate; and proceeds:-- "Added to all this is the obstinate, black, and barbarous melancholy which devours and destroys me, which is nourished by study, and yet increases when I forego study. I have in past times had much experience of that sweet sadness which generates fine sentiments, and which, better than joy, may be said to resemble the twilight; but my condition now is like an eternal and horrible night. A poison saps my powers of body and mind."-- In the same letter he gives his opinion on the relative nature of prose and poetry. "Poetry requires infinite study and application, and its art is so profound, that the more you advance in proficiency, so much the further does perfection seem to recede.... To be a good prose writer first, and a poet later, seems to me to be contrary to nature, which first creates the poet, and then by the cooling operation of age concedes the maturity and tranquillity necessary for prose." (30th April 1817.) The correspondence between Leopardi and Giordani lasted for five years, and it is from their published letters that we are able to form the best possible estimate of Leopardi's character and aspirations. His own letters serve as the index of his physical and mental state. In them we trace the gradual failure of his health, the growth of sombreness in his disposition, and the change which his religious convictions underwent. During his twentieth year he suffered severely in mind and body. Forced to lay aside his studies, he was constantly a prey to ennui, with all its attendant discomforts. He thus writes to Giordani of his condition, in August 1817: "My ill-health makes me unhappy, because I am not a philosopher who is careless of life, and because I am compelled to stand aloof from my beloved studies.... Another thing that makes me unhappy, is thought. I believe you know, but I hope you have not experienced, how thought can crucify and martyrise any one who thinks somewhat differently from others. I have for a long time suffered such torments, simply because thought has always had me entirely in its power; and it will kill me unless I change my condition. Solitude is not made for those who burn and are consumed in themselves." (1st August 1817.) His mental activity was numbed by his physical incapacity; the two combined reduced him to a state of despair. There is a noble fortitude in the following words of another letter addressed to Giordani:-- "I have for a long time firmly believed that I must die within two or three years, because I have so ruined myself by seven years of immoderate and incessant study.... I am conscious that my life cannot be other than unhappy, yet I am not frightened; and if I could in any way be useful, I would endeavour to bear my condition without losing heart. I have passed years so full of bitterness, that it seems impossible for worse to succeed them; nevertheless I will not despair even if my sufferings do increase ... I am born for endurance." (2d March 1818.) Leopardi was now of age, and at the time of life when mans aspirations are keenest. He had repeatedly tried to induce his father to let him go forth into the world, and take his place in the school of intellect; but all his endeavours were in vain. Though seconded by Giordani, who some months before had become personally acquainted with his young correspondent during a visit of a few days to Casa Leopardi, the Count was resolute in refusing to grant his son permission to leave Recanati. Giacomo, driven to desperation, conceived a plan by which he hoped to fulfil his desire in spite of the paternal prohibition. The following extract from the Count's diary furnishes the gist of the matter, and also gives us some small insight into his own character:-- "Giacomo, wishing to leave the country, and seeing that I was opposed to his doing so, thought to obtain my consent by a trick. He requested Count Broglio to procure a passport for Milan, so that I might be alarmed on hearing of it, and thus let him go. I knew about it, because Solari wrote unwittingly to Antici, wishing Giacomo a pleasant journey. I immediately asked Broglio to send me the passport, which he did with an accompanying letter. I showed all to my son, and deposited the passport in an open cupboard, telling him he could take it at his leisure. So all ended." Thus the plot failed, and Giacomo was constrained to resign himself, as best he could, to a continuance of the "life worse than death" which he lived in Recanati. Two letters written in anticipation of the success of his scheme, one to his father, and the other to Carlo, his brother, are of most painful interest. They suggest unfilial conduct on his part, and unfatherly treatment of his son on the part of Count Monaldo. "I am weary of prudence," he writes in the letter to Carlo, "which serves only as a clog to the enjoyment of youth ... How thankful I should be if the step I am taking might act as a warning to our parents, as far as you and our brothers are concerned! I heartily trust you will be less unhappy than myself. I care little for the opinion of the world; nevertheless, exonerate me if you have any opportunity of doing so.... What am I? a mere good-for-nothing creature. I realise this most intensely, and the knowledge of it has determined me to take this step, to escape the self-contemplation which so disgusts me. So long as I possessed self-esteem I was prudent; but now that I despise myself, I can only find relief by casting myself on fortune, and seeking dangers, worthless thing that I am.... It were better (humanly speaking) for my parents and myself that I had never been born, or had died ere now. Farewell, dear brother." The letter to his father is in a different key. It is stern and severe, and contains reproofs, direct and inferential, for his apparent indifference to his sons' future prospects. Giacomo upbraids him with intentional blindness to the necessities of his position as a youth of generally acknowledged ability, for whom Recanati could offer no scope, or chance of renown. He goes on to say: "Now that the law has made me my own master, I have determined to delay no longer in taking my destiny on my own shoulders. I know that man's felicity consists in contentment, and that I shall therefore have more chance of happiness in begging my bread than through whatever bodily comforts I may enjoy here.... I know that I shall be deemed mad; and I also know that all great men have been so regarded. And because the career of almost every great genius has begun with despair, I am not disheartened at the same commencement in mine. I would rather be unhappy than insignificant, and suffer than endure tedium.... Fathers usually have a better opinion of their sons than other people; but you, on the contrary, judge no one so unfavourably, and therefore never imagined we might be born for greatness.... It has pleased Heaven, as a punishment, to ordain that the only youths of this town with somewhat loftier aspirations than the Recanatese should belong to you, as a trial of patience, and that the only father who would regard such sons as a misfortune should be ours." The relationship between Giacomo and his parents has been a vexed question with all his biographers, who, for the most part, are of the opinion that they had little sympathy with him in the mental sufferings he underwent. The Count has been called "despota sistematico" in the administration of his household; and the most favourably disposed writers have agreed to regard him as somewhat of a Roman father. But there does not seem to be sufficient evidence to support the theory that he was intentionally harsh and repressive to the extent of cruelty in his treatment of his children. He was an Italian of the old school, and as such his conduct was probably different from that of more modern Italian fathers; but that was all. In 1819, when his whole being was in a turmoil of disquiet, Leopardi made his début as a poet, with two Odes--the one addressed to Italy, and the other on the monument to Dante, then recently erected in Florence. The following literal translation of the first stanza of the Ode to Italy gives but a faint echo of the original verse:-- "O my country, I see the walls and arches, the columns, the statues, and the deserted towers of our ancestors; but their glory I see not, nor do I see the laurel and the iron which girt our forefathers. To-day, unarmed, thou showest a naked brow and naked breast. Alas! how thou art wounded! How pale thou art, and bleeding! That I should see thee thus! O queen of beauty! I call on heaven and earth, and ask who thus has humbled thee. And as a crowning ill, her arms are weighed with chains; her hair dishevelled and unveiled; and on the ground she sits disconsolate and neglected, her face hid in her knees, and weeping. Weep, Italia mine, for thou hast cause, since thou wert born to conquer 'neath Fortune's smiles and frowns. O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archi E le colonne e i simulacri e l' erme Torri degli avi nostri, Ma la gloria non vedo, Non vedo il lauro e il ferro ond' eran carchi I nostri padri antichi. Or fatta inerme, Nuda la fronte e nudo il petto mostri. Oimè quante ferite, Che lividor, che sangue! oh qual ti veggio, Formosissima donna! Io chiedo al cielo, E al mondo: dite, dite: Chi la ridusse a tale? E questo è peggio, Che di catene ha carene ambe le braccia. Si che sparte le chiome e senza velo Siede in terra negletta e sconsolata, Nascondendo la faccia Tra le ginocchia, e piange. Piangi, che ben hai donde, Italia mia, Le genti a vincer nata Et nella fausta sorte e nella ria." These odes, which represent the first fruits of his muse, ring with enthusiasm. They are the expression of a soul fired with its own flame, which serves to illumine and vivify a theme then only too real in his country's experience, the sufferings of Italy. Patriotism pervades his earliest verse; sadness and hopelessness that of later times. For these two odes Giordani bestowed unsparing eulogy on his young protégé. Before their appearance he had begun to regard Leopardi as the rising genius of Italy, and had not hesitated to say to him, "Inveni hominem!" Now, however, his admiration was unbounded; he thus apostrophised him: "O nobilissima, e altissima, e fortissima anima!" He referred to the reception of his poems at Piacenza in these terms: "They speak of you as a god." In 1822 Leopardi first left home. Repeatedly, year after year, he had besought his father to permit him to see something of the world. He longed to associate with the men who represented the intellect of his country. With his own fellow-townsmen he had little sympathy, and they on their part regarded him as a phenomenon, eccentric rather than remarkable. They gave him the titles of "little pedant," "philosopher," "hermit," &c., in half ironical appreciation of his learning. As he was naturally very sensitive, these petty vexations became intensified to him, and were doubtless one of the chief reasons of his unfailing dislike for his native place. In one of his essays, that of "Parini on Glory," we discover a reference to Leopardi's life at Recanati, which place is really identical with the Bosisio of the essay. Yet the prophet who is not a prophet in his own country when living, seldom fails of recognition after death. A statue is now raised to Leopardi in the place that refused to honour him in life. The appreciative recognition he failed to attract in Recanati, he hoped to obtain at Rome. But Count Monaldo, his father, long maintained his resistance to his son's wishes. Himself of a comparatively unaspiring mind, content with the fame he could acquire in his own province, he saw no necessity why his son should be more ambitious. Probably also his paternal love made him fearful of the dangers of the world, to which his son would be exposed. Of these hazards he knew nothing from experience; and they were doubtless magnified to him by his imagination. Yet, though naturally a man rather deficient in character than otherwise, Count Monaldo was, as we have seen, in his own household, a stern not to say unreasonable disciplinarian. Only after repeated solicitations from his son, and remonstrances from his friends, did he give Giacomo the desired permission, chiefly in the hope that at Rome he might be induced to enter the Church, towards which he had latterly manifested some signs of repugnance. The five months spent by Leopardi in Rome sufficed to disenchant him of his ideas of the world of life. A day or two after his arrival he writes to Carlo his brother: "I do not derive the least pleasure from the great things I see, because I know that they are wonderful, without feeling that they are so. I assure you their multitude and grandeur wearied me the first day." (25th November 1822.) Again, to Paulina his sister: "The world is not beautiful; rather it is insupportable, unless seen from a distance." Ever prone to regard the real through the medium of the ideal, he was bitterly disappointed with his first experience of men. The scholar, whom he was prepared to revere, proved on acquaintance to be-- "a blockhead, a torrent of small talk, the most wearisome and afflicting man on earth. He talks about the merest trifles with the deepest interest, of the greatest things with an infinite imperturbability. He drowns you in compliments and exaggerated praises, and does both in so freezing a manner, and with such nonchalance, that to hear him one would think an extraordinary man the most ordinary thing in the world." (25th November 1822.) The stupidest Recanatese he termed wiser and more sensible than the wisest Roman. Again, to his father he complains of the superficiality of the so-called scholars of Rome. "They all strive to reach immortality in a coach, as bad Christians would fain enter Paradise. According to them, the sum of human wisdom, indeed the only true science of man, is antiquity. Hitherto I have not encountered a lettered Eoman who understands the term literature as meaning anything except archæology. Philosophy, ethics, politics, eloquence, poetry, philology, are unknown things in Rome, and are regarded as childish playthings compared to the discovery of some bit of copper or stone of the time of Mark Antony or Agrippa. The best of it is that one cannot find a single Eoman who really knows Latin or Greek; without a perfect acquaintance with which languages, it is clear that antiquity Cannot be Studied." (9th December 1822.) He was disheartened by the depraved condition of Roman literature. Everywhere he saw merit disregarded or trodden under foot. The city was full of professional poets and poetesses, and literary cliques formed for the purpose of the self-laudation of their members. Illustrious names of the past were insulted by the pseudo-great men of the day, whose fame was founded on writings of the most contemptible nature. These circumstances made Leopardi confess, in a letter to his brother, that had he not "the harbour of posterity, and the conviction that in time all would take its proper place (illusory hope, but the only, and most necessary one for the true scholar)," (16th December 1822.) he would abandon literature once for all. But it was only during moments of depression that such words as these escaped him. He loved study for its own sake; fame was, after all, but a secondary consideration. Nor were men of genuine worth entirely wanting in Rome. Niebuhr, then Prussian ambassador at the Papal Court, Reinhold, the Dutch ambassador, Mai, subsequently a cardinal, were noble exceptions to the general inferiority. By them Leopardi was highly esteemed. Niebuhr especially was profoundly struck with his genius. "I have at last seen a modern Italian worthy of the old Italians and the ancient Romans," was his remark to De Bunsen after his first interview with the young scholar. Both he and De Bunsen became firm friends with Leopardi. They endeavoured their utmost to procure for him some official appointment from Cardinal Consalvi, then Secretary of State, and his successor; but owing to the intrigues, prejudices, and disturbances of the Papal Court they were unable to effect anything on his behalf. It was an unfulfilled intention of De Bunsen's, later in life, to write a memoir of Leopardi, for whom he always felt the highest esteem and admiration. Count Monaldo's wish that his son should become an ecclesiastic was never realised. Leopardi was of too honest a nature to profess what was not in accordance with his convictions. The secular employment that he sought, he could not obtain, so perforce he seems to have turned his mind towards literary work--the drudgery of letters as distinct from the free, untrammelled pursuit of literature. He obtained the charge of cataloguing the Greek manuscripts of the Barberine Library, and his spirits rose in anticipation of some discovery he hoped to make which might render him famous. "In due time we will astonish the world," he writes to his father. He was indeed successful in finding a fragment of Libanius hitherto unpublished; but the glory seems to have been stolen from him, since the manuscript was ushered forth to the world by alien hands. Poor Leopardi! all his hopes seemed destined to be proved illusive. It was time for him to leave a place that could furnish him with no other pleasure than that of tears. "I visited Tasso's grave, and wept there. This is the first and only pleasure I have experienced in Rome" (Letter to Carlo, February 15, 1823). Already he had begun to steel himself to the shocks of fortune; suffering and misfortune he could bear; mental agony and despair were too strong for him. In a long letter to his sister Paulina, he tries to impart to her a little of the philosophy of Stoicism which he had taken to himself. She was distressed about the rupture of a matrimonial arrangement contracted by the Count between her and a certain Roman gentleman of position and fortune. Leopardi thus consoles her: "Hope is a very wild passion, because it necessarily carries with it very great fear.... I assure you, I Paolina mia,' that unless we can acquire a little indifference towards ourselves, life is scarcely possible, much less can it be happy. You must resign yourself to fortune, and not hope too deeply.... I recommend this philosophy to you, because I think you resemble me in mind and disposition." (19th April 1823.) Four years later Leopardi confesses the insufficiency of his own remedies. Writing to Dr. Puccinotti in 1827, he says: "I am weary of life, and weary of the philosophy of indifference which is the only cure for misfortune and ennui, but which at length becomes an ennui itself. I look and hope for nothing but death." (16th August 1827.) In May 1823, he left Rome, and returned to Recanati. The succeeding ten years of Leopardi's life were, during his intervals of health, devoted to poetry and literature. He had passed the Rubicon of his hopes; henceforth he studied to expound to the world the uselessness of its own anticipations, and its essential unhappiness. His bodily infirmities increased with years. His frame, naturally weak, suffered from the effects of early over-application; his eyes and nerves were a constant trouble to him. To obtain what relief was possible from change of air, and to remove himself from Recanati, which he detested increasingly, Leopardi went to Bologna, Florence, Milan, and Pisa, wintering now at one place, now at another. From family reasons, his father was unable to supply him with sufficient money to secure his independence. Consequently he was obliged to turn to literature for a livelihood. The publisher Stella, of Milan, willingly engaged his services, and for several years Leopardi was in receipt of a small but regular payment for his literary labours. He compiled Chrestomathies of Italian prose and poetry, and made numerous fragmentary translations from the classics. A commentary on Petrarch, to which he devoted much time and care, is, in the words of Sainte-Beuve, "the best possible guide through such a charming labyrinth." As he said of himself, "mediocrity is not for me," so in all that he undertook the mark of his genius appeared. At Florence Leopardi was honoured by the representatives of Italian literature and culture, who there formed a brilliant coterie. Colletta was desirous of his co-operation in the "History of Naples," with which he was occupying the last years of his life. The "Antologia" and "Nuove Ricoglitore" reviews were open to contributions from his pen. Giordani, Niccolini, Capponi, and Gioberti, amongst others, welcomed him with open arms. To these his Tuscan friends he dedicated his "Canti" in 1830, with the following touching letter:-- "MY DEAR FRIENDS,--Accept the dedication of this book. Herein I have striven, as is often done in poetry, to hallow my sufferings. This is my farewell (I cannot but weep in saying it) to literature and studies. Once I hoped these dear resources would have been the support of my old age: pleasures of childhood and youth might vanish, I thought, and their loss would be supportable if I were thus cherished and strengthened. But ere I was twenty years of age, my physical infirmities deprived me of half my powers; my life was taken, yet death was not bestowed on me. Eight years later I became totally incapacitated; this, it seems, will be my future state. Even to read these letters you know that I make use of other eyes than mine. Dear friends, my sufferings are incapable of increase; already my misfortune is too great for tears. I have lost everything, and am but a trunk that feels and suffers." ... It is scarcely wonderful that, under such circumstances, his philosophy should fail him. A code of ethics, however admirable intrinsically, has but cold consolation to offer to one whose life is prolonged pain. Leopardi at one time allowed the idea of suicide to rest, and almost take root, in his mind. He describes the incident: "A great desire comes into my mind to terminate once for all these wretched years of mine, and to make myself more completely motionless." But he was of a nature noble and strong enough to resist such temptation. He left Recanati for the last time in 1830. The next two years were passed in Florence, Rome, and Pisa. Whilst in Rome, Leopardi received substantial proof of his fame in being elected an Academician of the Crusca. At length the doctors recommended him to try Naples, from the mild air and general salubrity of which place they anticipated much improvement in his condition. Thither he went in company with a young friend, Antonio Ranieri, whose acquaintance he had made in Florence. In the house of Ranieri he stayed from 1833 until his death in 1837, tended by him and his sister Paulina (his _second_ Paulina, as he used to call her) with a devotedness and affection as rare as it was noble. Posterity will couple together the names of Ranieri and Leopardi as naturally as we associate together those of Severn and Keats. All that could be done for the unfortunate poet, Ranieri did. His condition was a singular one. Before he left Florence for Naples, the doctor said of him that his frame did not possess sufficient vitality to generate a mortal illness; yet he was seldom, if ever, free from suffering. He died on the 14th June 1837, as he and his friend were on the point of setting out from Naples to a little villa that Ranieri possessed on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. On the night of the 15th he was buried, in the church of St. Vitale, near the reputed grave of Virgil. His tomb is marked by a stone erected at the expense of Ranieri, bearing the signs of the cross, and the owl of Minerva, together with an inscription from the pen of Giordani. The few following lines from his own verse would form a suitable epitaph for one whose life was spent in bodily and mental disquietude:-- "O weary heart, for ever shalt thou rest Henceforth. Perished is the great delusion That I thought would ne'er have left me. Perished! Nought now is left of all those dear deceits; Desire is dead, and not a hope remains. Rest then for ever. Thou hast throbbed enough; Nothing here is worth such palpitations. Our life is valueless, for it consists Of nought but ennui, bitterness, and pain. This world of clay deserveth not a sigh. Now calm thyself; conceive thy last despair, And wait for death, the only gift of Fate." (Poem "A Se Stesso.") These words might have been an echo of Çâkyamuni's utterance beneath the sacred fig-tree of Bôdhimanda, when, according to the legend, he was in process of transformation from man to Buddha: the resemblance is at any rate a remarkable one. In 1846, the Jesuits made an impudent attempt to convince the public that Leopardi died repenting of his philosophical views, and that he had previously expressed a desire to enter the Society of Jesus. A long letter from a certain Francesco Scarpa to his Superior, giving a number of pretended details of Leopardi's history, conversion, and death, appeared in a Neapolitan publication, entitled "Science and Faith." Ranieri came forward to show the entire falsity of these statements; and to give a more authoritative denial to them, he engaged the willing help of Vicenzo Gioberti. The latter in his "Modern Jesuit" contested their truth in every respect. He said: "The story put forward in this letter is a tissue of lies and deliberate inventions; it is sheer romance from beginning to end." It is thought by some people that Leopardi's father was concerned in this Jesuit manifesto. But, although the Count was doubtless shocked beyond measure that his son did not hold the same beliefs as himself, it is scarcely credible that he should concoct a series of such absurdities as were contained in Scarpa's letter. Leopardi anticipated that posterity, and even his contemporaries, would endeavour to explain the pessimism of his philosophy by his personal misfortunes and sufferings. Accordingly, in a letter to the philologist Sinner, he entered a protest against such a supposition: "However great my sufferings may have been, I do not seek to diminish them by comforting myself with vain hopes, and thoughts of a future and unknown happiness. This same courage of my convictions has led me to a philosophy of despair, which I do not hesitate to accept. It is the cowardice of men, who would fain regard existence as something very valuable, that instigates them to consider my philosophical opinions as the result of my sufferings, and that makes them persist in charging to my material circumstances that which is due to nothing but my understanding. Before I die, I wish to make protest against this imputation of weakness and trifling; and I would beg of my readers to burn my writings rather than attribute them to my sufferings." (24th May 1832.) Ranieri thus describes Leopardi's personal appearance: "He was of middle height, inclined to stoop, and fragile; his complexion was pale; his head was large, and his brow expansive; his eyes were blue and languid; his nose was well formed (slightly aquiline), and his other features were very delicately chiselled; his voice was soft and rather weak; and he had an ineffable and almost celestial smile." His friend here scarcely even suggests what others have perhaps unduly emphasised, that is, Leopardi's deformity. He was slightly humpbacked; doubtless the consequence of those studies which simultaneously ruined him and made him famous. It were an omission not to refer to the influence which love exerted over Leopardi's life. So strong was this, in the opinion of one of his critics, that he even ascribes his philosophy to an "infelicissimo amore." Another writer says of him that "his ideal was a woman." Ranieri asserts that he died unmarried, after having twice felt the passion of love as violently as it was ever realised by any man. His poems also testify how omnipotent at one time was this bitter-sweet sensation. "I recall to mind the day when love first assaulted me; when I said, Alas! if this be love, how it pains me!" (The First Love.) Again: "It was morning, the time when a light and sweeter sleep presses our rested lids. The sun's first grey light began to gleam across the balcony, through the closed windows into my still darkened chamber. Then it was that I saw close by, regarding me with fixed eyes, the phantom form of her who first taught me to love, and left me Weeping." (The Dream.) His poem to Aspasia is a frank confession of love, and the humiliation he suffered in its rejection. It is a noble, yet a terrible poem. Opening with a description of the scene that met his eye as he entered the room where his charmer sat, "robed in the hue of the melancholy violet, and surrounded by a wondrous luxury," pressing "tender and burning kisses on the round lipsé" of her children, and displaying "her snowy neck," he saw as it were "a new heaven, and a new earth, and the lustre of a celestial light." "Like a divine ray, O woman, thy beauty dazzled my thought. Beauty is like such music as seems to open out to us an unknown Elysium. He who loves is filled with the ecstasy of the phantom love conceived by his imagination. In the woman of his love he seeks to discover the beauties of his inspired vision; in his words and actions he tries to recognise the personality of his dreams. Thus when he strains her to his bosom, it is not the woman, but the phantom of his dream that he embraces." Then comes the awakening. He vituperates the reality for not attaining to the standard of his ideal. "Rarely the woman's nature is comparable with that of the dream image. No thought like ours can dwell beneath those narrow brows. Vain is the hope that man forges in the fire of those sparkling eyes. He errs in seeking profound and lofty thoughts in one who is by nature inferior to man in all things. As her members are frailer and softer, so is her mind more feeble and confined." He betrays his position, and gives the key to his unjust censure of woman's powers. "Now, boast thyself, for thou canst do so. Tell how thou art the only one of thy sex to whom I have bent my proud head, and offered my invincible heart. Tell how thou hast seen me with beseeching brows, timid and trembling before thee (I burn with indignation and shame in the avowal), watching thy every sign and gesture, beside myself in adoration of thee, and changing expression and colour at the slightest of thy looks. The charm is broken; my yoke is on the ground, sundered at a single blow." (Aspasia.) Who were the real objects of Leopardi's affection, is not at all clear. Certain village girls of Recanati, immortalised in his verse as Nerina and Silvia, were the inspirers of his first love; but his brother Carlo bears witness to the superficial nature of his affection in their cases. They merely served as the awakeners of the sensation; his own mind and imagination magnified it into a passion. True it is that his nature was one that yearned and craved for love in no ordinary degree. When at Rome, isolated from his family, he wrote to Carlo: "Love me, for God's sake. I need love, love, love, fire, enthusiasm, life." He addressed similar demands to Giordani and others with whom he was on the most intimate terms. Indeed we are tempted to conjectures as to what might have been the fruit of Leopardi's life had he found a helpmate and a consoler in his troubles. A brief consideration of the general nature of Leopardi's poetry and prose may not be out of place in this short summary. His poems are masterpieces of conception and execution. Their matter may be open to criticism; but their manner is beyond praise. His odes are of the nobler kind. Full of fire and vigour, they reach the sublime where he stimulates his fellow-countrymen to action, and urges them to aspire to a freedom, happily now obtained. His elegies breathe out an inspired sorrow. They are the pro-duct of a mind filled with the sense of the misery that abounds on earth, and unable, though desirous, to discern a single ray of light in the gloom of existence. His lyrical pieces are the most beautiful and emotional of his poems. The following, entitled "The Setting of the Moon," though pervaded with the spirit of sadness that is so predominant a characteristic of Leopardi's verse, contains some charming imagery:-- "As in the lonely night, over the silvered fields and the waters where the zephyrs play, where the far-off shades take a thousand vague appearances and deceitful forms, amid the tranquil waves, the foliage and the hedges, the hill-slopes and the villages, the moon arrived at heaven's boundary descends behind the Alps and Apennines into the infinite bosom of the Tyrrhenian Sea; whilst the world grows pale, and the shadows disappear, and a mantle of darkness shrouds the valley and the hills; night alone remains, and the carter singing on his way salutes with a sad melody the last reflection of that fleeing light which hitherto had led his steps: So vanishes our youth, and leaves us solitary with life. So flee away the shadows which veiled illusive joys; and so die too the distant hopes on which our mortal nature rested. Life is left desolate and dark, and the traveller, trying to pierce the gloom, looks here and there, but seeks in vain to know the way, or what the journey yet before him; he sees that all on earth is strange, and he a stranger dwelling there.... You little hills and strands, when falls the light which silvers in the west the veil of night, shall not for long be orphaned. On the other side of heaven the first grey light of dawn shall soon be followed by the sun, whose fiery rays shall flood you and the ethereal fields with a luminous stream. But mortal life, when cherished youth has gone, has no new dawn, nor ever gains new light; widowed to the end it stays, and on life's other shore, made dark by night, the gods have set the tomb's dark seal." In his interpretation of nature he is literal, but withal truly poetic: he worships her in the concrete, but vituperates her in the abstract, as representative to him of omnipresent Deity, creative, but also destructive. The two or three poems that may be termed satirical, are at the same time half elegiac. In them he ridicules and censures the folly of his contemporaries, and mourns over the mystery of things. To these, however, there is one exception, the longest of all his poems. This is known as the "Continuation of the Battle of the Frogs and Mice," It consists of eight cantos, comprising about three thousand lines, and was first published posthumously. The abruptness of its ending gives the idea, erroneous or not, of incompleteness. Leopardi had, several years before, translated and versified Homer's "Batrachomyomachia," and this satire takes up the story where Homer ends. It is exclusively a ridicule of the times, with especial reference to his own country and her national enemy, Austria. In style and treatment it has been compared with Byron's "Don Juan," from which, however, it totally differs in its intrinsic character. It abounds in beauties of description, sentiment, and expression, and well deserves to be considered his _chef d'oeuvre_. Leopardi thus describes his method of poetic composition:-- "I compose only when under an inspiration, yielding to which, in two minutes, I have designed and organised the poem. This done, I wait for a recurrence of such inspiration, which seldom happens until several weeks have elapsed. Then I set to work at composition, bub so slowly that I cannot complete a poem, however short, in less than two or three weeks. Such is my method; without inspiration it were easier to draw water from a stone than a single verse from my brain." Leopardi's reputation was firmly established by the appearance of his "Operette morali," as his prose writings were termed. Monti classed them as the best Italian prose compositions of the century. Gioberti compared them to the writing of Machiavelli. Giordani, with his usual tendency to extravagance, gives his friend the following pompous panegyric:--"His style possesses the conciseness of Speroni, the grandiloquence of Tasso, the smoothness of Paruta, the purity of Gelli, the wit of Firenzuola, the solidity and magnificence of Pallavicino, the imagination of Plato, and the elegance of Cicero." Leopardi has been aptly termed an aristocrat in his writing. Too much of a reasoner to be very popular with the masses, who do not care for the exertion of sustained thought, his logic is strikingly clear to the intelligent. His periods are occasionally as long as those of Machiavelli or Guicciardini, but their continuity and signification are never obscure. Ranieri bears witness to the fact that his prose was the fruit of very great labour. The subject and tendency of Leopardi's writings will be evident to the reader of the following dialogues. Framed on the model of Lucian, they will compare favourably with the writings of the Greek satirist in subtlety and wit, in spite of their sombre tone. They cannot be said to possess much originality, save in treatment. The subjects discussed, and even the arguments introduced, are mostly old. Every acute moraliser since the world began has, in more or less degree commensurate with his ability, debated within himself the problems here considered. Facts, beliefs, opinions, theories, may be marshalled to produce an infinite number of diverse harmonies; but no one such combination formed by the mind of man may be put forward as the true and ultimate explanation of the mystery of life. Leibnitz, with his harmony of universal good, is as fallible as Leopardi or Schopenhauer with their harmonies of evil. In either case the real is sacrificed to the ideal, whether of good or evil. Either from temperament or circumstances, these philosophers were predisposed to give judgment on life, favourably or adversely, without duly considering the attributes of existence. As M. Dapples, in his French version of Leopardi, has remarked, he early withdrew from actual life, _i.e._, life with all those manifold sensations which he himself defines to be the only constituents of pleasure in existence. His body proved little else than the sensation of suffering. All his vitality was concentrated in his mind; so that he was scarcely a competent and impartial judge of the ordinary pleasures and ills of life. He could not be otherwise than prejudiced by his own experiences, or rather lack of experiences. Yet, though Leopardi was physically incapable of many of life's pleasures, he none the less passionately yearned for them. Strength and desire struggled within him, and the former only too frequently proved weaker than the latter. Thus he was innately adapted for pessimism. We consider Leopardi to have been a man of the grandest intellectual powers, capable originally of almost anything to which the human mind could attain; but that his reason, later in life, became somewhat perverted by his sufferings. Were human life as absolutely miserable a thing as he represents it to be, it would be insupportable. That he should so regard it does not seem remarkable when we consider his circumstances; he was poor, seldom free from pain, and unsupported by a creed. For the sufferings of his life, he could see no shadow of atonement or compensation: a future state was incomprehensible to him. He bestows much gratuitous pity on the human race, which we, though revering his genius, may return to him as more deserving of it than ourselves. His heart was naturally full of the most lively affection; but he could never sufficiently satisfy the yearnings of his nature. Like Ottonieri, whose portrait is his own to a great extent, his instincts were noble; like him also he died without effecting much in proportion to his powers. The conclusions of Leopardi's philosophy may be thus summed up. The universe is an enigma, totally insoluble. The sufferings of mankind exceed all good that men experience, estimating the latter in compensation for the former. Progress, or, as we call it, civilisation, instead of lightening man's sufferings, increases them; since it enlarges his capacity for suffering, without proportionately augmenting his means of enjoyment. How far are these conclusions refutable? It may be regarded as indubitable that the first two cannot be refuted without the aid of revelation. Science is incompetent to explain the "why" and the "wherefore" of the universe; it is yet groping to discover the "how." Still less can any satisfactory explanation be given of the purpose for which suffering exists, unless we rely on revelation. Religion, which modern philosophers somewhat contemptuously designate as "popular metaphysics," can alone afford an explanation of these problems. Çâkyamuni, nearly 2500 years ago, asked, "What is the cause of all the miseries and sufferings with which man is afflicted?" He himself gave what he considered to be the correct answer: "Existence;" and then he traced existence to the passions and desires innate in man. These last were to be conquered in the condition of insensibility to all material things called "Nirvana," Truly his remedy was a radical one, and had he succeeded in procuring universal acceptance for his doctrines, the human race would have become extinct a few generations later than his own time. But "Nirvana" is unnatural if it be nothing else; unnatural in itself and in the steps that lead up to it. And although it is due to Schopenhauer, and his more or less heterodox disciples, that this Buddhistic dogma is regarded theoretically by some people with a certain amount of favour, we think the instincts of life are strong enough within them all to resist any decided inclination on their part to carry it into effect. As for the third conclusion, it must be admitted that man's susceptibilities of suffering are enlarged with increasing culture. Leopardi has shown us that the more vividly we realise the evils that surround and affect us, so much the more keenly do they arouse in us sensations of pain. Knowledge of them makes us suffer from them. The bliss of ignorance is rudely dispelled by the cold hand of science. But must this necessarily continue? May not the same progress which exposes the wound find the salve to heal it? We trust and think so, in spite of all assertions to the contrary. There is nothing in the near future of humanity that need alarm us: men will not work less because they think more; nor is there any sufficient reason to show that increasing knowledge must represent increasing sorrow. As Johnson has said: "The cure for the greatest part of human miseries is not radical but palliative." For the material means of palliation we look to science. We hope and think that there is good to be gained from these writings of Leopardi, in spite of the tone of despair that rings throughout them. His theory of the "infelicità" of things, cheerless though it be, often suggests ideas, sublime in themselves and noble in their effect; and the very essence of his philosophy resolves itself into a recommendation to act, rather than by contemplation to lose the power of action; for, as he says, "A life must be active and vigorous, else it is not true life, and death is preferable to it." A brief reference to the most recent publications on Leopardi may be interesting as tending to throw light on his domestic relationships, and as giving us an idea of his own habits in private life. Antonio Ranieri (now in his seventy-sixth year) in a book[1] published at Naples in 1880 gives many interesting details of the poet's life. He first met him at Florence, and was touched with compassion for his unfortunate state. Ill and helpless, he was incapable of doing anything but weep in despair at the thought of being obliged to return to his native place. "Recanati and death are to me one and the same thing," he exclaimed through his tears. Ranieri in a generous moment replied: "Leopardi, you shall not return to Recanati. The little that I possess is enough for two. As a benefit to me, not to yourself, we will henceforth live together." This was the beginning of what Ranieri calls his "vita nuova." He conducted Leopardi from Florence to Rome; thence back to Florence; and finally from Florence to Naples. The doctors everywhere shrugged their shoulders at his case, and suggested, as delicately as possible, the mortal nature of his maladies. At Naples Ranieri and his sister Paulina did all they could for Leopardi, and from 1833 to his death in 1837 supplied all his wants. He could seldom see to read or write. "We used to read to him constantly and regularly, and were fortunately conversant with the languages he knew," says Ranieri. Occasionally he was able to go to the theatre, and enjoyed it greatly. In his habits he seems to have tried his friend's temper and patience considerably. He was wont to turn night into day, and day into night. Ranieri and his sister often did the same in order to read, work, and talk with him. He breakfasted between three and five o'clock in the afternoon, and dined about midnight. Like Schopenhauer, he delighted in after-dinner conversation, which he termed "one of the greatest pleasures of life." He was very obstinate in personal matters, disobeying the doctors in his diet and everything else. His fondness for his old clothes was remarkable; he loved them for their associations. Ranieri mentions "a certain very ancient overcoat which for seven years" had tormented him, and which he used to entreat Leopardi to lay aside, but which he clung to with an incredible affection, preferring it to a new one that he allowed the moths to destroy. The mere names of wind, cold, and snow were enough to pale him. He could not bear fire, and formerly used to pass the winters three parts submerged in a sack of feathers, reading and writing thus the greater part of the day. He was very terrified when the cholera appeared at Naples, to avoid which he and Ranieri went to a country house of the latter's on one of the slopes of Vesuvius. Here Leopardi wrote his poem "La Ginestra," inspired by the desolate scenes at the foot of the mountain. He died suddenly at Naples, as he and Ranieri's household were about to set off again for the country. The Neapolitan Journal "Il Progresso," in an article on Lis death, remarked of him that "such brilliancy is not allowed to illumine the earth for long." "Notes Biographiques sur Leopardi et sa Famille" (Paris, 1881). This is a book of considerable value. Written by the widow of Count Carlo Leopardi, Giacomo's younger brother, and his "other self," it is most valuable as delineating the characters of Leopardi's father and mother. A softer light is shed on the character of Leopardi's mother. We learn that she was not passionless, hard, and unsympathetic, as we had previously supposed her to be. On the contrary, she was a good woman, of deep affection, who made it the aim of her married life to work for the welfare of the family of which she became a member. Weighted with debt almost to the point of exhaustion, the estates of Casa Leopardi needed a skilful and vigorous administrator, if they were to continue in the hands of their old owners. Count Monaldo Leopardi was not such an administrator. He was a man devoted "tout entier à science," and occupying himself more with bibliology and archæology than with the finances of his estate. The Jews of Perousa, Milan, and the March towns would, sooner or later, have tightened their hold on the Leopardi patrimony to such a degree that the ancient family could only have continued to exist as proprietors on sufferance. But, in the words of the authoress of this book, Providence watched over the house "en lui envoyant dans la jeune marquise Adelaide Antici l'ange qui devait la sauver." The young bride accepted her position with an entire knowledge of the responsibilities that would accompany it. She took the reins of the neglected administration, and set herself the task of restoring the fortunes of Casa Leopardi. By her exertions the Pope was made acquainted with their difficulties, and by his intervention an arrangement was made between the creditors and the Leopardi family, whereby the former were restrained from demanding the amount of their debt for forty years, receiving thereon in the mean time interest at 8 per cent, per annum. This was the life-work of Countess Leopardi. During forty years she administered the finances of Casa Leopardi, and by the end of that time succeeded in freeing the family from the burden with which it had been long encumbered. She died in 1857, ten years after her husband, and twenty years later than her eldest son, Giacomo. ST. MARK'S PLACE, WOLVERHAMPTON, _December_, 1881. [Footnote 1: _Sette anni di Sodalizio con Giacomo Leopardi._] The following works, amongst others, have been made use of in the preparation of this volume:-- Opere Leopardi. 6 vols. Firenze, 1845. Opere inedite Leopardi. Cugnoni: Halle, 1878. Studio di Leopardi. A. Baragiola: Strasburg, 1876. Traduction complète de Leopardi. F. A. Aulard: Paris, 1880. Opuscules et Pensées de Leopardi. A. Dapples: Paris, 1880. G. Leopardi: sa Vie et ses Oeuvres. Bouché Leclercq: Paris, 1874. Le Pessimisme. E. Caro: Paris, 1878. Pessimism. Jas. Sully: London, 1877. La Philosophie de Schopenhauer. Th. Ribot: Paris, 1874. Il Buddha, Confucio, e Lao-Tse. C. Puini: Firenze, 1878. Artide in Quarterly Review on Leopardi. 1850. Artide in Fraser's Magazine, Leopardi and his Father: a Study, by L. Villari. November 1881. _HISTORY OF THE HUMAN RACE._ It is said that the first inhabitants of the earth were everywhere created simultaneously. Whilst children they were fed by bees, goats, and doves, as the poets say the infant Jove was nourished. The earth was much smaller than it is at present, and devoid of mountains and hills. The sky was starless. There was no sea; and the world as a whole was far less varied and beautiful than it now is. Yet men were never weary of looking at the sky and the earth, which excited within them feelings of wonder and admiration. They considered them both to be of infinite extent, majesty, and magnificence. Their souls were filled with joyous hopes, and every sensation of life gave them inexpressible pleasure. Their contentment daily increased, so that they at length thought themselves supremely happy. In this peaceful state of mind they passed their infancy and youth. Arrived at a mature age, their feelings began to experience some alteration. As their early hopes, to which they had perseveringly adhered, failed of realisation, they no longer put faith in them. But, on the other hand, present happiness isolated from anticipation of the future, did not suffice them; especially seeing that, either from habit or because the charm of a first acquaintanceship had worn off, nature and all the incidents of life gave them much less pleasure than at first. They travelled over the earth, and visited the most distant lands. This they could easily do, because there were neither seas, mountains, nor obstacles of any kind to oppose them. After a few years, most men had proved the finite nature of the earth, the boundaries of which were by no means so remote as to be unattainable. They found too, that all countries of the world, and all men, with but slight differences, were alike. These discoveries I so greatly increased their discontent, that a weariness of life became prevalent among men even before they had passed the threshold of manhood. And as men grew older, this feeling gradually transformed itself into a hatred of existence, so that at length, seized by despair, they in one way or another hesitated not to abandon the light and life once so beloved. It seemed to the gods a shocking thing that living creatures should prefer death to life, and should destroy themselves for no other reason than that they were weary of existence. It also amazed them beyond measure to find their gifts held in such contempt, and so unequivocally rejected by men. They thought the world had been endowed with sufficient beauty, goodness, and harmony to make it not merely a bearable, but even a highly enjoyable place of residence for every living thing, and especially for man, whom they had fabricated with peculiar care, and a marvellous perfection. At the same time, touched with a deep feeling of compassion for the distress men exhibited, they began to fear lest the renewal and increase of these deplorable actions might not soon result in the extinction of the human race, contrary to destiny, and they would thus lose the most perfect work of their creation, and be deprived of the honours they received from men. Jove determined therefore to improve the condition of men, since it seemed necessary, and to increase the means whereby they might obtain happiness. They complained of the deceitfulness of things; which were neither as great, beautiful, perfect, nor varied as they at first imagined them to be; but were, on the contrary, small, imperfect, and monotonous. They derived no pleasure from their youth; still less were they satisfied with the times of maturity, and old age. Their infancy alone gave them pleasure, and yearning for the sweetness of their early days, they besought Jove to make their condition one of perpetual childhood. But the god could not satisfy them in this matter; for it was contrary to the laws of nature, and the divine decrees and intentions. Neither could he communicate his own infinity to mortal creatures, nor the world itself, any more than he could bestow infinite happiness and perfection on men and things. It seemed best to him to extend the limits of creation, at the same time increasing the world's diversity and beauty. In fulfilment of this intention, he enlarged the earth on all sides; and made the sea to flow as a separation between inhabited places, so that it might vary the aspect of things, and by severing their roads, prevent men from easily discovering the confines of the world. He also designed the sea to serve as a vivid representation of the infinity which they desired. Then it was that the waters covered the island Atlantis, as well as many other vast tracts of country; but the remembrance of this island alone has survived the multitude of centuries that have passed since that time. Jove formed valleys by lowering certain places; and by exalting others he created hills and mountains. He bespread the night with stars; purified the atmosphere; increased the brilliancy and light of day; intensified the colours of the sky and the country, and gave them more variety. He also mixed the generations of men, so that the aged of one generation were contemporaneous with the children of another. Above all, Jove determined to multiply resemblances of that infinity for which men so eagerly craved. He could not really satisfy them, but wishing to soothe and appease their imagination, which he knew had been the chief source of their happiness in childhood, he employed many expedients like that of the sea. He created the echo, and hid it in valleys and caverns, and gave to the forests a dull deep whispering, conjoined with a mysterious undulation of their tree-tops. He created also the gorgeous land of dreams, and gave men power to visit it in their sleep. There they could experience such perfect happiness as could not in reality be accorded to them. This served as a substitute for the vague unrealisable conception of felicity formed by men within themselves, and to which Jove himself could not have given any real expression, had he desired to do so. By these means the god infused new strength and vigour into the minds of men, and endeared life to them again, so that they were full of admiration for the beauty and immensity of nature. This happy state lasted longer than the previous one. Its duration was chiefly due to the diversity of ages among men, whereby those who were chilled and wearied with their experience of the world, were comforted by the society of others full of the ardency and hopefulness of youth. But in process of time this novelty wore off, and men again became discontented and wearied with life. So despondent did they become, that then is said to have originated the custom attributed by history to certain ancient nations; the birth of a child was celebrated with tears, and the death of a parent was the occasion of rejoicing for his deliverance.[1] At length wickedness became universal. This was either because men thought that Jove disregarded them, or because it is the nature of misfortune to debase even the noblest minds. It is a popular error to imagine that man's misfortunes are the result of his impiety and iniquity. On the contrary, his wickedness is the consequence of his misfortunes. The gods avenged themselves for their injuries, and punished mortals for their renewed perverseness, by the deluge of Deucalion. There were only two survivors of this shipwreck of the human race, Deucalion and Pyrrha. These unhappy ones were filled with the sense of their wretchedness, and far from regretting the loss of all their fellows, themselves loudly invoked death from the summit of a rock. But Jove commanded them to remedy the depopulation of the earth, and seeing that they had not the heart to beget a new generation, directed them to take stones from the hill-sides, and cast them over their shoulders. From these stones men were created, and the earth was again peopled. The history of the past had enlightened Jove as to the nature of men, and had shown him that it is not sufficient for them, as for other animals, merely to live in a state of freedom from sorrow and physical discomfort. He knew that whatever their condition of life, they would seek the impossible, and if unpossessed of genuine evils, would torment themselves with imaginary ones. The god resolved therefore to employ new means for the preservation of the miserable race. For this purpose he used two especial artifices. In the first place, he strewed life with veritable evils; and secondly, instituted a thousand kinds of business and labour, to distract men as much as possible from self-contemplation, and their desires for an unknown and imaginary happiness. He began by sending a multitude of diseases, and an infinite number of other calamities among them, with the intention of varying the conditions of life so as to obviate the feeling of satiety which had resulted before, and to induce men to esteem the good things they possessed so much the more by contrast with these new evils. The god hoped that men would be better able to bear the absence of the happiness they longed for, when occupied and under the discipline of suffering. He also determined by means of these physical infirmities and exertions, to reduce the vigour of men's minds, to humble their pride, to make them bow the head to necessity, and be more contented with their lot. He knew that disease and misfortune would operate as a preventive to the committal of those acts of suicide which had formerly been rife; for they would not only make men cowardly and weak, but would help to attach them to life by the hope of an existence free from such sufferings. For it is a characteristic of the unfortunate that they imagine happiness will wait on them as soon as the immediate cause of their present misfortune is removed. Jove then created the winds and the rain-clouds, prepared the thunder and lightning, gave the trident to Neptune, launched comets, and arranged eclipses. By means of these and other terrible signs, he resolved to frighten mortals from time to time, knowing that fear and actual danger would temporarily reconcile to life, not only the unhappy, but even those who most detested and were most disposed to put an end to their existence. As a cure for the idleness of the past, Jove gave to men a taste and desire for new foods and drinks, unprocurable, however, without the greatest exertions. Previous to the deluge men had lived on water, herbs, and such fruits as were yielded by the earth and the trees, just as certain people of California and other places live even in the present day. He assigned different climates to different countries, and appointed the seasons of the year. Hitherto there had been no diversity of temperature in any place, but the atmosphere was uniformly so equable and mild that men were ignorant of the use of clothing. Now, however, they were obliged to exert themselves industriously to remedy the inclemency and changeability of the weather. Jove gave Mercury command to lay the foundations of the first cities, and to divide men into different races, nations, and languages, separated by feelings of rivalry and discord. He was also commissioned to teach them music and those other arts, which, owing to their nature and origin, are still called divine. Jove himself distributed laws and constitutions to the new nations. Finally, as a supreme gift, he sent among men certain sublime and superhuman Phantoms, to whom he committed very great influence and control over the people of the earth. They were called Justice, Virtue, Glory, Patriotism, &c. Among these Phantoms was one named Love, which then first entered the world. For previous to the introduction of clothes, the sexes were drawn towards one another by merely a brute instinct, far different from love. The feeling was comparable to that which we experience towards articles of food and such things, that we desire, but do not love. By these divine decrees the condition of man was infinitely ameliorated, and rendered easier and pleasanter than before; in spite of the fatigues, sufferings, and terrors which were now inseparable from humanity. And this result was chiefly due to the wonderful chimeras, whom some men regarded as genii, others as gods, and whom they followed with an intense veneration and enthusiasm for a very long time. To such a pitch was their ardour excited by the poets and artists of the times, that numbers of men did not hesitate to sacrifice their lives to one or other of these Phantoms. Far from displeasing Jove, this fact gratified him exceedingly, for he judged that if men esteemed their life a gift worthy of sacrifice to these fine and glorious illusions, they would be less likely to repudiate it as before. This happy state of affairs was of longer duration than the preceding ages. And even when after the lapse of many centuries, a tendency to decline became apparent, existence, thanks to these bright illusions, was still easy and bearable enough, up to a time not very far distant from the present. This decline was chiefly due to the facility with which men were able to satisfy their wants and desires; the growing inequality between men in their social and other conditions, as they receded farther and farther from the republican models founded by Jove; the reappearance of vanity and idleness as a consequence of this retrocession; the diminishing interest with which the variety of life's incidents inspired them; and many other well-known and important causes. Again men were filled with the old feeling of disgust for their existence, and again their minds clamoured for an unknown happiness, inconsistent with the order of nature. But the total revolution of the fortunes of men, and the end of that epoch which we nowadays designate as the "old world," was due to one especial influence. It was this. Among the Phantoms so appreciated by the ancients was a certain one called Wisdom. This Phantom had duly contributed to the prosperity of the times, and like the others received high honour from men, a number of whom consecrated themselves to her service. She had frequently promised her disciples to show them her mistress, the Truth, a superior spirit who associated with the gods in heaven, whence she had never yet descended. The Phantom assured them that she would bring Truth among men, and that this spirit would exercise so marvellous an influence over their life, that in knowledge, perfection, and happiness they would almost rival the gods themselves. But how could a shadow fulfil any promise, much less induce the Truth to descend to earth? So after a long confiding expectancy, men perceived the falseness of Wisdom. At the same time, greedy of novelty because of the idleness of their life, and stimulated partly by ambition of equalling the gods, and partly by the intensity of their yearning for the happiness they imagined would ensue from the possession of Truth, they presumptuously requested Jove to lend them this noble spirit for a time, and reproached him for having so long jealously withheld from men the great advantages that would follow from the presence of Truth. They with one accord expressed dissatisfaction with their lot, and renewed their former hateful whinings about the meanness and misery of human things. The Phantoms, once so dear to them, were now almost entirely abandoned, not that men had discerned the unreality of their nature, but because they were so debased in mind and manners as to have no sympathy with even the appearance of goodness. Thus they wickedly rejected the greatest gift of gods to men, and excused themselves by saying that none but inferior genii had been sent on earth, the nobler ones, whom they would willingly have worshipped, being retained in heaven. Many things long before this had contributed to lessen the goodwill of Jove towards men, especially the magnitude and number of their vices and crimes, which were far in advance of those punished by the deluge. He was out of patience with the human race, the restless and unreasonable nature of which exasperated him. He recognised the futility of all effort on his part to make men happy and contented. Had he not enlarged the world, multiplied its pleasures, and increased its diversity? Yet all things were soon regarded by men (desirous and at the same time incapable of infinity) as equally restricted and valueless. Jove determined therefore to make a perpetual example of the human race. He resolved to punish men unsparingly, and reduce them to a state of misery far surpassing their former condition. Towards the attainment of this end, he purposed sending Truth among men, not for a time only as they desired, but for eternity, and giving her supreme control and dominion over the human race, instead of the Phantoms that were now so greatly despised. The other gods marvelled at this decision of Jove, as likely to exalt the human race to a degree prejudicial to their own dignity. But he explained to them that all genii are not beneficial, and that apart from this, it was not of the nature of Truth to produce the same results among men as with the gods. For whereas to the gods she unveiled the eternity of their joy, to mortals she would expose the immensity of their unhappiness, representing it to them not as a matter of chance, but as an inevitable and perpetual necessity. And since human evils are great in proportion as they are believed to be so by their victims, it may be imagined how acute an affliction Truth will prove to men. The vanity of all earthly things will be apparent to them; they will find that nothing is genuine save their own unhappiness. Above all, they will lose hope, hitherto the greatest solace and support of life. Deprived of hope, they will have nothing to stimulate them to any exertions; consequently work, industry, and all mental culture will languish, and the life of the living will partake of the inertness of the grave. Yet in spite of their despair and inactivity, men will still be tormented by their old longing for happiness intensified and quickened, because they will be less distracted by cares, and the stir of action. They will also be deprived of the power of imagination, which in itself could mysteriously transport them into a state of happiness comparable to the felicity for which they long. "And," said Jove, "all those representations of infinity which I designedly placed in the world to deceive and satisfy men, and all the vague thoughts suggestive of happiness, which I infused into their minds, will yield to the doctrines of Truth. The earth, which formerly displeased them for its insignificance, will do so increasedly when its true dimensions are known, and when all the secrets of nature are made manifest to them. And finally, with the disappearance of those Phantoms that alone gave brightness to existence, human life will become aimless and valueless. Nations and countries will lose even their names, for with Patriotism will vanish all incentive to national identities. Men will unite and form one nation and one people (as they will say), and will profess a universal love for the race. But in reality there will be the least possible union amongst them; they will be divided into as many peoples as there are individuals. For having no special country to love, and no foreigners to hate, every man will hate his neighbour, and love only himself. The evil consequences of this are incalculable. Nevertheless, men will not put an end to their unhappiness by depriving themselves of life, because under the sway of Truth they will become as cowardly as miserable. Truth will increase the bitterness of their existence, and at the same time bereave them of sufficient courage to reject it." These words of Jove moved the gods to compassion for the human race. It seemed to them that so great inflictions were inconsistent with the divine attribute of mercy. But Jove continued: "There will remain to humanity a certain consolation proceeding from the Phantom Love, which alone I purpose leaving among men. And even Truth, in spite of her almost omnipotence, will never quite prevail over Love, nor succeed in chasing this Phantom from the earth, though the struggle between them will be perpetual. Thus the life of man, divided betwixt the worship of Truth and Love, will consist of two epochs, during which these influences will respectively control his mind and actions. To the aged, instead of the solace of Love, will be granted a state of contentment with their existence, similar to that of other animals. They will love life for its own sake, not for any pleasure or profit they derive from it." Accordingly, Jove removed the Phantoms from earth, save only Love, the least noble of all, and sent Truth among men to exercise over them perpetual rule. The consequences foreseen by the god were not long in making themselves manifest. And strange to say, whereas the spirit before her descent on earth, and when she had no real authority over men, was honoured by a multitude of temples and sacrifices, her presence had the effect of cooling their enthusiasm on her behalf. With the other gods this was not so; the more they made themselves manifest, the more they were honoured; but Truth saddened men, and ultimately inspired them with such hatred that they refused to worship her, and only by constraint rendered her obedience. And whereas formerly, men who were under the especial influence of any one of the ancient Phantoms, used to love and revere that Phantom above the others, Truth was detested and cursed by those over whom she gained supreme control. So, unable to resist her tyranny, men lived from that time in the complete state of misery, which is their fate in the present day, and to which they are eternally doomed. But not long ago, pity, which is never exhausted in the minds of the gods, moved Jove to compassionate the wretchedness of mortals. He noticed especially the affliction of certain men, remarkable for their high intellect, and nobility, and purity of life, who were extraordinarily oppressed by the sway of Truth. Now in former times, when Justice, Virtue, and the other Phantoms directed humanity, the gods had been accustomed at times to visit the earth, and sojourn with men for awhile, always on such occasions benefiting the race, or particular individuals, in some especial manner. But since men had become so debased, and sunk in wickedness, they had not deigned to associate with them. Jove therefore, pitying our condition, asked the immortals whether any one of them would visit the earth as of old, and console men under their calamities, especially such as seemed undeserving of the universal affliction. All the gods were silent. At length Love, the son of celestial Venus, bearing the same name as the Phantom Love, but very different in nature and power, and the most compassionate of the immortals, offered himself for the mission proposed by Jove. This deity was so beloved by the other gods, that hitherto they had never allowed him to quit their presence, even for a moment. The ancients indeed imagined that the god had appeared to them from time to time; but it was not so. They were deceived by the subterfuges and transformations of the Phantom Love. The deity of the same name first visited mankind after they were placed under the empire of Truth. Since that time the god has rarely and briefly descended, because of the general unworthiness of humanity, and the impatience with which the celestials await his return. When he comes on earth he chooses the tender and noble hearts of the most generous and magnanimous persons. Here he rests for a short time, diffusing in them so strange and wondrous a sweetness, and inspiring them with affections so lofty and vigorous, that they then experience what is entirely new to mankind, the substance rather than the semblance of happiness. Sometimes, though very rarely, he brings about the union of two hearts, abiding in them both simultaneously, and exciting within them a reciprocal warmth and desire. All within whom he dwells beseech him to effect this union; but Jove forbids him to yield to their entreaties, save in very few instances, because the happiness of such mutual love approaches too nearly to the felicity of the immortals. The man in whom Love abides is the happiest of mortals. And not only is he blessed by the presence of the deity, but he is also charmed by the old mysterious Phantoms, which, though removed from the lot of men, by Jove's permission follow in the train of Love, in spite of the great opposition of Truth, their supreme enemy. But Truth, like all the other genii, is powerless to resist the will of the gods. And, since destiny has granted to Love a state of eternal youth, the god can partially give effect to that first desire of men, that they might return to the happiness of their childhood. In the souls he inhabits, Love awakens and vivifies, so long as ha stays there, the boundless hopes, and the sweet and fine illusions of early life. Many persons, ignorant and incapable of appreciating Love, vituperate and affront the god, even to his face. But he disregards these insults, and exacts no vengeance for them, so noble and compassionate is his nature. Nor do the other gods any longer trouble themselves about the crimes of men, being satisfied with the vengeance they have already wrought on the human race, and the incurable misery which is its portion. Consequently, wicked and blasphemous men suffer no punishment for their offences, except that they are absolutely excluded from being partakers of the divine favours. [Footnote 1: See Herodotus, Strabo, &c.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN HERCULES AND ATLAS._ _Hercules_. Father Atlas, Jove's compliments, and in case you should be weary of your burden, I was to relieve you for a few hours, as I did I don't know how many centuries ago, so that you may take breath, and rest a little. _Atlas_. Thanks, dear Hercules, and I am very much obliged to Jove. But the world has become so light, that this cloak which I wear as a protection against the snow, incommodes me more. Indeed, were it not Jove's will that I should continue to stand here, supporting this ball on my back, I would put it under my arm, or in my pocket, or suspend it from a hair of my beard, and go about my own affairs. _Hercules_. How has it become so light? I can easily see it has changed shape, and has become a sort of roll, instead of being round as when I studied cosmography in preparation for that wonderful voyage with the Argonauts. But still I cannot see why its weight should have diminished. _Atlas_. I am as ignorant of the reason as you are. But take the thing for a moment in your hand, and satisfy yourself of the truth of my assertion. _Hercules_. Upon my word, without this test, I would not have believed it. But what is this other novelty that I discover? The last time I bore it, I felt a strong pulsation on my back, like the beat of an animal's heart; and I heard a continuous buzzing like a wasp's nest. But now, it throbs more like a watch with a broken spring, and as for the buzzing, I don't hear a sound of it. _Atlas_. I know nothing of this either, except that long ago, the world ceased making any motion, or sensible noise. I even had very great suspicions that it was dead, and expecting daily to be troubled by its corruption, I considered how and where I should bury it, and what epitaph I should place on its tomb. But when I saw that it did not decompose, I came to the conclusion that it had changed from an animal into a plant, like Daphne and others; and this explained its silence and immobility. I began to fear lest it should soon wind its roots round my shoulders, or bury them in my body. _Hercules_. I am rather inclined to think it is asleep, and that its repose is like that of Epimenides,[1] which lasted more than half a century. Or perhaps it is like Hermotimus,[2] whose soul used to leave his body when it pleased, and stay away many years, disporting itself in foreign lands. To put an end to this game, the friends of Hermotimus burned the body; so that the spirit returning, found its home destroyed, and was obliged to seek shelter in another body, or an inn. So, to prevent the world from sleeping for ever, or lest some friend, thinking it were dead, should set it on fire, let us try to arouse it. _Atlas_. I am willing. But how shall we do it? _Hercules_. I would give it a good blow with this club, if I were not afraid of smashing it, and were I not sure that it would crack under the stroke like an egg. Besides, I fear lest the men, who in my time used to wrestle with lions, but are now only a match for fleas, should faint from so sudden a shock. Suppose I lay aside my club, and you your cloak, and we have a game at ball with the poor little sphere. I wish I had brought the rackets that Mercury and I use in the celestial courts, but we can do without them. _Atlas_. A likely thing indeed! So that your father seeing our game, may make a third, and with his thunderbolt precipitate us both I do not know where, as he did Phaeton into the Po! _Hercules_. That might be, if, like Phaeton, I were the son of a poet, and not his own son; and if there were not this difference between us, that whereas poets formerly peopled cities by the melody of their art, I could depopulate heaven and earth by the power of my club. And as for Jove's bolt, I would kick it hence to the farthest quarter of the empyrean. Be assured that even if I wished to appropriate five or six stars for the sake of a game, or to make a sling of a comet, taking it by the tail, or even to play at ball with the sun, my father would make no objection. Besides, our intention is to do good to the world, whereas Phaeton simply wished to show off his fleetness before the Hours, who held the steps for him when he mounted his chariot. He also wanted to gain reputation as a skilful coach-man, in the eyes of Andromeda, Callisto, and the other beautiful constellations, to whom, it is said, he threw, in passing, lustre bonbons, and comfits of light; and to make a fine parade of himself before the celestial gods during his journey that day, which chanced to be a festival. In short, don't give a thought to the possibility of my father's wrath. In any case, I will bear all the blame; so throw off your cloak, and send me the ball. _Atlas_. Willingly or not, I must do as you wish; since you are strong and armed, whereas I am old and defenceless. But do take care lest it fall, in which case it will have fresh swellings, or some new fracture, like that which separated Sicily from Italy, and Africa from Spain. And if it should get chipped in any way, there might be a war about what men would call the detachment of a province or kingdom. _Hercules_. Rely on me. _Atlas_. Then here goes. See how it quivers on account of its altered shape! _Hercules_. Hit a little harder; your strokes scarcely reach me. _Atlas_. It is the fault of the ball. The south-west wind catches it, because of its lightness. _Hercules_. It is its old failing to go with the wind. _Atlas_. Suppose we were to inflate the ball, since it has no more notion of a bounce than a melon. _Hercules_. A new shortcoming! Formerly it used to leap and dance like a young goat. _Atlas_. Look out! Run quickly after that. For Jove's sake, take care lest it fall! Alas! it was an evil hour when you came here. _Hercules_. You sent me such a bad stroke that I could not possibly have caught it in time, even at the risk of breaking my neck. Alas, poor little one!... How are you? Do you feel bad anywhere? I don't hear a sigh, nor does a soul move. They are all still asleep. _Atlas_. Give it back to me, by all the horns of the Styx, and let me settle it again on my shoulders. And you, take your club, and hasten to heaven to excuse me with Jove for this accident, which is entirely owing to you. _Hercules_. I will do so. For many centuries there has been in my father's house a certain poet, named Horace. He was made court poet at the suggestion of Augustus, who has been deified by Jove for his augmentation of the Eoman power. In one of his songs, this poet says that the just man would stir not, though the world fell. Since the world has now fallen, and no one has moved, it follows that all men are just. _Atlas_. Who doubts the justice of men? But do not lose time; run and exculpate me with your father, else I shall momentarily expect a thunderbolt to transform me from Atlas into Etna. [Footnote 1: See Pliny, Diogenes Laertius, Apollonius, Varrò, &c.] [Footnote 2: See Apollonius, Pliny, Tertullian, &c.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN FASHION AND DEATH._ _Fashion_. Madam Death, Madam Death! _Death_. Wait until your time comes, and then I will appear without being called by you. _Fashion_. Madam Death! _Death_. Go to the devil. I will come when you least expect me. _Fashion_. As if I were not immortal! _Death_. Immortal? "Already has passed the thousandth year," since the age of immortals ended. _Fashion_. Madam is as much a Petrarchist as if she were an Italian poet of the fifteenth or eighteenth century. _Death_. I like Petrarch because he composed my triumph, and because he refers so often to me. But I must be moving. _Fashion_. Stay! For the love you bear to the seven cardinal sins, stop a moment and look at me. _Death_. Well. I am looking. _Fashion_. Do you not recognise me? _Death_. You must know that I have bad sight, and am without spectacles. The English make none to suit me; and if they did, I should not know where to put them. _Fashion_. I am Fashion, your sister. _Death_. My sister? _Fashion_. Yes. Do you not remember we are both born of Decay? _Death_. As if I, who am the chief enemy of Memory, should recollect it! _Fashion_. But I do. I know also that we both equally profit by the incessant change and destruction of things here below, although you do so in one way, and I in another. _Death_. Unless you are speaking to yourself, or to some one inside your throat, raise your voice, and pronounce your words more distinctly. If you go mumbling between your teeth with that thin spider-voice of yours, I shall never understand you; because you ought to know that my hearing serves me no better than my sight. _Fashion_. Although it be contrary to custom, for in France they do not speak to be heard, yet, since we are sisters, I will speak as you wish, for we can dispense with ceremony between ourselves. I say then that our common nature and custom is to incessantly renew the world. You attack the life of man, and overthrow all people and nations from beginning to end; whereas I content myself for the most part with influencing beards, head-dresses, costumes, furniture, houses, and the like. It is true, I do some things comparable to your supreme action. I pierce ears, lips, and noses, and cause them to be torn by the ornaments I suspend from them. I impress men's skin with hot iron stamps, under the pretence of adornment. I compress the heads of children with tight bandages and other contrivances; and make it customary for all men of a country to have heads of the same shape, as in parts of America and Asia. I torture and cripple people with small shoes. I stifle women with stays so tight, that their eyes start from their heads; and I play a thousand similar pranks. I also frequently persuade and force men of refinement to bear daily numberless fatigues and discomforts, and often real sufferings; and some even die gloriously for love of me. I will say nothing of the headaches, colds, inflammations of all kinds, fevers--daily, tertian, and quartan--which men gain by their obedience to me. They are content to shiver with cold, or melt with heat, simply because it is my will that they cover their shoulders with wool, and their breasts with cotton. In fact, they do everything in my way, regardless of their own injury. _Death_. In truth, I believe you are my sister; the testimony of a birth certificate could scarcely make me surer of it. But standing still paralyses me, so if you can, let us run; only you must not creep, because I go at a great pace. As we proceed you can tell me what you want. If you cannot keep up with me, on account of our relationship I promise when I die to bequeath you all my clothes and effects as a New Year's gift. _Fashion_. If we ran a race together, I hardly know which of us would win. For if you run, I gallop, and standing still, which paralyses you, is death to me. So let us run, and we will chat as we go along. _Death_. So be it then. Since your mother was mine, you ought to serve me in some way, and assist me in my business. _Fashion_. I have already done so--more than you,--imagine. Above all, I, who annul and transform other customs unceasingly, have nowhere changed the custom of death; for this reason it has prevailed from the beginning of the world until now. _Death_. A great miracle forsooth, that you have never done what you could not do! _Fashion_. Why cannot I do it? You show how ignorant you are of the power of Fashion. _Death_. Well, well: time enough to talk of this when you introduce the custom of not dying. But at present, I want you, like a good sister, to aid me in rendering my task more easy and expeditious than it has hitherto been. _Fashion_. I have already mentioned some of my labours which are a source of profit to you. But they are trifling in comparison with those of which I will now tell you. Little by little, and especially in modern times, I have brought into disuse and discredit those exertions and exercises which promote bodily health; and have substituted numberless others which enfeeble the body in a thousand ways, and shorten life. Besides, I have introduced customs and manners, which render existence a thing more dead than alive, whether regarded from a physical or mental point of view; so that this century may be aptly termed the century of death. And whereas formerly you had no other possessions except graves and vaults, where you sowed bones and dust, which are but a barren seed, now you have fine landed properties, and people who are a sort of freehold possession of yours as soon as they are born, though not then claimed by you. And more, you, who used formerly to be hated and vituperated, are in the present day, thanks to me, valued and lauded by all men of genius. Such an one prefers you to life itself, and holds you in such high esteem that he invokes you, and looks to you as his greatest hope. But this is not all. I perceived that men had some vague idea of an after-life, which they called immortality. They imagined they lived in the memory of their fellows, and this remembrance they sought after eagerly. Of course this was in reality mere fancy, since what could it matter to them when dead, that they lived in the minds of men? As well might they dread contamination in the grave! Yet, fearing lest this chimera might be prejudicial to you, in seeming to diminish your honour and reputation, I have abolished the fashion of seeking immortality, and its concession, even when merited. So that now, whoever dies may assure himself that he is dead altogether, and that every bit of him goes into the ground, just as a little fish is swallowed, bones and all. These important things my love for you has prompted me to effect. I have also succeeded in my endeavour to increase your power on earth. I am more than ever desirous of continuing this work. Indeed, my object in seeking you to-day was to make a proposal that for the future we should not separate, but jointly might scheme and execute for the furtherance of our respective designs. _Death_. You speak reasonably, and I am willing to do as you propose. _PRIZE COMPETITION ANNOUNCED BY THE ACADEMY OF SILLOGRAPHS._ The Academy of Sillographs, ardently desiring to advance the common welfare, and esteeming nothing more conformable to this end than the promotion of the progress "Of the happy century in which we live," as says an illustrious poet, has taken in hand the careful consideration of the nature and tendency of our time. After long and mature consultation, the Academy has resolved to call our era the age of machines; not only because the men of to-day live and move perhaps more mechanically than in past times, but also on account of the numerous machines now invented and utilised for so many different purposes. To such an extent indeed is this carried, that machines and not men may be said to manage human affairs, and conduct the business of life. This circumstance greatly pleases the said Academy, not so much because of the manifest convenience of the arrangement, as for two reasons, which it thinks very important, although ordinarily they are not so regarded. The one is the possibility that in process of time the influence and usefulness of machines may extend to spiritual as well as material things. And as by virtue of these machines and inventions, we are already protected from lightning, storms, and other such evils and terrors; similarly there may be discovered some cure for envy, calumny, perfidy, and trickery; some safety-cord or other invention to deliver us from egotism, from the prevalence of mediocrity, from prosperous fools, bad and debased persons, from the universal spirit of indifference, from the wretchedness peculiar to the wise, the cultivated, the noble-minded, and from other discomforts which for many centuries have been more invincible than either lightning or tempests. The other and chief reason concerns the unhappy condition of the human race. Most philosophers despair of its improvement, or the cure of its defects, which probably equal or exceed in number its virtues. They believe it would be easier to entirely re-create the race in another way, or to substitute a different "genus" altogether, than to amend it. The Academy of Sinographs is therefore of opinion that it is very expedient for men to withdraw from the business of life as much as possible, and gradually to resign in favour of machines. And being resolved to support with all its might the progress of this new order of things, it now begs to offer three prizes for the inventors of the three following machines. The aim of the first machine must be to represent a friend warranted not to abuse or ridicule his absent friend; nor forsake his friend when he hears him made the subject of jest; nor to seek the reputation of acuteness, sarcasm, and the power of exciting men's laughter at his friend's expense; nor to divulge or boast of secrets confided to him; nor to take advantage of his friend's intimacy and confidence in order to supplant and surpass him; nor to envy his friend's good fortune. But it must be solicitous for his friend's welfare, join issue with him against his misfortunes, and assist him in deeds as well as words. Reference to the treatises of Cicero and the Marquise of Lambert on "Friendship" may be advantageously made for further suggestions as to the manufacture of this automaton. The Academy thinks the invention of this machine ought not to be regarded as either impossible, or even very difficult, seeing that besides the automata of Regiomontano, Vaucanson, and others, and the one in London which drew figures and portraits, and wrote from dictation, there are machines that can even play chess unassisted. Now in the opinion of many "savants," human life is a game, and some assert it to be a thing even more frivolous. They say that the game of chess is a more rationally conceived thing, and its hazards are less uncertain than those of life. Besides, Pindar has called life a thing of no more substance than the dream of a shadow; in which case it ought not to be beyond the capacity of a vigilant automaton. As to speech, there is no reason why men should not be able to communicate this to machines of their manufacture. For amongst examples of manufactures so endowed, we may number the statue of Memnon, and the head formed by Albertus Magnus; this latter was so loquacious that St. Thomas Aquinas, irritated at its incessant tittle-tattle, broke it in pieces. And if the parrot of Nevers (though certainly this was an animal, however small a one) could converse, how much more credible that a machine, conceived by the mind of man, and constructed by his hands, should be able to acquire such attainments? The machine ought not to be so talkative as the parrot of Nevers, and other similar ones, which we see and hear everywhere; nor as the head made by Albertus Magnus; for it must not weary its friend, thereby inciting him to its destruction. The inventor of this machine shall receive a reward of a gold medal weighing four hundred sequins, which on the one side shall have a representation of the figures of Pylades and Orestes, and on the other side the name of the person rewarded, together with the inscription, "First verifier of the ancient fables." The second machine must be an artificial man worked by steam, adapted and constructed for virtuous and magnanimous actions. The Academy is of opinion that since no other method appears to exist, steam ought to be capable of directing an animated automaton in the paths of virtue and glory. Candidates for this competition are referred to books of poems and romances for suggestions as to the qualities and powers with which to endow the figure. The reward to be a gold medal weighing four hundred and fifty sequins, stamped on the one side with some fanciful design significative of the age of gold, and on its reverse the name of the inventor of the machine, together with this inscription from the fourth eclogue of Virgil: "Quo ferrea primum desinet ac toto surget gens aurea mundo." The third machine should be empowered to act as a woman, realising the conception formed partly by Count Baldassar Castiglione, who describes his idea in the book of the "Cortegiano," and partly by others, easily discoverable in various writings which must be consulted and combined with those of the Count. Nor ought the invention of this machine to appear impossible to men of our times, when it be remembered that Pygmalion long ago, in an age far from scientific, was able to fabricate a spouse with his own hands, who was considered to be the best woman that had ever existed. To the originator of this machine a gold medal weighing five hundred sequins is assigned, on the one side of which shall be represented the Arabian Phoenix of Metastasio, perched on a tree of some European species, and on the other side shall be written the name of the recipient, with the inscription, "Inventor of faithful women, and conjugal happiness." The Academy decrees that the cost of these prizes must be defrayed with what was discovered in the satchel of Diogenes, late Secretary of this Academy, or by means of one of the three golden asses that belonged to three Sillographic Academicians, Apuleius, Firenzuola, and Macchiavelli; all which property passed to the Sillographists by will of the deceased, as may be read in the Chronicles of the Academy. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN A GOBLIN AND A GNOME._ _Goblin_. You here, son of Beelzebub! where are you going? _Gnome_. My father has sent me to find out what these rascals of men are doing. He is inclined to suspect something, because it is so long since they gave us any trouble, and in all his realms there is not a single one to be seen. He wonders whether any great change has taken place, and thinks perhaps they have returned to the primitive system of barter, whereby they use sheep instead of gold and silver; or the civilised people have become dissatisfied with paper notes for money, as they have often been, or have taken to cowrie shells such as savages use; or the laws of Lycurgus have been re-established. The last possibility seems to him the least likely. _Goblin_. "You seek them in vain, for they are all dead," as said the survivors in a tragedy where the principal personages died in the last act. _Gnome_. What do you mean? _Goblin_. I mean that men are all dead, and the race is lost. _Gnome_. My word! what news for the papers! But how is it they have not already mentioned it? _Goblin_. Stupid. Do you not see that if there are no men there will be no more newspapers? _Gnome_. Yes, that is true. But how shall we know in future the news of the world? _Goblin_. News! what news? That the sun rises and sets? That it is hot or cold? That here or there it has rained or snowed, or been windy? Since men disappeared, Fortune has unbandaged her eyes, put on spectacles, and attached her wheel to a pivot. She sits with arms crossed, watching the world go round without troubling herself in the least as to its affairs. There are no more kingdoms nor empires to swell themselves, and burst like bubbles, for they have all vanished. There is no more war; and the years are as like one another as two peas. _Gnome_. No one will know the day of the month, since there will be no more calendars printed! _Goblin_. What a misfortune! Nevertheless, the moon will continue her course. _Gnome_. And the days of the week will be nameless! _Goblin_. What does it matter? Do you think they will not come unless you call them? Or, that once passed, they will return if you call out their names? _Gnome_. And no one will take any count of the years! _Goblin_. We shall be able to say we are young when we are old; and we shall forget our cares when we cannot fix their anniversary. Besides, when we are very old, we shall not know it, nor be expecting death daily. _Gnome_. But how is it these rogues have disappeared? _Goblin_. Some killed themselves with fighting; others were drowned in the sea. Some ate each other. Not a few committed suicide. Some died of ennui in idleness; and some turned their brains with study. Debauch, and a thousand other excesses, put an end to many more. In short, they have arrived at their end, by endeavouring, as long as they lived, to violate the laws of nature, and to go contrary to their welfare. _Gnome_. Still, I do not understand how an entire race of animals can become extinct without leaving any trace behind it. _Goblin_. You who are a specialist in geology ought to know that the circumstance is not a new one, and that many kinds of animals lived anciently, which to-day are nowhere to be found except in the remains of a few petrified bones. Moreover, these poor creatures employed none of the means used by men for their destruction. _Gnome_. It may be so. I should dearly like to resuscitate one or two of the rascals, just to know what they would think when they saw all going on as before, in spite of the disappearance of the human race. Would they then imagine that everything was made and maintained solely for them? _Goblin_. They would not like to realise that the world exists solely for the use of the Goblins. _Gnome_. You are joking, my friend, if you mean what you say. _Goblin_. Why? Of course I do. _Gnome_. Go along with you, buffoon! who does not know that the world is made for the Gnomes? _Goblin_. For the Gnomes, who live underground! That is one of the best jokes I have ever heard. What good are the sun, moon, air, sea, and country to the Gnomes? _Gnome_. And pray of what use to the Goblins are the mines of gold and silver, and the whole body of earth, except the outer skin? _Goblin_. Well, well: suppose we abandon the discussion. It is unimportant after all. For I imagine even the lizards and gnats think the whole world was created for their exclusive service. Let each of us believe what we please, for nothing will make us change our opinion. But, between ourselves, if I had not been born a Goblin, I should be in despair. _Gnome_. And I, had I not been born a Gnome. But I should like to know what men would say of their impertinence in former times, when, besides other misdeeds, they sank thousands of underground shafts, and stole our goods from us by force, asserting that they belonged to the human race. Nature, they said, concealed and buried the things down below, as a sort of game at hide and seek, just to see if they could discover and abstract them. _Goblin_. I do not wonder at that, since they not only imagined the things of the world were at their service, but they also regarded them as a mere trifle compared to the human race. They called their own vicissitudes "revolutions of the world;" and histories of their nations, "histories of the world;" although the earth contained about as many different species of animals as living individual human beings. Yet these animals, though made expressly for the use of men, were never conscious of the so-called revolutions of the world! _Gnome_. Then even the fleas and gnats were made for the service of men? _Goblin_. Just so. To exercise their patience, men said. _Gnome_. As if, apart from fleas, man's patience were not tried sufficiently! _Goblin_. And a certain man named Chrysippus termed pigs pieces of meat expressly prepared by nature for man's table. Their souls, he said, served the purpose of salt, in preserving them from decay. _Gnome_. In my opinion, if Chrysippus had had a little sense (salt) in his brain, instead of imagination (soul), he would never have conceived such an idea. _Goblin_. Here is another amusing circumstance. An infinite number of species of animals were never seen, nor heard of by men their masters, either because they lived where man never set foot, or because they were too small to be observed. Many others were only discovered during the last days of the human race. The same may be said of plants, minerals, &c. Similarly, from time to time, by means of their telescopes, they perceived some star or planet, of the existence of which hitherto, during thousands and thousands of years, they had been ignorant. They then immediately entered it on the catalogue of their possessions; for they regarded the stars and planets as so many candles placed up above to give light to their dominions, because they were wont to transact much business in the night. _Gnome_. And in summer, when they saw those little meteor flames that rush through the air at night, they imagined them to be sprites employed in snuffing the candles for the good of mankind. _Goblin_. Yet now that they are all gone, the earth is none the worse off. The rivers still flow, and the sea, although no longer used for navigation and traffic, is not dried up. _Gnome_. The stars and planets still rise and set; nor have they gone into mourning. _Goblin_. Neither has the sun put on sackcloth and ashes, as it did, according to Virgil, when Cæsar died; about whom I imagine it concerned itself as little as Pompey's Pillar. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN MALAMBRUNO AND FARFARELLO._ _Malambruno_. Spirits of the deep, Farfarello, Ciriatto, Raconero, Astarotte, Alichino, or whatever else you are called, I adjure you in the name of Beelzebub, and command you by virtue of my art, which can unhinge the moon, and nail the sun in the midst of the heavens, come one of you with your prince's permission, to put all the powers of hell at my disposal. _Farfarello_. Here I am. _Mal_. Who are you? _Far_. Farfarello, at thy service. _Mal_. Have you the mandate of Beelzebub? _Far_. I have; and can thus do for thee all that the king himself could do, and more than lies in the power of all other creatures together. _Mal_. It is well. I wish to be satisfied in but one desire. _Far_. Thou shalt be obeyed. What is it? Dost thou wish for majesty surpassing that of the Atrides? _Mal_. No. _Far_. More wealth than shall be found in El Dorado, when it is discovered? _Mal_. No. _Far_. An empire as large as that of which Charles V. dreamt one night? _Mal_. No. _Far_. A mistress chaster than Penelope? _Mal_. No: methinks the devil's aid were superfluous for that. _Far_. Honours and success, however wicked thou mayst be? _Mal_. I should rather more need the devil, if I wished the contrary, under such circumstances. _Far_. Then what dost thou want? _Mal_. Make me happy for a moment. _Far_. I cannot. _Mal_. Why? _Far_. I give you my word of honour--I cannot do it. _Mal_. The word of honour of a good demon? _Far_. Yes, to be sure. Thou shouldest know that there are good devils as well as good men. _Mal_. And you must know that I will hang you by the tail to one of these beams if you do not instantly obey me without more words. _Far_. It were easier for you to kill me, than for me to satisfy your demands. _Mal_. Then return with my malediction, and let Beelzebub come himself. _Far_. Beelzebub and the whole army of hell would be equally powerless to render you or any of your race happy. _Mal_. Not even for a single moment? _Far_. As impossible for a moment, half a moment, or the thousandth part of a moment, as for a lifetime. _Mal_. Well, since you cannot make me happy in any way, at least free me from unhappiness. _Far_. On condition that you no longer love yourself above everything else. _Mal_. I shall only cease doing that when I die. _Far_. But as long as you live you will be unable to do it. Your nature would tolerate anything rather than that. _Mal_. So it is. _Far_. Consequently, loving yourself above everything, you desire your own happiness more than anything. But because this is unattainable, you must necessarily be unhappy. _Mal_. Even when engaged in pleasure; since no gratification can make me happy, or satisfy me. _Far_. Truly none. _Mal_. And because pleasure cannot satisfy my soul's innate desire for happiness, it is not true pleasure, and during its continuance I shall still be unhappy. _Far_. As you say: because in men and other living beings, the deprivation of happiness, even though pain and misfortune be wanting, implies express unhappiness. This, too, during the continuance of so-called pleasures. _Mal_. So that from birth to death our unhappiness never ceases for an instant. _Far_. Yes, it ceases whenever you sleep dreamlessly, or when, from one cause or another, you are deprived of your senses. _Mal_. But never, so long as we are sensible that we live. _Far_. Never. _Mal_. So that in fact it were better not to live than to live. _Far_. If the absence of unhappiness be better than unhappiness itself. _Mal_. Then? _Far_. Then if you would like to give me your soul before its time, I am ready to carry it away with me. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND A SOUL._ _Nature_. Go, my beloved child. You shall be regarded as my favoured one for very many centuries. Live: be great and unhappy. _Soul_. What evil have I done before beginning to live, that you condemn me to this misery? _Nature_. What misery, my child? _Soul_. Do you not ordain that I am to be unhappy? _Nature_. Yes; but only so far as to enable you to be great, which you cannot become without unhappiness. Besides, you are destined to animate a human body, and all men are of necessity unhappy from their birth. _Soul_. It were more reasonable that you made happiness a necessity; or this being impossible, it were better not to bring men into the world. _Nature_. I can do neither the one thing nor the other, because I am subordinate to Destiny, who decrees the contrary. The reason of this is as much a mystery to myself as to you. Now that you are created and designed to animate a human being, no power in the world can save you from the unhappiness common to men. Moreover, your infelicity will be especially great, owing to the perfection with which I have fashioned you. _Soul_. I know nothing yet, because I have only just begun to live. Doubtless this is why I do not understand you. But tell me, is greatness the same thing as extreme unhappiness? If, however, they are different, why could not the one be separated from the other? _Nature_. In the souls of men, and proportionately in those of all animals, they are inseparable, because excellence of soul implies great capacity for knowledge, which in exposing to men the unhappiness of humanity may be termed unhappiness itself. Similarly, a life of greater intensity involves a greater love of self, manifested in different ways. An increased desire for happiness is a consequence of this self-love and increased unhappiness, because of the impossibility of satisfying this desire, and as the unfortunate condition of humanity becomes realised. All this is decreed from the beginning of creation, and is unalterable by me. Moreover, the keenness of your intellect and the strength of your imagination will lessen considerably your power of self-control. Brute animals readily adapt all their faculties and powers to the attainment of their ends; but men rarely do so, being usually prevented by their reason and imagination, which give birth to a thousand doubts in deliberation, and a thousand hindrances in execution. The less men are inclined or accustomed to deliberate, the more prompt are they in decision, and the more vigorous in action. But such souls as yours, self-contained, and proudly conscious of their greatness, are really powerless for self-rule, and often succumb to irresolution both in thought and action. This temperament is one of the greatest curses of human life. Added to this, although by your noble talents you will easily and quickly excel most men in profound knowledge and works of the greatest difficulty, you will yet find it almost impossible to learn, or put in practice, a host of things, trivial enough, but very essential, for your intercourse with others. At the same time, you; will see your inferiors, and even men of scarcely any intelligence, perfectly at home with these things. Such difficulties and miseries as these occupy and surround great souls; but they are amply atoned for by fame, praise, and honours paid to their greatness, and by the lasting memory they leave behind them. _Soul_. Whence will come these praises and honours,--from heaven, from you, or from whom? _Nature_. From men, who alone can dispense them. _Soul_. But I thought my ignorance of those things necessary for the intercourse of life, which intellects inferior to mine so easily comprehend, would cause me to be despised and shunned, not praised by men. I thought too that I should surely live unknown to most of them, because of my unfitness for their society. _Nature_. I have not the power to foresee the future, so I cannot say exactly how men will behave to you whilst you are on earth. But judging from past experience, I think they will probably be jealous of you. This is another misfortune to which great minds are peculiarly liable. Perhaps too, they will despise you, and treat you with indifference. Fortune herself, and even circumstances, are usually unfriendly to such as you. But directly after your death, as happened to one named Camoens, or a few years later, like Milton, you will be eulogised and lauded to the skies, if not by every one, at any rate by the few men of noble minds. Perhaps the ashes of your body will be deposited in a magnificent tomb, and your likeness reproduced in many different forms, and passed about from hand to hand. Men will also study your life and writings, and at length the world will ring with your name. Always provided you are not hindered by evil fortune, or even by the very excess of your genius, from leaving undoubted testimonies of your merit; instances are not wanting of such unfortunates, known only to myself and Destiny. _Soul_. O mother, I care not if I be deprived of all knowledge, so long as I obtain what I most desire, happiness. And as for glory, I know not whether it be a good or evil thing, but I do know that I shall only value it in so far as it procures me happiness, directly or indirectly. Now, on your own showing, the excellence with which you have endowed me, though it may be fruitful of glory, is also productive of the greatest unhappiness. Yet even this paltry glory I may not gain until I am dead, when I fail to see how I shall benefit by it. And besides, there is the probability that this phantom glory, the price of so much suffering, may be obtained neither in life nor after death. In short, from what you yourself have said, I conclude that far from loving me with peculiar affection, as you affirmed, you bear me greater malice than that of which I can be the victim, either at the hands of men or Destiny. Why else should you have endowed me with this disastrous excellence, about which you boast so much, and which will be the chief stumbling-block in the road to happiness, the only thing for which I care? _Nature_. My child, all men are destined to be unhappy, as I have said, without any fault of mine. But in the midst of this universal misery, and amid the infinite vanity of all their pleasures and joys, glory is by most men considered to be the greatest good of life, and the worthiest object of ambition and fatigue. Therefore, not hatred but a feeling of especial kindliness, has prompted me to assist you as far as I could in your attainment of this glory. _Soul_. Tell me: among the animals you mentioned, are there any of less vitality and sensibility than men? _Nature_. All are so, in more or less degree, beginning with plants. Man, being the most perfect of them all, has greater life and power of thought than all other living beings. _Soul_. Then if you love me, place me in the most imperfect thing existing, or that being impossible, at least deprive me of this terrible excellence, and make me like the most stupid and senseless soul you have ever created! _Nature_. I can satisfy your second request, and will do so, since you reject the immortality I would have given you. _Soul_. And instead of the immortality, I beseech you to hasten my death as much as possible. _Nature_. I will consult Destiny about that. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE EARTH AND THE MOON_ _Earth_. Dear Moon, I know that you can speak and answer questions like a human being, for I have heard so from many of the poets. Besides, our children say you have really a mouth, nose, and eyes like every one else, and that they see them with their own eyes, which at their time of life ought to be very sharp. As for me, no doubt you know that I am a person; indeed, when I was young, I had a number of children; so you will not be surprised to hear me speak. And the reason, my fine Moon, why I have never uttered a word to you before, although I have been your neighbour for I don't know how many centuries, is that I have been so occupied as to have no time for gossip. But now my business is so trifling that it can look after itself. I don't know what to do, and am ready to die of ennui. So in future, I hope we may often have some talk together; and I should like to know all about your affairs, if it does not inconvenience you to recount them to me. _Moon_. Be easy on that score. May the Fates never trouble me more than you are likely to! Talk as much as you please, and although, as I believe you know, I am partial to silence, I will willingly listen and reply, to oblige you. _Earth_. Do you hear the delightful sound made by the heavenly bodies in motion? _Moon_. To tell you the truth, I hear nothing. _Earth_. Nor do I; save only the whistling of the wind, which blows from my poles to the equator, and from the equator to the poles, and which is far from musical. But Pythagoras asserts that the celestial spheres make an incredibly sweet harmony, and that you take part in the concert, and are the eighth chord of this universal lyre. As for me, I am so deafened by my own noise that I hear nothing. _Moon_. I also am doubtless deafened, since I hear no more than you. But it is news to me that I am a chord. _Earth_. Now let us change the subject. Tell me; are you really inhabited, as thousands of ancient and modern philosophers affirm--from Orpheus to De Lalande? In spite of all my efforts to prolong these horns of mine, which men call mountains and hills, and from the summits of which I look at you in silence, I have failed to discern a single one of your inhabitants. Yet I am told that a certain David Fabricius, whose eyes were keener than those of Lynceus, at one time observed your people extending their linen to be dried by the sun. _Moon_. I know nothing about your horns. I will admit that I am inhabited. _Earth_. What colour are your men? _Moon_. What men? _Earth_. Those that you contain. Did you not say you were inhabited? _Moon_. Yes, what then? _Earth_. Does it not follow that all your inhabitants are animals? _Moon_. Neither animals nor men, though I am really in ignorance as to the nature of either the one or the other. As for the men you speak of, I have not an idea what you mean. _Earth_. Then what sort of creatures are yours? _Moon_. They are of very many different kinds, as unknown to you, as yours are to me. _Earth_. This is so strange that if you yourself had not informed me of it, I would never have believed it. Were you ever conquered by any of your inhabitants? _Moon_. Not that I know of. But how? And for what reason? _Earth_. Through ambition and jealousy; by means of diplomacy and arms. _Moon_. I do not know what you mean by arms, ambition, and diplomacy. Indeed, I understand nothing of what you say. _Earth_. But surely if you do not understand the meaning of arms, you know something of war; because, not long ago, a certain doctor discovered through a telescope, which is an instrument for seeing a long distance, that you possessed a fine fortress with proper bastions. Now this is certain proof that your races are at any rate accustomed to sieges and mural battles. _Moon_. Pardon me, Mother Earth, if I reply to you a little more at length than would be expected from one so subjugated as it seems I am. But in truth, you appear to me more than vain to imagine that everything in the world is conformable to your things; as if Nature had no other intention than to copy you exactly in each of her creations. I tell you I am inhabited, and you jump to the conclusion that my inhabitants are men. I assert that they are not, and whilst admitting that they may be another race of beings, you endow them with qualities and customs similar to those of your people. You also speak to me about the telescope of a certain doctor. But it seems to me the sight of these telescopes is about as good as that of your children, who discover that I have eyes, a mouth, and a nose, all of which I am ignorant of possessing. _Earth_. Then it is not true that your provinces are intersected by fine long roads, and that you are cultivated; which things are clearly discernible with a telescope from Germany.[1] _Moon_. I do not know whether I am cultivated, and I have never observed my roads. _Earth_. Dear Moon, you must know that I am of a coarse composition, and very simple-minded. No wonder therefore that men easily deceive me. But I can assure you that if your own inhabitants do not care to conquer you, you are by no means free from such danger; for at different times many people down here have thought of subduing you, and have even made great preparations for doing so. Some have tried to reach you by going to my highest places, standing on tiptoe, and stretching out their arms. Besides, they have made a careful study of your surface, and drawn out maps of your countries. They also know the heights of your mountains, and even their names. I warn you of these things out of pure goodwill, so that you may be prepared for any emergency. Now, permit me to ask you another question or two. Are you much disturbed by the dogs that bay at you? What do you think of those people who show you another moon in a well? Are you masculine or feminine[2]--because anciently there was a difference of opinion. Is it true that the Arcadians came into the world before you?[3] Are your women, or whatever I should call them, oviparous, and did one of their eggs fall down to us, once upon a time?[4] Are you perforated like a bead, as a modern philosopher believes?[5] Are you made of green cheese, as some English say? Is it true that Mahomet one fine night cut you in two like a water melon, and that a good piece of your body fell into his cloak? Why do you like to stay on the tops of minarets? What do you think of the feast of Bairam? _Moon_. You may as well go on. I need not answer such questions, nor depart from my accustomed habit of silence. If you wish to be so frivolous, and can find nothing else to talk to me about except matters incomprehensible to me, your people had better construct another planet to rotate round them, which they can design and populate as they please. You seem unable to talk of anything but men, and dogs, and such things, of which I know as much as of that one great being round which I am told our sun turns. _Earth_. Truly the more I determine not to touch on personal matters, the less I succeed in my resolution. But for the future I will be more careful. Tell me; do you amuse yourself by drawing up my sea-water, and then letting it fall again? _Moon_. It may be. But if I have done this, or other such things, I am unaware of it. And you, it seems to me, do not consider what you effect here, which is of so much the more importance as your size and strength are greater than mine. _Earth_. I know nothing of these effects, except that from time to time I deprive you of the sun's light, and myself of yours, and that I illumine you during your nights, as is sometimes evident to me. But I am forgetting one thing, which is the most important of all. I should like to know if Ariosto is correct in saying that everything man loses, such as youth, beauty, health, the vigour and money spent in the pursuit of glory, in the instruction of children, and founding or promoting useful institutions, flies to you; so that you possess all things pertaining to man, except folly, which has never left mankind. If this be true, I reckon you ought to be so full as to have scarcely any space unoccupied, especially since men have recently lost a great many things (such as patriotism, virtue, magnanimity, righteousness), not merely in part, or singly, as in former times, but completely, and without exception. And certainly if you have not got these things, I do not know where else they can be. But supposing you have them, I wish we could come to an agreement whereby you might soon return the lost things to me; for I imagine you must be greatly encumbered, especially with common sense, which I understand crowds you very much. In return for this, I will see that men pay you annually a good sum of money. _Moon_. Men again! Though folly, as you say, has not left your domains, you wish nevertheless to make an utter fool of me, by depriving me of what reason I possess, to supply the deficiency in your people. But I do not know where this reason of yours is, nor whether it can be found in the universe. I know well that it is not here, any more than the other things you mention. _Earth_. At least, you can tell me if your inhabitants are acquainted with vices, misdeeds, misfortunes, suffering, and old age; in short, evils? Do you understand these names? _Moon_. Yes, I understand these well enough, and not only the names. I am full of them, instead of the other things. _Earth_. Which are the more numerous among your people, virtues or vices? _Moon_. Vices, by a long way. _Earth_. Does pleasure or pain predominate? _Moon_. Pain is infinitely more prevalent. _Earth_. And your inhabitants, are they mostly happy or unhappy? _Moon_. So unhappy that I would not exchange my lot with the happiest of them. _Earth_. It is the same here. I wonder why we differ so much in other things, yet agree in this. _Moon_. I am also like you in shape, I rotate like you, and am illumined by the same sun. It is no more wonderful that we should resemble each other in these things, than that we should possess common failings; because evil is as common to all the planets of the universe, or at least of the solar system, as rotundity, movement, and light. And if you could speak loud enough for Uranus or Saturn, or any other planet, to hear you, and were to ask them if they contained unhappiness, and whether pleasure or pain predominated, each would answer as I have done. I speak from experience, for I have already questioned Venus and Mercury, to whom I am now and then nearer than you. I have also asked certain comets which have passed by me; they all replied to the same effect. I firmly believe even the sun and every star would make the same response. _Earth_. Still I am very hopeful. In future I trust men will permit me to experience much happiness. _Moon_. Hope as much as you please. I will answer for it you may hope for ever. _Earth_. Ha! Did you hear that? These men and animals of mine are making an uproar. It is night on the side from which I am speaking to you, and at first they were all asleep. But, thanks to our conversation, they are now wide awake, and very frightened. _Moon_. And here, on the other side, you see it is day. _Earth_. Yes. Now I do not wish to terrify my people, or interrupt their sleep, which is the best thing they possess; so let us postpone conversation until another opportunity. Adieu, and good-day to you. _Moon_. Adieu. Good-night. [Footnote 1: See German newspapers of March 1824, for particulars of the discoveries attributed to Gruithuisen.] [Footnote 2: See Macrobius, _Saturnal_: lib. 3. cap. 8; Tertullian, _Apolog_., cap. 15. The moon was also honoured as the god moon. In the German language moon is masculine.] [Footnote 3: See Menander, lib. 1. cap. 15, _in Rhetor_, graec. veter.] [Footnote 4: Athen: lib. 2. _ed. Casaub_. p. 57.] [Footnote 5: Antonio di Ulloa. See Carli, _Lettere Americane_, par. 4. lett. 7. Milan, 1784.] _THE WAGER OF PROMETHEUS._ In the year 833,265 of the reign of Jove, the College of the Muses caused certain notices to be printed and affixed in the public places of the city and suburbs of Hypernephelus. These notices contained an invitation to all the gods, great and small, and the other inhabitants of the city, who had recently or anciently originated some praiseworthy invention, to make representation thereof, either actually, or by model or description, to certain judges nominated by this College. And, regretting that its well-known poverty prevented it from displaying the liberality it would have liked to show, the College promised to reward the one whose invention should be judged the finest or most useful, with a crown of laurel. In addition to the prize itself, the College would give the victor permission to wear the crown, day and night, in public and private life, and both in the city and outside it; he might also be painted, sculptured, or modelled in any manner or material whatever, with the emblem of victory on his brow. Not a few of the gods contested the prize, simply to kill time, a thing as necessary for the citizens of Hypernephelus, as for the people of other towns. They had no wish for the crown, which was about as valuable as a cotton night-cap; and as for the glory, if even men despise it as soon as they become philosophers, it may be imagined in what esteem the phantom was held by the gods, who are so much wiser than the wisest of men, if indeed they are not the sole possessors of wisdom, as Pythagoras and Plato affirm. The prize was awarded with an unanimity hitherto unheard of in cases of reward bestowed on the most meritorious. Neither were there any unfair influences exercised, such as favouritism, underhand promises, or artifice. Three competitors were chosen: Bacchus, for the invention of wine; Minerva, for that of oil, with which the gods were daily wont to be anointed after the bath; and Vulcan, for having made a copper pot of an economical design, by which cooking could be expeditiously conducted with but little fire. It was necessary to divide the prize into three parts, so there only remained a little sprig of laurel for each of the victors. But they all three declined the prize, whether in part or the whole. Vulcan said, that since he was obliged to stand the greater part of his time at the forge fire, perspiring and considerably exerting himself, the encumbrance on his brow would be a great annoyance to him; added to which, the laurel would run risk of being scorched or burnt, if some spark by chance were to fall on its dry leaves and set it on fire. Minerva excused herself on the ground of having to wear a helmet large enough, as Homer says, to cover the united armies of a hundred cities; consequently any increase of this weight would be very inconvenient, and out of the question. Bacchus did not wish to change his mitre and chaplet of vine leaves for the laurel, which, however, he would willingly have accepted, had he been allowed to put it up as a sign outside his tavern; but the Muses declined to grant it for that purpose. Finally, the wreath remained in the common treasury of the College. None of the competitors for the prize envied the three successful gods; nor did they express vexation at the award, nor dispute the verdict--with one exception, Prometheus. This god brought to the contest the clay model he had used in the formation of the first man. Attached to the model was some writing which explained the qualities and office of the human race, his invention. The chagrin displayed by Prometheus in this matter caused no little astonishment; since all the other gods, whether victors or vanquished, had regarded the whole affair as a joke. But on further inquiry it transpired that what he especially desired, was not the honour, but rather the privilege accompanying success. Some thought he meant to use the laurel as a protection for his head against storms; as it is said of Tiberius that whenever he heard thunder, he donned his crown, esteeming the laurel proof against thunderbolts. But this suggestion was negatived by the fact that the city of Hypernephelus never experienced either thunder or lightning. Others, more rationally, affirmed that Prometheus, owing to age, had begun to lose his hair, and being greatly troubled at this misadventure, as are many mortals in similar circumstances (and either not having read Synesius' eulogy on baldness, or being unconvinced by it), wished, like Julius Cæsar, to hide the nakedness of his head beneath the leafy diadem. But to turn to facts. One day Prometheus, talking with Momus, bitterly complained of the preference given to the wine, oil, and copper-pot, in comparison with the human race, which he said was the finest achievement of the immortals that the universe had ever seen. And not being able sufficiently to convince Momus, who gave various reasons against this assertion, they made a wager on the subject. Prometheus proposed that they should descend together to the earth, and alighting by chance in the first place they should discover inhabited by man in each of the five parts of the world, they might find out whether or not there were in all or most of these parts conclusive evidence that man is the most perfect creature of the universe. Momus accepted the wager; and having settled the amount, they began without delay to descend towards the earth. First of all they directed themselves to the New World, which, from its name, and the fact that as yet none of the immortals had set foot in it, greatly excited their curiosity. They touched ground towards the north of Popuyan, not far from the river Cauca, in a place which showed many signs of human habitation. There were traces of cultivation, level roads broken and impassable in places, trees cut and strewn about, appearances of what might be graves, and here and there human bones were scattered. But the celestials could neither hear the voice, nor see the shadow of a living man, though they listened acutely, and looked all around them. They proceeded, walking and flying, for the distance of many miles, passing mountains and rivers, and finding everywhere the same traces of human habitation, and the same solitude. "How is it these countries are now deserted," said Momus to Prometheus, "though they were evidently once inhabited?" Prometheus mentioned the inundations of the sea, earthquakes, storms, and heavy rains, which he knew were ordinary occurrences in the tropics. Indeed, as if in confirmation of his words, they could distinctly hear in the neighbouring forests the incessant patter of rain-drops falling from the branches of trees agitated by the wind. But Momus was unable to understand how that locality could be affected by inundations of the sea, which was so distant as not to be visible on any side. Still less could he comprehend why the earthquakes, storms, and rains should have destroyed the human beings of the country, sparing however, the jaguars, apes, ants, eagles, parrots, and a hundred other kinds of animals and birds which surrounded them. At length, descending into an immense valley, they discovered a little cluster of houses, or wooden cabins, covered with palm leaves, and environed on all sides by a fence like a stockade. Before one of these cabins, many persons, some standing, some sitting, were gathered round an earthen pot suspended over a large fire. The two celestials, having taken human form, drew near, and Prometheus, courteously saluting them all, turned to the one who seemed to be their chief, and asked him what they were doing. _Savage_. Eating, as you see. _Prom_. What savoury food have you got? _Savage_. Only a little bit of meat. _Prom_. Of a domestic, or wild animal? _Savage_. Domestic, in truth, since it is my own son. _Prom_. What! Had you then, like Pasiphaë, a calf for your son? _Savage_. Not a calf, but a child like every one else. _Prom_. Do you mean what you say? Is it your own flesh and blood that you are eating? _Savage_. My own? No. But certainly that of my son. Why else did I bring him into the world, and nourish him? _Prom_. What! To eat him? _Savage_. Why not? and I will also eat his mother when she can have no more children. _Momus_. As one eats the hen after her eggs. _Savage_. And I will likewise eat my other women, when they can no longer have children. And why also should I keep these slaves of mine alive, if it were not that from time to time they give me children to eat? But when they are old, I will eat them all one after the other, if I live.[1] _Prom_. Tell me, do these slaves belong to your tribe or to another? _Savage_. Another. _Prom_. Far from here? _Savage_. A very long way. A river divides their huts from ours. And pointing with his finger to a hillock, he added: They used to live there, but our people have destroyed their dwellings. By this time it seemed to Prometheus that many of the savages were standing looking at him with the sort of appreciative gaze that a cat gives to a mouse. So, to avoid being eaten by his own manufactures, he rose suddenly on the wing, and Momus followed his example. And such was their fright that in setting out they unconsciously behaved as did the Harpies towards the Trojans when at meat. But the cannibals, more hungry, or less dainty, than the companions of Æneas, continued their horrid repast. Prometheus, very dissatisfied with the New World, turned immediately towards Asia, the older one. Having traversed almost in an instant the space which lies between the East and West Indies, they both descended near Agra, in a field where they saw a number of people. These were all gathered round a funeral pyre of wood, by which men with torches were standing, ready to set it on fire; and on a platform was a young woman very sumptuously attired, and wearing a variety of barbaric adornments, who, dancing and shouting, displayed signs of the liveliest joy. Prometheus, seeing her, imagined that a second Lucretia or Virginia, or some imitator of the children of Erectheus, of Iphigenia, Codrus, Menecius, Curtius, or Decius, was about to sacrifice herself voluntarily on behalf of her country, in obedience to the decree of some oracle. Learning however that the woman was about to die because her husband was dead, he supposed that, like Alcestis, she wished at the cost of her own life to reanimate her husband. But, when they informed him that she was only induced to burn herself because it was customary for widows of her caste to do so, and that she had always hated her husband, that she was drunk, and that the dead man, instead of being resuscitated, was to be burnt in the same fire, he abruptly turned his back on the spectacle, and set out for Europe. On their way thither, Prometheus and his companion held the following conversation. _Momus_. Did you think, when at so great a hazard you stole fire from heaven to give to men, that some of them would make use of it to cook one another in pots, and others voluntarily to burn themselves? _Prom_. No, indeed! But consider, dear Momus, that the men we have hitherto seen are barbarians; and one must not judge of human nature from barbarians, but rather from civilised people, to whom we are now going. I have a strong conviction that among these latter we shall see things, and hear words, which will astonish as much as delight you. _Momus_. I for my part do not see, if men are the most perfect race of the universe, why they need be civilised in order not to burn themselves, or eat their own children. Other animals are all uncivilised, and yet none of them deliberately burn themselves, except the phoenix, which is fabulous; rarely they eat their own kind; and much more rarely make food of their own offspring by any chance whatever; neither do they specially give birth to them for that purpose. I also understand that of the five divisions of the world, only the smallest possesses even incompletely the civilisation that you praise. To this may be added minute portions of other parts of the world. And you yourself will not venture to assert that the civilisation of the present day is such that the men of Paris or Philadelphia have reached the highest possible state of perfection. Yet, to enable them to attain to their present imperfect state of civilisation, how much time has had to elapse? Even as many years as the world can number from its origin to the existing age. Again, almost all the inventions which have been of greatest use or importance in the advancement of civilisation have originated rather fortuitously than rationally. Hence, human civilisation is a work of chance rather than nature, and where opportunity has been lacking, the people are still barbarians, though on the same level of age as civilised people. Consequently I make the following deductions: that man in the savage state is many degrees inferior to every other animal; that civilisation as compared with barbarism is only possessed even in the present day by a small portion of the human race; that these privileged people have only reached their existing state of culture after the lapse of many ages, and more by chance than anything else; and finally, that the present state of civilisation is imperfect. Consider, therefore, whether your opinion about the human race would not be better expressed in saying, that it is chief among races, but supreme rather in imperfection than perfection. It does not affect the case that men themselves, in talking and reasoning, continually confuse perfection and imperfection, arguing as they do from certain preconceived notions, which they take for palpable truths. It is certain that the other races of creatures were each from the very beginning in a state of perfection. And, since it is clear that man in a savage state compares unfavourably with other animals, I do not understand how beings, naturally the most imperfect among the races, as it seems men are, come to be esteemed superior to all others. Added to which, human civilisation, so difficult to acquire, and almost impossible to perfect, is not so immutable that it cannot relapse. In fact, we find it has done so several times, among people who once possessed a high degree of culture. In conclusion, I think your brother Epimetheus would have gained the prize before you, had he brought to the judges his model of the first ass, or first frog. I will, however, quite agree with you as to the perfection of man, if you on your part will admit that his excellence is of the kind attributed to the world by Plotinus. This philosopher says the world in itself is supremely perfect, but containing as it does every conceivable evil, it is in reality as bad as can be. From the same point of view, I might perhaps agree with Leibnitz, that the present world is the best of all possible worlds. There can be no doubt that Prometheus had prepared a concise and crushing reply to all this reasoning; but it is very certain he did not give it expression, for just then they found themselves over the city of London. The gods descended, and seeing a great many people rushing to the door of a private house, they mixed with the crowd, and entered the building. Within, they found a dead man, who had been shot in the breast, laid out on a bed. He had a pistol clenched in his right hand, and by his side lay two children, also dead. There were several people of the house in the room, who were being questioned by magistrates, while an official wrote down their replies. _Prom_. Who are these unfortunate beings? _Servant_. My master and his children. _Prom_. Who has killed them? _Servant_. My master himself. _Prom_. What! Do you mean to say he killed his children and himself? _Servant_. Yes. _Prom_. Alas! Why did he do that? Surely some great misfortune must have befallen him. _Servant_. None that I know of. _Prom_. Perhaps he was poor, or despised by every one, unfortunate in love, or in disgrace at court. _Servant_. On the contrary, he was very rich, and I believe universally esteemed. He cared nothing about love, and was in high favour at court. _Prom_. Then why has he done this thing? _Servant_. He was weary of life,--so he says in the writing he has left. _Prom_. What are these judges doing? _Servant_. Taking evidence as to whether my master was out of his mind or not. Unless he is proved to have been insane, his goods fall to the crown by law; and really there is nothing to prevent their so doing. _Prom_. But had he no friend or relative to whom he could entrust his children instead of killing them? _Servant_. Yes, he had; and especially one friend, to whom he has commended his dog.[2] Momus was about to congratulate Prometheus on the good effects of civilisation, and the happiness that seemed to be inseparable from human life. He wished also to remind him that no animal except man voluntarily killed itself, or was impelled by feelings of despair to take the life of its own offspring. But Prometheus anticipated him, and paid the bet at once, without visiting the two remaining parts of the world. [Footnote 1: See Robertson's _Hist. of America_, Book VI.] [Footnote 2: A fact.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN A NATURAL PHILOSOPHER AND A METAPHYSICIAN_ _Natural Philosopher_. Eureka! Eureka! _Metaphysician_. What is it? What have you found? _Nat. Phil._ The art of long life.[1] _Met_. And the book that you carry? _Nat. Phil_. Explains my theory. This invention of mine will give me eternal life. Others may live long, but I shall live for ever. I mean that I shall acquire immortal fame. _Met_. Follow my advice. Get a leaden casket; enclose therein your book; bury it; and leave in your will directions where it may be found, with instructions to your heirs not to exhume the book until they shall have discovered the art of living a happy life. _Nat. Phil_. And meanwhile? _Met_. Meanwhile your invention will be good for nothing. It were far better if it taught the art of living briefly. _Nat. Phil_. That has already been known a long time. The discovery was not a difficult one. _Met_. At any rate I prefer it to yours. _Nat Phil_. Why? _Met_. Because if life be not happy, as hitherto it has not been, it were better to endure a short term of it than a long one. _Nat. Phil_. No, no. I differ from you. Life is a good in itself, and is naturally desired and loved by every one. _Met_. So men think. But they are deceived. Similarly people deceive themselves in thinking that colours are attributes of the objects coloured; whereas really they are not qualities of objects, but of light. I assert that man loves and desires nothing but his own happiness. He therefore loves his life only inasmuch as he esteems it the instrument or subject of his happiness. Hence it is happiness that he always loves, and not life; although he very often attributes to the one the affection he has for the other. It is true that this illusion and that relating to colours are both natural. But as a proof that the love of life in men is unnatural, or rather unnecessary, think of the many people that in olden times preferred to die rather than live. In our own time too many people often wish for death, and some kill themselves. Now such things could not occur if man naturally loved life itself. The love of happiness, on the contrary, is innate in every living being; indeed the world would perish before they ceased loving and seeking it in every possible form. And as for your assertion that life in itself is a good thing, I challenge you to prove your words by any arguments you please, whether of physics or metaphysics. Personally I am of opinion that a happy life is undoubtedly a good thing. But this is because of the happiness, not the life. An unhappy life is therefore an evil. And since it is ordained that human life should be inseparable from unhappiness, I leave you to draw your own conclusions. _Nat. Phil_. Let us drop the subject, if you please; it is too melancholy. Answer me one question candidly, and without such subtleties. If man had the power to live for ever, I mean in this life and not after death, do you think he would be happy? _Met_. Allow me to answer you by a fable. Moreover, as I have never tasted immortality, I cannot reply to you from experience. Besides, I have never by any chance met an immortal, the very existence of whom is a mere matter of legend. If Cagliostro were alive, he could perhaps enlighten you, since he was said to have lived for several centuries. But he is now dead, like his contemporaries. To return to the fable. The wise Chiro, who was a god, in time became so wearied of his life, that he asked permission from Jove to die. This was granted to him; so he died.[2] If immortality wrought such an effect on the gods, how would it be with men? The Hyperboreans, an unknown but famous people, whose country is inaccessible by sea or land, were, it is said, rich in all manner of things, and possessed a race of asses of peculiar beauty, which they used to offer as sacrifices. They had the power, unless I am mistaken, of living for ever, and knew nothing of fatigues, cares, wars, discords, or crimes. Yet we learn that after several thousand years of life, they all killed themselves by jumping from a certain rock into the sea, where they were drowned.[3] Here is another legend. The brothers Biton and Cleobus, at a festival, when the mules were not ready, attached themselves to the chariot of their mother, who was a priestess of Juno, and drew her to the temple. Touched by their devotion, the priestess asked Juno to reward her sons for their piety by the greatest gift possible for men to receive. The goddess caused them both to die peacefully within an hour, instead of giving them immortality, as they had expected. The same happened to Agamede and Trophonius. When these two men had finished the temple of Delphi, they begged Apollo to reward them. The god asked them to wait seven days, at the end of which time he would do so. On the seventh night he sent them a sweet sleep from which they have never awakened. They are so satisfied with their recompense that they have asked nothing more. On the subject of legends, here is one which introduces a question I would have you answer. I know that by you and your colleagues human life is generally considered to be, as a rule, of an uniformly average duration: this in all countries and under all climates. But Pliny relates that the men of some parts of India and Ethiopia do not exceed the age of forty years. They who die at this age are considered very old. Their children marry at seven years of age: and this statement is verified by the custom in Guinea, the Deccan, and elsewhere in the torrid zone. Now, regarding it as true that these people do not live more than forty years (and this as a natural limit, and not due to artificial circumstances), I ask you whether you imagine their lot ought to be considered more or less happy than that of others? _Nat. Phil_. Undoubtedly, more miserable, since they die so soon. _Met_. I am of the contrary opinion for the very same reason. But that does not matter. Give me your attention for a moment. I deny that life itself, _i.e._, the mere sensation of existence, has anything pleasurable or desirable in its nature. But we all wish for the other thing, also called life; I mean strength, and numerous sensations. Thus, all activity, and every strong and lively passion, provided it be neither disagreeable nor painful, pleases us simply because it is strong and lively, although it possess no other pleasurable attributes. Now these men, whose life normally lasts only forty years, that is, half the time granted by nature to other men, would experience every moment an intensity of life, twice as strong as ours, because their growth, maturity, and decline are accomplished twice as rapidly as with us. Their energy of life therefore ought to be twice as intense as ours at every moment of their existence. And to this greater intensity there must correspond a more lively activity of the will, more vivacity and animation. Thus they experience in less time the same quantity of life as we have. And the fewer years that these favoured people spend on the earth are so well filled that there is no sensible vacuum; whereas this same quantity of life is insufficient to vivify a term twice as long. Their actions and sensations, diffused over so limited a space, can duly occupy all their existence; but our longer life is constantly divided by protracted intervals devoid of all activity and lively passion. And since existence itself is in no sense desirable, but only in so far as it is happy; and since good or evil fortune is not measurable by the number of our days; I conclude that the life of these people, though shorter than ours, is much the richer in pleasures, or what are so called. Their life must then be preferable to ours, or even to that of the earliest kings of Assyria, Egypt, China, India, and other countries, who are said to have lived thousands of years. So that, far from being desirous of immortality, I am content to leave it to fishes, which are by Leeuwenhoek believed to be immortal, provided they are neither eaten by us nor their fellows. Instead of delaying the development of the body, in order to lengthen life, as Maupertuis[4] proposed, I would rather accelerate it until the duration of our life was as short as that of the insects called ephemerals; which insects, although the most aged does not live beyond a single day, nevertheless preside over three generations before they die. If it were so, then there would at least be no time for ennui. What do you think of my reasoning? _Nat. Phil_. It does not persuade me. I know that you love metaphysics, whereas I for my part hold to physics. To your subtleties, I oppose simple common sense, which is sufficient for me. Thus, I venture to assert, without appealing to the microscope, that life is better than death. Judging between the two, I would give the apple to the former, without troubling them to strip for the contest. _Met_. And I would do the same. But when I call to mind the custom of those barbarians, who, for every unhappy day of their lives, used to throw a black stone into a quiver, and for every happy day a white one, I cannot help thinking how few white stones compared to the black ones would be found therein on the death of the proprietor of the quiver. Personally, I should like to have now all the stones representing the days of life yet remaining to me, and permission to separate them, throwing away all-the black ones and retaining only those that were white; even though the number of the latter was exceedingly small, and their colour a doubtful white. _Nat. Phil_. Many people, on the contrary, would be glad to increase the number of their black stones, even though they were blacker than they naturally would be; because they always, in their minds, dread the last as the blackest of all. And such people, of whom I am one, will really be able to add many stones to their normal quantity, if they follow out the instructions contained in my book. _Met_. Every one thinks and works in his own way. Death also will not fail to do the same. But if you wish, in prolonging man's life; really to be of service to him, discover an art to increase the number and strength of sensations, and their effects. This would be a genuine augmentation of human life, for it would fill up those long intervals of time, during which we vegetate rather than live. You could then boast of having truly prolonged human life; and without having sought after the impossible, or used violence to natural laws; rather, by having strengthened them. For does it not seem as though the ancients were more full of life than we are, in spite of the many and great dangers by which they were surrounded, and which generally shortened their existence? You will thus render a real service to man, whose life is, I will not say more happy, but certainly less unhappy, when it is better occupied and more violently agitated, without pain or discomfort. When, on the other hand, existence is so full of idleness and ennui as to be justly termed empty, the saying of Pyrrhus, "there is no difference between life and death," is literally realised. Were this saying true, I should be in no slight terror of death. But finally, unless life be active and vigorous, it is not true life, and death is far preferable to it. [Footnote 1: See _Instruction in the Art of Long Life_, by Hufeland.] [Footnote 2: See Lucian, Dial. Menip. and Chiro.] [Footnote 3: See Pindar, Strabo, and Pliny.] [Footnote 4: See _Lettres Philosophiques_: let. 11.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN TASSO AND HIS FAMILIAR SPIRIT_[1] _Spirit_. Ah, Torquato. How are you? _Tasso_. As well as it is possible to be, when in prison, and up to the neck in misfortunes. _Spirit_. Courage! After supper is not the time to be sorrowful. Cheer up, and let us laugh at your griefs. _Tasso_. I am little inclined for that. But somehow your presence and conversation always do me good. Come and sit down by me. _Spirit_. How can I sit? Such a thing is not easy for a spirit. But what does it matter? Consider that I am seated. _Tasso_. Oh, that I could see my Leonora again! Whenever I think of her, I feel a thrill of joy that reaches from the crown of my head to the extremity of my feet, and all my nerves and veins are pervaded with it. My mind, too, becomes inflamed with certain imaginings and longings that seem for the time to transform me. I cannot think that I am the Torquato who has experienced so much misfortune, and I often mourn for myself as though I were dead. Truly, it would seem that worldly friction and suffering are wont to overwhelm and lethargise our first nature within each of us. This from time to time awakens for a brief space, but less frequently as we grow older, when it always withdraws, and falls into an increasingly sound sleep. Finally, it dies, although our life still continues. In short, I marvel how the thought of a woman should have sufficient power to rejuvenate the mind, and make it forget so many troubles. Had I not lost all hope of seeing Leonora again, I could almost believe I might still succeed in being happy. _Spirit_. Which do you consider the more delightful, to see the dear woman, or to think of her? _Tasso_. I do not know. It is true when near me she seemed only a woman; at a distance, however, she was like a goddess. _Spirit_. These goddesses are so amiable that when one approaches you, she instantaneously puts off her divinity, and pockets her halo of greatness for fear of dazzling the mortal to whom she appears. _Tasso_. There is only too much truth in what you say. But do you not think it is a great failing in women that they prove really to be so very different from what we imagine? _Spirit_. I scarcely think it is their fault that they are, like us, made of flesh and blood, instead of ambrosia and nectar. What in the world has a thousandth part of the perfection with which your fancy endows women? It surprises me that you are not astonished to find that men are men, that is, creatures of little merit and amiability, since you cannot understand why women are not really angels. _Tasso_. In spite of all this, I am dying to see her again. _Spirit_. Compose yourself. This very night you shall dream of her. I will lead her to you, beautiful as youth, and so kindly disposed that you will be encouraged to speak to her much more freely and readily than in former times. You will be induced at length to take her by the hand, and she, looking intently at you, will surfeit your soul with sweetness. And to-morrow, whenever you think of the dream, your heart will overflow with affection. _Tasso_. What a consolation! A dream instead of the truth. _Spirit_. What is truth? _Tasso_. I am as ignorant on the subject as Pilate was. _Spirit_. Well, I will tell you. Between truth or reality, and a dream there is this difference--the latter is much the finer thing of the two. _Tasso_. What! The pleasure of a dream worth more than a real pleasure? _Spirit_. It is. As an instance, I know a man who studiously avoids meeting his sweetheart the following day after she has appeared to him in a dream. He knows full well that he would not find in her all the charms with which she was endowed in the dream, and that reality, dispelling the illusion, would deprive him of the pleasure he felt. The ancients too, who were much more diligent and skilful in their search after all the enjoyments possible for man to have, did wisely in endeavouring by various means to realise the sweetness and pleasure of dreams. Pythagoras also was right when he forbad the eating of beans for supper; these vegetables producing a dreamless or troubled sleep.[2] I could also find excuse for those superstitious people who were wont, before going to bed, to invoke the aid of Mercury, the president of dreams. They offered sacrifice to him that he might grant them happy dreams, and used to keep an image of the god at the foot of their bed. Thus it was that being unable to procure any happiness during the day, people sought it in the night-time. I am of opinion that they were in a measure successful, and that Mercury paid more attention to their prayers than was the custom of the other gods. _Tasso_. But, since men live for nothing but pleasure, whether of mind or body, if this pleasure can only be found when we dream, it follows that we live for no other purpose but to dream. Now I really cannot admit that. _Spirit_. You already admit it, inasmuch as you live, and are willing to live. But what is pleasure? _Tasso_. My acquaintance with it is too slight to enable me to answer you. _Spirit_. No one has any real acquaintance with it, because pleasure is not a reality, but a conception. It is a desire, not a fact. A sentiment, imagined not experienced; or, better, it is a conception, and not a sentiment at all. Do you not perceive that even in the very moment of enjoyment, however ardently it may have been longed for or painfully acquired, your mind, not deriving complete satisfaction from the happiness, anticipates at some future time a greater and more complete enjoyment? It is expectation that constitutes pleasure. Thus, you never weary of placing reliance on some pleasure of the future, which melts away just when you expect to enjoy it. The truth is, you possess nothing but the hope of a more complete enjoyment at some other time; and the satisfaction of imagining that you have had some enjoyment, and of talking about it to others, less because you are vain than to persuade yourself that the illusion is a reality. Hence, everyone that consents to live makes this fugitive dream his aim in life. He believes in the reality of past and future enjoyment, both of which beliefs are false and fanciful. _Tasso_. Then is it impossible for a man to believe that he is actually happy? _Spirit_. If such a belief were possible, his happiness would be genuine. But tell me: do you ever remember having been able at any moment in your life to say sincerely, "I am happy"? Doubtless you have daily been able to say, and have said in all sincerity, "I shall be happy;" and often too, though less sincerely, "I have been happy." Thus, pleasure is always either a thing of the past, or the future, never the present. _Tasso_. You may as well say it is non-existent. _Spirit_. So it seems. _Tasso_. Even in dreams? _Spirit_. Even in dreams, considering pleasure in its true sense. _Tasso_. And yet pleasure is the sole object and aim of life! By the term pleasure I mean the happiness which ought to be a consequence of pleasure. _Spirit_. Assuredly. _Tasso_. Then our life, being deprived of its real aim, must always be imperfect, and existence itself unnatural. _Spirit_. Perhaps. _Tasso_. There is no perhaps in the matter. But why is it that we live? I mean, why do we consent to live? _Spirit_. How should I know? You yourselves ought to know better than I. _Tasso_. I assure you I do not know. _Spirit_. Ask some one wiser than yourself. Perhaps he may be able to satisfy you. _Tasso_. I will do so. But certainly, the life that I lead is an unnatural state, because apart from my sufferings, ennui alone murders me. _Spirit_. What is ennui? _Tasso_. As to this, I can answer from experience. Ennui seems to me of the nature of atmosphere, which fills up the spaces between material bodies, and also the voids in the bodies themselves. Whenever a body disappears, and is not replaced by another, air fills up the gap immediately. So too, in human life, the intervals between pleasures and pains are occupied by ennui. And since in the material world, according to the Peripatetics, there can be no vacuum, so also in our life there is none, save when for some cause or other the mind loses its power of thought. At all other times the mind, considered as a separate identity from the body, is occupied with some sentiment. If void of pleasure or pain, it is full of ennui; for this last is also a sentiment like pleasure and pain. _Spirit_. And, since all your pleasures are like cobwebs, exceedingly fragile, thin and transparent, ennui penetrates their tissue, and saturates them, just as air penetrates the webs. I believe ennui is really nothing but the desire of happiness, without the illusion of pleasure and the suffering of pain. This desire, we have said, is never completely satisfied, since true pleasure does not exist. So that human life may be said to be interwoven with pain and ennui, and one of these sentiments disappears only to give place to the other. This is the fate of all men, and not of yourself alone. _Tasso_. What remedy is there for ennui? _Spirit_. Sleep, opium, and pain. The last is the best of the three, because he who suffers never experiences ennui. _Tasso_. I would rather submit to ennui for the rest of my life, than take such medicine. But its force and strength may be diminished by action, work, and even other sentiments; though these do not entirely free us from ennui, since they are unable to give us real pleasure. Here in prison however, deprived of human society, without even the means of writing, reduced for an amusement to counting the ticks of the clock, looking at the beams, cracks, and nails of the ceiling, thinking about the pavement stones, and watching the gnats and flies which flit across my cell, I have nothing to relieve for a moment my burden of ennui. _Spirit_. How long have you been reduced to this kind of life? _Tasso_. For many weeks, as you know. _Spirit_. Have you felt no variation in the ennui which oppresses you, from the first day until now? _Tasso_. Yes. I felt it more at first. Gradually my mind is becoming accustomed to its own society; I derive more and more pleasure from my solitude, and by practice I am acquiring so great a readiness in conversation, or rather chattering to myself, that I seem to have in my head a company of talkative people, and the most trifling object is now sufficient to give rise to endless discourse. _Spirit_. This habit will grow on you daily to such an extent, that when you are free, you will feel more idle in society than in solitude. Custom has made you bear patiently your kind of life, and the same influence works not only in people who meditate like you, but in everyone. Besides, the very fact that you are separated from men, and even, it may be said, from life itself, will be of some advantage to you. Disgusted and wearied with human affairs, as you are from your sad experience, you will in time begin to look on them, from a distance, with an appreciative eye. In your solitude they will appear to you more beautiful, and worthy of affection. You will forget their vanity and misery, and will take upon yourself to re-create the world as you would have it. Consequently, you will value, desire, and love life. And, provided there be the possibility or certainty of your return to human society some day, your new aspect of life will fill and gladden your mind with a joy like that of childhood. Solitude does indeed sometimes act like a second youth. It rejuvenates the soul, revives the imagination, and renews in an experienced man those impressions of early innocence that you so ardently desire. But your eyes seem heavy with sleep: I will now therefore leave you to prepare the fine dream I promised you. Thus between dreams and fancies, your life shall pass without other gain than the fact of its passing, which is the sole benefit of life. To hasten it should be the one aim of your existence. You are often obliged to cling to life, as it were with your teeth; happy will be the day when death releases you from the struggle. But after all, time passes as tediously with your persecutor in his palace and gardens, as with you in your prison chamber. Adieu. _Tasso_. Adieu, yet stay a moment. Your conversation always enlivens me. It does not draw me from my sadness, but my mind, which is generally comparable to a dark night, moonless and starless, changes when you are near to a condition like that of a grey dawn, pleasurable rather than otherwise. Now tell me how I can find you in case I want you at some future time. _Spirit_. Do you not yet know?--In any generous liquor. [Footnote 1: Tasso, during his mental hallucinations, used to fancy, like Socrates, that he was visited by a friendly spirit, with which he would hold long conversations. Manso, in his life of Tasso, mentions this, and states that he was once present during such a colloquy or soliloquy between Tasso and his imagined companion.] [Footnote 2: Apollonius, _Hist. Comment_., cap. 46, &c.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN NATURE AND AN ICELANDER._ An Icelander who had travelled over most of the earth, and had lived in very many different lands, found himself one day in the heart of Africa. As he crossed the equator in a place never before penetrated by man, he had an adventure like that which happened to Vasco di Gama, who, when passing the Cape of Good Hope, was opposed by two giants, the guardians of the southern seas, that tried to prevent his entrance into the new waters.[1] The Icelander saw in the distance a huge bust, in appearance like the colossal Hermes he had formerly seen in the Isle of Pasqua. At first he thought it was made of stone, but as he drew near to it he saw that the head belonged to an enormous woman, who was seated on the ground, resting her back against a mountain. The figure was alive, and had a countenance both magnificent and terrible, and eyes and hair of a jet black colour. She looked fixedly at him for a long time in silence. At length she said: _Nature_. Who art thou? What doest thou here, where thy race is unknown? _Icelander_. I am a poor Icelander, fleeing from Nature. I have fled from her ever since I was a child, through a hundred different parts of the world, and I am fleeing from her now. _Nature_. So flees the squirrel from the rattlesnake, and runs in its haste deliberately into the mouth of its tormentor. I am that from which thou fleest. _Icelander_. Nature? _Nature_. Even so. _Icelander_. I am smitten with anguish, for I consider no worse misfortune could befall me. _Nature_. Thou mightest well have imagined that I was to be found in countries where my power is supremest. But why dost thou shun me? _Icelander_. You must know that from my earliest youth, experience convinced me of the vanity of life, and the folly of men. I saw these latter ceaselessly struggling for pleasures that please not, and possessions that do not satisfy. I saw them inflict on themselves, and voluntarily suffer, infinite pains, which, unlike the pleasures, were only too genuine. In short, the more ardently they sought happiness, the further they seemed removed from it. These things made me determine to abandon every design, to live a life of peace and obscurity, harming no one, striving in nought to better my condition, and contesting nothing with anyone. I despaired of happiness, which I regarded as a thing withheld from our race, and my only aim was to shield myself from suffering. Not that I had the least intention of abstaining from work, or bodily labour; for there is as great a difference between mere fatigue and pain,[2] as between a peaceful and an idle life. But when I began to carry out my project, I learnt from experience how fallacious it is to think that one can live inoffensively amongst men without offending them. Though I always gave them precedence, and took the smallest part of everything, I found neither rest nor happiness among them. However, this I soon remedied. By avoiding men I freed myself from their persecutions. I took refuge in solitude--easily obtainable in my native island. Having done this, I lived without a shadow of enjoyment; yet I found I had not escaped all suffering. The intense cold of the long winter, and the extreme heat of summer, characteristic of the country, allowed me no cessation from pain. And when, to warm myself, I passed much time by the fire, I was scorched by the flames, and blinded by the smoke. I suffered continuously, whether in the open air, or in the shelter of my cabin. In short, I failed to obtain that life of peace which was my one desire. Terrible storms, Hecla's menaces and rumblings, and the constant fires which occur among the wooden houses of my country, combined to keep me in a state of perpetual disquietude. Such annoyances as these, trivial though they be when the mind is distracted by the thoughts and actions of social and civil life, are intensified by solitude. I endured them all, together with the hopeless monotony of my existence, solely in order to obtain the tranquillity I desired. I perceived that the more I isolated myself from men, and confined me to my own little sphere, the less I succeeded in protecting myself from the discomforts and sufferings of the outer world. Then I determined to try other climates and countries, to see if anywhere I could live in peace, harming no one, and exist without suffering, if also without pleasure. I was urged to this by the thought that perhaps you had destined for the human race a certain part of the earth (as you have for many animals and plants), where alone they could live in comfort. In which case it was our own fault if we suffered inconvenience from having exceeded our natural boundaries. I have therefore been over the whole earth, testing every country, and always fulfilling my intention of troubling others in the least possible degree, and seeking nothing for myself but a life of tranquillity. But in vain. The tropical sun burnt me; the Arctic cold froze me; in temperate regions the changeability of the weather troubled me; and everywhere I have experienced the fury of the elements. I have been in places where not a day passes without a storm, and where you, O Nature, are incessantly at war with simple people who have never done you any harm. In other places cloudless skies are compensated for by frequent earthquakes, active volcanoes, and subterranean commotions. Elsewhere hurricanes and whirlwinds take the place of other scourges. Sometimes I have heard the roof over my head groan with the burden of snow that it supported; at other times the earth, saturated with rain, has broken away beneath my feet. Rivers have burst their banks, and pursued me, fleeing at full speed, as though I were an enemy. Wild beasts tried to devour me, without the least provocation on my part. Serpents have sought to poison or crush me; and I have been nearly killed by insects. I make no mention of the daily hazards by which man is surrounded. These last are so numerous that an ancient philosopher[3] laid down a rule, that to resist the constant influence of fear, it were well to fear everything. Again, sickness has not failed to torment me, though invariably temperate, and even abstemious, in all bodily pleasures. In truth, our natural constitution is an admirably arranged affair! You inspire us with a strong and incessant yearning for pleasure, deprived of which our life is imperfect; and on the other hand you ordain that nothing should be more opposed to physical health and strength, more calamitous in its effects, and more incompatible with the duration of life itself, than this same pleasure. But although I indulged in no pleasures, numerous diseases attacked me, some of which endangered my life, and others the use of my limbs, thus threatening me with even an access of misery. All, during many days or months, caused me to experience a thousand bodily and mental pangs. And, whereas in sickness we endure new and extraordinary sufferings, as though our ordinary life were not sufficiently unhappy; you do not compensate for this by giving us equally exceptional periods of health and strength, and consequent enjoyment. In regions where the snow never melts, I lost my sight; this is an ordinary occurrence among the Laplanders in their cold country. The sun and air, things necessary for life, and therefore unavoidable, trouble us continually; the latter by its dampness or severity, the former by its heat, and even its light; and to neither of them can man remain exposed without suffering more or less inconvenience or harm. In short, I cannot recollect a single day during which I have not suffered in some way; whereas, on the other hand, the days that have gone by without a shadow of enjoyment are countless. I conclude therefore that we are destined to suffer much in proportion as we enjoy little, and that it is as impossible to live peacefully as happily. I also naturally come to the conclusion that you are the avowed enemy of men, and all other creatures of your creation. Sometimes alluring, at other times menacing; now attacking, now striking, now pursuing, now destroying; you are always engaged in tormenting us. Either by habit or necessity you are the enemy of your own family, and the executioner of your own flesh and blood. As for me, I have lost all hope. Experience has proved to me that though it be possible to escape from men and their persecutions, it is impossible to evade you, who will never cease tormenting us until you have trodden us under foot. Old age, with all its bitterness, and sorrows, and accumulation of troubles, is already near to me. This worst of evils you have destined for us and all created beings, from the time of infancy. From the fifth lustre of life, decline makes itself manifest; its progress we are powerless to stay. Scarce a third of life is spent in the bloom of youth; but few moments are claimed by maturity; all the rest is one gradual decay, with its attendant evils. _Nature_. Thinkest thou then that the world was made for thee? It is time thou knewest that in my designs, operations, and decrees, I never gave a thought to the happiness or unhappiness of man. If I cause you to suffer, I am unaware of the fact; nor do I perceive that I can in any way give you pleasure. What I do is in no sense done for your enjoyment or benefit, as you seem to think. Finally, if I by chance exterminated your species, I should not know it. _Icelander_. Suppose a stranger invited me to his house in a most pressing manner, and I, to oblige him, accepted his invitation. On my arrival he took me to a damp and unhealthy place, and lodged me in a chamber open to the air, and so ruinous that it threatened momentarily to collapse and crush me. Far from endeavouring to amuse me, and make me comfortable, he neglected to provide me with even the necessaries of life. And more than this. Suppose my host caused me to be insulted, ridiculed, threatened, and beaten by his sons and household. And on my complaining to him of such ill-treatment, he replied: "Dost thou think I made this house for thee? Do I keep these my children and servants for thy service? I assure thee I have other things to occupy me, than that I should amuse thee, or give thee welcome." To which I answered: "Well, my friend, though you may not have built your house especially for me, at least you might have forborne to ask me hither. And, since I owe it to you that I am here, ought I not to rely on you to assure me, if possible, a life free from trouble and danger?" Thus I reply to you. I am well aware you did not make the world for the service of men. It were easier to believe that you made it expressly as a place of torment for them. But tell me: why am I here at all? Did I ask to come into the world? Or am I here unnaturally, contrary to your will? If however, you yourself have placed me here, without giving me the power of acceptance or refusal of this gift of life, ought you not as far as possible to try and make me happy, or at least preserve me from the evils and dangers, which render my sojourn a painful one? And what I say of myself, I say of the whole human race, and of every living creature. _Nature_. Thou forgettest that the life of the world is a perpetual cycle of production and destruction, so combined that the one works for the good of the other. By their joint operation the universe is preserved. If either ceased, the world would dissolve. Therefore, if suffering were removed from the earth, its own existence would be endangered. _Icelander_. So say all the philosophers. But since that which is destroyed suffers, and that which is born from its destruction also suffers in due course, and finally is in its turn destroyed, would you enlighten me on one point, about which hitherto no philosopher has satisfied me? For whose pleasure and service is this wretched life of the world maintained, by the suffering and death of all the beings which compose it? Whilst they discussed these and similar questions, two lions are said to have suddenly appeared. The beasts were so enfeebled and emaciated with hunger that they were scarcely able to devour the Icelander. They accomplished the feat however, and thus gained sufficient strength to live to the end of the day. But certain people dispute this fact. They affirm that a violent wind having arisen, the unfortunate Icelander was blown to the ground, and soon overwhelmed beneath a magnificent mausoleum of sand. Here his corpse was remarkably preserved, and in process of time he was transformed into a fine mummy. Subsequently, some travellers discovered the body, and carried it off as a specimen, ultimately depositing it in one of the museums of Europe. [Footnote 1: Camoens' _Lusiad_, canto 5.] [Footnote 2: Cicero says: "Labour and pain are not identical. Labour is a toil-some function of body or mind--pain an unpleasant disturbance in the body. When they cut Marius' veins, it was pain; when he marched at the head of the troops in a great heat, it was labour."--_Tusc. Quæst._] [Footnote 3: Seneca, _Natural. Question_: lib. 6, cap. 2.] _PARINI ON GLORY._ GIUSEPPE PARINI[1] was in our opinion one of the very few Italians who to literary excellence joined depth of thought, and acquaintance with contemporary philosophy. These latter attributes are now so essential to the cultivation of the _belles lettres_, that their absence would be inconceivable, did we not find an infinite number of Italian _littérateurs_ of the present day, in whom they are wanting. He was remarkable for his simplicity, his compassion for the unfortunate and his own country, his fidelity, high-mindedness, and the courage with which he bore the adversities of nature and fortune, which tormented him during the whole course of his miserable and lowly life. Death however drew him from obscurity. He had several disciples, whom he taught, first of all, to gain experience of men and things, and then to amuse themselves with eloquence and poetry. Among his followers was a youth, lately come to him, of wonderful genius and industry, and of very great promise. To him one day Parini spoke as follows: "You seek, my son, the only avenue to glory which is open to people who lead a private life, such glory as is sometimes the reward of wisdom, and literary and other studies. Now you are not unaware that this glory, though far from being despised, was by our greatest ancestors held in less esteem than that derivable from other things. Cicero, for instance, though a most ardent and successful follower of glory, frequently and emphatically makes apology for the time and labour he had spent in its pursuit. On one occasion he states that his literary and philosophical studies were secondary to his public life; on another, that being constrained by the wickedness of the age to abandon more important business, he hoped to spend his leisure profitably amid these studies. He invariably rated the glory of his writings at a lower value than that acquired from his consulship and his labours on behalf of the republic. "Indeed, if human life be the principal subject of literature, and to rule our actions the first lesson of philosophy; there can be no doubt that action itself is as much more important and noble than thoughts and writing, as the end is nobler than the means, or as things and subjects in comparison with words and reasoning. For no man, however clever he be, is naturally created for study, nor born to write. Action alone is natural to him. And we see the majority of fine writers, and especially illustrious poets in the present age (Vittorio Alfieri, for instance), impelled to action in an extraordinary degree. Then, if by chance the deeds of these men prove unacceptable, either from the nature of the times or their own ill-fortune, they take up the pen and write grand things. Nor can people write who have neither the disposition nor power to act. From this you will easily understand why so few Italians gain immortal fame by their writings; it is that they are by nature unfit for noble actions. Antiquity, especially that of the early Greeks or Romans, is, I think, comparable to the design of the statue of Telesilla, who was a poetess, a warrior, and the saviour of her country. She is represented holding her helmet, at which she looks intently and longingly, as though she desired to place it on her head; at her feet lie some books almost disregarded, as forming but an insignificant part of her glory.[2] "But men of modern times are differently situated to the ancients. Glory is less open to them. They who make studies their vocation in life show the greatest possible magnanimity; nor need they, like Cicero, apologise to their country for the profession they have chosen. I therefore applaud the nobility of your decision. But since a life of letters, being unnatural, cannot be lived without injury to the body, nor without increasing in many ways the natural infelicity of your mind, I regard it as my duty to explain to you the various difficulties attendant on the pursuit of that glory towards which you aspire, and the results that will follow success should you attain it. You will then be able to estimate, on the one hand, the importance and value of the goal, and your chance of reaching it; and, on the other, the sufferings, exertions, and discomforts inseparable from the pursuit. Thus, you may be better able to decide whether it be expedient to continue as you have begun, or to seek glory by some other road." [Footnote 1: Parini lived 1729-1799. As a philosopher and satirist he seems to have exercised no slight influence over the mind of Leopardi.] [Footnote 2: Pausanias, lib. 2, cap. 20.] CHAPTER II. "I might first of all say a great deal about the rivalries, envy, bitter censures, libels, injustices, schemes and plots against your character, both in public and private, and the many other difficulties which the wickedness of men will induce them to oppose to you in the path you have chosen. These obstacles, always very hard to overcome and often insuperable, exercise a further influence. It is owing to them that more than one author, not only in life, but even when dead, is robbed of the honour that is due to him. Such an one, not having been famous when alive, because of the hatred or envy with which he was regarded by others, when dead remains in obscurity, because he is forgotten; for it rarely happens that a man obtains glory after he has ceased writing, when there is no one to excite an interest in him. "I do not intend to refer to the hindrances which arise from matters personal to the writer, and other more trivial things. Yet it is often owing to these latter that writings worthy of the highest praise, and the fruit of infinite exertions, are for ever excluded from fame, or having been before the world for a short time, fall into oblivion, and disappear entirely from the memory of men. For the same causes other writings, either inferior to or no better than these, become highly honoured. I will merely expose to you the difficulties and troubles which, apart from the malice of men, will stubbornly contest the prize of glory. These embarrassments are of ordinary, not exceptional occurrence, and have been experienced by most great writers. "You are aware that no one can be called a great writer, nor obtains true and lasting glory, except by means of excellent and perfect works, or such as approach perfection. The following very true utterance of Castiglione is worthy of being engraved on your mind:--It is very seldom that a person unaccustomed to write, however learned he be, can adequately recognise the skill and industry of writers; or appreciate the delicacy and excellence of styles, and those subtle and hidden significations which abound in the writings of the ancients.' "In the first place, consider how very few people practise or learn the art of composition; and think from how small a number of men, whether in the present or the future, you can in any case look for the magnificent estimation which you hope will be the reward of your life. Consider, too, how much influence style has in securing appreciation for writings. On this, and their degree of perfection, depends the subsequent fate of all works that come under the heading of 'light literature,' So great is the influence of style, that a book presumably celebrated for its matter often proves valueless when deprived of its manner. Now, language is so interwoven with style that the one can hardly be considered apart from the other. Men frequently confuse the two together, and are often unable to express the distinction between them, if even they are aware of it in the first place. And as for the thousand merits and defects of language and style, with difficulty, if at all, can they be discerned and assigned to their respective properties. But it is certain, to quote the words of Castiglione, that no foreigner is 'accustomed to write' with elegance in your language. It follows therefore that style, which is so great and important a necessity in composition, and a thing of such unaccountable difficulty and labour, both in acquirement and usage, can only properly be judged and appreciated by the persons who in one single nation are accustomed to write. For all other people the boundless exertions attached to the formation of style will be almost useless, and as if entirely wasted. I will not refer to the infinite diversities of opinion, and the various tendencies of readers; owing to which the number of persons adapted to perceive the good qualities of this or that book is still more reduced. "You must regard it as an undoubted fact that, in order to distinctly recognise the value of a perfect or nearly perfect work, deserving of immortality, it is not enough merely to be accustomed to write. You yourself must be able to accomplish the work in question almost as perfectly as the writer himself. And as experience gradually teaches you what qualities constitute a perfect writer, and what an infinity of difficulties must be surmounted before these can be obtained, you will learn how to overcome the latter, and acquire the former; so that in time knowledge and power will prove to be one and the same thing. Hence a man cannot discern nor fully appreciate the excellence of perfect writers until he is able to give expression to it in his own writings; because such perfection can only be appreciated by what may be termed a transference of it into oneself. Until this be done, a man cannot really understand what constitutes perfection in writing, and will therefore be unable to duly admire the best writers. "Now most literary men, because they write easily, think they write well; they therefore regard good writing as a facile accomplishment, even though they assert the contrary. Think, then, how the number will be reduced of those who might appreciate and laud you when, after inconceivable exertions and care, you succeed in producing a noble and perfect work. In the present day there are scarcely two or three men in Italy who have acquired the art of perfect writing; and although this number may appear to you excessively small, at no time nor place has it ever been much greater. "I often wonder to myself how Virgil, as a supreme example of literary perfection, ever acquired the high reputation in which he is now held. For I am certain that most of his readers and eulogisers do not discover in his poems more than one beauty for every ten or twenty revealed to me by continuous study and meditation. Not that I imagine I have succeeded in estimating him at his proper value, nor have derived every possible enjoyment from his writings. In truth, the esteem and admiration professed for the greatest writers is ordinarily the result of a blind predisposition in their favour, rather than the outcome of an impartial judgment, or the consequence of a due appreciation of their merits. "When I was young I remember first reading Virgil, being on the one hand unbiassed in my judgment, and careless of the opinion of others (a very rare thing, by the by); and, on the other hand, as ignorant as most boys of my age, though perhaps not more so than is the unchanging condition of many readers. I refused to admit that Virgil's reputation was merited, since I failed to discover in him much more than is to be found in very ordinary poets. Indeed, it surprises me that Virgil's fame should excel that of Lucan. For we see the mass of readers, at all times, equally when the literature of the day is of a debasing or an elevating tendency, much prefer gross and unmistakable beauties to those that are delicate and half-concealed. They also prefer fervour to modesty; often indeed even the apparent to the real; and usually mediocrity to perfection. "In reading the letters of a certain prince, exceptionally intelligent, whose writing was remarkable for its wit, pleasantry, smoothness, and acuteness, I clearly discerned that in his heart he preferred the Henriad to the Æneid; although the fear of shocking men's sensibilities might deter him from confessing such a preference. "I am astonished that the judgment of a few, correct though it be, should have succeeded in controlling that of numbers, and should have established the custom of an esteem no less blind than just. This, however, does not always occur, and I imagine that the fame gained by the best writers is rather a matter of chance than merit. My opinion may be confirmed by what I say as we proceed." CHAPTER III. "We have seen how very few people will be able to appreciate you when you succeed in becoming a perfect writer. Now, I wish to indicate some of the hindrances that will prevent even these few from rightly estimating your worth, although they see the signs of it. "In the first place, there can be no doubt that all writings of eloquence or poetry are judged, not so much on their merits, as by the effect they produce in the mind of the reader. So that the reader may be said to consider them rather in himself than in themselves. Consequently men who are naturally devoid of imagination and enthusiasm, though gifted with much intelligence, discernment, and no little learning, are almost quite incapable of forming a correct judgment of fanciful writings. They cannot in the least immerse their minds in the mind of the writer, and usually have within themselves a feeling of contempt for his compositions, because unable to discover in what their so great fame consists. Such reading awakens no emotion within them, nor does it arouse their imagination, or create in them any especial sensation of pleasure. And even people who are naturally disposed and inclined to receive the impression of whatever image or fancy a writer has properly signified, very often experience a feeling of coldness, indifference, languor, or dulness; so that for the time they resemble the persons just mentioned. This change is due to divers causes, internal and external, physical and mental, and is either temporary or lasting. At such times no one, even though himself an excellent writer, is a good judge of writings intended to excite the affections or the imagination. Again, there is the danger of satiety due to previous reading of similar writings. Certain passions too, of more or less strength, from time to time invest the mind, leaving no room for the emotions which ought to be excited by the reading. And it often happens that places; spectacles, natural or artificial, music; and a hundred such things, which would ordinarily excite us, are now incapable of arousing or delighting us in the least, although no less attractive than formerly. "But, though a man, for one or other of these reasons, may be ill disposed to appreciate the effects of eloquence or poetry, he does not for that reason defer judgment of books on both these subjects which he then happens to read for the first time. I myself sometimes take up Homer, Cicero, or Petrarch, and read without feeling the least emotion. Yet, as I am quite aware of the merits of these writers, both because of their reputation, and my own frequent appreciation of their charms, I do not for a moment think them undeservedly praised simply because I am at present too dull to do them justice. But it is different with books read for the first time, which are too new to have acquired a reputation. There is nothing in such cases to prevent the reader forming a low opinion of the author and the merits of his book, if his mind be indisposed to do justice to the sentiments and imagery contained in the work. Nor would it be easy to induce him to alter his judgment by subsequent study of the same book under better auspices; for probably the disgust inspired by his first reading will deter him from a second; and in any case the strength of first impressions will be almost invincible. "On the other hand, the mind is sometimes, for one reason or another, in such a state of sensibility, vivacity, vigour, and fervour, that it follows even the least suggestion of the reading; it feels keenly the slightest touch, and as it reads is able to create within itself a thousand emotions and fancies, sometimes losing itself in a sort of sweet delirium, when it is almost transported out of itself. As a natural result of this, the mind, reviewing the pleasures enjoyed in the reading, and not distinguishing between its own predisposition and the actual merits of the book, experiences a feeling of so great admiration, and forms so high a conception of it, as even to rank the book above others of much greater merit, read under less felicitous circumstances. See therefore to what uncertainty is subject even the truth and justice of opinions from the same persons, as to the writings and genius of others, quite apart from any sentiment of malice or favour. So great is this uncertainty that a man varies considerably in his estimation of works of equal value, and even the same work, at different times of life, under different circumstances, and even at different hours of the day." CHAPTER IV. "Perhaps you may think that these difficulties, due to mental indisposition on the part of readers, are of rare occurrence. Consider, then, how frequently a man, as he grows old, becomes incapable of appreciating the charms of eloquence and poetry, no less than those of the other imitative arts, and everything beautiful in the world. This intellectual decay is a necessity of our nature. In the present day it is so much greater than formerly, begins so much earlier, and progresses so much more rapidly, especially in the studious, as our experience is enlarged in more or less degree by the knowledge begotten of the speculations of so many past centuries. For which reason, and owing to the present condition of civilised life, the phantoms of childhood soon vanish from the imagination of men; with them go the hopes of the mind, and with the hopes most of the desires, passions, and energy of life and its faculties. Whence I often wonder that men of mature age, especially the learned and those inclined to meditate about human affairs, should yet be subject to the influence of poetry and eloquence, which are, however, unable to produce any real effect on them. "It may be regarded as a fact that, in order to be greatly moved by imagination of the grand and beautiful, one must believe that there is something really grand and beautiful in human life, and that poetry is not mere fable. The young always believe such things, even when they know their fallacy, until personal experience forces them to accept the truth. But it is difficult to put faith in them after the sad discipline of practical life; especially when experience is combined with habits of study and speculation. "From this it would seem that the young are generally better judges of writings intended to arouse the affections and the imagination, than men of mature and advanced age. But, on the other hand, the young are novices in literature. They exact from books a superhuman, boundless, and impossible pleasure, and where they fail to experience this they despise the writer. Illiterate people have the same idea of the functions of literature. And youths addicted to reading prefer, both in their own writings and those of others, extravagance to moderation, magnificence or attractiveness of style and ornamentation, to the simple and natural, and sham beauties to real ones. This is partly due to their limited experience, and partly to the impetuosity of their time of life. Consequently, although the young are doubtless more inclined than their elders to applaud what seems good to them, since they are more truthful and candid, they are seldom capable of appreciating the excellences of literary works. As we grow older, the influence exercised over us by art increases, as that of nature diminishes. Nevertheless both nature and art are necessary to produce effect. "Dwellers in large towns are compelled to sacrifice the beautiful to the useful. Even though of warm and sensitive natures and lively imagination, they cannot experience as an effect of the charms either of nature or literature any tender or noble sentiment, any sublime or delightful fancy; unless indeed, like you, they spend most of their time in solitude. Eor few things are so opposed to the state of mind necessary to appreciate such delights, as the conversation of these men, the riot of these places, and the sight of the tinselled splendour, the falseness, the miserable troubles, and still more miserable idleness which abound there. I also think that the _littérateurs_ of large towns are, as a rule, less qualified to judge books than those of small towns; because, like everything else, the literature of large towns is ordinarily false and pretentious, or superficial. "And whereas the ancients used to regard literature and the sciences as a pleasing change from more serious business, in the present day the majority of men who in large towns profess to be students regard literature and writing as merely an agreeable variation of their other amusements. "I think that works of art, whether painting, sculpture, or architecture, would be much more appreciated if they were disseminated throughout a country in different-sized towns, instead of being, as at present, accumulated in the chief cities. For in the latter places men are so full of thoughts, so occupied with pleasurable pursuits and vain and frivolous excitements, that they are very rarely capable of the profound pleasures of the intellect. Besides, a multitude of fine things gathered together have a distracting influence; the mind bestows but little attention on individual things, and is sensible of no especial gratification; or else it becomes satiated, and regards them all as indifferently as though they were objects of the commonest kind. "I say the same of music, which is nowhere so elaborate, or brought to such perfection, as in large towns, where men have less appreciation for the wonderful emotions of the art, and are indeed less musical than elsewhere. "Nevertheless, large towns are a useful home for the fostering and perfecting of the arts; although their inhabitants are less under the influence of their charms than the people of other places. It may be said that artists, who work in solitude and silence, strive laboriously and industriously to please men, who, because accustomed to the bustle and noise of cities, are almost totally incapable of appreciating the fruit of their exertions. "The fate of writers may in a measure be compared to that of artists." CHAPTER V. "We will now return to the consideration of authors. "It is a characteristic of writings approaching perfection that they usually please more when read a second time, than they pleased at first. The contrary effect is produced by many books written carefully and skilfully, but which really possess few merits. These when read a second time are less esteemed than at first. But both kinds of books, when read only once, often deceive even the learned and experienced, so that indifferent books are preferred to excellent ones. In the present day, however, even students by profession can rarely be induced to read new books a second time, especially such as come under the heading of light literature. This was not so in olden times, because then but few books were in existence. Now, it is very different. We possess the literary bequests of all past times. Every nation has its literature, and produces its host of books daily. There are writings in all languages, ancient and modern, relating to every branch of science and learning, and so closely connected and allied that the student must study them all as far as possible. You may therefore easily imagine that a book does not obtain full consideration on a first reading, and that a second reading is out of the question. Yet the first opinion that we form of a new book is seldom changed. "For the same reasons, even in the first reading of books, especially those of light literature, very rarely sufficient attention and study is given to discover the laborious perfection, the subtle art, and the hidden and unpretentious virtues of the writings. Thus, in the present day the condition of excellent books is really worse than that of indifferent ones. For the charms and qualifications of most of the latter, whether true or false, are so exposed to the eye, that, however trivial they may be, they are easily discernible at first sight. We may therefore say with truth, that the exertion necessary to produce perfect writing is almost useless for fame. But, on the other hand, books composed, like most modern ones, rapidly and without any great degree of excellence, though perhaps celebrated for a time, cannot fail to be soon forgotten. And many works of recognised value are also lost in the immense stream of new books which pours forth daily, before they have had time to establish their celebrity. They perish for no intrinsic fault of their own, and give place to other books, good and bad, which each in turn live their short spell of life. So that whereas the ancients could acquire glory in a thousand ways, we can only attain it by one single avenue, after much more exertion than formerly. "The books of the ancients alone survive this universal shipwreck of all later writings. Their fame is established and confirmed; they are diligently and repeatedly read, and are made the subject of careful study. And it is noteworthy that a modern book, if intrinsically equal to any of the ancient writings, would rarely, if ever, give its readers as much pleasure as the ancient work. This for two reasons. In the first place, it would not be read with the care and attention that we bestow on celebrated writings; very few people would read it twice; and no one would study it (for none but scientific books are studied until made venerable by age). In the second place, the world-wide and permanent reputation of writings, whether or not due to their internal excellence, adds to their value, and proportionately increases the pleasure they give; often, indeed, most of the charm of such literature is simply due to its celebrity. "This reminds me of some remarkable words of Montesquieu about the origin of human pleasures. He says: 'The mind often creates within itself many sources of pleasure, which are intimately dependent on each other. Thus, a thing that has once pleased us, pleases us again simply because it did so before; we couple together imagination of the present and remembrance of the past. For example, an actress who pleased us on the stage, will probably please us in private life: her voice; her manner; the recollection of the applause she excited; perhaps, too, her _rôle_ of princess joined to her real character,--all combine and form a mixture of influences producing a general feeling of pleasure. Our minds are always full of ideas subordinate to one or more primary ideas. A woman famous for one cause or another, and possessed of some slight inherent defect, is often able to attract by means of this very defect. And women are ordinarily loved less because they inspire affection than because they are well born, rich, or highly esteemed by others.'[1].... "Often indeed a woman's reputation for beauty and grace, whether well or ill founded, or even the mere fact that others have been under the influence of her charms, suffices to inspire a man with affection for her. And who does not know that most pleasures are due to the imagination rather than to the inherent qualities of the things that please us? "These remarks refer to writings no less than to all other things. Indeed I will venture to say that were a poem to be published equal or superior to the Iliad, and carefully read by an excellent judge of poetry, it would give less satisfaction and appear less charming than the Greek masterpiece, much less would its fame be comparable with that of the Iliad; for its real merits would not be aided by twenty-seven centuries of admiration, nor the thousand reminiscences and other associations that connect themselves with Homer's poem. Similarly I affirm that if any one were to read carefully either the 'Jerusalem' or the 'Furioso,' without knowing anything of their celebrity, he would be much less pleased than others who were aware of their fame. "In short, it may be accepted as a general rule that the first readers of every remarkable work which in after ages becomes famous, and the contemporaries of the writer, derive less enjoyment from such reading than all other people. "This fact cannot but be very disadvantageous to the interest of writers." [Footnote 1: Ex: Fragment _Sur le goût_, &c.] CHAPTER VI. "Such are a few of the obstacles that may prevent you from acquiring glory from the studious, or even from those who excel in knowledge and the art of writing. "Now there are many people who, though educated sufficiently for the purposes of daily life, are neither writers nor students to any very great extent. They read simply for amusement, and, as you know, are only capable of appreciating certain qualities in literature. The chief reason of this has been already partly explained. There is, however, another cause. It is that they only seek momentary pleasure in what they read. But the present in itself is trivial and joyless to all men. Even the sweetest things, as says Homer, 'Love, sleep, song, and the dance,' soon weary us, if to the present there be not joined the hope of some pleasure or future satisfaction, dependent on them. For it is contrary to human nature to be greatly pleased with that of which hope does not form a constituent part. And so great is the power of hope that it enlivens and sweetens many exertions, painful and laborious in themselves; whereas, on the other hand, things innately charming, when unaccompanied by hope, are scarce sufficiently attractive to be welcomed. "We see studious people never tired of reading, often even of the driest kind; and they experience a constant delight in their studies, carried on perhaps throughout the greater part of the day. The reason of this is that they have the future ever before their eyes; they hope in some way, and at some time, to reap the benefit of their labours. Such people always have their interests at heart. They do not take up a book, either to pass time or for amusement, without also distilling from it more or less definite instruction. Others, on the contrary, who seek to learn nothing from books, are satisfied when they have read their first few pages, or those that have the most attractive appearance. They wander wearily from book to book, and marvel to themselves how any one can find prolonged pleasure in prolonged reading. "It is clear that any skill or industry displayed by the writer is almost entirely wasted on such people, who nevertheless compose the mass of readers. And even men of studious inclinations, having later in life changed the nature of their studies, almost feel a repugnance for books which would formerly have given them intense delight; and though still able to discern their value, are wearied rather than pleased by their merits, because instruction is not at all what they desire." CHAPTER VII. "Hitherto we have considered writings in general, and certain things relating to light literature in particular, towards which I see you are more especially attracted. Let us now turn to philosophy, though it must not be supposed that this science is separable from the study of letters. "Perhaps you will think that because philosophy is derived from reason, which among civilised people is usually a stronger power than the imagination or the affections, the value of philosophical works ought to be more universally recognised than that of poems, and other writings which treat of the pleasurable and the beautiful. It is, however, my opinion that poetry is better understood and appreciated than philosophy. In the first place, it is certain that a subtle intelligence and great power of reasoning are not sufficient to ensure much progress in philosophy. Considerable imaginative power is also requisite. Indeed, judged from the nature of their intellects, Descartes, Galileo, Leibnitz, Newton, and Vico would have made excellent poets; and, on the other hand, Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare might have been great philosophers. This subject would require much elaboration; I will therefore merely affirm that none but philosophers can perfectly appreciate the value and realise the charm of philosophical books. Of course, I refer to their substance, and not to whatever superficial merit they may have, whether of language, style, or anything else. And, just as men are by nature unpoetical, and consequently rarely catch the spirit of a poem or discern its imagery, although they may follow the meaning of its words; similarly, people unaccustomed to meditate and philosophise within themselves, or who are incapable of deep sustained thought, cannot comprehend the truths that a philosopher expounds, however clear and logical his deductions, arguments, and conclusions may be, although they understand the words that he uses and their signification. Because, being unable or unused to analyse the essence of things by means of thought, or to separate their own ideas into divisions, or to join and bind together a number of these ideas, or simultaneously to grasp with the mind many particulars so as to deduce a single general rule from them, or to follow unweariedly with the mind's eye a long series of truths mutually connected, or to discover the subtle and hidden connection between each truth and a hundred others; they can with difficulty, if at all, grasp and follow his working, or experience the impressions proved by the philosopher. Therefore, they can neither understand nor estimate rightly all the influences that led him to this or that opinion, and made him affirm or deny this or that thing, and doubt such and such another. Possibly they may understand his ideas, but they neither recognise their truth nor probability; because they are unable to test either the one or the other. They are like those cold and passionless men who are incapable of appreciating the fancies and imagery of the poets. And you know it is common to the poet and the philosopher to penetrate into the depths of the minds of men, and thence to bring into light all their hidden emotions, profundities, and secret working, with their respective causes and effects; thus, men who are incapable of sympathy with the poet and his thoughts, are also incapable of entering into the thoughts of the philosopher. "This is why we see daily many meritorious works, clear and intelligible to all, interpreted by some people as containing a thousand undoubted truths, and, by others, a thousand patent errors. They are attacked in public and private, not only from motives of malice, interest, and other similar causes, but also because of the incapacity of the readers, and their inability to comprehend the certainty of the principles, the correctness of the deductions and conclusions, and the general fitness, sufficiency, and truth of the reasoning put forward. It often happens that philosophical writings of the most sublime nature are accused of obscurity, not necessarily because they are obscure, but either because their vein of thought is of too profound or novel a nature to be easily intelligible, or because the reader himself is too dense to be a competent judge of such works. Think, then, how difficult it must be to gain praise for philosophical writings, however meritorious they may be. For there can be no doubt that the number of really profound philosophers, who alone can appreciate one another, is in the present day very small, although philosophy is more cultivated than in past times. "I will not refer to the various sects into which those who profess philosophy are divided. Each sect ordinarily refuses to allow that there is aught estimable in the others; this is not only from unwillingness, but also because it occupies itself with different principles of philosophy." CHAPTER VIII. "If, as the result of your learning and meditation, you chanced to discover some important truth, not only formerly unknown, but quite unlooked for, and even antagonistic to the opinions of the day, you must not anticipate in your lifetime any peculiar commendation for this discovery. You will gain no esteem, even from the wise (except perhaps from a very few), until by frequent and varied reiteration of these truths the ears of men have become accustomed to their sound; then only, after a long time, the intellect begins to receive them. "For no truth contrary to current opinion, even though demonstrable with almost geometrical certitude, can ever, unless capable of material proof, be suddenly established. Time, custom, and example alone are able to give it a solid foundation. Men accustom themselves to belief, as to everything else; indeed they generally believe from habit, and not from any sentiment of conviction within their minds. At length it happens that the once-questioned truth is taught to children, and is universally accepted. People are then astonished that it was ever unknown to them, and they ridicule their ancestors and contemporaries for the ignorance and obstinacy they manifested in opposing it. The greater and more important the new truths, so much the greater will be the difficulty of procuring acceptance for them; since they will overthrow a proportionately large number of opinions hitherto rooted in the minds of men. For even acute and practised intellects do not easily enter into the spirit of reasonings which demonstrate new truths that exceed the limits of their own knowledge; especially when these are opposed to beliefs long established within them. Descartes, in his geometrical discoveries, was understood by but very few of his contemporaries. It was the same with Newton. Indeed, the condition of men pre-eminent in knowledge is somewhat similar to that of literary men, and 'savants' who live in places innocent of learning. The latter are not deservedly esteemed by their neighbours; the former fail to be duly appreciated by their contemporaries. Both are often despised for their difference in manner of life and opinions from other men, who neither do justice to their ability nor to the writings they put forth in proof of it. "There is no doubt that the human race makes continual progress in knowledge. As a body, its march is slow and measured; but it includes certain great and remarkable minds which, having devoted themselves to speculation about the sensible or intelligible phenomena of the universe, and the pursuit of truths, travel, nay sometimes flash, to their conclusions in an immeasurably short space of time. And the rapid progress of these intellects stimulates other men, who hasten their foot-steps so as to reach, later on, the place where these superior beings rested. But not until the lapse of a century or more do they attain to the knowledge possessed by an extraordinary intellect of this kind. "It is ordinarily believed that human knowledge owes most of its progress to these supreme intellects, which arise from time to time, like miracles of nature.[1] I, on the contrary, think that it owes more to men of common powers than to those who are exceptionally endowed. Suppose a case, in which one of the latter, having rivalled his contemporaries in knowledge, advances independently, and takes a lead of, say ten paces. Most other men, far from feeling disposed to follow him, regard his progress in silence, or else ridicule it. Meanwhile, a number of moderately clever men, partly aided perhaps by the ideas and discoveries of the genius, but principally through their own endeavours, conjointly advance one step. The masses unhesitatingly follow them, being attracted by the not inordinate novelty, and also by the number of those who are its authors. In process of time, thanks to the exertions of these men, the tenth step is accomplished; and thus the opinions of the genius are universally received throughout the civilised world. But their originator, dead long ago, only acquires a late and unseasonable reputation. This is due partly to the fact that he is forgotten, or to the low esteem in which he was held when living; added to which men are conscious that they do not owe their knowledge to him, and that they are already his equals in erudition, and will soon surpass him, if they have not done so already. They are also his superiors, in that time has enabled them to demonstrate and affirm truths that he only imagined, to prove his conjectures, and give better form and order to his inventions, almost, as it were, maturing them. Perchance, after a time, some student engaged in historical research may justly appraise the influence of this genius, and may announce him to his countrymen with great _éclat_; but the fame that may ensue from this will soon give way to renewed oblivion. "The progress of human knowledge, like a falling weight, increases momentarily in its speed; none the less very rarely men of a generation change their beliefs or recognise their errors, so as to believe at one time the opposite of what they previously believed. Each generation prepares the way for its successor to know and believe many things contrary to its own knowledge and belief. But most men are as little conscious of the increasing development of their knowledge, and the inevitable mutation of their beliefs, as they are sensible of the perpetual motion of the earth. And a man never alters his opinions so as to be conscious of the alteration. But were he suddenly to embrace an opinion totally discordant with his old beliefs, he could not fail to perceive the change. It may therefore be said, that ordinarily no truths, except such as are determinable by the senses, will be believed by the contemporaries of their discoverer." [Footnote 1: It is in the order of Providence that the inventive, generative, constitutive mind should come first; and then that the patient and collective mind should follow, and elaborate the pregnant queries and illumining guesses of the former,--S. T. Coleridge, _Table Talk_, Oct. 8, 1830.] CHAPTER IX. "Now let us suppose that every difficulty be overcome, and that aided by fortune you have actually in your lifetime acquired not only celebrity, but glory. What will be the fruit of this? In the first place, men will wish to see you, and make your acquaintance; they will indicate you as a distinguished man, and will honour you in every possible way. Such are the best results of literary glory. It would seem more natural to look for such demonstrations in small than in large towns; for these latter are subject to the distracting influence of wealth and power, and all the arts which serve to amuse and enliven the inactive hours of men's lives. But because small towns are ordinarily wanting in things necessary to stimulate literary excellence, they are rarely the abode of men devoted to literature and study. The people of such places esteem learning and wisdom, and even the fame men seek by these means, at a very low value; neither the one nor the other are objects of envy to them. And if a man who is a distinguished scholar take up his residence in a small town, his notability is of no advantage to him. Rather the contrary. For though his fame would secure him high honour in towns not far distant, he is there regarded as the most forlorn and obscure individual in the place. Just as a man who possessed nothing but an abundance of silver and gold would be even poorer than other men in a place where these metals were valueless; similarly a wise and studious man who makes his abode in a place where learning and genius are unknown, far from being considered superior to other men, will be despised and scornfully treated unless he happen to have some more material possessions. Yet such a man is often given credit for possessing much greater knowledge than he really has, though this reputation does not procure him any especial honour from these people. "When I was a young man, I used occasionally to return to Bosisio, my native place. Every one there knew that I spent my time in study and writing. The peasants gave me credit for being poet, philosopher, doctor, mathematician, lawyer, theologian, and sufficiently a linguist to know all the languages in the world. They used to question me indiscriminately on any subject, or about any trifle that chanced to enter their minds. Yet they did not hold me in much esteem, and thought me less instructed than the learned people of all other places. But whenever I gave them reason to think my learning was not as extensive as they supposed, I fell vastly in their estimation, and in the end they used to persuade themselves that after all my knowledge was no greater than theirs. "We have already noticed the difficulties to be overcome in large towns before glory can be acquired, or the fruit of it enjoyed. I will now add that although no fame is more difficult to merit than that of being an excellent poet, writer, or philosopher, nothing is less lucrative to the possessor. You know that the misery and poverty of the greatest poets, both in ancient and modern times, is proverbial. Homer, like his poetry, is involved in mystery; his country, life, and history are an impenetrable secret to men. But, amid this uncertainty and ignorance, there is an unshaken tradition that Homer was poor and unhappy. It is as if time wished to bear witness that the fate of other noble poets was shared by the prince of poetry. "But, passing over the other benefits of glory, we will simply consider what is called honour. No part of fame is usually less honourable and more useless than this. It may be that so many people obtain it undeservedly, or even because of the extreme difficulty of meriting it at all; certain it is that such reputation is scarce esteemed, if regarded as trustworthy. Or perhaps it is due to the fact that most clever half-cultured men imagine they either are, or could easily become, as proficient in literature and philosophy as those who are successful in these studies, and whom they accordingly treat as on an intellectual equality. Possibly both causes combine in their influence. It is certain, however, that the man who is an ordinary mathematician, natural philosopher, philologist, antiquary, artist, sculptor, musician, or who has only a moderate acquaintance with a single ancient or foreign language, is usually more respected, even in large towns, than a really remarkable philosopher, poet, or writer. Consequently, poetry and philosophy, the noblest, grandest, and most arduous of things pertaining to humanity, and the supreme efforts of art and science, are in the present day the most neglected faculties in the world, even in their professed followers. Manual arts rank higher than these noble things; for no one would pretend to a knowledge of them unless he really possessed it, nor could this knowledge be acquired without study and exertion. In short, the poet and the philosopher derive no benefit in life from their genius and studies, except perhaps the glory rendered to them by a very few people. Poetry and philosophy resemble each other in that they are both as unproductive and barren of esteem and honour, as of all other advantages." CHAPTER X. "From men you will scarcely derive any advantage whatever from your glory. You will therefore look within you for consolation, and in your solitude will nerve yourself for fresh exertions, and lay the foundation of new hopes. For like all other human benefits, literary glory is more pleasing in anticipation than in reality, if indeed it can ever be said to be realised. You will therefore at length console yourself with the thought of that last hope and refuge of noble minds, posterity. Even Cicero, richly renowned as he was in life, turned his mind yearningly towards the future, in saying: 'Thinkest thou I should have undertaken so many labours, during day and night, in peace and war, had I imagined my glory was limited to this life? Far better were a life of idleness and peace, devoid of cares and fatigue. No. My soul, in some inexplicable way, used ever to fix its hopes on posterity, and looked for the dawn of its true life from the hour of death.'[1] Cicero here refers to the idea of immortality innate in the minds of men. But the true explanation lies in the fact that all earthly benefits are no sooner acquired than their insignificance becomes apparent; they are unworthy of the fatigues they have cost. Glory is, above all, an example of this; it is a dear purchase, and of little use to the purchaser. But, as Simonides says, I Sweet hope cheers us with its phantom beauties, and with its vain prospect stimulates us to work. Some men await the friendly dawn, others the advance of age, and others more auspicious seasons. Every mortal cherishes within him hopes of coming good from Pluto and the other gods,' Thus, as we experience the vanity of glory, hope, driven and hunted from place to place, finding at length no spot in the whole of life whereon to rest, passes beyond the grave and alights on posterity. For man ever turns instinctively from the present to the future, about which he hopes much in proportion as he knows little. Hence, they who are desirous of glory in life, chiefly nourish themselves on that which they hope to gain after death. For the lack of enjoyment in the present, man consoles himself with hopes of future happiness, as vain as that of the present." [Footnote 1: De Senectute.] CHAPTER XI. "But what, after all, is this appeal that we make to posterity? The human imagination is such that it forms a more exalted conception of posterity than of the men of past or present times, simply because we are totally ignorant of the people who are yet to be. But, reasonably, and not imaginatively, do we really think our successors will be better than ourselves? I am of a contrary opinion, and for my part put faith in the proverb that says 'the world grows worse as it ages,' It were better for men of genius if they could appeal to their wise ancestors, who, according to Cicero, were not inferior in point of numbers, and far superior in excellence to their successors. But, though such appeal would be sure of a truer judgment, it is certain that the greatest men of our day would be held in little esteem by the ancients. "It may be allowed that the men of the future, being free from any spirit of rivalry, envy, love, or hatred, not indeed amongst themselves, but towards us, ought to be better qualified than ourselves to pass impartial judgment on our writings. For other reasons, too, they may be better judges. Posterity will perhaps have fewer excellent writers, noble poets, and subtle philosophers. In which case the few followers of these sublime influences will honour us the more. It is also probable that their control over the minds of the people will be still less than that exercised by us. Again, will the affections, imagination, and intellect of men be, as a rule, more powerful than they are at present? If not, we shall gain by the comparison. "Literature is peculiarly exposed to the influence of custom. In times of debased literature, we see how firmly this or that barbarism is retained and upheld, as though it alone were reasonable and natural. At such times the best and greatest writers are forgotten or ridiculed. Where, then, is the certainty that posterity will always esteem the kind of writing that we praise? Besides, it is a question whether or not we ourselves esteem what is really praiseworthy. For men have different opinions about what constitutes good writing, and these vary according to the times, the nature of places and people, customs, usages, and individuals. Yet it is to this variety and variability of influences that the glory of writers is subjected. "Philosophy is even more diverse and changeable than other sciences.[1] At first sight the contrary of this would seem to be true; for whereas the 'belles lettres' are concerned with the study of the beautiful, which is chiefly a matter of custom and opinion, sciences seek the truth, which is fixed and unchangeable. But this truth is hid from mortals, though, as centuries go by, some little of it is revealed. Consequently, on the one hand, in their endeavours to discover it, and their conjectures as to its nature, men are led to embrace this or that resemblance of truth; thereupon opinions and sects multiply. And, on the other hand, it is due to the ever-increasing number of fresh discoveries, and new aspects of truth obtained daily, that even these divisions become subdivided; and opinions which at one time were regarded almost as certainties change shape and substance momentarily. It is owing to the changeability of sciences and philosophy that they are so unproductive of glory, either at the hands of contemporaries or posterity. For when new discoveries, or new ideas and conjectures, greatly alter the condition of this or that science from its present state, how will the writings and thoughts of men now celebrated in these sciences be regarded? Who, for instance, now reads Galileo's works? Yet in his time they were most wonderful; nor could better and nobler books, full of greater discoveries and grander conceptions, be then written on such subjects. But now every tyro in physics or mathematics surpasses Galileo in his knowledge. Again, how many people in the present day read the writings of Francis Bacon? Who troubles himself about Malebranche? And how much time will soon be bestowed on the works of Locke, if the science almost founded by him progresses in future as rapidly as it gives promise of doing? "Truly the very intellectual force, industry, and labour, which philosophers and scientists expend in the pursuit of their glory, are in time the cause of its extinction or obscurément. For by their own great exertions they open out a path for the still further advancement of the science, which in time progresses so rapidly that their writings and names fall gradually into oblivion. And it is certainly difficult for most men to esteem others for a knowledge greatly inferior to their own. Who can doubt that the twentieth century will discover error in what the wisest of us regard as unquestionable truths, and will surpass us greatly in their knowledge of the truth?" [Footnote 1: Compare the following from H. Rogers' _Essay on Leibnitz_: "The condition of great philosophers is far less enviable than that of great poets. The former can never possess so large a circle of readers under any circumstances; but that number is still further abridged by the fact that even the truths the philosopher has taught or discovered form but stepping-stones in the progress of science, and are afterwards digested, systematised, and better expounded in other works composed by inferior men."] CHAPTER XII. "Finally, you would perhaps like to know my opinion, and decided advice to you, about your intended profession. The question is one as to the advisability of your pursuing or abandoning this path to glory, a thing so poor in usefulness, and so hard and uncertain both to secure and retain, that it may be compared to a shadow which you can neither feel when you hold, nor yet keep from fleeing away. I will tell you then briefly my true opinion. I consider your wonderful genius, noble disposition, and prolific imagination to be the most fatal and lamentable qualities distributed by Fortune to humanity. But since you possess them, you will scarcely be able to avoid their harmful influence. In the present day there is but one possible benefit to be gained from such endowments as yours; viz., the glory that sometimes rewards industry in literature and study. You know those miserable men, who having accidentally lost or injured a limb, try to make as much profit as possible from their misfortune, which they ostentatiously display to excite the pity and consequent liberality of passers-by. In the same way I advise you to endeavour to procure by means of your endowments the only possible advantage, trifling and uncertain though it be. Such qualities as yours are usually regarded as great natural gifts, and are often envied by those who do not possess them. But this feeling is opposed to common sense; as well may the sound man envy those wretched fellows their bodily calamities, or wish to mutilate himself in the same way, for the sake of the miserable profit he might gain. Most men work as long as they can, and enjoy themselves as much as their nature will permit. But great writers are naturally, and by their manner of life, incapable of many human pleasures: voluntarily deprived of many others; often despised by their fellow-men, save perhaps a very few who pursue the same studies; they are destined to lead a life like unto death, and to live only beyond the grave, if even that be granted them. "But Destiny must be obeyed; duty commands us to follow it courageously and nobly whithersoever it may lead us. Such resignation is especially necessary for you, and those who resemble you." _DIALOGUE BETWEEN FREDERIC RUYSCH AND HIS MUMMIES._ _Chorus of the dead in Ruysch's laboratory._ O Death, thou one eternal thing, That takest all within thine arms, In thee our coarser nature rests In peace, set free from life's alarms: Joyless and painless is our state. Our spirits now no more are torn By racking thought, or earthly fears; Hope and desire are now unknown, Nor know we aught of sorrow's tears. Time flows in one unbroken stream, As void of ennui as a dream. The troubles we on earth endured Have vanished; yet we sometimes see Their phantom shapes, as in a mist Of mingled thought and memory: They now can vex our souls no more. What is that life we lived on earth? A mystery now it seems to be, Profound as is the thought of death, To wearers of mortality. And as from death the living flee, So from the vital flame flee we. Our portion now is peaceful rest, Joyless, painless. We are not blest With happiness; that is forbid Both to the living and the dead. _Ruysch (outside his laboratory, looking through the keyhole)._ Diamine! Who has been teaching these dead folks music, that they thus sing like cocks, at midnight? Verily I am in a cold sweat, and nearly as dead as themselves. I little thought when I preserved them from decay, that they would come to life again. So it is however, and with all my philosophy I tremble from head to foot. It was an evil spirit that induced me to take these gentry in. I do not know what to do. If I leave them shut in here, they may break open the door, or pass through the keyhole, and come to me in bed. Yet I do not like to show that I am afraid of the dead by calling for help. I will be brave. Let us see if I cannot make them afraid in their turn. (_Entering_.)--Children, children, what game are you playing at? Do you not remember that you are dead? What does all this uproar mean? Are you so puffed up because of the Czar's visit,[1] that you imagine yourselves no longer subject to the laws of Nature? I am presuming this commotion is simply a piece of pleasantry on your part, and that there is nothing serious about it. If, however, you are truly resuscitated, I congratulate you, although I must tell you that I cannot afford to keep you living as well as dead, and in that case you must leave my house at once. Or if what they say about vampires be true, and you are some of them, be good enough to seek other blood to drink, for I am not disposed to let you suck mine, with which I have already liberally filled your veins. In short, if you will continue to be quiet and silent as before, we shall get on very well together, and you shall want for nothing in my house. Otherwise, I warn you that I will take hold of this iron bar, and kill you, one and all. _A Mummy_. Do not put yourself about. I promise you we will all be dead again without your killing us. _Ruysch_. Then what is the meaning of this singing freak? _Mummy_. A moment ago, precisely at midnight, was completed for the first time that great mathematical epoch referred to so often by the ancients. To-night also the dead have spoken for the first time. And all the dead in every cemetery and sepulchre, in the depths of the sea, beneath the snow and the sand, under the open sky, and wherever they are to be found, have like us chanted the song you have just heard. _Ruysch_. And how long will your singing or speaking last?' _Mummy_. The song is already finished. We are allowed to speak for a quarter of an hour. Then we are silent again until the completion of the second great year. _Ruysch_. If this be true, I do not think you will disturb my sleep a second time. So talk away to your hearts' content, and I will stand here on one side, and, from curiosity, gladly listen without interrupting you. _Mummy_. We can only speak in response to some living person. The dead that are not interrogated by the living, when they have finished their song, are quiet again. _Ruysch_. I am greatly disappointed, for I was curious to know what you would talk about if you could converse with each other. _Mummy_. Even if we could do so, you would hear nothing, because we should have nothing to say to one another. _Ruysch_. A thousand questions to ask you come into my mind. But the time is short, so tell me briefly what feelings you experienced in body and soul when at the point of death. _Mummy_. I do not remember the exact moment of death. _The other Mummies_. Nor do we. _Ruysch_. Why not? _Mummy_. For the same reason that you cannot perceive the moment when you fall asleep, however much you try to do so. _Ruysch_. But sleep is a natural thing. _Mummy_. And does not death seem natural to you? Show me a man, beast, or plant that shall not die. _Ruysch_. I am no longer surprised that you sing and talk, if you do not remember your death. "A fatal blow deprived him of his breath; Still fought he on, unconscious of his death "-- as says an Italian poet. I thought that on the subject of death you fellows would at least know something more than the living. Now tell me, did you feel any pain at the point of death? _Mummy_. How can there be pain at a time of unconsciousness? _Ruysch_. At any rate, every one believes the moment of departure from this life to be a very painful one. _Mummy_. As if death were a sensation, and not rather the contrary. _Ruysch_. Most people who hold the views of the Epicureans as to the nature of the soul, as well as those who cling to the popular opinion, agree in supposing that death is essentially a pain of the most acute kind. _Mummy_. Well, you shall put the question to either of them from us. If man be unaware of the exact point of time when his vital functions are suspended in more or less degree by sleep, lethargy, syncope, or any other cause, why should he perceive the moment-when these same functions cease entirely; and not merely for a time, but for ever? Besides, how could there be an acute sensation at the time of death? Is death itself a sensation? When the faculty of sense is not only weakened and restricted, but so minimised that it may be termed non-existent, how could any one experience a lively sensation? Perhaps you think this very extinction of sensibility ought also to be an acute sensation? But it is not so. For you may notice that even sick people who die of very painful diseases compose themselves shortly before death, and rest in tranquillity; they are too enfeebled to suffer, and lose all sense of pain before they die. You may say this from us to whoever imagines it will be a painful effort to breathe his last. _Ruysch_. Such reasoning would perhaps satisfy the Epicureans, but not those people who regard the soul as essentially different from the body. I have hitherto been one of the latter, and now that I have heard the dead speak and sing I am more than ever disinclined to change my opinions. We consider death to be a separation of the soul and body, and to us it is incomprehensible how these two substances, so joined and agglutinated as to form one being, can be divided without great force and an inconceivable pang. _Mummy_. Tell me: is the spirit joined to the body by some nerve, muscle, or membrane which must be broken to enable it to escape? Or is it a member which has to be severed or violently wrenched away? Do you not see that the soul necessarily leaves the body when the latter becomes uninhabitable, and not because of any internal violence? Tell me also: were you sensible of the moment when the soul entered you, and was joined, or as you say agglutinated, to your body? If not, why should you expect to feel any violent sensation at its departure? Take my word for it, the departure of the soul is as quiet and imperceptible as its entrance. _Ruysch_. Then what is death, if it be not pain? _Mummy_. It is rather pleasure than anything else. You must know that death, like sleep, is not accomplished in a moment, but gradually. It is true the transition is more or less rapid according to the disease or manner of death. But ultimately death comes like sleep, without either sense of pain or pleasure. Just before death pain is impossible, for it is too acute a thing to be experienced by the enfeebled senses of a dying person. It were more rational to regard it as a pleasure; because most human joys, far from being of a lively nature, are made up of a sort of languor, in which pain has no part. Consequently, man's senses, even when approaching extinction, are capable of pleasure; since languor is often pleasurable, especially when it succeeds a state of suffering. Hence the languor of death ought to be pleasing in proportion to the intensity of pain from which it frees the sufferer. As for myself, if I cannot recall the circumstances of my death, it may be because the doctors forbade me to exert my brain. I remember, however, that the sensation I experienced differed little from the feeling of satisfaction that steals over a man, as the languor of sleep pervades him. _The other Mummies_. We felt the same sensation. _Ruysch_. It may be as you say, although every one with whom I have conversed on this subject is of a very different opinion. It is true, however, they have not spoken from experience. Now tell me, did you at the time of death, whilst experiencing this sensation of pleasure, realise that you were dying, and that this feeling was a prelude to death, or what did you think? _Mummy_. Until I was dead I believed I should recover, and as long as I had the faculty of thought I hoped I should still live an hour or two. I imagine most people think the same. _The other Mummies_. It was the same with us. _Ruysch_. Cicero says[2] that, however old and broken-down a man may be, he always anticipates at least another year of life. But how did you perceive at length that your soul had left the body? Say, how did you know you were dead?... You do not answer. Children, do you not hear?... Ah, the quarter of an hour has expired. Let me examine them a little. Yes, they are quite dead again. There is no fear that they will give me such another shock. I will go to bed. NOTE.--Frederic Ruysch (1638-1731) was one of the cleverest anatomists Holland has ever produced. For sixty years he held a professorship of anatomy at Amsterdam, during which time he devoted himself to his art. He obtained from Swammerdam his secret of preserving corpses by means of an injection of coloured wax. Ruysch, it is said, also made use of his own blood for this purpose. His subjects, when prepared, looked like living beings, and showed no signs of corruption. Czar Peter visited Holland in 1698, and was amazed at what he saw in Ruysch's studio. In 1717 the Czar again visited Holland, and succeeded in inducing Ruysch to dispose of his collection of animals, mummies, &c. These were all transported to St. Petersburg. Ruysch formed a second collection as valuable as the first, which after his death was publicly sold. [Footnote 1: See note.] [Footnote 2: De Senectute.] _REMARKABLE SAYINGS OF PHILIP OTTONIERI._[1] CHAPTER I. Philip Ottonieri, a few of whose remarkable sayings I am about to recount, partly heard from his own mouth and partly related to me by others, was born at Nubiana in the province of Valdivento. There he lived most of his life, and died a short time ago, leaving behind him the reputation of having never injured any one either by word or deed. He was detested by the majority of his fellow-citizens, because he took so little interest in the many things that gave them pleasure; although he did nothing to show that he despised those who differed from himself in this respect. He is believed to have been, not only in theory, but also in practice, what so many of his contemporaries professed to be, that is, a philosopher. For this reason other men thought him peculiar, though really he never affected singularity in anything. Indeed, he once said that a man who nowadays practised the greatest possible singularity in dress, manners, or actions, would be far less singular than were those ancients who obtained a reputation for singularity; and that the difference between such a person and his contemporaries would by the ancients have been regarded as scarcely worthy of notice. And, comparing J. J. Rousseau's singularity, which seemed very striking to the people of his generation, with that of Democritus and the first Cynic philosophers, he said that whoever nowadays lived as differently from his contemporaries as these Greeks lived from theirs, would not merely be regarded as singular, but would be treated as outside the pale of human society. He thought, too, that the degree of civilisation reached by any country might be estimated from observation of the degree of singularity possible in the inhabitants of that country. Though very temperate in his habits of life, he professed Epicureanism, perhaps lightly rather than from conviction. But he condemned Epicurus, affirming that in his time and nation there was much more pleasure to be obtained from the pursuit of glory and virtue, than from idleness, indifference, and sensuality, which things were considered by that philosopher to represent the greatest good of life. He said also that the Epicureanism of modern times has nothing in common with the Epicureanism of the ancients. In philosophy, he liked to call himself Socratic. Like Socrates, too, he often spent great part of the day reasoning philosophically with any chance acquaintance, and especially with certain of his friends, on any impromptu subject. But unlike Socrates, he did not frequent the shops of the shoemakers, carpenters, and blacksmiths; for he was of opinion that, though the artisans of Athens may have had time to spend in philosophising, those of Nubiana would starve were they to follow such an example. Nor did he, like Socrates, explain his conclusions by means of endless interrogation and argument; for, he said, although men in the present day may have more patience than their ancestors, they would never consent to reply to a thousand consecutive questions, still less to hear their answers answered. In fact, he only resembled Socrates in his manner of speaking, sometimes ironical, sometimes equivocal. He analysed the famous Socratic irony in the following way:-- "Socrates was naturally very tender-hearted, and of a most lovable disposition. But he was physically so unattractive that it is probable he despaired from his youth of ever inspiring others with a warmer feeling than that of friendship, far insufficient to satisfy his sensitive and ardent nature, which often felt towards others a much more lively affection. He was courageous in all matters of the intellect, but seems to have been wanting in natural courage, and those other qualities that would have enabled him to hold his own in public life, amid the tumult of wars, the sedition, and the license of all kinds, then characteristic of Athenian affairs. In addition to this, his ridiculous and insignificant figure must have been no slight prejudice to him among people who made little distinction between the good and the beautiful, and who were also much addicted to banter. Thus it happened that in a free city, full of wealth and the bustle and amusements of life, Socrates, poor, rejected by love, incapable of a public career, yet gifted with very great intelligence which doubtless intensified the consciousness of his defects, resigned himself to a life of philosophising on the actions, manners, and thoughts of his fellow-citizens. The irony he used was natural to a man who found himself as it were excluded from participation in the existence of others. But it was due to his inherent nobility and affableness, and perhaps also to the celebrity he gained by his reasonings, and which flattered his self-esteem, that this irony, instead of being bitter and contemptuous, was pleasing, and expressed in a friendly manner. "Then it was that Philosophy, as Cicero has well said, made her first descent from heaven, and was led by Socrates into the towns and houses of men. Hitherto occupied with speculations as to the nature of hidden things, she now studied the manners and lives of men, and discussed virtues and vices, things good and useful, and the contrary. But Socrates did not primarily think of introducing this novel feature into philosophy, nor did he propose to teach anything, nor even aspire to the name of philosopher, which then only belonged to those who made physics or metaphysics the study of their lives. He openly proclaimed his ignorance of all things, and in his conversation with others simply discussed the affairs of his neighbours, and the topics of the day. He preferred this amusement to the real study of philosophy, or any other science or art; and being naturally more inclined to act than speculate, he only adopted this manner of life, because shut out from a more congenial employment. He was always more willing to converse with young and handsome persons than with others; in this way he hoped to gain at least esteem, where he would far rather have had love." And since all the schools of Greek philosophy are traceable directly or indirectly to the Socratic school, Ottonieri asserted that the flat nose and satyr-like visage of a highly intellectual and warm-hearted man were the origin of all Greek philosophy, and, consequently, the philosophy of modern times. He also said that in the writings of his followers, the individuality of Socrates is comparable to those theatrical masks of the ancients, which always retained their name, character, and identity, but the _rôle_ of which varied in each distinct performance. He left behind him no philosophical or other writings for public benefit. Being asked one day why he did not give written as well as verbal expression to his philosophical views, he replied: "Reading is a conversation held with the writer. Now, as in fêtes and public entertainments, they who take no active part in the spectacle or performance soon become tired, similarly in conversation men prefer to speak rather than listen. And books necessarily resemble those people who take all the speaking to themselves, and never listen to others. Consequently, to atone for their monopoly of talking, they ought to say many fine and excellent things, expressing them in a remarkable manner. Every book that does not do this inspires the same feeling of aversion as an insatiable chatterer." [Footnote 1: A fictitious personage.] CHAPTER II. Ottonieri made no distinction between business and pleasure. However serious his occupation, he called it pastime. Only once, having been idle temporarily, he confessed he had then experienced no amusement. He said that our truest pleasures are due to the imagination. Thus, children construct a world out of nothing, whereas men find nothing in the world. He compared those pleasures termed real to an artichoke, all the leaves of which must be masticated in order to reach the pith. He added that such artichokes as these are very rare; and that many others resemble them in exterior, but within are void of kernel. He for his part, finding the leaves unpalatable, determined to abstain from both leaves and kernel. Being asked what was the worst moment of life, he said: "Except those of pain or fear, the worst moments are, in my opinion, those spent in pleasure. For the anticipation and recollection of these last, which fill up the remainder of life, are better and more delightful than the pleasures themselves." He also made a comparison between pleasures and odours. The latter he considered usually leave behind a desire to experience them again, proportioned to their agreeableness; and he regarded the sense of smell as the most difficult to satisfy of all our senses. Again, he compared odours to anticipations of good things; and said that odoriferous foods are generally more pleasing to the nose than the palate, for their scent originates savoury expectations which are seldom sufficiently realised. He explained why sometimes he was so impatient about the delay of a pleasure sure to occur sooner or later, by saying that he feared the enjoyment he should derive from it would be of diminished force, on account of the exaggerated anticipation conceived by his mind. For this reason he endeavoured in the meantime to forget the coming good, as though it were an impending misfortune. He said that each of us in entering the world resembles a man on a hard and uncomfortable bed. As soon as the man lies down, he feels restless and begins to toss from side to side and change his position momentarily, in the hope of inducing sleep to close his eyes. Thus he spends the whole night, and though sometimes he believes himself on the point of falling asleep, he never actually succeeds in doing so. At length dawn comes, and he rises unrefreshed. Watching some bees at work one day in company with certain acquaintances, he remarked: "Blessed are ye, if ye know not your unhappiness." He considered the miseries of mortals to be incalculable, and that no single one of them could be adequately deplored. In answer to Horace's question, "Why is no one content with his lot?" he said: "Because no one's lot is happy. Subjects equally with princes, the weak and the strong, were they happy, would be contented, and would envy no one. For men are no more incapable of being satisfied than other animals. But since happiness alone can satisfy them, they are necessarily dissatisfied, because essentially unhappy." "If a man could be found," he said, "who had attained to the summit of human happiness, that man would be the most miserable of mortals. For even the oldest of us have hopes and schemes for the improvement of our condition." He recalled a passage in Zenophon, where a purchaser of land is advised to buy badly cultivated fields, because such as do not in the future bring forth more abundantly than at the time of purchase, give less satisfaction than if they were to increase in productiveness. Similarly, all things in which we can observe improvement please us more than others in which improvement is impossible. On the other hand, he observed that no condition is so bad that it cannot be worse; and that however unhappy a man may be, he cannot console or boast himself that his misfortunes are incapable of increase. Though hope is unbounded, the good things of life are limited. Thus, were we to consider a single day in the life of a rich or poor man, master or servant, bearing in mind all the circumstances and needs of their respective positions, we should generally find an equality of good throughout. But nature has not limited our misfortunes; nor can the mind scarcely conceive a cause of suffering which is non-existent, or which at some time was not to be found among humanity. Thus, whereas most men vainly hope for an increase of the good things they possess, they never want for genuine objects of fear; and if Fortune sometimes obstinately refuses to benefit us in the least degree, she never fails to afflict us with new torments of such a nature as to crush within us even the courage of despair. He often used to laugh at those philosophers who think that a man is able to free himself from the tyranny of Fortune, by having a contempt for good and evil things which are entirely beyond his control; as if happiness and the contrary were absolutely in his own power to accept or refuse. On the same subject he also said, amongst other things, that however much a man may act as a philosopher in his relations with others, he is never a philosopher to himself. Again, he said that it is as impossible to take more interest in the affairs of others than in our own, as to regard their affairs as though they were our own. But, supposing this philosophical disposition of mind were possible, winch it is not, and possessed by one of us, how would it stand the test of a thousand trials? Would it not be evident that the happiness or unhappiness of such a person is nevertheless a matter of fortune? Would not the very disposition they boast of be dependent on circumstances? Is not man's reason daily governed by accidents of all kinds? Do not the numberless bodily disturbances due to stupidity, excitement, madness, rage, dullness, and a hundred other species of folly, temporary or continuous, trouble, weaken, distract, and even extinguish it? Does not memory, wisdom's ally, lose strength as we advance in age? How many of us fall into a second childhood! And we almost all decrease in mental vigour as we grow old; or when our mind remains unimpaired, time, by means of some bodily disease, enfeebles our courage and firmness, and not infrequently deprives us of both attributes altogether. In short, it is utter folly to confess that physically we are subject to many things over which we have no control, and at the same time to assert that the mind, which is so greatly dependent on the body, is not similarly controlled by external influences. He summed up by saying that man as a whole is absolutely in the power of Fortune. Being asked for what purpose he thought men were born, he laughingly replied: "To realise how much better it were not to be born." CHAPTER III. On the occasion of a certain misfortune, Ottonieri said: "It is less hard to lose a much-loved person suddenly, or after a short illness, than to see him waste away gradually, so that before his death he is transformed in body and mind into quite another being from what he formerly was. This latter is a cruel thing; for the beloved one, instead of leaving to us the tender recollections of his real identity, remains with us a changed being, in whose presence our old affection slowly but surely fades away. At length he dies; but the remembrance of him as he was at the last destroys the sweeter and earlier image within us. Thus he is lost entirely, and our imagination, instead of comforting, saddens us. Such misfortunes as these are inconsolable." One day he heard a man lamenting and saying, "If only I were freed from this trouble, all my other troubles would be easy to bear." He replied: "Not so; for then those that are now light would be heavy." Another person said to him: "Had this pain continued, I could not have borne it." Ottonieri answered: "On the contrary, habit would have made it more bearable." Touching many things as to human nature, he held opinions not in accordance with those of the multitude, and often different from those of learned men. For instance, he thought it unwise to address a petition to any one when the person addressed is in a state of extraordinary hilarity. "And," he said, "when the petition is such that it cannot be granted at once, I consider occasions of joy and sorrow as equally inopportune to its success. For both sentiments make a man too selfish to trouble himself with the affairs of others. In sorrow our misfortune, in joy our good fortune, monopolises our mind, and erects, as it were, a barrier between us and matters external to ourselves. Both are also peculiarly unsuitable for exciting compassion: when sorrowful, we reserve all pity for ourselves; when joyful, we colour all things with our joy, and are inclined to regard the troubles and misfortunes of others as entirely imaginative, or else we refuse to think of them, as too discordant with the mind's present condition. The best time to ask a favour, or some beneficial promise for others, is when the person petitioned is in a state of quiet, happy good humour, unaccompanied by any excessive joyfulness; or better still, when under the influence of that keen but indefinite pleasure which results from a reverie of thought, and consists of a peaceful agitation of the spirit. At such times men are most open to pity and entreaty, and are often glad to please others, and give expression to the vague gratifying activity of their thoughts by some good action." He also denied that an afflicted person ordinarily receives more pity from fellow-sufferers than from other people. For a man's companions in misfortune are always inclined to give their own troubles precedence over his, as being more serious and compassionable. And often, when a man in recounting his sufferings thinks he has excited the sympathy of his auditors, he is interrupted by one of them who expatiates in turn on his misfortunes, and ends by trying to show that he is the more afflicted of the two. He said that in such cases it generally happens as occurred to Achilles when Priam prostrated himself at his feet, with entreaties and lamentations. The tears of Priam excited the tears of Achilles, who began to groan and weep like the Trojan king. This he did, not from sympathy, but because of his own misfortunes, and the thoughts of his dead father and friend. "We compassionate others," he said, "when they suffer from evils we have experienced; but not so when we and they suffer simultaneously." He said that from carelessness and thoughtlessness we do many cruel or wicked things, which very often have the appearance of genuine cruelty and maliciousness. For example, he mentioned the case of a man who spending his time away from home left his servants in a dwelling scarcely weather proof, not designedly, but simply from thoughtlessness or disregard of their comfort. He considered malice, inhumanity, and the like to be far less common among men than mere thoughtlessness, to which he attributed very many things called by harder names. He once said that it were better to be completely ungrateful towards a benefactor than to make some trifling return for his great kindness. For in the latter case the benefactor must consider the obligation as cancelled, whatever may have been the motive that inspired the donor, and however small the return. He is thus despoiled of the bare satisfaction of gratitude, on which he probably reckoned; and yet he cannot regard himself as treated ungratefully, though he is so in reality. I have heard the following saying attributed to him:--"We are inclined and accustomed to give our acquaintances credit for being able to discern our true merits, or what we imagine them to be, and to recognise the virtue of our words and actions. We also suppose that they ponder over these virtues and merits of ours, and never let them escape their memory. But, on the other hand, we do not discern similar qualities in them, or else are unwilling to acknowledge the fact." CHAPTER IV. Ottonieri observed that irresolute men sometimes persevere in their undertakings in the face of the greatest opposition. This is even a consequence of their irresolution; for were they to abandon their design, it would be evidence that they had for once fulfilled a determination. Sometimes they skilfully and speedily carry out a resolution. To this they are urged by fear lest they should be compelled to cease their task, when they would return to the state of perplexity and uncertainty in which they were formerly. Thus they strenuously hasten the execution of their design, stimulated rather by anxiety and uncertainty as to whether they will conquer themselves, than by the goal or the difficulties to be overcome before it can be reached. At another time he said, with a smile, that people accustomed to give expression to their every thought and feeling in conversation with others, cry out when alone if a fly bite them, or if they chance to upset a glass of water; and, on the other hand, they who live solitary lives become so reserved that even the presentiment of apoplexy would not induce them to speak in the presence of others. He was of opinion that most men reputed great in ancient and modern times have obtained their reputation through a preponderance of one quality over the rest in their character. And a man possessed of the most brilliant but evenly proportioned endowments, would fail to acquire celebrity either with his contemporaries or posterity. He divided the men of civilised nations into three classes. The first class are they whose individual nature, and partly also their natural human constitution, become transformed under the influence of the arts and customs of urban life. Among these he included all men who are skilful in business, whether private or public, who appreciate society, and make themselves universally agreeable to their fellows. Generally speaking, such men alone inspire esteem and respect. The second class are they who preserve their primitive nature in a greater degree, either from lack of culture or because they are naturally incapable of being influenced by the arts, manners, and customs of others. This is the most numerous of the three classes, and is held in general contempt. It embraces those who are known as the common people, or who deserve to be included with them, be their station in life what it may. The third class, incomparably the smallest in numbers, and often even more despised than the second, consists of those men in whom nature is strong enough to resist and often repulse the civilising influence of the times. They are seldom apt in business, or self-governed in society; nor do they shine in conversation, nor succeed in making themselves agreeable to their fellow-men. This class is subdivided into two varieties. The one includes those strong and courageous natures that despise the contempt they excite, and often indeed esteem it more than honour. They differ from other men, not only by nature, but also by choice and preference. Having nothing in common with the hopes and pleasures of society, solitary in a crowd, they avoid other men as much as they themselves are avoided. Specimens of this class are rarely met with. The other variety consists of persons whose nature is a compound of strength, weakness, and timidity, and who are therefore in a constant state of agitation. They are as a rule desirous of associating with their fellows, and wishing to emulate the men of the cultivated class, they feel acutely the contempt in which they are held by their inferiors. These men are never successful in life; they fail in ever becoming practical, and in society are neither tolerable to themselves nor others. Not a few of our most gifted men of modern times have belonged to this division in more or less degree. J. J. Rousseau is a famous example, and with him may be bracketed one of the ancients, Virgil. Of the latter it is said, on the authority of Melissus, that he was very slow of speech, and apparently a most ordinary endowed man. And this, together with the probability that owing to his great talents Virgil was little at ease in society, seems likely enough, both from the laboured subtlety of his style, and the nature of his poetry; it is also confirmed by what we read towards the end of the Second Book of the Georgics. There the poet expresses a wish for a quiet and solitary life, as though he regarded it as a remedy and refuge more than an advantage in itself. Now, seeing that with rare exceptions men of these two species are never esteemed until they are dead, and are of little power in the world; he asserted as a general rule, that the only way to gain esteem during life is to live unnaturally. And since the first class, which is the mean of the two extremes, represents the civilisation of our times; he concluded from this and other circumstances that the conduct of human affairs is entirely in the hands of mediocrity. He distinguished also three conditions of old age, compared with the other ages of man. When nature and manners were first instituted, men were just and virtuous at all ages. Experience and knowledge of the world did not make men less honest and upright. Old age was then the most venerable time of life; for besides having all the good qualities common to other men, the aged were naturally possessed of greater prudence and judgment than their juniors. But in process of time, the conduct of men changed; their manners became debased and corrupt. Then were the aged the vilest of the vile; for they had served a longer apprenticeship to vice, had been longer under the influence of the wickedness of their neighbours, and were besides possessed of the spirit of cold indifference natural to their time of life. Under such conditions they were powerless to act, save by calumny, fraud, perfidy, cunning, dissimulation, and other such despicable means. The corruption of men at length exceeded all bounds. They despised virtue and well-doing before they knew anything of the world, and its sad truth. In their youth they drained the cup of evil and dissipation. Old age was then not indeed venerable, for few things thence-forward could be so called, but the most bearable time of life. Eor whereas the mental ardour and bodily strength which formerly stimulated the imagination and the conception of noble thoughts, had often given rise to virtuous habits, sentiments, and actions; the same causes latterly increased man's wickedness by enlarging his capacity for evil, to which it lent an additional attractiveness. But this ardour diminished with age, bodily decrepitude, and the coldness incident to age, things ordinarily more dangerous to virtue than vice. In addition to this, excessive knowledge of the world became so dissatisfactory and wearisome a thing, that instead of conducting men from good to evil, as formerly, it gave them strength to resist wickedness, and sometimes even to hate it. So that, comparing old age with the other periods of life, it may be said to have been as better to good in the earliest times; as worse to bad in the corrupt times; and subsequently as bad to worse. CHAPTER V. Ottonieri often talked of the quality of self-love, nowadays called egotism. I will narrate some of his remarks on this subject. He said that "if you hear a person speak well or ill of another with whom he has had dealings, and term him honest or the contrary; value his opinion not a whit. He speaks well or ill of the man simply as his relationship with him has proved satisfactory or the reverse." He said that no one can love without a rival. Being asked to explain, he replied: "Because the person beloved is a very close rival of the lover." "Suppose a case," he said, "in which you asked a favour from a friend, who could not grant it without incurring the hatred of a third person. Suppose, too, that the three interested people are in the same condition of life. I affirm that your request would have little chance of success, even though your gratitude to the granter might exceed the hatred he would incur from the other person. The reason of this is as follows: we fear men's anger and hatred more than we value their love and gratitude. And rightly so. For do we not oftener see the former productive of results than the latter? Besides, hatred or vengeance is a personal satisfaction; whereas gratitude is merely a service pleasing to the recipient." He said that respect and services rendered to others in expectation of some profitable return, are rarely successful; because men, especially nowadays when they are more knowing than formerly, are less inclined to give than receive. Nevertheless, such services as the young render to the old who are rich or powerful, attain their end more often than not. The following remarks about modern customs I remember hearing from his own mouth:-- "Nothing makes a man of the world so ashamed as the feeling that he is ashamed, if by chance he ever realises it. "Marvellous is the power of fashion! For we see nations and men, so conservative in everything else, and so careful of tradition, act blindly in this respect, often indeed unreasonably, and against their own interests. Fashion is despotic. She constrains men to lay aside, change, or assume manners, customs, and ideas, just when she pleases; even though the things changed be rational, useful, or beautiful, and the substitutes the contrary.[1] "There are an infinite number of things in public and private life which, though truly ridiculous, seldom excite laughter. If by chance a man does laugh in such a case, he laughs alone, and is soon silent. On the other hand, we laugh daily at a thousand very serious and natural things; and such laughter is quickly contagious. Thus, most things which excite laughter are in reality anything but ridiculous; and we often laugh simply because there is nothing to laugh at, or nothing worthy of laughter. "We frequently hear and say such things as, 'The good ancients,' 'our good ancestors,' &c. Again, 'A man worthy of the ancients,' by which we mean a trustworthy and honest man. Every generation believes, on the one hand, that its ancestors were better than its contemporaries; and on the other hand, that the human race progresses as it leaves the primitive state, to return to which would be a movement for the worse, further and further behind. Wonderful contradiction! "The true is not necessarily the beautiful. Yet, though beauty be preferable to truth, where the former is wanting, the latter is the next best thing. Now in large towns the beautiful is not to be found, because it no longer has a place in the excitement of human life. The true is equally non-existent; for all things there are false or frivolous. Consequently, in large towns one sees, feels, hears, and breathes nothing but falsity, which in time, custom renders even pleasurable. To sensitive minds, what misery can exceed this? "People who need not work for their bread, and who accordingly leave the care of it to others, have usually great difficulty in providing themselves with one of the chief necessities of life, occupation. This may indeed be called the greatest necessity of life, for it includes all others. It is greater even than the necessity of living; for life itself, apart from happiness, is not a good thing. And possessing life, as we do, our one endeavour should be to endure as little unhappiness as possible. Now, on the one hand, an idle and empty life is very unhappy; and on the other hand, the best way to pass our time is to spend it in providing for our wants." He said that the custom of buying and selling human beings has proved useful to the race. In confirmation of this, he mentioned the practice of inoculating for small-pox, which originated in Circassia; from Constantinople it passed to England, and thence became disseminated throughout Europe. Its office was to mitigate the destructiveness wrought by true small-pox, which besides endangering the life and comeliness of the Circassian children and youths, was especially disastrous in its effects on the sale of their maidens. He narrated of himself that on leaving school to enter the world of life, he mentally resolved, inexperienced, and devoted to truth as he was, to praise no person or thing that did not seem really deserving of praise. He kept his determination for a whole year, during which time he did not utter a single word of praise. Then he broke his vow, fearing lest, from want of practice, he should forget all the eulogistic phraseology he had learnt shortly before, at the School of Rhetoric. From that time he absolutely renounced his intention. [Footnote 1: See "Dialogue between Fashion and Death," p. 19.] CHAPTER VI. Ottonieri was accustomed to read out passages from books taken at hazard, especially those of ancient writers. He would often interrupt himself by uttering some remark or comment on this or that passage. One day he read from Laertius' "Lives of the Philosophers," the passage where Chilo, being asked how the learned differed from the ignorant, is said to have replied, that the former possess 'hopes,' Ottonieri said: "Now all is changed. The ignorant hope, but the learned do not." Again, as he read in the same book how Socrates affirmed that the world contains but one benefit, knowledge, and but one evil, ignorance, he said: "I know nothing about the knowledge and ignorance of the ancients; but in the present day I should reverse this saying." Commenting on this maxim of Hegesias, also from the book of Laertius, "The wise man attends to his own interests in everything," he said: "If all men who carry out this principle be philosophers, Plato may come and establish his republic throughout the civilised world." He greatly praised the following saying of Bion Borysthenes, mentioned by Laertius: "They who seek the greatest happiness, suffer most." To this he added: "And they on the other hand are happiest who are contented with least, and who are accustomed to enjoy their happiness over again in memory." From Plutarch he read how Stratocles excited the anger of the Athenians by inducing them on a certain occasion to sacrifice as though they were victors; and how he then replied by demanding why they blamed him that he had made them happy and joyful for the space of three days. Ottonieri added: "Nature might make the same response to those who complain that she endeavours to conceal the truth beneath a multitude of vain but beautiful and pleasing appearances. How have I injured you, in making you happy for three or four days?" On another occasion he remarked that Tasso's saying about a child induced to take his medicine under a false belief, "he is nourished on deception," is equally applicable to all our race, in relation to the errors in which man puts faith. Beading the following from Cicero's "Paradoxes"--"Do pleasures make a person better or more estimable? Is there any one who boasts of the pleasures he enjoys?" he said: "Beloved Cicero, I cannot say that pleasures make men in the present day either more estimable or better; but undoubtedly they cause them to be more esteemed. For in the present day most young men seek esteem by no other way than pleasure. And not only do they boast of these pleasures when they obtain them, but they din the intelligence of their enjoyment into the ears of friends and strangers, willing or unwilling. There are also many pleasures which are eagerly desired and sought after, not as pleasures, but for the sake of the renown, reputation, and self-satisfaction that they bring; and very often these latter things are appropriated when the pleasures have neither been obtained, nor sought, or else have been entirely imaginary." He noted from Arrian's History of the Wars of Alexander the Great, that at the battle of Issus, Darius placed his Greek mercenaries in the van of his army, and Alexander his Greeks at the wings. He thought that this fact alone was sufficient to determine the result of the battle. He never blamed authors for writing much about themselves. On the contrary, he applauded them for so doing, and said that on such occasions they are nearly always eloquent, and their style, though perhaps unusual and even singular, is ordinarily good and fluent. And this is not surprising; for writers treating of themselves have their heart and soul in the work. They are at no loss what to say; their subject and the interest they take in it are jointly productive of original thought. They confine themselves to themselves, and do not drink at strange fountains; nor need they be commonplace and trite. There is nothing to induce them to garnish their writing with artificial ornamentation, or to affect an unnatural style. And it is an egregious error to suppose that readers are ordinarily little interested in a writer's confessions. For in the first place, whenever a man relates his own experiences and thoughts simply and pleasingly, he succeeds in commanding attention. Secondly, because in no way can we discuss and represent the affairs of others more truthfully and effectively than by treating of our own affairs; seeing that all men have something in common, either naturally or by force of circumstances, and that we are better able to illustrate human nature in ourselves than in others. In confirmation of these opinions, he instanced Demosthenes' Oration for the Crown, in which the speaker, continually referring to himself, is surpassingly eloquent. And Cicero, when he touches on his own affairs, is equally successful; peculiarly so in his Oration for Milo, admirable throughout, but above all praise towards the end, where he himself is introduced. Bossuet also is supremely excellent in his panegyric of the Prince de Condé, where he mentions his own extreme age and approaching death. Again, the Emperor Julian, whose writings are all else trifling, and often unbearable, is at his best in the "Misopogony" (speech against the beard), in which he replies to the ridicule and malice of the people of Antioch. He is here scarcely inferior to Lucian in wit, vigour, and acuteness; whereas his work on the Cæsars, professedly an imitation of Lucian, is pointless, dull, feeble, and almost stupid. In Italian literature, which is almost devoid of eloquent writings, the apology of Lorenzo de Medici is a specimen of eloquence, grand and perfect in every way. Tasso also is often eloquent where he speaks much of himself, and is nearly always excessively so in his letters, which are almost occupied with his own affairs. CHAPTER VII. Many other famous sayings of Ottonieri are recorded. Amongst them is a reply he gave to a clever, well-read young man, who knew little of the world. This youth said that he learned daily one hundred pages of the art of self-government in society. "But," remarked Ottonieri, "the book has five million pages." Another youth, whose thoughtless and impetuous behaviour constantly got him into trouble, used to excuse himself by saying that life is a comedy. "May be," replied Ottonieri, "but even then it is better for the actor to gain applause than rebuke; often, too, the ill-trained or clumsy comedian ends by dying of starvation." One day he saw a murderer, who was lame, and could not therefore escape, being carried off by the police. "See, friends," he said, "Justice, lame though she be, can bring the doer of evil to account, if he also be lame." During a journey through Italy he met a courtier, who, desirous of acting the critic to Ottonieri, began: "I will speak candidly, if you will allow me." "I will listen attentively," said the other, "for, as a traveller, I appreciate uncommon things." Being in need of money, he once asked a loan from a certain man, who, excusing himself on the plea of poverty, added that were he rich, the necessities of his friends would be his first thought. "I should be truly sorry were you to bestow on us such a valuable moment," replied Ottonieri: "God grant you may never become rich!" When young, he wrote some verses, using certain obsolete expressions. At the request of an old lady he recited them to her. She professed ignorance of their meaning, and said that in her day such words were not in use. Ottonieri replied: "I thought they might have been, simply because they are very ancient." Of a certain very rich miser who had been robbed of a little money, he said: "This man behaved in a miserly manner even to thieves." He said of a man who had a mania for calculating on every possible occasion: "Other men make things; this fellow counts them." Being asked his opinion about a certain old terra-cotta figure of Jove, over which some antiquaries were disputing, he said: "Do you not see that it is a Cretan Jove?" Of a foolish fellow, who imagined himself to be an admirable reasoner, yet was illogical whenever he spoke two words, he said: "This person exemplifies the Greek definition of man, as a 'logical animal.'" When on his deathbed, he composed this epitaph, which was subsequently engraved on his tomb: HERE LIE THE BONES OF PHILIP OTTONIERI. BORN FOR VIRTUE AND GLORY, HE LIVED IDLE AND USELESS, AND DIED IN OBSCURITY; NOT WITHOUT A KNOWLEDGE OF NATURE AND HIS OWN DESTINY. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS AND PIETRO GUTIERREZ._ _Columbus_. A fine night, friend. _Gutierrez_. Fine indeed; but a sight of land would be much finer. _Col_. Decidedly. So even you are tired of a life at sea. _Gut_. Not so. But I am rather weary of this voyage, which turns out to be so much longer than I expected. Do not, however, think that I blame you, like the others. Rather, consider that I will, as hitherto, do all I can to help you in anything relating to the voyage. But just for the sake of some talk I wish you would tell me candidly and explicitly, whether you are as confident as at first about finding land in this part of the world; or if, after spending so much time to no purpose, you begin at all to doubt. _Col_. Speaking frankly as to a friend who will not betray me, I confess I am a little dubious; especially because certain evidences during the voyage, which filled me with hope, have turned out deceitful; for instance, the birds which dew over us from the west, soon after we left Gomera, and which I considered a sure sign of land not far distant. Similarly, more than one conjecture and anticipation, made before setting out, regarding different things that were to have taken place during the voyage, have failed of realisation. So that at length I cannot but say to myself, "Since these predictions in which I put the utmost faith have not been verified, why may not also my chief conjecture, that of finding land beyond the ocean, be also unfounded?" It is true this belief of mine is so logical, that if it be false, on the one hand it would seem as if no human judgment could be reliable, except such as concern things actually seen, and touched; and on the other hand, I remember how seldom reality agrees with expectation. I ask myself, "What ground have you for believing that both hemispheres resemble each other, so that the western, like the eastern, is part land and part water? Why may it not be one immense sea? Or instead of land and water, may it not contain some other element? And, supposing it to have land and water like the other, why may it not be uninhabited? or even uninhabitable? If it be peopled as numerously as our hemisphere, what proof have you that rational beings are to be found there, as in ours? And if so, why not some other intelligent animals instead of men? Supposing they be men, why not of a kind very different from those you are acquainted with; for instance, with much larger bodies, stronger, more skilful, naturally gifted with much more genius and intelligence, more civilised, and richer in sciences and arts?" These thoughts occur to me. And in truth, we see nature endowed with such power, so diverse and manifold in her effects, that we not only are unable to form a certain opinion about her works in distant and unknown parts of the world, but we may even doubt whether we do not deceive ourselves in drawing conclusions from the known world, and applying them to the unknown. Nor would it be contrary to probability to imagine that the things of the unknown world, in whole or part, were strange and extraordinary to us. For do we not see with our own eyes that the needle in these seas falls away from the Pole Star not a little towards the west? Such a thing is perfectly novel, and hitherto unheard of by all navigators; and even after much thought I can arrive at no satisfactory explanation of it. I do not infer that the fables of the ancients regarding the wonders of the undiscovered world and this ocean are at all credible. Annonus, for instance, said of these parts, that the nights were illumined by flames, and the glow of fiery torrents, which emptied themselves into the sea. We observe also, how foolish hitherto have been all the fears of miraculous and terrible novelties felt by our fellow-sailors during the voyage; as when, on coming to that stretch of seaweed, which made as it were a meadow in the sea, and impeded us so greatly, they imagined we had reached the verge of navigable waters. I say this simply because I wish you to see that although this idea of mine about undiscovered land may be founded on very reasonable suppositions, in which many excellent geographers, astronomers, and navigators, with whom I conversed on the subject in Spain, Italy, and Portugal, agree with me, it might yet be fallacious. In short, we often see many admirably drawn conclusions prove erroneous, especially in matters about which we have very little knowledge. _Gut_. So that in fact you have risked your own life, and the lives of your companions, on behalf of a mere possibility. _Col_. I cannot deny it. But, apart from the fact that men daily endanger their lives for much frailer reasons, and far more trifling things, or even without thinking at all, pray consider a moment. If you, and I, and all of us were not now here in this ship, in the middle of this ocean, in this strange solitude, uncertain and hazardous though it be, what should we be doing? How should we be occupied? How should we be spending our time? More joyfully perhaps? More probably, in greater trouble and difficulty; or worse, in a state of ennui? For what is implied in a state of life free from uncertainty and danger? If contentment and happiness, it is preferable to all others; if weariness and misery, I know nothing so undesirable. I do not wish to mention the glory and useful intelligence that we shall take back with us, if our enterprise succeed, as we hope. If the voyage be of no other use to us, it is very advantageous, inasmuch as it for a time frees us from ennui, endears life to us, and enhances the value of many things that we should not otherwise esteem. You remember perhaps what the ancients say about unfortunate lovers. These used to throw themselves from the rock of St. Maur (then called Leucadia) into the sea; being rescued therefrom, they found themselves, thanks to Apollo, delivered from their love passion. Whether or not this be credible, I am quite sure that the lovers, having escaped their danger, for a short time even without Apollo's assistance, loved the life they previously hated; or loved and valued it increasedly. Every voyage is, in my opinion, comparable to the leap from the Leucadian rock, producing the same useful results, though these are of a more durable kind. It is ordinarily believed that sailors and soldiers, because incessantly in danger of their lives, value existence more lightly than other people. Eor the same reason, I come to a contrary conclusion, and imagine few persons hold life in such high estimation as soldiers and sailors. Just as we care nothing for many benefits as soon as we possess them; so sailors cherish and value, very greatly, numerous things that are far from being good, simply because they are deprived of them. Who would think of including a little earth in the catalogue of human benefits? None but navigators; and especially such as ourselves, who, owing to the uncertain nature of our voyage, desire nothing so much as the sight of a tiny piece of land. This is our first thought on awaking, and our last before we fall asleep. And if at some future time we chance to see in the distance the peak of a mountain, the tops of a forest, or some such evidence of land, we shall scarcely be able to contain ourselves for joy. Once on _terra firma_, the mere consciousness of being free to go where we please will suffice to make us happy for several days. _Gut_. That is all very true; and if your conjecture only prove to be as reasonable as your justification of it, we shall not fail to enjoy this happiness sooner or later. _Col_. Personally, I think we shall soon do so; though I dare not actually promise such a thing. You know we have for several days been able to fathom; and the quality of the matter brought up by the lead seems to me auspicious. The clouds about the sun towards evening are of a different form and colour to what they were a few days ago. The atmosphere, as you can feel, is warmer and softer than it was. The wind no longer blows with the same force, nor in so straightforward and unwavering a manner; it is inclined to be hesitating and changeable, as though broken by some impediment. To these signs add that of the piece of cane we discovered floating in the sea, which bore marks of having been recently severed; and the little branch of a tree with fresh red berries on it; besides, the swarms of birds that pass over us, though they have deceived me before, are now so frequent and immense, that I think there must be some special reason for their appearance, particularly because we see amongst them some which do not resemble sea birds. In short, all these omens together make me very hopeful and expectant, however diffident I may pretend to be. _Gut_. God grant your surmises may be true. _PANEGYRIC OF BIRDS._ Amelio, a lonely philosopher, was seated, reading, one spring morning in the shade of his country house. Being distracted by the songs of the birds in the fields, he gradually resigned himself to listening and thinking. At length he threw his book aside, and taking up a pen wrote as follows:-- Birds are naturally the most joyful creatures in the world. I do not say this because of the cheerful influence they always exercise over us; I mean that they themselves are more light-hearted and joyful than any other animal. For we see other animals ordinarily stolid and grave, and many even seem melancholy. They rarely give signs of joy, and when they do, these are but slight and of brief duration. In most of their enjoyments and pleasures they do not express any gratification. The green fields, extensive and charming landscapes, noble planets, pure and sweet atmosphere, if even a cause of pleasure to them, do not excite in them any joyful demonstrations; save that on the authority of Zenophon, hares are said to skip and frolic with delight when the moon's radiance is at its brightest. Birds, on the other hand, show extreme joy, both in motion and appearance; and it is the sight of this evident disposition for enjoyment on their part that gladdens us as we watch them. And this appearance must not be regarded as unreal and deceptive. They sing to express the happiness they feel, and the happier they are, the more vigorously do they sing. And if, as it is said, they sing louder and more sweetly when in love than at other times, it is equally certain that other pleasures besides love incite them to sing. For we may notice they warble more on a quiet and peaceful day, than when the day is dark and uncertain. And in stormy weather, or when frightened, they are silent; but the storm passed, they reappear, singing and frolicking with one another. Again, they sing in the morning when they awake; being partly incited to this by a feeling of joy for the new day, and partly by the pleasure generally felt by every animal when refreshed and restored by sleep. They also delight in gay foliage, rich valleys, pure and sparkling water, and beautiful country.... It is said that birds' voices are softer and sweeter, and their songs more refined, with us than among wild and uncivilised people. This being so, it would seem that birds are subject to the influence of the civilisation with which they associate. Whether or not this be true, it is a remarkable instance of the providence of nature that they should have capacity for flight, as well as the gift of song, so that their voices might from a lofty situation reach a greater number of auditors. It is also providential that the air, which is the natural element of sound, should be inhabited by vocal and musical creatures. Truly the singing of birds is a great solace and pleasure to us, and all other animals. This fact is not, I believe, so much due to the sweetness of the sounds, nor to their variety and harmony, as to the joyful signification of songs generally, and those of birds in particular. Birds laugh, as it were, to show their contentment and happiness. It may therefore be said that they partake in a degree of man's privilege of laughter, unpossessed by other animals. Now some people think that man may as well be termed a laughing animal, as an animal possessed of mind and reason; for laughter seems to them quite as much peculiar to man as reason. And it is certainly wonderful that man, the most wretched and miserable of all creatures, should have the faculty of laughter, which is wanting in other animals. Marvellous also is the use we make of this faculty! We see people suffering from some terrible calamity or mental distress, others who have lost all love of life, and regard every human thing as full of vanity, who are almost incapable of joy, and deprived of hope, laugh nevertheless. Indeed, the more such men realise the vanity of hope, and the misery of life, the fewer their expectations and pleasures, so much the more do they feel inclined to laugh. Now it is scarcely possible to explain or analyse the nature of laughter in general, and its connection with the human mind. Perhaps it may aptly be termed a species of momentary folly or delirium. For men can have no reasonable and just cause for laughter, because nothing really satisfies nor truly pleases them. It would be curious to discover and trace out the history of this faculty. There is no doubt that in man's primitive and wild state, it was expressed by a peculiar gravity of countenance, as in other animals, who show it even to the extent of melancholy. For this reason I imagine that laughter not only came into the world after tears, which cannot be questioned, but that a long time passed before it appeared. During that time, neither the mother greeted her child with a smile, nor did the child smilingly recognise her, as Virgil says. And the reason why, in the present day, among civilised people, children smile as soon as they are born, is explainable by virtue of example: they see others smile, therefore they also smile. It is probable that laughter originated in drunkenness,[1] another peculiarity of the human race. This vice is far from being confined to civilised nations, for we know that scarcely any people can be found that do not possess an intoxicating liquor of some kind, which they indulge in to excess. And this cannot be wondered at, when we remember that men, the most unhappy of all animals, are above all pleased with anything that easily alienates their minds, such as self-forgetfulness, or a suspension of their usual life; from which interruption and temporary diminution of the sense and knowledge of their peculiar evils they receive no slight benefit. And whereas savages have ordinarily a sad and grave countenance, yet, when in a state of drunkenness, they laugh immoderately, and talk and sing incessantly, contrary to their custom. But I will discuss this matter more in detail in a history of laughter which I think of composing. Having discovered its origin, I will trace its history and fortune to the present day, when it is more valued than at any previous time. It occupies among civilised nations a place, and fills an office somewhat similar to the parts formerly played by virtue, justice, honour, and the like, often indeed frightening and deterring men from the committal of evil. But to return to the birds. From the effect their singing produces in me, I conclude that the sight and recognition of joy in others, of which we are not envious, gratifies and rejoices us. We may therefore be grateful to Nature for having ordained that the songs of birds, which are a demonstration of joy and a species of laughter, should be in public, differing from the private nature of the singing and laughter of men, who represent the rest of the world. And it is wisely decreed that the earth and air should be enlivened by creatures that seem to applaud universal life with the joyful harmony of their sweet voices, and thus incite other living beings to joy, by their continual, though false, testimony to the happiness of things. It is reasonable that birds should be, and show themselves, more joyful than other creatures. Tor, as I have said, they are naturally better adapted for joy and happiness. In the first place, apparently, they are not subject to ennui. They change their position momentarily, and pass from country to country, however distant, and from the lowest regions of the air to the highest, quickly and with wonderful ease. Life to them is made up of an infinite variety of sights and experiences. Their bodies are in a continuous state of activity, and they themselves are full of vital power. All other animals, their wants being satisfied, love quietude and laziness; none, except fishes and certain flying insects, keep long in motion simply for amusement. The savage, for instance, except to supply his daily wants, which demand little and brief exertion, or when unable to hunt, scarcely stirs a step. He loves idleness and tranquillity above everything, and passes nearly the whole day sitting in silence and indolence within his rude cabin, or at its opening, or in some rocky cave or place of shelter. Birds, on the contrary, very rarely stay long in one place. They fly backwards and forwards without any necessity, simply as a pastime, and often having gone several hundred miles away from the country they usually frequent, they return thither the same evening. And even for the short time they are in one place, their bodies are never still. Ever turning here and there, they are always either flocking together, pecking, or shaking themselves, or hopping about in their extraordinarily vivacious and active maimer. In short, from the time a bird bursts its shell until it dies, save intervals of sleep, it is never still for a moment. From these considerations it may reasonably be affirmed that whereas the normal state of animals, including even man, is quietude, that of birds is motion. We find also that birds are so endowed that their natural qualities harmonise with the exterior qualities and conditions of their life; this again makes them better adapted for happiness than other animals. They have remarkably acute powers of hearing, and a faculty of vision almost inconceivably perfect. Owing to this last they can discern simultaneously a vast extent of country, and are daily charmed by spectacles the most immense and varied. From these things it may be inferred that birds ought to possess an imagination, vivid and powerful in the highest degree,. Not the ardent and stormy imagination of Dante or Tasso; for this is a disastrous endowment, and the cause of endless anxieties and sufferings. But a fertile, light, and childish fancy, such as is productive of joyful thoughts, sweet unrealities, and manifold pleasures. This is the noblest gift of Nature to living creatures. And birds have this faculty in a great; measure for their own delight and benefit, without experiencing any of its hurtful and painful consequences. For their prolific imagination, as with children, combines, with their bodily vigour, to render them happy and contented, instead of being injurious, and productive of misery, as with most men. Thus, birds may be said to resemble children equally in' their vivacity and restlessness, and the other attributes of their nature. If the advantages of childhood were common to other ages, and its evils not exceeded later in life, man might perhaps be better able to bear patiently the burden of existence. To me it seems that the nature of birds, considered aright, is manifestly more perfect than that of other animals. For, in the first place, birds are superior to other animals in sight and hearing, which are the principal senses of life. In the second place, birds naturally prefer motion to rest, whereas other creatures have the contrary preference. And since activity is a more living thing than repose, birds may be said to have more life than other animals. It follows therefore that birds are physically, and in the exercise of their faculties, superior to other creatures. Now, if life be better than its contrary, the fuller and more perfect the life, as with birds, the greater is the superiority of creatures possessing it, over less endowed animals. We must not forget also that birds are adapted to bear great atmospheric changes. Often they rise instantaneously from the ground far up into the air, where the cold is extreme; and others in their travels fly through many different climates. In short, just as Anacreon wished to be changed into a mirror that he might be continually regarded by the mistress of his heart, or into a robe that he might cover her, or balm to anoint her, or water to wash her, or bands that she might draw him to her bosom, or a pearl to be worn on her neck, or shoes that she might at least press him with her feet; so I should like temporarily to be transformed into a bird, in order to experience their contentment and joyfulness of life. [Footnote 1: Compare Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part 2, Act 4, sc. 3. _Falstaff:_ " ... nor a man cannot make him laugh;--but that's no marvel, he drinks no wine."] _THE SONG OF THE WILD COCK._ Certain Hebrew _savants_ and writers affirm, that between heaven and earth, or rather, partly in one and partly on the other, lives a wild cock which stands with its feet resting on the earth, and touching the sky with its crest and beak. This gigantic cock, besides possessing other peculiarities mentioned by these writers, has the use of reason; or else, like a parrot, it has been taught, I know not by whom, to express itself in human fashion. In proof of this, an old parchment manuscript has been discovered, containing a canticle written in Hebrew characters, and in a language compounded of Chaldean, Targumic, Rabbinical, Cabalistic and Talmudic, entitled "Morning Song of the Wild Cock." (Scir detarnegòl bara letzafra.) This, not without great exertion, and the interrogation of more than one Rabbi, Cabalist, theologian, jurist, and Hebrew philosopher, has been interpreted and translated as follows. I have not yet been able to ascertain whether this song is still uttered by the cock on certain occasions, or every morning, or whether it was sung but once, or who is said to have heard it, or if this language be the proper tongue of the cock, or whether the canticle was translated from some other language. In the following translation I have used prose rather than verse, although it is a poem, in order to ensure as literal a rendering as possible. The broken style and occasional bombast must not be imputed to me, for it is a reproduction of the original; and in this respect the composition partakes of the characteristics of Oriental languages, and especially of Oriental poems. "Mortals, awake! The day breaks; truth returns to the earth and vain fancies flee away. Arise; take up again the burden of life; forsake the false world for the true. "Now is the time when each one takes again to his mind all the thoughts of his real life. He recalls to memory his intentions, aims, and labours; and thinks of the pleasures and cares that must occur during the new day. And every one at this time eagerly seeks to discover in his mind joyful hopes and sweet thoughts. Few, however, are satisfied in this desire; for all men it is a misfortune to awake. The miserable man is no sooner aroused than he falls again into the clutches of his unhappiness. Very sweet a thing is that sleep induced by joy or hope. These preserve themselves in their entirety until the following morning, when they either vanish or decrease in force. "If the sleep of mortals were continuous and identical with life; if under the star of day all living beings languished on the earth in utter rest, and no work was wrought; if the oxen ceased bellowing in the meadows, the beasts roaring in the forests, the birds singing in the air, the bees buzzing, and the butterflies skimming over the fields; if no voice nor motion except-that of the waters, winds, and tempests anywhere existed, the universe would indeed be useless; but would there be less happiness or more misery than there is to-day? "I ask of thee, O Sun, author of day, and guardian of eve; in the course of the centuries measured out and consummated by thee, thus rising and setting, hast thou ever at any time seen one living being possessed of happiness? Of the numberless works of mortals which hitherto thou hast seen, thinkest thou that a single one was successful in its aim of procuring satisfaction, durable or temporary, for its originator? And seest thou, or hast thou ever seen, happiness within the boundaries of the world? Where does it dwell? In what country, forest, mountain, or valley; in what land, inhabited or uninhabited; in which planet of the many that thy flames illumine and cherish? Does it perchance hide from thee in the bowels of the earth, or the depths of the sea? What living being, what plant, or other thing animated by thee, what vegetable or animal participates in it? And thou thyself, like an indefatigable giant, traversing swiftly, day and night, sleepless and restless, the vast course prescribed to thee; art thou content or happy? "Mortals, arouse yourselves! Not yet are you free from life. The time will come when no eternal force, no internal agitation, shall awaken you from the repose of sleep, in which you shall ever and insatiably rest. For the present, death is not granted to you; only from time to time you are permitted to taste briefly its resemblance, because life would fail were it not often suspended. Too long abstention from this short and fleeting sleep is a fatal evil, and causes eternal sleep. Such thing is life, that to secure its continuance it must from time to time be laid aside; man then in sleep refreshes himself with a taste, and, as it were, a fragment of death. "It seems as though death were the essential aim of all things. That which has no existence cannot die; yet all that exists has proceeded from nothing. The final cause of existence is not happiness, for nothing is happy. It is true, living creatures seek this end in all their works, but none obtain it; and during all their life, ever deceiving, tormenting, and exerting themselves, they suffer indeed for no other purpose than to die. "The earliest part of the day is ordinarily the most bearable for living beings. Few, when they awake, find again in their minds delightful and joyful thoughts, but almost all people give birth to them for the time being. For then the minds of men, being free from any special concentration, are predisposed to joy fulness, and inclined to bear evils more patiently than at other times. Thus a man who falls asleep in the anguish of despair is filled anew with hope when he awakes, though it can profit him nothing, Many misfortunes and peculiar hardships, many causes of fear and distress, then seem less formidable than they appeared the previous evening. Often, also, the pangs of yesterday are remembered with contempt, and are ridiculed as follies and vain fancies. "The evening is comparable to old age; and on the other hand, the dawn of the morning resembles youth; the one full of comfort and hope, and then sad evening with its discouragement and tendencies to look on the dark side of things. But, just as the time of youth in life is very short and fleeting, so is the infancy of each new day, which quickly ages towards its evening. "Youth, if indeed it be the best of life, is a very wretched thing. Yet even this poor benefit is so soon over, that when by many signs man is led to perceive the decline of his existence, he has scarcely experienced its perfection, or fully realised its peculiar strength, which, once diminished, the best part of life is gone with every race of mortals. Thus, in all her works, Nature turns and points towards death: for old age reigns universally. Every part of the world hastens untiringly; with diligence and wonderful celerity, towards death. The world itself alone seems exempt from decay; for although in autumn and winter it appears as it were sick and aged, nevertheless in the spring it ever rejuvenates. But just as mortals in the first part of each day regain some portion of their youth, yet grow old as the day progresses, and are at length extinguished in sleep; so although in the beginning of the year the world becomes young again, none the less it perpetually ages. The time will come when this world, and Nature herself, shall die. And as at the present day there remains no trace nor record of many very great kingdoms and empires, so in the whole world there shall not he left a vestige of the infinite changes and catastrophes of created things. A naked silence and an utter calm shall fill the vast space. Thus, this wonderful and fearful mystery of universal existence shall be unloosed, and shall melt away before it be made manifest or be comprehended."[1] [Footnote 1: This is a poetical not philosophical conclusion. Speaking philosophically, existence, which has had no beginning, will have no ending.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN TIMANDRO AND ELEANDRO._ _Timandro_. I am very anxious to have some conversation with you. It is about the matter and tendency of your writings and words, which seem to me most blamable. _Meandro_. So long as you find no fault with my actions, I confess I do not much care; because words and writings are of little consequence. _Tim_. There is nothing in your actions, as far as I can see, for which I need blame you. I am aware that you benefit no one because you cannot do so, and I observe that you injure no one because you are unwilling to do so. But I consider your speech and writings very reprehensible, and I do not agree with you that they are of little importance. Our life may almost be said to consist of nothing else. For the present we will disregard the words, and simply consider the writings. In the first place, the incessant vituperation and continuous satire that you bestow on the human race are out of fashion. _Mean_. My brain also is out of fashion. It is quite natural for a child to resemble its father. _Tim_. Then you must not be surprised if your books, like everything contrary to the custom of the day, are ill received. _Mean_. That is a small misfortune. They were not written for the purpose of begging a little bread at the doors of the rich. _? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things about the human race, but now they do just the contrary. _Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers were right or wrong in their statements? _Tim_. More often right than wrong. _Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race has changed to the opposite of what it then was? _Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question. _Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection, that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and compelled to reverence it? _Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter? _Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience. _Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race. _Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race? _Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can, and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the contrary, extremely injurious. _Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race? _Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so. _Elean_. What kind of books? _Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals. _Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others, do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest, most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or moved, by any sort of poetry. _Tim_. You speak, as usual, maliciously, and so as to leave an impression that you are habitually ill-treated by others. This, in most instances, is the true cause of the ill-humour and contempt exhibited by certain people towards their race. _Elean_. Indeed, I cannot say that men have treated, or do treat me very well. If I could say so, I imagine I should be unique in my experience. But neither have they done me any serious harm, because in demanding nothing from men, and having nothing in common with them, I scarcely give them a chance of offending me. I must confess, however, that recognising clearly, as I do, how ignorant I am of the simplest means of making myself agreeable to others, both in conversation and the daily intercourse of life, whether from a natural defect or fault of my own, I should esteem men less if they treated me better. _Tim_. Then you are so much the more to blame. For, had you even a mistaken ground of complaint, your hatred and desire for revenge against men would be in a measure justifiable. But your hatred, from what you say, is based on nothing in particular, except perhaps an extraordinary and wretched ambition of becoming famous as a misanthrope like Timon--a desire abominable in itself, and especially out of place in a century like the present, so peculiarly devoted to philanthropy. _Elean_. I need not reply to your remark about ambition, because I have already said that I want nothing from men. Does that seem incredible to you? You will at least grant that it is not ambition which urges me to write books, such as on your own showing are more likely to bring me reproaches than glory. Besides, I am so far from hating the human race, that I neither can nor wish to hate even those who particularly offend me. Indeed, the fact that hatred is so completely foreign to me, goes far to explain my inability to do as other men do. But I cannot change this, because I always think that whenever a man displeases or injures another, he does so in the hope of procuring some pleasure or advantage for himself. His aim is not to injure others (which can never be the motive of any action, nor the object of any thought), but to benefit himself,--a natural desire, and undeserving of odium. Again, whenever I notice a particular vice or fault in my neighbour, I carefully examine myself, and as far as circumstances will allow, I put myself in his place. Thereupon I invariably find that I should have done the same as he, and been guilty of the same faults. Consequently my mind loses what irritation it previously felt. I reserve my wrath for occasions when I might see some wickedness of which my nature is incapable; but so far I have never met with such a case. Finally, the thought of the vanity of human things is so constantly in my mind that I am unable to excite myself about any one of them. Hatred and anger seem to me great and strong passions, out of harmony with the insignificance of life. Thus you see there is a great difference between Timon and myself. Timon hated and shunned all men except Alcibiades, for whom he reserved all his affection, because he saw in him the initiator of innumerable evils for their common country. I, on the other hand, without hating Alcibiades, would have especially avoided him. I would have warned my fellow-citizens of their danger, exhorting them at the same time to take the requisite steps to preserve themselves from it. Some say that Timon did not hate men, but beasts in the likeness of men. As for me, I neither hate men nor beasts. _Tim_. Nor do you love any one. _Mean_. Listen, my friend. I am born to love. I have loved; and perhaps with as deep a passion as is possible for human soul to feel. To-day, although, as you see, I am not sufficiently old to be naturally devoid of passion, nor even of a lukewarm age, I am not ashamed to say that I love no one except myself, by the necessity of nature, and that as little as possible. Nevertheless, I would always rather bear suffering myself than be the cause of it to others. I believe you can bear witness to the truth of this, little as you know about my habits. _Tim_. I do not deny it. _Mean_. I try to procure for men, even at my own expense, that greatest possible good, which alone I seek for myself, viz., a state of freedom from suffering. _Tim_. But do you distinctly confess that you do not love the human race in general? _Elean_. Yes, absolutely. But in such a way that if it depended on me, I would punish those who deserved punishment, without hating them, as also I would benefit my race to the utmost, although I do not love it. _Tim_. Well, it may be so. But then, if you are not incited by injuries received, nor by hatred, nor ambition, why do you write in such a manner? _Mean_. For many reasons. First, because I cannot tolerate deceit and dissimulation. I may sometimes have to give way to these in conversation, but never in my writings; because I am often obliged to speak unwillingly, but I never write unless I please. I should derive no satisfaction from puzzling my brains, and expressing the result on paper, unless I could write what I really think. All sensible people laugh at those who now-a-days write Latin, because no one speaks, and few understand, the language. I think it is equally absurd to take for granted, whether in conversation or writing, the reality of certain human qualities no longer extant, and the existence of certain rational beings, formerly considered as divinities, but now really regarded as non-existent equally by those who mention them, and those who hear them mentioned. I could understand men using masks and disguises in order to deceive other men, or to avoid being recognised. But it seems childish for them all to conceal themselves behind the same kind of mask, and use the same disguise, whereby they deceive no one, but recognise each other perfectly, in spite of it. Let them lay aside their masks, and retain merely their clothes. The effect will be precisely the same, and they will be more at ease. Besides, this perpetual simulation, though useless, and this eternal acting of a part between which and oneself there is nothing in common, cannot be carried on without fatigue and weariness. If men had passed suddenly, instead of gradually, from the savage condition to their present state of civilisation, would the names of the things just mentioned be found in general usage, with the custom of deducing from them a thousand philosophical conclusions? In truth, this custom seems to me like one of those ceremonies and ancient practices so incompatible with our present habits, which nevertheless continue to exist by force of usage. I for my part cannot submit to these ceremonies; and I write in the language of modern times, not that of the Trojan era. In the second place, I do not so much, in my writings, find fault with the human race, as grieve over its destiny. There is nothing I think more clear and palpable than the necessary unhappiness of all living beings. If this unhappiness be not a fact, then all my arguments are wrong, and we may abandon the discussion. If it be true, why may I not lament openly and freely, and say that I suffer? Doubtless, if I did nothing but weep incessantly (this is the third cause which moves me), I should become a nuisance to others as well as myself, without profiting any one. But in laughing at our misfortunes, we do much to remedy them. I endeavour therefore to persuade others to profit in this way, as I have done. Whether I succeed or not, I feel assured that such laughter is the only solace and remedy that can be found. The poets say that despair has always a smile on its lips. But you must not think that I am devoid of compassion for the unhappiness of humanity. Its condition is incurable by art, industry, or anything else, therefore I consider it far more manly and consistent with a magnanimous despair to laugh at our common woes, than to sigh, weep, and moan with others, thereby encouraging them in their lamentations. Lastly, permit me to say that I desire as much as you, or any one else, the welfare of my race in general, but I am hopeless of its attainment; nor can I, like so many philosophers of this century, nourish and soothe my mind with anticipations of good. My despair is absolute, unchangeable, and so based on firm judgment and conviction, that I cannot imagine such a thing as a joyous future, nor can I undertake anything with the hope of bringing it to completion. And you are well aware that man is never inclined to attempt what he knows or thinks cannot succeed; or if he does, he acts feebly and without confidence. Similarly a writer, who expresses himself contrary to his real opinion, though this be erroneous, utters nothing worthy of consideration. _Tim_. But when his judgment is, like yours, a false one, he should rectify it. _Elean_. My judgment is of myself alone, and I am quite sure I do not err in announcing my unhappiness. If other men are happy, I congratulate them with all my heart. I know also that death alone can deliver me from my misfortune. If others are more hopeful, I rejoice once again. _Tim_. We are all unhappy, and have always been so. I scarcely think you can take credit for the novelty of your idea. But man's present condition, superior as it is to his past, will be greatly improved in the future. You forget, or seem to disregard the fact, that man is perfectible. _Elean_. Perfectible he may be. But that he is capable of perfection, which is of more importance, I know not who can convince me. _Tim_. He has not yet had time to reach perfection. Ultimately he will no doubt attain to it. _Elean_. I do not doubt it. The few years that have passed since the world began are, I agree with you, quite insufficient to complete our education. We cannot judge from what seem to us the nature and capabilities of man. Besides, humanity hitherto has been too occupied with other business to give itself up to the task of attaining perfection. But in future all its endeavours will be towards this one aim. _Tim_. Yes, the whole civilised world is working zealously towards this end. And, taking into consideration the number and sufficiency of the means employed, which have indeed recently increased in an astounding manner, we have every reason to think that the goal will be reached, sooner or later. This conviction itself is by no means one of the least stimulants to progress, because it gives birth to a host of undertakings and labours useful for the common welfare. If, then, at any time it was fatal and blâmable to manifest despair like yours, and to teach men such doctrines as the absolute necessity of their wretchedness, the vanity of life, the insignificance of their race, and the evil of their nature, much more is it so in the present day. Such conduct can only result in depriving us of courage, and that feeling of self-esteem which is the foundation of an honest, useful, and glorious life; it will also divert us from the path of our own welfare. _Elean_. Kindly say distinctly, whether or not you regard as true what I have said about the unhappiness of mankind. _Tim_. You return to your old argument. Well, supposing I admit the truth of what you say, how does that alter the matter? I would remind you that it is not always well to preach truth simply because it is truth. _Elean_. Answer me another question. Are these truths, which I merely express, without any pretence of preaching, of primary or secondary importance in philosophy? _Tim_. In my opinion they are the very essence of all philosophy. _Elean_. In that case, they greatly deceive themselves who affirm that man's perfection consists in complete knowledge of the truth; that his misfortunes are the consequence of his ignorance and prejudices; and that the human race will be happy when men have discovered the truth, and conform their lives to its teaching. Yet such doctrines are taught by most philosophers, ancient and modern. But you are of opinion that these truths, though confessedly the substance of all philosophy, ought to be concealed from the majority of men. You would rather that they were unknown or disregarded by all men, because of the baneful influence they exercise over the mind. And this is equivalent to an admission that philosophy ought to be banished from the earth. I grant you, however, that the final conclusion to be drawn from true and perfect philosophy is that it were better to dispense with philosophy. It would therefore seem that, first of all, philosophy is superfluous, since its conclusions are attainable without its assistance; secondly, it is extremely injurious, because its conclusion is a very painful one to be accepted, and when accepted is useless: nor is it in man's power to disregard truths once recognised. Besides, the habit of philosophising is one of the most difficult habits to throw off. Thus, philosophy which at first inspires hope as a possible remedy for the ills of humanity, ends by seeking in vain a cure for itself. And now I would ask you why you imagine we are nearer perfection than our ancestors were? Is it that we are better acquainted with the truth? This cannot be, since we have seen that such knowledge is extremely prejudicial to man's happiness. Perhaps, however, it is because some few men in the present day have learnt that the truest philosopher is he who abstains from philosophy? But in what then are we superior to the men of primitive times, who were perfectly unacquainted with philosophy? And even in the present day savages abstain from philosophy, without feeling the least inconvenience. In what, therefore, are we more advanced than our ancestors; and what means of attaining perfection do we possess, which they had not? _Tim_. We have many of great importance. To explain them would be a work of considerable time. _Elean_. Put them aside for the moment, and reconsider my theory. I say that if, on the one hand, I express in my writings certain hard and bitter truths, whether to relieve my mind, or console myself in laughing at them, I do not fail at the same time to deplore and disadvise the search after that cold and miserable truth, acquaintance with which reduces us to a state of either indifference and hypocrisy, or baseness of soul, moral corruption, and depravity. And, on the other hand, I praise and exalt those noble, if false ideas, which give birth to high-minded and vigorous actions and thoughts, such as further the welfare of mankind, or individuals; those glorious illusions, vain though they be, which give value to life, and which are natural to the soul; in short, the superstitions of antiquity, distinct from the errors of barbarism. These latter should be rooted out, but the former respected. Civilisation and philosophy having exceeded their natural bounds, as is usual with all things pertaining to humanity, have drawn us from one state of barbarism only to precipitate us into another, no better than the first. This new barbarism, born of reason and science instead of ignorance, manifests itself more in the mind than the body. Yet I imagine, that though these superstitions become daily more necessary for the well-being of civilised nations, the possibility of their re-introduction diminishes daily. And as for man's perfection, I assure you if I had perceived any signs of it, I would have written a volume in praise of the human race. But since I have not yet seen it, and as it is improbable I ever shall see it, I think of leaving in my will a certain sum of money for the purpose of procuring an annual panegyric of the human race, to be publicly recited from the time of its perfection, and to pay for the erection of a temple, statue, or monument, as may be judged best, to commemorate the event. _COPERNICUS:_ _A DIALOGUE IN FOUR SCENES._ _Scene_ I.--_The First Hour and the Sun._ _First Hour_. Good day, Excellency. _Sun_. Thanks; good-night as well. _First Hour_. The horses are waiting, your Excellency. _Sun_. Very well. _First Hour_. And the Morning Star has been up some time. _Sun_. All right. Let it rise and set, just as it pleases. _First Hour_. What do I hear your Excellency say? _Sun_. I wish you would leave me alone. _First Hour_. But, Excellency, the night has already lasted so long, that it can last no longer; and if we delay, imagine, Excellency, the confusion that will ensue. _Sun_. I don't mean to stir, whatever happens. _First Hour_.0 Excellency! what is this? Does your Excellency feel ill? _Sun_. No, no; I feel nothing, except that I don't wish to move. So you can go and attend to your own affairs. _First Hour_. How can I go unless your Excellency comes? I am the first Hour of the day, and how can the day exist, if your Excellency does not deign to go forth as usual? _Sun_. If you will not be of the day, you shall be of the night; or better, the hours of the night shall do double duty, and you and your companions shall be idle. For you must know I am tired of this eternal going round to give light to a race of little animals that live far away in a ball of clay, so small that I, who have good sight, cannot see it. During the night I have decided not to trouble myself any more in this fashion. If men want light, let them make their own fires for the purpose, or provide it in some other way. _First Hour_. But, Excellency, how can the little fellows manage that? It will be a very great expense for them to keep lanterns or candles burning all day long. If only they could now discover a certain atmosphere to warm and illumine their streets, rooms, shops, taverns, and everything else at little expense, then they would not be so badly off. But men will have to wait some three hundred years, more or less, before they discover this; and meanwhile, all the oil, wax, pitch, and tallow of the earth will be exhausted, and they will have nothing more to burn. _Sun_. Let them hunt the will-o-the-wisp, and catch those shining things called glow-worms. _First Hour_. And how will they protect themselves against the cold? For without the assistance of your Excellency, all the forests together will not make a fire large enough to warm them. Besides, they will also die of hunger, since the earth will no longer bring forth its fruits. And so, after a few years, the seed of the poor little folk will be lost. They will go groping about the earth, seeking food and warmth, until having consumed every possible thing, and used up the last flicker of fire, they will all die in the darkness, frozen like pieces of rock-crystal. _Sun_. What is this to do with me? Am I the nurse of the human race; or the cook, that I should look after the preparation of their food? And why need I care if a few invisible little creatures, millions of miles away from me, are unable to see, or bear the cold, when deprived of my light and warmth? Besides, even supposing, as you say, that I ought to act the part of stove or fireplace to this human family, surely it is more reasonable, if men want to warm themselves, that they should come to the stove, than that the stove should go whirling round them. Therefore, if the Earth requires me, let it come hither to satisfy its needs. I want nothing from the Earth, that I should thus trouble myself to rotate round it. _First Hour_. Your Excellency means, if I understand rightly, that henceforth the Earth must do for itself that which hitherto you have done on its behalf. _Sun_. Yes: now and for the future. _First Hour_. Well, your Excellency knows best what is right, and can do as it pleases you. But nevertheless, will your Excellency deign to think what a number of beautiful and useful things will be destroyed by this new decree. The day will be deprived of its handsome gilded chariot, and beautiful horses, which bathe themselves in the sea. Amongst other changes, we poor Hours must suffer; we shall no longer have a place in heaven, but shall have to descend from our position as celestial children to that of terrestrials, unless, as is more probable, we dissolve into thin air instead. But be that as it may, the difficulty will be to persuade the Earth to go round, necessarily a hard thing, because it is unaccustomed to do so; and the experience of rotating and exerting itself incessantly will be all the more strange, seeing that hitherto it has never stirred from its present position. If, then, your Excellency now begins to think of idleness, I fear the Earth will be as little desirous of bestirring itself as ever it was. _Sun_. In that case, it must be pricked, and made to bestir itself as much as is necessary. But the quickest and surest way is to find a poet, or, better, a philosopher, who will persuade the Earth to move itself, or persuasion being unsuccessful, will use force. Eor philosophers and poets ordinarily manage these affairs. When I was younger I used to have a great esteem for the poets, though they rather caricatured me in representing me racing madly, great and stout as I am, round and round a grain of sand, simply for the sake of amusement or exercise. But now that I am older, I am more partial to philosophy. I study to discern the utility, not the beauty of things, and poetry seems to me either absurd or wearisome. I wish, also, to have good substantial reasons for whatever I do. Now, I see no reason why I should value a life of activity more than a life of ease and idleness. I have determined, therefore, in future, to leave the fatigues and discomforts to others, and for my own part to live quietly at home, without undertaking business of any kind. This change in me is partly due to my age, but has chiefly been brought about by the philosophers, a race of people whose power and influence increase daily. Consequently, to induce the Earth to rotate in my place, a poet would intrinsically be better than a philosopher: because the poets are accustomed to give a fictitious value to things by exaggerating the truth, beauty, and utility of subjects about which they treat, and because by raising a thousand pleasurable hopes, they often incite people to fatigues they would else have avoided; whereas philosophers weary them. But, now that the power of philosophers is so predominant, I doubt whether a poet would be of much use, if even the Earth gave him a hearing. Therefore, we had better have recourse to a philosopher. It is true, philosophers are usually little suited, and still less inclined, to stimulate other people to exertions; but possibly in so extreme a case, they may be induced to act contrary to custom. The Earth has, however, one alternative; it has the option of declining to undertake all this hard labour. Its destruction will then ensue, and I am far from sure that this would not be the best thing for it. But enough of this: we shall see what will take place. Now, either you or one of your companions had better go at once to the Earth. If there you discover any one of these philosophers in the open air, regarding the heavens, and wondering about the cause of this protracted night, as well he may, take charge of him, and bring him hither on your back. Do you clearly understand? _First Hour_. Yes, Excellency. You shall be obeyed. _Scene II.--Copernicus pacing the terrace of his house, with his eyes anxiously directed towards the eastern horizon. A roll of paper in his hand, which ever and anon he uses as a telescope._ This is a marvellous thing. Either the clocks are all wrong, or else the sun should have risen more than an hour ago. Yet not a gleam of light is to be seen in the east, though the sky is as bright and clear as a mirror. All the stars shine as if it were midnight. I must go and consult the Almagest and Sacrobosco, and see what they say about this event. I have often heard talk of the night Jove passed with the wife of Amphitryon, and I also remember reading a little while ago, in a modern Spanish book, that the Peruvians record a very long night, at the end of which the sun proceeded forth from a certain lake called Titicaca. Hitherto I have regarded these as mere tales, and have never wavered in my belief. Now, however, that I perceive reason and science to be absolutely useless, I am determined to believe the truth of these, and similar things. I will also visit the lakes and puddles in the neighbourhood, and see if I can fish out the sun. Ha! what is this that I hear? It is like the flapping of the wings of some huge bird. _Scene_ III.--_The Last Hour and Copernicus._ _Last Hour_. Copernicus, I am the Last Hour. _Copernicus_. The Last Hour! Well, I suppose I must be resigned. But I beg of you, if possible, to give me enough time to make my will, and put my things in order, before I die. _Last Hour_. Die! What do you mean? I am not the last hour of your life. _Copernicus_. Oh, then, what are you? The last hour of the office of the breviary? _Last Hour_. I can quite imagine you prefer that one to the others, when you are in your stall. _Copernicus_. But how do you know I am a Canon? And how is it you know my name? _Last Hour_. I procured my information about you, from certain people in the street. I am, in fact, the Last Hour of day. _Copernicus_. Ah! now I understand. The First Hour is unwell; and that is why day is not yet visible. _Last Hour_. I have news for you. There will never be any more daylight unless you provide it yourself. _Copernicus_. You would throw on me the responsibility of making daylight? A fine thing, indeed! _Last Hour_. I will tell you how. But first of all, you must come with me at once to the house of the Sun, my father. You shall hear more when we set out. His Excellency will explain everything when we arrive. _Copernicus_. I trust it is all right. But the journey, unless I am mistaken, must be a very long one. And how can I take enough food to prevent my dying of hunger a few years before reaching the Sun? Besides, I doubt if his Excellency's lands produce the where-withal to supply me with even a single meal. _Last Hour_. Do not trouble yourself with these doubts. You will not stay long in my father's house, and the journey will be completed in a moment. For you must know that I am a spirit. _Copernicus_. Maybe. But I am a body. _Last Hour_. Well, well: you are not a metaphysician that you need excite yourself about these matters. Come now, mount on my shoulders, and leave all the rest to me. _Copernicus_. Courage. There, it is done! I will pursue this novelty to its issue. _Scene_ IV.--_Copernicus and the Sion._ Copernicus_. Most noble Lord. _Sun_. Forgive me, Copernicus, if I do not offer you a chair: one does not use such things here. But we will soon despatch our business. My servant has already explained the matter to you; and from what the child tells me, I imagine you will do very well for our purpose. _Copernicus_. My lord, I discern great difficulties in the matter. _Sun_. Difficulties ought not to frighten such a man as yourself. They are even said to make the brave man still more courageous. But tell me briefly of what these difficulties consist. _Copernicus_. In the first place, although philosophy is a great power, I doubt whether it can persuade the Earth to change its comfortable sitting posture for a state of restless activity; especially in these times, which are not heroic. _Sun_. And if persuasion be ineffectual, you must try force. _Copernicus_. Willingly, Illustrious, if I were a Hercules, or even an Orlando, instead of a mere Canon of Varmia. _Sun_. What has that to do with it? Did not one of your ancient mathematicians say, that if he had standing room given him outside the world, he would undertake to move heaven and earth? Now, you are not required to move heaven, and behold, you are already in a place outside the earth. Therefore, unless you are not so clever as that ancient, you will no doubt be able to move the Earth, whether it be willing, or not. _Copernicus_. My lord, such a thing might be possible. But a lever would be necessary, of such dimensions that neither I nor even your Illustrious Lordship could pay half the cost of its materials and manufacture. There are, however, other and far more serious difficulties, which I will now mention. You know the Earth has hitherto occupied the principal position in the Universe, that is the centre. Motionless, it has had nothing to do but regard all the other spheres, great and small, brilliant and obscure, continuously gyrating around and on all sides of it with a marvellous regularity and speed. All things seem to be occupied in its service; so that the Universe may be likened to a court, in the midst of which the Earth sits as on a throne, surrounded by attendant globes, like courtiers, guards, and servants, each of which fulfils its respective office. Consequently, the Earth has always regarded itself as Empress of the Universe. So far, indeed, little fault can be found with its control, and I do not think your design an improvement on the old state of affairs. But what shall I say to you about men? We esteem ourselves (and shall always do so) to be in the same relation to the rest of created beings as the Earth is to the Universe. And more than this. Supreme among terrestrial creatures, we all, including the ragged beggar who dines on a morsel of black bread, have a most exalted idea of ourselves. We are each of us emperors, and our empire is only bounded by the Universe, for it includes all the stars and planets, visible and invisible. Man is, in his own > estimation, the final cause of all things, including even your Illustrious Lordship. Now, if we remove the Earth from its place in the centre, and make it whirl round and round unremittingly, what will be the consequence? Simply, that it will act like all the other globes, and be enrolled in the number of the planets. Then all its terrestrial majesty will vanish, and the Earth will have to abdicate its imperial throne. Men, too, will lose their human majesty, and be deprived of their supremacy; they will be left alone with their rags, and miseries, which are not insignificant. _Sun_. In short, Don Nicolas, what do you wish to prove by this discourse? Is it that you have scruples of conscience lest the deed should be treasonable? _Copernicus_. No, it is not that, Illustrious. For, to the best of my knowledge neither the Codes, nor the Digest, nor the books of public, imperial, international, or natural law, make any mention of such treason. What I wanted to show was, that this action, subverting our planetary relationships, will not only work alteration in the order of nature; for it will change the position of things _inter se_, and the ends for which created beings now exist; it will also necessarily make a great revolution in the science of metaphysics, and everything connected with the speculative part of knowledge. The result will be that men, even if they are able and willing to critically examine into the why and wherefore of life, will discover themselves and their aims to be very different from what they are now, or from what they imagine them to be. _Sun_. My dear child, the thought of these things does not disturb me much; so little respect have I for metaphysics, or physics, or even alchemy, necromancy, or any such things. Besides, men will in time become content with their position; or, if they do not like it, they may argue the matter to their hearts' content, and will doubtless succeed in believing just what they please. In this way they may still deceive themselves under the names of Barons, Dukes, Emperors, or anything else. If, however, they are inconsolable, I confess it will not give me much uneasiness. _Copernicus_. Well, then, apart from men and the Earth, consider, Illustrious, what may reasonably be expected to happen in regard to the other planets. These, when they see the Earth reduced to their condition, and doing precisely what they do, just like one of themselves, will be jealous of its apparent superiority. They will be dissatisfied with their own naked simplicity and sad loneliness, and will desire to have their rivers, mountains, seas, plants, animals, and men; for they will see no reason why they should be in the smallest degree less endowed than the Earth. Thereupon will ensue another great revolution in the Universe: an infinite number of new races and people will instantaneously proceed from their soil, like mushrooms. _Sun_. Well, let them come, and the more the merrier. My light and heat will suffice for them all without any extra expense. The Universe shall have food, clothes, and lodging amply provided gratis. _Copernicus_. But, if your Illustrious Lordship will reflect a moment, yet another objection may be discerned. The stars, having rivalled the Earth, will turn their attentions to you. They will notice your fine throne, noble court, and numerous planetary satellites. Consequently, they also will wish for thrones. And more, they will desire to rule, as you do, over inferior planets, each of which must of course be peopled and ornamented like the Earth. It is needless to mention the increased unhappiness of the human race. Their insignificance will be greater than ever. They will burst out in all these millions of new worlds, so that even the tiniest star of the milky way will be provided with its own race of mortals. Now, looking at this, solely as affecting your interests, I affirm that it will be very prejudicial. Hitherto you have been, if not the first, certainly the second in the Universe; that is, after the Earth; nor have the stars aspired to rival you in dignity. In this new state, however, you will have as many equals as stars, each with their respective stars. Beware then lest this change be ruinous to your supremacy. _Sun_. You remember Cæsar's remark, when, crossing the Alps, he happened to pass a certain miserable little barbarian village. He said that he would rather be the first in that village, than the second in Rome. Similarly I would rather be first in this my own world than second in the Universe. But you must not think it is ambition that makes me desirous of changing the present state of things; it is solely my love of peace, or, more candidly, idleness. Therefore it is a small matter to me whether I am first or last in the Universe: unlike Cicero, I care more for ease than dignity. _Copernicus_. I also, Illustrious, have striven my utmost to obtain this ease. But, supposing your Lordship is successful in your endeavour, I doubt whether it will be of long duration. For, in the first place, I feel almost sure that before many years have elapsed you will be impelled to go winding round and round like a windlass, or a wheel, without however varying your locality. Then, after a time, you will probably be desirous of rotating round something--the Earth for instance. Ah! well, be that as it may; if you persist in your determination, I will try to serve you, in spite of the great difficulties necessarily to be overcome. If I fail, you must attribute the failure to my inability, not unwillingness. _Sun_. That is well, my Copernicus. Do your best. _Copernicus_. There is however yet another obstacle. _Sun_. What is it? _Copernicus_. I fear lest I should be burnt alive for my pains. In which case, it would be improbable that I, like the Phoenix, should rise from my ashes. I should therefore never see your Lordship's face again. _Sun_. Listen, Copernicus. You know that once upon a time I was a prophet, when poetry ruled the world, and philosophy was scarcely hatched. I will now utter my last prophecy. Put faith in me on the strength of my former power. This is what I say. It may be that those who come after you, and confirm your deeds, shall be burnt, or killed in some other way; but you shall be safe, nor shall you suffer at all on account of this undertaking. And to make your safety certain, dedicate to the Pope the book[1] you will write on the subject. If you do this, I promise that you will not even lose your canonry. [Footnote 1: Copernicus did in effect dedicate his book on the "Revolution of the Celestial Bodies," the printing of which was only completed a few days before his death, to Pope Paul III. The system expounded therein was condemned by a decree of Paul V. in 1616. This condemnation remained in force until 1821, when it was revoked by Pius VII. The sun is supposed to be in the centre, and motionless; the earth and the rest of the planets move round it in elliptical orbits. The heavens and stars are supposed to be stationary, and their apparent diurnal motion from east to west is imputed to the earth's motion from west to east.] _DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN ALMANAC SELLER AND A PASSER-BY._ _Almanac Seller_. Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! Who wants new Almanacs? _Passer-by_. Almanacs for the New Year? _Alm. Seller_. Yes, Sir. _Passer_. Do you think this New Year will be a happy one? _Alm. Seller_. Yes, to be sure, Sir. _Passer_. As happy as last year? _Alm. Seller_. Much more so. _Passer_. As the year before? _Alm. Seller_. Still more, Sir. _Passer_. Why? Should you not like the New Year to resemble one of the past years? _Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, I should not. _Passer_. How many years have gone by since you began to sell almanacs? _Alm. Seller_. About twenty years, Sir. _Passer_. Which of the twenty should you wish the New Year to be like? _Alm. Seller_. I do not know. _Passer_. Do you not remember any particular year which you thought a happy one? _Alm. Seller_. Indeed I do not, Sir. _Passer_. And yet life is a fine thing, is it not? _Alm. Seller_. So they say. _Passer_. Would you not like to live these twenty years, and even all your, past life from your birth, over again? _Alm. Seller_. Ah, dear Sir, would to God I could! _Passer_. But if you had to live over again the life you have already lived, with all its pleasures and sufferings? _Alm. Seller_. I should not like that. _Passer_. Then what other life would you like to live? Mine, or that of the Prince, or whose? Do you not think that I, or the Prince, or any one else, would reply exactly as you have done; and that no one would wish to repeat the same life over again? _Alm. Seller_. I do believe that. _Passer_. Then would you recommence it on this condition, if none other were offered you? _Alm. Seller_. No, Sir, indeed I would not. _Passer_. Then what life would you like? _Alm. Seller_. Such an one as God would give me without any conditions. _Passer_. A life at hap-hazard, and of which you would know nothing beforehand, as you know nothing about the New Year? _Alm. Seller_. Exactly. _Passer_. It is what I should wish, had I to live my life over again, and so would every one. But this proves that Fate has treated us all badly. And it is clear that each person is of opinion that the evil he has experienced exceeds the good, if no one would wish to be re-born on condition of living his own life over again from the beginning, with just its same proportion of good and evil. This life, which is such a fine thing, is not the life we are acquainted with, but that of which we know nothing; it is not the past life, but the future. With the New Year Fate will commence treating you, and me, and every one well, and the happy life will begin. Am I not right? _Alm. Seller_. Let us hope so. _Passer_. Show me the best almanac you have. _Alm. Seller_. Here it is, Sir. This is worth thirty soldi. _Passer_. Here are thirty soldi. _Alm. Seller_. Thank you, Sir. Good day, Sir.--Almanacs! New Almanacs! New Calendars! _DIALOGUE BETWEEN PLOTINUS AND PORPHYRIUS._ "One day when I, Porphyrius, was meditating about taking my own life, Plotinus guessed my intention. He interrupted me, and said that such a design could not proceed from a healthy mind, but was due to some melancholy indisposition, and that I must have change of air" (Ex. _Life of Plotinus_, by Porphyrius). The same incident is recounted in the life of Plotinus by Eunapius, who adds that Plotinus recorded in a book the conversation he then held with Porphyrius on the subject. _Plotinus_. You know, Porphyrius, how sincerely I am your friend. You will not wonder therefore that I am unquiet about you. For some time I have noticed how sad and thoughtful you are; your expression of countenance is unusual, and you have let fall certain words which make me anxious. In short, I fear that you contemplate some evil design. _Porphyrius_. How! What do you mean? _Plotinus_. I think you intend to do yourself some injury; it were a bad omen to give the deed its name. Listen to me, dear Porphyrius, and do not conceal the truth. Do not wrong the friendship that has so long existed between us. I know my words will cause you displeasure, and I can easily understand that you would rather have kept your design hid. But I could not be silent in such a matter, and you ought not to refuse to confide in one who loves you as much as himself. Let us then talk calmly, weighing our words. Open your heart to me. Tell me your troubles, and let me be auditor of your lamentations. I have deserved your confidence. I promise, on my part, not to oppose the carrying out of your resolution, if we agree that it is useful and reasonable. _Porphyrius_. I have never denied a request of yours, dear Plotinus. I will therefore confess to you what I would rather have kept to myself; nothing in the world would induce me to tell it to anyone else. You are right in your interpretation of my thoughts. If you wish to discuss the subject, I will not refuse, in spite of my dislike to do so; for on such occasions the mind prefers to encompass itself with a lofty silence, and to meditate in solitude, giving itself up for the time to a state of complete self-absorption. Nevertheless, I am willing to do as you please. In the first place, I may say that my design is not the consequence of any special misfortune. It is simply the result of an utter weariness of life, and a continuous ennui which has long possessed me like a pain. To this may be added a feeling of the vanity and nothingness of all things, which pervades me in body and soul. Do not say that this disposition of mind is unreasonable, though I will allow that it may in part proceed from physical causes. It is in itself perfectly reasonable, and therein differs from all our other dispositions; for everything which makes us attach some value to life and human things, proves on analysis to be contrary to reason, and to proceed from some illusion or falsity. Nothing is more rational than ennui.[1] Pleasures are all unreal. Pain itself, at least mental pain, is equally false, because on examination it is seen to have scarcely any foundation, or none at all. The same may be said of fear and hope. Ennui alone, which is born from the vanity of things, is genuine, and never deceives. If, then, all else be vain, the reality of life is summed up in ennui. _Plotinus_. It may be so. I will not contradict you as to that. But we must now consider the nature of your project. You know Plato refused to allow that man is at liberty to escape, like a fugitive slave, from the captivity in which he is placed by the will of the gods, in depriving himself of life. _Porphyrius_. I beg you, dear Plotinus, to leave Plate alone now, with his doctrines and dreams. It is one thing to praise, explain, and champion certain theories in the schools and in books, but quite another to practically exemplify them. School-teaching and boots constrain us to admire Plato, and conform to him, because such is the custom in the present day. Bat in real life, far from being admired, he is even detested. It is true Plato is said to have spread abroad by his writings the notion of a future life, thus leaving men in doubt as to their fate after death, and serving a good purpose in deterring men from evil in this life, through fear of punishment in the next. If I imagined Plato to have been the inventor of these ideas and beliefs, I would speak thus to him:-- "You observe, O Plato, how inimical to our race the power which governs the world has always been, whether known as Nature, Destiny, or Fate. Many reasons contradict the supposition that man has that high rank in the order of creation which we are pleased to imagine; but by no reason can he be deprived of the characteristic attributed to him by Homer--that of suffering. Nature, however, has given us a remedy for all evils. It is death, little feared by those who are not fully intelligent, and by all others desired. "But you have deprived us of this dearest consolation of our life, full of suffering that it is. The doubts raised by you have torn this comfort from our minds, and made the thought of death the bitterest of all thoughts. Thanks to you, unhappy mortals now fear the storm less than the port. Driven from their one place of repose, and robbed of the only remedy they could look for, they resign themselves to the sufferings and troubles of life. Thus, you have been more cruel towards us than Destiny, Nature, or Fate. And since this doubt, once conceived, can never be got rid of, to you is it due that your fellow-men regard death as something more terrible than life. You are to blame that rest and peace are for ever banished from the last moments of man, whereas all other animals die in perfect fearlessness. This one thing, O Plato, was wanting to complete the sum of human misery. "True, your intention was good. But it has failed in its purpose. Violence and injustice are not arrested, for evil-doers only realise the terrors of death in their last moments, when quite powerless to do more harm. Your doubts trouble only the good, who are more disposed to benefit than injure their fellow-men, and the weak and timid, who are neither inclined by nature nor disposition to oppress anyone. Bold and strong men, who have scarcely any power of imagination, and those who require some other restraint than mere law, regard these fears as chimerical, and are undeterred from evil doing. We see daily instances of this, and the experience of all the centuries, from your time down to the present, confirms it. Good laws, still more, good education, and mental and social culture,--these are the things that preserve justice and mildness amongst men. Civilisation, and the use of reflection and reason, make men almost always hate to war with each other and shed one another's blood, and render them disinclined to quarrel, and endanger their lives by lawlessness. But such good results are never due to threatening fancies, and bitter expectation of terrible chastisement; these, like the multitude and cruelty of the punishments used in certain states, only serve to increase the baseness and ferocity of men, and are therefore opposed to the well-being of human society. "Perhaps, however, you will reply that you have promised a reward in the future for the good. What then is this reward? A state of life which seems full of ennui, even less tolerable than our present existence! The bitterness of your punishments is unmistakable; but the sweetness of your rewards is hidden and secret, incomprehensible to our minds. How then can order and virtue be said to be encouraged by your doctrine? I will venture to say that if but few men have been deterred from evil by the fear of your terrible Tartarus, no good man has been led to perform a single praiseworthy action by desire of your Elysium. Such a Paradise does not attract us in the least. But, apart from the fact that your heaven is scarcely an inviting place, who among the best of us can hope to merit it? What man can satisfy your inexorable judges, Minos, Eacus, and Rhadamanthus, who will not overlook one single fault, however trivial? Besides, who can say that he has reached your standard of purity? In short, we cannot look for happiness in the world to come; and however clear a man's conscience may be, or however upright his life, in his last hour he will dread the future with its terrible incertitude. It is due to your teaching that fear is a much stronger influence than hope, and may be said to dominate mankind. "This then is the result of your doctrines. Man, whose life on earth is wretched in the extreme, anticipates death, not as an end to all his miseries, but as the beginning of a condition more wretched still. Thus, you surpass in cruelty, not only Nature and Destiny, but the most merciless tyrant and bloodthirsty executioner the world has ever known. "But what cruelty can exceed that of your law, forbidding man to put an end to his sufferings and troubles by voluntarily depriving himself of life, thereby triumphing over the horrors of death? Other animals do not desire to put an end to their life, because their unhappiness is less than ours; nor would they even have sufficient courage to face a voluntary death. But if they did wish to die, what should deter them from fulfilling their desire? They are affected by no prohibition, nor fear of the future. Here again you make us inferior to brute beasts. The liberty they possess, they do not use; the liberty granted also to us by Nature, so miserly in her gifts, you take away. Thus, the only creatures capable of desiring death, have the right to die refused them. Nature, Destiny, and Fortune overwhelm us with cruel blows, that cause us to suffer fearfully; you add to our sufferings by tying our arms and enchaining our feet, so that we can neither defend ourselves, nor escape from our persecutors. "Truly, when I think over the great wretchedness of humanity, it seems to me that your doctrines, above all things, O Plato, are guilty of it, and that men may well complain of you more than of Nature. For the latter, in decreeing for us an existence full of unhappiness, has left us the means of escaping from it when we please. Indeed, unhappiness cannot be called extreme, when we have in our hands the power to shorten it at will. Besides, the mere thought of being able to quit life at pleasure, and withdraw from the miseries of the world, is so great an alleviation of our lot, that in itself it suffices to render existence supportable. Consequently, there can be no doubt that our chief unhappiness proceeds from the fear, that in abbreviating our life we might be plunged into a state of greater misery than the present. And not only will our misery be greater in the future, but it will be so full of the refinement of cruelty, that a comparison of these unexperienced tortures with the known sufferings of this life, reduces the latter almost to insignificance. "You have easily, O Plato, raised this question of immortality; but the human species will become extinct before it is settled. Your genius is the most fatal thing that has ever afflicted humanity, and nothing can ever exist more disastrous in its effects." That is what I would say to Plato, had he invented the doctrine we are discussing; but I am well aware he did not originate it. However, enough has been said. Let us drop the subject, if you please. _Plotinus_. Porphyrius, you know how I revere Plato; yet in talking to you on such an occasion as this, I will give you my own opinion, and will disregard his authority. The few words of his that I spoke were rather as an introduction than anything else. Returning to my first argument, I affirm that not only Plato and every other philosopher, but Nature herself, teaches us that it is improper to take away our own life. I will not say much on this point, because if you reflect a little, I am sure you will agree with me that suicide is unnatural. It is indeed an action the most contrary possible to nature. The whole order of things would be subverted if the beings of the world destroyed themselves. And it is repugnant and absurd to suppose that life is given only to be taken away by its possessor, and that beings should exist only to become non-existent. The law of self-preservation is the strictest law of nature. Its maintenance is enjoined in every possible way on man and all creatures of the universe. And, apart from anything else, do we not instinctively fear, hate, and shun death, even in spite of ourselves? Therefore, since suicide is so utterly contrary to our nature, I cannot think that it is permissible. _Porphyrius_. I have already meditated on the subject from all points of view; for the mind could not design such a step without due consideration. It seems to me that all your reasoning is answerable with just as much counter reasoning. But I will be brief. You doubt whether it be permissible to die without necessity. I ask you if it be permissible to be unhappy? Nature, you say, forbids suicide. It is a strange thing that since she is either unable or unwilling to make me happy, or free me from unhappiness, she should have the power to force me to live. If Nature has given us a love of life, and a hatred of death, she has also given us a love of happiness, and a hatred of suffering; and the latter instincts are much more powerful than the former, because happiness is the supreme aim of all our actions and sentiments of love or hatred. For to what end do we shun death, or desire life, save to promote our well-being, and for fear of the contrary? How then can it be unnatural to escape from suffering in the only way open to man, that is, by dying; since in life it can never be avoided? How, too, can it be true, that Nature forbids me to devote myself to death, which is undoubtedly a good thing, and to reject life, which is undoubtedly an evil and injurious thing, since it is a source of nothing but suffering to me? _Plotinus_. These things do not persuade me that suicide is not unnatural. Have we not a strong instinctive horror of death? Besides, we never see brute beasts, which invariably follow the instincts of their nature (when not contrarily trained by man), either commit suicide, or regard death as anything but a condition to be struggled against, even in their moments of greatest suffering. In short, all men who commit this desperate act, will be found to have lived out of conformity to nature. They, on the contrary, who live naturally, would without exception reject suicide, if even the thought proposed itself to them. _Porphyrius_. Well, if you like, I will admit that the action is contrary to nature. But what has that to do with it, if we ourselves do not conform to nature; that is, are no longer savages? Compare ourselves, for instance, with the inhabitants of India or Ethiopia, who are said to have retained their primitive manners and wild habits. You would scarcely think that these people were even of the same species as ourselves. This transformation of life, and change of manners and customs by civilisation, has been accompanied, in my opinion, by an immeasurable increase of suffering. Savages never wish to commit suicide, nor does their imagination ever induce them to regard death as a desirable thing; whereas we who are civilised wish for it, and sometimes voluntarily seek it. Now, if man be permitted to live unnaturally, and be consequently unhappy, why may he not also die unnaturally? For death is indeed the only way by which he can deliver himself from the unhappiness that results from civilisation. Or, why not return to our primitive condition, and state of nature? Ah, we should find it almost impossible as far as mere external circumstances are concerned, and in the more important matters of the mind, quite impossible. What is less natural than medicine? By this I mean surgery, and the use of drugs. They are both ordinarily used expressly to combat nature, and are quite unknown to brute beasts and savages. Yet, since the diseases they remedy are unnatural, and only occur in civilised countries, where people have fallen from their natural condition, these arts, being also unnatural, are highly esteemed and even indispensable. Similarly, suicide, which is a radical cure for the disease of despair, one of the outcomes of civilisation, must not be blamed because it is unnatural; for unnatural evils require unnatural remedies. It would indeed be hard and unjust that reason, which increases our misery by forcing us to go contrary to nature, should in this matter join hands with nature, and take from us our only remaining hope and refuge, and the only resource consistent with itself, and should force us to continue in our wretchedness. The truth is this, Plotinus. Our primitive nature has departed from us for ever. Habit and reason have given us a new nature in place of the old one, to which we shall never return. Formerly, it was unnatural for men to commit suicide, or desire death. In the present day, both are natural. They conform to our new nature, which however, like the old one, still impels us to seek our happiness. And since death is our greatest good, is it remarkable that men should voluntarily seek it? For our reason tells us that death is not an evil, but, as the remedy for all evils, is the most desirable of things. Now tell me: are all other actions of civilised men regulated by the standard of their primitive nature? If so, give me a single instance. No, it is our present, and not our primitive nature, that interprets our actions; in other words, it is our reason. Why then should suicide alone be judged unreasonably, and from the aspect of our primitive nature? Why should this latter, which has no influence over our life, control our death? Why should not the same reason govern our death which rules our life? It is a fact, whether due to reason or our unhappiness, that in many people, especially those who are unfortunate and afflicted, the primitive hatred of death is extinguished, and even changed into desire and love, as I have said. Such love, though incompatible with our early nature, is a reality in the present day. We are also necessarily unhappy because we live unnaturally. It were therefore manifestly unreasonable to assert that the prohibition which forbade suicide in the primitive state should now hold good. This seems to me sufficient justification of the deed. It remains to be proved whether or not it be useful. _Plotinus_. Never mind that side of the question, my dear Porphyrius, because if the deed be permissible, I have no doubt of its extreme utility. But I will never admit that a forbidden and improper action can be useful. The matter really resolves itself into this: which is the better, to suffer, or not to suffer? It is certain that most men would prefer suffering mixed with enjoyment, to a state devoid of both suffering and enjoyment, so ardently do we desire and thirst after joy. But this is beside the question, because enjoyment and pleasure, properly speaking, are as impossible as suffering is inevitable. I mean a suffering as continuous as our never satisfied desire for pleasure and happiness, and quite apart from the peculiar and accidental sufferings which must infallibly be experienced by even the happiest of men. In truth, were we certain that in continuing to live, we should continue thus to suffer, we should have sufficient reason to prefer death to life; because existence does not contain a single genuine pleasure to compensate for such suffering, even if that were possible. _Porphyrius_. It seems to me that ennui alone, and the fact that we cannot hope for an improved existence, are sufficiently cogent reasons to induce a desire for death, even though our condition be one of prosperity. And it is often a matter of surprise to me that we have no record of princes having committed suicide through ennui and weariness of their grandeur, like other men in lower stations of life. We read how Hegesias, the Cyrenaic, used to reason so eloquently about the miseries of life, that his auditors straightway went and committed suicide; for which reason he was called the "death persuader," and was at length forbidden by Ptolemy to hold further discourse on the subject. Certain princes, it is true, have been suicides, amongst others Mithridates, Cleopatra, and Otho. But these all put an end to themselves to escape some peculiar evils, or from dread of an increase of misfortune. Princes are, I imagine, more liable than other men to feel a hatred of their condition, and to think favourably of suicide. For have they not reached the summit of what is called human happiness? They have nothing to hope for, because they have everything that forms a part of the so-called good things of this life. They cannot anticipate greater pleasure to-morrow than they have enjoyed to-day. Thus they are more unfortunately situated than all less exalted people. For the present is always sad and unsatisfactory; the future alone is a source of pleasure. But be that as it may. We see then that there is nothing to prevent men voluntarily quitting life, and preferring death, save the fear of another world. All other reasons are palpably ill-founded. They are due to a wrong estimate, in comparing the advantages and evils of existence; and whoever at any time feels a strong attachment to life, or lives in a state of contentment, does so under a mistake, either of judgment, will, or even fact. _Plotinus_. That is true, dear Porphyrius. But nevertheless, let me advise, nay implore, you to listen to the counsels of Nature rather than Reason. Follow the instincts of that primitive Nature, mother of us all, who, though she has manifested no affection for us in creating us for unhappiness, is a less bitter and cruel foe than our own reason, with its boundless curiosity, speculation, chattering, dreams, ideas, and miserable learning. Besides, Nature has sought to diminish our unhappiness by concealing or disguising it from us as much as possible. And although we are greatly changed, and the power of nature within us is much lessened, we are not so altered but that much of our former manhood remains, and our primitive nature is not quite stifled within us. In spite of all our folly, it will never be otherwise. So, too, the mistaken view of life that you mention, although I admit that it is in reality palpably erroneous, will continue to prevail. It is held not only by idiots and the half-witted, but by clever, wise, and learned men, and always will be, unless the Nature that made us--and not man nor his reason--herself puts an end to it. And I assure you that neither disgust of life, nor despair, nor the sense of the nullity of things, the vanity of all anxiety, and the insignificance of man, nor hatred of the world and oneself, are of long duration; although such dispositions of mind are perfectly reasonable, and the contrary unreasonable. For our physical condition changes momentarily in more or less degree; and often without any especial cause life endears itself to us again, and new hopes give brightness to human things, which once more seem worthy of some attention, not indeed from our understanding, but from what may be termed the higher senses of the intellect. This is why each of us, though perfectly aware of the truth, continues to live in spite of Reason, and conforms to the behaviour of others; for our life is controlled by these senses, and not by the understanding. Whether suicide be reasonable, or our compromise with life unreasonable, the former is certainly a horrible and inhuman action. It were better to follow Nature, and remain man, than act like a monster in following Reason. Besides, ought we not to give some thought to the friends, relatives, acquaintance, and people with whom we have been accustomed to live, and from whom we should thus separate for ever? And if the thought of such separation be nothing to us, ought we not to consider their feelings? They lose one whom they loved and respected; and the atrocity of his death enhances their grief. I know that the wise man is not easily moved, nor yields to pity and lamentation to a disquieting extent; he does not abase himself to the ground, shed tears immoderately, nor do other similar things unworthy of one who clearly understands the condition of humanity. But such fortitude of soul should be reserved for grievous circumstances that arise from nature, or are unavoidable; it is an abuse of fortitude to deprive ourselves for ever of the society and conversation of those who are dear to us. He is a barbarian, and not a wise man, who takes no account of the grief experienced by his friends, relations, and acquaintances. He who scarcely troubles himself about the grief his death would cause to his friends and family is selfish; he cares little for others, and all for himself. And truly, the suicide thinks only of himself. He desires nought but his personal welfare, and throws away all thought of the rest of the world. In short, suicide is an action of the most unqualified and sordid egotism, and is certainly the least attractive form of self-love that exists in the world. Finally, my dear Porphyrius, the troubles and evils of life, although many and inevitable, when, as in your case, unaccompanied by grievous calamity or bodily infirmity, are after all easy to be borne, especially by a wise and strong man like yourself. And indeed, life itself is of so little importance, that man ought not to trouble himself much either to retain or abandon it; and, without thinking greatly about it, we ought to give the former instinct precedence over the latter. If a friend begged you to do this, why should you not gratify him? Now I earnestly entreat you, dear Porphyrius, by the memory of our long friendship, put away this idea. Do not grieve your friends, who love you with such warm affection, and your Plotinus,[2] who has no dearer nor better friend in the world. Help us to bear the burden of life, instead of leaving us without a thought. Let us live, dear Porphyrius,[3] and console each other. Let us not refuse our share of the sufferings of humanity, apportioned to us by destiny. Let us cling to each other with mutual encouragement, and hand in hand strengthen one another better to bear the troubles of life. Our time after all will be short; and when death comes, we will not complain. In the last hour, our friends and companions will comfort us, and we shall be gladdened by the thought that after death we shall still live in their memory, and be loved by them. [Footnote 1: "Ennui is a state only experienced by the intelligent. The greater the mind, the more constant, painful, and terrible is the ennui it suffers. Ennui is in some respects the sublimest of human sentiments" (_Leopardi's "Pensieri_" Nos. lxvii. and lxviii.)] [Footnote 2: _Plotinus_ was born 204 A.D. He began teaching philosophy in Rome, and was highly esteemed at court. Eunapius says of him, "The heavenly elevation of his mind, and his perplexed style, made him very tiresome and unpleasant." He was ascetic in his habits; disparaged patriotism; depreciated material things; purposely forgot his birthday; and acted altogether rather as a spectator of other men's lives than as a living man himself.] [Footnote 3: _Porphyrius_ was born 233 A.D. He was a pupil of Plotinus, and like him established a school of philosophy at Rome. From study of the writings of Plotinus he fell into a state of disgust with life, and retiring from Rome, lived alone in a solitary and wild part of Sicily. Here he determined to put an end to his life by starvation. He was found by Plotinus, who had followed him from Rome, in a state of extreme weakness, and was, by his wise counsels, dissuaded from completing his intention.] _COMPARISON OF THE LAST WORDS OF MARCUS BRUTUS AND THEOPHRASTUS._ I think, in all ancient history there can be found no words more lamentable and terrifying, yet withal, speaking humanly, more true, than those uttered by Marcus Brutus shortly before death, in disparagement of virtue. This is what, according to Dionysius Cassius, he is reported to have said:-- "O miserable virtue! Thou art but a mere phrase, and I have followed thee, as though thou wert a reality. Fate is stronger than thee." Plutarch, in his life of Brutus, makes no mention of this, which has induced Pier Vettori to conclude that Cassius has here taken licence in prose often accorded to poetry. But its truth is confirmed by the witness of Florus, who states that Brutus, when at the point of death, exclaimed, that virtue was "an expression, and not a reality." Many people are shocked at those words of Brutus, and blame him for uttering them. They infer from their meaning, either that virtue is a sealed book to them, or else that they have never experienced ill-fortune. The former inference alone is credible. In any case, it is certain they but slightly understand, and still less realise the unhappiness of human affairs, or else they stupidly wonder why the doctrines of Christianity were not in force before the time of Christ. Other people interpret these words as demonstrating that Brutus was not after all the noble and pious man he was supposed to have been. They imagine that just before death he threw off the mask. But they are wrong; and if they give Brutus credit for sincerity in uttering these words in repudiation of virtue, let them consider how it were possible for him to abandon what he never possessed, or to disassociate himself from that with which he never had any association. If they think he was insincere, and spoke designedly and with ostentation, let them explain what object he could have in speaking vain and fallacious words, and immediately afterwards acting in accordance with them? Are facts deniable, simply because they are not in harmony with words? Brutus was a man overwhelmed by a great and unavoidable catastrophe. He was disheartened, and wearied with life and fortune, and having abandoned all desires and hopes, the deceitfulness of which he had experienced, he determined to take his destiny into his own hands, and to put an end to his unhappiness. Why should he, at the very moment of eternal separation from his fellows, trouble to hunt the phantom of glory, and study to give forth words and thoughts to deceive those around him, and to gain human esteem, when he was about to leave humanity for ever? What was it to him that he might gain a reputation on that earth which appeared so hateful and contemptible to him? These words of Brutus are well known to most of us. The following utterance of Theophrastus at the point of death is, I believe, less known, though very worthy of consideration. It forms a parallel with that of Brutus, both as to its substance and time of delivery. Diogenes Laertius mentions it, not, in my opinion, as original to himself, but as an extract from some more ancient and important work. He says that Theophrastus, just before death, being asked by his disciples whether he would leave them any token or words of advice, replied: "None, except that man despises and rejects many pleasures for the sake of glory. But no sooner does he begin to live than death overtakes him. Hence the love of glory is as fatal a thing as possible. Strive to live happily: abandon studies, which are a weariness; or cultivate them only so that they may bring you fame. Life is more vain than useful. As for me, I have no time to think more about it; you must study what is most expedient." So saying, he died. Other sayings of Theophrastus on this occasion are mentioned by Cicero and St. Jerome. These are better known, but have nothing to do with our subject. It would seem that Theophrastus lived to the age of more than a hundred, having devoted all his lifetime to study and writing, and having been an unwearied pursuer of glory. Suidas says that his death was due to the excess of his studies, and that he died surrounded by about two thousand of his disciples and followers, reverenced for his wisdom throughout the whole of Greece, regretting his pursuit of glory, just as Brutus repented of virtue. These two words, glory and virtue, were by the ancients regarded as almost synonymous in meaning, though it is not so in the present day. Theophrastus did not indeed say that glory is more frequently a matter of fortune than merit, which is oftener true now than in former times; but had he said so, there would have been no difference between his idea and that of Brutus. Such abjurations, or rather apostasies, of those noble errors which beautify, nay compose our very life, are of daily occurrence. They are due to the fact that the human intelligence in process of time discovers, not only the nakedness, but even the skeleton of things: wisdom also, which was regarded by the ancients as the consolation and chief cure for our unhappiness, has been obliged to impeach our condition, and almost requires a consolation for itself, since had not men followed it, they would not have known the greatness of their misfortune, or at least would have been able to remedy it with hope. But the ancients used to believe, according to the teaching of Nature, that things were things, and not appearances, and that human life was destined to partake of happiness as well as unhappiness. Consequently, such apostasies as these were very rare, and were the result not of passions and vices, but of a sentiment and realisation of the truth of things. Therefore they deserve careful and philosophical consideration. The words of Theophrastus are the more surprising when we think of the circumstances in which he died. He was prosperous and successful; and it would seem as though he could not have a single cause for regret. His chief aim, glory, he had succeeded in acquiring long ago. The utterance of Brutus, on the other hand, was one of those inspirations of misfortune which sometimes open out a new world to our minds, and persuade us of truths that require a long time for the mere intelligence to discover. Misfortune may indeed be compared in its effect to the frenzy of lyric poets, who at a glance, as if situated in a lofty place, take in as much of the domain of human knowledge as requires many centuries before it be discerned by philosophers. In almost all ancient writings (whether philosophical, poetical, historical, or aught else), we meet with many very sorrowful expressions, common enough to us nowadays, but strange to the people of those times. These sentences, however, were mostly due to the innate or accidental misfortune of the writer, or the persons who spoke them, whether imaginary or real. And rarely we find on the monuments of the ancients any expression of the sadness or ennui which they felt because of the unreality of happiness, or their misfortunes, whether natural, or due to force of circumstances. For when they suffered, they lamented their sufferings as the only hindrance to their happiness, which they not only considered it possible to obtain, but even man's right, although Fate proved sometimes too strong. Now, let us seek what could have placed in the mind of Theophrastus this sentiment about the vanity of glory and life, which, considering his epoch and nation, is an extraordinary one. In the first place, we find that the studies of this philosopher were not limited to one or two branches of science. The record of his writings, which are mostly lost, informs us that his knowledge included little less than everything then knowable. And this universal science was not like that of Plato, subordinated to his imagination, but conformed to the teaching of Aristotle in being the result of experience and reason; its aim, too, was not the discovery of the beautiful, but that which is its especial contrary, the useful. This being so, it is not wonderful that Theophrastus should attain to the height of human wisdom,--that is, a knowledge of the vanity of life, and wisdom itself. For it is a fact that the numerous discoveries made recently by philosophers about the nature of men and things, are chiefly the result of a comparison and synthesis of the different sciences and studies, whereby the mutual connection between the most distant parts of nature is demonstrated. Besides, from his book of "Characters" we learn how clearly Theophrastus discerned the qualities and manners of men; indeed, with the exception of the poets, very few ancient writers equal him in this respect. And this faculty is the sure sign of a mind capable of numerous, diverse, and powerful sensations. For, to produce a keen representation of the moral qualities and passions of men, the writer relies less on what actual facts he may have collected, or observations made, about the manners of others, than on his own mind, even though his personal habits be very different from those of his subjects. Massillon was asked one day what enabled him to describe so naturally the habits and feelings of men, who, like himself, lived more in solitude than society. He replied: "I contemplate myself." Dramatists and other poets do the same thing. Now a many-sided mind, subtle in discernment, cannot but feel the nakedness and absolute unhappiness of life; it acquires a tendency to sadness after meditation excited by numerous studies, especially such as are concerned with the very essence of things, like the speculative sciences. It is certain that Theophrastus, who loved study and glory above everything, and was master or rather founder of a very numerous school, knew and formally announced the uselessness of human exertions, including his own teaching and that of others; the little affinity existing between virtue and happiness of life; and the superior power of fortune to merit in the acquirement of happiness, equally among the wise and others. In this respect, perhaps, he was superior to all the Greek philosophers, especially those preceding Epicurus, from whom both in manners and thought he was essentially different. This is owing partly to circumstances already mentioned, and is also due to other things referred to by ancient writers on the subject of his teaching It would seem as though his own fate has proved the truth of his doctrine. For he is not esteemed by modern philosophers as he ought to be, since all his moral writings are lost, with the exception of his "Characters." His writings, too, on the subjects of politics and laws, and almost all those relating to metaphysics, are also missing. Besides, the ancient philosophers were little inclined to give him credit for keener perception than they possessed; on the contrary, many of them, especially such as were shallow and conceited, blamed and ill-treated him. These men taught that the wise man is essentially happy, and that virtue and wisdom suffice to procure happiness; although they were only too well aware of the contrary, even supposing they had any real knowledge of either the one or the other. Philosophers will never be cured of this idea. Even the philosophy of the present day teaches the same thing; whereas, correctly speaking, it can only say that everything beautiful, delightful, and great, is mere falsity and nothingness. But to return to Theophrastus. Most of the ancients were incapable of the profound and sorrowful sentiment that inspired him. "Theophrastus is roughly handled by all the philosophers in their writings and schools for having praised this saying of Callisthenes: 'Fortune, not wisdom, is the mistress of life.' They consider that no philosopher ever gave expression to a weaker sentiment." So says Cicero, who in another place remarks that Theophrastus in his book about "The Happy Life," attributed much influence to fortune, which he considered a most important factor of happiness. Again, he adds, "Let us make much use of Theophrastus; but give virtue more reality and value than he gave to it." Perhaps it may be imagined from these remarks that Theophrastus had little sympathy with the weaknesses of human nature, and that he waged war against their influence in public and private life, both by his writings and actions. It might also be thought that he would restrict the empire of the imagination in favour of that of reason. As a matter of fact, he did just the contrary. Concerning his actions, we read in Plutarch's book against Colotes that our philosopher twice freed his country from a tyranny. As for his teachings, Cicero says that Theophrastus in a writing on the subject of "Wealth," dilated at considerable length on the advantages of magnificence and pomp at the shows and national festivals; indeed he considered the chief usefulness of riches to lie in the consequent power of expenditure that accompanied them. This idea is blamed and ridiculed by Cicero, with whom, however, I will not discuss the question, for his superficial knowledge of philosophy might have easily led him to a wrong conclusion. I imagine Cicero to have been a man rich in civil and domestic virtues, but ignorant of the greatest stimulants and bulwarks of virtue that the world possesses, namely, those things that are peculiarly adapted to excite and arouse the mind, and exercise the powers of the imagination. I will merely say that those men among, the ancients and moderns who knew best and realised most strongly and deeply the nullity of everything, and the force of truth, have not only refrained from endeavouring to lead others to their condition, but have even laboured hard to conceal and disguise it from themselves. They acted like men who had learnt from experience the wretchedness that resulted from wisdom and knowledge. Many celebrated examples of this are furnished, especially in recent times. Truly, if our philosophers fully understood what they endeavour to teach, and realised in their own persons the consequences of their philosophy, instead of welcoming their knowledge, they would hate and abhor it. They would strive to forget what they know, and to shut' their eyes to that which they see. They would take refuge, as their best resource, in those sweet unrealities, which Nature herself has placed in all our minds; nor would they think it well to enforce on others the doctrine of the nothingness of all things. If, however, desire of glory should incite them to do this last, they will admit that in this part of the universe we can only live by putting faith in things that are non-existent. There is another considerable difference between the circumstances of Theophrastus and Brutus, that of time. When Theophrastus lived, the influence of those fictions and phantoms which ruled the thoughts and actions of the ancients, had not departed. The epoch of Brutus, on the other hand, may be termed the last age of the imagination. Knowledge and experience of the truth prevailed amongst the people. Had it not been so, Brutus need not have fled from life as he did, and the Roman republic would not have died with him. And not only the republic, but also the whole of antiquity, that is, the old customs and characteristics of the civilised world, were at the point of death, together with the opinions which gave birth to, and supported them. Life had already lost its value, and wise men sought to console themselves not so much for their fate as for existence itself; because they regarded it as incredible that man should be born essentially and solely for misery. Thus they arrived at the conception of another life, which might explain the reason of virtue and noble actions. Such explanation had hitherto been found in life itself, but was so no longer, nor was it ever again to be found there. To these ideas of futurity are due the noble sentiments often expressed by Cicero, especially in his oration for Archias. _DIALOGUE BETWEEN TRISTANO AND A FRIEND._ _Friend_. I have read your book. It is as melancholy as usual. _Tristano_. Yes, as usual. _Friend_. Melancholy, disconsolate, hopeless. It is clear that this life appears to you an abominable thing. _Tristano_. How can I excuse myself? I was then so firmly convinced of the truth of my notion about the unhappiness of life. _Friend_. Unhappy it may be. But even then, what good ... _Tristano_. No, no; on the contrary, it is very happy. I have changed my opinion now. But when I wrote this book I had that folly in my head, as I tell you. And I was so full of it, that I should have expected anything rather than to doubt the truth of what I wrote on the subject. For I thought the conscience of every reader would assuredly bear witness to the truth of my statements. I imagined there might be differences of opinion as to the use or harm of my writings, but none as to their truth. I also believed that my lamentations, since they were aroused by misfortunes common to all, would be echoed in the heart of every one who heard them. And when I afterwards felt impelled to deny, not merely some particular observation, but the whole fabric of my book, and to say that life is not unhappy, and that if it seemed so to me, it must have been the effect of illness, or some other misfortune peculiar to myself, I was at first amazed, astonished, petrified, and for several days as though transported into another world. Then I began to think, and was a little irritated with myself. Finally I laughed, and said to myself that the human race possesses a characteristic common to husbands. For a married man who wishes to live a quiet life, relies on the fidelity of his wife, even when half the world knows she is faithless. Similarly, when a man takes up his abode in any country, he makes up his mind to regard it as one of the best countries in the world, and he does so. For the same reason, men, desiring to live, agree to consider life a delightful and valuable thing; they therefore believe it to be so, and are angry with whoever is of the contrary opinion. Hence it follows, that in reality people always believe, not the truth, but what is, or appears to be, best for them. The human race, which has believed, and will continue to put faith in so many absurdities, will never acknowledge that it knows nothing, that it is nothing, and that it has nothing to hope. No philosopher teaching any one of these three things would be successful, nor would he have followers, and the populace especially would refuse to believe in him. For, apart from the fact that all three doctrines have little to recommend them to any one who wishes to live, the two first offend man's pride, and they all require courage and strength of mind in him who accepts them. Now, men are cowards, of ignoble and narrow minds, and always anticipating good, because always ready to vary their ideas of good according to the necessities of life. They are very willing, as Petrarch says, to surrender to fortune; very eager and determined to console themselves in any misfortune; and to accept any compensation in exchange for what is denied them, or for that which they have lost; and to accommodate themselves to any condition of life, however wicked and barbarous. When deprived of any desirable thing, they nourish themselves on illusions, from which they derive as much satisfaction as if their conceptions were the most genuine and real things in the world. As for me, I cannot refrain from laughing at the human race, enamoured of life, just as the people in the south of Europe laugh at husbands enamoured of faithless wives. I consider men show very little courage in thus allowing themselves to be deceived and deluded like fools; they are not only content to bear the greatest sufferings, but also are willing to be as it were puppets of Nature and Destiny. I here refer to the deceptions of the intellect, not the imagination. Whether these sentiments of mine are the result of illness, I do not know; but I do know that, well or ill, I despise men's cowardice, I reject every childish consolation and illusive comfort, and am courageous enough to bear the deprivation of every hope, to look steadily on the desert of life, to hide no part of our unhappiness, and to accept all the consequences of a philosophy, sorrowful but true. This philosophy, if of no other use, gives the courageous man the proud satisfaction of being able to rend asunder the cloak that conceals the hidden and mysterious cruelty of human destiny. This I said to myself, almost as though I were the inventor of this bitter philosophy, which I saw rejected by every one as a new and unheard-of thing. But, on reflection, I found that it dated from the time of Solomon, Homer, and the most ancient poets and philosophers, who abound with fables and sayings which express the unhappiness of human life. One says that "man is the most miserable of the animals." Another that, "it were better not to be born, or, being born, to die in the cradle." Again, "whom the gods love, die young;" besides numberless other similar sayings. And I also remembered that from then even until now, all poets, philosophers, and writers, great and small, have in one way or another echoed and confirmed the same doctrines. Then I began to think again, and spent a long time in a state of wonder, contempt, and laughter. At length I turned to study the matter more deeply, and came to the conclusion that man's unhappiness is one of the innate errors of the mind, and that the refutation of this idea, through the demonstration of the happiness of life, is one of the greatest discoveries of the nineteenth century. Now, therefore, I am at peace, and confess I was wrong to hold the views I previously held. _Friend_. Then have you changed your opinion? _Tristano_. Of course. Do you imagine I should oppose the discoveries of the nineteenth century? _Friend_. Do you believe all the century believes? _Tristano_. Certainly. Why not? _Friend_. You believe then in the infinite perfectibility of the human race, do you not? _Tristano_. Undoubtedly. _Friend_. Do you also believe that the human race actually progresses daily? _Tristano_. Assuredly. It is true that sometimes I think one of the ancients was physically worth four of us. And the body is the man; because (apart from all else) high-mindedness, courage, the passions, capacity for action and enjoyment, and all that ennobles and vivifies life, depend on the vigour of the body, without which they cannot exist. The weak man is not a man, but a child, and less than a child, because it is his fate to stand aside and see others live. All he can do is to chatter. Life is not for him. Hence in olden times, and even in more enlightened ages, weakness of body was regarded as ignominious. But with us, it is very long since education deigned to think of such a base and abject thing as the body. The mind is its sole care. Yet, in its endeavours to cultivate the mind, it destroys the body without perceiving that the former is also necessarily destroyed. And even if it were possible to remedy this false system of education, it would be impossible to discover, without a radical change in the state of modern society, any cure for the other inconveniences of life, whether public or private. Everything that formerly tended to preserve and perfect the body, seems to-day to be in conspiracy for its destruction. The consequence is, that, compared with the ancients, we are little better than children, and they in comparison with us may indeed be termed perfect men. I refer equally to individuals in comparison with individuals, as to the masses (to use this most expressive modern term) compared to the masses. I will add also that the superior vigour of the ancients is manifested in their moral and metaphysical systems. But I do not allow myself to be influenced by such trifling objections, and I firmly believe that the human race is perpetually in a state of progression. _Friend_. You believe also, if I rightly understand you, that knowledge, or, as, it is called, enlightenment, continually increases. _Tristano_. Assuredly. Although I observe that the desire of knowledge grows in proportion as the appreciation for study diminishes. And, astonishing to say, if you count up the number of truly learned men who lived contemporaneously a hundred and fifty years ago, or even later, you will find them incomparably more numerous than at present. It may perhaps be said that learned people are rare nowadays because knowledge is more universally disseminated, instead of being confined to the heads of a few; and that the multitude of educated people compensate for the rarity of learned people. But knowledge is not like riches, which whether divided or accumulated, always make the same total. In a country where every one knows a little, the total knowledge is small; because knowledge begets knowledge, but will not bear dispersion. For superficial instruction cannot indeed be divided amongst many, though it may be common to many unlearned men. Genuine knowledge belongs only to the learned, and depth in knowledge to the few that are very learned. And, with rare exceptions, only the man who is very learned, and possessed of an immense fund of knowledge, is able to add materially to the sum of human science. Now, in the present time, it is daily more difficult to discover a really learned man, save perhaps in Germany, where science is not yet dethroned. I utter these reflections simply for the sake of a little talk and philosophising, not because I doubt for a single moment the truth of what you say. Indeed, were I to see the world quite full of ignorant impostors on the one hand, and presumptuous fools on the other, I should still hold to my present belief that knowledge and enlightenment are on the increase. _Friend_. Of course, then, you believe that this century is superior to all the preceding ones? _Tristano_. Decidedly. All the centuries have had this opinion of themselves; even those of the most barbarous ages. The present century thinks so, and I agree with it. But if you asked me in what it is superior to the others, and whether in things pertaining to the body or the mind, I should refer you to what I said just now on the subject of progress. _Friend_. In short, to sum it up in two words, do you agree with what the journals say about nature, and human destiny? We are not now talking of literature or politics, on which subjects their opinion is indisputable. _Tristano_. Precisely. I bow before the profound philosophy of the journals, which will in time supersede every other branch of literature, and every serious and exacting study. The journals are the guides and lights of the present age. Is it not so? _Friend_. Very true. Unless you are speaking ironically, you have become one of us. _Tristano_. Yes. Certainly I have. _Friend_. Then what shall you do with your book? Will you allow it to go down to posterity, conveying doctrines so contrary to the opinions you now hold? _Tristano_. To posterity? Permit me to laugh, since you are no doubt joking; if I thought otherwise, I should laugh all the more. For it is not a personal matter, but one relating to the individuals and individual things of the nineteenth century; about whom and which there is no fear of the judgment of posterity, since they will know no more about the matter than their ancestors knew. "Individuals are eclipsed in the crowd," as our modern thinkers elegantly say; which means, that the individual need not put himself to any inconvenience, because, whatever his merit, he can neither hope for the miserable reward of glory, in reality, nor in his dreams. Leave therefore the masses to themselves; although I would ask the wiseacres who illumine the world in the present day, to explain how the masses can do anything without the help of the individuals that compose them. But to return to my book, and posterity. Books now are generally written in less time than is necessary for reading them. Their worth is proportioned to their cost, and their longevity to their value. It is my opinion that the twentieth century will make a very clean sweep of the immense bibliography of the nineteenth. Perhaps however it will say something to this effect: "We have here whole libraries of books which have cost some twenty, some thirty years of labour, and some less, but all have required very great exertion; let us read these first, because it is probable there is much to be learnt from them. These at an end, we will pass to lighter literature." My friend, this is a puerile age, and the few men remaining are obliged to hide themselves for very shame, resembling, as they do, a well-formed man in a land of cripples. And these good youths of the century are desirous of doing all that their ancestors did. Like children they wish to act on the spur of the moment, without any laborious preparation. They would like the progress of the age to be such as to exempt them and their successors from all fatiguing study and application in the acquirement of knowledge. For instance, a commercial friend of mine told me the other day that even mediocrity has become very rare. Scarcely any one is fit to fulfil properly the duty which devolves upon him, either by necessity or choice. This seems to me to mark the true distinction between this century and the preceding ones. At all times greatness has been rare; but in former centuries mediocrity prevailed, whereas in our century nullity prevails. All people wish to be everything. Hence, there is such confusion and riot, that no attention is paid to the few great men who are still to be found, and who are unable to force a way through the vast multitude of rivals. Thus, whilst the lowest people believe themselves illustrious, obscurity and success in nothing is the common fate both of the highest and lowest. But, long live statistics! Long live the sciences, economical, moral, and political; the pocket encyclopædias; the manuals of everything; and all the other fine creations of our age! And may the nineteenth century live for ever! For though poor in results, it is yet very rich and great in promise, which' is well known to be the best of signs. Let us therefore console ourselves that for sixty-six[1] more years this admirable century will have the talking to itself, and will be able to utter its own opinions. _Friend_. You speak, it seems, somewhat ironically. But you ought at least to remember that this is a century of transition. _Tristano_. What do you infer from that? All centuries have been, and will be, more or less transitional; because human society is never stationary, and will never at any time attain to a fixed condition. It follows therefore that this fine word is either no excuse for the nineteenth century, or is one common to all the centuries. It remains to be seen whether the transition now in progress is from good to better, or from bad to worse. But perhaps you mean to say that the present age is especially transitional, inasmuch as it is a rapid passage from one state of civilisation to another, absolutely different. In which case I would ask your permission to laugh at this rapidity. Every transition requires a certain amount of time, and when too rapidly accomplished, invariably relapses, and the progress has to recommence from the very beginning. Thus it has always been. For nature does not advance by leaps; and when forced, no durable result is obtained. In short, precipitous transitions are only apparent transitions, and do not represent genuine progress. _Friend_. I advise you not to talk in this fashion with every one, because if you do you will gain many enemies. _Tristano_. What does it matter? Henceforth, neither enemies nor friends can do me much harm. _Friend_. Very probably you will be despised as one incapable of comprehending the spirit of modern philosophy, and who cares little for the progress of civilisation and the sciences. _Tristano_. I should be very sorry for that; but what can I do? If I am despised, I will endeavour to console myself. _Friend_. But have you, or have you not, changed your opinions? And what is to be done about your book? _Tristano_. It would be best to burn it. If it be not burnt, it may be preserved as a book full of poetic dreams, inventions, and melancholy caprices; or better, as an expression of the unhappiness of the writer. Because, I will tell you in confidence, my dear friend, that I believe you and every one else to be happy. As for myself, however, with your permission, and that of the century, I am very unhappy, and all the journals of both worlds cannot persuade me to the contrary. _Friend_. I do not know the cause of this unhappiness of which you speak. But a man is the best judge of his own happiness or unhappiness, and his opinion cannot be wrong. _Tristano_. Very true. And more, I tell you frankly that I do not submit to my unhappiness, nor bow the head, and come to terms with Destiny, like other men. I ardently wish for death above everything, with such warmth and sincerity as I firmly believe few have desired it. I would not speak to you thus, if I were not sure that when the time came I should not belie my words. I may add that although I do not yet foresee the end of my life, I have an inward feeling that almost assures me the hour of which I speak is not far distant. I am more than ripe for death, and it seems to me too absurd and improbable, that being dead spiritually, as I am, and the tale of my life being told in every part, I should linger out the forty or fifty years with which Nature threatens me. I am terrified at the mere thought of such a thing. But, like all evils that exceed the power of imagination, this seems to me a dream and illusion, devoid of truth. So that if any one speaks to me about the distant future, as though I were to have a part in it, I cannot help smiling to myself, so sure am I that I have not long to live. This thought, I may say, alone supports me. Books and studies, which I often wonder I ever loved, great designs, and hopes of glory and immortality, are things now undeserving of even a smile. Nor do I now laugh at the projects and hopes of this century. I cordially wish them every possible success, and I praise, admire, and sincerely honour their good intentions. But I do not envy posterity, nor those who have still a long life before them. Formerly I used to envy fools, imbeciles, and people with a high opinion of themselves, and I would willingly have changed my lot with any one of them. Now, I envy neither fools, nor the wise, the great, the small, the weak, the powerful. I envy the dead, and with them alone would I exchange my lot. Every pleasurable fancy, every thought of the future that comes to me in my solitude, and with which I pass away the time, is allied with the thought of death, from which it is inseparable. And in this longing, neither the remembrance of my childish dreams, nor the thought of having lived in vain, disturbs me any more as formerly. When death comes to me, I shall die as peacefully and contentedly as if it were the only thing for which I had ever wished in the world. This is the sole prospect that reconciles me to Destiny. If, on the one hand, I were offered the fortune and fame of Cæsar or Alexander, free from the least stain; and, on the other hand, death to-day, I should unhesitatingly choose to die to-day. [Footnote 1: Written in 1834.] THE END. 
31579	----	OLLA PODRIDA BY CAPTAIN MARRYAT [Illustration] LONDON J. M. DENT AND CO. BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN AND CO. MDCCCXCVI Contents THE MONK OF SEVILLE 1 _Metropolitan Magazine_, 1833. THE GIPSY 85 _Metropolitan Magazine_, 1834. ILL-WILL 159 _New Monthly Magazine_, 1837. HOW TO WRITE A FASHIONABLE NOVEL 179 _Metropolitan Magazine_, 1833. HOW TO WRITE A BOOK OF TRAVELS 200 _Metropolitan Magazine_ 1833, 1834. HOW TO WRITE A ROMANCE 214 _Metropolitan Magazine_, 1835. S.W. AND BY W. 3/4 W. 225 THE SKY-BLUE DOMINO 243 _New Monthly Magazine_, 1837. MODERN TOWN HOUSES 260 _New Monthly Magazine_, 1837. THE WAY TO BE HAPPY 275 THE LEGEND OF THE BELL ROCK 282 MOONSHINE 293 THE FAIRY'S WAND 313 _New Monthly Magazine_, 1840. A RENCONTRE 328 Prefatory Note This edition of _Olla Podrida_ does not include the "Diary on the Continent" which appeared first in the _Metropolitan Magazine_ 1835-1836 as "The Diary of a _Blasé_" continued in the _New Monthly Magazine_ 1837, 1838, as "Confessions and opinions of Ralph the Restless." Marryat himself described the "Diary" as "very good magazine stuff," and it has no fitting place in an edition of his novels, from which the "Diary in America" is also excluded. The space thus created is occupied by "The Gipsy," "The Fairy's Wand," and "A Rencontre," which I have ventured to print here in spite the author's protest,[A] that the original edition of _Olla Podrida_ contained all the miscellaneous matter contributed by him to periodicals that he wished to acknowledge as his writing. The statement may be regarded as a challenge to his editors to produce something worthy; and I certainly consider that the "Gipsy" is superior to some of his fragments, and may be paired, as a comedy, with "The Monk of Seville," as a tragedy. [Footnote A: Preface to first edition of O.P. printed below.] But I have not attempted any systematic search for scraps. "The Fairy's Wand" was published in the same year as, and probably later than, _Olla Podrida_ itself, and need not therefore be "considered as disavowed and rejected" by him. "A Rencontre" was always reprinted and acknowledged by its author, being, for no ostensible reason, bound up with _Joseph Rushbrook, or The Poacher_, 1841. This seems the most appropriate occasion to supplement, and--in some measure--to correct, the list of novels contributed to periodicals by Marryat, which I compiled from statements in _The Life and Letters_ by Florence Marryat (also tabulated in Mr David Hannay's "Life"), and printed on p. xix. of the General Introduction to this edition. TO THE METROPOLITAN MAGAZINE. (Edited by Marryat, 1832-1835.) _The Pacha of Many Tales_, May 1831--February 1833; and May 1834--May 1835. _Peter Simple_, June 1832--September 1833. The novel is not completed in the Magazine, but closes with an announcement of the three volume edition. _Jacob Faithful_, September 1833--September 1834. _Japhet in Search of a Father_, September 1834--January 1836. _Snarleyyow_, January 1836--January 1837. _Midshipman Easy._ One specimen chapter only. August 1835. TO THE NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. _The Privateersman_, 1845-1846. _Valerie_ (the first eleven chapters), 1846-1847. _The Phantom Ship_, 1838-1839. The bulk of this volume is reprinted from the first edition of _Olla Podrida_, in three volumes, Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans, 1840. "The Gipsy," from the _Metropolitan Magazine_; "The Fairy's Wand," from the _New Monthly Magazine_; and "A Rencontre," from the first Edition of _The Poacher_, 1841. R. B. J. Author's Preface to the First Edition I have not yet ventured upon a Preface to any of my writings, and I did not expect that I should ever have written one. Except in a work of importance, which may demand it, a Preface is, generally speaking, a request for indulgence which never will be accorded, or an explanation to which the Public is indifferent. It is only when an explanation is _due_ to the Public, or to the Author's reputation, that he should venture to offer one. If a work is well written, the Public are satisfied; if not, they have just cause to feel otherwise; and if an Author obtains justice, he obtains all that he has a right to expect. I write this Preface, because I consider that it may save me from a hasty remark or two, which it may be just as well to forestall. During the ten years which I have taken up the pen, I have furnished miscellaneous matter to various Periodicals, which, if it were all collected together, would swell into many volumes. Among it, as must be the case under the circumstances in which it was written, there is some which I consider tolerable; but the major portion is but indifferent; and I should be very sorry indeed, if at any future time, when I may not have the power to prevent it, all these articles should be collected and printed as mine. If ever it were done, it certainly would not be by my friends: I wish it, therefore, to be understood, that in the portions of these volumes which consist of republications, I have selected from the mass, all that I wish to acknowledge as my writing; and that the remainder (with the exception of the papers on nautical subjects, which are of no interest to the general reader) may be considered as disavowed and rejected. The major part of these volumes consist of a Diary written when I was on the Continent. It first appeared in the Periodicals, under the title of a "Diary of a _Blasé_:" the title was a bad one, as I did not write up to the character; I have, therefore, for want of a better name, simply called it a "Diary on the Continent;" and I mention this, that I may not be accused of having intentionally deceived. F. M. THE MONK OF SEVILLE: A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. ANSELMO DON GASPAR, _A monk disguised as a cavalier_. DON FELIX, _A Spanish nobleman_. DON PEREZ, _Do_. SUPERIOR _of the monastery_. ANTONIO, _Servant to Don Gasper_. MANUEL, _A monk_. JACOBO, _Porter to the monastery_. SANCHO, _Servant to Don Perez_. DONNA INEZ, _A noble lady._ ISIDORA, _Her niece._ DONNA SERAFINA. BEPPA,} } _Servant to Serafina._ } _both wives of Antonio_ } NINA, } } _Do. to Isidora._ _Monks, Choristers, Attendants, &c._ Scene laid in Seville. Olla Podrida The Monk of Seville _Act I. Scene I._ _Enter Don Felix and Don Perez._ _Felix._ You say his name's Don Gaspar? _Perez._ So he styles himself; but of what house, parentage, or country, cannot be gained. He keeps aloof from all, bears himself gallantly; and 'tis manifest that any question discourteously put he'd answer with his sword. _Felix._ He's skill'd in fence, then? _Perez._ There's none to match him. I, who have foiled half Seville, am but a scholar in his hands, when at the School we've joined the assault in courtesy. _Felix._ A proper man? _Perez._ Beyond comparison. He hath all the stamp of true nobility. Pride in his eye; in his address, dignified; in modes most perfect; the most envied of the men, and the most admired by all the dames of Seville. _Felix._ Successful, then? _Perez._ He confides in none; and hath no intimate; but I am informed he is resistless, and I much suspect, my rival. _Felix._ With the Donna Serafina? _Perez._ Even so; she has changed much of late; and I have discovered that one, who, from report, answers to his description, is highly favoured. _Felix._ But, Perez, did you not tell me you had left her? _Perez._ In faith I had; but when I discovered that another sought her, my passion then returned; and now that she rejects me, I dote upon her more than ever. _Felix._ Perez, when will you be wise? when will you cease to trifle with the sex? _Perez._ Never, I hope: women are my game; and I live but on the chase. Sighs, oaths, and amorous ditties are my ammunition; my guitar is my fowling-piece, and you must acknowledge that I seldom miss my aim. _Felix._ I grant it, Perez, but it's cruel sport, and quite unworthy of a cavalier. How many wounded birds have hid themselves to die! _Perez._ Poor things--why did they not keep out of shot range? It's useless to preach, Felix, I must have my amusement. _Felix._ Be careful, Perez, that it prove not dangerous; there is no honour gained by broken vows, false oaths, and tampering with maidens' hearts. It is a fault in you I would were mended; and our relationship makes me thus free to speak my mind. It is unworthy of you. _Perez._ But sufficing good for women--they are but playthings; and thus far am I renegade, that, with the prophet, I cannot allow them souls. _Felix._ You are incorrigible. Change the discourse, or I shall lose my temper and that opinion of you, which, 'gainst my better sense, I fain would keep. Our subject was Don Gaspar. _Perez._ Yes--and my object is to find out who he is, and, if basely born, to hunt him out of Seville. _Felix._ That there's mystery is evident; but when you hunt, see if such quarry, good Perez, turn not to bay. But new in Seville, I ne'er have encountered this prodigy; if his rank be mere assumption, he must be exposed; yet, Perez, there may be many causes for an incognito. Our Spain is wide and well peopled with those who boast high ancestry. _Perez._ If then so wide, there's room for him elsewhere. But here comes Sancho with intelligence. (_Enter Sancho._) How now, Sancho,--what have you discovered? _San._ (_Affectedly._) I am not quite a fool, Santa Petronila knows that, good sirs,--not quite a fool. I think you are fortunate in your servant. You'll excuse me, but I have seen the person whom you mentioned. _Perez._ Well-- _San._ I have seen him, sir, by Saint Petronila! _Perez._ And spoke to him, I trust. _San._ Yes, sir, and, by the same holy saint! I have spoken to him. _Perez._ To what purpose have you spoken to this Antonio? _San._ To _your_ purpose, sir. _Perez._ What did he tell you? I cry your patience, Felix, but this mule cannot be driven. What did he tell you, sirrah? _San._ You do not know what first I said to _him_,--would you have the answer before the question? _Perez._ Well, what said you first to him? _San._ With all good courtesy I wished him a good morning. He did the same to me. _Perez._ Well. _San._ I then discoursed about Saint Petronila, the wind, the pope, and the weather. No, I recollect, it was the weather before the saint. I think--yes--I am sure it was; how the saint brought in the wine, I know not; but we proceeded on to wine and women, which last discourse made us thirsty, so we adjourned into a wine-house. Saint Petronila shrive me! when we became most intimate, and after much beating about the bush, I discovered that his master-- _Perez._ Who--what? _San._ Don Gaspar, sir. _Perez._ Idiot! is that all? _San._ No,--only half; I found out more without him. He finished off his wine and left me without any more information, declaring that was all he knew himself; and that he had to meet a lady. Let me alone for finding out, Saint Petronila be my guide! I watched him, and as I turned the corner, found him in close whispering with the Señora Beppa. _Perez._ The attendant of Donna Serafina; then are my doubts confirmed. Treacherous sex!--but I'll be revenged! Did you speak to them? _San._ Not when Antonio was there. I never interfere between man and wife, the blessed saint knows that. _Perez._ His wife! _San._ Yes, his wife; but when Antonio quitted her, I then accosted her; and to my cross questions-- _Perez._ She gave you crooked answers. _San._ Precisely so, signor, and record it, Saint Petronila; she said that I was a fool! _Perez._ The wisdom of the woman! Come, Felix--Sancho, you will go home and await my return. [_Exit Perez and Felix._ _San._ That Antonio is a good fellow, Saint Petronila assist him! how he does make me laugh! we were sworn friends in two hours; and he promised to drink with me whenever I pleased: I wonder why he never offers to pay his share of the reckoning? He thinks it would affront me, I suppose! but when we are more intimate, I'll hint the contrary. Excellent fellow! how he did make me laugh! Then when next we meet, I'll ask his advice about my love affair! I am sadly in want of a confidant; now I've only my own wit, and the good saint. He's a man you may trust, I'll be sworn. Lord! how he did make me laugh! [_Exit._ _Scene II._ _Street opposite Anselmo's lodgings._ _Enter Antonio._ Well, I'm supposed to have as much wit as my neighbours, and yet I cannot make out this master of mine. He's a perfect mystery, and the more I try to unriddle him the more he riddles me. If I am deep, he is deeper. In short, I am no match for him, and thus I prove it. In the first place, he finds out everything I would conceal, and conceals everything I would find out. Secondly, he reads all my thoughts, and takes care that I shall read none of his. Then he disappears when I turn my back, and re-appears before I turn my face. He has discovered that I am a rogue, yet retains me in his service. His chamber is always locked when he goes out, and I am obliged to wait below upon board wages. There's some mystery about that chamber. I have watched repeatedly on the staircase to see him enter, but never can; and when I would swear that he is not in, it is I only who am out; for I am summoned to his presence. There's mystery! When he does appear, who is he? Don Gaspar; but of what family, and from what part of Spain, no one can tell. Mystery upon mystery! He may be the devil, and I feel my conscience touched; for no good ever came from the devil's wages. I'll to my confessor, and seek his counsel. He's a good man, and lenient too, to such poor rogues as I. But he insists that I appear each se'nnight, and sum the catalogue of my offences: perhaps he's right; for if I staid longer away, _some_ of them--as I am no scholar,--say half--would be forgotten. [_Enter Nina veiled, who passed by him, and exit._] There's a nice girl! What a foot and ankle! Now had my master seen her, there had been a job for me to dog her home. We lacqueys are like sporting dogs; we follow up the game, and when they stop their running, make a dead point, until our masters bag them for themselves. [_Nina returns. Enter._] She's coming back. This time I'll poach a little for myself. Fair lady, can I serve you? [_Nina stops, but turns away. Antonio kneels._] "Turn not away, fair angel, for since last You bless'd my eyes, my thoughts have been on you; For weeks I've follow'd, not daring to address you. As I'm a bachelor, and free to wed, Might I your favour gain, a life of tenderness, To you, my love, I'd tender." (_Aside._) I borrow'd that speech, excepting the last flourish, from my master: but since he has used it like his cast-off clothes, 'tis mine by custom. (_Aloud._) Will you not answer? I love you, madam, have loved you long; and, by my soul! ne'er said so much before to any woman breathing. [_Nina turns round and lifts her veil, Antonio turns away._] (_Aside._) By all that's intolerable, my Toledo wife! (_Turning to her._) Holy Saint Frances! It is, it is my wife! _Nina._ Yes, sir, your injured, your deserted wife! _Ant._ And are you still alive? then I am once more happy! (_Offers to embrace her._) _Nina._ Forbear! When was I dead, you wretch? _Ant._ Why, Nina, I've a letter from Toledo, that states that you are dead; you died a treble death, yourself and twins. _Nina._ What? _Ant._ Twins, my love, sweet pledges of affection. I've the letter in my pocket; I've kept it there for months, pored over it for weeks, and cried over it for days. (_Fumbles in his pocket._) Now I recollect it is in the pocket of my gala suit. What an infamous forgery! Come to my arms, my dear lamented, but now recovered wife! _Nina._ Keep off, you wretch! What did you say just now? "I've loved you long, and ne'er have said so much to any woman breathing." _Ant._ Well, my love, no more I had, except to yourself; and you I thought were dead. Why, my dearest Nina, it is a proof of my constancy. When I first saw you, I said to myself "that is the only woman I ever saw with a foot and ankle so pretty as my Nina's;" and the more I looked at you, the more your sweet figure reminded me of yourself. In fact, it was your likeness to yourself that created the first emotion in my widowed heart. Had I fallen in love with anybody else, my dearest Nina, you might have cause for anger; but I assert, to fall in love with my own wife proves me a paragon of fidelity. _Nina._ O, Lopez, could I but believe you! [_Antonio turns away and takes out his handkerchief._] (_Aside._) As my master says (_turning to Nina_), "Lay bare my heart, my Nina, read each thought, And there your image, deeply graven, find." [_She turns away. He pretends to be much affected; at last she embraces him._ _Ant._ (_Aside._) Into her arms and out of that scrape, thank my wits! (_Aloud._) And now, my love, how long have you resided in this city? _Nina._ But a few days. I serve the Donna Isidora. I was left behind in sickness, at their country seat, some time ago, and but now have joined her. Where have you been, my dear Lopez? _Ant._ Wandering about everywhere and anywhere, a lost man, since I heard of your loss;--yes, a miserable man. But of that hereafter. What seek you now? _Nina._ The lacquey of Don Gaspar, called Antonio;--can you assist me, as I am in haste? _Ant._ Why yes, I think I can. Behold him here; I am that same Antonio, and, for my sins, Don Gaspar's lacquey. _Nina_ (_walking away angrily_). It was convenient, perhaps, for you to change your name. You are Antonio, indeed! _Ant._ No, my dear wife; but it made me feel more happy (_placing his arm round her waist_). You used to call me Lopez; dearest Lopez; and when I thought you dead, the very name, when summoned by my masters, reminded me of your dear self. I could not bear it; so I changed my name. _Nina._ Dear Lopez! And do you really tell the truth? [_Antonio kisses her._] _Enter Beppa._ _Ant._ By this kiss I do! _Bep._ (_aside_). So, so, good husband! I have long suspected this. I'll watch your motions. _Nina._ Well then, dear Lopez, you must give this letter to your master. He must not fail to-night. When shall I see you? _Ant._ This night, if possible, there shall be more than one love-tale, my Nina. [_Exit Nina._ [_Beppa, who has gradually advanced, boxes Antonio's ears._ _Bep._ "There shall be more than one love-tale, my Nina." And this hand shall tell another tale (_striking again_), thou base villain! _Ant._ (_escaping from her, rubbing his ears_). O Lord! for tail read head. (_Aside._) This it is to have two wives. (_Aloud._) Why, Beppa, are you mad? How can I help it? _Bep._ How can you help it! _Ant._ Yes, how can I help it? I must obey my orders. _Bep._ Obey your orders! _Ant._ Yes, obey my orders, or lose my place. My master, who is amusing himself with a young lady, says to me, "Antonio, that servant girl hangs about much in my way, you must make love to her." _Bep._ Make love to her! _Ant._ Yes, make love to her. "I'll be hanged if I do," says I, thinking of my own sweet little Beppa. "Then you will be starved if you don't," said he. And as I found that he did not mean to be in earnest, I thought that there could be no harm in a little by-play. _Bep._ By-play! _Ant._ Yes, by-play. Well, I refused long, for it went against my conscience. Then he took this purse of ten moidores, and said, "Refuse me, and quit my service. Consent, and take this purse; the money will support your wife." _Bep._ (_snatching the purse_). Now, am I to believe this? _Ant._ Believe it! why, have you not the proofs? How should I possess ten moidores? Money is not to be had for nothing now-a-days. I meant to have told you all, but have not seen you since. _Bep._ She called you Lopez? _Ant._ She did. I would not give my name. No other shall call me "Dear Antonio," excepting my own true lawful wife! _Bep._ (_turning away with indifference, and putting the purse in her pocket_). Well, allowing all this to be true, and that's of no great importance, what a villain is your master, sir, to pay his court unto another, when he vows fidelity to my mistress, Donna Serafina! _Ant._ Upon my honour, I've enough to do to defend myself; though I must confess that his conduct is infamous. _Bep._ I'll to my mistress, and make known his treachery? [_Going._ _Ant._ Do no such thing! Bad news, though true, is never paid for; but the purse opens when the tidings please, although they're false as----(_points down below_). What's your message? _Bep._ My mistress dies to see him. _Ant._ Tell her he'll come to-morrow evening. He said as much when last I saw him. _Bep._ When last you saw him! Is he not here? _Ant._ He's here, and there, and everywhere, and nowhere. _Bep._ Where is he now? _Ant._ That I don't know; but not here, that's certain. [_Window opens, Gaspar calls loudly from within window--_ _Gasp._ Antonio! _Ant._ Santa Maria! Yes, sir. _Gasp._ Go to Castanos, and see if my guitar be strung. _Ant._ Now, how did he get there? Beppa, I must off. Remember my advice! _Bep._ (_scornfully_). I will. Good-by, Mr By-Play. [_Exit Beppa._ _Ant._ (_looking up_). How the devil did he get there, if not by the help of the devil! For it was not by the help of the door, I'll swear. To-morrow I'll confess--that's certain. [_Exit Antonio._ _Scene III._ _Moonlight.--A garden belonging to the house of Donna Inez.--A balcony looking into the garden.--Donna Isidora and Nina discovered on balcony._ _Isid._ He comes not yet. _Nina._ Señora, 'tis not time. _Isid._ 'Tis more than time; I heard the convent bell Strike long ago. _Nina._ 'Twas not the hour of night, but the sad toll Announcing some high obsequy. _Isid._ Yet, still, 'tis time he came. _Nina._ And here he would have been, but you forget You chided him for venturing so early. Your aunt had not retired when last he came. _Isid._ He does not wish to come,--I will not see him. Tell him my resolution. [_Exit, petulantly, Nina following._ _Enter Gaspar, in the dress of a cavalier._ I overheard her vented thoughts, poor girl! She counts the minutes by her throbbing heart, And that beats time too fast. Now will she hang her head, and weep awhile. Like flow'rets waiting for the morning sun, That raise their mournful heads at his approach, And every dew-drop, like a diamond, glistens, While they exhale sweet perfume in their joy,-- So at our meeting, smiling through her tears, Will she appear more fresh and beautiful! [_Re-enter Isidora and Nina. As they appear, Gaspar retires._ _Isid._ The moon's so bright, that faintly you discover The little stars which stud th' unclouded heav'n; The wind but scarcely moves the trembling aspen, And not a sound breaks through the still of night. All Nature's hush'd; and every passion lull'd, Save love, or fierce revenge. Is this a night To stay away, false, yet loved Don Gaspar? _Nina._ Be patient, lady, he will soon be here. _Isid._ He cannot sure be false. Perchance some danger hangs upon his steps; Men are so envious of the fair and good. _Nina_ (_looking_). Señora, look; I see him in the distance. _Isid._ He comes! Where, Nina? O yes! that is he. Well, now, I'll tease him. Nina, quickly in; I vow I will not show myself this night. [_Exit Isidora._ _Nina._ I wish I had ten ducats on the hazard. [_Exit Nina._ [_Gaspar sings to his guitar without._ _Song (mournful strain)._ "The mocking moon doth coldly fling Her rays upon my breast of flame, And echo mocks me as I sing. O my guitar! to thee what shame! She answers not, though thy best string Is loudly hymning forth her name. Isidora! Isidora!" [_Isidora appears at the balcony._ (_A livelier strain._) "No more the moon doth mock me now; Her bright rays glad my breast of flame, And echo, beautiful art thou! O my guitar! to thee no shame! She comes! love throned upon her brow! My strings hymn forth once more her name! Isidora! Isidora!" _Enter Gaspar, who approaches balcony._ _Isid._ Why hast thou staid so late? Did but the moon Turn on my anxious features her soft rays, Thou wouldst perceive how fretfulness and tears Have doubled every minute of thine absence. _Gasp._ And would 'twere day, that thou, sweet love, mightst see The fervid passion stamp'd upon my brow. I dared not disobey thy late command; Yet, did I fret, and champ the bit of duty, Like some proud battle steed arching his neck, Spurning the earth, impatient for the fray. So my young heart throbs with its new delight, That it e'en now would burst its cords asunder, And make one joyous bound into thy bosom. _Isid._ Say, Gaspar, dost thou fondly, truly, love me? _Gasp._ Do I love thee, Isidora? If it were not for thee, sweet love, The world would be a blank, and this existence A dreary void, I would not stumble through; But having thee, a paradise it is, So full of perfumed airs and flow'rets sweet, I would resist the angel's flaming sword, If it were raised between our plighted loves, Ere I would be from thy loved presence thrust. Thou art the heav'n of my idolatry! For thee I live and move,--for thee I breathe; For thee and for thy love, if thou knew'st all---- _Isid._ I would know all--there's mystery about thee! Gaspar, thine image here's so deeply graven, That nought can e'er efface it. Trust me, then, love, As I would thee. There's not a thought I own, No, not a fond emotion of my soul,-- Not e'en the slightest ripple o'er the mind, When calm and pensive as it used to be, But I would tell it thee. O couldst thou view my heart, and see thyself So firmly master of its deep recesses, Thou wouldst be confident. If thou shouldst be ignoble, fear not me, Love shall draw out thy patent of descent, And trace thy ancestry to more than mortal. If thou hast hated, and hast found revenge, Yet fear not me, dear Gaspar. Whate'er priests say, it is a noble passion, And holds an empire in the heart of man, Equal in strength and dignity with love. Be it a tale of sorrow or of crime, (O say 'tis not the last!) still let me share it, That I may comfort thee whene'er we meet, And mourn it only when I grieve thine absence. _Gasp._ My Isidora, oft thou'st press'd me thus; Since thou wilt hear it, then, it shall be told; But one sad chance, most fatal to us both, Is fetter'd to it. _Isid._ And what is that, my Gaspar? _Gasp._ That once reveal'd, we ne'er may meet again. _Isid._ Then I'll not hear't. Away with prying thoughts So fraught with mischief! Not to see thee more! Then might the angel pour the vial out, That vial of fierce wrath which is to quench The sun, the moon, the host of stars, in blood! Not see thee more! then may they work my shroud, And cull the flowers to strew my maiden corpse. Without thee, Gaspar, I should surely die! Wert thou the ruler of the universe, Commanding all, I could not love thee more! Wert thou a branded slave from bondage 'scap'd,-- 'Tis now too late,--I could not love thee less! _Gasp._ (_aside_). One soul so pure redeems a world of sin! Thou Heav'n that I have mock'd, O hear me now, And spare! let her not feel the bitter pangs Of disappointed love! Draw the barb gently, That she may sigh her soul away, and sleep Throughout her passage to a better world! _Isid._ What say'st thou, Gaspar! _Gasp._ I call'd down blessings, loveliest, on thy head. Heav'n grant my prayers! _Isid._ I, too, have pray'd for thee, and will again! But speak to me. Why didst thou come so late? How short, methinks, are nights. There's hardly time For those who've toil'd, to gain their needful rest,-- For those who wake, to whisper half their love. _Gasp._ Night is our day, and day becomes our night; Love changes all, o'er nature rules supreme; Alters her seasons, mocks her wisest laws, And, like the prophet, checks the planet's course. But from this world of hate, the night has fled, And I must hie me hence. O Isidora! Though my seeming's doubtful, yet remember, 'Tis true as Heaven, I love thee! _Isid._ I'm sure thou dost, and feeling thus assured, I am content. _Enter Nina, hastily, from balcony._ _Nina._ Madam, the lady Inez pass'd your door, And, passing, tried the bolt, e'en now I hear Her footsteps in the corridor. _Isid._ We must away, dear Gaspar. Fare thee well! Nina shall tell thee when we next can meet. [_Exit Isidora and Nina at balcony._ _Gasp._ So parts the miser from his hoarded wealth, And eyes the casket when the keys are turn'd. I must away. The world e'en now awakes, and the wan moon (Like some tired sentinel, his vigil o'er) Sinks down beneath yon trees. The morning mist Already seeks the skies, ascending straight, Like infant's prayers, or souls of holy martyrs. I must away. The world will not revolve another hour, Ere hives of men will pour their millions forth, To seek their food by labour, or supply Their wants by plunder, flattery, or deceit. Avarice again will count the dream'd-of hoards, Envy and Rancour stab, whilst sobbing Charity Will bind the fest'ring wounds that they have giv'n. The world of sin and selfishness awakes Once more, to swell its catalogue of crime, So monstrous that it wearies patient Heav'n. I must away. [_Exit._ _Act II. Scene I._ _The street before Anselmo's lodgings._ _Enter Antonio._ If ever fortune played me a jade's trick, 'twas when she brought my wives to Seville. So far have I contrived to keep them separate; but should they meet, they'll talk; and then, woe to that most interesting of all subjects, myself! I am sure to be discovered. Why, in half an hour, their rapid tongues would range o'er half the creation. Now, Beppa is my first wife, and, like all other first choices, the worst. There's vengeance in her, and she'll apply to the authorities; then must I to the galleys. Who wants a wife? I have one--aye two--to dispose of. Here comes a fool I trifle with. (_Enter Sancho._) So, comrade, what's your business now? (_Mimicking him._) Saint Petronila! you are a faithful servant, ever stirring to do your master's pleasure. _San._ 'Tis not his pleasure that I am upon--it is my own: I go to Donna Isidora's. _Ant._ What dost thou there? _San._ (_affectedly_). I please a damsel, and she pleases me. _Ant._ I do not wonder at it. Barring a certain too intelligent look that thou hast, thou art a pretty fellow, and made to charm the ladies. Who is this damsel of your choice? _San._ You'll keep my secret? _Ant._ As faithfully as I do all others. _San._ It is the maid of Donna Isidora. I knew her at Toledo, and for years kept her company. During my absence,--Saint Petronila strike him with the leprosy!--a certain Lopez, a dirty, shuffling, addle-pated knave, stepped in between us, and married her. She took the poor fool purely through pique, because I did not write to her; and the holy saint knows I had not then learned. _Ant._ (_aside_). Now would I beat his pate, but that I think the fool may assist me out of my difficulties. (_Aloud._) What! love a married woman! For shame, Sancho! I had thought better of you. _San._ I loved her years before she married; and since the marriage, her husband has deserted her, and I have met her often. Nina, for that's her name, has often told me how much she repented of her marriage with the fellow; and could I prove that he were dead, she'd marry me, Saint Petronila directing her, and make a wiser choice in second wedlock. _Ant._ (_aside_). The cockatrice. (_Aloud._) Sancho, I knew this Lopez. He is not quite the person you describe; but never mind. Yesterday, he came to Seville, and told me how much surprised he was to find his wife here. _San._ Then he's come back. Saint Petronila aid me! how unfortunate! _Ant._ (_musing aside_). I have it! (_Aloud._) Sancho, we have ever been the best of friends. I respect you much. I have most joyful tidings for you, and, if you will be counselled by me, Nina is yours. _San._ Indeed! I can't see how. I think I had a better chance before. _Ant._ Tut, man! you've now a certainty. Sancho, your ear--Lopez is _dead_! _San._ The scoundrel dead! My dear Antonio (_embracing him_), I thank you for the news, and so will Nina too. But can you prove it? _Ant._ I can, but in strict confidence. Pledge me your word you never will divulge, not even to Nina, what I now confide; for the women have the power to sap the stoutest resolution. Swear on your knees. _San._ (_kneeling_). I swear by Petronila, my adopted saint. _Ant._ Well, then, this Lopez was a noisy braggadocio. Last night we had some words whilst waiting near the gate of Donna Serafina. From words we came to weapons, and, by a lucky thrust, I sent his prying soul the devil knows where. His body I secreted in the garden. _San._ I envy you. Would he were alive again, that I might kill him too, my guardian saint assisting! I should be the better welcome. _Ant._ Indeed! _San._ Not that it matters; I am convinced she loves me well. I'll to her straight, and with these welcome tidings make her right happy. _Ant._ Not quite so fast. When that you tell her, she will ask for proofs, and from whence you had your information. _San._ Why, that is true; and she'll never rest till she worms the secret from me: Saint Petronila, lock my breast! _Ant._ Therefore, Sancho, it must appear as if there was no secret. Tell her 'twas by your hand that Lopez fell; I am content that you shall have with her all the credit of the deed. She'll love you better. _San._ Why, so she will. My dear Antonio, you are like my holy saint, a friend indeed! _Ant._ If she doubts the fact, you'll come to me. I'll give you proofs most positive. _San._ Thanks--thanks! _Ant._ Now take advice. Women, like eels, are rather slippery; already she has once slipped through your fingers. Their minds are weathercocks, and there's wind always blowing. Press her, then, hard, and marry her at once. _San._ I will, I will. Thanks, dear Antonio!--Saint Petronila will reward you. _Ant._ I risk much to serve you. You'll meet me here to-night. I must now to confess this heavy deed. You'll come. _San._ I will--addio! [_Exit._ _Ant._ So, so the fondling, ever coaxing Nina Loves this soft fool, and wishes I were dead. I did think better of her. We men deceive, 'tis true; but still no longer Keep on the mask, when we've our purpose gain'd. With us 'tis tiresome; but with the women, 'Tis ne'er removed; for mask'd they live and die! [_Exit._ _Scene II._ _The Monastery._ _Gaspar, as Anselmo, enters with Jacobo._ _Jac._ Twice hath the brother Manuel sought for you; He came from the Superior. _Gasp._ You told him I was absent? _Jac._ I did, and also where you might be found. They sent a messenger, who soon return'd, Declaring there thou hadst not been to-day. _Gasp._ Truly, I had forgotten 'twas the day That I with Don Baltasar did appoint. 'Twas thus my treach'rous memory did beget This chapter of cross purposes. [_Bell without._ _Jac._ Someone rings. That jingling bell pursues me unto death; In faith, this porter's is a tedious office. [_Exit._ _Gasp._ More tedious still the wearing of the knees Upon this pavement. I am weary of it. _Enter Jacobo, with Antonio._ _Jac._ One who inquires for thee, Anselmo, Who would confess. _Gasp._ (_Takes a confessional chair._) I know the man: Jacobo, leave us. [_Exit Jacobo._ My son, we are alone; now thou may'st profit By holy rite, and on thy bended knees Pour out thy soul to me in deep contrition. Hast thou perform'd the penance I enjoin'd For the sad stumblings thou did'st last confess? _Ant._ I have, most holy father, to my belief Obey'd thy strict injunction. I have so much to think of for my master, My thoughts are scarce mine own; Still do I often call upon the saints. _Gasp._ I trust thou dost--and not as I have heard That worldlings do, invoke them in mere blasphemy. _Ant._ Nay, father, when I call, I am sincere. _Gasp._ Thou dost evade, I fear, with double meaning. But to the purpose--by what sins hast thou, Since last we met, endanger'd thy poor soul? _Ant._ Father, my mind is ill at ease. I serve A master most equivocal--a false one In all he says and does; in love--in everything. I know not what to think. He's here and there-- In fact, I do believe he is--the devil. _Gasp._ Give me the grounds for this thy strange suspicion. _Ant._ He keeps his chamber lock'd, his haunts unknown. He comes when least expected. How he comes I cannot tell. He goes, and Heaven knows where. I ne'er can make him out with all my prying. _Gasp._ It would appear thy master doth not trust thee. Why should'st thou watch, and seek to find out that He would conceal? This base prying nature Is a dark sin, and must be check'd by penance. Hast thou no more? _Ant._ Yes, father, I've a grievous fault to tell; One that I'm fearful thou wilt much abhor-- An accident, 'tis true, and most unlucky-- I have two wives in Seville. _Gasp._ Two wives! Thou hast profaned the holy rite! What! wedded twice! and say 'twas accident! _Ant._ An accident--they both have come to Seville. _Gasp._ It is a heinous sin--one that demands Justice on earth; scarce pardon claims from Heaven. Two wives! How long hast thou thus lived in sin? _Ant._ 'Tis now three years since I did wed the second! I had forgot, my memory is so bad, I wedded was before--till yesterday, I chanced to meet with both of them in Seville. _Gasp._ Thy memory's most convenient, but the law Will not o'erlook thy crime when it is known. _Ant._ We'll leave it to the law, then, please thee, father. The sin is one that carries its own penance. _Gasp._ How could'st thou venture on so foul a deed? _Ant._ Example, holy father! bad example. It is our masters who do ruin us. My present one, for instance, loves two ladies, And woos them both. Sad reprobate he is! _Gasp._ Another's fault can't sanctify thine own, Else all th' ordinances of our church were useless; Thou art more knave than fool, Antonio, And yet made up of both. For this thy crime I have no absolution. Haste thee hence, And tremble at thy state of sad perdition! [_Exit Gaspar._ _Ant. (looking after him_). More knave than fool!--why, yes, that's true. What a scurvy fellow! No absolution! I shall take the liberty of changing my confessor. So, good sir, I give you your warning. Must not pry either! Does he not pry into my conscience as far as he can? Why, his whole life is a life of prying!--I have no opinion of these monks! They're no better than they should be. The law must take its course--there's the mischief. Let me only contrive to get out of its clutches now, and I'll take my chance for getting out of the devil's hereafter! [_Exit._ _Scene III._ _A Street in Seville._ _Enter Felix and Perez, meeting._ _Felix._ Perez, well met; I hoped to find you. Have you discovered who your rival may be? and what answer have you gained from Donna Serafina to your most urgent pleadings? _Perez._ Confusion light upon her! She hath returned my letter without opening it; and sent a request that I will desist from useless persecution. Beppa, her confidante, I have contrived to parley with; and what with bribes and much entreaty, I have ascertained that this Don Gaspar _is_ the rival who supplants me. _Felix._ I doubt it, Perez--doubt it much. I, too, have gained some information from Sancho, who associates much with one Nina, Isidora's favoured woman. From this source I've learned that this Don Gaspar is her favoured cavalier, and that last night they had a meeting. _Perez._ Yet I am sure my knowledge is correct, and that the Donna Serafina grants him those favours which I consider are but due to me. _Felix._ Why, what a conscientious cavalier is this, who thus monopolises all our beauties! I fain would see him. What is he like? His properties must be wondrous indeed. Where is he to be met? _Perez._ He often passes this way to the Prado. I wish to meet him also, but not in courtesy. Indeed! see, here he comes! [_Enter Don Gaspar and as he would pass by, Perez steps before him. Gaspar moves on one side and Perez again intercepts him._ _Gasp._ Don Perez, at first I imagined this was accident, but now your conduct will admit no such interpretation. Do you dispute my passage? _Perez._ I do--until we have had some little parley. _Gasp._ Then, sir, your parley. Be brief. Indeed, I know not what there is between us that demands it. _Perez._ I believe, Don Gaspar, that you woo a lady. _Gasp._ 'Tis not impossible. _Perez._ You will oblige me if you cease to woo. _Gasp._ Don Perez, I never brook affront. What has already passed demands a deadly meeting. But to reply to your strange request, who is the lady I am commanded not to woo, and upon what grounds? _Perez._ The lady is the Donna Serafina--I grant a fickle, yet a lovely one. You call yourself Don Gaspar. Who is this Don Gaspar that ruffles thus with our nobility? Detail your ancestry and lineage. Of what family are you? Where are your possessions? show me the patent of your descent or else---- _Gasp._ Or else, Don Perez? _Perez._ I publish you through Seville! _Gasp._ Then do it quickly; you've no time to lose. First let me tell you, sir, that had not reasons, and those the most cogent ones, forced me to hide my quality, I had not so long submitted to the doubts which are abroad. Still my secret is mine own and shall remain so. Who and what I am, Don Perez, you shall never know. You have not long to live; and now, sir, let me pass. We meet again when least you wish it. _Felix._ Perez, indeed you are to blame. Don Gaspar has the right of every man to wear the incognito, either from choice or from necessity. He has never intruded on your company, bears himself correctly, and wears the form and stamp of true nobility. Thus much in justice must I say. If you must quarrel let your cause be good. _Gasp._ Sir, I thank you (_bowing to Don Felix_). _Perez._ Still do I hold my words, and challenge him impostor! _Gasp._ Did you retract them it would not avail. But time is pressing, and I cannot wait. _Perez._ When do we meet again? _Gasp._ I said before, when least you wish it. (_To Don Felix_) Signor, farewell! [_Exit Gaspar._ _Perez._ By heavens! I hold him craven! Do you think that I shall hear from him? _Felix._ Hear from him! I saw no signs of fear, but much of rage, and that but ill suppressed. In faith he is a noble cavalier! You'll hear, and see, and suffer from him too, or I mistake. _Perez._ What did he say? when least I wished it? _Felix._ Those were his words. _Perez._ They're pregnant with some meaning. _Felix._ No doubt--we'll ravel out this mystery as we walk. Come to the Prado: this smiling day will bring the fair ones forth. Come, come! [_Exeunt._ _Scene IV._ _A Street before Anselmo's Lodgings._ _Enter Antonio._ What with the messages from my master's two mistresses, I am not a little puzzled to keep my two wives apart. I have spread a report of my absence by another channel, which will reach Nina; and, unless she comes for my effects, which Beppa surely would, there is no fear. Now must I wait for Sancho. _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ One is as sure to find you standing here, as to find the figure of our lady in the church. _Ant._ I wish the likeness went further, and that the same presents were offered to me. I should be rich. _Bep._ You will never be rich. You are not honest. _Ant._ It is my poverty has made me otherwise. _Bep._ And while you are otherwise you will be poor. You shut the only gate by which riches can enter. _Ant._ And yet, good wife, I have occasionally seen great rogues amass great wealth. _Bep._ Castles built upon the sand, without a good foundation!--a pile of industry heaped up in vain. But I have known you long, and it is useless to reason with you. _Ant._ Pray, may I ask, what has made you in such a sermonising humour to-day? _Bep._ No; but you may hear why I am come to you. I am sent to know if your rogue of a master comes to my lady to-night. _Ant._ He does, to the best of my knowledge, and belief. _Enter Sancho._ _Ant._ Sancho, I have been waiting for you (_to Sancho aside_). I'll speak to you directly (_pointing to Beppa_). _Bep._ I'm sure there is mischief. I'll stay to plague him. _Ant._ Well, Beppa, you have your answer, and I have no doubt but Donna Serafina is impatient. _Bep._ She may be: but, Antonio, I want to put a question to you, now that I am here; who is that girl with whom I caught you the other day,--that Nina! _San._ Saint Petronila! caught him with Nina? Why he's a married man and your husband. _Bep._ I know he is, to my misfortune. Yet still he makes love to other women. I caught him kissing her. _Ant._ (_aside_). Confound her! _San._ Kissing her! (_To Antonio_) Your most obedient! Then I understand why you fought her husband. _Bep._ Fought her husband did you say? _San._ Yes, and killed him--a dirty rascal, whose name was---- _Ant._ (_putting his hand on Sancho's mouth_). Your honour, Sancho! recollect your oath! _San._ I had forgotten. Saint Petronila, refresh my memory! But this requires some little explanation. _Ant._ And you shall have it, but not now. All's right. _San._ All's right? _Ant._ (_aside to Sancho_). Yes--this woman's jealous of her. As soon as she is gone I will explain the whole. _Bep._ (_aside_). Now are there knavish tricks in practice. (_Aloud_) You know this Nina--this girl of his? _San._ Why, yes--I know the woman. _Bep._ Then if you do, tell her she's a shameless wanton, thus to seduce a married man, and that Antonio's wife will spoil her beauty if she come across her. You understand me? _San._ Why, yes; it is very plain, by Saint Petronila! _Bep._ Husband, farewell. I trust you'll mend your ways. [_Exit Beppa._ _Ant._ Cursed jealous cockatrice! Why, Sancho, you are serious. _San._ Why, yes, a little. I thought you were my friend, but if you are only doing a friendly act for Nina in getting her a husband---- _Ant._ My dear Sancho, I'll explain it all. Nina is virtuous. It was her husband that she kissed, and this alone has made that woman jealous. _San._ Why should she be jealous of Nina's kissing her own husband? _Ant._ Because that husband had my livery on; and Beppa swears 'twas I. When Lopez arrived here he wanted a situation, but his clothes were so shabby, he could not offer himself to any gentleman. I lent him a suit of mine, a very good one too, and yet the wretch had the ingratitude to quarrel with me, although dressed in my clothes. They are on his body now. When he met his wife he kissed her, and Beppa, who was passing by, thought it was I; and this is the whole mystery. You can ask Nina how her husband was dressed when she met him, and her answer will prove the truth of what I say. Only, you must not mention a word of me or of Beppa. I hope you're satisfied. _San._ Why, yes--it seems the truth. _Ant._ Well, now, Sancho, let me know how Nina received the news of her husband's death. _San._ Women are strange creatures! Would you believe it? When I told his death--Saint Petronila, be merciful to me!--although she always disliked him, she cried and sobbed most bitterly; and when I would have consoled her she pushed me--yes, me, Sancho, away! Saint Petronila! _Ant._ I almost repent of my scheme. I wish it had been Beppa that the fool fancied. _San._ But this did not last above ten minutes. She then wiped her eyes, and suffered me to kiss her. _Ant._ So soon--confound her! He shall have her (_aside_). _San._ O more than that: when she became more tranquil she smiled--hi, hi, hi! by the lips of the holy saint, she did! _Ant._ (_aside_). The Jezebel! (_Aloud_) But, Sancho, was she quite satisfied with your assertion of his being killed? _San._ No; she said she must have more proof, that there might be no mistake; for, as she truly observed, it would be an awkward thing to have two husbands. _Ant._ (_aside_). It is to have two wives. (_Aloud_) Sancho, proceed. _San._ I followed your advice, and told her 'twas by my hand that Lopez fell--Saint Petronila pardon me the lie. _Ant._ What said she then? _San._ Why, at first, she repulsed; but then remembering that second thoughts as well as second husbands were the best, she dried her eyes, and was content; don't you see how fresh I am with the joy? _Ant._ (_aside and looking contemptuously on Sancho_). Confound him! _San._ What say you? _Ant._ That you're a happy man. Did you press her hard to marry you at once, as I advised you? _San._ I did, and at last she promised, as soon as she had seen her husband dead, to marry me immediately. _Ant._ Now, Sancho, I will be your friend. Of course I must not appear in this, nor must my name be mentioned. But if to-morrow at dusk will suit you, I'll drag his body from the place where I concealed it, and lay it in the path which leads to the summer house--you know where I mean, just where the row of tall chestnut trees---- _San._ I know exactly. Thank you, Antonio. She said to-morrow night she thought she would be able to come out. I'll go to her immediately, and make the appointment. Saint Petronila, smile on my joys of wedlock! [_Exit Sancho._ _Ant._ How I hate women!... If that fool had mentioned the name of Lopez, the crafty Beppa would have discovered the whole affair. What with keeping my own secrets, and finding out those of my master, I have enough to do. So far the former has been well managed, now for the latter. [_Exit into house._ _Scene V._ _An Apartment in the Guzman Palace. Donna Inez discovered seated at table._ _Inez._ Last night, again, beneath my niece's window I heard that tuneful voice; and if mine ears Deceived me not, my Isidora's too. As I pass'd by, a light whose feeble rays Shone thro' the vacancy beneath the door Proved that she'd not retired. I much suspect She is entangled in some web of love. Yet oft have I enjoin'd her to advise With me, her friend, and truest counsellor. But 'tis in vain; Love ne'er would be so sweet,--so fondly cherish'd, If not envelop'd in the veil of secrecy: And good intents are oft in maidens check'd By that strange joyous fear, that happy awe, Which agitates the breast when first the trembler Receives its dangerous inmate. I've summon'd her, for now I must endeavour To be her confidante. (_Muses._) 'Twere better first I made her mine. And sympathy may win the treasured key, Which startled love would willingly retain. _Enter Isidora._ _Isid._ You wish my presence. (_Aside_) Hush, my tell-tale heart. _Inez._ Hast thou slept well, my child? _Isid._ My dreams have been confused, but not unhappy. _Inez._ Oh! may'st thou never wake to mystery! Thine is a dang'rous age: my Isidora, Thou little know'st, that while thy path is strew'd With flow'rs, how many serpent dangers lurk Beneath the sweets. _Isid._ I will not stray, then. _Inez._ It is a happy resolution. If, in my youth, I had been so resolved, I had not loaded mine old age with care, Nor soak'd my pillow with remorseful tears. _Isid._ I've often seen you weep, and then retire, Nor glad me with your presence, until after You had communion held with Father Philip; Then have you smiled again, that is to say, Smiled mournfully, as does the winter's sun, Gleaming through heavy clouds, and scarce deigning To light up sober nature for the minute. _Inez._ True, dearest child, for such is our blindness, That we reject our greatest boon, until We can receive support from it alone. 'Tis time thou should'st receive my confidence, And learn the danger of clandestine love. _Isid._ (_aside_). She must suspect me. (_Aloud_) I'm all attention. _Inez._ To say I once was fair, and that mine eyes Were bright as thine are now, were almost needless. I had a mother most considerate-- Kind to excess, yet ever pointing out The path to virtue, and to happiness. One precept above all did she enjoin, And sure 'twas little in exchange to ask For so much kindness--wisely to seek her counsel Ere the heart was wounded. You hear me, love, I oft have made the same request of you. _Isid._ (_faintly_). You have. _Inez._ I promised faithfully, as thou hast done, And well, I know, wilt keep the promise made. But virgin fear induced _me_ to withhold My confidence, until it was too late. My heart was given and my troth was plighted; Don Felipe, such was his cherish'd name, Implored my silence; our frequent meetings Were sanctified by marriage: then I learn'd It was an old and deadly feud that barr'd His long sought entrance to our house; but soon He hoped our marriage publicly t'announce, And strife of years to end, and peace restore By our acknowledged union. Alas! two days before this much-sought hour, My brothers were inform'd I did receive My husband in my chamber. He was surprised And murder'd--basely in my presence slain! _Isid._ Oh Heavens! _Inez._ They would not listen to my frantic words! They would not credit our asserted union! They dragg'd me to a convent in their wrath, And left me to my widowhood and tears, Tore my sweet infant from my longing arms, And while I madly scream'd, and begg'd for pity, The abbess spoke of penitence and prayer. Reason, for weeks, forsook me: when again I was awaken'd to a cruel world, They would have forced me to assume the veil. _Isid._ To me, that force had been most needlessly Exerted. What haven could the world offer So meet for such a wreck of happiness? What could induce you to repel that force? _Inez._ The hope, that one day I might find my boy-- A hope which still I cherish. Years have fled; My brothers fell by those who sought revenge, And I remain'd, sole scion of our noble house, In line direct. Then did I seek my child. Those who attended at the birth inform'd me It had a sanguine bracelet on the wrist. By threats and bribes at last I ascertained My child had been removed unto the hospital Built in this city for receiving foundlings. Full of a mother's joy, a mother's fear, I hasten'd there, alas! to disappointment! All clue of him was lost, and should my boy survive, The heir of Guzman's noble house may be Some poor mechanic's slave! (_In anguish throws herself into a chair._) _Isidora_ (_kneels beside Inez_). Indeed 'tis dreadful. I marvel not you grieve To think that he survives in hapless penury, Unconscious of his right, perchance unfitted, And if recover'd, prove no source of joy, But one of deep regret, that a young stock Which culture and the graft of education Would now have loaded on each bough with fruit, Neglect hath left degenerate and worthless. How should I joy, yet dread to meet my cousin, Should your maternal hopes be realised! _Inez._ He is my child. You cannot feel the pangs Which rack a mother sever'd from her own. _Isid._ I've often thought how sweet that love must be Where all is sanction'd, nought is to conceal-- When hand may lock in hand, heart beat with heart, And the whole world may smile but not upbraid. Such love a sister towards a brother bears, And such a mother feels towards her son. I have no brother--none of kin but you. Now, dearest mother, for mother you have been Unto my childhood and now budding youth, Would that my feebleness could e'er repay Your years of love. O that I could console you, And prove me grateful! Heaven ne'er be mine If these, my sobbing words, be not sincere. _Inez._ 'Tis well, my child, thou canst console me much: Let my sad tale but prove to thee a beacon And I am satisfied. Tell me, my love, Hast thou no secrets hidden in thy breast? [_Isidora, still kneeling, covers her face with her hands._] Hast thou fulfill'd thy oft-repeated promise? _Isid._ Forgive me, dearest aunt; forgive and pity me! _Inez._ Last night, my child, I heard the sound of music: Methought thy name was wafted by the air With most harmonious utterance. _Isid._ Forgive me, aunt, but say that you forgive me! You shall know all. _Inez._ I do, my Isidora, I forgive thee (_raises her_). But I must have thy confidence, my child. Who is this cavalier? _Isid._ Alas! I know not. _Inez._ Not know, my Isidora? Hast thou then Been so unwise as to receive a stranger? _Isid._ Alas! I have, but too much for my peace. _Inez._ Thou lov'st him then? [_Isidora throws herself into the arms of Inez and bursts into tears._] (_Aside_) The barb has entered deeply. (_Aloud_) Isidora, Come, come, cheer up, my love, I mean not to reproach. All may yet be well. (_Inez kisses Isidora, and they separate._) Thou say'st he is a stranger? _Isid._ I only know he calls himself Don Gaspar. I have indeed been foolish. _Inez._ Has he ne'er mention'd his condition, His family or descent? _Isid._ Never; and when that I would question him, He answers vaguely. There is some mystery. _Inez._ With honest love concealment never dwells. When does he come again? _Isid._ To-morrow even--and he'll keep his word. _Inez._ Then will I see him. Fear not, my love, No trifling cause shall bar thy happiness. Be he but gentle, e'en of Moorish blood, And honest, he is thine. Go to thy chamber, Thither will I follow, that we some project May devise, which shall remove all obstacle. [_Exit Isidora._ I like not this Don Gaspar, and my heart Forebodes some evil nigh. I may be wrong, But in my sear'd imagination, He is some snake whose fascinating eyes, Fix'd on my trembling bird, have drawn her down Into his pois'nous fangs. How frail our sex! Prudence may guard us from th' assaults of passion, But storm'd the citadel, in woman's heart, Victorious love admits no armistice Or sway conjoint. He garrisons alone. [_Exit Inez._ _Act III. Scene I._ _The monastery.--Procession of monks, choristers, &c., returning from performing service in the chapel.--The organ still playing in the chapel within, Anselmo at the head of the choristers.--They pass on bowing to the Superior, who, with Manuel, remain.--The organ ceases._ _Sup._ (_looking round_). Anselmo hath pass'd on. I do observe, Of late he shuns communion. 'Tis most strange. Say, Manuel, hast thou discover'd aught? Doth he continue steadfast and devout? Or, borne away by youthful phantasies, Neglect the duties of our sacred order? _Man._ He bears himself correctly, and e'er since His last offence, when self-inflicted pain Proved his contrition, he hath ever seem'd To be absorb'd in holy meditation. _Sup._ May this continue, he's of great import To the well doing of our monastery---- Yet he hath not of late confess'd his sins. _Man._ Perchance he hath not err'd. Forgive me, Heav'n, Rash words like these when all are born to sin! I deem'd that he had nothing to confess Except the warring of his youthful passions, O'er which he strives to hold dominion. _Sup._ I would it were so; but, too frequently, I do perceive a furtive glance of fire From 'neath his fringed eyelash wildly start, As does the lightning from a heavy cloud: It doth denote strong passion--much too strong For youthful resolution to control. _Man._ Why then permit him to behold the world And all its vanities? 'Tis true, our coffers Are somewhat help'd by that he brings to them, Instructing music, a gift from nature In him most perfect. Were it not better That he within our cloister'd gates should stay? _Sup._ Then would he pine; for our monastic vows Are much too harsh, too rigid save for those Who, having proved the world, at length retire When they have lost the appetite to sin. There's much depending on the boy Anselmo; He is a prize whose worth I little knew When first into our brotherhood he came. _Man._ I comprehend you not. _Sup._ Thou canst not, Manuel, but I will confide What has been reveal'd to me alone. Well thou know'st for years I have confess'd The Donna Inez. From her I late have learn'd She bore a child in wedlock, which she lost; And, by the notices which she has given, I find him in Anselmo. _Man._ In Anselmo! Then he's the rightful heir To all the Guzman wealth. _Sup._ 'Tis even so. _Man._ Father, how long since you discover'd this? _Sup._ But a few months before he took his vows. _Man._ Why did you then permit them? _Sup._ To serve our holy church; which either way Must gain by his belonging to our order. The lady mourns her son. If I restore him, She must be grateful. Thus our convent will Become endow'd with acres of broad land. And should he choose still to retain his vows, When he has learnt the story of his birth, Then will our monast'ry no doubt receive The wealth _he_ values not, but _we_ require. _Man._ I do perceive--'twas prudently arranged-- What wait you for? _Sup._ To see if he will turn his thoughts to Heav'n; But, look, he moves this way. Leave me with him. [_Exit Manuel, and enter Anselmo._ Where hast thou been, my child? _Ans._ Lending mine ear to those who would unload A conscience heavy with repeated sin-- Giving advice and absolution free To those who riot in a sinful world. _Sup._ Yet still be lenient. We in holy bonds Expect not men exposed, to be so perfect. Tell me, for lately thou hast not confess'd, How throbs thy heart? Do holy thoughts prevail? Art thou at peace within, or does thy youth Regret its vow, and yield to vain repinings? _Ans._ I am, most holy father, as Heav'n made me-- Content, and not content, as in their turns The good or evil thoughts will be ascendant. When that the evil thoughts the mastery gain, I try to curb them. Man can do no more. _Sup._ At thy rebelling age, 'tis doing much. Now put my question to thy inmost soul And answer me:--could'st thou rejoin the world And all its pleasures, now so bright in fancy To youth's all ardent mind, tell me sincerely, Would'st thou reject them? _Ans._ Why call in question that which ne'er can be? My vows are ta'en, therefore no choice is mine. _Sup._ Most things are possible to mother church, As would this be--a dispensation sought Might be obtain'd. _Ans._ (_at first with joy in his countenance, then assuming a mournful expression_). It would not be a kindness. Who, my father, In this wide glorious world is kindred to Anselmo? I will confess, I sometimes have indulged Half dreaming thoughts (O say not they are sinful!) Of the sweet hours of those, who, lapp'd in bliss, See brothers, sisters, offspring, clust'ring round, Loving and loved; then have I wept to think That I have none, and sadly felt convinced 'Tis for my happiness that I am here. _Sup._ True, my Anselmo, 'tis a dreary world, And still more dreary when we've nought to cling to, But say, if thou hadst found a doting mother, One that was nobly born and rich, who hail'd In thee the foundling heir to large estates, What then? _Ans._ (_starts, and after a pause_). I cannot say--my thoughts ne'er stray'd so far. Father, you oft the dangers have set forth Of dreaming fancies which may lead astray; Yet do you try to tempt me, by supposing that Which shakes my firmness, yet can never be. _Sup._ We are but mortal. I did wish to know Thy secret thoughts, and thou withhold'st them still. At night come to me, then shalt thou confess, For I would learn the workings of thy soul. _Ans._ First let me strive to calm my troubled mind: I will confess to-morrow. _Sup._ Then, be it so. [_Exit Superior._ _Ans._ 'Tis strange. He ne'er before essay'd me thus. A doting mother, wealthy too, and noble! O! if 'twere true, and I could gain my freedom! But these are very dreamings. Hold, my brain! For he has conjured up a vision wild, And beautiful as wild! Wealth, ancestry, A mother's love! But what are these to thee, Thou monk Anselmo? go--go and hang thy head Within the cowl, droop'd humbly on thy breast-- For know, thou art a monk, and vow'd to Heav'n! Oh parents stern! to fling me thus on fate! But vows more stern that thus debar me from The common rights of man! Why were we made With passions strong, that even Nature laughs When we would fain control them? Lone to live And die are rebel acts, to Heav'n unpleasing. Say I were humbly born of peasant race, I should have glided on the silent brook; Or highly bred and nobly father'd, Dash'd proudly like the rapid flowing river. But in these confines against Nature pent, I must remain a stagnant torpid lake; Or else marking my wild course with ruin, Till my force is spent and all is over, Burst forth a mad, ungovernable torrent. _Enter Jacobo._ _Jac._ What Anselmo! not outside the convent gates, and service over this half hour! By St Dominic, it is as I expected--thou hast fallen in with the Superior, and hast been ordered home with penance. _Ans._ Not so, Jacobo. The Superior and I roll on in different orbits. Saturn and Venus are as like to jostle as we upon our travels. _Jac._ Well, I've an idea that there's something wrong, and my news will not be very agreeable to you: the key is, in future, to be delivered to the Superior at nine o'clock, and, if required, it must be sent for. _Ans._ Indeed! then he must suspect that we are not so regular. Still, I must out to-night, Jacobo--I must indeed! _Jac._ Impossible! _Ans._ (_giving him money_). I must, Jacobo. Here's for thy wine, much watching needs it. _Jac._ The Superior calls me, brother; I only wish there was brotherhood in our drinking. The noble juice which mantles in his cup would cheer me in my vigils. _Ans._ And that will purchase it. I must be out to-night. Let the Superior have the key, but do not lock the door. You understand, Jacobo? _Jac._ I do; but there's danger in it. Holy Virgin! the Superior comes this way. Anselmo, you had better to your cell. _Ans._ I detest it. Now must I play the hypocrite. _Enter Superior followed by Jacobo._ _Sup._ (_observing Anselmo_). Thou here, my son! I thought thee at thy cell. _Ans._ I wish'd to seek it; but till vesper chimes I must employ in teaching melody; But that the coffers of our holy church Receive the thrift, my mind were ill at ease Thus mixing with the world; for holy vigils Are better suited to my early years. (_Kneeling._) O bless, my father, my untoward youth And teach my thoughts to find the path to Heav'n. _Sup._ (_bending over Anselmo_). Bless thee, my child, may thy young heart Turn now to Heav'n, as Samuel's did of old! May holy thoughts pervade thy youthful mind! May holy dreams enrich thy peaceful sleep! May heavenly choristers descend in visions, And point thee out the joys awaiting those Who dedicate on earth their lives to Heav'n. [_Exit Superior, after blessing Anselmo.--Anselmo, still kneeling, watches the departure of the Superior._ _Ans._ (_rising._) He's safe. _Jac._ Hah, hah! do you edify? _Ans._ Peace, peace, Jacobo! 'Tis time that I were gone. _Jac._ You will return before the door is lock'd? _Ans._ Because you will not lock it. I shall be home at midnight: it must be so, Jacobo. If not, expect no further gifts from me; and what is more, a full confession of the many times you have been bribed to secrecy. [_Exit Anselmo._ _Jac._ Why, what a penance if this should be discovered! They know how much I love my wine, and always punish me with water. I should have to drink the Guadalquiver dry before the Superior would give me absolution. Well, we all have our besetting sin; and a pot of good wine will put my soul in more jeopardy than all the temptations that the world contains. I suppose I must forget to lock the door. I'll only bolt it; that will satisfy my conscience as a porter. [_Exit Jacobo._ _Scene II._ _Street before Don Gaspar's lodgings.--Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ I wonder where my master is! I expected him sooner. He may be in his chamber, but 'tis impossible to say. Why, here comes Beppa, and that knave Garcias with her. I've often thought they are too intimate; I will retire and watch them. _Enter Beppa, followed by Garcias.--Antonio advances behind._ _Bep._ But, Garcias, is this true? _Gar._ It is, upon my faith! Sancho revealed it in his cups. Don Perez, afraid to encounter with Don Gaspar, has hired bravos to dispatch him. _Bep._ I rejoice at it. A wretch like him deserves no better fate, and my poor mistress will be well revenged. Indeed, his servant is no better. _Gar._ What! your dear husband? _Bep._ My scoundrel husband! Unhappy day I married him! It was but yesterday that I found him kissing another. _Gar._ Indeed!--You can revenge yourself. _Bep._ I almost wish I could. _Gar._ (_kissing her hand_). Then kiss again. _Bep._ Pshaw! that's but poor revenge. _Gar._ I'll join the bravos, and strike him down, if you will marry me. _Bep._ Not so, good sir: it were indeed to make a better choice, to take a murderer in second wedlock. I ask but to be free; and leave the time to Heaven. _Gar._ Then fare ye well. [_Exit Garcias._ _Ant._ A very pretty proposal, and a very pretty plot have I discovered! yet will I conceal my knowledge. (_Shows himself._) Good day, again, my Beppa! Who is that friend of yours? (_smacking lips in imitation of kissing_). _Bep._ (_after a pause_). Well, good husband, how could I help it? _Ant._ How could you help it! _Bep._ My mistress ordered me. _Ant._ Oh, I understand! _Bep._ Yes, only a little by-play, you know. _Ant._ Or else you must quit your service. Pray who is the gentleman to whom your mistress is making love? _Bep._ That's a secret. _Ant._ Of course she gave you ten moidores for me. _Bep._ Really I don't remember. _Ant._ Indeed! why, thou--thou-- _Bep._ Good morning. I must to my mistress. Adieu, Antonio. [_Exit Beppa._ _Ant._ Well; I like thee better than usual. Thou hast refused him for me, and would not have him murder me; that's something in a wife now-a-days. I have obtained a key which fits my master's door; and now I feel assured he'll not come back, I'll find his secret out. I must be quick. Suppose he should be there. Impossible! he would have summoned me. At all events I'll risk it. [_Exit Antonio._ _Scene III._ _Interior of Don Gaspar's room.--Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ Pugh! what a heat I'm in! I really tremble with delight or fear--I can't tell which. If he should come, what shall I say? Oh, the news I gained from Beppa. That will do. (_Looking round._) Well, I see nothing after all. Why should he keep his chamber locked? But, then, there's that chest; let me try--locked fast;--nothing to be gained from that. Still, he comes in by some other way than the door, that's clear; we must have a search for a trap door. (_He looks round, and then under the bed. While he is on his knees, feeling the boards, Don Gaspar enters by the secret sliding panel, and observing him, draws his sword, and, as Antonio rises, he points it to his breast._) _Gasp._ Villain! how cam'st thou hither? _Ant._ (_much alarmed_). Sir, sir, I came--came (_recovers himself_)--I came to save your life, unless it please you to take mine before I can speak to you. _Gasp._ To save my life! _Ant._ Yes, sir; I knew not where to find you; I thought you might be here, and so I forced the lock with a rusty key. I meant to say, that I knew you had another way out from your chamber, and I have been looking for it, that I might hasten to you, to save your life. _Gasp._ Well, sirrah, first prove to me that you _can_ save my life, and then, perhaps, I may overlook this impertinent intrusion. _Ant._ Sir, I overheard a conversation between the valet of Don Felix and a woman, in which they stated that bravos were hired by Don Perez to waylay and murder you, Don Perez not caring to meet you with his sword. This night they wait for you. _Gasp._ Is Don Perez then so basely treacherous? _Ant._ Indeed he is, sir! You must not out to-night. _Gasp._ I must, and fear them not. For this I overlook your prying--nay, more, I will in confidence explain the secret of this chamber; but, mark you! keep it, or I shall soil my rapier with thy knavish blood. This private entrance hath much served me (_showing the sliding panel_). _Ant._ May I be so bold as to ask how? _Gasp._ It oft has saved my life. It is about a year since, and about three months before you entered my service, that I gained the love of one named Julia; she was too fond, and urged me to marry her, which I refused. Her brothers, who were at home at the time, wrested from her the cause of those tears which she could not control. I met them both, and with ease disarmed them; I did not wish to slay them, I had already done them injury. These officers, who were more annoyed by my conquest than even their sister's shame, hired bravos, as Perez now has done, who sought to murder me. Each night that I went home I found them near my door: twice I fought an entrance to my own house; a friend, who was aware of the inveteracy of those who toiled to procure my assassination, hired me this chamber. For months they watched the door with disappointment, until the brothers being recalled to join their troops in Murcia, the bravos ceased their persecutions. _Ant._ How did you escape them in the city, senor? _Gasp._ In daylight I was safe; at night I wore the garb of a holy monk, that lies upon that chair. You'll keep my secret? _Ant._ Yes, sir, when I know it. _Gasp._ Have I not told it you? _Ant._ You have told me that at times you are a monk, and at times a cavalier. Which is the real character, him of the rosary, or him of the rapier? _Gasp._ (_aside_). The knave is deep. (_Aloud._) I am a monk but when it suits me. _Ant._ But, sir, is there not danger in thus assuming a holy character, if it were known--the Inquisition? _Gasp._ I grant it: but we do many things which, if known, would subject us to something unpleasant. I serve two mistresses; but, should I marry them both---- _Ant._ (_starting back_). Then would you to the galleys, at east. _Gasp._ Exactly so. I merely put the case, for I was told by Donna Isadora's maid, you are her husband; and this I also know, from your own mouth, you are married to Beppa. _Ant._ There's some mistake, sir; for Nina is married to one whose name is Lopez. I cannot, sure, be he! _Gasp._ If I can be both monk and cavalier, as you assert, why may not you be Lopez and Antonio? A name is changed as easily as a garment. But in your face I read conviction; I'm certain you have two wives! _Ant._ It must be as you please, sir. Perhaps I may have confessed as much to you as a holy monk. _Gasp._ (_Laughs._) When did you ever meet me in a church? _Ant._ I do not say I have, sir; but then your knowledge is so certain. _Gasp._ Suppose, then, that I know your secrets, thou wilt surely not reveal mine. There's for thine intelligence. (_Throws him a purse._) _Ant._ May Heaven preserve my gracious master! _Gasp._ This night must I to Donna Serafina's. _Ant._ Will you, then, venture forth? _Gasp._ Yes, I'll robe myself as holy monk. They dare not strike, even though they have suspicion. You may go. I shall not return to-night. [_Exit Antonio._ Scoundrel!--he is too cunning to believe me-- Yet still I have the secret of his wives. (_Muses._) This night I have discover'd the base Perez Again essays his most inconstant fair, Blind as inconstant. She rejected me When, as Friar Anselmo teaching music, I offer'd her--'tis true, unholy love; And I by Perez was thrust out with shame, Spurn'd with contumely as the door was closed, With threats if ever I appear'd again, To blazon forth my impious attempt, and-- Yet did she cozen me with melting eyes, And first roused up the demon in my breast, Then laugh'd in malice.----I hate her for it! Now as Don Gaspar, I've supplanted him, Pride and revenge, not love, impelling me; These gratified, I would shake off a chain Which now, in amorous violence, she'd rivet. Further, Don Perez, in his jealous mood, Has as Don Gaspar braved me. They shall find, I hold life cheap when I would have revenge! [_Exit._ _Scene IV._ _A garden near the house of Donna Serafina, which is in the back of the scene.--A balcony.--Enter Gaspar in a friar's dress, over that of a cavalier._ I pass'd them, and they bow'd unto my blessing. Why, what a world of treachery is this! Who would imagine that this holy robe, Professing but humility and love, Conceal'd the cavalier, swelling in pride, Seeking revenge, and thirsting for hot blood? Off with this first disguise! (_Throws off friar's gown._) What then appears? A fair proportion, more deceiving still. ----In holy garb I fret within my cell, Sigh for the joyous world I have renounced, And spurn the creed which hath immured me there. When like the chrysalis I 'scape my prison, And range a free and garish butterfly, I find the world so hollow, base, and vile, That, in my mood, I hasten back once more, With thoughts of never wand'ring forth again, But, see,--Don Perez comes. I will retire. [_Gaspar withdraws._ _Enter Perez._ _Perez._ Fool that I am! like some robb'd bird to hover About the nest that's void. Her heart's not mine. 'Tis now three moons that I have sued in vain; Her casement closed by night, her door by day. O woman, woman! thy mysterious power Chains the whole world, and men are nought but slaves Unto the potent talisman-- If man prove false and treach'rous, he is spurn'd, Contemn'd, and punish'd with resentment just. To woman faithless still we kneel and sue, For that return our reason holds as worthless. Well! this shall be my last--for, by yon moon, So oft a witness to my fervent vows, So true an emblem of inconstant beauty, This night I woo her back, or woo no more. [_Retires; sings to his guitar, unseen; or beckons on chorus._ Ere lady that you close in sleep Those eyes that I would die to view, Think, think on mine that watch and weep, And on my heart that breaks for you! The sun does not disdain to turn, And on the meanest weed to shine, That scorch'd up dies, and seems to burn With love, as hopelessly as mine. One look--one word--hear, hear my call! O cruel! can you still deny One look,--though it in scorn should fall? One word,--although it bid me die? _Perez, coming forward, looking up at the window after pause._ She will not hear, nor bless me with her sight! _Enter Gaspar in cavalier's dress._ _Gasp._ Well met, Don Perez. Thus I keep my word. And "when you least do wish it," I am here. Was it well done to send out hired stilettos When you had challenged me to measure swords? _Perez_ (_aside_). The scoundrels then have miss'd him! (_Aloud._) Know, Don Gaspar, I do not deem thee worthy of my steel. But, as we meet--'tis well--defend thyself! (_Draws._) _Gasp._ Defend _thyself_, Don Perez! Thy best might And skill befriend thee,--else thy life is nought! (_They fight round. Don Perez falls._) _Perez._ I'm slain! Don Gaspar, or whoe'er thou art, If thou have Christian charity, seek out Some holy man. (_Gaspar retires._) He's gone! [_Gaspar, with friar's gown and hood on, returns to Don Perez._ _Gasp._ Look up, Don Perez! Knowest thou this form? Thou dost require some holy man to shrive thee, Ere thou pass away.----Don Perez, answer! Know'st thou this form,--these features? _Perez._ Thou art the Friar Anselmo. I have wrong'd thee, And ask forgiveness. O then pardon me! And, as thou hop'st t' enjoy eternal life, Feel no resentment 'gainst a dying man! (_Faintly._) Shrive me, good father, for I'm sinking fast. Yon stream of blood will not creep on its course Another foot, ere I shall be no more. _Gasp._ Thou saw'st Anselmo. Now raise up thine eyes, (_Throws off his disguise._) And see Don Gaspar! who has just reveng'd The wrongs inflicted on the spurn'd at monk. _Perez._ Whoe'er thou art, mysterious, awful being! At least be satisfied with thy revenge. If thou art holy, shrive me! _Gasp._ I am a monk, and yet not holy (_putting on gown, and folding his arms_). _Perez._ If thou art a monk by vows, thou'rt holy. 'Tis not my blood that's now upon thy hand, And shall hereafter be upon thy soul, Which makes thee less so: thou'rt but an instrument. I pray thee, shrive me, that my guilty soul May quit in peace this tenement of clay. _Gasp._ Does he not speak the truth? Tell me, my heart, I think--I feel----I can forgive him now! [_Gaspar takes out his crucifix, returns to Don Perez, and, kneeling, presents it to him. Perez kisses the crucifix, and falls back dead. Gaspar remains hanging over him._ _Don Felix_ (_without_). What hoa! _Enter Don Felix with servants bearing torches._ _Gasp._ (_still kneeling by the body_). Who calls? _Felix._ We seek Don Perez, who this way did bend His steps some hours ago; and not returning At th' appointed time, we fear some mischief Hath befallen him. _Gasp._ Behold then here the body of some gallant, Whose face I know not. As I pass'd this way I heard the clash of high and fierce contention, And when I came, this most unhappy man Lay breathing here his last. I shrived him, And he since has died. _Felix._ It is Don Perez. Holy father, saw you The other party in the contest? _Gasp._ Save that a manly figure flitted by, And vanish'd in the shadow of yon trees. _Felix._ Raise up the corpse, and bear it to my house. This bloody work, Don Gaspar, must be thine! Perez, thou hear'st me not! but, by this sword, I will revenge thy death! [_Exit Don Felix and servants carrying body._ _Gasp._ Thus far have I escaped suspicion-- Now will I to the monastery. [_Casement opens, and Donna Serafina appears at window._] _Ser._ Who's there? _Gasp._ (_aside_). I had forgotten her. _Ser._ Who's there? _Gasp._ A father of the neighbouring monastery, Attracted hither by the clash of swords, And but in time to shrive a dying man. _Ser._ Good father, didst thou hear the names of those Who were engaged? _Gasp._ Not of the murderer, who has escaped. The one whose body has been borne away, Was call'd----Don Gaspar. _Ser._ Don Gaspar! Father, surely thou mistak'st? It was the other cavalier who fell. _Gasp._ The words of dying men are those of truth; He call'd himself Don Gaspar, and he begg'd I would take off his scarf, and, with his love, Bear it to Donna Serafina. _Ser._ Then it is true--and I am lost for ever! Father, recall those words, those dreadful words! Say 'twas not Don Gaspar, and I'll load Thy monastery with the wealth of India. Its shrines shall blaze with gold and precious gems, And holy relics shall be purchased thee, To draw all faithful Christians to thy gates! _Gasp._ I cannot change the name, and, if I could, 'Twere no less a murder. Lady, good-night. _Ser._ Good father, stop--thou hast a scarf For Donna Serafina. I am she-- Where is it? give it me. _Gasp._ Are you that woe-struck lady, Serafina? Alas! indeed you have much cause to grieve. He loved you well. _Ser._ Give me the scarf. _Gasp._ I cannot, lady; 'tis not fit to offer, For it is tinged with blood. _Ser._ Give me the scarf! I'll kiss away the blood, Or wash it off with tears! _Gasp._ That I cannot, the casement is too high; Nor can I tarry longer. The last message, Together with the scarf, I will deliver Before to-morrow's sun shall gild these trees. _Ser._ Then be it so. O Gaspar! Gaspar! [_Exit from window, and closes it._ _Gasp._ One hour of misery, like hers, exceeds An age of common earthly suffering; And when at last she hears the unvarnish'd truth, 'Twill but perplex her more. Oh destiny! Why am I thus a blood-stain'd guilty man In early years? still yearning towards virtue, Yet ever falling in the snares of vice! Now do I loathe the amorous Serafina, Who sacrifices all--her fame--her honour, At Passion's shrine. How do I adore The chaste, the innocent, sweet Isidora! Yet in my love, so ardent and so pure, There's guilt--deep damning guilt--and more, There's cruelty and baseness! I plant a dagger In the fond breast that cherishes the wound; Nor will she feel the pain until withdrawn, And happiness--nay, life--will issue with it. How inconsistent, selfish, treacherous! Heav'n pardon me--how can I pardon ask For that I never can forgive myself! [_Exit Gaspar._ _Act IV. Scene I._ _Street before Anselmo's lodgings._ _Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ At last I have his secret, and one of moment too. A monk, and yet a cavalier! A friar's gown and a gala suit! vowing to heaven and vowing to the ladies! Abjuring the world, and roaming through it with a vengeance! Telling his beads, and telling me lies! But I am not so easily to be deceived. I thought very often that there was a similarity of voice between his and my confessor's, but when I saw the friar's gown, and he accused me of having two wives, it all flashed upon me at once. A pretty fool has he made of me! No wonder that he knew my rogueries when I confessed them to him. What's the having two wives to this? Mine is a paltry secret of a poor lacquey, but his is one which will obtain a price, and it is well to be first in the market. Whom shall I sell it to? let me see--Don Felix----? _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ What of Don Felix, husband? Do you wish to serve him? _Ant._ Yes, if he'll pay me well. _Bep._ I presume Don Gaspar has not paid you: then must you help yourself. _Ant._ Why so I do, whenever I can. But he takes care of that. _Bep._ He might have done, but hardly will do so now. _Ant._ Why not? _Bep._ Because he's dead. _Ant._ Dead! Are you sure of that? _Bep._ Quite sure, for I myself beheld the contest. Such fierce exchange of hate I ne'er imagined, or that you men were such incarnate devils. _Ant._ Pray tell me where this happened. _Bep._ 'Twas in the garden near our house, under the chestnut trees, deep in the shade. The full moon could not pierce the closely woven foliage. All her beams were caught on the topmost boughs which waved in silver. A lovely night to stain with murder! Oh me! I see them now. _Ant._ Proceed, good Beppa, I'm eager to know all. _Bep._ Their forms were not distinct, yet could we perceive their gleaming swords darting like fiery serpents; 'twas horrible. At last one fell; it proved to be Don Gaspar. _Ant._ Indeed! you're sure there's no mistake? _Bep._ I saw the body borne away. My mistress weeps and tears her hair, nor deems that he was false. I must to the church, but will return again immediately. [_Exit._ _Ant._ Now could I weep, and tear my hair, like Donna Serafina. My secret is worth nothing. 'Tis strange, too, that he should be o'ermatched by Don Perez, whose sword he so despised; I cannot yet believe it; and yet, she saw the body, and her mistress weeps. What can she gain by this, if 'twere deceit? Nothing. Why, then, 'tis plain Don Gaspar's dead. His foot slipped, I suppose, and thus the vaunted skill of years will often fail through accident. What's to be done now? I'm executor of course. Here comes Don Felix. _Enter Don Felix._ _Felix._ Art thou the lacquey of Don Gaspar? _Ant._ (_pulling out his handkerchief, and putting it to his eyes_). I was, most noble sir. _Felix._ You've left him then? _Ant._ He hath left me. Last night he fell, in combat with Don Perez. _Felix._ 'Tis false. He hath slain my friend, whose body now lies in my house. _Ant._ Indeed, sir! may I credit this? _Felix._ I tell you it is true. Where can a message find your master? _Ant._ Wherever he may be, sir. _Felix._ And where is that? Trifle not with me, knave, or you'll repent it sorely. _Ant._ I do not trifle, sir. Don Gaspar's motions are unknown to me. Give me your message; when he re-appears I will deliver it. _Felix._ Then tell him he's a villain of no parentage; a vile impostor whom I mean to punish;--that if there's manhood in him he will appoint a time and place where we may meet. _Ant._ You seek his life then? _Felix._ You may so construe by the message. _Ant._ Pardon me, sir; but will you risk your noble person against one but too well practised in the sword? Excuse me, sir, you're hasty: there are other means more fitting for your purpose. I have his secret; one that will administer to your revenge, and win a triumph far greater than your sword. _Felix._ Tell me this secret. _Ant._ Why should I sacrifice a liberal master, whom, just now, you saw me weep for? and that to one to whom I have no obligation? _Felix._ I understand thee, knave! Thou'lt sell it me? (_Takes out a purse._) _Ant._ Softly, Don Felix! it bears no common price, nor can I tell it here. I've paid most dearly for it, and from distress alone am now obliged to sell it. _Felix._ And I will buy it dearly. In half an hour come to my house; there will I exchange a heavy purse for what you may confide to me, if, as you say, it leads to his perdition. [_Exit Felix._ _Ant._ So, this works well; and yet my conscience smites me! Why does it smite me? Because 'tis heavily laden. With what? This secret. Then must I unburthen myself of it; and as, till lately, I have confessed to one Don Gaspar, I will now confess to one Don Felix. The former refused me absolution--the latter offers me a purse. I was right when I gave warning to my old confessor; the new one is more suited to me. Here come my ten plagues of Egypt in one. _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ Well, Antonio, you have lost no time, I hope. What have you collected? You often quote the proverb, "Service is no inheritance." _Ant._ Service _is_ no inheritance; yet you would that I constituted myself my master's heir. I cannot do it, Beppa--I dare not! There's something tells me it is wrong to rob so good a master; I am more honest than you take me to be. _Bep._ Then is the devil turned saint! Think not that you deceive me. There's nought but cowardice that will prevent your knavery. Now tell me, how long have you been thus scrupulous? _Ant._ Ever since I found out that my master was not dead. _Bep._ Not dead? _Ant._ Don Perez 'twas who fell. _Bep._ A holy friar who shrived the dying man told me the name of him who fell was Gaspar. _Ant._ He was a holy friar, said you? I see it all (_aside_). _Bep._ He said he had a scarf to give to Donna Serafina, at the request of him who died. _Ant._ Hath he delivered it? _Bep._ No; and Donna Serafina in frantic grief awaits his coming. _Ant._ (_aside_). She'll wait till doomsday; I understand it all. (_Aloud._) Beppa! Don Gaspar now will soon be here; go and console your mistress. _Bep._ Then it must have been a plan of Don Gaspar's to rid himself of my mistress. I do not understand it, but believe you _do_. When master and man are so much alike, they cannot deceive each other. I'll to Donna Serafina, and tell her of this base stratagem, which, with his wooing of another, will make her cease to grieve for the treacherous villain, and turn her ardent love to deadly hate. [_Exit Beppa._ _Ant._ As I have mine for you, I was about to say; only I do not recollect that I ever loved you. I think I married her to keep myself from starving: but I forget why exactly, 'tis so long ago. What a fool is a man who marries--but a double fool is he who, like me, am doubly----I can't bear to mention it. [_Exit Antonio._ _Scene II._ _Donna Serafina's Chamber.--Donna Serafina discovered._ _Ser._ They tell me I am fair: yet what avails This gift of nature? Could those who envy me but see my heart-- My bleeding, lacerated, breaking heart! How would their bitter nature change to pity! I did require but him in this wide world; My beauty valued, but to gain his love! My wealth rejoiced in, but to share with him! He was my all! and every other 'vantage Was but of value as subservient to him. As is the gold of costly workmanship Round the fair gem imbedded in the centre. Oh! Gaspar, were I sure I could o'ertake Thy spirit, soaring up in its young flight, This little steel should free my anxious soul, To join thine in the high empyrean, And, fondly link'd, in joy ascend to Heaven. Why waits the friar? Some idle mummery, To him more sacred than my Gaspar's relic, From his dull memory hath chased his promise. Why waits my woman, whom I have despatch'd To learn the history of my Gaspar's death? Alas! alas! they know not love. _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ Madam, I've news for you; but news so strange That I can scarce impart it. Dry your tears, Nor more lament Don Gaspar,--for he lives! _Ser._ He lives? say that again! You said he lived-- Did you not, Beppa? Then may Heav'n reward you For those blissful words!--He lives!--support me-- (_Faints in Beppa's arms._) _Bep._ I should have first inform'd her he was false. Now will the shock be greater.--Dear lady--(_Serafina recovering gradually_). _Ser._ (_faintly_). Now do I feel like some poor criminal, Who, having closed his eyes, to look no more Upon the world he is about to leave, With curdling blood, and faint and flutt'ring pulse, Waits for the last terrific moment When the sharp axe shall free his trembling soul. So wakes he at the distant shouts of men, Rolling the waves of sound until they dash Against his worn-out sense the glad reprieve. Don Gaspar lives! Oh Heav'n, I thank thee! _Bep._ At the cup's brim the sweets have kiss'd your lips. But, madam, like some weak, distemper'd child, You've yet to taste the nauseous dreaded draught Which is to cure you. _Ser._ What mean you? Cure me! _Bep._ 'Tis true Don Gaspar lives--as true he's false. _Ser._ False! Beppa--false? _Bep._ Most false and treacherous! He loves another. _Ser._ (_after a pause_). Did I hear rightly? Impossible! It was but three days gone, He swore such oaths, if true, as Heav'n would register-- Should they prove false, as hell might chuckle at. _Bep._ And yet it is so, I am most assured. _Ser._ If it be true, then everything is false. It cannot, cannot be. Have I not lavish'd All I could bestow, myself and mine, Rejected all, to live within his arms, To breathe one breath with him, and dwell in ecstasy Upon his words. Oh no! he is not false You must belie him. _Bep._ Nay, I would I did: I wonder not your doting heart rejects Such monstrous treachery. Yet it is true, And true as curs'd. The Donna Isidora By her charms has won him; and his feign'd death Was but a stratagem to shake you off. As you last night asserted, Perez fell; Don Felix, swearing vengeance, seeks Don Gaspar. _Ser._ (_after a pause_). Who is this Isidora? _Bep._ A lovely creature in her early bloom, The noble blood of Guzman in her veins, A rival worthy of your beauty, madam, And therefore one most dangerous. _Ser._ Would that I had her here. My heart is now So full of anger, malice, and fierce hate, With all those direful and envenom'd passions By which the breasts of demons are infected; If I but even look'd upon her face, My scorching breath would wither up her charms Like adder's poison. Would I had her here! _Bep._ Yet blame her not. She's good and beautiful: Report doth much commend her early worth And ever active charity. _Ser._ Were she not so, I yet might have retain'd My truant love. Each virtue that she hath With me's a vice--each charm, deformity. They are my foes, array'd against my power, And I must hate them, as they've vanquish'd me. _Bep._ But _my_ hate should fall on Gaspar, lady. _Ser._ That's not so easy; the strong tide of love, Though check'd, still flows against the adverse hate. In their opposing strife, my troubled breast Heaves as the elements in wild commotion. _Bep._ It must not last. I've much to tell you yet Of this base man. When you have heard it all, A rapid flood of rage shall sweep its course, Lash'd by the storm raised in your much-wrong'd soul, O'erwhelming all remorse, to Gaspar's ruin. _Ser._ Direct me, Heav'n! Come to my chamber, Beppa, I must unrobe me. When my swollen heart Can throb more freely, I will hear your tale. Come on, good Beppa. [_Exeunt._ _Scene III._ _Street in Seville._ _Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ This is a strange world! What a simpleton is this Don Felix! First he buys my secret at a heavy price, and then, after two minutes' deliberation, declares that he will make no use of it, but that I must deliver the message that he gave me. I've no objection. I like to see my betters dismiss each other to the next world;--the more room for those who remain behind, and poor rogues like me are not so much jostled. This world is certainly much too full for comfort. Ah! here comes one that stands a chance of going out of it. _Enter Don Gaspar._ _Gasp._ Antonio, I must for a time remain concealed. Don Perez is no more, and in this friar's gown, which I put on to elude the bravos, I have convinced the Donna Serafina of my death. Thus do I rid myself of her unwelcome love. Remember, should you meet your wife, I don't know which of them, you will keep my secret. You will remain here in charge till I return. _Ant._ Most certainly, sir. But I had almost forgotten; I have a message which may interfere with your departure. _Gasp._ From whom? _Ant._ Don Felix, sir. The friend of him you slew last night. _Gasp._ Well, what is this message? _Ant._ One, sir, that will demand a life--or yours or his. It is so coarsely worded that I dare not give it. It will too much provoke you. _Gasp._ Give it me straight, and let me have it word for word. _Ant._ He told me first, sir, that you were--a villain. _Gasp._ (_catching Antonio by the throat_). How, sirrah? _Ant._ It was not I who said so--'twas Don Felix. _Gasp._ True. I was hasty. Now proceed. _Ant._ A villain--of no parentage. _Gasp._ What? scoundrel! _Ant._ I have said too much, sir.--You'll excuse the rest. _Gasp._ (_much irritated_). No, no, no--go on; leave out a word and I will murder you. _Ant._ (_aside_). Then I stand a bad chance either way, not so amusing as I thought. (_Aloud._) He did say something else, but 'twas of no moment-- _Gasp._ (_putting his hand to his sword_). Your message, to the letter. _Ant._ A vile impostor. _Gasp._ (_striking him_). How? _Ant._ Oh, mercy, sir! you take me for Don Felix. _Gasp._ I am wrong. (_Throws his purse to Antonio._) You said a villain--of no parentage--a vile impostor--ha! was there any more? _Ant._ Yes, sir; and which I think I may deliver without farther danger to myself. He added, "If there's manhood in him, he will appoint a time and place, when and where I may meet him." _Gasp._ I ask no better. Tell him, this evening, at the copse of trees where Perez fell, he may expect me. Take my answer straight. _Ant._ Shall I go now? _Gasp._ Yes; fly to his house. Tell him from me--no, no--tell him no more than I have said already, I'll wait for your return. Haste, haste. [_Exit Antonio._ A villain of no parentage!--Impostor! A vile impostor!--He but states the truth, Yet will I crush him, that he hath stumbled On that truth. Yes! of no parentage!--Why-- Why is this constant pining of the heart, As if it felt itself defrauded still Of rights inherent? If I'm basely born Why do I spurn the common herd of men? The eaglet that regains its liberty, Soars to the sun at once--it is its nature: While meaner birds would hop from spray to spray. Oh! would I had ne'er been born.-- To-morrow I intend to leave for ever Her whom I love--the sacred walls I hate, In some far distant land to die unheeded. My Isidora has desired my presence, And strange, admits me in the open day. Within an hour of this she will receive me, Then must I falter out my last adieu. This evening also I must meet Don Felix.-- _Re-enter Antonio._ So soon return'd! Hast thou then seen him? _Ant._ I have, sir; I met him as I gained the door, and your message was duly delivered. He answered, that _he_ would not fail, and that he trusted his _sword_ would not fail either. _Gasp._ Should his sword fail, I must not return for many days; should it not _fail_, I return no more. But having balanced thus my brief account Of love and hate, I'll quit fair Spain for ever. [_Exit._ _Ant._ (_taking out a purse_). This purse is a heavy one, but not so heavy as the one I received from Don Felix. I hardly dared deliver the message, but there's seldom profit without danger. I will say this for my master, that he knows the salve for every wound. Let me see--one purse for my intelligence, or rather for keeping my master's secret, and another from Don Felix for betraying it--and a third for a blow. Ah! here comes Beppa. (_Puts up purse hastily._) _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ What's that you've put into your pocket? _Ant._ Only an empty purse. _Bep._ It appeared to me well filled. _Ant._ Appearances are very deceitful. How is your mistress? _Bep._ Alas! she has watched all night--now the tears pouring down her cheeks, whilst heavy sobs hindered all utterance, and then would she turn to rage, and pace her chamber with frantic gestures. Oh! what a wretch is this Don Gaspar! _Ant._ He fights this evening. _Bep._ With whom? _Ant._ Don Felix--a better match for him than Perez. _Bep._ They say the former's skilled in fence. Heaven grant his sword may prove the master! Where do they meet? _Ant._ Nay, that's a secret. _Bep._ Tell me, Antonio. Should Don Felix not prevail, a woman's vengeance yet may reach Don Gaspar. Antonio, do tell me where they meet. _Ant._ It is a secret. _Bep._ But I must know. There is nothing I would not give to win this secret from you. Antonio, you must tell me. _Ant._ That I cannot, I made a promise. (_Puts his hand to his heart._) _Bep._ (_scornfully._) You made a promise. I know your promises too well. What will you sell this secret for? _Ant._ My purse of ten moidores! _Bep._ Then you shall have it. But will you tell it truly? _Ant._ Honour! when I have the money. _Bep._ (_Takes out purse and throws it at him._) Then, there it is. I believe that you will keep a roguish contract, although no other. _Ant._ You're right. They meet at sunset under the copse of trees where Perez fell. _Bep._ The copse of trees where Perez fell! Does he not fear his ghost? No, he fears nothing. Breaking the hearts of women, and piercing those of men, is all the same to this fell Gaspar. Well, I have bought your secret, and will make good use of it. _Ant._ Had you not known that it was a marketable commodity, you never had purchased it. You'll turn a penny, never fear. I must unto my master's lodgings. [_Exit._ _Bep._ Yes, to follow thy old trade of pilfering. I must unto my lady, and bear her this intelligence. Thus will I rouse the woman in her, and urge her to revenge. [_Exit._ _Scene IV._ _A Room in the Guzman Palace._ _Enter Nina, ushering in Don Gaspar._ Stay here, senor. You'll not be long alone. [_Exit Nina._ _Gasp._ Thus am I hurried, by resistless love, To follow that I never can obtain. I love thee, Isidora, dote upon thee, There's not a boiling drop within these veins I'd not pour out, could it but make thee happy. And yet I 'gainst my better reason plunge, Dragging thee with me deep into perdition. A monk, and marry! 'Tis impossible! Each time I quit her, then do I resolve Never to see her more; yet one hour's absence Kills my resolution, and each moment Seems an eternity, till in her presence Vows I repeat, that vows alone make false. 'Tis not in human nature to withstand Against such strong temptation,-- To fold her in my arms--inhale her breath, Kiss tears away, neither of grief nor joy, But from both fountains equally o'erflowing-- Oh! 'tis a bliss indeed, to gain which Angels might leave their bright cerulean home, And barter their eternal heaven of joy. _Enter Donna Inez. Gaspar advances quickly to her, thinking it is Isidora, but finding his mistake stops abruptly, and bows to Donna Inez._ _Inez._ Don Gaspar--for 'tis so I hear you're styled-- Hither you came in ardent expectation Of meeting one more suited to your age, My beauteous niece, the Donna Isidora. Now would I have some conference with one Who by insidious means hath gain'd her heart, Yet shrouds himself in mystery: she has placed Her fortunes in my hands--she resigns her all, To me confiding to unlock your secret. When once you're manifest and fully known, A task which must precede, senor, it will decide Whether I join your hands and bless your union, Or curse the fatal day she first beheld you! _Gasp._ Madam, I thank you much, I'll speak directly. But I'm so overcome with wretchedness, Your kindness must bear with me. You ask me who I am--a question fair, As fairly answer'd now--I cannot tell. _Inez._ Is it you know not, or you will not tell? _Gasp._ I do not know--and therefore cannot tell-- Though from this hour I date my misery, I am resign'd. You may dismiss me With stern remonstrance at my daring love-- Yet it is better. I am of those forsaken-- Who have no parents--owing to the state A nurture most unkind--a foundling child. _Inez._ A foundling child? (_Aside._) His voice--his presence-- And those words make my heart leap in agony. _Gasp._ Yes, and must live to curse the hearts of those Unnatural parents, who could thus renounce me. Love conquer'd shame, and brought me into being, But in her turn shame triumph'd over love, And I was left to destiny.-- The bloody tigress parts not with her young:-- Her cruel nature, never known to pity, Is by maternal feeling changed to tenderness. The eyes which fiercely gleam on all creation, Beam softly, as she views her snarling cubs. But cruel man, unruly passion sated, Leaves to neglect the offspring of his guilt. I have no more to say. Dismiss me now, And when, henceforth, you rail at my presumption, Consider the perfection that has caused it. I oft have made the healthy resolution To quit for ever her whom I adore. Take my farewell to her--your lovely niece, Although I'm friendless, she will pity me. _Inez._ (_aside_). How strange it is I feel not anger'd! Strange indeed, there is a pulse Which makes me lean to his presumptuous love. [_Gaspar is going._ (_Aloud._) Yet stay awhile, for I would know your age? _Gasp._ 'Twas at nine years I left the hospital, And now have been for ten a wanderer. _Inez._ (_aside_). The age exact. O Heav'n! let not these hopes For ever springing, be for ever wither'd! (_Aloud._) Youth, have you any mark, should you be sought, Might lend a clue to your discovery? _Gasp._ I have; they who deserted me, if ever Their intention to reclaim my person, May safely challenge me among ten thousand. (_Baring his wrist._) 'Tis here--a ruby band upon my wrist. [_Inez goes towards him, catches his hand, and gazes on the wrist intently without speaking._ What can this mean? oh, speak, dear lady, speak! _Inez._ (_throwing herself into his arms_). My child, my child! _Gasp._ I, I your child! almighty Heaven, I thank thee! My heart is bursting in its wild emotion, Till all be understood. Oh, speak again! _Inez._ Thou art my son--he whom I've mourn'd so long, So long have sought. Features thou hast, my boy, Which in the memory of all save her, Who fondly loved, long, long have pass'd away. _Gasp._ Who was my father? _Inez._ One of most ancient name, Don Felipo. _Gasp._ Then I am noble? _Inez._ And by each descent. _Gasp._ Pardon me, lady, if I seem more eager To know this fact, than render unto you My love and duty.--From the world's scorn I've suffer'd much; and my unbending pride Would rather that my birth remain'd in doubt, Than find a parentage which was obscure. Now all is perfect, and to you I tender (_Kneeling_) My truth and love, still in their infancy, And therefore may they seem to you but feeble. (_Rises._) Yet blame me not: this sudden change of state Hath left me so bewilder'd I scarce know Myself, or what I feel; like to the eyes Of one long plunged in gloom, on whom the sun, At length admitted, pours at once a flood Of glorious light--so are my senses dazzled. _Inez._ And I am faint with gratitude and love. Come in with me. Then shall you learn The cruel cause that cast you out a foundling, And I, the bounteous, blessed providence, That led you to my arms. [_Exeunt._ _Act V. Scene I._ _A chamber in the Guzman Palace._ _Enter Donna Inez, meeting Superior._ _Sup._ Save thee, good lady! I have stolen an hour From holy prayer, for which may I be pardon'd, To weigh the merits of a mother's virtue Against the errors of an impious son; To put in counterpoise the deep disgrace, The insult offer'd to our brotherhood, With the atonement you would make to Heav'n. _Inez._ And you are merciful! _Sup._ Lady, there is nought Which Heav'n detests so much as sacrilege; 'Tis the most damn'd of all the damning sins. The fire of hell can purge away all crimes, Howe'er atrocious, save this deed of death, To life eternal, if not here atoned for By a surrender of all earthly goods. _Inez._ All, father! _Sup._ All! _Inez._ Father, this cannot be. Surely there is In our extensive wealth enough for both-- To satisfy the holy church, yet leave Withal to grace his rank and dignity. _Sup._ He that hath mock'd high Heav'n with sacrilege Should live for nought except to make his peace. Your son must straight renew his broken vows, With tears and penance must wash out his sin-- His life, however long, too short to plead For mercy and forgiveness, and his wealth, However great, too small to make atonement. _Inez._ Father, this cannot be. _Sup._ It shall be so. _Inez._ Then I'll appeal elsewhere. I'll to the king, And tell him this sad story. The Guzmans Have too well served him, not to gain his help In this their need. If we must pay a price, The bargain shall be made with Rome herself, Who will be less exacting. _Sup._ (_aside_). I must not grasp too much, or I lose all. (_Aloud_) Lady, I know your thoughts, and do not blame you. You are divided, as frail mortals are In this imperfect state, 'twixt heaven and earth, Your holy wishes check'd by love maternal; Now would I know the course that you would steer Between the two. We can arrange this point. The church is generous, and she oft resigns That she might claim in justice. Tell me, lady, What do you proffer? _Inez._ There is a fair domain of great extent Water'd by the Guadalquiver's wave, Whose blushing harvests each returning autumn Yield the best vintage in our favour'd land. Six hamlets tenanted by peaceful swains, And dark-eyed maidens, portion'd to the soil, Foster its increase. The fairest part of Spain Which Heav'n hath made, I render back to Heav'n. _Sup._ I know the land, and will accept the gift:-- But to it must be added sums of gold To pay for holy rites to be perform'd For years, to purify our monastery Which has been desecrated. _Inez._ That will I give, and freely. Now, good father, Remember, in exchange for these you promise To pardon all, and to obtain from Rome A dispensation to my truant child. _Sup._ I do! _Inez._ Father, I'll send him to you. You'll Rebuke him, but not harshly, for his soul Is with his new found prospects all on fire. [_Exit Inez._ _Sup._ Now will our convent be the best endow'd Of any in the land. This wild young hypocrite, Who fears nor Heaven nor man, hath well assisted My pious longing. More by the sins of men Than their free gifts, our holy church doth prosper. [_Enter Anselmo in cavalier's dress._ What do I see? One, that's in sanctity, Who vow'd his service and his life to Heav'n, In this attire. Heaven is most patient! _Ans._ It is, good father, or this world of guilt Had long been wither'd with the threaten'd fire. My sins are monstrous, yet I am but one Of many millions, erring as myself. 'Tis not for us to judge. He, who reads all Our hearts, and knows how we've been tempted, Alone can poise the even scale of justice. If I'm to blame, good father, are not you? _Sup._ How? _Ans._ I had it from my mother, she reveal'd To you her history, and did make known The mark by which I might be recognised-- That mark, so oft the theme of idle wonder In the convent. Before I took my vows You therefore must have known my station, The rank I held by birthright, and the name Which I inherited. Why did you press me then To take those vows? It was a rank injustice. _Sup._ (_aside_). He argues boldly. (_Aloud_) 'Twere as well to say, It were unjust to help you unto Heav'n-- I put you in the right path. _Ans._ One too slippery. Father, I've stumbled. _Sup._ You have. But that your fond and virtuous mother Stretch'd forth her hand to save you, it had been To your perdition. _Ans._ I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, I cannot cavil at the deeds of men. Yet are we blind alike. You did intend To serve me, and I thank you. _Sup._ I'll serve you yet, my son. This very night A message shall be forwarded to Rome. Before a month is past you'll be absolved. Till then return unto the monastery, Resume your cowl, and bear yourself correctly. A month will soon be o'er. _Ans._ To one who is imprison'd, 'tis an age; Yet is your counsel wise, and I obey you With all humility. _Sup._ 'Tis well, my son. Your follies are unknown but to ourselves. I shall expect you ere the night be past. [_Exit Superior._ _Ans._ "Stretch'd forth her hand to save me!" Well I trow, Had it been stretch'd forth empty I had perish'd. I've bought my freedom at no trifling price. Most potent gold! all that the earth can offer, Are at thy bidding. Nay, more powerful still-- Since it appears that holy men for thee Will barter Heav'n. Still his advice is good. Yet must I first behold my Isidora: Whose startled innocence, like to a rose When charged with dew and rudely shaken, Relieves itself in sweet and sudden showers From its oppressive load. My heavy guilt Hath shock'd her purity--now, she rejects The love of one who has been false to Heav'n. She refused to see me; but I have gain'd, By intercession of my doting mother, One meeting, to decide if my estate Shall be more wretched than it was before. If she, unheard, condemns me, mine will be A wild career most perilous to the soul,-- That of a lion's whelp, breaking his chain And prowling through the world in search of prey. [_Exit._ _Scene II._ _Isidora's Room in the Guzman Palace._ _Isidora alone on her knees at a small oratory. Rises._ _Isid._ Yes, I would pray, but the o'erwhelming thought Of vows made light--nay, mock'd by him, the guide, Th' elected star of my too trusting soul, Stops in my breast the heavenly aspiration. And nought I utter but th' unconscious wail Of broken-hearted love. Love--and for whom!-- How have I waken'd from a dream of bliss To utter misery. Fond, foolish maid, Thus to embark my heart, my happiness, So inconsiderate--now the barque sinks, And, with its freight, is left to widely toss In seas of doubt, of horror, and despair. Oh! Isidora, is thy virgin heart Thus mated to a wild apostate monk? The midnight reveller, and morning priest, At e'en the gay guitar, at noon the cowl; The holy mummer, tonsure and the missal, The world, our blessed Church, and Heav'n defied. To love this man, I surely have become That which a Guzman ought to scorn to be. Is he not, too, a Guzman, and my cousin? Yet must he be renounced. Here let me kneel, Nor rise till I be freed of love and him. (_Isidora kneels a short time in silence, and proceeds._) Anselmo--Virgin holy, will no name But his rise from my wretched heart in pray'r? Then let me bind myself by sacred vows: Record it, Heav'n!--Thus do I renounce---- _Enter Anselmo._ _Ans._----All sorrow, my beloved; for grief no more Shall worm its canker in our budding bliss. (_Anselmo approaches her, she rises abruptly._) _Isid._ Nay, touch me not--approach me not, Anselmo. _Ans._ (_looking earnestly at her_). Isidora! _Isid._ Holy Virgin, to thee I trust for strength In this my hour of peril. Anselmo, That look has reft a heart too fondly thine-- But only thine, henceforth, in holy love. _Ans._ And is not all love holy? that the holiest, Which gushes from the springs of thy pure heart; So pure, that, laved by it, my spotted breast Shall shortly be as snow. _Isid._ Hear me, Anselmo: It is ordain'd we meet no more. _Ans._ And canst thou say those words? (_Kneels._) See, on the earth I grovelling kneel--my straining eyes seek thine: Turn, turn to me; say not those words again; Thou canst not, dearest. _Isid._ (_her eyes still averted_). We must meet no more. _Ans._ I'll not believe thy voice: look on me now One steady, one unflinching glance, and then If thou'lt repeat those words--I must believe. (_Pause._) Averted still!--Oh, Isidora, who, Who pour'd such cruel thoughts into thy breast? Was it a female fiend, or some vile priest, Some meddling, sin-absolving, canting priest?-- It was--that start declares it.--Curse him, curse him. (_Rises._) _Isid._ (_coming forward with dignity and fronting Anselmo._) Anselmo, curse him not. Thou art that priest. [_Anselmo covers his face with his hand._] My better angel hath my mind illumed-- Hath shown me thy past life. Thy heavy sins, In black array, hath weigh'd before mine eyes; That silent voice, which every bosom sways, Hath spoken deeply--bidden me abjure Him who mock'd all. That gentle voice hath said, That of us twain, immortal bliss alone Can crown the union; which to be obtain'd, Must on this earth be won by penance strict, Unceasing prayer, and thy resumed vows. Is it not well, Anselmo---- _Ans._ Isidora, Are racking tortures well? is liquid fire Rushing and bubbling through the burning veins, Until they shrivel, well? And is it well To find the angel, who hath borne your soul Half o'er the flaming abyss of the damn'd, Shake it away, and feel it whirling sink To everlasting torments?--In bitter truth, These are but nought compared to the fell pangs Thy words have caused, which rack my tortured breast. _Isid._ Anselmo, hear me! _Ans._ Hear _me_ now in turn, By the soul I've perill'd, we must _not_ part! Cast me but off, and Heav'n may do so too: Here stand I, Isidora, with one foot Upon Heaven's threshold, thou within the gates: Oh! call me to thee. I am Heaven's and thine: But, loose thy hand, and I will seek that hell Which lies beneath. The deed be on thy head. _Isid._ Oh! horrible, Anselmo--horrible! _Ans._ Question me, Isidora. Where's the sin That, in thine eyes, demands such heavy penance? _Isid._ The violated vow---- _Ans._ Was made long ere I Knew its power or meaning, and was forced By those who thrust it on me in deceit; For well they knew it robb'd me of my birthright. 'Twas sin to make that vow; and were it not God's 'gerent here on earth hath power more ample To unloose, than monks to bind--thou'rt answer'd. _Isid._ Answer'd, but not content--if false to vows More sacred far;--yet surely not more sacred,-- For what should be more sacred than the vows Which link the happiness of two in one Till death dissolves the union?--If false To Heav'n, Anselmo---- _Ans._ Who made me false, then? _Isid._ Touch not that chord--treat me not as woman, Easy to flattery, boastful of her charms: You know me not, Anselmo; but till late I scarcely knew myself. Talk not to me of Heaven's vicegerent: Can man absolve from compact made with God? _Ans._ Isidora, it is now my duty T' assume the monitor, and point out to thee How e'en the purest of us, in our frailty, May haply slide. A maiden in her pride, But scarce in womanhood, dare to dispute The tenets of our faith, strikes at the head Of our religion; and what, for ages, Holy men have reverenced and believed, Hath been by her denounced as not her creed. _Isid._ 'Tis true--'tis true. The sin of unbelief, 'Gainst which I've rail'd, I fall into myself, Swayed by my foolish pride. (_Turns to Anselmo._) But still, as yet Thou'rt bound, Anselmo--e'en this discourse, Methinks, is sacrilege. _Ans._ Nay, Isidora, Does not the father, he whose spiritual sway I yet acknowledge, grant me this sweet bliss? And is the tender sanction of that saint, Our more than mother, nothing? As monk,-- And now I scarce am one,--it would seem I am an object of your utter hate. _Isid._ Not hate, Anselmo--'tis a bitter word; Say rather fear--of what belongs to Heav'n. Was there no crime, Anselmo, when thou stol'st, Like a disguised thief, this trusting heart? What sophistry can'st thou put forth to show Thou should'st retain thy base, dishonest theft? _Ans._ Not words, but deeds, my Isidora, Shall prove me worthy of the stolen treasure: The first are due to God. This very night With penance strict, I'll cleanse my tainted soul; Deep in contrition, on my knees I'll wait My dispensation from the sovereign pontiff; Then---- _Isid._ And then--dear, dear Anselmo. _Ans._ And then Shall sneering cavalier or flaunting dame Say, when a Guzman shall a Guzman wed, The monk parades it boldly, and the bride Hath cull'd the cloister for her wedded lord? No, no; they never shall, my Isidora. Then will I clad me in the warrior's steel: Thou shalt receive me from the crimson'd field, A laurel'd hero, or shall mourn me slain; I will not steal to thee from cloister'd sloth, But at thy portal light from battle steed. Spain hath around and that within, shall make The monk--a hero. Dost thou not think The plumed helm will better fit this head, Than the dull friar's cowl? My Isidora, Now for a space--a brief one, fare thee well! Once more I'll meet thee, and on bended knee, As soldier should, I'll claim from my betroth'd Some token that shall cheer me in the fight. I must be worthy of you. _Isid._ Thou art so. (_Embrace._) Anselmo, fare thee well! may Heav'n bless thee! [_Exit._ _Ans._ All powerful virtue, unto thy shrine I bow. Sweet maid, whose great perfection Hath as a glass display'd to me my crimes; Oh may'st thou ever keep me in the path Where peace and happiness attend my steps! Now must I to the monast'ry repair, There to remain until I'm freed;--but then, To-night it is I meet the brave Don Felix: I had forgotten it. Most willingly Would I avoid this foolish rash dispute; And yet I must not. When I was friendless, Reckless of life,--a life not worth preserving,-- I could have pass'd whole days in mortal strife. [_Exit._ _Scene III._ _A Part of Garden of Serafina's House._ _Enter Antonio._ _Ant._ This friar's gown, which I have borrowed from my master, has proved most valuable. I never could have reached this spot, if I had not been thus disguised. (_Opens his gown, and shows his face and clothes smeared with blood._) Here's blood enough. Noble, for all I know. I begged it from the barber. Thank Heaven, 'tis not mine own. Sancho will never know me. I see them coming in the distance. (_Takes off the gown, and puts it behind the trees, and then lies down._) Now for self-murder. Lopez is no more. _Enter Sancho and Nina._ _San._ 'Tis here that we fought, and hereabouts should be the body. _Nina._ (_fearfully pointing to the body._) What's that? Sancho, it is--it is my husband! (_Bursts into tears._) _San._ Why do you grieve? Did you not wish him dead? _Nina._ Alas! we often wish what we do not really want, prompted by the anger of the moment. What, in our selfish views, seems nothing at the time, becomes most horrible in the reality. Alas, poor Lopez! (_Weeps._) _San._ Why, Nina, did he not basely leave you? Forgot his vow to love and cherish you? Holy Saint Petronila! why, then, do you love and cherish him? Come, dry your eyes, Nina; he's not worth a tear. (_Kisses her hand._) _Nina._ From no one, I will grant, except from me. But there's a feeling in the heart of woman, you cannot comprehend. Even when it is breaking from ill-treatment, it yearns towards her husband. I must go away, Sancho; I cannot bear to see him--nor you; for you did slay him. _San._ Where are you going? _Nina._ I'll meet you in the further walk. [_Exit Nina, sobbing._ _San._ Here's a pretty mess! Women are never of one mind: change, and change, and change for ever. This rascal deserted her at Toledo, took all her money, and her very clothes--and yet she grieves for him. I should not wonder if she rejected me now, believing that I killed him. (_Going up to Antonio._) How bloody he is! Thou filthy carcase of a filthy knave! I've a great mind to have a thrust at thee, that I may swear my sword went through thy body. Saint Petronila bless the idea! (_Half drawing his sword._) There's some one coming; and if I am found here, with my naked sword, near this bloody corpse, I shall be apprehended for his murder. [_Exit hastily._ (_Antonio looks up and then lies down._) _Enter Beppa._ _Bep._ I cannot find my mistress. She came with me into the garden, worked up to desperation against Don Gaspar, and earnest for his death. Alas! the tide is turned, and now, in some sequestered spot, she weeps his falsehood. I must go seek her, and steel her heart by praising Isidora. What's here? the body of a man (_going to Antonio_). Why! 'tis Antonio, my worthless husband; alas! and called away without repentance, full of misdeeds and roguery. Heaven pardon him! Whose deed was this? that villain Garcias'?--if so, he hath but gained the sin; for I would sooner hug an adder, than listen to his wooing. I must seek my mistress; then will I return to give him honest burial, and pay for masses for his guilty soul. [_Exit._ [_Antonio rises slowly, resumes his friar's dress, and comes forward._] _Ant._ That cowardly rascal, Sancho, had nearly brought me to life again, instead of having killed me, as he said he had. Pitiful scoundrel, to thrust at a dead man! He'll never kill one living. Nina, I respect thee; yet must we part, for 'tis evident thou lov'st another. I'll meet them in this grove, and persuade them to marry. As for Beppa, if I am missing, 'tis clear she'll never look for me. [_Exit._ _Scene IV._ _Another Part of the Garden._ _Enter Nina and Sancho._ _Nina._ Nay, no more, Sancho. To me there's something dreadful in such a hasty fresh espousal. My husband's body yet uninterred, still would you have me enter into fresh bonds. _San._ He was no husband to you, Nina, but a worthless wretch, who deceived you. Remember, it is for years that I have loved you. Saint Petronila be my witness. _Nina._ I know it, Sancho, and wish I had never married Lopez. Why did you leave me? _San._ I could but leave you, when I followed my master: but remember, when we parted, I offered you my troth. You have been unjust to me, and owe some reparation; by Saint Petronila, you do! _Nina._ And in good time I'll make it, Sancho. _San._ The present is good time; now we are together, and my master is no more. Come, Nina, keep your promise, and the Saint will reward you. _Nina._ Nay, Sancho, do not thus persuade me. Were I to yield to your wish, you would hate me after we were married. _San._ Never; by this kiss (_kisses her_), I swear. I have you now, and will not part with you. [_Nina throws herself into his arms._ _Enter Antonio in friar's gown and hood._ _Ant._ (_in a feigned voice_). Good hugging people, are you man and wife? _San._ We are not yet, but soon we hope to be. _Ant._ The sooner it were better, for this dalliance In the ev'ning, in a sequester'd grove, Is most unseemly, if not dangerous. Woman, lovest thou this man?-- _Nina._ I do, most holy father. _Ant._ And I must tell thee, maiden, it were better That you delay no longer. I have witness'd Your stolen embraces; and, by Holy Church! I think it right that you be married straight, Ere vice usurps the throne that should be held By virtue only. Children, not far from hence There is a chapel, where attending priests Chant holy masses for a soul's repose. There may you join your hands, and there receive The nuptial benediction. _San._ Nina, you must obey this holy friar, and make me happy; Saint Petronila sent him. _Nina._ It is against my wish that I consent; yet, father, you know best, although you know not all. _Ant._ (_aside_). Indeed I do! (_Aloud_) Come with me, my children, I'll point you out the path, to where you may, By holy rites pronounced, become one flesh. [_Exeunt._ _Enter Serafina and Beppa._ _Ser._ My distracted mind, like some wild spendthrift, Has drawn upon my heart till it is bankrupt. God, how my soul is weary! I fear the sword Of that Don Felix may prevail against him. He is a man well knit in sinewy strength; Gaspar a boy. O spare him, gracious Heaven! _Bep._ To wed with Isidora, and with gibes Mock at the tears of Donna Serafina! Madam, you've not the lofty soul of woman, Or you would act, and not thus vainly talk. He's lost to you for ever! I've discover'd, That since this noon he hath not left her house, And all's in preparation for their union. _Ser._ Have they been left together? Then, perchance, She hath been foolish too, and much too fond. Then will he quit her soon. Truant Gaspar, These arms shall win thee back! _Bep._ Oh, no! She is too wise, too prudent, and too good. Such charms of mind and body she possesses, That all do worship her; but not as one Of us mere mortals. He dare not think of it. She is too perfect. Gaspar is hers alone, And you--are thrown aside for ever! _Ser._ Is it so? Don Gaspar hers! Never, never! by Heav'n, If I lose him, he shall be lost to her! If I must weep, her tears shall fall with mine! If my heart breaks, hers shall be riven too! If I must die,--and that I shall, I feel, Loves she as I do, they may dig her grave. Don Felix, may thy practised sword prove true!-- And it will save me from a deed of horror. _Bep._ Now do you speak as a wrong'd woman should. Keep up this spirit--you will be avenged. We must retire; for soon they will appear. [_Exeunt._ _Scene V._ _Another part of the Garden attached to the House of Donna Serafina._ _Enter Anselmo._ I would that it were o'er! A heavy gloom Hangs on my spirits, like some threat'ning cloud O'erspreading the wide firmament, without One speck of blue, like hope, to cheer th' horizon. Yet, from what cause it springs, I cannot tell. His sword I fear not. It is mine estate, So promising. He that hath nought to lose, Is spurr'd to action with the hope of gain. He that is wealthy, and 'gainst fortune plays, Is like the gambler, who will risk his means With those who nothing have. _Enter Felix._ _Felix._ If you have waited for me long, Don Gaspar, It was against my will. I'm most impatient To bring this meeting to a speedy issue. _Ans._ At your request, Don Felix, I am here; And if you please there should be strife between us, You'll find me not unnerved. To be sincere,-- I do not wish this needless controversy. Recall your words, offensive, as untrue, And take my proffer'd hand. Then will I prove, And not till then, how greatly you have wrong'd me. _Felix._ That which is said, is said. I'll not retract. But were it false, which I cannot believe, You've slain my bosom friend, the brave Don Perez. _Ans._ He wrong'd me much. Upon my soul he did. I must not prove it now. _Felix._ Then prove yourself, and draw. For see, the sun is down, and daylight flies; We have no time for parley. (_Draws._) [_Beppa and Serafina pass behind from r. to l._ _Ans._ (_drawing_). Then, whether you or I, Don Felix, live To hail that glorious orb, must now be tried. Don Felix, to your guard. Whate'er the issue, You will repent this most ungovern'd haste. [_They fight. Don Felix is disarmed and he falls. Anselmo stands over him with his sword pointed to his breast._] _Ans._ You question'd if I'd manhood in my frame; Allow, Don Felix, that the question's answer'd. You call'd me an impostor,--name for those Who clothe themselves in borrow'd plumes, t'appear Greater, not less, than what they are. Then know, He you upbraided as of no parentage, Whose sword, impatient, waits its master's bidding, T'avenge the affront, is heir to Guzman's house, To which, in ancestry, thine own is nothing. This truth, Don Felix, I could not reveal, [_Serafina and Beppa appear behind in the wood._] Till we had measured swords. Honour forbade it. Now manifest. I give you life, and proffer, If that you please, my hand in amity. [_Felix rising, Anselmo presents him his sword._] _Felix._ Your actions prove that you are truly noble. I do regret the language which I used, And cheerfully retract what proves so false. Don Gaspar, are you satisfied? (_offering hand_). _Ans._ (_taking Don Felix's hand_). And happy. Now, Isidora, thou art surely mine; Vistas of bliss are opening to my view; My heart expands with gratitude to Heav'n, And tears would flow of penitence and joy, That one so little worthy, thus is bless'd. O, may my life be long, that I may prove To gracious Heav'n, I'm worthy Isidora. Joy! joy! with lightning's speed, I fly---- [_Serafina, who has advanced, stabs Anselmo in the back._] _Ser._ To death! (_Then wishing to rush to him, she holds out her arms and exclaims_) Gaspar! Gaspar! [_Serafina is borne off fainting by Beppa and Garcias, who have entered. Anselmo leans against Don Felix, who supports him, and then gradually sinks out of his arms to the ground._] _Ans._ I felt the blow would come. From whom, or where, Was hid in the obscure. 'Twas Serafina! I knew the voice, the knell---- _Felix._ Where are you hurt? _Ans._ Don Felix, by that friendship we have pledged So newly, one kind office I request. _Felix._ Curs'd be the infuriate jealous wretch, That one so noble should so basely fall! _Ans._ Nay, curse her not, she is too curs'd already. Her future life will be a constant shower Of curses on herself. I do forgive her. And yet to die so young, and late so happy. More painful still to part from Isidora. Would she were here, that I might comfort her! My mother, too! O God! 'twill break her heart! _Enter Superior, Inez, Isidora, Nina, and Sancho. Inez and Isidora run to Anselmo and kneel down by him._ _Inez._ (_to Felix_). Wretch! that hath done this bloody, hateful deed, Receive a frantic mother's bitter curse! _Ans._ You are deceived, my mother; 'twas not he Who dealt the fatal blow. It was a woman. _Inez._ A woman! say you; Who was this treach'rous woman? Let me know her, That I may work on her a woman's vengeance. _Isid._ I ne'er have learn'd to curse--I wish I had: I can but weep. Look, mother, at his blood! Oh, staunch it, or he'll bleed to death. _Inez._ Are you much hurt, Anselmo? _Ans._ Mother, to death. 'Tis useless to deceive you. You scarcely found me But I am lost again: 'twill soon be over. (_Faintly_) E'en now the blood's collecting in my heart For its last rally;--Isidora, I would tell thee What pain it is to part, but my strength fails, And my parch'd tongue cannot perform its duty. _Isid._ To part, Anselmo? Dost thou say to part? No, no; thou shalt not die,--we must not part. What false, already! How could'st thou utter That which, to me, must be the knell of death? (_Bursts into tears and embraces him._) _Ans._ Would that your gentle power o'er me was the same In death, as life: then should I live for ever. But--mother--fare you well--farewell--my Isidora. [_Groans and falls dead. Donna Inez faints, and is supported by Don Felix and Nina. Isidora, whose face was hidden in Anselmo's breast, lifts up her head and looks wildly at the body._ _Isid._ Anselmo! (_More loudly_) Anselmo! (_Shrieks. Throws herself on the body. The rest of the characters group round the body, and the curtain falls._) THE GIPSY; OR, "WHOSE SON AM I?" A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. _Men._ SIR GILBERT ETHERIDGE, _An old Admiral._ CAPTAIN ETHERIDGE, _His son; grave._ CAPTAIN MERTOUN; _gay._ OLD BARGROVE. YOUNG PETER BARGROVE, _His son._ WILLIAM, _The Admiral's sailor-footman._ BILL,} } _Gipsies._ DICK,} _Women._ LADY ETHERIDGE, _The Admiral's wife._ AGNES, _Her daughter._ LUCY, _The daughter of Bargrove._ MRS BARGROVE. NELLY, _The gipsy._ The Gipsy _Scene.--The Hall, the residence of Sir Gilbert, and the vicinity. Time that of acting._ _Act I. Scene I._ _A Room in a respectable country inn.--Enter Captain Etheridge and Captain Mertoun, ushered in by the Landlord._ _Land._ Will you be pleased to take anything, gentlemen? _Capt. Eth._ I can answer for myself, nothing. _Capt. Mer._ I agree, and disagree, with you; that is, I coincide with you in--nothing. _Capt. Eth._ Then I trust, Mr Harness, that you will coincide with us in expediting the greasing of that radical wheel as soon as possible, and let us know when the horses are put to. _Land._ Most certainly, Captain Etheridge; I will superintend it myself. [_Exit Landlord._ _Capt. Eth._ An old butler of my father's, who set up many years ago with a few hundred pounds, and the Etheridge Arms as a sign. He has done well. _Capt. Mer._ That is to say, the Etheridge Arms have put him on his legs, and drawing corks for your father has enabled him to draw beer for himself and his customers. Of course he married the lady's maid. _Capt. Eth._ No, he did more wisely; he married the cook. _Capt. Mer._ With a good fat portion of kitchen stuff, and a life interest of culinary knowledge. I have no doubt but that he had a further benefit from your liberal father and mother. _Capt. Eth._ By-the-bye, I have spoken to you of my father repeatedly, Edward; but you have not yet heard any remarks relative to my mother. _Capt. Mer._ I take it for granted, from your report of your father, and my knowledge (_bowing_) of the offspring, that she must be equally amiable. _Capt. Eth._ Had she been so, I should not have been silent; but as I have no secrets from you, I must say, she is not the--the very paragon of perfection. _Capt. Mer._ I am sorry for it. _Capt. Eth._ My father, disgusted with the matrimonial traps that were set for the post-captain, and baronet of ten thousand a year, resolved, as he imagined wisely, to marry a woman in inferior life; who, having no pretensions of her own, would be humble and domestic. He chose one of his tenant's daughters, who was demure to an excess. The soft paw of the cat conceals her talons. My mother turned out the very antipodes of his expectations. _Capt. Mer._ Hum! _Capt. Eth._ Without any advantages, excepting her alliance with my father, and a tolerable share of rural beauty, she is as proud as if descended from the house of Hapsburg--insults her equals, tramples on her inferiors, and--what is worse than all--treats my father very ill. _Capt. Mer._ Treats him ill! what! he that was such a martinet, such a disciplinarian on board! She does not beat him? _Capt. Eth._ No, not exactly; but so completely has she gained the upper hand, that the Admiral is as subdued as a dancing bear, obeying her orders with a growl, but still obeying them. At her command he goads himself into a passion with whomsoever she may point as the object of his violence. _Capt. Mer._ How completely she must have mastered him! How can he submit to it? _Capt. Eth._ Habit, my dear Mertoun, reconciles us too much; and he, at whose frown hundreds of gallant fellows trembled, is now afraid to meet the eye of a woman. To avoid anger with her, he affects anger with every one else. This I mention to you, that you may guide your conduct towards her. Aware of your partiality to my sister, it may be as well---- _Capt. Mer._ To hold the candle to the devil, you mean. Your pardon, Etheridge, for the grossness of the proverb. _Capt. Eth._ No apology, my dear fellow. Hold the candle when you will, it will not burn before a saint, and that's the truth. Follow my advice, and I will insure you success. I only wish that my amatory concerns had so promising an appearance. _Capt. Mer._ Why, I never knew that you were stricken. _Capt. Eth._ The fact is, that I am not satisfied with myself; and when I am away from my Circe, I strive all I can to drive her from my memory. By change of scene, absence, and occupation, I contrive to forget her indifferent well. Add to all this, I have not committed myself by word or deed. I have now been three years in this way; but the moment I find myself within two miles of my fair one, as the towers of my home rise upon my sight, so rises the passion in my bosom; and what I supposed I had reasoned away to a mere dwarfish penchant, becomes at once a mighty sentiment. _Capt. Mer._ That looks very like attachment. Three years, did you say? My dear brother in affliction, make me your confident. _Capt. Eth._ I intended to do so, or I should not have originated the subject. My father brought up the daughter of our steward, Bargrove, with my sister Agnes. I have therefore known Lucy from her infancy; and ought I to be ashamed to say, how much I am in love with her? _Capt. Mer._ Etheridge, this is a point on which, I am afraid, my advice would not be well received. _Capt. Eth._ Of course you would imply that she must be renounced. _Capt. Mer._ Most assuredly; that is my opinion on a _primâ facie_ view of the case. You have your father's example. _Capt. Eth._ I have, but still there are many points in my favour. Bargrove is of a very old, though decayed family. Indeed, much more ancient than our own. _Capt. Mer._ I grant you, there is one difficulty removed. But still your relative position. He is now your father's steward. _Capt. Eth._ That is certainly a great obstacle; but on the other hand, she has been really well educated. _Capt. Mer._ Another point in your favour, I grant. _Capt. Eth._ With respect to Lucy herself, she is---- _Capt. Mer._ As your father thought your mother--perfection. Recollect, the soft paw of the cat conceals the talons. _Capt. Eth._ Judge for yourself when you see and converse with her. I presume I am to consider myself blind. At all events, I have decided upon nothing; and have neither, by word or deed, allowed her to suppose an attachment on my part: still it is a source of great anxiety. I almost wish that she were happily married. By-the-bye, my mother hates her. _Capt. Mer._ That's not in your favour, though it is in hers. _Capt. Eth._ And my father doats upon her. _Capt. Mer._ That's in favour of you both. _Capt. Eth._ Now, you have the whole story, you may advise me as you please: but remember, I still preserve my veto. _Capt. Mer._ My dear Etheridge, with your permission, I will not advise at all. Your father tried in the same lottery and drew a blank; you may gain the highest prize; but my hopes with your sister render it a most delicate subject for my opinion. Your own sense must guide you. _Capt. Eth._ Unfortunately it often happens, that when a man takes his feelings for a guide, he walks too fast for good sense to keep pace with him. _Capt. Mer._ At all events, be not precipitate; and do not advance one step, which, as a man of honour, you may not retrace. _Capt. Eth._ I will not, if I can help it. But here comes Mr Harness. _Enter Landlord._ _Land._ The horses are to, Captain Etheridge, and the wheel is in order. _Capt. Eth._ Come then, Edward, we shall not be long getting over these last eight miles. The boys know me well. _Capt. Mer._ (_Going out_). Yes, and the length of your purse, I suspect, my dear fellow. (_Exeunt ambo._) _Scene II._ _A Wood in the back-ground, Gipsies' tents, etc. Gipsies come forward, group themselves, and sing._ The king will have his tax, Tithes to parsons fall, For rent the landlord racks, The tenant cheats them all; But the gipsy's claim'd right is more ancient yet, And that right he still gains by the help of his wit. _Chorus (joining hands)._ Then your hands right and left, see saw, (_All turn._) Turn your backs on the church and the law; Search all the world through, From the king on his throne, To the beggar--you'll own There are none like the gipsy crew. Wherever we rove, We're sure to find home; In field, lane, or grove, Then roam, boys, roam! 'Tis only when walls his poor body surround, That homeless a free roving gipsy is found. (_Chorus as before._) [_Exeunt all the gipsies except Nelly, who, with Bill, comes forward; Bill, with a bundle on a pitchfork, over his shoulder. Throws down the bundle, and takes out a turkey._ _Nelly._ Is that all that thou hast gathered? _Bill._ All! Enough too, did ye know the sarcumstances. Travelled last night good twelve miles before I could light on this here cretur. Never seed such a scarcity o' fowl. Farmers above tending sich like things now-a-days, dom pride! says I. _Nelly._ But what kept ye out till morning? _Bill._ 'Cause why I was kept in. Lock'd up, by gosh! Why, arter dark, I'd just nabbed this here, when out pops on me the farmer's wife; and so she twists her scraggy neck round like a weathercock in a whirlwind, till at last she hears where Master Redcap wor a gobbling. I'd just time to creep under a cart, when up she comes; so down goes I on all fours and growls like a strange dog. _Nelly._ And one day thou wilt be hung like one. _Bill._ Every one gets his promotion in time. In goes the woman and calls her husband; and though on all fours, I warn't a match for two; so I slinks into a barn and twists the neck of the hanimal, that a might not peach. Well; farmer comes out, and seeing nought but barn door open, curses his man for a lazy hound and locks it, then walks home, leaving I fixed. Warn't that a good un? _Nelly._ How did'st thou contrive to escape? _Bill._ I burrowed into the back of the wheat. Two jockies came in at daylight to thrash---- _Nelly._ And they would have done well to have begun upon the rogue in grain. _Bill._ Thank ye, mistress. But, howsomdever, the farmer came wi 'um, and a waundy big dog that stagged me, and barked like fury. "There be summut there," says farmer; so I squealed like a dozen rats in the wheat. "Rats agen," says he. "Tummus, go fetch the ferrets; and Bob, be you arter the terriers. I'll go get my breakfast, and then we'll rout un out. Come, Bully." But Bully wouldn't, till farmer gave un a kick that set un howling; and then out they all went, and about a minute arter I makes a bolt. Terrible fuss about a turkey; warn't it, Nell? _Nelly._ Hast thou seen Richard? _Bill._ Never put eyes on him since we parted last night; but, as his tongue is as well hung as he will be himself, he'll gie ye a triple bob major, for here he comes. _Enter Dick, pulls out two geese, and flings them down._ _Dick._ Ah, missus, I sha'n't last long. I shall soon be scragged. I'm growing honest. Out of a flock of forty, I've only prigged two. To make amends, I did gnaw off the heads of two more, and so the foxes will have the credit of the job. _Bill._ That was well thought of, my pal. _Dick._ May I one day grow honest, if I don't make up for last night's paltry prig. Come, let's have one roasted, missus--I prefers roast goose. Honest hanimal! only fit to be plucked and eaten. I say, missus, I stumbled on a cove this morning, that I thinks will prove a bleeding cull,--honest hanimal, only fit to be plucked---- _Bill._ And eaten, Dick? _Dick._ Yes, with your dom'd jaw, and so cly it. This here cove sits him down under a tree, with his head a-one side, like a fowl with the pip, and, with a book in his hand talks a mortal deal of stuff about shaking spears and the moon. So, when I had spied enow, I gets up and walks straight to him, and axes him, could he tell where the great fortin-telling woman were to be found in the wood; she as knew the past, the present, and the future. Laid a coil for him, my girl. He be the son of the great Squire's steward, that lives at the Hall, and he says that he be mightily anxious to have his fortin told. He seems to be mortal simple. _Nelly._ What didst thou hear him mouth about? _Dick._ May I grow honest if I bees able to tell, 'twere sich outlandish gibberish. What have the rest done, missus? _Nelly._ Why, like you, Richard, they're growing honest. _Dick._ Ah! ware o' that. My grandam, who was the real seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, said of I, in my cradle, "The moment this here child grows honest, he'll be hung." I've done my best, all my life, to keep my neck out of the halter. _Nelly._ So you have, Richard. I went up to the Hall to beg for the fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge--I love it! _Bill._ That you do, missus; I'll answer for you there. If you be affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot. Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of mischief. (_Dick and Bill retire with the poultry._) _Nelly_ (_assuming a more elevated manner_). Heigho! how many things, long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot! Hard by I was brought up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought! The steward's son--it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his sister, who was nursed at this breast; and how I yearned to press her to it! Pretty creature, how she hath grown! Little did my lady think, when she drove me away, that I was the Nelly who used to be so much at the Hall, nursing Lucy, whilst Mrs Bargrove gave her breast to Miss Agnes. Little did Lucy, when she loaded my wallet with victuals, think that she had so long lain in these arms. Heigho! bye-gone is bye-gone! What a haughty woman is that Lady Etheridge! And yet, she was once a farmer's daughter, but little better than myself. Could I be revenged on her! Ah! I may; I know every particular connected with the family; but here comes the lad. [_Nelly retires_ _Enter Peter Bargrove, book in his hand._ _Peter._ O solitude--solitude! what a quiet thing is solitude! especially when you hold your tongue. I only wish that I had a dozen of my old schoolfellows here to enjoy it with me, for, as this divine Shakespeare says, it is so sweet to be alone. I wonder whether, if I were to take to study, if I could not in time write a Shakespeare myself? I'm blessed if I couldn't! How proud father ought to be of such a son! But father wouldn't care if I did: he thinks of nothing but the harvest: what a difference there is between father and me! I can't account for it. O, here comes the woman of fate. What a gaunt-looking body! What eyes! She can see through a post! Her looks go through me already. _Nelly_ (_advancing_). There is a bright leaf in the book of your fate, young sir, that waits only for my finger to turn it. _Peter._ Then wet your thumb, good woman, and let's have the news in a twinkling. _Nelly._ Not so fast, thou youth of lustrous fortunes! The time is not yet come. Time was, time is, and time shall be! _Peter._ Bless me! how very prophetical! _Nelly._ Meet me here, three hours hence; I shall then have communed with the astral influences! _Peter._ Astral influences! I know of no such people hereabouts. _Nelly._ The stars--the noonday stars! _Peter._ The noonday stars! who can see the stars at noonday? _Nelly._ The gifted. _Peter_ (_looking up_). Well, then, I ar'n't one of the gifted. _Nelly._ Yes; but you might be, if you had but faith. _Peter._ Well, I'm sure I've got plenty--try it. _Nelly._ Very well; stand thus. Now wave your hands thus high in the air, then shade the sight, and close the left eye; look up, and tell me what thou seest there. _Peter._ Three carrion crows. _Nelly._ Nought else? _Peter._ No. _Nelly._ Not all the heavenly hosts? _Peter._ Not a star as big as a sparkle from a red-hot horse-shoe. _Nelly_ (_pointing up_). Seest thou not those two bright stars, Castor and Pollux? _Peter._ No, I can't, upon my honour. _Nelly._ Not Copernicus, so fiery red? not the Great Bear? _Peter._ Why, I don't know; I really think I do see something. No I don't, after all. _Nelly._ Ah! then you want faith--you want faith. I, who see them all, must read them for you. Away; in three hours hence, you'll meet me here. (_Turns away._) _Peter._ Well, you might at least be civil; but that's not the custom of great people. What a wonderful woman, to see the stars at noonday! Well, I'll put my faith in her, at all events. (_Exit Peter. Dick and Bill come forward with the poultry picked._) _Dick._ Well, missus, ban't he a soft cove? _Nelly._ I have not done with him yet. _Bill._ Now let's get our dinner ready. The fowls be a axing for the pot. _Dick._ And goose to be roasted. _Bill._ No, I say; they'd smell us a mile. Your liquorice chops will transport you yet. _Dick._ Tell ye, Bill, goose shall be roasted. May I grow honest, but it shall. I'll give up a pint--I'll sacrifice sage and innions. Eh, missus? _Nelly._ The sooner they are out of sight the better. [_They retire; the scene closes._ _Scene III._ _A Drawing-Room in the Hall._ _Enter Admiral and Lady Etheridge._ _Lady Eth._ Indeed, Admiral, I insist upon it, that you give the brutal seaman warning; or, to avoid such a plebeian mode of expression, advertise him to depart. _Adm._ My dear, old Barnstaple has served me afloat and ashore these four-and-twenty years, and he's a little the worse for wear and tear. In a cutting-out affair his sword warded off the blow that would have sacrificed my life. We must overlook a little---- _Lady Eth._ Yes, that's always your way; always excusing. A serving man to appear fuddled in the presence of Lady Etheridge! faugh! And yet, not immediately to have his coat stripped off his back, and be kicked out of doors; or, to avoid the plebeian, expatriated from the portals. _Adm._ Expatriated! _Lady Eth._ How you take one up, Admiral. You know I meant to say expatiated. _Adm._ Ah! that is mending the phrase, indeed. I grant that he was a little so so; but then, recollect, it was I who gave them the ale. _Lady Eth._ Yes, that's your way, Sir Gilbert; you spoil them all. I shall never get a servant to show me proper respect. I may scold, scold, scold; or, to speak more aristocratically, vituperate, from morning till night. _Adm._ Well, then, my dear, why trouble yourself to vituperate at all, as you call it? Keep them at a distance, and leave scolding to the housekeeper. _Lady Eth._ Housekeeper, indeed! No, Sir Gilbert; she's just as bad as the rest. Once give her way, and she would treat me with disrespect, and cheat you in the bargain; or, less plebeianly, nefariously depropriate---- _Adm._ Appropriate, you mean, my dear. _Lady Eth._ And appropriate I said, Admiral, did I not? _Adm._ Why, really---- _Lady Eth._ (_raising her voice_). Did I not, Sir Gilbert? _Adm._ Why, my dear, I suppose it was a mistake of mine. Well, my love, let them appropriate a little--I can afford it. _Lady Eth._ You can't afford it, Sir Gilbert. _Adm._ My dear Lady Etheridge, money can but buy us luxuries; and as I don't know a greater luxury than quiet, I am very willing to pay for it. _Lady Eth._ You may be so, Admiral, but my duty as a wife will not permit me to suffer you to squander away your money so foolishly. Buy quiet, indeed! I would have you to know, Sir Gilbert, you must first consult your wife before you can make a purchase. _Adm._ Yes, my lady, it is a fatal necessity. _Lady Eth._ Fatal fal, lal. But, Sir Gilbert, you were always a spendthrift; witness the bringing up of the steward's children with your own, mixing the aristocratic streams with plebeian dregs! Sir Gilbert, the Bargroves are constantly intruding in our house, and Agnes will be no gainer by keeping such company. _Adm._ Whose company, my dear? Do you mean Lucy Bargrove's? I wish all our fashionable acquaintance were only half so modest and so well-informed. She is a sweet girl, and an ornament to any society. _Lady Eth._ Indeed, Sir Gilbert! Perhaps you intend to wear the ornament yourself. A second Lady Etheridge,--he, he, he! When you have vexed me to death, or, to speak more like a lady, when you have inurned my mortal remains. _Adm._ Indeed, my lady, I have no idea of the kind. I don't want to break the fixed resolution that I have long since made, never to marry a second wife. _Lady Eth._ I presume you mean to imply that you have had sufficient torment in the first? _Adm._ I said not so, my dear; I only meant to remark, that I should not again venture on matrimony. _Lady Eth._ I can take a hint, Sir Gilbert, though I don't believe you. All husbands tell their wives they'll never marry again; but, as dead men tell no tales, so dead wives---- _Adm._ (_Aside_). Don't scold. _Lady Eth._ What's that, Sir Gilbert? _Adm._ Nothing--not worth repeating. But to revert to the Bargroves; I think, my dear, when you consider their father's long and faithful services, some gratitude on my part---- _Lady Eth._ Which they may live not to thank you for. _Adm._ Recollect, my dear, that the Bargroves are a very old, though decayed family. One half of this estate was, at one time, the property of their ancestors. It was lost by a suit in chancery. _Lady Eth._ Then it never was rightfully theirs. _Adm._ I beg your pardon there, my dear; chancery will as often take the property from, as give it to, the rightful owner. Bargrove is of a good old family, and has some money to leave to his children. _Lady Eth._ Out of your pocket, Sir Gilbert. _Adm._ Not so; Bargrove has a property of his own, nearly three hundred acres, which has been in the family for many years. _Lady Eth._ Ever since you afforded him the means of purchasing it. _Adm._ I said many years, long before my name was added to the baronetage. _Lady Eth._ Well, Admiral, it may be the case; but still there is no excuse for your folly: and mark me, Sir Gilbert, I will not have that pert minx, Lucy Bargrove, closeted with my daughter Agnes. As to the boy, it is a downright puppy and fool, or, to speak less plebeianly, is a _non composite mentus_. _Adm._ Peter is not clever, but, without education, he would have been worse. It is not our fault if we are not blessed with talent. Lucy has wit enough for both. _Lady Eth._ Lucy again! I declare, Admiral, my nerves are lacerated; or, to descend to your meanness of expression, it is quite shocking in a person of your age to become so infatuated with an artful hussy. Now, Sir Gilbert, am I to be protected, or am I to submit to insult? Is that sea-brute to remain, or am I to quit the house? _Adm._ (_Aside._) I should prefer the latter. (_Aloud._) Why, my lady, if he must go---- _Lady Eth._ Must go? (_rings the bell_). Yes, Sir Gilbert, and with a proper lecture from you. _Enter William; Lady Etheridge sits down with a wave of her hand._ _Lady Eth._ Now, Admiral. _Adm._ William, you--you ought to be ashamed of yourself, getting half-seas over, and behaving in that manner--but--to be sure, I sent you the ale. _Will._ Yes, your honour, famous stuff it was! _Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert! _Adm._ And that's no excuse. I did not tell you to get drunk, and the consequence is, that that, without a proper apology---- _Will._ Beg your pardon, Admiral, and yours too, my lady. _Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert! _Adm._ The fact is, that without the apology, in one word, you, you (_looking round at Lady Etheridge_) must take warning, sir, you leave this house, sir. _Will._ Leave, yer honour, arter twenty-five years' sarvitude! _Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert! _Adm._ Yes, sir, leave the house--damme! _Will._ If yer honour hadn't given the ale, I shouldn't have got into trouble. _Lady Eth._ (_Rising, and as she is leaving the room_). Sir Gilbert, I am glad to perceive that you have a proper respect for me and for yourself. [_Exit._ _Adm._ William, William, you must be aware that I cannot permit you to remain, when Lady Etheridge is displeased with you. _Will._ First offence, yer honour. _Adm._ But, however, I'll try and get you another place, as your general conduct has been correct. _Will._ Thank you. I little thought, that after twenty-five years' sarvitude (_wipes his eyes_). I can always get a ship, Admiral. _Adm._ Why, yes, and I only wish that I had one, in which to give you a good rating, my good fellow; but William, you must be aware---- _Will._ Yes, yer honour, I see how the cat jumps. _Adm._ What do you mean? _Will._ I sees that yer honour is no longer in command of your own ship. _Adm._ You scoundrel! What do you mean? _Will._ Lord, Sir Gilbert, we all knows how the matter be, and as how you can't call your soul your own. It warn't so in the _Menelaus_, when your little finger was enough to make every man jump out of his shoes. You _were_ a bit of a tartar, that's sartin,--and, now you've cotched a tartar. _Adm._ You insolent scoundrel! _Will._ Your honour arn't angry, I hope, but we all pities ye, we do indeed! _Adm._ Unbearable! _Will._ And we says in the servants' hall--and we be all agreed _there_--that you be the kindest master in the world--but, that as for my lady---- _Adm._ Silence, sir; what insolence is this? Out of the room immediately; now, if I had you on board, you scoundrel, I'd give you as good a four dozen as ever a fellow had in his life. I was just going to pension the blackguard, now I'll see him hanged first. (_The Admiral walks up and down the room in a rage, William still remains behind._) Well, well, even my servants laugh at, pity me. Here I am, cooled down into the quietest man in the world, yet obliged to put myself in a passion whenever my wife pleases. It is very hard to lose my temper and my character at her bidding; but if I don't she would put herself into such a rage with me, that I should be even worse off;--of the two evils I must choose the least; but in falling in love, I was a great fool, and that's the truth. _Will._ So you was, Admiral, that's sartin. [_The Admiral runs at him with a stick. William runs off._ _Adm._ Scoundrel! Well, it is the truth. _Enter Lady Etheridge, O.P._ _Lady Eth._ What is the truth, Sir Gilbert? _Adm._ Truth, my lady? why, that when a man's intoxicated, he commits great folly. _Lady Eth._ Yes, and ought to be punished for it. _Adm._ (_Aside._) I am sure that I have been. _Enter Agnes, who runs up and kisses her father._ _Adm._ Well, Agnes, my little clipper, where are you going this morning? _Agnes._ Down to the homestead, papa, with Lucy Bargrove. _Lady Eth._ I must request, Miss Etheridge, that you will be more select in your company. A steward's daughter is not the proper companion for the house of Etheridge. _Agnes._ Indeed, mamma, the society of Lucy Bargrove will never be prejudicial to me. I wish you knew what an unassuming girl she is, and yet so clever and well informed. Besides, mamma, have we not been playmates since we have been children? It would be cruel to break with her now, even if we felt so inclined. I could not do it. _Lady Eth._ There, Admiral, you feel the effect of your want of prudence, of your ridiculous good-nature. An unequal friendship insisted upon, and a mother treated with disrespect. _Agnes._ Indeed, mamma, I had no such intention. I only pleaded my own cause. If my father and you insist upon it, much as I regret it, it will be my duty to obey you. _Lady Eth._ Miss Etheridge, we insist upon it. _Adm._ Nay, Lady Etheridge, I do not,--that is exactly--(_Lady Etheridge looks astonished and bounces out of the room._) My dearest Agnes, I must defend poor Lucy against the prejudices of your mother, if I can; but I'm afraid,--very much afraid. Your mother is an excellent woman, but her over anxiety for your welfare---- _Agnes._ There was no occasion to remind me of my mother's kindness. When a daughter looks into a parent's heart through the medium of her duty, she should see there no error, and believe no wrong. _Adm._ That's a good girl. Now let us take a turn in the garden before dinner. _Agnes._ Shall I ask mamma to accompany us? _Adm._ No, no, my love, she's busy, depend upon it. [_Exeunt ambo._ _Scene IV._ _The Hall of an old-fashioned farming house._ _Old Bar._ (_outside._) Don't take the saddle off her, boy, I'll be out again in ten minutes. (_Enter Bargrove._) Poof--this is, indeed, fine weather for the harvest. We can't cut fast enough--and such crops! (_Seats himself._) My dear, where are you? _Mrs Bar._ (_outside._) I'm coming. [_Enters._ _Bar._ Is dinner ready? No time, my dear, to wait. We are carrying at North Breck and Fifteen Acre. Good three miles off; the people will have dined before I'm back. _Mrs Bar._ Lord bless you, Bargrove! don't fuss--can't they go on without you? _Bar._ Yes, my dear, they can; but the question is, if they will. This fine weather mustn't be lost. _Mrs Bar._ Nor your dinner either. It will be ready in five minutes. _Bar._ Well, well,--where's Lucy? _Mrs Bar._ Upstairs, with Miss Agnes. She's a sweet young lady. _Bar._ Yes, and so mild, and so good-tempered. _Mrs Bar._ That sweet temper of hers don't come from her mother, but from me. _Bar._ From you? _Mrs Bar._ Didn't I suckle her as well as Master Edward? 'Tis the milk makes the nature. _Bar._ Good-natured you are, my dear, that's certain. There may be something in it, for look at Peter. He was nursed by that foolish woman, Sally Stone, when you put him away for Master Edward. I can make nothing of Peter, dame. _Mrs Bar._ Well, really Mr Bargrove, I can't find much fault in him. Bating that he's idle, and extravagant, and won't mind what's said to him, and don't try to please you, and talks foolishly, I see no harm in the boy. _Bar._ No harm--heh? _Mrs Bar._ All this may appear improper in another, but somehow, it does not appear so very bad in one's own child. _Bar._ He's his mother's child, that's plain; but I say (striking his stick upon the ground), he's a foolish, ungrateful, wicked boy. _Mrs Bar._ Not wicked, Bargrove, don't say that. He is a little foolish, I grant, but then he's young; and, by-and-bye, he'll grow tired of being idle. _Bar._ That's what no one was ever tired of, when he once took a liking to it. But, however, I will try if I can't bring him to his senses. Where is he now? _Mrs Bar._ Heaven knows! He was up very early for him this morning, and took a book with him, so you see there are some signs of amendment. _Bar._ Well, well,--we shall see. But I think dinner must be ready by this time. Come, my dear, time's precious. [_Exeunt ambo._ _Enter Agnes, in a walking dress, with Lucy._ _Agnes._ Now, Lucy dear, I will stay no longer, for your dinner is ready. _Lucy._ Indeed, Miss Agnes, I beg that you will not go so soon. Of what consequence is it when I dine? I dine every day, but every day I am not honoured with your company. _Agnes._ Nonsense----honoured. How you have altered in your behaviour to me lately--so formal, and so stiff, now, I quite hate you. _Lucy._ Indeed my heart is neither formal nor stiff; but when I was familiar with you, I was young, and knew not the difference of our situations. I do now, and only pay respect to whom respect is due. _Agnes._ Then you have become very stupid, and I shall detest you. That's all your knowledge will have gained you, Miss Lucy; nay more, I will not come here so often if you do not treat me as you used to do, and call me Agnes. _Lucy._ Rather than that you should stay away, I will obey you, but I still think that it is not right. Consider, when we used to learn and play together, I called your brother "Edward," but how improper it would be if I were to call him so now. _Agnes._ I don't think that his objections would be very decided, Lucy, as you happen to be such a pretty girl: however, I'll ask him, when he comes home to-day. _Lucy._ Ah, Miss Agnes, pray, pray, don't mention it. _Agnes._ Well, you are pretty enough without blushing so much. I'll let you off, provided you speak to me as I wish. But now, Miss Gravity, I've a secret to tell you. _Lucy._ A secret? _Agnes._ I have found out that there's a gang of gipsies in the wood. _Lucy._ Is that your secret? Then dame Fowler was let into it last night, for she lost her best turkey, and she frets about it very much. It was the one that she intended to send to the Hall on Christmas Day. _Agnes._ But that is not the secret, Lucy. The real secret is--that I wish to have my fortune told; and you must contrive with me how to manage it. _Lucy._ Shall I send the woman up to the Hall; she was here yesterday. _Agnes._ No, no, you stupid thing. Lady Etheridge hates the very name of a gipsy. One was at the Hall yesterday, and she threatened her with Bridewell. _Lucy._ Well then, shall I find out where they are? and we can go together. _Agnes._ That's exactly what I wish, Lucy; but it must be soon, as we expect my brother and his friend belonging to the same regiment, and I must not be out of the way when they arrive. _Lucy._ Who is this friend? _Agnes._ A Captain Mertoun. (_Sighs._) I have seen him before. _Lucy._ He is then acquainted with your family? _Agnes._ Not with my father and mother. When I was at Cheltenham with my aunt, I met him very often. There is a little secret there, too, Lucy. _Lucy._ Another? _Agnes._ Yes, another. Don't you long to hear it? _Lucy._ (_Smiling_). If you long to tell it? _Agnes._ How provoking you are! You know I do. Well, then, this Captain Mertoun is--a very handsome man. _Lucy._ Is that all? _Agnes._ No; but it's something to the point, because he says he is very much in love with me. _Lucy._ I'll believe that. Who is not? _Agnes._ Don't be silly, Lucy; but the last part of the secret is the most important. I think, Lucy, that I like him--that is--a little--a very little. Now, since my father has told me he was coming down with my brother, I've been in a perfect fever, I don't know why--and so--and so--that is the reason why I wish to have my fortune told. I know that it's very silly, and all nonsense; but still nonsense is very agreeable sometimes. _Lucy._ But you will not believe a word that you are told. _Agnes._ No, not one word, unless it happens to meet with my own wishes; and then you know.--But I really must be gone. Good-bye, Lucy. Remember our meeting in the wood. [_Exit Agnes._ _Lucy._ God bless thee, dearest Agnes; yet would that I had never seen either you or your brother! What is intended in kindness is, too often, cruelty. The kiss of affection that is implanted on the lips, may take so deep a root, as to entwine the heart. Heigho! What an elegant young man is Captain Etheridge! I recollect, when we used to romp, and quarrel, and kiss; then, I had no fear of him: and now, if he but speaks to me, I tremble, and feel my face burn with blushes. Heigho!--this world demands more philosophy than is usually possessed by a girl of nineteen. _Scene V._ _The Gipsy encampment.--Enter Nelly._ _Nelly._ I have been plotting my revenge on Lady Etheridge; and I have a scheme which may succeed. I must, however, be guided by circumstances; yet, by the means of this senseless fool, I hope to make much mischief. O, here he comes. _Enter Peter._ Good day, again. I have been waiting for you. The stars are in the ascendant. _Peter._ I thought they were up in the sky. _Nelly._ Exactly. Now let me read the lines on your face. The finest gentleman in the land would give half his fortune for those lines. _Peter._ Then pray, what is my fortune, good woman? _Nelly._ One that requires gold, with which to cross my hand; and then it would be too cheap. _Peter._ Gold! Won't a shilling do? _Nelly._ I wish you good-day, Sir; I thought you were a gentleman. _Peter._ Well, so I am; but gentlemen are not always very flush of guineas. However, I have one here, and it shall go for my fortune. [_Gives money._ _Nelly._ The planet, Georgium Sidum, says, that you are the son of the steward, and your name is Bargrove. _Peter._ Now, that is surprising! _Nelly._ But Georgium Sidum tells not the truth. _Peter._ Do the stars ever lie? _Nelly._ O, the new ones do. They have not been long in the business. But the old ones never fail. _Peter._ Astonishing! and only supposed to be Bargrove's son. Go on, good woman, go on. What do the old planets say? _Nelly._ Nay, I must stop a little. That is all I can see just now; but more will be revealed to me by-and-bye. What does Artemidorus say in his ninety-ninth chapter, written in double Chaldean before letters were invented? _Peter._ I don't know. What does he say? _Nelly._ That you must gain great truths by little ones. So you must tell me all you know about yourself, and I shall be able to find out more. _Peter._ I was educated with Mr Edward Etheridge; and, when our education was completed, he went into the army and I was sent home to my father's--that is--to Mr Bargrove's. _Nelly._ I understand. _Peter._ This Mr Bargrove proposed that I should accompany him every day to obtain a knowledge of agriculture, and employ my evenings in keeping the accounts, that I might be able to succeed him in his office of steward. _Nelly._ Exactly--but the stars tell me that you did not like it. _Peter._ Couldn't bear it. Why, my boots, which I am so particular in having well polished, were so loaded with clay the very first time, that I could hardly lift my legs, and I stumbled into a ditch filled with stinging nettles; so I gave it up, and the old gentleman constantly swears that I am no son of his. _Nelly._ Did not I, the priestess of the stars, tell you so? _Peter._ But if I am no son of his, the question is, "Whose son am I?" _Nelly._ A gentleman's son, no doubt. But I shall discover more when I consult the stars anon. You must return. _Peter._ That I surely will. Consult the old stars, if you please. _Nelly._ I always do, sir; no dependence upon the others. In fact, we've quarrelled. I am hardly on speaking terms with them. _Peter._ Speaking terms with the stars! How intimate you must be! _Nelly._ You'll have to cross my hand again. Golden truths will not come out without gold. _Peter._ What! gold again? _Nelly._ Yes, another guinea. One for telling you who you are not, and another for telling you who you are. Don't you see? _Peter._ One for telling me who I am not. Yes, that's told; I am not my father's son. They say it's a wise man who knows his own father. _Nelly._ Wisely said. _Peter._ And another for telling me who I am. Well, I think that is as well worth a guinea as the other. _Nelly._ Better, I should imagine. _Peter._ Yes, better. Well, good-bye, good woman. I'll be sure to be here. _Nelly._ Fail not, or you'll repent it. (_Exit Peter._) The gudgeon takes the bait kindly. Peter, Peter, you had always an immense swallow. When Sally Stone nursed him, she was forced to feed the little cormorant with a tablespoon. As far as I can see, notwithstanding his partnership education with the young Squire, I think the grown babe should be fed with spoon-meat still. But what dainty lasses are these that come this way? Lucy and Miss Etheridge--how fortunate! _Enter Agnes and Lucy._ _Lucy._ There is the woman; so, if you are inclined to hear her nonsense, you must wait the Sibyl's pleasure. _Agnes._ I hope she will not keep us long, or my brother will arrive before we return. (_Nelly advances._) _Nelly._ Save you, fair lady! which of you will first look into futurity? _Lucy._ This young lady. (_Pointing to Agnes._) _Nelly._ Then you must retire out of hearing. _Agnes._ No, no; I have no secrets from her. She must stay. _Nelly._ That cannot be, my art will be useless, and I decline the task. _Lucy._ Yield to her mummery, it can make no difference. _Agnes._ Well, then, Lucy, don't go far away. _Lucy._ I'll be out of hearing, but not out of sight. [_Lucy retires, and amuses herself in collecting flowers._ _Nelly._ Your name is Agnes. _Agnes._ (_laughing_). I know that; and I am the daughter of Sir Gilbert of the Hall. Come, I'll help you, good woman. _Nelly._ I did not say the last. _Agnes._ What do you mean? _Nelly._ I only said that your name was Agnes. _Agnes._ Well, and I told you more than you knew. _Nelly._ The stars reveal not what you assert. _Agnes._ Well, then, I do; so I know more than the stars. _Nelly._ You are wrong. You know not so much. You are not what you think you are. _Agnes._ In the name of wonder, what do you mean? _Nelly._ I have said it. Let me see your hand. Your fate is a dark one! Poor young lady! You will be crossed in everything. _Agnes._ (_laughing faintly_). Love included, I suppose. Shall I not marry the man of my affections? _Nelly._ If he is more generous than men usually are. _Agnes._ I cannot understand you. _Nelly._ There is a dark cloud hanging over your fate. The storm will soon rage. Poor young lady! _Agnes._ You almost frighten me. Speak more intelligibly. _Nelly._ I have said enough. Agnes _Bargrove_, fare thee well! _Agnes._ (_astonished_). Agnes Bargrove! what can she mean? Good woman, will you not tell me more? _Nelly._ Go home, you will soon hear more from others. (_Aside._) The wound is given; let it fester. (_Nelly retires._) _Agnes._ Lucy, Lucy! (_Lucy advances._) _Lucy._ Dear Agnes, how confused you are! What can be the matter? _Agnes._ (_much flurried_). I can hardly tell. The woman was so strange. I was a little surprised--that's all. (_Recovering herself._) Now, Lucy, it's your turn. (_Nelly comes forward._) There, good woman, is your money. (_Nelly shakes her head, and refuses it._) How very strange! Come, Lucy, let her tell your fortune, and then we'll go home. _Lucy._ Nay, Agnes, I have no curiosity. _Agnes._ I insist upon it, Lucy. I will not be the only foolish one. I shall retire until you call me. _Lucy._ Well, then, as you please. I know my fortune but too well. (_Sighs._) [_Agnes retires._ _Nelly._ (_looking Lucy earnestly in the face for a time_). You are perhaps come here for amusement. In olden times there were many false prophets; but still, some of them were true; so, in these days, there are many who pretend to our art, but really few who do possess it. Do you take this for a mocking matter? _Lucy._ Why, really, good woman, I will not promise to believe all you may say, but I shall be glad to listen to it. _Nelly._ I thought as much. But were I to tell you what is known only to yourself, would you then credit my asserted powers? _Lucy._ I should certainly feel more inclined. _Nelly._ There are marks upon your person known but to yourself. _Lucy._ 'Tis very possible. _Nelly._ Can you recollect them? _Lucy._ (_smiling incredulously_). Can you describe them? _Nelly._ To prove my power before I read your destiny, I will. You have a large mole beneath your right shoulder. (_Lucy starts._) You have a scar on your instep by falling over a sickle in your infancy. Nay, more. (_Nelly whispers her._) _Lucy._ Merciful heavens! _Nelly._ Are you satisfied? _Lucy._ I'm a little frightened. _Nelly._ So much to prove that I am no impostor. Now, let me see your hand. (_Lucy holds out her hand trembling._) You have lost your fortune, and your rank in society--but you will soon regain them. The cloud is dispersing from before the sun of your happiness. Sweet girl, I wish thee joy! _Lucy._ What mean you? _Nelly._ Others will tell you soon. There are two in the secret, Nelly Armstrong and Martha Bargrove. _Lucy._ My mother! _Nelly._ No, not your mother. I said, Martha Bargrove. (_Lets go her hand._) Lucy Etheridge, fare thee well. [_Exit Nelly._ _Lucy._ O God! Agnes, Agnes! (_Agnes runs up to her._) _Agnes._ My dear Lucy, has she frightened you too? _Lucy._ O yes! indeed she has. Let us go home, Miss Agnes, I am so unhappy. _Agnes._ So am I, Lucy. I wish we had never seen the odious woman. [_Exeunt ambo, arm in arm, crying._ _Act II. Scene I._ _A Drawing-room in the Hall._ _Enter Captain Etheridge, Captain Mertoun, and William._ _Will._ Sir Gilbert be within gunshot, Captain Edward, and I'll make sail after him. I think he have the gardener in tow. _Capt. Eth._ You will oblige me, William. How are you, my good fellow? You look dull; what's the news here? _Will._ Why, Mr Edward, mortal bad. There be a misfortune happened in the family this morning. _Capt. Eth._ Not to my father, I trust? _Capt. Mer._ Not to Miss Etheridge? _Will._ No; it be, Mr Edward, that Sir Gilbert have given me warning, and I have a month's law to find another berth. (_Captain Etheridge and Mertoun look at each other, and laugh._) _Capt. Eth._ Well, William, I think I can doctor that. _Will._ I'se afraid not, Mr Edward, for the Admiral be superseded--has hauled down his flag, and I'd as soon have my discharge as not. (_Putting his finger to his nose._) A woman be at the bottom of all mischief. _Capt. Eth._ You observe, Mertoun, how things are managed here. Now if any difference or dispute arise between my father and mother, do you immediately espouse the cause of the lady. Recollect, I'll bear you harmless. _Capt. Mer._ I am guided by you; but I'm going to observe-- _Enter Sir Gilbert._ _Adm._ My dear Edward, welcome again to your inheritance! _Capt. Eth._ Thanks, my dear father. Allow me to introduce to you my most particular friend, Captain Mertoun, of our regiment. _Adm._ Sir, you have the welcome of a father who loves all whom his children love. _Capt. Mer._ Sir Gilbert, I am indeed flattered by your kind expressions. _Enter Lady Etheridge._ _Capt. Eth._ My dear mother, permit me to renew my duty. _Lady Eth._ Edward, I have been a martyr to painful anxiety and maternal sentiment; but my sighs are accomplished now that I embrace my only son. (_Turning to Mertoun, and curtseying haughtily._) Your friend? _Capt. Eth._ My friend is Captain Mertoun, who is most anxious to pay his homage, and I trust will find favour in the sight of Lady Etheridge. _Capt. Mer._ That were indeed anticipating bliss. (_Bowing very low._) _Lady Eth._ Captain Mertoun, you may approximate our kindly feelings. _Capt. Mer._ Lady Etheridge, I duly appreciate the distinction. (_Aside to Etheridge._) Why don't you ask after your sister? _Capt. Eth._ Where is my sister Agnes, my dear mother? How is it that she is not here to receive her brother? _Lady Eth._ Indeed, Edward, I am ashamed to say that, forgetful of her aristocratic birth, she has permitted herself to be seduced by bad company. _Adm._ (_aside_). Whew! now for a breeze! _Capt. Eth._ Bad company. Did I hear rightly? Surely, my lady---- _Lady Eth._ I have said it, Edward; and I am sorry to add, that the admiral eggs her on. O pardon, Captain Mertoun, the plebeian slip of the tongue! I mean to say corroborates the mésalliance. _Capt. Mer._ (_aside to Etheridge_) For Heaven's sake, ask her to explain. _Capt. Eth._ What would you infer, my lady? Surely my sister cannot so far forget herself, much less my father approve of such conduct. _Adm._ Edward, this bad company is--Lucy Bargrove. _Lady Eth._ Yes, Sir Gilbert, I am sorry to retort before strangers; but just as you have confessed, it is even so. My daughter has formed an unequal connection, and, and dissipates her rank among unequal associates. _Capt. Eth._ I am truly glad that it is no worse, my lady. _Lady Eth._ What can be worse, sir? Rank is rank; but your father has absorbed notions which disgrace his baronetage. _Adm._ Lady Etheridge, if I never disgrace my title by any other act, I shall be proud of the manner in which I have supported it. (_Aside._) I won't give up this point if I can help it. _Lady Eth._ You hear, Edward--I am quite cagged--I am all confusion--stigmatised, I mean, by his conduct. His infatuation is quite adulterous! _Capt. Eth._ (_aside_). Now, Mertoun, coincide with her. Never mind me or my father. _Lady Eth._ Did you speak, Captain Mertoun? _Capt. Mer._ I did, my lady, but venture to express to Captain Etheridge my admiration of the elegance and elevation of your sentiments. _Adm._ (_aside_). What the devil does he interfere for? confounded puppy. _Lady Eth._ Captain Mertoun, I conceive at once that you are of _Oh tone_. I am sorry that family squabbles--pardon the low word--Captain Mertoun, we cannot touch pitch without being defiled--(_looking at Sir Gilbert._) _Adm._ Sorry you ever meddled with a _tar_. _Lady Eth._ I am grieved, Captain Mertoun, that domestic fractions should be promulgated on our first meeting, and feel much prepossession for your corroboration of the Admiral's folly. _Capt. Mer._ I cannot but assert that his conduct is most indefensible. Sir Gilbert, allow me to take the privilege of an early friend, and to express my regret at your infatuation, and my hope that you will be swayed by superior judgment. _Adm._ Sir, I am much obliged to you for your friendly and polite interference. Does your friend stay dinner, Edward? _Lady Eth._ Admiral, assuredly. I trust that Captain Mertoun will do us the honour of taking many dinners with us. At present, Captain Mertoun, you will excuse me; but when you are at leisure, I do not say that I will show you the grounds, as Sir Gilbert would have expressed himself; but I shall, as we of the _Oh tone_ say, be most happy to be your cicero. [_Exit Lady Etheridge._ _Adm._ (_angrily to Captain Mertoun._) And pray, sir, what do you mean by offering your opinion so confounded freely, and disapproving of my conduct? _Capt. Eth._ My dear father, you must blame me, and not him. Let us retire to your library, and I will explain everything. You will find that Captain Mertoun has no other object in view than the happiness of all parties. _Adm._ Then I can tell Captain Mertoun, that interfering between man and wife is not the way to secure his own. _Capt. Mer._ Your son will soon offer a satisfactory explanation. It is most true that the liberty I have taken with you is most essential to my happiness. _Adm._ (_going up and lifting his cane_). The devil it is! but not to all parties, Captain Mertoun; and I am sorry to say this to any friend of my son's--but you are a d----d impudent puppy, and I expect satisfaction. _Capt. Eth._ That you shall have, sir, from me, who requested Captain Mertoun to follow that line of conduct. Do me the favour to retire to the library. _Adm._ You requested him to insult your father? I am not so old as to be insulted with impunity; and I hope, as you are a party, that the explanation will be satisfactory. (_Walks about in a rage._) Captain Mertoun, you'll excuse us. There are the grounds, and as you have been so very assiduous to fall out with me, you may be equally so to fall in with Lady Etheridge. (_Bowing in derision very low, then exit, attended by Captain Etheridge._) _Capt. Mer._ Well, this is excellent, that a man, who is henpecked till he has not a decent feather left, should be jealous about such a woman. But I feel assured that Etheridge will make all right. I shall take the advice of the old gentleman, and walk about the grounds, perhaps, as he says, I may fall in with Lady Etheridge and improve my acquaintance. [_Exit._ _Scene II._ _The Gipsy encampment in the wood._ _Nelly comes forward._ _Nelly._ Lady Etheridge, you spurned me! you chased me from your doors! what! shall humanity in any shape be worried by your pampered dogs? when youth was fresh upon our brows, our steps light upon the green, and our hearts still more light with innocence, had then the Lady Etheridge more admirers than the poor outcast gipsy, Nelly Armstrong? Have you forgotten your origin, proud lady of the Hall? Had his partial eyes fallen upon me when Sir Gilbert chose his wife from among the cottage maidens, and you, proud lady, had come hungry and in rags to my door, should I have unslipped the hounds upon your cry for charity? No, no, no! You have given insult--expect retaliation. But here comes one of my instruments. Unbend, Eleanor Armstrong, from this lofty carriage, and be again the miserable--the cheating gipsy. _Enter young Bargrove._ _Nelly._ A fine morning, most fortunate sir. _Peter._ Well, my good woman, have you found it out? _Nelly._ What, youth of a brilliant horoscope, do you mean the starlit mystery? It is revealed, but the planets have been very cross. I watched--and watched--and watched-- _Peter._ Well, and what did you discover? _Nelly._ The discovery, sir, is precious. Golden, sir, golden! A guinea! it is worth twenty! _Peter._ A bargain's a bargain. There's your guinea (_Takes out his purse and gives money._) And now, let me have my value for it. _Nelly._ I cast a trine through the rays of Saturn, and placing a quadrature upon his seventh house, I travelled wearily through the heavens; and, at last, this afternoon, at about thirty-five minutes, forty-nine seconds, after the hour of three, I discovered that your mother was wet nurse to both Sir Gilbert's children. _Peter._ Miraculous! and so indeed she was! _Nelly._ You were born at nearly the same time as Captain Etheridge, and was put out to nurse to one Sally Stone. I discovered all about this nursing and suckling in the milky way. _Peter._ Did the stars there tell you all this? wonderful! _Nelly._ Yes, and a great deal more. But first promise me, if your fate is no sordid one, you will not yourself be sordid; for now comes the great secret. Money, sir, money for the prophetess. Suppose, now, I should prove you a gentleman of ten thousand a year; what would you give me then? _Peter._ Give you! another guinea--perhaps two. (_Holding up his purse._) Ten thousand a year! I would give you the whole purse. _Nelly._ (_laying hold of one end of the purse._) Then listen to me--you were changed at nurse. You are the son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge of the Hall! _Peter._ The son of Sir Gilbert Etheridge! and changed by the nurse! _Nelly._ Why don't you clasp your hands, turn up your eyes, and thank the stars, that have gained for you your patrimony? _Peter._ So I will (_Clasps his hands, and lets the purse go, Nelly pockets it._) But what nurse changed me? _Nelly._ Why, Mrs Bargrove to be sure, who nursed you, and put her own son in your place. _Peter._ Infamous old woman! but how is this possible? _Nelly._ The stars have said it. _Peter._ My stars? _Nelly._ Yes, yours. _Peter._ But how am I to prove this? _Nelly._ There again I can assist you. Did you never hear of a girl called Nelly Armstrong? _Peter._ To be sure--she nursed my sister, that is, she nursed Lucy Bargrove. A sad reprobate was Nelly---- _Nelly._ Reprobate in your teeth, young man! Speak of that person with the utmost respect; for 'tis she that will appear and divulge the whole. She was the accomplice of Mrs Bargrove; but you must lose no time; challenge Mrs Bargrove, and she may confess all. Then hasten to Lady Etheridge, and flinging yourself into her arms, sob out upon her bosom that she is your mother. _Peter._ Excellent! it will be quite moving. I think a white handkerchief looks most interesting. _Nelly._ I hope, when your honour comes to your property, you won't forget the gipsy woman. _Peter._ Forget you, good woman! no, that I won't. You shall have a right of encampment here, and permission to rob any tenants upon the estate. Leave me. [_Exit Nelly, curtseying several times to the ground._ _Peter solus_ (_strutting up and down_). Well, I knew that I was a gentleman born, I knew I was (_rubbing his hands_). Why, what a shameful trick of the old woman. But I'll make her confess directly. And then--and then--I'll pardon her; for she has been very kind to me, that's certain. Sir Peter Etheridge with ten thousand a year! O! it will sound well. "Pray," says the traveller from London to one of my tenants, "whose superb mansion is that?" "Sir Peter's." Ha! ha! ha! "And that fine equipage?" "Sir Peter's." He! he! he! "And that beautiful lady all over jewels?" "Sir Peter's." Ho! ho! ho! Lucky, lucky Sir Peter! Hum! ha! I'll turn old Bargrove off for his impudence--that's decided; and I must cease to be cheerful and familiar. Melancholy--melancholy is your only gentlemanlike bearing, as Shakespeare says. [_Exit._] _Scene III._ _A room in the Hall._ _Enter Agnes, with her bonnet in her hand. She sits down, musing._ _Agnes._ I never was so unhappy before; for that gipsy woman has raised doubts and fears which overwhelm me. Lucy, too, has been told something that affects her deeply. She never spoke during the whole way home, and seemed glad to get rid of me as she ran into her father's house. If this should be true (and why raise such a report without foundation? no one could be so wicked), what a discovery. At all events, until the truth be ascertained, I shall be miserable. Heigho! I anticipated so much pleasure in meeting my brother and Captain Mertoun. Now, what am I to do? If he were to--to--offer to----(_cries_). It would be so unhandsome, knowing this report, to say "Yes" (_sobs_), and so unkind to say "No!" O dear! I'm very miserable. _Enter Sir Gilbert._ _Adm._ Why, Agnes, the servants have been out everywhere seeking you. For shame! to be out of the way when you know that your brother was coming. Edward is much hurt at your indifference. Why, what's the matter, child? You appear to have been crying! My dear girl, what has vexed you? See, here they both come. _Enter Captain Etheridge and Mertoun._ _Capt. Eth._ My dear Agnes! (_Agnes runs up to him, embraces him, and then bursts into tears_). Why, what is the matter, my dear sister? _Agnes_ (_hanging on her brother's neck_). O! I am so rejoiced to see you! _Capt. Eth._ (_kisses her_). You look the personification of joy! But, Agnes, here is one whom you have met before. Is it necessary to introduce Mertoun? (_Captain Mertoun advances._) _Agnes._ O no! (_curtseying formally to Captain Mertoun, who offers his hand._) _Capt. Mer._ (_confused, and apart to Captain Etheridge_). Good heavens! I must have displeased her! _Capt. Eth._ (_aside_). Impossible. I do not comprehend it. _Capt. Mer._ I am most happy to renew our acquaintance, Miss Etheridge, under the sanction of your parents' roof. _Agnes_ (_inclining her head_). I shall always be most happy to receive my brother's friends. _Adm._ Agnes, my love, the heat has overpowered you. You have hastened home too fast. Come out with me. You'll be better soon. [_Exeunt Sir Gilbert and Agnes._ _Capt. Eth._ What can it be? She is certainly distressed. _Capt. Mer._ Her reception of me is, indeed, very different from what I had anticipated from the manner in which we parted. I must say, that either her conduct is very inconsistent, or her memory very treacherous. _Capt. Eth._ Nay, Mertoun, it is some time since you met; and then, not under the auspices of her father's roof. Make some allowances for maidenly reserve. _Capt. Mer._ Still I must say I am both mortified and disappointed. _Capt. Eth._ I can feel for you; but knowing her generous character, I do not hesitate to take up her defence. Something presses heavily on her mind; what, I cannot surmise. But I will see her and find it out. Till then, wear your willow as gracefully as you do your laurels, and construe nothing to your disadvantage. This I ask in justice. _Capt. Mer._ You may with confidence. _Capt. Eth._ But here comes Lady Etheridge; now will I hasten to Agnes, and leave you to pay your court. Though you have already made a sufficiently favourable impression, yet still remember my injunctions. _Enter Lady Etheridge._ Lady Etheridge, my sister has just quitted the room far from well. If you will permit me, I will inquire after her, leaving Captain Mertoun to cultivate your acquaintance. [_Exit Capt. Etheridge._ _Capt. Mer._ An honour, madam, I have long courted. _Lady Eth._ O sir! if your leisure is now, as it were, unoccupied, I should be most happy to be your cicero. There are such grounds---- _Capt. Mer._ (_ogling Lady Etheridge_). For admiration, when I cast my eyes that way. _Lady Eth._ The quintessence of politeness, I declare. This way, sir. _Capt. Mer._ The arm of the humblest of your slaves. (_Offering his arm._) _Lady Eth._ Infinitely honoured. [_Exeunt ambo, ceremoniously, and mutually complimenting each other in dumb show._ _Scene IV._ _A Drawing-Room at the Hall._ _Enter Sir Gilbert and Captain Etheridge._ _Capt. Eth._ Well, my dear father, where is Agnes? _Adm._ She has been here just now; she appears to be much distressed about something. She will return directly. _Capt. Eth._ What can have annoyed her? _Adm._ That I don't know. Perhaps my Lady Etheridge. She wishes her to break off with Lucy Bargrove, but that I will resist--that is--that is--as much as I can. _Capt. Eth._ My dear father, why do you submit to such tyranny? You, that have led fleets to victory, to be governed by a woman! A little firmness on your part would soon relieve you from your thraldom, and bring my mother to a proper sense of her duties. _Adm._ (_shaking his head_). Too late--too late, Edward. _Capt. Eth._ Never too late, sir. Take courage for once, and I'll answer for the success. With all respect to my mother, bullies are always cowards. _Adm._ Why, really, Edward, your advice is good; and, as I must always keep up a running fight, I don't see why we shouldn't have a general action. _Capt. Eth._ Bravo, sir, a decisive engagement to your honour, if you only bring decision into play. I agree with you, in respect to Lucy Bargrove, heartily. _Adm._ Edward, this girl has been so long with me, and has so entwined herself about my heart, that I cannot bear that she should be used ill. Your sister is fond of her, and I dote upon her. _Capt. Eth._ Why, yes, sir, I acknowledge that she is a nice girl, but still, there is a line to be drawn. You would not, for instance, like to see her my wife. _Adm._ Indeed but I would, Edward, for your own sake. You would have a fair prospect of matrimonial bliss. Talking about marriage, Edward, I again repeat, if, as you say, the happiness of Agnes depends upon her union with Mertoun, from the character you have given him, I shall raise no objections; but, as I do think in the disposal of her children, the mother has some claim to be consulted, I suppose he must be permitted to follow up your plan, rather a novel one, of bearding the father to gain the daughter. _Capt. Eth._ You forget, sir, that you are to have a general action, and then it will be no longer necessary. _Enter Captain Mertoun._ Here comes Mertoun. _Adm._ True, true, I forgot that. Well Captain Mertoun, I hope you have found amusement. _Capt. Mer._ I have, sir, been walking with my lady, who has just gone into her room to take off her bonnet. _Enter Lady Etheridge and Agnes._ _Lady Eth._ I am quite exhausted with my pedestrian performance. (_Captain Mertoun hands a chair, she sits._) Sir Gilbert, I am sorry to request that you will reprove your daughter for disobedience, for, notwithstanding my command of this morning, I find that she has again visited Lucy Bargrove. You say that you have no objection, but I tell you it shall not be, so there is an end of the matter, and of the discussion; and I insist upon it, Admiral, I insist that you give her a proper lecture in my presence. Now, Sir Gilbert. _Capt. Eth._ (_aside_). Now, sir, this is your time, we'll support you. _Adm._ My dear Lucy is concerned--I don't feel that I want any support. Agnes, your mother has expressed her disapprobation at your visit to Lucy Bargrove. _Agnes._ My dear father! _Adm._ And I don't agree with your mother. _Lady Eth._ Sir Gilbert! _Adm._ I consider Lucy Bargrove a very amiable, good girl. I am partial to her, and have no objection to your visiting her whenever you please. _Lady Eth._ (_more loudly_). Sir Gilbert! _Capt. Eth._ (_aside_). Excellent, Sir Gilbert. _Adm._ I repeat again, Agnes, that so far from agreeing with, I totally disagree with Lady, and, in this matter, I will not allow her to interfere in future. I intend to be _master of my own house_! _Lady Eth._ (_screaming_). Sir Gilbert!!! _Capt. Eth._ (_aside_). The day's our own. _Adm._ (_angrily_). Yes, my lady, master of my own house! and expect humility and submission on your part. (_Softening_). Although I never shall forget that I have advanced you to the dignity of Lady Etheridge. _Lady Eth._ Captain Mertoun! Captain Mertoun! Oh! Oh! will nobody assist me? Oh! lead me to my room. _Adm._ Edward, help your mother to her room, Captain Mertoun will assist you. [_Exeunt Lady Etheridge, Captains Mertoun and Etheridge. Manent, Sir Gilbert and Agnes._ _Adm._ I have, my dear Agnes, as you perceive, made a resolution to be no longer second in my own house, but your good sense will point out to you, that your mother deserves your respect. _Agnes._ My dear father, I have never believed otherwise; but still I must rejoice at what has taken place, as I am convinced it is for her happiness, as well as for your own. _Adm._ Come, dear, let us take a walk; I feel rather excited. No wonder, this being firm is one of the most unsteady feelings imaginable, for I have no sooner come to a resolution of making a stand, than I find my head running round consumedly. [_Exeunt._ _Scene V._ _A parlour in the homestead. Enter Dame Bargrove._ _Mrs Bar._ Well, I wonder whether Mr Bargrove intends to come home to-day. I never knew a man work so hard for his employer. He is an honest man, I will say that, and there are not many wives who are in their husband's secrets can say the same. Aye, and he's no poor man either. His own property to nurse, and twenty years' service with a liberal master have made him independent, and our boy and girl will be none the worse for it. Well, it has been fairly and honourably earned, and there are few who can count so much and say the same. I wish Peter were not so idle and thoughtless. It frets his father very much. Here he comes, and I'll try if I can't reason with him. _Enter Peter Bargrove with great consequence._ _Mrs Bar._ Well, Peter, have you seen your father? _Peter._ I have not yet communicated the important intelligence. _Mrs Bar._ Why, what's the matter with the boy? important intelligence! _Peter._ I had forgot. She is still unaware of my discovery. Hem! (_walking up to his mother._) good woman! look me full in the face. _Mrs Bar._ Good woman! Mercy on us, Peter! Is it thus you address your mother? _Peter._ My mother! I tell you to look in my face. _Mrs Bar._ Look in your face? Well, sir, I do look in your face; and a very foolish face you're making of it. Are you mad? _Peter._ Mad! no, Mrs Bargrove, I'm not mad, but I've discovered all. _Mrs Bar._ All! _Peter._ Yes, all. Down on your knees and confess. _Mrs Bar._ Confess! confess what? Down on my knees too? Why, you ungracious boy, what do you mean? _Enter Mr Bargrove, unperceived, who stands aside._ _Peter._ What do I mean? Confess your enormous guilt--the wicked trick that you played me in my infancy. _Mrs Bar._ Dear me, dear me, my child is out of his senses. _Peter._ Madam, I am in my senses, but I am not your child. Woman, you know it. _Mrs Bar._ (_weeping_). O dear, O dear! _Peter._ Tell me, will you confess at once, thou infamous---- [_Old Bargrove comes forward, and knocks Peter down with his cudgel._ _Old Bar._ I can't stand it any longer. What do you mean, you rascal, by calling your mother infamous? _Peter_ (_rubbing his head, and getting up slowly_). 'Tis well--'tis very well I had resolved before to turn you away; now you may expect the severest chastisement. Take warning this moment, you old---- _Old Bar._ (_lifting up his cudgel_). You old what? _Peter._ I'll swear the peace against you. Take care what you are about. This is a violent assault, you know; and you don't know him you are beating. _Old Bar._ Don't I? _Peter._ No, you don't--but I'll tell you. This woman changed me at nurse, and I can prove it. I--yes--I, humble as I stand here, with my head broken also--am no less than Peter Etheridge--the young Squire! _Old Bar._ Look at the almanac, dame. Is the harvest moon at full? He's mad, indeed! _Peter._ I am not. Mrs Bargrove, where is your accomplice, Nelly Armstrong? You see I know all. (_Mrs Bargrove weeps, but makes no answer._) I say again confess all, and then, perhaps, I may pardon you, and let your husband keep his place. _Old Bar._ Keep my place, and so you are Peter Etheridge, are you? _Peter._ I am, and she knows it well. _Old Bar._ Well, but I don't. I only know you as my foolish son, Peter Bargrove, and so long as you are so supposed to be, I shall not permit you to insult your mother. So, Mr Peter, I'll just take the liberty of giving you a little wholesome chastisement, which I hope may prove beneficial. [_Old Bargrove beats Peter round the room, while Mrs Bargrove tries to prevent him._ _Peter._ I'll tell my mother, Lady Etheridge! that I will. I'll go directly. [_Peter runs off. Mr and Mrs Bargrove sit down. Mrs Bargrove sobbing._ _Old Bar._ (_panting_). The scoundrel! _Enter Lucy, in her bonnet, from walking._ _Lucy._ Good Heavens, father, what was all that noise? Mother, why, what _is_ the matter? _Old Bar._ Matter enough; here's your brother Peter gone out of his senses. But I have rubbed him well down with this cudgel. _Mrs Bar._ (_crying_). He's mad, Lucy, quite mad! Called me an infamous old woman, and said that I changed him at nurse. He will have it, that he is Peter Etheridge. _Lucy_ (_confounded_). Good heavens! how strange! (_Aside_) I hardly know what to think. That gipsy's knowledge--and now my brother--where could he have obtained similar information?--yet it cannot be, she is too good a woman. _Old Bar._ What do you say, Lucy? _Lucy._ Nothing, father. _Old Bar._ Did you ever hear of such conduct? _Lucy._ He must have been told so, or he never would have been so violent. _Old Bar._ So violent! who could have told him such a falsehood? or who would have believed it for a moment, but a fool like him? _Mrs Bar._ How could he have known anything about Nelly Armstrong? _Lucy._ Nelly Armstrong! Did he mention her name? _Mrs Bar._ Yes; he asked me where she was, and says, that she was my accomplice. [_Lucy remains in thought._ _Old Bar._ Lucy, why don't you comfort your mother? One would think you were leagued with Peter. _Lucy._ I, father! _Old Bar._ Yes, you--you are not yourself. Pray have you heard anything of this before? (_Lucy silent._) Answer me, girl, I say, have you before heard anything of this? _Lucy._ I have. _Old Bar._ And pray from whom? _Lucy._ From a strange quarter, and most strangely told. I am not well, father. [_Lucy bursts into tears, and Exit._ _Old Bar._ (_after a pause, looking his wife earnestly in the face_). Why, Dame Bargrove, how is this? Lucy is not a fool, and she is evidently of the same opinion as Peter. (_Walks up and down the room, and betrays much agitation._) Dame, dame, if, for foolish love of thine own children, and I see that thou lovest the other two, as well, if not better than, these--if, I say, thou hast done this great wrong, down on thy knees, and confess it! Guilt can never prosper, and reparation must be made. _Mrs Bar._ (_throwing herself on her knees before her husband_). On my knees, husband, I swear to you, before God, that these children, Peter and Lucy, were born to me, and are the fruits of our marriage. May I never prosper in this world, and lose all hope of mercy in the next, if I speak not now the truth. _Old Bar._ (_taking up his wife and kissing her_). I do believe thee, dame, thou hast ever been honest; but there is mischief brewing, and we must find out who are the authors of this report. Come, cheer up! All will be discovered, and all will be well. [_Exeunt ambo; Old Bargrove leading off and caressing Mrs Bargrove._ _Act III. Scene I._ _A wood.--Enter Bill and Dick._ _Dick._ Well, Bill, what do ye say to it--will it do? _Bill._ Can't tell--been thinking on it all night. Don't much like the consarn. There be too many on 'en. _Dick._ Yes, and there be a mortal lot of plate, Bill, all kept in the butler's pantry. I met a servant at a public-house, who is going away, a sea chap, drinking malt like a fish, and I wormed all out of him. I think it be an easy job. The butler be fat and pursey. The Admiral be old and toothless. _Bill._ That's all right, so far, Dick; but then there be the two young officers just come down. _Dick._ Yes, but I finds that they sleep quite t'other end of the house altogether; and d'ye see, Bill, the plate be only left out because they be come to the Hall. When they're off, the best of the pewter will be all locked up again; so, it's no use to wait till they start off. Come, what d'ye say, Bill? Jack and Nim be both of my mind. I see'd them this morning. _Bill._ (_thoughtfully_). It be hanging matter, Dick. _Dick._ Why, yes--so it be, if so be as we be found out first, and caught arterwards--and then go to 'sizes--and then a true bill be given--and then we be found guilty, and arter all, gets no reprieve; but there be as many a slip between the noose and the neck, as there be 'tween the cup and the lip. _Bill._ Well, Dick, I tell ye what, I've no objection to stand outside, and help carry off. _Dick._ That be all we wants. One must look to the nag and cart, and that one must be you. Gie's your hand on it. [_They shake hands._ _Bill._ But I say, Dick, does Nelly know the business in hand? _Dick._ Not yet. _Bill._ I've an idea she won't allow it. I heard her talk summit about conscience--or the like of it. _Dick._ Talk about fiddlesticks. Show her the pewter and she'll snap her fingers. Here she comes. I'll let her into the gammon. _Enter Nelly._ _Nelly._ Well, lads; what's in the wind? _Dick._ Summit worth sneezing at, Nell. We are up to a rig to-night. Got a bit of a frolic for pewter. _Nelly._ Aye, boys, where? _Dick._ At the Hall here. _Nelly._ It won't do. _Dick._ Yes, but it will though. _Nelly._ Yes it will do for you (_pointing to her neck_). I know the Hall well. It must not be thought of. _Dick._ But we _have_ thought on it, and _will_ think on it. We be all determined, so there be an end of the matter, and an end of your palaver. _Nelly._ I say no! _Dick._ None o' your gammon--pewter arn't to be picked up in the highways. The thing be settled. _Nelly._ Think no more on it. _Dick._ You mind your own business, missus. Go and tell fortunes to fools and women; leave men alone. _Nelly._ I can tell your fortune. A dance in the air till you are out of breath. _Dick._ Didn't require a wise woman to find out that. (_Aside._) But we must keep our eyes upon her--she's queer. (_Aloud._) Come Bill. [_Exeunt Bill and Dick._ _Nelly sola._ Am I so fallen, never to recover? Must I sink deeper and deeper with these villains? Since I joined them they have never yet attempted anything like this. Petty theft, to support existence, I have participated in, but nothing more. Can I retreat? Ah, when I look upon these hills, and remember the time when I roved here, careless, innocent, and happy, how often do I wish that I could retrace my steps! Yonder is the church where I used to pray. How long is it now since I have dared perform that sacred duty? Yet, how often, since I have returned to this spot, have I longed to fall upon my knees! But I am an outcast. Pride and vanity have made me so, and pride has reduced me so to remain, although I loathe myself, and those connected with me. This intention of theirs has, however, resolved me. The deed shall not take place. I will, by some means, warn them at the Hall--a letter, but how to get it there? It shall be done, and done directly. They can but murder me if I am discovered, and what is my life now?--a burden to myself. [_Exit._ _Scene II._ _An Ornamental Shrubbery near the Lodge of the Hall._ _Enter Peter Bargrove._ _Peter._ What a stupid old woman not to confess, after the stars had told the truth! As to old Bargrove, I will have my revenge upon him. Beat me! me, Sir Peter's heir to the property! How confounded strong he is! the old brute! Out of respect to his age, I did not strike him again; but I should like to see, just like to see the next man who will venture to lay his stick across _my_ back. Now I'll to the Hall, and make myself known to Lady Etheridge. How affected she will be! I'll lay my life there will be a scene. Who comes here? O, the fictitious heir to the property, Captain Bargrove, as he will find himself in a very short time. I must hold myself rather high; it will prepare him, as it were, for the bad news. Poor fellow! _Enter Captain Etheridge and Mertoun, from the gates of the Lodge._ _Capt. Eth._ (_holding out his hand_). Hail! Peter, my good fellow! how are you all at home? _Peter._ (_turning away, and folding his arms_). Pretty well, Captain. _Capt. Mer._ (_aside_). I say, Etheridge, that's a dead cut; who is your friend? _Capt. Eth._ (_astonished_). What's the matter now? I think, Mr Peter, when I offer my hand, it is not very courteous in you to refuse it. _Peter._ (_ostentatiously_). Property, Captain, is property. You'll allow that. My hand is my own, and I have it in possession. You'll allow that. But there is other property, which at present is not in my possession, but which you will allow to be hereafter. (_Aside._) That's a hard hit. _Capt. Mer._ Property is property, Etheridge, and to judge by his manners, your friend must have an excess of it in possession. _Capt. Eth._ Property is property, but I doubt if my friend has much of it in possession. _Peter._ No, but I hope to have. _Capt. Eth._ Well, I hope so too. But what's the matter with you, Peter? _Peter._ Excessively familiar! _Capt. Mer._ Upon my word, Etheridge I wonder at your patience. Who is the brute? _Peter._ Brute, sir, did you say brute? _Capt. Mer._ Yes, sir, I did. _Peter._ Then, sir, if you say brute, I beg to observe to you, sir, that--that---- _Capt. Mer._ What? Well, sir! _Peter._ That, sir, a brute is a beast, sir---- _Capt. Mer._ Exactly. _Peter._ And if that's what you meant, there's no offence. Now, if you say brute beast---- _Capt. Mer._ Well, sir, I do say so. _Peter._ You do--you do say so? Well, then, sir, allow me to tell you, in very positive terms, sir, that you have been guilty of--of tautology. _Capt. Mer._ Your friend is very harmless, Etheridge. _Capt. Eth._ I am aware of that; but still I was not prepared for this impertinence, considering the obligations he is under to my family. _Peter._ Obligations, sir, what obligations? Do you refer to the advantages that you had in being educated with me? _Capt. Eth._ I have ever considered the reverse; and that it was you who had the advantages, had you had sense enough to profit by them. _Peter._ Now, observe, there's your mistake. _Capt. Eth. to Capt. Mer._ The fool is mad. _Peter._ Mad, Captain what's your name? _Capt. Eth._ Captain what's-your-name, Peter, don't stand insult. _Peter._ There is no insult. I repeat again, Captain what's-your-name. Do you know your name? _Capt. Eth. to Capt. Mer._ Why, he's as mad as a March hare. _Capt. Mer._ Yes, but not so hot as a Welsh rabbit. _Peter._ A rabbit--that's a boroughmonger! Now I ought to take that up, it is a downright insult; but perhaps he did not mean it. Captain what's-your-name, I tell you a secret; you don't know your own name, no, nor you don't know your station in life. _Capt. Eth._ I'm sure you forget yours, Mr Peter. How long has this change taken place? _Peter._ Ask your nurse. (_Aside._) That was a hard hit; he must smell a rat now. _Capt. Eth._ Ask my nurse! _Capt. Mer._ Ask your granny, Etheridge; upon my soul, it's as good as a play. _Capt. Eth._ To the audience, perhaps; but I feel rather inclined to be in earnest. Hark you, Mr Peter, do you know I am very particular in payment, and always give every man his due. _Peter._ That's it exactly. All that I wish is, that you would give me mine; but if you don't--I shall oblige you, depend upon it. _Capt. Mer._ I rather expect he will, Etheridge, if he goes on much longer. _Peter._ Thank you for taking my part. That's handsome. Perhaps you will persuade him to do me justice. _Capt. Mer._ If you had been in my hands, I should have done you justice long before this. _Peter._ "There's virtue still extant," as the play has it. Sir, as you have joined my side, I'll permit you to shake hands with me. _Capt. Mer._ O certainly! we always do preparatory to a set-to. Now, then, take my advice--on your guard! _Peter_ (_aside_). Now I don't fear him. (_Aloud._) Captain what's-your-name, shall I tell you your fortune? _Capt. Eth._ O certainly! you look like a conjuror. _Peter._ It is your fortune, sir, to be under the baleful influence of the stars, Georgium Sidum and Copernicum. In a few days you will find your name to be _Bargrove_, and you will have to change situations with me. _Capt. Eth._ Indeed! _Peter._ Yes, Captain Bargrove, so it is. A wicked woman changed us in our cradles; but the secret is come out, and evidence is at hand. You must return to obscurity, whilst I emerge from mine. The stars will have it so. Your fortune's told. _Capt. Eth._ Nonsense! the fool has been imposed upon. Now, Mr Peter, I'll tell your fortune. _Peter._ I thank you. It has been already told to my satisfaction. _Capt. Eth._ Nevertheless, it must be told again, although, perhaps, not to your satisfaction. Mr Peter, I can put up with folly, but never with impertinence. Mars and Saturn are about to be in strong opposition, and heavy Saturn will soon jump about like Mercury. The stars will have it so. _Peter._ I don't comprehend that. _Capt. Eth._ It shall be explained. You, Peter Bargrove, have been excessively insolent to me, Edward Etheridge; in consequence, I shall now take the liberty of giving you a little wholesome correction. [_Seizes Peter by the collar._ _Capt. Mer._ Don't use violence to the natural. He offends more in ignorance than malice. _Peter._ Thank you, sir. I see that you are a well-behaved gentleman. O sir! sir! 'tis a vile, ungrateful world. I intended to do something for that young man. (_Captain Etheridge shakes him._) Why, yes, I did. I not only intended to allow you forty pounds a year, but to do what would be more agreeable to your sister Agnes. _Capt. Eth._ Agreeable to Miss Etheridge! What do you mean, sir? _Peter._ Mean--why, I'm not quite sure--recollect, I don't promise; but I was thinking of marrying her. (_Captain Mertoun flies at him, and seizes him by the collar on the other side. They both shake him violently._) _Capt. Eth._} {my sister, } } You marry { } you scoundrel! _Capt. Mer._} {Miss Etheridge, } _Capt. Mer._ (_letting him go_). I am sorry that I was provoked to lay hands on him. Etheridge, I'll leave his chastisement entirely to you. _Peter._ Thank you, sir; I always thought ye were on my side. I suppose that was a mistake just now. _Capt. Mer._ I certainly had no right to interfere between you and Captain Etheridge. _Capt. Eth._ (_still holding Peter by the collar_). But, Mr Peter, we do not part yet. You may have made your peace with Captain Mertoun, but not with me. How dare you insult me thus? _Peter._ I insult you! (_To Captain Mertoun._) Arn't you of my side? _Capt. Mer._ (_laughing_). Yes; if you are knocked down, I, as your second, will help you up again, no more. _Peter._ Well--but I'm not a nine-pin. Why not prevent him from knocking me down? _Capt. Mer._ The stars won't permit that. _Capt. Eth._ And the stars ordain this. (_Lifting his cane._) _Peter._ Captain Etheridge, one word; let go my collar, behave like a reasonable man, and I now promise, upon my word of honour, that I will elevate your sister to my--nuptial bed. (_Captain Mertoun shakes his cane, and makes signs to Captain Etheridge to thrash him._) _Capt. Eth._ I can bear no more. (_Beats Peter round the stage._) _Peter._ Oh! oh! My stars again. Why don't you help me, sir? _Capt. Mer._ You are not down yet, Peter. (_Captain Etheridge continues striking._) _Peter_ (_throwing himself down, and panting_). Now I am. _Capt. Mer._ Yes, and now I may help you up. Then you may go at it again. _Peter._ What! am I to have more of it if I am up? _Capt. Mer._ I rather suspect so. _Peter._ Then I prefer lying here. You need not wait, Captain Bargrove. I sha'n't get up this half-hour. (_Rubbing his shoulders._) _Capt. Eth._ You observe, Peter, I told you your fortune correctly. The stars would have it so. I hope, when next we meet, you will be a little more reasonable, and also a little more respectful. If not, I hold your fortune in my hands. (_Holding up his cane._) _Peter._ Didn't I tell you that you did? Why don't you return it like an honest man? As I said before, I'll make you an allowance. _Capt. Eth._ That's more than I will for you, if I have any more impertinence. Come, Mertoun, he'll not come to time, that's clear. _Capt. Mer._ No, nor to his fortune or title either, I'm afraid. Good morning, Peter. Ha! ha! ha! _Capt. Eth._ Farewell, Sir Peter! Ha! ha! ha! [_Exeunt Captains Mertoun and Etheridge._ _Peter_ (_sitting up_). _Come to time_--nor to my title and fortune. Well, I hope they'll both come to the gallows. I thought of that as a repartee when they were here, but it was too good to be thrown away upon them. (_Rises._) It _is_ very odd that nobody will believe me when the facts are so plain. As Shakespeare says, the "ladder of my ambition is so hard to climb." I presume these are all the sticks I am to get up by. I'm almost tired of it already; but, however, after two misses comes a hit; and I'll try the last. Now to Lady Etheridge, discover myself to her, sob upon her bosom, as the gipsy foretold I should; and then if she is but on my side, why I defy all the men in the family. [_Exit._ _Scene III._ _A parlour in the homestead._ _Enter Old Bargrove and Mrs Bargrove._ _Old Bar._ Why, dame, I can make nothing out of it. I have questioned Lucy as closely as possible, and it appears that it was a gipsy woman who told their fortunes. But still, as Lucy told me the story, there is something very strange about it. _Mrs Bar._ Lucy appears to take it very much to heart, poor thing! _Old Bar._ She does, dame, but in the right way. She thinks of others, and not of herself. I tell you this, dame, if I thought that Lucy was not my daughter, it would almost break my heart. _Mrs Bar._ She's a good girl, and content with her father and mother. I only wish that Peter was the same. _Old Bar._ Peter was born a fool, dame, and he'll never be anything else. But I hope this may prove of service to him. I hear that he has already been up to the Hall. _Mrs Bar._ Had we not better go there, too, Bargrove, and see Sir Gilbert, or they may suppose we be parties to the report. _Old Bar._ Why should they, and who knows the report as yet? _Mrs Bar._ O, everybody! I was told of it ten minutes back by Mrs Benson. She heard it of the footman, William. He says, that Captain Etheridge has given Peter a sound thrashing. _Old Bar._ Did he? Then I am very much indebted to him. I'll tell you what, dame, I'll to the wood and find out this gipsy woman; and if threatening her with the stocks and Bridewell won't make her confess, I have a warrant in my pocket, just made out by the magistrates' clerk, for the apprehension of the gang, on suspicion of their stealing Mrs Fowler's turkey, and Farmer Groves' geese. We'll first see what can be done there; and then I'll come back, and we'll walk up to the Hall. _Mrs Bar._ Do so, Bargrove; let us show that we've a clear conscience, at all events. _Old Bar._ I'll be back in an hour, dame; I must go down to Wilson, the constable. [_Exit old Bar._ _Mrs Bar._ I never was so put out in my life. That boy Peter's folly worries me to death. Who comes here? why, it's Captain Etheridge, I do declare. I am almost afraid to see one of the family now. _Enter Captain Etheridge._ _Capt. Eth._ My dear Mrs Bargrove, with your permission. (_Kissing her._) I can't leave off my old habit of kissing my nurse. How are you, and your husband, and how is pretty Lucy? _Mrs Bar._ Quite well, thank you, Mr Edward. Dear me, what a man you do grow! _Capt. Eth._ If I am not a man at five-and-twenty, dame, I never shall be. _Mrs Bar._ Five-and-twenty! dear heart! so it is--but time does fly fast! It appears to me but the other day that I had you in my arms. How does Miss Agnes to-day? _Capt. Eth._ Not very well, dame, she has something to vex her. Indeed, there's a rumour flying about, and I've come down to speak with you and Lucy on the subject. _Mrs Bar._ I know it all; but it's all false, Mr Edward, all stuff and nonsense from beginning to end. Bargrove has now gone to sift the matter. I'm sure I ought to know. A pretty trouble I've had about it; what with foolish Peter, even Bargrove himself spoke to me as if I could have been guilty of such an act. _Capt. Eth._ What does Lucy think of it? _Mrs Bar._ Lucy is more vexed than any of us. I really think, if she thought it true, that she would make away with herself. _Capt. Eth._ What! at the idea of being Miss Etheridge! no cause that for suicide either. _Mrs Bar._ No, not that, Captain Etheridge; but at the idea of rising in the world at the expense of those to whom she owes both love and gratitude. She's a good girl, Captain Etheridge. _Capt. Eth._ I agree with you, dame, she's a very sweet girl. I wish to speak to her. Will you send her to me? _Mrs Bar._ To be sure I will, Master Edward. She'll be glad to see you. She's always asking after you when you be away. [_Exit Mrs Bargrove._ _Capt. Eth._ I did but say a few words to her on my arrival. I dared not trust myself with more. She looked so beautiful. I have not been able to drive her from my thoughts ever since. Heigho! the conflict between love and pride is well contested: nothing but opportunity can give the victory to the one, and absence to the other. The more I know of her, the more deserving she appears. I often try to find faults in her, but I cannot discover them. I suppose that I inherit all my pride from my mother; that I cherish it in preference to my happiness is clear. But should this report prove true. Such things have occurred, and this may have been done without the knowledge of Mrs Bargrove. Agnes and Lucy then change situations; and I with that cub, Peter Bargrove. Very pleasant indeed! the former is not of much consequence but to be jostled out of my supposed birthright by a booby! _Enter Lucy._ _Capt. Eth._ (_going up to her and taking her by the hand_). I took the liberty to request a few minutes' interview. _Lucy_ (_smiling_). Surely not a very great liberty with one whom you have known so long, and who is so very much indebted to your father. _Capt. Eth._ Not so much as his children are indebted to your mother. But the object of my visit is, Lucy, to request that you will give me some information relative to a ridiculous report. _Lucy._ I can, and I can assure you, Captain Etheridge, that I believe it to be without the shadow of a foundation. That Agnes and I were both taken by surprise at the moment, you must not wonder at; but on reflection, I am convinced that it is a fabrication. Indeed, the very idea is most injurious to the character of my mother. _Capt. Eth._ I grant this; but the change may have taken place without the knowledge of your mother. _Lucy._ It is possible, but barely possible, who but a foolish mother, blinded by partiality, would ever have been guilty of an act which never could benefit herself? _Capt. Eth._ You are not well acquainted with the knavery of the world. To prove a fact like this, in a court of justice, would, in most instances, be rewarded liberally. Your brother, for instance, seems to view the affair in a very different light. _Lucy._ Captain Etheridge, I can honestly assert, that the rumour has occasioned to me the greatest uneasiness; and were it to prove true, I should be still more unhappy. _Capt. Eth._ I cannot understand you. You would find yourself raised to a position in society which you did not expect; courted by those who at present disregard you, and moving in a circle to which, I must say, your beauty and your other natural gifts would contribute to adorn. _Lucy._ Do not flatter me. I have a great dislike to it. I am, I trust, satisfied in my present situation; and, were I weak enough to indulge a transient feeling of vanity, the reminiscence which would instantly intrude, that my advancement was founded on the misery of those I love better than myself, would render it a source of deep and unceasing regret. _Capt. Eth._ Those you love better than yourself, Lucy; who are they? _Lucy_ (_confused_). I referred to your sister Agnes, and to your father. _Capt. Eth._ O, not to me!--then I am an _exclusion_. _Lucy._ My gratitude to your father for his kindness, and our intimacy from childhood, ought to assure you, Captain Etheridge, that----I must ever wish for your happiness. _Capt. Eth._ But suppose, my dear Lucy, this should prove to be true. _Lucy._ I have already stated my sentiments. _Capt. Eth._ You have, Lucy, generally, and much to your honour; but I am just putting the case for my amusement. Suppose it were proved true, you would not look down upon me as the child of your inferiors? _Lucy._ Captain Etheridge, the very observation, for your amusement, is both ungenerous and unkind. I acknowledge our present inferiority, but not perhaps to the extent which would be exacted from your family. But oblige me by not carrying your suppositions any further. (_Tremulously._) I am not very happy--as it is. _Capt. Eth._ Forgive me, Lucy, I did not intend to inflict pain. I am much too fond of you for that. _Lucy._ Then why do you come here to make me miserable? _Capt. Eth._ To make you miserable, my dear Lucy? I should, indeed, be a wretch, when my own happiness depends upon you. (_Lucy starts._) (_Aside._) It is out at last. Now there's no retreat in honour, and I thank heaven for it. (_Aloud._) Did you hear me, Lucy? (_Lucy appears fainting, Etheridge supports her._) Are you angry with me, Lucy? (_She weeps._) I will confess to you honestly, that I have long struggled with my passion, but pride, ridiculous pride, has severely punished me for listening to its selfish dictates. Believe me, when I assert, that never was man more attached than I am to you. Answer me, Lucy, am I then indifferent to you? _Lucy._ (_separating herself gently from Captain Etheridge_). I will be as candid as you have been. (_Remains for a little time silent._) Whether you are indifferent to me or not, I must leave you to judge, from the effects of your communication; but I have also pride, and that pride never will allow me to enter a family against the wishes of those who have a right to be consulted on a question of such serious importance. _Capt. Eth._ Only one question, Lucy. If my father consents to our union, will you be satisfied, without the concurrence of my mother? _Lucy._ I should abide by the decision of my own father and mother; but, to confess the truth, I should not be satisfied. _Capt. Eth._ Am I then to consider this as a mere act of duty, Lucy? Is there no feeling towards me? _Lucy._ O yes! Why should I deny it? Indeed, Edward, if you could have read my heart for some time back, you would have found---- _Capt. Eth._ What, my dear Lucy? _Lucy._ That your image has long occupied it--to its unhappiness. _Capt. Eth._ As yours has mine. Now I trust they will cherish their inmates with delight. Farewell, my dearest Lucy; I hasten to my father, and I've an idea in my brain which may procure the completion of our wishes. [_They embrace. Exit Captain Etheridge._ _Lucy._ God give me strength, and make me sufficiently grateful! This was so unexpected. O Edward! Edward! you have opened such a vista of delight through the dark clouds that surrounded me, that I tremble as I gaze. How dreadful will be this suspense! Now am I arrived at the crisis of my fate. Either I am blessed beyond all hope, and all desert--or else--I die. [_Exit._ _Scene IV._ _A room in the Hall. Enter William, showing in Peter Bargrove._ _Will._ Step in this room, Mr Peter, and I'll let my lady know that you are here. I say, Mr Peter, what can you want with my lady? _Peter_ (_consequentially_). That cannot concern you, sir, I should think. _Will._ What's the matter now? Why, you used to be civil and genteel. I say, I suppose you have found a mare's nest. _Peter._ Don't be saucy, sir; go and deliver your message to my lady. _Will._ And if it warn't for my own sake, I wouldn't now. [_Exit William._ _Peter._ We shall see some difference, I flatter myself, in their behaviour when they know who's who. How shall I address her? I never before dare speak to her, she is so haughty and proud. But she won't be so when she knows that I am her son. Pooh! I don't care for her now. _Re-enter William._ _Will._ My lady desires you to wait in the servants' hall till she sends for you. This way. _Peter._ Indeed, I will not--I'll wait here. _Will._ O, very well--just as you please; but you'll take the consequences. Recollect, I have delivered my lady's message. _Peter._ You have--and you may go. _Will._ Well, I suspect you be got a cloth in the wind, Mr Peter. [_Exit William._ _Peter._ Means I'm drunk! Insolent fellow! I'll give him warning. I daresay my lady will be very angry till she knows the circumstances. Then the sooner I let it out the better (_walks about_). What care I. I'll be as brave as brass. _Lady Eth._ (_without_). I'll be back directly. _Peter_ (_fanning himself with his hat_). O lud! here she comes. (_Recovering himself_). Who cares! Let her come. _Enter Lady Etheridge._ _Lady Eth._ You here, sir! I desired you to wait in the servants' hall. _Peter._ Yes, my lady, you did--but--but--that is not a fit place for me. _Lady Eth._ I am sure this room is not. Well, sir--what do you want? _Peter._ Lady Etheridge, I have most important intelligence to communicate. _Lady Eth._ Well, sir, let me hear it. _Peter._ Lady Etheridge, prepare yourself for most unthought-of news. _Lady Eth._ Will you speak out, fool? _Peter_ (_aside_). Fool! very maternal indeed. (_Aloud._) If I am a fool, Lady Etheridge, why, all the worse for you. _Lady Eth._ How, sir? _Peter._ Yes, my lady, I think you'll treat me with more respect very soon. _Lady Eth._ I shall order the servants to show you the door very soon. _Peter._ If you do, my lady, I sha'n't go out of it. _Lady Eth._ Insolent fellow, leave the room directly. _Peter._ No, can't, upon my honour. (_Aside._) How she'll beg my pardon for all this by-and-bye! It's really very pleasant. (_Aloud._) I come, my lady, to communicate most important intelligence, but I want to break it to you carefully, lest you should be too much overcome with joy. Prepare yourself, my lady, for astounding news. You have a son! _Lady Eth._ (_Aside._) The fellow's mad. (_Aloud._) Well, sir, what's that to you? _Peter._ A great deal, my lady; you don't know him. _Lady Eth._ What does the fool mean? _Peter._ No, my lady, you don't know him. Him whom you suppose to be your son--is--not your son. _Lady Eth._ (_Startled._) Indeed! _Peter._ Yes, my lady, but your son is not far off. _Lady Eth._ Are you deranged? _Peter._ No; quite sensible--hear me out. Dame Bargrove nursed that son. _Lady Eth._ Well, sir! _Peter._ And, Lady Etheridge, we have proof positive, that the wicked woman changed him. _Lady Eth._ (_screaming._) Changed him! _Peter._ Yes, changed him for her own. Edward Etheridge is Edward Bargrove, and Peter Bargrove Peter Etheridge. My dear, dear mother! (_Runs into her arms and kisses her repeatedly, notwithstanding her endeavours to prevent him._) _Lady Eth._ (_screaming._) Oh! oh! [_Peter leads her to a chair, and she goes into hysterics._ _Peter._ How very affecting. _Enter Sir Gilbert._ _Adm._ What's all this! Is Lady Etheridge ill? _Peter._ A little overcome with joy, Sir Gilbert. It will be your turn next. _Adm._ (_Going to Lady Etheridge, who recovers._) What's the matter, my love? _Lady Eth._ (_spitting_). O the wretch--the brute! He has taken liberties! _Adm._ Taken liberties, the scoundrel! Pray, sir, what liberties have you taken with Lady Etheridge? _Peter._ I only smothered her with kisses. _Adm._ What do you mean, sir? Are you mad? Smothering her with kisses! _Peter._ (_smiling_). I certainly did assume that privilege, Sir Gilbert. _Adm._ Did you, you rascal? then I'll just assume another. (_Thrashes Peter round the room._) _Peter._ My father! O my honoured parent! Oh! your own son! Oh, your affectionate---- [_Exit Peter, pursued by the Admiral._ _Adm._ (_returning, puffing and blowing_). Why, positively, the fellow is stark, staring mad. _Enter Agnes, Captains Etheridge and Mertoun._ _Capt. Eth._ What is all this disturbance, my dear father? _Adm._ What is it, why, I hardly can tell. There has been an impudent scoundrel--that young Bargrove--kissing your mother till she has fainted, and swearing that he is my son. Called me his honoured parent--but I cudgelled the rascal! _Agnes._ (_leaning on Captain Etheridge's shoulder_). O heavens! _Capt. Eth._ The fellow himself has just now been trying to elbow me out of my birthright. However, I met his pretensions with the same argument as you did. Who could have put all this nonsense into his addled head so firmly, that two good cudgellings cannot beat it out? _Capt. Mer._ Etheridge, your sister is unwell. _Capt. Eth._ Don't be alarmed, my dear Agnes. _Agnes._ Oh! but indeed I am--I expected this. _Adm._ Expected this! Have you, then, heard anything, my love? _Agnes._ Yes, I have indeed; just before my brother arrived I was told that my real name was Agnes Bargrove. _Adm._ How very extraordinary! Who told you so? _Agnes._ A very strange woman; but she appeared to know all about it. It has made me very unhappy ever since. _Adm._ This must be inquired into. Where did you meet with her? _Agnes._ In the lower wood. But Lucy can tell you more. Speak to her. _Lady Eth._ I'm very ill. Lead me to my room. [_Exeunt Sir Gilbert and Lady Etheridge._ _Cap. Eth._ And I must away to unravel this deep-laid plot. Mertoun, I must leave you to take care of Agnes. [_Exit Capt. Etheridge._ _Capt. Mer._ A pleasing change, if I am not unwelcome. May I be permitted, Miss Etheridge, from a very great interest which I must ever take in the prosperity of your family--may I ask if you imagine there is any truth in this report? _Agnes._ It is impossible for me to answer, Captain Mertoun. Why should such a report be raised without some foundation. True or not, I have ever since felt in a situation so awkward, that I fear my conduct may have appeared strange to others. _Capt. Mer._ I must confess that your evident restraint towards me, so different from what perhaps my vanity induced me to hope, has been to me a source of wonder as well as regret. May I flatter myself that this rumour has been the occasion of an apparent caprice, which I never could have imagined that Miss Etheridge would have indulged in? _Agnes._ You must be aware, Captain Mertoun, that I could not receive you as Agnes Etheridge until those doubts upon my parentage were removed. It would not have been honest. _Capt. Mer._ And was this the only cause for your change of behaviour towards me, Agnes? _Agnes._ Why--yes,--I believe so. _Capt. Mer._ Now, then, let me declare that, whether you prove to be Agnes Etheridge, or Agnes Bargrove, those sentiments which I have felt towards you, and which have not hitherto been revealed excepting to your brother, must ever remain the same. For your own sake, and for the sake of Sir Gilbert and Lady Etheridge, who would deeply regret the loss of such a daughter, I trust that the report is without foundation. For my own part, I rather rejoice at this opportunity of proving the sincerity of my attachment. Let me but find favour in the sight of Agnes, and the surname will be immaterial. _Agnes._ Immaterial, Captain Mertoun! _Capt. Mer._ Yes, quite so; for I shall persuade you to change it as soon as possible, for my own. (_Kneels._) Tell me, dearest Agnes---- _Agnes._ Tell you what? _Capt. Mer._ Something that will make me happy. _Agnes._ (_smiling_). Shall I tell you what the gipsy woman said when she told me my fortune? _Capt. Mer._ Nay, do not trifle with me. _Agnes._ (_archly_). I asked whether I should marry the person that I loved. _Capt. Mer._ A very natural question. _Agnes._ She replied, "Yes, if he is more generous than the generality of his sex." (_Gives her hand._) Captain Mertoun, you have proved yourself so to be, and, since you offer to take Agnes, truly speaking, for "better or for worse," I will not keep you in suspense by disguising my real sentiments. _Capt. Mer._ Dearest Agnes, you have indeed made me happy. (_Embraces her._) I accompanied your brother, with the sole view of pleading my own cause. Imagine then my misery at your cruel reception. _Agnes._ That you may not think me interested by my accepting your generous offer during this state of uncertainty, I will own how often I have thought of you, and how eagerly I looked for your arrival. Let us go now, Mertoun, and see whether Lady Etheridge is recovered. [_Exeunt arm in arm._ _Scene V._ _The wood. Enter Nelly._ _Nelly._ I have tried in vain to dissuade them to abandon their projects. They are preparing their instruments and their weapons. They have determined to attempt the Hall to-night. I have written this letter to Sir Gilbert, and, if I can find any one to convey it, the scoundrels will be taken and punished. If I cannot, I must contrive some means to escape to the Hall; but they suspect me, and watch me so narrowly, that it is almost impossible. What shall I do? There is somebody coming; it is that fool, Peter Bargrove. Then all is right. I will make use of him. _Enter Peter._ Your servant, fortunate sir! _Peter._ Fortunate! why now ar'n't you an infamous hussy? Hav'n't you taken my purse and my money, for your intelligence that I was changed in my cradle,--and what has been the consequence? _Nelly._ That everybody has been astonished. _Peter._ I have been astonished, at all events. I have had so many cudgellings that I must count them with my fingers. First, a huge one from old Bargrove; secondly, a smart one from Captain Etheridge; and thirdly, a severe one from Sir Gilbert. What is the value of your good news if no one will believe it? _Nelly._ Very true--but how could you expect they would? _Peter._ Then what's the good of knowing it? _Nelly._ You must know a fact before you attempt to prove it. You only bought the knowledge of me, you never paid for the proof. _Peter._ No; but I've paid for the knowledge. (_Rubbing his shoulders._) But didn't you say that Mrs Bargrove would confess? _Nelly._ I thought it likely--but, if she won't, we must make her. _Peter._ How? _Nelly._ Bring evidence against her that will convict her, so that she will find it useless denying it. _Peter._ But where is it? _Nelly._ Here (_holding out the letter_). _Peter._ Give it me. _Nelly._ Stop, stop; you've not paid for it. _Peter._ Upon my honour, I've not got a farthing in the world. I durst not ask either father or mother after the bobbery we've had. Indeed, I hardly know whether I dare go home and get my victuals, Won't you trust me? _Nelly._ When will you pay me? _Peter._ When I come to my title and estate. _Nelly._ Well then, as I think you are a gentleman, I will trust you. Now observe, this letter is addressed to Sir Gilbert. It contains a statement of facts that will astonish and convince him. You must not trust it into other hands, but deliver it yourself. _Peter._ He'll cudgel me. _Nelly._ No, he will not. But, even if he did, would you mind a few blows for the certainty of being one day Sir Peter Etheridge? _Peter._ No, hang me if I do. They might all cudgel me together, if they could cudgel me into the only son of a baronet of ten thousand a year. _Nelly._ Well, then, as soon as you can, go boldly up to the Hall, and say to Sir Gilbert, "Sir Gilbert, in justice to yourself, read this letter, and do not despise the caution, as it is all true." You will then see the effect of it. _Peter._ See--not feel. You are certain he won't be angry. Well, then, I will--in this case I'm in a great hurry as anybody. I can promise. So good-bye. [_Exit._ _Nelly._ Now I think all is safe; but I must quit the gang or my life will be in danger. _Enter Old Bargrove, with Constable._ Oh, that I could recall the last twenty years! How wicked, how infamous have I become. [_Covers her face with her hands. Old Bargrove advances and taps her on the shoulder. Nelly starts._ Mercy on me! _Old Bar._ You must not expect much. I believe you tell fortunes, my good woman! _Nelly._ (_curtseying._) Yes, sir, sometimes. _Old Bar._ And steal geese and turkeys? _Nelly._ No, sir, indeed. _Old Bar._ Well, you help to eat them afterwards, and the receiver is just as bad as the thief. You must come along with me. _Nelly._ Along with you, sir! _Old Bar._ Do you see this little bit of paper? But, now I look at you, haven't we met before? _Nelly._ Met before, sir! _Old Bar._ Yes--hold your head up a little, either my eyes deceive me, or you--yes, I'll swear to it--you are Nelly Armstrong. Not quite so good-looking as you were when we parted. Now I understand all. Come, take her along to the Hall at once. _Nelly._ Indeed, sir---- _Old Bar._ Not a word. Away with her, slanderous, lying, mischievous----[_Exeunt omnes._ _Scene VI._ _A Drawing-Room in the Hall._ _Enter Sir Gilbert and Captain Etheridge._ _Adm._ I love Lucy as my own daughter, and it often occurred to me how delighted I should be to receive her as such. But your mother's dislike to her is most unaccountable. _Capt. Eth._ There is the difficulty which I am most anxious to surmount. I am afraid that, without my mother's concurrence, Lucy will never consent to enter into the family. She has pride as well as Lady Etheridge. _Adm._ Yes, but of a very different quality; a proper pride, Edward; a respect for herself, added to a little feeling, to which she adheres in the decayed state of her family, which once was superior to ours. _Capt. Eth._ If my mother could but once be induced to suppose that this rumour is correct, we might obtain her unwilling consent. _Adm._ The report I believe to be wholly without foundation, and so I would, even if it were given against us in a court of justice. _Capt. Eth._ My opinion coincides with yours. But my happiness is at stake, and I, therefore, shall not pause at a trifling deception, which may be productive of so much good. Will you assist me? _Adm._ Why, Edward, can't you manage without me? _Capt. Eth._ Not very well. Let me entreat you. I hear my mother coming. _Adm._ Well, well--she is always asserting I deceive her when I don't--for once, I'll not be accused without a cause. _Enter Lady Etheridge; they pretend not to see her._ _Capt. Eth._ (_Aside._) Now, sir. (_Aloud._) The proofs are, indeed, too strong, my dear sir, to hope for any other issue, and I regret that we have all been so long and so cruelly deceived. _Adm._ Well, Edward, I can only say, if you are not really my son, you will always be considered as such; for, whether your name be Etheridge or Bargrove, you must still look upon me as your father. _Capt. Eth._ I thank you, sir; but there are circumstances over which you have no control. The title and estate must descend to the lawful heir; and that silly fellow, Peter, will in future claim the affections of yourself, and of my dear Lady Etheridge. It is on her account, more than my own, that I feel so much distressed. _Lady Eth._ (_coming forward_). What is this that I hear? Is there then any foundation for that vile report? that hideous tale that turned the brain of that silly wretch? (_The Admiral shakes his head in mournful silence._) Edward, will you not answer me? _Capt. Eth._ I'm afraid that my answer will be most unsatisfactory. Madam, I had my doubts: indeed, I spurned the idea, until I called upon Lucy Etheridge--I believe I must call her now--and the proofs which she can bring forward. _Lady Eth._ The hussy! _Capt. Eth._ Nay, my lady, I must do justice to her. She is more inclined to conceal the facts than to disclose them. Her regard for my father, her profound respect for you, and a certain feeling of good-will towards me---- _Lady Eth._ Well, I am glad to see a little good sense in the girl; indeed, if the Admiral had not spoilt her---- _Adm._ Lady Etheridge, I have always felt towards that girl as my own daughter. It's very odd. Do you think, Edward, that this matter could not be hushed up? _Capt. Eth._ I know but of one way, sir, which is, to sacrifice myself for the welfare of the family. I will do it--I may say, almost willingly. _Adm._ How is that, Edward? _Capt. Eth._ By a marriage with Lucy. _Lady Eth._ Never! _Capt. Eth._ Who will then, for her own sake, keep the proofs in her possession. _Lady. Eth._ Never! never! I cannot consent to it. _Capt. Eth._ May I ask, my dear Lady Etheridge, if you refuse me as your son, or is Lucy refused to me as your daughter? _Lady Eth._ Oh! _Capt. Eth._ And again, my dear madam, when you reflect, on the establishment of these facts by undoubted proofs, that booby, Peter, will have a right to claim your maternal kindness. _Lady Eth._ Odious wretch! _Capt. Eth._ To occupy that place in your affections which, hitherto, I have so proudly held, and must surrender with such deep regret. _Lady Eth._ I would consent to--submit to anything, rather than that monster should dare to call me mother. _Capt. Eth._ Yet so he will, madam, without you consent to the proposed arrangement. Lucy has always treated you with respect, and expressed the warmest gratitude for your protection; but, as for Peter, he will be more bearish and insolent than ever, again smother you with his nauseous kisses, and claim them as an offspring's right. _Lady Eth._ I really feel quite ill again at the very idea. Save me from that, and I'll consent to anything. _Capt. Eth._ Well, then, madam, have I your permission? _Enter William._ _Will._ Please, Sir Gilbert, here be Mr Bargrove, and Madam Bargrove and Miss Lucy, and the constables, and the malefactors, coming up to prove the whole truth of the consarn, to your's and my lady's satisfaction. _Lady Eth._ I'll not see them. I must leave you. _Capt. Eth._ Nay, madam, stay but one moment, and acquaint Lucy that you give your consent. She may not believe me. _Enter Old Bargrove, Lucy, Constables, and Nelly._ _Old Bar._ Your servant, my lady; your servant, Sir Gilbert. I've got the whole story out at last. I have brought up Lucy, who will prove the facts. My son Peter, I have sent after, and I took the liberty to tell the servant that Miss Agnes would be necessary. _Capt Eth._ (_leading up Lucy to Lady Etheridge_). Lady Etheridge, will you honour us so far as to give your consent? (_Lady Etheridge hesitates._) My dear madam, recollect the circumstances. _Enter Peter._ _Adm._ Come, Lady Etheridge, they have mine, and your's must not be refused. _Peter._ Sir Gilbert, I am your's (_seeing Nelly_). Oh, you're here--then all's right, and so I don't care. (_Advancing towards Lady Etheridge._) Lady Etheridge, my dear mamma, with your permission---- _Lady Eth._ (_hastily joining the hands of Captain Etheridge and Lucy_). Yes, Lucy, I consent. [_Exit hastily._ _Capt. Eth._ Thank you, Peter, you never did me so good a turn in your life. _Peter._ Sir Gilbert, in justice to yourself, read this, and do not despise the caution, for it is all true. (_Gives the letter._) _Adm._ How do you know? (_Reads._) "Your house will be robbed this night--the parties are well armed and resolute. Take immediate precautions, and despise not this warning from one who has a sincere regard for you, and for your family." _Capt. Eth._ A friendly caution, sir. It must be attended to. The favour is intended us by the gang of gipsies in the wood. Perhaps this woman may know something about it. _Old Bar._ Like enough, for we have an old acquaintance here, who knows every part of the Hall. This is Nelly Armstrong, who nursed Lucy. _Mrs Bar._ I'll swear to her, and it is she who has been the occasion of all this mischief. _Enter Agnes and Capt. Mertoun._ _Agnes._ My dear Lucy! I did not know that you were here. (_Turning to Nelly._) _Nelly._ Yes, Miss Agnes, the gipsy woman that told you your fortune, and, as Mrs Bargrove states, nursed you, Miss Lucy, at her breast. Sir Gilbert, I will save you trouble by confessing, that all I told these young people was from a feeling of revenge towards Lady Etheridge, who spurned me from her door. My long residence in the family enabled me to give a show of truth to what has occasioned so much uneasiness. _Peter._ What! ar'n't it all true, then? _Nelly._ Not one word, Mr Peter. _Old Bar._ Then we must have you to Bridewell. _Nelly._ I trust, Sir Gilbert, you will be merciful, for I have proved my strong regard to your family. _Adm._ What, by making us all miserable? _Nelly._ Sir Gilbert, by that letter in your hand, that I wrote, little expecting that I should ever appear before you. _Peter._ O, the letter is true, then! _Adm._ (_holding up his cane_). Silence, sir! _Old Bar._ (_holding up his stick_). Yes, silence, sir! _Nelly._ I know, Sir Gilbert, that you have too kind a heart to injure any one; and, if repentance for my folly and wickedness can--if you, Miss Lucy, will plead for me--and my letter, Sir Gilbert, ought to plead for me too--all I beg is, that you will place me in a situation to keep my good resolutions. _Capt. Eth._ Lucy will plead for her, sir, and so do I, for to her I owe my present happiness. _Adm._ Well, well, woman, it shall be your own fault if you do wrong again. _Nelly_ (_curtseying._) Then let me beg pardon of all those to whom I have occasioned uneasiness. _Adm._ Well, it's all settled now, except the affair of the letter, which we must attend to, Bargrove. _Capt. Mer._ Not quite all, sir; here are two who wish for your sanction. _Adm._ Hah! Is it so, Agnes? In this instance I may safely join your hands for your mother, for this morning she expressed a wish that it might be so. At the same time, Mr and Mrs Bargrove, I must request your sanction for the choice that my son has made. He has already secured mine and that of Lady Etheridge. _Mrs Bar._ (_wiping her eyes._) This is indeed a joyous end to all my vexations. _Nelly_ (_with emotion._) May heaven bless your union, my dear Miss Lucy! _Old Bar._ God bless you both! Now, with your permission, Sir Gilbert, I will resign my office of steward. For many years I have filled it through gratitude, and not from any wish of emolument. I have enough to portion my daughter, and even to make that foolish boy a gentleman, according to his notions of gentility. _Peter._ Have you, my dear father? Then I am glad that I was not changed. But I say, Etheridge, I'm your brother-in-law. Indeed you've a strong hand, brother Edward. _Capt. Eth._ There, Peter, take it in friendship. (_Shake hands._) _Adm._ And mine. _Capt. Mer._ Peter, mine. _Old Bar._ Well, I suppose, Peter, I must do the same, and forget and forgive. _Mrs Bar._ And me, Peter. (_Peter jumps up, clasps her round the neck, and gives her a hearty kiss._) The boy's heart is right after all. _Adm._ Thus, then, do all our vexations end in happiness, and may we be allowed to indulge the hope that the same may prove the case with all the parties (_bowing to the audience_) who have honoured us with their presence. [_Curtain falls._ ILL-WILL: AN ACTING CHARADE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. MR CADAVEROUS, _An old miser, very rich and very ill._ EDWARD, _A young lawyer without a brief._ MR HAUSTUS GUMARABIC, _Apothecary._ SEEDY, _Solicitor._ THOMAS MONTAGU, } } _Nephews to Mr Cadaverous._ JOHN MONTAGU, } JAMES STERLING, } } _Nephews twice removed to Mr Cadaverous._ WILLIAM STERLING,} CLEMENTINA MONTAGU, _Niece to Mr Cadaverous._ MRS JELLYBAGS, _Housekeeper and nurse._ Ill-Will _Act I._ _Scene.--A sick room.--Mr Cadaverous in an easy chair asleep, supported by cushions, wrapped up in his dressing-gown, a nightcap on his head.--A small table with phials, gallipots, &c.--Mrs Jellybags seated on a chair close to the table._ _Mrs Jellybags_ (_looks at Mr Cadaverous, and then comes forward_). He sleeps yet--the odious old miser! Mercy on me, how I do hate him,--almost as much as he loves his money! Well, there's one comfort, he cannot take his money-bags with him, and the doctor says that he cannot last much longer. Ten years have I been his slave--ten years have I been engaged to be married to Sergeant-Major O'Callaghan of the Blues--ten years has he kept me waiting at the porch of Hymen,--and what thousands of couples have I seen enter during the time! Oh dear! it's enough to drive a widow mad. I think I have managed it;--he has now quarrelled with all his relations, and Doctor Gumarabic intends this day to suggest the propriety of his making his last will and testament. [_Mr Cadaverous, still asleep, coughs._] He is waking. (_Looks at him._) No, he is not. Well, then, I shall wake him, and give him a draught, for, after such a comfortable sleep as he is now in, he might last a whole week longer. (_Goes up to Mr Cadaverous, and shakes him_). _Mr Cad._ (_starting up._) Ugh! ugh! ugh! (_coughs violently._) Oh! Mrs Jellybags, I'm so ill. Ugh! ugh! _Jel._ My dear, dear sir! now don't say so. I was in hopes, after such a nice long sleep you would have found yourself so much better. _Cad._ Long sleep! oh dear!--I'm sure I've not slept ten minutes. _Jel._ (_Aside._) I know that. (_Aloud._) Indeed, my dear sir, you are mistaken. Time passes very quick when we are fast asleep. I have been watching you and keeping the flies off. But you must now take your draught, my dear sir, and your pill first. _Cad._ What! more pills and more draughts! Why, there's no end to them. _Jel._ Yes, there will be, by-and-bye, my dear sir. You know Doctor Gumarabic has ordered you to take one pill and one draught every half-hour. _Cad._ And so I have--never missed one for the last six weeks--woke up for them day and night. I feel very weak--very weak, indeed! Don't you think I might eat something, my dear Mrs Jellybags? _Jel._ Eat, my dear Mr Cadaverous!--how can you ask me, when you know that Doctor Gumarabic says that it would be the death of you? _Cad._ Only the wing of a chicken,--or a bit of the breast---- _Jel._ Impossible! _Cad._ A bit of dry toast, then; anything, my dear Mrs Jellybags. I've such a gnawing. Ugh! ugh! _Jel._ My dear sir, you would die if you swallowed the least thing that's nourishing. _Cad._ I'm sure I shall die if I do not. Well, then, a little soup--I should like that very much indeed. _Jel._ Soup! it would be poison, my dear sir! No, no. You must take your pill and your draught. _Cad._ Oh dear! oh dear!--Forty-eight pills and forty-eight draughts every twenty-four hours!--not a wink of sleep day or night. _Jel._ (_soothingly._) But it's to make you well, you know, my dear Mr Cadaverous. Come, now. (_Hands him a pill and some water in a tumbler._) _Cad._ The last one is hardly down yet;--I feel it sticking half-way. Ugh! ugh! _Jel._ Then wash them both down at once. Come, now, 'tis to make you well, you know. [_Cadaverous takes the pill with a wry face, and coughs it up again._ _Cad._ Ugh! ugh! There--it's up again. Oh dear! oh dear! _Jel._ You must take it, my dear sir. Come, now, try again. _Cad._ (_coughing._) My cough is so bad. (_Takes the pill._) Oh, my poor head! Now I'll lie down again. _Jel._ Not yet, my dear Mr Cadaverous. You must take your draught;--it's to make you well, you know. _Cad._ What! another draught? I'm sure I must have twenty draughts in my inside, besides two boxes of pills! _Jel._ Come, now--it will be down in a minute. [_Cadaverous takes the wine-glass in his hand, and looks at it with abhorrence._ _Jel._ Come, now. [_Cadaverous swallows the draught, and feels very sick, puts his handkerchief to his mouth, and, after a time, sinks back in the chair quite exhausted, and shuts his eyes._ _Jel._ (_Aside._) I wish the doctor would come. It's high time that he made his will. _Cad._ (_drawing up his leg._) Oh! oh! oh! _Jel._ What's the matter, my dear Mr Cadaverous? _Cad._ Oh! such pain!--oh! rub it, Mrs Jellybags. _Jel._ What, here, my dear sir? (_Rubs his knee._) _Cad._ No, no!--not there!--Oh, my hip! _Jel._ What, here? (_Rubs his hip._) _Cad._ No, no!--higher--higher! Oh, my side! _Jel._ What, here? (_Rubs his side._) _Cad._ No!--lower! _Jel._ Here? (_Rubbing._) _Cad._ No!--higher!--Oh, my chest!--my stomach! Oh dear!--oh dear! _Jel._ Are you better now, my dear sir? _Cad._ Oh dear! oh! I do believe that I shall die! I've been a very wicked man, I'm afraid. _Jel._ Don't say so, Mr Cadaverous. Every one but your nephews and nieces say that you are the best man in the world. _Cad._ Do they? I was afraid that I had not been quite so good as they think I am. _Jel._ I'd like to hear any one say to the contrary. I'd tear their eyes out,--that I would. _Cad._ You are a good woman, Mrs Jellybags; and I shall not forget you in my will. _Jel._ Don't mention wills, my dear sir. You make me so miserable. (_Puts her handkerchief to her eyes._) _Cad._ Don't cry, Mrs Jellybags. I wo'n't talk any more about it. (_Sinks back exhausted._) _Jel._ (_wiping her eyes._) Here comes Doctor Gumarabic. _Enter Gumarabic._ _Gum._ Good morning, Mistress Jellybags. Well, how's our patient?--better?--heh? [_Mrs Jellybags shakes her head._ _Gum._ No: well, that's odd. (_Goes up to Mr Cadaverous._) Not better, my dear sir?--don't you feel stronger? _Cad._ (_faintly_). Oh, no! _Gum._ Not stronger! Let us feel the pulse. [_Mrs Jellybags hands a chair, and Gumarabic sits down, pulls out his watch, and counts._] Intermittent--135--well, now--that's very odd! Mrs Jellybags, have you adhered punctually to my prescriptions? _Jel._ Oh yes, sir, exactly. _Gum._ He has eaten nothing? _Cad._ Nothing at all. _Gum._ And don't feel stronger? Odd--very odd! Pray, has he had anything in the way of drink? Come, Mrs Jellybags, no disguise,--tell the truth;--no soup--warm jelly--heh? _Jel._ No, sir; upon my word, he has had nothing. _Gum._ Humph!--and yet feels no stronger? Well, that's odd!--Has he taken the pill every half-hour? _Jel._ Yes, sir, regularly. _Gum._ And feels no better! Are you sure that he has had his draught with his pill? _Jel._ Every time, sir. _Gum._ And feels no better! Well, that's odd!--very odd, indeed! (_Rises and comes forward with Mrs Jellybags._) We must throw in some more draughts, Mrs Jellybags; there is no time to be lost. _Jel._ I'm afraid he's much worse, sir. _Gum._ I am not at all afraid of it, Mrs Jellybags,--I am sure of it;--it's very odd,--but the fact is, that all the physic in the world won't save him; but still he must take it,--because--physic was made to be taken. _Jel._ Very true, sir. (_Whispers to Gumarabic._) _Gum._ Ah! yes;--very proper. (_Going to Mr Cadaverous._) My dear sir, I have done my best; nevertheless, you are ill,--very ill,--which is odd,--very odd! It is not pleasant,--I may say, very unpleasant,--but if you have any little worldly affairs to settle,--will to make,--or a codicil to add, in favour of your good nurse, your doctor, or so on,--it might be as well to send for your lawyer;--there is no saying, but, during my practice, I have sometimes found that people die. After all the physic you have taken, it certainly is odd--very odd--very odd, indeed;--but you might die to-morrow. _Cad._ Oh dear!--I'm very ill. _Jel._ (_sobbing._) Oh dear! oh dear!--he's very ill. _Gum._ (_comes forward, shrugging up his shoulders._) Yes; he is ill--very ill;--to-morrow, dead as mutton! At all events he has not died for WANT of physic. We must throw in some more draughts immediately;--no time to be lost. Life is short,--but my bill will be long--very long! [_Exit as scene closes._ _Act II. Scene I._ _Enter Clementina, with a letter in her hand._ _Clem._ I have just received a letter from my dear Edward: he knows of my uncle's danger, and is anxious to see me. I expect him immediately. I hope he will not be seen by Mrs Jellybags as he comes in, for she would try to make more mischief than she has already. Dear Edward! how he loves me! (_Kisses the letter._) _Enter Edward._ _Edw._ My lovely, my beautiful, my adored Clementina! I have called upon Mr Gumarabic, who tells me that your uncle cannot live through the twenty-four hours, and I have flown here, my sweetest, dearest, to--to---- _Clem._ To see me, Edward: surely there needs no excuse for coming? _Edw._ To reiterate my ardent, pure, and unchangeable affection, my dearest Clementina; to assure you, that in sickness or in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, as they say in the marriage ceremony, I am yours till death us do part. _Clem._ I accept the vow, dearest Edward. You know too well my heart for me to say more. _Edw._ I do know your heart, Clementina, as it is,--nor do I think it possible that you could change;--still, sometimes--that is for a moment when I call to mind that, by your uncle's death, as his favourite niece, living with him for so many years, you may soon find yourself in the possession of thousands,--and that titled men may lay their coronets at your feet,--then, Clementina---- _Clem._ Ungenerous and unkind!--Edward, I almost hate you. Is a little money, then, to sway my affections? Shame, Edward, shame on you! Is such your opinion of my constancy? (_Weeps._) You must judge me by your own heart. _Edw._ Clementina! dearest Clementina!--I did!--but rather--that is,--I was not in earnest;--but when we value any object as I value you,--it may be forgiven, if I feel at times a little jealous;--yes, dearest, jealous! _Clem._ 'Twas jealousy then, Edward, which made you so unkind? Well, then, I can forgive _that_. _Edw._ Nothing but jealousy, dearest! I cannot help, at times, representing you surrounded by noble admirers,--all of them suing to you,--not for yourself, but for your money,--tempting you with their rank;--and it makes me jealous, horribly jealous! I cannot compete with lords, Clementina,--a poor barrister without a brief. _Clem._ I have loved you for yourself, Edward. I trust you have done the same toward me. _Edw._ Yes; upon my soul, my Clementina! _Clem._ Then my uncle's disposition of his property will make no difference in me. For your sake, my dear Edward, I hope he will not forget me. What's that? Mrs Jellybags is coming out of the room. Haste, Edward;--you must not be seen here. Away, dearest!--and may God bless you. _Edw._ (_kisses her hand._) Heaven preserve my adored, my matchless, ever-to-be-loved Clementina. [_Exeunt separately._ _Scene II._ _The sick-room--Mr Cadaverous, lying on a sofa-bed--Mr Seedy, the lawyer, sitting by his side, with papers on the table before him._ _Seedy._ I believe now, sir, that everything is arranged in your will according to your instructions. Shall I read it over again; for although signed and witnessed, you may make any alteration you please by a codicil. _Cad._ No, no. You have read it twice, Mr Seedy, and you may leave me now. I am ill, very ill, and wish to be alone. _Seedy_ (_folds up his papers and rises._) I take my leave, Mr Cadaverous, trusting to be long employed as your solicitor. _Cad._ Afraid not, Mr Seedy. Lawyers have no great interest in heaven. Your being my solicitor will not help me there. _Seedy_ (_coming forward as he goes out._) Not a sixpence to his legal adviser! Well, well! I know how to make out a bill for the executors. [_Exit Seedy, and enter Mrs Jellybags._ _Jel._ (_with her handkerchief to her eyes._) Oh dear! oh dear! oh, Mr Cadaverous, how can you fatigue and annoy yourself with such things as wills? _Cad._ (_faintly._) Don't cry, Mrs Jellybags. I've not forgotten you. _Jel._ (_sobbing._) I can't--help--crying. And there's Miss Clementina,--now that you are dying,--who insists upon coming in to see you. _Cad._ Clementina, my niece, let her come in, Mrs Jellybags; I feel I'm going fast,--I may as well take leave of everybody. _Jel._ (_sobbing._) Oh dear! oh dear! You may come in, Miss. _Enter Clementina._ _Clem._ My dear uncle, why have you, for so many days, refused me admittance? Every morning have I asked to be allowed to come and nurse you, and for more than three weeks have received a positive refusal. _Cad._ Refusal! Why I never had a message from you. _Clem._ No message! Every day I have sent, and every day did Mrs Jellybags reply that you would not see me. _Cad._ (_faintly._) Mrs Jellybags,--Mrs Jellybags---- _Clem._ Yes, uncle; it is true as I stand here;--and my brother Thomas has called almost every day, and John every Sunday, the only day he can leave the banking house; and cousins William and James have both been here very often. _Cad._ Nobody told me! I thought everyone had forgotten me. Why was I not informed, Mrs Jellybags? _Jel._ (_in a rage._) Why, you little story-telling creature, coming here to impose upon your good uncle! You know that no one has been here--not a soul;--and as for yourself, you have been too busy looking after a certain gentleman ever to think of your poor uncle;--that you have;--taking advantage of his illness to behave in so indecorous a manner. I would have told him everything, but I was afraid of making him worse. _Clem._ You are a false, wicked woman! _Jel._ Little impudent creature,--trying to make mischief between me and my kind master, but it won't do. (_To Clementina aside._) The will is signed, and I'll take care he does not alter it;--so do your worst. _Cad._ (_faintly._) Give me the mixture, Mrs---- _Clem._ I will, dear uncle. (_Pours out the restorative mixture in a glass._) _Jel._ (_going back._) You will, Miss!--indeed! but you shan't. _Clem._ Be quiet, Mrs Jellybags;--allow me at least to do something for my poor uncle. _Cad._ Give me the mix---- _Jel._ (_prevents Clementina from giving it, and tries to take it from her._) You shan't, Miss!--You never shall. _Cad._ Give me the---- [_Mrs Jellybags and Clementina scuffle, at last Clementina throws the contents of the glass into Mrs Jellybags's face._ _Clem._ There, then!--since you will have it. _Jel._ (_in a rage._) You little minx!--I'll be revenged for that. Wait a little till the will is read,--that's all!--See if I don't bundle you out of doors,--that I will. _Clem._ As you please, Mrs Jellybags; but pray, give my poor uncle his restorative mixture. _Jel._ To please you?--Not I! I'll not give him a drop till I think proper. Little, infamous, good-for-nothing---- _Cad._ Give me----oh! _Jel._ Saucy--man-seeking---- _Clem._ Oh! as for that, Mrs Jellybags, the big sergeant was here last night--I know that. Talk of men, indeed! _Jel._ Very well, Miss!--very well! Stop till the breath is out of your uncle's body--and I'll beat you till yours is also. _Cad._ Give----oh! _Clem._ My poor uncle! He will have no help till I leave the room--I must go. Infamous Woman! [_Exit._ _Cad._ Oh! _Jel._ I'm in such a rage!--I could tear her to pieces!--the little!--the gnat! Oh, I'll be revenged! Stop till the will is read, and then I'll turn her out into the streets to starve. Yes! yes! the will!--the will! (_Pauses and pants for breath._) Now, I recollect the old fellow called for his mixture. I must go and get some more. I'll teach her to throw physic in my face. [_Goes out and returns with a phial--pours out a portion and goes up to Mr Cadaverous._ _Jel._ Here, my dear Mr Cadaverous. Mercy on me!--Mr Cadaverous!--why, he's fainted!--Mr Cadaverous! (_Screams_) Lord help us!--why he's dead! Well now, this sort of thing does give one a shock, even when one has longed for it. Yes, he's quite dead! (_Coming forward._) So, there's an end of all his troubles--and, thank Heaven! of mine also. Now for Sergeant-Major O'Callaghan, and--love! Now for Miss Clementina, and--revenge! But first the will!--the will! [_Curtain drops._ _Act III._ _Mrs Jellybags._ Oh dear!--this is a very long morning. I feel such suspense--such anxiety; and poor Sergeant-Major O'Callaghan is quite in a perspiration! He is drinking and smoking down in the kitchen to pass away the time, and if the lawyer don't come soon, the dear man will be quite fuddled. He talks of buying a farm in the country. Well, we shall see; but if the Sergeant thinks that he will make ducks and drakes of my money, he is mistaken. I have not been three times a widow for nothing--I will have it all settled upon myself; that must and shall be, or else--no Sergeant O'Callaghan for me! _Enter Clementina._ So, here you are, Miss. Well, we'll wait till the will is read, and then we shall see who is mistress here. _Clem._ I am as anxious as you, Mrs Jellybags. You may have wheedled my poor uncle to make the will in your favour; if so, depend upon it, I shall expect nothing from your hands. _Jel._ I should rather think not, Miss. If I recollect right, you threw the carminative mixture in my face. _Clem._ And made you blush for the first time in your life. _Jel._ I shall not blush to slam the door in your face. _Clem._ Rather than be indebted to you, I would beg my bread from door to door. _Jel._ I expect that you very soon will. _Enter Edward._ _Edw._ My dearest Clementina, I have come to support you on this trying occasion. _Jel._ And ascertain how matters stand, before you decide upon marrying, I presume, Mr Edward. _Edw._ Madam, I am above all pecuniary considerations. _Jel._ So everybody says, when they think themselves sure of money. _Edw._ You judge of others by yourself. _Jel._ Perhaps I do--I certainly do expect to be rewarded for my long and faithful services. _Clem._ Do not waste words upon her, my dear. You have my solemn promise, nothing shall change my feelings towards you. _Jel._ That may be; but did it never occur to you, Miss, that the gentleman's feelings might alter? _Edw._ Detestable wretch! [_Hands Clementina to a chair on the right, and sits by her._ _Enter Nephews John, Thomas, William, and James, all with white pocket-handkerchiefs in their hand--they take their seats two right and two left._ _Jel._ (_Aside._) Here they all come, like crows that smell carrion. How odious is the selfishness of this world! But here is Mr Gumarabic. How do you do, sir? (_Curtsies with a grave air._) _Gum._ Very well, I thank you, Mrs Jellybags. Can't say the same of all my patients. Just happened to pass by--thought I would step in and hear the will read--odd, that I should pop in at the time--very odd. Pray, may I ask, my dear Mrs Jellybags, were you present at the making of the will? _Jel._ No, my dear sir; my nerves would not permit me. _Gum._ Nerves!--odd, very odd! Then you don't know how things are settled? _Jel._ No more than the man in the moon, my dear sir. _Gum._ Man in the moon!--odd comparison that from a woman!--very odd! Hope my chance won't prove all moonshine. _Jel._ I should think not, my dear sir; but here comes Mr Seedy, and we shall soon know all about it. _Enter Mr Seedy--Mrs Jellybags, all courtesy, waves her hand to a chair in the centre, with a table before it. Mr Seedy sits down, pulls the will out of his pocket, lays it on the table, takes out his snuff-box, takes a pinch, then his handkerchief, blows his nose, snuffs the candles, takes his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, puts them on, breaks the seals, and bows to the company; Mrs Jellybags has taken her seat on the left next to him, and Doctor Gumarabic by her side. Mrs Jellybags sobs very loud, with her handkerchief to her face._ _Seedy._ Silence, if you please. _Mrs Jellybags stops sobbing immediately._ _Edw._ (_putting his arm round Clementina's waist._) My dearest Clementina! _Mr Seedy hems twice, and then reads._ "The Last Will and Testament of Christopher Cadaverous, Gentleman, of Copse Horton, in the county of Cumberland. "I, Christopher Cadaverous, being at this time in sound mind, do hereby make my last will and testament. "First, I pray that I may be forgiven all my manifold sins and wickedness, and I do beg forgiveness of all those whom I may have injured unintentionally or otherwise; and at the same time do pardon all those who may have done me wrong, even to John Jones, the turnpike man, who unjustly made me pay the threepenny toll twice over on Easter last, when I went up to receive my dividends. "My property, personal and real, I devise to my two friends Solomon Lazarus, residing at No. 3 Lower Thames-street, and Hezekiah Flint, residing at No. 16 Lothbury, to have and to hold for the following uses and purposes:-- "First, to my dearly-beloved niece, Clementina Montagu, I leave the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds, 3-1/2 per cent, consols, for her sole use and benefit, to be made over to her, both principal and interest, on the day of her marriage. [_Edwards withdraws his arm from Clementina's waist--turns half round from her, and falls back in his chair with a pish!_ "To my nephew, Thomas Montagu, I leave the sum of nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence--having deducted the other sixpence to avoid the legacy duty. [_Thomas turns from the lawyer with his face to the front of the stage, crossing his legs._ "To my nephew, John Montagu, I leave also the sum of nineteen pounds nineteen shillings and sixpence. [_John turns away in the same manner._ "To my nephew, once removed, James Stirling, I leave the sum of five pounds to purchase a suit of mourning. [_James turns away as the others._ "To my nephew, once removed, William Stirling, I also leave the sum of five pounds to purchase a suit of mourning. [_William turns away as the others._ "To my kind and affectionate housekeeper, Mrs Martha Jellybags----" [_Mrs Jellybags sobs loudly, and cries "Oh dear! Oh dear!"_ _Mr Seedy._ Silence, if your please. [_Reads._ "In return for all her attention to me during my illness, and her ten years' service, I leave the whole of my---- [_Mr Seedy having come to the bottom of the page lays down the will, takes out his snuff-box, takes a pinch, blows his nose, snuffs the candles, and proceeds._ --"I leave the whole of my wardrobe, for her entire use and disposal; and also my silver watch with my key and seal hanging to it. "And having thus provided for----" [_Mrs Jellybags, who has been listening attentively, interrupts Mr Seedy in great agitation._ _Jel._ Will you be pleased to read that part over again? _Seedy._ Certainly, ma'am. "I leave the whole of my wardrobe, and also my silver watch, with the key and seal hanging to it. [_Mrs Jellybags screams, and falls back in a swoon on her chair--no one assists her._ "And having thus provided for all my relations, I do hereby devise the rest of my property to the said Solomon Lazarus and Hezekiah Flint, to have and to hold for the building and endowment of an hospital for diseases of the heart, lights, liver, and spleen, as set off by the provisions in the schedule annexed to my will as part and codicil to it." _Seedy._ Would the relations like me to read the provisions? _Omnes._ No! no! no! (_Mr Seedy is about to fold up the papers._) _Gum._ I beg your pardon, sir, but is there no other codicil? _Seedy._ I beg your pardon, Mr Gumarabic, I recollect now there is one relative to you. _Gum._ (_nods his head._) I thought so. (_Seedy reads._) "And whereas I consider that my apothecary, Mr Haustus Gumarabic, hath sent in much unnecessary physic, during my long illness--it is my earnest request that my executors will not fail to tax his bill." _Gum._ (_rises and comes forward._) Tax my bill!--well that is odd, very odd! I may as well go and look after my patients. [_Exit._ (_James and William come forward._) _James._ I say, Bill, how are you off for a suit of mourning? _Will._ Thanky for nothing, Jem. If the old gentleman don't go to heaven until I put it on, he will be in a very bad way. Come along, it's no use staying here. (_John and Thomas come forward._) _John._ I say, Tom, how are you off for nineteen pounds nineteen and six? Heh! _Thos._ Let's toss and see which shall have both legacies. Here goes--heads or tails? _John._ Woman for ever. _Thos._ You've won, so there's an end of not only my expectations but realities. Come along, Mrs Jellybags must be anxious to look over her wardrobe. _John._ Yes, and also the silver watch and the key and seal hanging to it. Good-bye, Jemmy! Ha! ha! [_Exeunt, laughing._ _Clem._ For shame, John. (_Turns to Edward._) My dear Edward, do not appear so downcast. I acknowledge that I am myself much mortified and disappointed--but we must submit to circumstances. What did I tell you before this will was read?--that nothing could alter my feelings towards you, did I not? _Edw._ (_with indifference._) Yes. _Clem._ Why then annoy yourself, my dear Edward? _Edw._ The confounded old junks! _Clem._ Nay, Edward, recollect that he is dead--I can forgive him. _Edw._ But I won't. Has he not dashed my cup of bliss to the ground? Heavens! what delightful anticipations I had formed of possessing you and competence--all gone! _Clem._ All gone, dear Edward? [_Mrs Jellybags, who has been sitting very still, takes her handkerchief from her eyes and listens._ _Edw._ Yes, gone!--gone for ever! Do you imagine, my ever dear Clementina, that I would be so base, so cruel, so regardless of you and your welfare, to entrap you into marriage with only one hundred and fifty pounds? No, no!--judge me better. I sacrifice myself--my happiness--all for you!--banish myself from your dear presence, and retire to pass the remainder of my existence in misery and regret, maddened with the feeling that some happier mortal will obtain that dear hand, and will rejoice in the possession of those charms which I had too fondly, too credulously, imagined as certain to be mine. [_Takes out his handkerchief, and covers his face; Clementina also puts her handkerchief to her face and weeps. Mrs Jellybags nods her head ironically._ _Clem._ Edward! _Edw._ My dear, dear Clementina! _Clem._ You won't have me? _Edw._ My honour forbids it. If you knew my feelings--how this poor heart is racked! _Clem._ Don't leave me, Edward. Did you not say that for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, you would be mine, till death did us part? _Edw._ Did I? _Clem._ You know you did, Edward. _Edw._ It's astonishing how much nonsense we talk when in love. My dearest Clementina, let us be rational. We are almost without a sixpence. There is an old adage, that when poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window. Shall I then make you miserable! No, no! Hear me, Clementina. I will be generous. I now absolve you from all your vows. You are free. Should the time ever come that prosperity shine upon me, and I find that I have sufficient for both of us of that dross which I despise, then will I return, and, should my Clementina not have entered into any other engagement, throw my fortune and my person at her feet. Till then, dearest Clementina, farewell! _Clem._ (_sinking into a chair sobbing._) Cruel Edward! Oh, my heart will break! _Edw._ I can bear it myself no longer. Farewell! farewell! [_Exit._ _Jel._ (_coming forward._) Well, this is some comfort. (_To Clementina._) Did not I tell you, Miss, that if you did not change your mind, others might? _Clem._ Leave me, leave me. _Jel._ No, I shan't; I have as good a right here as you, at all events. I shall stay, Miss. _Clem._ (_rising._) Stay then--but I shall not. Oh, Edward! Edward! [_Exit, weeping._ _Jel._ (_alone._) Well, I really thought I should have burst--to be forced not to allow people to suppose that I cared, when I should like to tear the old wretch out of his coffin to beat him. _His_ wardrobe! If people knew his wardrobe as well as I do, who have been patching at it these last ten years--not a shirt or a stocking that would fetch sixpence! And as for his other garments, why a Jew would hardly put them into his bag! (_Crying._) Oh dear! oh dear! After all, I'm just like Miss Clementina; for Sergeant O'Callaghan, when he knows all this, will as surely walk off without beat of drum, as did Mr Edward--and that too with all the money I have lent him. Oh these men! these men!--whether they are living or dying there is nothing in them but treachery and disappointment! When they pretend to be in love, they only are trying for your money; and e'en when they make their wills, they leave to those behind them nothing but _ill-will_! [_Exit, crying, off the stage as the curtain falls._ How to write a Fashionable Novel [_Scene.--Chambers in Lincoln's Inn. Arthur Ansard at a briefless table, tête-à-tête with his wig on a block. A. casts a disconsolate look upon his companion, and soliloquises._] Yes, there you stand, "partner of my toils, my feelings, and my fame." We do not _suit_, for we never gained a _suit_ together. Well, what with reporting for the bar, writing for the Annuals and the Pocket-books, I shall be able to meet all demands, except those of my tailor; and, as his bill is most characteristically long, I think I shall be able to make it stretch over till next term, by which time I hope to fulfil my engagements with Mr C., who has given me an order for a fashionable novel, written by a "nobleman." But how I, who was never inside of an aristocratical mansion in my life, whose whole idea of Court is comprised in the Court of King's Bench, am to complete my engagement, I know no more than my companion opposite, who looks so placidly stupid under my venerable wig. As far as the street door, the footman and carriage, and the porter, are concerned, I can manage well enough; but as to what occurs within doors, I am quite abroad. I shall never get through the first chapter; yet that tailor's bill must be paid. (_Knocking outside._) Come in, I pray. _Enter Barnstaple._ _B._ Merry Christmas to you, Arthur. _A._ Sit down, my dear fellow; but don't mock me with merry Christmas. He emigrated long ago. Answer me seriously: do you think it possible for a man to describe what he never saw? _B._ (_putting his stick up to his chin._) Why, 'tis possible; but I would not answer for the description being quite correct. _A._ But suppose the parties who read it have never seen the thing described? _B._ Why then it won't signify whether the description be correct or not. _A._ You have taken a load off my mind; but still I am not quite at ease. I have engaged to furnish C. with a fashionable novel. _B._ What do you mean to imply by a fashionable novel? _A._ I really can hardly tell. His stipulations were, that it was to be a "fashionable novel in three volumes, each volume not less than three hundred pages." _B._ That is to say, that you are to assist him in imposing on the public. _A._ Something very like it, I'm afraid; as it is further agreed that it is to be puffed as coming from a highly talented nobleman. _B._ You should not do it, Ansard. _A._ So conscience tells me, but my tailor's bill says Yes; and that is a thing out of all conscience. Only look here. [_Displays a long bill._ _B._ Why, I must acknowledge, Ansard, that there is some excuse. One needs must, when the devil drives; but you are capable of better things. _A._ I certainly don't feel great capability in this instance. But what can I do? The man will have nothing else--he says the public will read nothing else. _B._ That is to say, that because one talented author astonished the public by style and merits peculiarly his own, and established, as it were, a school for neophites, his popularity is to be injured by contemptible imitators. It is sufficient to drive a man mad, to find that the tinsel of others, if to be purchased more cheaply, is to be pawned upon the public instead of his gold; and more annoying still, that the majority of the public cannot appreciate the difference between the metal and the alloy. Do you know, Ansard, that by getting up this work, you really injure the popularity of a man of great talent? _A._ Will he pay my tailor's bill? _B._ No; I daresay he has enough to do to pay his own. What does your tailor say? _A._ He is a staunch reformer, and on March the 1st he declares that he will have the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill--carried to my credit. Mr C., on the 10th of February, also expects the novel, the whole novel, and nothing but the novel, and that must be a fashionable novel. Look here, Barnstaple. (_Shows his tailor's bill._) _B._ I see how it is. He "pays your poverty, and not your will." _A._ And, by your leave, I thus must pay my bill (_bowing._) _B._ Well, well, I can help you: nothing more difficult than to write a good novel, and nothing more easy than to write a bad one. If I were not above the temptation, I could pen you a dozen of the latter every ordinary year, and thirteen, perhaps, in the bissextile. So banish that Christmas cloud from your brow; leave off nibbling your pen at the wrong end, and clap a fresh nib to the right one. I have an hour to spare. _A._ I thank you: that spare hour of yours may save me many a spare day. I'm all attention--proceed. _B._ The first point to be considered is the _tempus_, or time; the next the _locus_, or place; and lastly, the _dramatis personæ_; and thus, chapter upon chapter, will you build a novel. _A._ Build! _B._ Yes, build; you have had your dimensions given, the interior is left to your own decoration. First, as to the opening. Suppose we introduce the hero in his dressing-room. We have something of the kind in Pelham; and if we can't copy his merits, we must his peculiarities. Besides, it always is effective: a dressing-room or boudoir of supposed great people, is admitting the vulgar into the arcana, which they delight in. _A._ Nothing can be better. _B._ Then, as to time; as the hero is still in bed, suppose we say four o'clock in the afternoon? _A._ In the morning, you mean. _B._ No; the afternoon. I grant you that fashionable young men in real life get up much about the same time as other people; but in a fashionable novel your real exclusive never rises early. The very idea makes the tradesman's wife lift up her eyes. So begin. "It was about thirty-three minutes after four, _post meridian_----" _A._ Minute--to a minute! _B._ "That the Honourable Augustus Bouverie's finely chiselled----" _A._ Chiselled! _B._ Yes; great people are always chiselled; common people are only cast.--"Finely chiselled head was still recumbent upon his silk-encased pillow. His luxuriant and Antinous-like curls were now confined in _papillotes_ of the finest satin paper, and the _tout ensemble_ of his head----" _A._ _Tout ensemble!_ _B._ Yes; go on.--"Was gently compressed by a caul of the finest net-work, composed of the threads spun from the beauteous production of the Italian worm." _A._ Ah! now I perceive--a silk nightcap. But why can't I say at once a silk nightcap? _B._ Because you are writing a fashionable novel.--"With the forefinger of his gloved left hand----" _A._ But he's not coming in from a walk--he's not yet out of bed. _B._ You don't understand it.--"Gloved left hand he applied a gentle friction to the portal of his right eye, which unclosing at the silent summons, enabled him to perceive a repeater studded with brilliants, and ascertain the exact minute of time, which we have already made known to the reader, and at which our history opens." _A._ A very grand opening indeed! _B._ Not more than it ought to be for a fashionable novel.--"At the sound of a silver _clochette_, his faithful Swiss valet Coridon, who had for some time been unperceived at the door, waiting for some notice of his master, having thrown off the empire of Somnus, in his light pumps, covered with beaver, moved with noiseless step up to the bedside, like the advance of eve stealing over the face of nature." _A._ Rather an incongruous simile. _B._ Not for a fashionable novel.--"There he stood, like Taciturnity bowing at the feet of proud Authority." _A._ Indeed, Barnstaple, that is too _outré_. _B._ Not a whit: I am in the true "Cambysis' vein."--"Coridon having softly withdrawn the rose-coloured gros de Naples bed-curtains, which by some might have been thought to have been rather too extravagantly fringed with the finest Mechlin lace, exclaimed with a tone of tremulous deference and affection, '_Monsieur a bien dormi?_' 'Coridon,' said the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, raising himself on his elbow in that eminently graceful attitude, for which he was so remarkable when reclining on the ottomans at Almack's----" _A._ Are you sure they have ottamans there? _B._ No; but your readers can't disprove it.--"'Coridon,' said he, surveying his attendant from head to foot, and ultimately assuming a severity of countenance, 'Coridon, you are becoming gross, if not positively what the people call _fat_.' The Swiss attendant fell back in graceful astonishment three steps, and arching his eyebrows, extending his inverted palms forward, and raising his shoulders above the apex of his head, exclaimed, '_Pardon, mi lor, j'en aurois un horreur parfait._' 'I tell you,' replied our gracefully recumbent hero, 'that it is so, Coridon; and I ascribe it to your partiality for that detestable wine called Port. Confine yourself to Hock and Moselle, sirrah: I fear me, you have a base hankering after mutton and beef. Restrict yourself to salads, and do not sin even with an omelette more than once a week. Coridon must be visionary and diaphanous, or he is no Coridon for me. Remove my night-gloves, and assist me to rise: it is past four o'clock, and the sun must have, by this time, sufficiently aired this terrestrial globe.'" _A._ I have it now; I feel I could go on for an hour. _B._ Longer than that, before you get him out of his dressing-room. You must make at least five chapters before he is apparelled, or how can you write a fashionable novel, in which you cannot afford more than two incidents in the three volumes? Two are absolutely necessary for the editor of the ---- Gazette to extract as specimens, before he winds up an eulogy. Do you think that you can proceed now for a week, without my assistance? _A._ I think so, if you will first give me some general ideas. In the first place, am I always to continue in this style? _B._ No; I thought you knew better. You must throw in patches of philosophy every now and then. _A._ Philosophy in a fashionable novel? _B._ Most assuredly, or it would be complained of as trifling; but a piece, now and then, of philosophy, as unintelligible as possible, stamps it with deep thought. In the dressing-room, or boudoir, it must be occasionally Epicurean; elsewhere, especially in the open air, more Stoical. _A._ I'm afraid that I shall not manage that without a specimen to copy from. Now I think of it, Eugene Aram says something very beautiful on a starry night. _B._ He does: it is one of the most splendid pieces of writing in our language. But I will have no profanation, Arthur;--to your pen again, and write. We'll suppose our hero to have retired from the crowded festivities of a ball-room at some lordly mansion in the country, and to have wandered into a churchyard, damp and dreary with a thick London fog. In the light dress of fashion, he throws himself on a tombstone. "Ye dead!" exclaims the hero, "where are ye? Do your disembodied spirits now float around me, and, shrouded in this horrible veil of nature, glare unseen upon vitality? Float ye upon this intolerable mist, in yourselves still more misty and intolerable? Hold ye high jubilee to-night? or do ye crouch behind these monitorial stones, gibbering and chattering at one who dares thus to invade your precincts? Here may I hold communion with my soul, and, in the invisible presence of those who could, but dare not to reveal. Away! it must not be." _A._ What mustn't be? _B._ That is the mystery which gives the point to his soliloquy. Leave it to the reader's imagination. _A._ I understand. But still the Honourable Augustus cannot lie in bed much longer, and I really shall not be able to get him out without your assistance. I do not comprehend how a man can get out of bed _gracefully_; he must show his bare legs, and the alteration of position is in itself awkward. _B._ Not half so awkward as you are. Do you not feel that he must not be got out of bed at all--that is, by description. _A._ How then? _B._ By saying nothing about it. Re-commence as follows:--"'I should like the bath at seventy-six and a half, Coridon,' observed the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, as he wrapped his embroidered dressing-gown round his elegant form, and sank into a _chaise longue_, wheeled by his faithful attendant to the fire." There, you observe, he is out of bed, and nothing said about it. _A._ Go on, I pray thee. _B._ "'How is the bath perfumed?' '_Eau de mille fleurs._' '_Eau de mille fleurs!_ Did not I tell you last week that I was tired of that villanous compound? It has been adulterated till nothing remains but its name. Get me another bath immediately _au violet_; and, Coridon, you may use that other scent, if there is any left, for the poodle; but observe, only when _you_ take him an airing, not when he goes with _me_.'" _A._ Excellent! I now feel the real merits of an exclusive; but you said something about dressing-room, or in-door philosophy. _B._ I did; and now is a good opportunity to introduce it. Coridon goes into the ante-chamber to renew the bath, and of course your hero has met with a disappointment in not having the bath to his immediate pleasure. He must press his hands to his forehead. By-the-bye, recollect that his forehead, when you describe it, must be high and white as snow: all aristocratical foreheads are--at least, are in a fashionable novel. _A._ What! the women's and all? _B._ The heroine's must be; the others you may lower as a contrast. But to resume with the philosophy. He strikes his forehead, lifts his eyes slowly up to the ceiling, and drops his right arm as slowly down by the side of the _chaise longue_; and then in a voice so low that it might have been considered a whisper, were it not for its clear and brilliant intonation, he exclaims---- _A._ Exclaims in a whisper! _B._ To be sure; you exclaim mentally,--why should you not in a whisper? _A._ I perceive--your argument is unanswerable. _B._ Stop a moment; it will run better thus:--"The Honourable Augustus Bouverie no sooner perceived himself alone, than he felt the dark shades of melancholy ascending and brooding over his mind, and enveloping his throbbing heart in their--their _adamantine_ chains. Yielding to the overwhelming force, he thus exclaimed, 'Such is life--we require but one flower, and we are offered noisome thousands--refused that we wish, we live in loathing of that not worthy to be received--mourners from our cradle to our grave, we utter the shrill cry at our birth, and we sink in oblivion with the faint wail of terror. Why should we, then, ever commit the folly to be happy?'" _A._ Hang me, but that's a poser! _B._ Nonsense! hold your tongue; it is only preparatory to the end. "Conviction astonishes and torments--destiny prescribes and falsifies--attraction drives us away--humiliation supports our energies. Thus do we recede into the present, and shudder at the Elysium of posterity." _A._ I have written all that down, Barnstaple; but I cannot understand it, upon my soul! _B._ If you had understood one particle, that particle I would have erased. This is your true philosophy of a fashionable novel, the extreme interest of which consists in its being unintelligible. People have such an opinion of their own abilities, that if they understood you, they would despise you; but a dose like this strikes them with veneration for your talents. _A._ Your argument is unanswerable; but you said that I must describe the dressing-room. _B._ Nothing more easy; as a simile, compare it to the shrine of some favoured saint in a richly-endowed Catholic church. Three tables at least, full of materials in methodised confusion--all tending to the beautification of the human form divine. Tinted perfumes in every variety of cut crystal receivers, gold and silver. If at a loss, call at Bayley's and Blew's, or Smith's in Bond Street. Take an accurate survey of all you see, and introduce your whole catalogue. You cannot be too minute. But, Arthur, you must not expect me to write the whole book for you. _A._ Indeed I am not so exorbitant in my demands upon your good-nature; but observe, I may get up four or five chapters already with the hints you have given me, but I do not know how to move such a creation of the brain--so ethereal, that I fear he will melt away; and so fragile, that I am in terror lest he fall to pieces. Now only get him into the breakfast-room for me, and then I ask no more for the present. Only dress him, and bring him _down stairs_. _B._ There again you prove your incapability. Bring him down stairs! Your hero of a fashionable novel never ascends to the first floor. Bed-room, dressing-room, breakfast-room, library, and boudoir, all are upon a level. As for his dressing, you must only describe it as perfect when finished; but not enter into a regular detail, except that, in conversation with his valet, he occasionally asks for something unheard-of, or fastidious to a degree. You must not walk him from one chamber to another, but manage it as follows:--"It was not until the beautiful airs of the French clock that decorated the mantel-piece had been thrice played, with all their variations, that the Honourable Augustus Bouverie entered his library, where he found his assiduous Coridon burning an aromatic pastile to disperse the compound of villanous exhalations arising from the condensed metropolitan atmosphere. Once more in a state of repose, to the repeated and almost affecting solicitations of his faithful attendant, who alternately presented to him the hyson of Pekoe, the bohea of Twankay, the fragrant berry from the Asiatic shore, and the frothing and perfumed decoction of the Indian nut, our hero shook his head in denial, until he at last was prevailed upon to sip a small liqueur glass of _eau sucrée_." The fact is, Arthur, he is in love--don't you perceive? Now introduce a friend, who rallies him--then a resolution to think no more of the heroine--a billet on a golden salver--a counter resolution--a debate which equipage to order--a decision at last--hat, gloves, and furred great-coat--and by that time you will have arrived to the middle of the first volume. _A._ I perceive; but I shall certainly stick there without your assistance. _B._ You shall have it, my dear fellow. In a week I will call again, and see how you get on. Then we'll introduce the heroine; that, I can tell you, requires some tact--_au revoir._ _A._ Thanks, many thanks, my dear Barnstaple. Fare you well. [_Exit Barnstaple._ _A._ (_Looking over his memoranda._)--It will do! (_Hopping and dancing about the room._) Hurrah! my tailor's bill will be paid after all! PART II [_Mr Arthur Ansard's Chambers as before. Mr Ansard, with his eyes fixed upon the wig block, gnawing the feather end of his pen. The table, covered with sundry sheets of foolscap, shows strong symptoms of the Novel progressing._] _Ansard_ (_solus_). Where is Barnstaple? If he do not come soon, I shall have finished my novel without a heroine. Well, I'm not the first person who has been foiled by a woman. (_Continues to gnaw his pen in a brown study._) _Barnstaple enters unperceived, and slaps Ansard on the shoulder. The latter starts up._ _B._ So, friend Ansard, making your dinner off your pen: it is not every novel writer who can contrive to do that even in anticipation. Have you profited by my instructions? _A._ I wish I had. I assure you that this light diet has not contributed, as might be expected, to assist a heavy head; and one feather is not sufficient to enable my genius to take wing. If the public knew what dull work it is to write a novel, they would not be surprised at finding them dull reading. _Ex nihilo nihil fit._ Barnstaple, I am at the very bathos of stupidity. _B._ You certainly were absorbed when I entered, for I introduced myself. _A._ I wish you had introduced another personage with you--you would have been doubly welcome. _B._ Who is that? _A._ My heroine. I have followed your instructions to the letter. My hero is as listless as I fear my readers will be, and he is not yet in love. In fact, he is only captivated with himself. I have made him dismiss Coridon. _B._ Hah! how did you manage that? _A._ He was sent to ascertain the arms on the panel of a carriage. In his eagerness to execute his master's wishes, he came home with a considerable degree of perspiration on his brow, for which offence he was immediately put out of doors. _B._ Bravo--it was unpardonable--but still---- _A._ O! I know what you mean--that is all arranged; he has an annuity of one hundred pounds per annum. _B._ My dear Ansard, you have exceeded my expectations; but now for the heroine. _A._ Yes, indeed; help me--for I have exhausted all my powers. _B._ It certainly requires much tact to present your heroine to your readers. We are unfortunately denied what the ancients were so happy to possess--a whole _cortége_ of divinities that might be summoned to help any great personage in, or the author out of, a difficulty; but since we cannot command their assistance, like the man in the play who forgot his part, we will do without it. Now, have you thought of nothing new, for we must not plagiarise even from fashionable novels? _A._ I have thought--and thought--and can find nothing new, unless we bring her in in a whirlwind: that has not yet been attempted. _B._ A whirlwind! I don't know--that's hazardous. Nevertheless, if she were placed on a beetling cliff, overhanging the tempestuous ocean, lashing the rocks with its wild surge; of a sudden, after she has been permitted to finish her soliloquy, a white cloud rising rapidly and unnoticed--the sudden vacuum--the rush of mighty winds through the majestic and alpine scenery--the vortex gathering round her--first admiring the vast efforts of nature; then astonished; and, lastly, alarmed, as she finds herself compelled to perform involuntary gyrations, till at length she spins round like a well-whipped top, nearing the dangerous edge of the precipice. It is bold, and certainly quite novel--I think it will do. Portray her delicate little feet, peeping out, pointing downwards, the force of the elements raising her on her tip toes, now touching, now disdaining the earth. Her dress expanded wide like that of Herbelé in her last and best pirouette--round, round she goes--her white arms are tossed frantically in the air. Corinne never threw herself into more graceful attitudes. Now is seen her diminishing ankle--now the rounded symmetry--mustn't go too high up though--the wind increases--her distance from the edge of the precipice decreases--she has no breath left to shriek--no power to fall--threatened to be ravished by the wild and powerful god of the elements--she is discovered by the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who has just finished his soliloquy upon another adjacent hill. He delights in her danger--before he rushes to her rescue, makes one pause for the purpose of admiration, and another for the purpose of adjusting his shirt collar. _A._ The devil he does! _B._ To be sure. The hero of a fashionable novel never loses caste. Whether in a storm, a whirlwind, up to his neck in the foaming ocean, or tumbling down a precipice, he is still the elegant and correct Honourable Augustus Bouverie. To punish you for your interruption, I have a great mind to make him take a pinch of snuff before he starts. Well--he flies to her assistance--is himself caught in the rushing vortex, which prevents him from getting nearer to the lady, and, despite of himself, takes to whirling in the opposite direction. They approach--they recede--she shrieks without being heard--holds out her arms for help--she would drop them in despair, but cannot, for they are twisted over her head by the tremendous force of the element. One moment they are near to each other, and the next they are separated; at one instant they are close to the abyss, and the waters below roar in delight of their anticipated victims, and in the next a favouring change of the vortex increases their distance from the danger--there they spin--and there you may leave them, and commence a new chapter. _A._ But is not all this naturally and physically impossible? _B._ By no means; there is nothing supernatural in a whirlwind, and the effect of a whirlwind is to twist everything round. Why should the heroine and the Honourable Augustus Bouverie not be submitted to the laws of nature? besides, we are writing a fashionable novel. Wild and improbable as this whirlwind may appear, it is within the range of probability; whereas, that is not at all adhered to in many novels--witness the drinking-scene in ----, and others equally _outrées_, in which the author, having turned probability out of doors, ends by throwing possibility out of the window--leaving folly and madness to usurp their place--and play a thousand antics for the admiration of the public, who, pleased with novelty, cry out "How fine!" _A._ Buy the book, and laud the author. _B._ Exactly. Now, having left your hero and heroine in a situation peculiarly interesting, with the greatest nonchalance, pass over to the continent, rave on the summit of Mont Blanc, and descant upon the strata which compose the mountains of the Moon in central Africa. You have been philosophical, now you must be geological. No one can then say that your book is light reading. _A._ That can be said of few novels. In most of them even smoke assumes the ponderosity of lead. _B._ There is a metal still heavier, which they have the power of creating--gold--to pay a dunning tailor's bill. _A._ But after having been philosophical and geological, ought one not to be a little moral? _B._ Pshaw! I thought you had more sense. The great art of novel writing is to make the vices glorious, by placing them in close alliance with redeeming qualities. Depend upon it, Ansard, there is a deeper, more heartfelt satisfaction than mere amusement in novel reading; a satisfaction no less real, because we will not own it to ourselves; the satisfaction of seeing all our favourite and selfish ideas dressed up in a garb so becoming, that we persuade ourselves that our false pride is proper dignity, our ferocity courage, our cowardice prudence, our irreligion liberality, and our baser appetites mere gallantry. _A._ Very true, Barnstaple; but really I do not like this whirlwind. _B._ Well, well, I give it up then; it was your own idea. We'll try again. Cannot you create some difficulty or dilemma, in which to throw her, so that the hero may come to her rescue with _éclat_? _A._ Her grey palfrey takes fright. _B._ So will your readers; stale--quite stale! _A._ A wild bull has his horns close to her, and is about to toss her. _B._ As your book would be--away with contempt. Vapid--quite vapid! _A._ A shipwreck--the waves are about to close over her. _B._ Your book would be closed at the same moment--worn out--quite worn out. _A._ In the dead of the night, a fire breaks out--she is already in the midst of the flames---- _B._ Where your book would also be, by the disgusted reader--worse and worse. _A._ Confound it--you will not allow me to expose her to earth, air, fire or water. I have a great mind to hang her in her garters, and make the hero come and cut her down. _B._ You might do worse--and better. _A._ What--hang myself? _B._ That certainly would put an end to all your difficulties. But, Ansard, I think I can put your heroine in a situation really critical and eminently distressing, and the hero shall come to her relief, like the descent of a god to the rescue of a Greek or Trojan warrior. _A._ Or of Bacchus to Ariadne in her distress. _B._ Perhaps a better simile. The consequence will be, that eternal gratitude in the bosom of the maiden will prove the parent of eternal love, which eternity of passion will, of course, last until they are married. _A._ I'm all attention. _B._ Get up a splendid dinner party for their first casual meeting. Place the company at table. _A._ Surely you are not going to choke her with the bone of a chicken. _B._ You surely are about to murder me, as Samson did the Philistines---- _A._ With the jaw-bone of a fashionable novel writer, you mean. _B._ Exactly. But to proceed:--they are seated at table; can you describe a grand dinner? _A._ Certainly, I have partaken of more than one. _B._ Where? _A._ I once sat down three hundred strong at the Freemasons' Tavern. _B._ Pshaw! a mere hog feed. _A._ Well, then, I dined with the late lord mayor. _B._ Still worse. My dear Ansard, it is however of no consequence. Nothing is more difficult to attain, yet nothing is more easy to describe, than a good dinner. I was once reading a very fashionable novel by a very fashionable bookseller, for the author is a mere nonentity, and was very much surprised at the accuracy with which a good dinner was described. The mystery was explained a short time afterwards, when casually taking up Eustache Eude's book in Sams's library, I found, that the author had copied it out exactly from the injunctions of that celebrated gastronome. You can borrow the book. _A._ Well, we will suppose that done; but I am all anxiety to know what is the danger from which the heroine is to be rescued. _B._ I will explain. There are two species of existence--that of mere mortal existence, which is of little consequence, provided, like Cæsar, the hero and heroine die decently: the other is of much greater consequence, which is fashionable existence. Let them once lose caste in that respect, and they are virtually dead, and one mistake, one oversight, is a death-blow for which there is no remedy, and from which there is no recovery. For instance, we will suppose our heroine to be quite confounded with the appearance of our hero--to have become _distraite, reveuse_--and, in short, to have lost her recollection and presence of mind. She has been assisted to _fillet de soles_. Say that the only sauce ever taken with them is _au macedoine_--this is offered to her, and, at the same time, another, which to eat with the above dish would be unheard of. In her distraction she is about to take the wrong sauce--actually at the point of ruining herself for ever and committing suicide upon her fashionable existence, while the keen grey eyes of Sir Antinous Antibes, the arbiter of fashion, are fixed upon her. At this awful moment, which is for ever to terminate her fashionable existence, the Honourable Augustus Bouverie, who sits next to her, gently touches her _séduisante_ sleeve--blandly smiling, he whispers to her that the _other_ is the sauce _macedoine_. She perceives her mistake, trembles at her danger, rewards him with a smile, which penetrates into the deepest recesses of his heart, helps herself to the right sauce, darts a look of contemptuous triumph upon Sir Antinous Antibes, and, while she is dipping her sole into the sauce, her soul expands with gratitude and love. _A._ I see, I see. Many thanks; my heroine is now a fair counterpart of my hero. "Ah, sure a pair were never seen, So justly form'd to meet by nature." _B._ And now I'll give you another hint, since you appear grateful. It is a species of claptrap in a novel, which always takes--to wit, a rich old uncle or misanthrope, who, at the very time that he is bitterly offended and disgusted with the hero, who is in awkward circumstances, pulls out a pocket-book and counts down, say fifteen or twenty thousand pounds in bank notes, to relieve him from his difficulties. An old coat and monosyllables will increase the interest. _A._ True (_sighing._) Alas! there are no such uncles in real life; I wish there were. _B._ I beg your pardon; I know no time in which _my uncle_ forks out more bank notes than at the present. _A._ Yes, but it is for value, or more than value, received. _B._ That I grant; but I'm afraid it is the only _uncle_ left now; except in a fashionable novel. But you comprehend the value of this new auxiliary. _A._ Nothing can be better. Barnstaple, you are really----, but I say no more. If a truly great man cannot be flattered with delicacy, it must not be attempted at all; silence then becomes the best tribute. Your advice proves you to be truly great. I am _silent_, therefore you understand the full force of the oratory of my thanks. _B._ (_bowing._) Well, Ansard, you have found out the cheapest way of paying off your bills of gratitude I ever heard of. "Poor, even in thanks," was well said by Shakespeare; but you, it appears, are rich, in having nothing at all wherewith to pay. If you could transfer the same doctrine to your tradesmen, you need not write novels. _A._ Alas! my dear fellow, mine is not yet written. There is one important feature, nay, the most important feature of all--the style of language, the diction--on that, Barnstaple, you have not yet doctrinated. _B._ (_pompously._) When Demosthenes was asked what were the three principal attributes of eloquence, he answered, that the first was action; on being asked which was the second, he replied, action; and the third, action; and such is the idea of the Irish _mimbers_ in the House of Commons. Now there are three important requisites in the diction of a fashionable novel. The first, my dear fellow, is--flippancy; the second, flippancy; and flippancy is also the third. With the dull it will pass for wit, with some it will pass for scorn, and even the witty will not be enabled to point out the difference, without running the risk of being considered invidious. It will cover every defect with a defect still greater; for who can call small beer tasteless when it is sour, or dull when it is bottled and has a froth upon it? _A._ The advice is excellent; but I fear that this flippancy is as difficult to acquire as the tone of true eloquence. _B._ Difficult! I defy the writers of the silver-fork school to write out of the style flippant. Read but one volume of ----, and you will be saturated with it; but if you wish to go to the fountain-head, do as have done most of the late fashionable novel writers, repair to their instructors--the lady's-maid, for flippancy in the vein _spirituelle_; to a London footman for the vein critical; but, if you wish a flippancy of a still higher order, at once more solemn and more empty, which I would call the vein political, read the speeches of some of our members of Parliament. Only read them; I wish no man so ill as to inflict upon him the torture of hearing them--read them, I say, and you will have taken the very highest degree in the order of inane flippancy. _A._ I see it at once. Your observations are as true as they are severe. When we would harangue geese, we must condescend to hiss; but still, my dear Barnstaple, though you have fully proved to me that in a fashionable novel all plot is unnecessary, don't you think there ought to be a catastrophe, or sort of a kind of an end to the work, or the reader may be brought up short, or as the sailors say, "all standing," when he comes to the word "Finis," and exclaim with an air of stupefaction,--"And then----" _B._ And then, if he did, it would be no more than the fool deserved. I don't know whether it would not be advisable to leave off in the middle of a sentence, of a word, nay of a syllable, if it be possible: I'm sure the winding-up would be better than the lackadaisical running-down of most of the fashionable novels. Snap the main-spring of your watch, and none but an ass can expect you to tell by it what it is o'clock; snap the thread of your narrative in the same way, and he must be an unreasonable being who would expect a reasonable conclusion. Finish thus, in a case of delicate distress; say, "The honourable Mr Augustus Bouverie was struck in a heap with horror. He rushed with a frantic grace, a deliberate haste, and a graceful awkwardness, and whispered in her ear these dread and awful words, 'IT IS TOO LATE!'" Follow up with a ---- and Finis. _A._ I see; the fair and agitated reader will pass a sleepless night in endeavouring to decipher the mutilated sentence. She will fail, and consequently call the book delightful. But should there not have been a marriage previously to this happy awful climax? _B._ Yes; everything is arranged for the nuptials--carriages are sent home, jewellery received but not paid for, dresses all tried on, the party invited--nay, assembled in the blue-and-white drawing-room. The right reverend, my lord bishop, is standing behind the temporary altar--he has wiped his spectacles, and thumbed his prayer-book--all eyes are turned towards the door, which opens not--the bride faints, for the bridegroom cometh not--he's not "i' the vein"--a something, as like nothing as possible, has given him a disgust that is insurmountable--he flings his happiness to the winds, though he never loved with more outrageous intensity than at the moment he discards his mistress; so he fights three duels with the two brothers and father. He wounds one of the young men dangerously, the other slightly; fires his pistol in the air when he meets her father--for how could he take the life of him who gave life to his adored one? Your hero can always hit a man just where he pleases--_vide_ every novel in Mr C.'s collection. The hero becomes misanthropical, the heroine maniacal. The former marries an antiquated and toothless dowager, as an escape from the imaginary disgust he took at a sight of a matchless woman; and the latter marries an old brute, who threatens her life every night, and puts her in bodily fear every morning, as an indemnity in full for the loss of the man of her affections. They are both romantically miserable; and then come on your tantalising scenes of delicate distress, and so the end of your third volume, and then finish without any end at all. _Verb. sap. sat._ Or, if you like it better, kill the old dowager of a surfeit, and make the old brute who marries the heroine commit suicide; and, after all these unheard-of trials, marry them as fresh and beautiful as ever. _A._ A thousand thanks. Your _verba_ are not thrown to a _sap._ Can I possibly do you any favour for all this kindness? _B._ Oh, my dear fellow! the very greatest. As I see yours will be, at all points, a most fashionable novel, do me the inestimable favour _not_ to ask me _to read it_. How to write a Book of Travels _Mr Ansard's Chambers._ _A._ (_alone._) Well, I thought it hard enough to write a novel at the dictate of the bibliopolist; but to be condemned to sit down and write my travels--travels that have never extended farther than the Lincoln's Inn Coffee House for my daily food, and a walk to Hampstead on a Sunday. These travels to be swelled into Travels up the Rhine in the year 18--. Why, it's impossible. O that Barnstaple were here, for he has proved my guardian angel! Lazy, clever dog! _Enter Barnstaple._ _B._ Pray, my dear Ansard, to whom did you apply that last epithet? _A._ My dear Barnstaple, I never was more happy to see you. Sit down, I have much to tell you, all about myself and my difficulties. _B._ The conversation promises to be interesting to me, at all events. _A._ Everything is interesting to true friendship. _B._ Now I perceive that you do want something. Well, before you state your case, tell me, how did the novel go off? _A._ Wonderfully well. It was ascribed to Lord G----: the bait took, and 750 went off in a first edition, and the remainder of the copies printed went off in a second. _B._ Without being reprinted? _A._ Exactly. I was surprised at my success, and told my publisher so; but he answered that he could sell an edition of any trash he pleased. _B._ That was not flattering. _A._ Not very; but his bill was honoured, and that consoled me. However, to proceed to business--he has given me another order--A Journey up the Rhine, in two vols. large octavo, in the year 18--. Now, Barnstaple, what's to be done? _B._ Write it, to be sure. _A._ But you well know I have never been out of England in my life. _B._ Never mind, write it. _A._ Yes, it's very well to say write it; but how the devil am I to write it? Write what I have never seen--detail events which never occurred--describe views of that which I have not even an idea--travel post in my old armchair. It's all very well to say write it, but tell me, how. _B._ I say again, write it, and pocket the money. Ansard, allow me to state that you are a greenhorn. I will make this mountain of difficulties vanish and melt away like snow before the powerful rays of the sun. You are told to write what you have never seen; but if you have not, others have, which will serve your purpose just as well. To detail events which have never occurred--invent them, they will be more amusing. Describe views, &c. of which you are ignorant--so are most of your readers; but have we not the art of engraving to assist you? To travel post in your armchair--a very pleasant and a very profitable way of travelling, as you have not to pay for the horses and postilions, and are not knocked to pieces by continental roads. Depend upon it, the best travels are those written at home, by those who have never put their foot into the Calais packet-boat. _A._ To me this is all a mystery. I certainly must be a greenhorn, as you observe. _B._ Why, Ansard, my dear fellow, with a book of roads and a gazetteer, I would write a more amusing book of travels than one half which are now foisted on the public. All you have to do is to fill up the chinks. _A._ All I want to do is to fill up the chinks in my stomach, Barnstaple; for, between you and me, times are rather queer. _B._ You shall do it, if you will follow my advice. I taught you how to write a fashionable novel, it will be hard, indeed, if I cannot send you up the Rhine. One little expense must be incurred--you must subscribe a quarter to a circulating library, for I wish that what you do should be well done. _A._ Barnstaple, I will subscribe to--anything. _B._ Well, then, since you are so reasonable, I will proceed. You must wade through all the various "Journies on the Rhine," "Two Months on the Rhine," "Autumns on the Rhine," &c., which you can collect. This you will find the most tiresome part of your task. Select one as your guide, one who has a reputation; follow his course, not exactly--that I will explain afterwards--and agree with him in everything, generally speaking. Praise his exactitude and fidelity, and occasionally quote him; this is but fair: after you rob a man (and I intend you shall rifle him most completely), it is but decent to give him kind words. All others you must abuse, contradict, and depreciate. Now, there is a great advantage in so doing: in the first place, you make the best writer your friend--he forgets your larcenies in your commendation of him, and in your abuse of others. If his work be correct, so must yours be; he praises it everywhere--perhaps finds you out, and asks you to dine with him. _A._ How should I ever look at his injured face? _B._ On the contrary, he is the obliged party--your travels are a puff to his own. _A._ But, Barnstaple, allowing that I follow this part of your advice, which I grant to be very excellent, how can I contradict others, when they may be, and probably are, perfectly correct in their assertions? _B._ If they are so, virtue must be its own reward. It is necessary that you write a book of travels, and all travellers contradict each other--_ergo_, you must contradict, or nobody will believe that you have travelled. Not only contradict, but sneer at them. _A._ Well, now do explain how that is to be done. _B._ Nothing more simple: for instance, a man measures a certain remarkable piece of antiquity--its length is 747 feet. You must measure it over again, and declare that he is in error, that it is only 727. To be sure of your being correct, measure it _twice_ over, and then convict him. _A._ But surely, Barnstaple, one who has measured it, is more likely to be correct than one who has not. _B._ I'll grant you that he is correct to half an inch--that's no matter. The public will, in all probability, believe you, because you are the last writer, and because you have _decreased_ the dimensions. Travellers are notorious for amplification, and if the public do not believe you, let them go and measure it themselves. _A._ A third traveller may hereafter measure it, and find that I am in the wrong. _B._ Ten to one if you are not both in the wrong; but what matter will that be, your book will have been sold. _A._ Most true, O king! I perceive now the general outline, and I feel confident, that with your kind assistance, I may accomplish it. But, Barnstaple, the beginning is everything. If I only had the first chapter as a start, I think I could get on. It is the _modus_ that I want--the style. A first chapter would be a keynote for the remainder of the tune, with all the variations. _B._ Well, then, take up your pen. But before I commence, it may be as well to observe, that there is a certain method required, even in writing travels. In every chapter you should have certain landmarks to guide you. For instance, enumerate the following, and select the works from which they may be obtained, so as to mix up the instructive with the amusing. Travelling--remarks on country passed through--anecdote--arrival at a town--churches--population--historical remarks--another anecdote--eating and drinking--natural curiosities--egotism--remarks on the women (never mind the men)--another anecdote--reflections--an adventure--and go to bed. You understand, Ansard, that in these memoranda you have all that is required; the rule is not to be followed absolutely, but generally. As you observed, such is to be the tune, but your variations may be infinite. When at a loss, or you think you are dull, always call in a grisette, and a little mystery; and, above all, never be afraid of talking too much about yourself. _A._ Many, many thanks; but now, my dear Barnstaple, for the first chapter. _B._ Let your style be flowery--I should say florid--never mind a false epithet or two in a page, they will never be observed. A great deal depends upon the first two pages--you must not limp at starting; we will, therefore, be particular. Take your pen. [_Barnstaple muses for a little while and then continues._ "A severe cough, which refused to yield even to the balmy influence of the genial spring of 18--, and threatened a pulmonary complaint, induced me to yield to the reiterated persuasions of my physicians to try a change of air, as most likely to ward off the threatened danger. Where to direct my steps was the difficult point to ascertain. Brighton, Torquay, Cromer, Ilfracombe, had all been visited and revisited. At either of these fashionable resorts I was certain to fall in with a numerous acquaintance, whose persuasions would have induced me to depart from that regularity of diet and of rest, so imperiously insisted upon by my medical advisers. After much cogitation, I resolved upon a journey up the Rhine, and to escape the ruthless winter of our northern clime in the more genial land of history." _A._ Land of history--I presume you mean Italy; but am I to go there? _B._ No, you may recover, and come back again to skate upon the Serpentine, if you please. You observe, Ansard, I have not made you a fellow with £50 in his pocket, setting out to turn it into £300 by a book of travels. I have avoided mention of Margate, Ramsgate, Broadstairs, and all common watering-places; I have talked of physicians in the plural; in short, no one who reads that paragraph, but will suppose that you are a young man of rank and fortune, to whom money is no object, and who spends hundreds to cure that which might be effected by a little regularity, and a few doses of ipecacuanha. _A._ I wish it were so. Nevertheless, I'll travel _en grand seigneur_--that's more agreeable even in imagination, than being rumbled in a "_diligence_." _B._ And will produce more respect for your work, I can assure you. But to proceed. Always, when you leave England, talk about _hospitality_. The English like it. Have you no relations or friends in whose opinion you wish to stand well? Public mention in print does wonders, especially with a copy handsomely bound "from the author." _A._ Really, Barnstaple, I do not know any one. My poor mother is in Cumberland, and that is not _en route_. I have a maternal uncle of the name of Forster, who lives on the road--a rich, old, miserly bachelor; but I can't say much for his hospitality. I have called upon him twice, and he has never even asked me to dinner. _B._ Never mind. People like being praised for a virtue which they do not possess--it may prove a legacy. Say, then, that you quitted the hospitable roof of your worthy and excellent-hearted relation, Mr Forster, and felt---- _A._ Felt how? _B._ How--why you felt, as he wrung your hand, that there was a sudden dissolution of the ties of kindred and affection. _A._ There always has been in that quarter, so my conscience is so far clear. _B._ You arrive at Dov_o_r (mind you spell it Dov_o_r)--go to bed tired and reflective--embark early the next morning--a rough passage---- _A._ And sea-sick, of course? _B._ No, Ansard, there I'll give you a proof of my tact--you sha'n't be sea-sick. _A._ But I'm sure I should be. _B._ All travellers are, and all fill up a page or two with complaints, _ad nauseam_--for that reason sick you shall not be. Observe--to your astonishment you are not sea-sick: the other passengers suffer dreadfully; one young dandy puffs furiously at a cigar in bravado, until he sends it over the side, like an arrow from the blow-pipe of a South American Indian. Introduce a husband with a pretty wife--he jealous as a dog, until he is sick as a cat--your attentions--she pillowed on your arms, while he hangs over the lee gunwale--her gratitude--safe arrival at Calais--sweet smiles of the lady--sullen deportment of the gentleman--a few hints--and draw the veil. Do you understand? _A._ Perfectly. I can manage all that. _B._ Then when you put your foot on shore, you must, for the first time, _feel sea-sick_. _A._ On shore? _B._ Yes; reel about, not able to stand--every symptom as if on board. Express your surprise at the strange effect, pretend not to explain it, leave that to medical men, it being sufficient for you to state the _fact_. _A._ The fact! O Barnstaple! _B._ That will be a great hit for a first chapter. You reverse the order of things. _A._ That I do most certainly. Shall I finish the first chapter with that _fact_? _B._ No. Travellers always go to bed at the end of each chapter. It is a wise plan, and to a certain degree it must be followed. You must have a baggage adventure--be separated from it--some sharp little urchin has seized upon your valise--it is no where to be found--quite in despair--walk to the hotel d'Angleterre, and find that you are met by the landlord and garçons, who inform you that your carriage is in the remise, and your rooms ready--ascend to your bedroom--find that your baggage is not only there, but neatly laid out--your portmanteau unstrapped--your trunk uncorded--and the little rascal of a commissaire standing by with his hat in his hand, and a smile _de malice_, having installed _himself_ as your _domestique de place_--take him for his impudence--praise the "_Cotelettes_ and the _vin de Beaune_"--wish the reader good-night, and go to bed. Thus ends the first chapter. [_Ansard gets up and takes Barnstaple's hand, which he shakes warmly without speaking. Barnstaple smiles and walks out. Ansard is left hard at work at his desk._ _Arthur Ansard in his Chambers, solus, with his pen in his hand._ _Ans._ Capital! that last was a _hit_. It has all the appearance of reality. To be sure, I borrowed the hint, but that nobody will be able to prove. (_Yawns._) Heigho! I have only got half-way on my journey yet, and my ideas are quite exhausted. I am as much worn out and distressed as one of the German post-horses which I described in my last chapter. (_Nods, and then falls fast asleep_). _Barnstaple taps at the door; receiving no answer, he enters._ _B._ So--quite fast. What can have put him to sleep? (_Reads the manuscript on the table_). No wonder, enough to put anybody to sleep apparently. Why, Ansard! _A._ (_starting up, still half asleep._) Already? Why, I've hardly shut my eyes. Well, I'll be dressed directly; let them get some _café_ ready below. Henri, did you order the hind-spring to be repaired? (_Nods again with his eyes shut._) _B._ Hallo! What now, Ansard, do you really think that you are travelling? _A._ (_waking up._) Upon my word, Barnstaple, I was so dreaming. I thought I was in my bed at the hotel de Londres, after the fatiguing day's journey I described yesterday. I certainly have written myself into the conviction that I was travelling post. _B._ All the better--you have embodied yourself in your own work, which every writer of fiction ought to do; but they can seldom attain to such a desideratum. Now, tell me, how do you get on? _A._ Thank you--pretty well. I have been going it with four post-horses these last three weeks. _B._ And how far have you got? _A._ Half way--that is, into the middle of my second volume. But I'm very glad that you're come to my assistance, Barnstaple; for, to tell you the truth, I was breaking down. _B._ Yes, you said something about the hind-spring of your carriage. _A._ That I can repair without your assistance; but my spirits are breaking down. I want society. This travelling post is dull work. Now, if I could introduce a companion---- _B._ So you shall. At the next town that you stop at, buy a _Poodle_. _A._ A _Poodle_! Barnstaple? How the devil shall I be assisted by a poodle? _B._ He will prove a more faithful friend to you in your exigence, and a better companion, than one of your own species. A male companion, after all, is soon expended, and a female, which would be more agreeable, is not admissible. If you admit a young traveller into your carriage--what then? He is handsome, pleasant, romantic, and so forth; but you must not give his opinions in contradiction to your own, and if they coincide, it is superfluous. Now, a poodle is a dog of parts, and it is more likely that you fall in with a sagacious dog than with a sagacious man. The poodle is the thing; you must recount your meeting, his purchase, size, colour, and qualifications, and anecdotes of his sagacity, vouched for by the landlord, and all the _garçons_ of the hotel. As you proceed on your travels, his attachment to you increases, and wind up every third chapter with "your faithful Mouton." _A._ Will not all that be considered frivolous? _B._ Frivolous! by no means. The frivolous will like it, and those who have more sense, although they may think that Mouton does not at all assist your travelling researches, are too well acquainted with the virtues of the canine race, and the attachment insensibly inbibed for so faithful an attendant, not to forgive your affectionate mention of him. Besides it will go far to assist the versimilitude of your travels. As for your female readers, they will prefer Mouton even to you. _A._ All-powerful and mighty magician, whose wand of humbug, like that of Aaron's, swallows up all others, not excepting that of divine Truth, I obey you! Mouton shall be summoned to my aid: he shall flourish, and my pen shall flourish in praise of his endless perfections. But, Barnstaple, what shall I give for him? _B._ (_thinks awhile._) Not less than forty louis. _A._ Forty louis for a poodle! _B._ Most certainly; not a sous less. The value of anything in the eyes of the world is exactly what it costs. Mouton, at a five franc piece, would excite no interest; and his value to the reader will increase in proportion to his price, which will be considered an undeniable proof of all his wonderful sagacity, with which you are to amuse the reader. _A._ But in what is to consist his sagacity? _B._ He must do everything but speak. Indeed, he must so far speak as to howl the first part of "Lieber Augustin." _A._ His instinct shall put our boasted reason to the blush. But----I think I had better not bring him home with me. _B._ Of course not. In the first place, it's absolutely necessary to kill him, lest his reputation should induce people to seek him out, which they would do, although, in all probability, they never will his master. Lady Cork would certainly invite him to a literary _soirée_. You must therefore kill him in the most effective way possible, and you will derive the advantage of filling up at least ten pages with his last moments--licking your hand, your own lamentations, violent and inconsolable grief on the part of Henri, and tanning his skin as a memorial. _A._ A beautiful episode, for which receive my best thanks. But, Barnstaple, I have very few effective passages as yet. I have remodelled several descriptions of mountains, precipices, waterfalls, and such wonders of the creation--expressed my contempt and surprise at the fear acknowledged by other travellers, in several instances. I have lost my way twice--met three wolves--been four times benighted--and indebted to lights at a distance for a bed at midnight, after the horses have refused to proceed. All is incident, and I am quite hard up for description. Now, I have marked down a fine passage in ----'s work--a beautiful description of a cathedral, with a grand procession. (_Reads._) "What with the effect of the sun's brightest beams upon the ancient glass windows--various hues reflected upon the gothic pillars--gorgeousness of the procession--sacerdotal ornaments--tossing of censers--crowds of people--elevation of the host, and sinking down of the populace _en masse_." It really is a magnificent line of writing, and which my work requires. One or two like that in my book would do well to be quoted by impartial critics, before the public are permitted to read it. But here, you observe, is a difficulty. I dare not borrow the passage. _B._ But you shall borrow it--you shall be even finer than he is, and yet he shall not dare to accuse you of plagiarism. _A._ How is that possible, my dear Barnstaple? I'm all impatience. _B._ His description is at a certain hour of the day. All you have to do is to portray the scene in nearly the same words. You have as much right to visit a cathedral as he has, and as for the rest--here is the secret. You must visit it at _night_. Instead of "glorious beams," you will talk of "pale melancholy light;" instead of "the stained windows throwing their various hues upon the gothic pile," you must "darken the massive pile, and light up the windows with the silver rays of the moon." The glorious orb of day must give place to thousands of wax tapers--the splendid fretwork of the roof you must regret was not to be clearly distinguished--but you must be in ecstasies with the broad light and shade--the blaze at the altar--solemn hour of night--feelings of awe--half a Catholic--religious reflections, &c. Don't you perceive? _A._ I do. Like the rest of my work, it shall be all _moonshine_. It shall be done, Barnstaple; but have you not another idea or two to help me with? _B._ Have you talked about cooks? _A._ As yet, not a word. _B._ By this time you ought to have some knowledge of gastronomy. Talk seriously about eating. _A._ (_writes._) I have made a mem. _B._ Have you had no affront? _A._ Not one. _B._ Then be seriously affronted--complain to the burgomaster, or mayor, or commandant, whoever it may be--they attempt to bully--you are resolute and firm as an Englishman--insist upon being righted--they must make you a thousand apologies. This will tickle the national vanity, and be read with interest. _A._ (_writes._) I have been affronted. Anything else which may proceed from your prolific brain, Barnstaple? _B._ Have you had a serious illness? _A._ Never complained even of a headache. _B._ Then do everything but die--Henri weeping and inconsolable--Mouton howling at the foot of your bed--kick the surgeons out of the room--and cure yourself with three dozen of champagne. _A._ (_writes._) Very sick--cured with three dozen of champagne--I wish the illness would in reality come on, if I were certain of the cure _gratis_. Go on, my dear Barnstaple. _B._ You may work in an episode here--delirium--lucid intervals--gentle female voice--delicate attentions--mysterious discovery from loquacious landlady--eternal gratitude--but no marriage--an apostrophe--and all the rest left to conjecture. _A._ (_writes down._) Silent attentions--conjecture--I can manage that, I think. _B._ By-the-bye, have you brought in Madame de Stael? _A._ No--how the devil am I to bring her in? _B._ As most other travellers do, by the head and shoulders. Never mind that, so long as you bring her in. _A._ (_writes._) Madame de Stael by the shoulders--that's not very polite towards a lady. These hints are invaluable; pray go on. _B._ Why, you have already more hints this morning than are sufficient for three volumes. But, however, let me see. (_B. thinks a little._) Find yourself short of cash. _A._ A sad reality, Barnstaple. I shall write this part well, for truth will guide my pen. _B._ All the better. But to continue--no remittances--awkward position--explain your situation--receive credit to any amount--and compliment your countrymen. _A._ (_writes._) Credit to any amount--pleasing idea? But I don't exactly perceive the value of this last hint, Barnstaple. _B._ All judicious travellers make it a point, throughout the whole of their works, to flatter the nation upon its wealth, name, and reputation in foreign countries; by doing so you will be read greedily, and praised in due proportion. If ever I were to write my travels into the interior of Africa, or to the North Pole, I would make it a point to discount a bill at Timbuctoo, or get a cheque cashed by the Esquimaux, without the least hesitation in either case. I think now that what with your invention, your plagiarism, and my hints, you ought to produce a very effective Book of Travels; and with that feeling I shall leave you to pursue your journey, and receive, at its finale, your just reward. When we meet again, I hope to see you advertised. _A._ Yes, but not exposed, I trust. I am _incog._ you know. _B._ To be sure, that will impart an additional interest to your narrative. All the world will be guessing who you may be. Adieu, voyageur. [_Exit Barnstaple._ _A._ And heaven forfend that they should find me out. But what can be done? In brief, I cannot get a brief, and thus I exercise my professional acquirements how I can, proving myself as long-winded, as prosy perhaps, and certainly as lying, as the more fortunate of my fraternity. How to write a Romance _Mr Arthur Ansard, standing at his table, selecting a steel pen from a card on which a dozen are ranged up, like soldiers on parade._ I must find a regular _graver_ to write this chapter of horrors. No goose quill could afford me any assistance. Now then. Let me see----(_Reads, and during his reading Barnstaple comes in at the door behind him, unperceived._) "At this most monstrously appalling sight, the hair of Piftlianteriscki raised slowly the velvet cap from off his head, as if it had been perched upon the rustling quills of some exasperated porcupine--(I think that's new)--his nostrils dilated to that extent that you might, with ease, have thrust a musket bullet into each--his mouth was opened so wide, so unnaturally wide, that the corners were rent asunder, and the blood slowly trickled down each side of his bristly chin--while each tooth loosened from its socket with individual fear.--Not a word could he utter, for his tongue, in its fright, clung with terror to his upper jaw, as tight as do the bellies of the fresh and slimy soles, paired together by some fishwoman; but if his tongue was paralysed, his heart was not--it throbbed against his ribs with a violence which threatened their dislocation from the sternum, and with a sound which reverberated through the dark, damp subterrene----." I think that will do. There's _force_ there. _B._ There is, with a vengeance. Why, what is all this? _A._ My dear Barnstaple, you here? I'm writing a romance for B----. It is to be supposed to be a translation. _B._ The Germans will be infinitely obliged to you; but, my dear fellow, you appear to have fallen into the old school--that's no longer in vogue. _A._ My orders are for the old school. B---- was most particular on that point. He says that there is a re-action--a great re-action. _B._ What, on literature? Well, he knows as well as any man. I only wish to God there was in everything else, and we could see the good old times again. _A._ To confess the truth, I did intend to have finished this without saying a word to you. I wished to have surprised you. _B._ So you have, my dear fellow, with the few lines I have heard. How the devil are you to get your fellow out of that state of asphyxia? _A._ By degrees--slowly--very slowly--as they pretend that we lawyers go to heaven. But I'll tell you what I have done, just to give you an idea of my work. In the first place, I have a castle perched so high up in the air, that the eagles, even in their highest soar, appear but as wrens below. _B._ That's all right. _A._ And then it has subterraneous passages, to which the sewers of London are a mere song, and they all lead to a small cave at high water mark on the sea-beach, covered with brambles and bushes, and just large enough at its entrance to admit of a man squeezing himself in. _B._ That's all right. You cannot be too much underground; in fact, the two first, and the best part of the third volume, should be wholly in the bowels of the earth, and your hero and heroine should never _come to light_ until the last chapter. _A._ Then they would never have been born till then, and how could I marry them? But still I have adhered pretty much to your idea; and, Barnstaple, I have such a heroine--such a love--she has never seen her sweetheart, yet she is most devotedly attached, and has suffered more for his sake than any mortal could endure. _B._ Most heroines generally do. _A._ I have had her into various dungeons for three or four years, on black bread and a broken pitcher of water--she has been starved to death--lain for months and months upon wet straw--had two brain fevers--five times has she risked violation, and always has picked up, or found in the belt of her infamous ravishers, a stiletto, which she has plunged into their hearts, and they have expired with or without a groan. _B._ Excellent: and of course comes out of her dungeons each time as fresh, as sweet, as lovely, as pure, as charming, and as constant as ever. _A._ Exactly; nothing can equal her infinite variety of adventure, and her imperishable beauty and unadhesive cleanliness of person; and, as for lives, she has more than a thousand cats. After nine months' confinement in a dungeon, four feet square, when it is opened for her release, the air is perfumed with the ambrosia which exhales from her sweet person. _B._ Of course it does. The only question is, what ambrosia smells like. But let me know something about your hero. _A._ He is a prince and a robber. _B._ The two professions are not at all incompatible. Go on. _A._ He is the chief of a band of robbers, and is here, there, and everywhere. He fills all Europe with terror, admiration, and love. _B._ Very good. _A._ His reasons for joining the robbers are, of course, a secret (and upon my word they are equally a secret to myself); but it is wonderful the implicit obedience of his men, and the many acts of generosity of which he is guilty. I make him give away a great deal more money than his whole band ever take, which is so far awkward, that the query may arise in what way he keeps them together, and supplies them with food and necessaries. _B._ Of course with _I O U's_ upon his princely domains. _A._ I have some very grand scenes, amazingly effective; for instance, what do you think, at the moment after the holy mass has been performed in St Peter's at Rome, just as the pope is about to put the sacred wafer into his mouth and bless the whole world, I make him snatch the wafer out of the pope's hand, and get clear off with it. _B._ What for, may I ask? _A._ That is a secret which I do not reveal. The whole arrangement of that part of the plot is admirable. The band of robbers are disguised as priests, and officiate, without being found out. _B._ But isn't that rather sacrilegious? _A._ No; it appears so to be, but he gives his reasons for his behaviour to the pope, and the pope is satisfied, and not only gives him his blessing, but shows him the greatest respect. _B._ They must have been very weighty reasons. _A._ And therefore they are not divulged. _B._ That is to say, not until the end of the work. _A._ They are never divulged at all; I leave a great deal to the reader's imagination--people are fond of conjecture. All they know is, that he boldly appears, and demands an audience. He is conducted in, the interview is private, after a sign made by our hero, and at which the pope almost leaps off his chair. After an hour he comes out again, and the pope bows him to the very door. Every one is astonished, and, of course, almost canonise him. _B_ That's going it rather strong in a Catholic country. But tell me, Ansard, what is your plot? _A._ Plot! I have none. _B._ No plot! _A._ No plot, and all plot. I puzzle the reader with certain materials. I have castles and dungeons, corridors and creaking doors, good villains and bad villains. Chain armour and clank of armour, daggers for gentlemen, and stilettos for ladies. Dark forests and brushwood, drinking scenes, eating scenes, and sleeping scenes--robbers and friars, purses of gold and instruments of torture, an incarnate devil of a Jesuit, a handsome hero, and a lovely heroine. I jumble them all together, sometimes above, and sometimes underground, and I explain nothing at all. _B._ Have you nothing supernatural? _A._ O yes! I've a dog whose instinct is really supernatural, and I have two or three visions, which may be considered so, as they tell what never else could have been known. I decorate my caverns and dungeons with sweltering toads and slimy vipers, a constant dropping of water, with chains too ponderous to lift, but which the parties upon whom they are riveted, clang together as they walk up and down in their cells, and soliloquise. So much for my underground scenery. Above, I people the halls with pages and ostrich feathers, and knights in bright armour, a constant supply of generous wine, and goblets too heavy to lift, which the knights toss off at a draught, as they sit and listen to the minstrel's music. _B._ Bravo, Ansard, bravo. It appears to me that you do not want assistance in this romance. _A._ No, when I do I have always a holy and compassionate friar, who pulls a wonderful restorative or healing balm, out of his bosom. The puffs of Solomon's Balm of Gilead are a fool to the real merits of my pharmacopoeia contained in a small vial. _B._ And pray what may be the title of this book of yours, for I have known it take more time to fix upon a title than to write the three volumes. _A._ I call it _The Undiscovered Secret_, and very properly so too, for it never is explained. But if you please, I will read you some passages from it. I think you will approve of them. For instance, now let us take this, in the second volume. You must know, that Angelicanarinella (for that is the name of my heroine) is thrown into a dungeon not more than four feet square, but more than six hundred feet below the surface of the earth. The ways are so intricate, and the subterranean so vast, and the dungeons so numerous that the base Ethiop, who has obeyed his master's orders in confining her, has himself been lost in the labyrinth, and has not been able to discover what dungeon he put her in. For three days he has been looking for it, during which our heroine has been without food, and he is still searching and scratching his woolly head in despair, as he is to die by slow torture, if he does not reproduce her--for you observe, the chief who has thrown her into this dungeon is most desperately in love with her. _B._ That of course; and that is the way to prove romantic love--you ill-treat--but still she is certainly in a dilemma, as well as the Ethiop. _A._ Granted; but she talks like the heroine of a romance. Listen. (_Ansard reads._) "The beauteous and divinely-moulded form of the angelic Angelicanarinella pressed the dank and rotten straw, which had been thrown down by the scowling, thick-lipped Ethiop for her repose--she, for whom attendant maidens had smoothed the Sybaritic sheet of finest texture, under the elaborately carved and sumptuously gilt canopy, the silken curtains, and the tassels of the purest dust of gold." _B._ Tassels of dust of gold! only figuratively, I suppose. _A._ Nothing more. "Each particular straw of this dank, damp bed was elastic with delight, at bearing such angelic pressure; and, as our heroine cast her ineffably beaming eyes about the dark void, lighting up with their effulgent rays each little portion of the dungeon, as she glanced them from one part to another, she perceived that the many reptiles enclosed with her in this narrow tomb, were nestling to her side, their eyes fixed upon her in mute expressions of love and admiration. Her eclipsed orbs were each, for a moment, suffused with a bright and heavenly tear, and from the suffusion threw out a more brilliant light upon the feeling reptiles who paid this tribute to her undeserved sufferings. She put forth her beauteous hand, whose 'faint tracery,'--(I stole that from Cooper,)--whose faint tracery had so often given to others the idea that it was ethereal, and not corporeal, and lifting with all the soft and tender handling of first love a venerable toad, which smiled upon her, she placed the interesting animal so that it could crawl up and nestle in her bosom. 'Poor child of dank, of darkness, and of dripping,' exclaimed she, in her flute-like notes, 'who sheltereth thyself under the wet and mouldering wall, so neglected in thy form by thy mother Nature, repose awhile in peace where princes and nobles would envy thee, if they knew thy present lot. But that shall never be; these lips shall never breathe a tale which might endanger thy existence; fear not, therefore, their enmity, and as thou slowly creepest away thy little round of circumscribed existence, forget me not, but shed an occasional pearly tear to the memory of the persecuted, the innocent Angelicanarinella!'" What d'ye think of that? _B._ Umph! a very warm picture certainly; however, it is natural. You know, a person of her consequence could never exist without a little _toadyism_. _A._ I have a good many subterraneous soliloquies, which would have been lost forever, if I did not bring them up. _B._ That one you have just read is enough to make everybody else bring up. _A._ I rather plume myself upon it. _B._ Yes, it is a feather in your cap, and will act as a feather in the throat of your readers. _A._ Now I'll turn over the second volume, and read you another _morceau_, in which I assume the more playful vein. I have imitated one of our modern writers, who must be correct in her language, as she knows all about heroes and heroines. I must confess that I've cribbed a little. _B._ Let's hear. _A._ The lovely Angelicanarinella _pottered_ for some time about this fairy chamber, then 'wrote journal.' At last, she _threw herself down on the floor_, pulled out the miniature, _gulped_ when she looked at it, and then _cried herself to sleep_. _B._ _Pottered and gulped!_ What language do you call that? _A._ It's all right, my dear fellow. I understand that it is the refined slang of the modern boudoir, and only known to the initiated. _B._ They had better keep it entirely to their boudoirs. I should advise you to leave it all out. _A._ Well, I thought that one who was so very particular, must have been the standard of perfection herself. _B._ That does not at all follow. _A._ But what I wish to read to you is the way in which I have managed that my secret shall never be divulged. It is known only to four. _B._ A secret known to four people! You must be quick then. _A._ So I am, as you shall hear; they all meet in a dark gallery, but do not expect to meet any one but the hero, whom they intend to murder, each one having, unknown to the others, made an appointment with him for that purpose, on the pretence of telling him the great secret. Altogether the scene is well described, but it is long, so I'll come at once to the _denouement_. _B._ Pray do. _A._ "Absenpresentini felt his way by the slimy wall, when the breath of another human being caught his ear: he paused, and held his own breath. 'No, no,' muttered the other, 'the _secret of blood and gold_ shall remain with me alone. Let him come, and he shall find death.' In a second, the dagger of Absenpresentini was in the mutterer's bosom:--he fell without a groan. 'To me alone the secret of blood and gold, and with me it remains,' exclaimed Absenpresentini. 'It does remain with you,' cried Phosphorini, driving his dagger into his back:--Absenpresentini fell without a groan, and Phosphorini, withdrawing his dagger, exclaimed, 'Who is now to tell the secret but me?' 'Not you,' cried Vortiskini, raising up his sword and striking at where the voice proceeded. The trusty steel cleft the head of the abandoned Phosphorini, who fell without a groan. 'Now will I retain the secret of blood and gold,' said Vortiskini, as he sheathed his sword. 'Thou shalt,' exclaimed the wily Jesuit, as he struck his stiletto to the heart of the robber, who fell without a groan. 'With me only does the secret now rest, by which our order might be disgraced; with me it dies,' and the Jesuit raised his hand. 'Thus to the glory and the honour of his society does Manfredini sacrifice his life.' He struck the keen-pointed instrument into his heart, and died without a groan. 'Stop,' cried our hero." _B._ And I agree with your hero: stop, Ansard, or you'll kill me too--but not without a groan. _A._ Don't you think it would act well? _B._ Quite as well as it reads; pray is it all like this? _A._ You shall judge for yourself. I have half killed myself with writing it, for I chew opium every night to obtain ideas. Now again---- _B._ Spare me, Ansard, spare me; my nerves are rather delicate; for the remainder I will take your word. _A._ I wish my duns would do the same, even if it were only my washerwoman; but there's no more tick for me here, except this old watch of my father's, which serves to remind me of what I cannot obtain from others--time; but, however, there is a time for all things, and when the time comes that my romance is ready, my creditors will obtain the _ready_. _B._ Your only excuse, Ansard. _A._ I beg your pardon. The public require strong writing now-a-days. We have thousands who write well, and the public are nauseated with what is called _good writing_. _B._ And so they want something bad, eh? Well, Ansard, you certainly can supply them. _A._ My dear Barnstaple, you must not disparage this style of writing--it is not bad--there is a great art in it. It may be termed writing intellectual and ethereal. You observe, that it never allows probabilities or even possibilities to stand in its way. The dross of humanity is rejected: all the common wants and grosser feelings of our natures are disallowed. It is a novel which is all mind and passion. Corporeal attributes and necessities are thrown on one side, as they would destroy the charm of perfectability. Nothing can soil, or defile, or destroy my heroine; suffering adds lustre to her beauty, as pure gold is tried by fire: nothing can kill her, because she is all mind. As for my men, you will observe when you read my work---- _B._ When I do! _A._ Which, of course, you will--that they also have their appetites in abeyance; they never want to eat, or drink, or sleep--are always at hand when required, without regard to time or space. Now there is a great beauty in this description of writing. The women adore it because they find their sex divested of those human necessities, without which they would indeed be angels! the mirror is held up to them, and they find themselves perfect--no wonder they are pleased. The other sex are also very glad to dwell upon female perfectability, which they can only find in a romance, although they have often dreamt of it in their younger days. _B._ There is some truth in these remarks. Every milliner's girl, who devours your pages in bed by the half-hour's light of tallow stolen for the purpose, imagines a strong similarity between herself and your Angelicanarinella, and every shop-boy measuring tape or weighing yellow soap will find out attributes common to himself and to your hero. _A._ Exactly. As long as you draw perfection in both sexes, you are certain to be read, because by so doing you flatter human nature and self-love, and transfer it to the individual who reads. Now a picture of real life---- _B._ Is like some of Wouvermans' best pictures, which will not be purchased by many, because his dogs in the fore-ground are doing exactly what all dogs will naturally do when they first are let out of their kennels. _A._ Wouvermans should have known better, and made his dogs better mannered if he expected his pictures to be hung up in the parlour of refinement. _B._ Very true. _A._ Perhaps you would like to have another passage or two. _B._ Excuse me: I will imagine it all. I only hope, Ansard, this employment will not interfere with your legal practice. _A._ My dear Barnstaple, it certainly will not, because my legal practice cannot be interfered with. I have been called to the bar, but find no employment in my calling. I have been sitting in my gown and wig for one year, and may probably sit a dozen more, before I have to rise to address their lordships. I have not yet had a guinea brief. My only chance is, to be sent out as judge to Sierra Leone, or perhaps to be made a commissioner of the Court of Requests. _B._ You are indeed humble in your aspirations. I recollect the time, Ansard, when you dreamt of golden fame, and aspired to the wool-sack--when your ambition prompted you to midnight labour, and you showed an energy---- _A._ (_putting his hands up to his forehead, with his elbows on the table._) What can I do, Barnstaple? If I trust to briefs, my existence will be but brief--we all must live. _B._ I will not reply as Richelieu did to a brother author, "Je ne vois pas la nécessité," but this I do say, that if you are in future to live by supplying the public with such nonsense, the shorter your existence the better. S.W. and by W. 3/4 W. Jack Littlebrain was, physically considered, as fine grown, and moreover as handsome a boy as ever was seen, but it must be acknowledged that he was not very clever. Nature is, in most instances, very impartial; she has given plumage to the peacock, but, as everyone knows, not the slightest ear for music. Throughout the feathered race it is almost invariably the same; the homeliest clad are the finest songsters. Among animals the elephant is certainly the most intelligent, but, at the same time, he cannot be considered as a beauty. Acting upon this well ascertained principle, nature imagined, that she had done quite enough for Jack when she endowed him with such personal perfection; and did not consider it was at all necessary that he should be very clever; indeed, it must be admitted not only that he was not very clever, but (as the truth must be told) remarkably dull and stupid. However, the Littlebrains have been for a long while a well-known, numerous, and influential family, so that, if it were possible that Jack could have been taught anything, the means were forthcoming: he was sent to every school in the country; but it was in vain; at every following vacation, he was handed over from the one pedagogue to the other, of those whose names were renowned for the Busbian system of teaching by stimulating both ends: he was horsed every day and still remained an ass, and at the end of six months, if he did not run away before that period was over, he was invariably sent back to his parents as incorrigible and unteachable. What was to be done with him? The Littlebrains had always got on in the world, somehow or another, by their interest and connections; but here was one who might be said to have no brains at all. After many _pros_ and _cons_, and after a variety of consulting letters had passed between the various members of his family, it was decided, that as his maternal uncle, Sir Theophilus Blazers, G.C.B., was at that time the second in command in the Mediterranean, he should be sent to sea under his command; the Admiral, having in reply to a letter on the subject, answered that it was hard indeed if he did not lick him into some shape or another; and that, at all events, he'd warrant that Jack should be able to box the compass before he had been three months nibbling the ship's biscuit; further, that it was very easy to get over the examination necessary to qualify him for lieutenant, as a turkey and a dozen of brown stout sent in the boat with him on the passing day, as a present to each of the passing captains, would pass him, even if he were as incompetent as a camel (or, as they say at sea, a cable,) to pass through the eye of a needle; that having once passed, he would soon have him in command of a fine frigate, with a good nursing first lieutenant; and that if he did not behave himself properly, he would make his signal to come on board of the flag-ship, take him into the cabin, and give him a sound horsewhipping, as other admirals have been known to inflict upon their own sons under similar circumstances. The reader must be aware that, from the tenour of Sir Theophilus's letter, the circumstances which we are narrating must have occurred some fifty years ago. When Jack was informed that he was to be a midshipman, he looked up in the most innocent way in the world (and innocent he was, sure enough), turned on his heels, and whistled as he went for want of thought. For the last three months he had been at home, and his chief employment was kissing and romping with the maids, who declared him to be the handsomest Littlebrain that the country had ever produced. Our hero viewed the preparations made for his departure with perfect indifference, and wished everybody good-bye with the utmost composure. He was a happy, good-tempered fellow who never calculated, because he could not; never decided, for he had not wit enough to choose; never foresaw, although he could look straight before him; and never remembered, because he had no memory. The line, "If ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise," was certainly made especially for Jack: nevertheless he was not totally deficient: he knew what was good to eat or drink, for his taste was perfect, his eyes were very sharp, and he could discover in a moment if a peach was ripe on the wall; his hearing was quick, for he was the first in the school to detect the footsteps of his pedagogue; and he could smell anything savoury nearly a mile off, if the wind lay the right way. Moreover, he knew that if he put his fingers in the fire that he would burn himself; that knives cut severely; that birch tickled, and several other little axioms of this sort which are generally ascertained by children at an early age, but which Jack's capacity had not received until at a much later date. Such as he was, our hero went to sea; his stock in his sea-chest being very abundant, while his stock of ideas was proportionally small. We will pass over all the trans-shipments of Jack until he was eventually shipped on board of the _Mendacious_, then lying at Malta with the flag of Sir Theophilus Blazers at the fore--a splendid ship, carrying 120 guns, and nearly 120 midshipmen of different calibres. (I pass over captain, lieutenant, and ship's company, having made mention of her most valuable qualifications.) Jack was received with a hearty welcome by his uncle, for he came in pudding-time, and was invited to dinner; and the Admiral made the important discovery, that if his nephew was a fool in other points, he was certainly no fool at his knife and fork. In a short time his messmates found out that he was no fool at his fists, and his knock-down arguments ended much disputation. Indeed, as the French would say, Jack was perfection in the _physique_, although so very deficient in the _morale_. But if Pandora's box proved a plague to the whole world, Jack had his individual portion of it, when he was summoned to _box_ the compass by his worthy uncle Sir Theophilus Blazers; who in the course of six months discovered that he could not make his nephew box it in the three, which he had warranted in his letter; every day our hero's ears were boxed, but the compass never. It required all the cardinal virtues to teach him the cardinal points during the forenoon, and he made a point of forgetting them before the sun went down. Whenever they attempted it (and various were the teachers employed to drive the compass into Jack's head) his head drove round the compass; and try all he could, Jack never could compass it. It appeared, as some people are said only to have one idea, as if Jack could only have one _point_ in his head at a time, and to that point he would stand like a well-broken pointer. With him the wind never changed until the next day. His uncle pronounced him to be a fool, but that did not hurt his nephew's feelings; he had been told so too often already. I have said that Jack had a great respect for good eating and drinking, and, moreover, was blessed with a good appetite: every person has his peculiar fancies, and if there was anything which more titillated the palate and olfactory nerves of our hero, it was a roast goose with sage and onions. Now it so happened, that having been about seven months on board of the _Mendacious_, Jack had one day received a summons to dine with the Admiral, for the steward had ordered a roast goose for dinner, and knew not only that Jack was partial to it, but also that Jack was the Admiral's nephew, which always goes for something on board of a flag-ship. Just before they were sitting down to table, the Admiral wishing to know how the wind was, and having been not a little vexed with the slow progress of his nephew's nautical acquirements, said, "Now, Mr Littlebrain, go up, and bring me down word how the wind is; and mark me, as, when you are sent, nine times out of ten you make a mistake, I shall now bet you five guineas against your dinner, that you make a mistake this time: so now be off and we will soon ascertain whether you lose your dinner or I lose my money. Sit down, gentlemen; we will not wait for Mr Littlebrain." Jack did not much admire this bet on the part of his uncle, but still less did he like the want of good manners in not waiting for him. He had just time to see the covers removed, to scent a whiff of the goose, and was off. "The Admiral wants to know how the wind is, sir," said Jack to the officer of the watch. The officer of the watch went to the binnacle, and setting the wind as nearly as he could, replied, "Tell Sir Theophilus that it is _S.W. and by W. 3/4 W._" "That's one of those confounded long points that I never can remember," cried Jack, in despair. "Then you'll '_get goose_,' as the saying is," observed one of the midshipmen. "No; I'm afraid that I sha'n't get any," replied Jack, despondingly. "What did he say, S.W. and by N. 3/4 E.?" "Not exactly," replied his messmate, who was a good-natured lad, and laughed heartily at Jack's version. "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." "I never can remember it," cried Jack. "I'm to have five guineas if I do, and no dinner if I don't; and if I stay here much longer, I shall get no dinner at all events, for they are all terribly peckish, and there will be none left." "Well, if you'll give me one of the guineas, I'll show you how to manage it," said the midshipman. "I'll give you two, if you'll only be quick and the goose a'n't all gone," replied Jack. The midshipman wrote down the point from which the wind blew, at full length, upon a bit of paper, and pinned it to the rim of Jack's hat. "Now," said he, "when you go into the cabin, you can hold your hat so as to read it, without their perceiving you." "Well, so I can; I never should have thought of that," said Jack. "You hav'n't wit enough," replied the midshipman. "Well, I see no wit in the compass," replied Jack. "Nevertheless, it's full of point," replied the midshipman; "now be quick." Our hero's eyes served him well, if his memory was treacherous; and as he entered the cabin door he bowed over his hat very politely, and said, as he read it off, "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," and then he added, without reading at all, "if you please, Sir Theophilus." "Steward," said the Admiral, "tell the officer of the watch to step down." "How's the wind, Mr Growler?" "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," replied the officer. "Then, Mr Littlebrain, you have won your five guineas, and may now sit down and enjoy your dinner." Our hero was not slow in obeying the order, and ventured, upon the strength of his success, to send his plate twice for goose. Having eaten their dinner, drunk their wine, and taken their coffee, the officers, at the same time, took the hint which invariably accompanies the latter beverage, made their bows and retreated. As Jack was following his seniors out of the cabin, the Admiral put the sum which he had staked into his hands, observing, that "it was an ill wind that blew nobody good." So thought Jack, who, having faithfully paid the midshipman the two guineas for his assistance, was now on the poop keeping his watch, as midshipmen usually do; that is, stretched out on the signal lockers, and composing himself to sleep after the most approved fashion, answering the winks of the stars by blinks of his eyes, until at last he shut them to keep them warm. But, before he had quite composed himself, he thought of the goose and the five guineas. The wind was from the same quarter, blowing soft and mild; Jack lay in a sort of reverie, as it fanned his cheek, for the weather was close and sultry. "Well," muttered Jack to himself, "I do love that point of the compass, at all events, and I think that I never shall forget S.W. and by W. 3/4 W. No I never--never liked one before, though----" "Is that true?" whispered a gentle voice in his ear; "do you love 'S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.,' and will you, as you say, never forget her?" "Why, what's that?" said Jack, opening his eyes, and turning half round on his side. "It's me--'S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.,' that you say you love." Littlebrain raised himself and looked round;--there was no one on the poop except himself and two or three of the after-guard, who were lying down between the guns. "Why, who was it that spoke?" said Jack, much astonished. "It was the wind you love, and who has long loved you," replied the same voice; "do you wish to see me?" "See you,--see the wind?--I've been already sent on that message by the midshipmen," thought Jack. "Do you love me as you say, and as I love you?" continued the voice. "Well, I like you better than any other point of the compass, and I'm sure I never thought I should like one of them," replied Jack. "That will not do for me; will you love only me?" "I'm not likely to love the others," replied Jack, shutting his eyes again; "I _hate_ them all." "And love me?" "Well, I do love you, that's a fact," replied Jack, as he thought of the goose and the five guineas. "Then look round, and you shall see me," said the soft voice. Jack, who hardly knew whether he was asleep or awake, did at this summons once more take the trouble to open his eyes, and beheld a fairy female figure, pellucid as water, yet apparently possessing substance; her features were beautifully soft and mild, and her outline trembled and shifted as it were, waving gently to and fro. It smiled sweetly, hung over him, played with his chestnut curls, softly touched his lips with her own, passed her trembling fingers over his cheeks, and its warm breath appeared as if it melted into his. Then it grew more bold,--embraced his person, searched into his neck and collar, as if curious to examine him. Jack felt a pleasure and gratification which he could not well comprehend: once more the charmer's lips trembled upon his own, now remaining for a moment, now withdrawing, again returning to kiss and kiss again, and once more did the soft voice put the question-- "Do you love me?" "Better than goose," replied Jack. "I don't know who goose may be," replied the fairy form, as she tossed about Jack's waving locks; "you must love only me, promise me that before I am relieved." "What, have you got the first watch, as well as me?" replied Jack. "I am on duty just now, but I shall not be so long. We southerly winds are never kept long in one place; some of my sisters will probably be sent here soon." "I don't understand what you talk about," replied Jack. "Suppose you tell me who you are, and what you are, and I'll do all I can to keep awake; I don't know how it is, but I've felt more inclined to go to sleep since you have been fanning me about, than I did before." "Then I will remain by your side while you listen to me. I am, as I told you, a wind----" "That's puzzling," said Jack, interrupting her. "My name is 'S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.'" "Yes, and a very long name it is. If you wish me to remember you, you should have had a shorter one." This ruffled the wind a little, and she blew rather sharp into the corner of Jack's eye,--however, she proceeded-- "You are a sailor, and of course you know all the winds on the compass by name." "I wish I did; but I don't," replied Littlebrain, "I can recollect you, and not one other." Again the wind trembled with delight on his lips, and she proceeded:--"You know that there are thirty-two points on the compass, and these points are divided into quarters; so that there are, in fact, 128 different winds." "There are more than I could ever remember; I know that," said Jack. "Well, we are in all 128. All the winds which have northerly in them, are coarse and ugly; all the southern winds are pretty." "You don't say so?" replied our hero. "We are summoned to blow, as required, but the hardest duty generally falls to the northerly winds, as it should do, for they are the strongest; although we southerly winds can blow hard enough when we choose. Our characters are somewhat different. The most unhappy in disposition, and I may say, the most malevolent, are the north and easterly winds; the N.W. winds are powerful, but not unkind; the S.E. winds vary, but, at all events, we of the S.W. are considered the mildest and most beneficent. Do you understand me?" "Not altogether. You're going right round the compass, and I never could make it out, that's a fact. I hear what you say, but I cannot promise to recollect it; I can only recollect S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." "I care only for your recollecting me; if you do that, you may forget all the rest. Now you see we South Wests are summer winds, and are seldom required but in this season; I have often blown over your ship these last three months, and I always have lingered near you, for I loved you." "Thank you--now go on, for seven bells have struck some time, and I shall be going to turn in. Is your watch out?" "No, I shall blow for some hours longer. Why will you leave me--why wo'n't you stay on deck with me?" "What, stay on deck after my watch is out! No, if I do, blow me! We midshipmen never do that--but I say, why can't you come down with me, and turn in my hammock; it's close to the hatchway, and you can easily do it." "Well, I will, upon one promise. You say that you love me, now I'm very jealous, for we winds are always supplanting one another. Promise me that you will never mention any other wind in the compass but me, for if you do, they may come to you, and if I hear of it I'll blow the masts out of your ship, that I will." "You don't say so?" replied Jack, surveying her fragile, trembling form. "Yes, I will, and on a lee shore too; so that the ship shall go to pieces on the rocks, and the Admiral and every soul on board her be drowned." "No, you wouldn't, would you?" said our hero, astonished. "Not if you promise me. Then I'll come to you and pour down your windsails, and dry your washed clothes as they hang on the rigging, and just ripple the waves as you glide along, and hang upon the lips of my dear love, and press him in my arms. Promise me, then, on no account ever to recollect or mention any other wind but me." "Well, I think I may promise that," replied Jack, "for I'm very clever at forgetting; and then you'll come to my hammock, wo'n't you, and sleep with me? you'll be a nice cool bedfellow these warm nights." "I can't sleep on my watch as midshipmen do; but I'll watch you while you sleep, and I'll fan your cheeks, and keep you cool and comfortable, till I'm relieved." "And when you go, when will you come again?" "That I cannot tell--when I'm summoned; and I shall wait with impatience, that you may be sure of." "There's eight bells," said Jack, starting up; "I must go down and call the officer of the middle watch; but I'll soon turn in, for my relief is not so big as myself, and I can thrash him." Littlebrain was as good as his word; he cut down his relief, and then thrashed him for venturing to expostulate. The consequence was, that in ten minutes he was in his hammock, and "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." came gently down the hatchway, and rested in his arms. Jack soon fell fast asleep, and when he was wakened up the next morning by the quarter-master, his bedfellow was no longer there. A mate inquiring how the wind was, was answered by the quarter-master that they had a fresh breeze from the N.N.W., by which Jack understood that his sweetheart was no longer on duty. Our hero had passed such a happy night with his soft and kind companion, that he could think of nothing else; he longed for her to come again, and, to the surprise of everybody, was now perpetually making inquiries as to the wind which blew. He thought of her continually; and in fact was as much in love with "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." as he possibly could be. She came again--once more did he enjoy her delightful company; again she slept with him in his hammock, and then, after a short stay, she was relieved by another. We do not intend to accuse the wind of inconstancy, as that was not her fault; nor of treachery, for she loved dearly; nor of violence, for she was all softness and mildness; but we do say, that "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." was the occasion of Jack being very often in a scrape, for our hero kept his word; he forgot all other wind, and, with him, there was not other except his dear "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." It must be admitted of Jack, that, at all events, he showed great perseverance, for he stuck to his point. Our hero would argue with his messmates, for it is not those who are most capable of arguing who are most fond of it; and, like all arguers not very brilliant, he would flounder and diverge away right and left, just as the flaws of ideas came into his head. "What nonsense it is your talking that way," would his opponent say, "Why don't you come to the point?" "And so I do," cried Jack. "Well then, what is your point?" "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," replied our hero. Who could reply to this? But in every instance, and through every difficulty, our hero kept his promise, until his uncle Sir Theophilus was very undecided, whether he should send him home to be locked up in a Lunatic Asylum, or bring him on in the service to the rank of post-captain. Upon mature consideration, however, as a man in Bedlam is a very useless member of society, and a tee-total non-productive, whereas a captain in the navy is a responsible agent, the Admiral came to the conclusion, that Littlebrain must follow up his destiny. At last, Jack was set down as the greatest fool in the ship, and was pointed out as such. The ladies observed, that such might possibly be the case, but at all events he was the handsomest young man in the Mediterranean fleet. We believe that both parties were correct in their assertions. Time flies--even a midshipman's time, which does not fly quite so fast as his money--and the time came for Mr Littlebrain's examination. Sir Theophilus, who now commanded the whole fleet, was almost in despair. How was it possible that a man could navigate a ship, with only one quarter point of the compass in his head? Sir Theophilus scratched his wig; and the disposition of the Mediterranean fleet, so important to the country, was altered according to the dispositions of the captains who commanded the ships. In those days, there were martinets in the service; officers who never overlooked an offence, or permitted the least deviation from strict duty; who were generally hated, but at the same time were most valuable to the service. As for his nephew passing his examination before any of those of the first, or second, or even of the third degree, the Admiral knew that it was impossible. The consequence was, that one was sent away on a mission to Genoa, about nothing; another to watch for vessels never expected, off Sardinia; two more to cruise after a French frigate which had never been built: and thus, by degrees, did the Admiral arrange, so as to obtain a set of officers sufficiently pliant to allow his nephew to creep under the gate which barred his promotion, and which he never could have vaulted over. So the signal was made--our hero went on board--his uncle had not forgotten the propriety of a little _douceur_ on the occasion; and, as the turkeys were all gone, three couple of geese were sent in the same boat, as a present to each of the three passing captains. Littlebrain's heart failed him as he pulled to the ship; even the geese hissed at him, as much as to say, "If you were not such a stupid ass, we might have been left alive in our coops." There was a great deal of truth in that remark, if they did say so. Nothing could have been made more easy for Littlebrain than his examination. The questions had all been arranged beforehand; and some kind friend had given him all the answers written down. The passing captains apparently suffered from the heat of the weather, and each had his hand on his brow, looking down on the table at the time that Littlebrain gave his answers, so that of course they did not observe that he was reading them off. As soon as Littlebrain had given his answer, and had had sufficient time to drop his paper under the table, the captains felt better and looked up again. There were but eight questions for our hero to answer. Seven had been satisfactorily got through; then came the eighth, a very simple one:--"What is your course and distance from Ushant to the Start?" This question having been duly put, the captains were again in deep meditation, shrouding their eyes with the palms of their hands. Littlebrain had his answer--he looked at the paper. What could be more simple than to reply?--and then the captains would have all risen up, shaken him by the hand, complimented him upon the talent he had displayed, sent their compliments to the commander-in-chief, and their thanks for the geese. Jack was just answering, "North----" "Recollect your promise!" cried a soft voice, which Jack well recollected. Jack stammered--the captains were mute--and waited patiently. "I must say it," muttered Jack. "You shan't," replied the little Wind. "Indeed I must," said Jack, "or I shall be turned back." The captains, surprised at this delay and the muttering of Jack, looked up, and one of them gently inquired if Mr Littlebrain had not dropped his handkerchief or something under the table? and then they again fixed their eyes upon the green cloth. "If you dare, I'll never see you again," cried "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.,"--"never come to your hammock,--but I'll blow the ship on shore, every soul shall be lost, Admiral and all; recollect your promise!" "Then I shall never pass," replied Jack. "Do you think that any other point in the compass shall pass you except me?--never! I'm too jealous for that; come now, dearest," and the Wind again deliriously trembled upon the lips of our hero, who could no longer resist. "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," exclaimed Jack firmly. "You have made a slight mistake, Mr Littlebrain," said one of the captains. "_Look_ again--I meant to say, _think_ again." "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," again repeated Jack. "Dearest! how I love you!" whispered the soft Wind. "Why, Mr Littlebrain," said one of the captains, for Jack had actually laid the paper down on the table, "what's in the wind now?" "She's obstinate," replied Jack. "You appear to be so, at all events," replied the captain. "Pray try once more." "I have it!" thought Jack, who tore off the last answer from his paper. "I gained five guineas by that plan once before." He then handed the bit of paper to the passing captain: "I believe that's right, sir," said our hero. "Yes, that is right; but could you not have said it instead of writing it, Mr Littlebrain?" Jack made no reply; his little sweetheart pouted a little, but said nothing; it was an evasion which she did not like. A few seconds of consultation then took place, as a matter of form. Each captain asked of the other if he was perfectly satisfied as to Mr Littlebrain's capabilities, and the reply was in the affirmative; and they were perfectly satisfied, that he was either a fool or a madman. However, as we have had both in the service by way of precedent, Jack was added to the list, and the next day was appointed lieutenant. Our hero did his duty as lieutenant of the forecastle; and as all the duty of that officer is, when hailed from the quarter-deck, to answer "_Ay, ay, sir_," he got on without making many mistakes. And now he was very happy; no one dared to call him a fool except his uncle; he had his own cabin, and many was the time that his dear little "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W." would come in by the scuttle, and nestle by his side. "You wo'n't see so much of me soon, dearest," said she, one morning, gravely. "Why not, my soft one?" replied Jack. "Don't you recollect that the winter months are coming on?" "So they are," replied Jack. "Well, I shall long for you back." And Jack did long, and long very much, for he loved his dear wind, and the fine weather which accompanied her. Winter came on, and heavy gales and rain, and thunder and lightning; nothing but double-reefed topsails, and wearing in succession; and our hero walked the forecastle, and thought of his favourite wind. The N.E. winds came down furiously, and the weather was bitter cold. The officers shook the rain and spray off their garments when their watch was over, and called for grog. "Steward, a glass of grog," cried one, "and let it be strong." "The same for me," said Jack; "only I'll mix it myself." Jack poured out the rum till the tumbler was half full. "Why, Littlebrain," said his messmate, "that is a dose, that's what we call a regular _Nor-wester_." "Is it?" replied Jack. "Well then, Nor-westers suit me exactly, and I shall stick to them like cobbler's wax." And during the whole of the winter months our hero showed a great predilection for Nor-westers. It was in the latter end of February that there was a heavy gale; it had blown furiously from the northward for three days, and then it paused and panted as if out of breath--no wonder; and then the wind shifted, and shifted again, with squalls and heavy rain, until it blew from every quarter of the compass. Our hero's watch was over, and he came down and called for a "Nor-wester" as usual. "How is the wind, now?" asked the first lieutenant to the master, who came down dripping wet. "S.S.W., but drawing now fast to the Westward," said old Spunyarn. And so it was; and it veered round until "S.W. and by W. 3/4 W.," with an angry gust, came down the sky-light, and blowing strongly into our hero's ear, cried-- "Oh! you false one!!" "False!" exclaimed Jack. "What! you here, and so angry too?--what's the matter?" "What's the matter!--do you think I don't know? What have you been doing ever since I was away, comforting yourself during my absence with _Nor-westers_?" "Why, you an't jealous of a Nor-wester, are you?" replied Littlebrain. "I confess, I'm rather partial to them." "What!--this to my face!--I'll never come again,--without you promise me that you will have nothing to do with them, and never call for one again. Be quick--I cannot stay more than two minutes, for it is hard work now, and we relieve quick--say the word." "Well, then," replied Littlebrain, "you've no objection to _half-and-half_?" "None in the world; that's quite another thing, and has nothing to do with the wind." "It has, though," thought Jack, "for it gets a man in the wind; but I wo'n't tell her so; and," continued he, "you don't mind a raw nip, do you?" "No--I care for nothing except a Nor-wester." "I'll never call for one again," replied Jack; "it is but making my grog a little stronger; in future it shall be _half-and-half_." "That's a dear!--now I'm off, don't forget me;" and away went the wind in a great hurry. It was about three months after this short visit, the fleet being off Corsica, that our hero was walking the deck, thinking that he soon should see the object of his affections, when a privateer brig was discovered at anchor a few miles from Bastia. The signal was made for the boats of the fleet to cut her out, and the Admiral, wishing that his nephew should distinguish himself somehow, gave him the command of one of the finest boats. Now Jack was as brave as brave could be; he did not know what danger was; he hadn't wit enough to perceive it, and there was no doubt but he would distinguish himself. The boats went on the service. Jack was the very first on board, cheering his men as he darted into the closed ranks of his opponents. Whether it was that he did not think that his head was worth defending, or that he was too busy in breaking the heads of others to look after his own; this is certain, that a tomahawk descended upon it with such force as to bury itself in his skull (and his was a thick skull, too). The privateer's men were overpowered by numbers, and then our hero was discovered, under a pile of bodies, still breathing heavily. He was hoisted on board, and taken into his uncle's cabin: the surgeon shook his head when he had examined that of our hero. "It must have been a most tremendous blow," said he to the Admiral, "to have penetrated----" "It must have been, indeed," replied the Admiral, as the tears rolled down his cheeks; for he loved his nephew. The surgeon having done all that his art would enable him, left the cabin to attend to the others who were hurt; the Admiral also went on the quarter-deck, walking to and fro for an hour in a melancholy mood. He returned to the cabin, and bent over his nephew; Jack opened his eyes. "My dear fellow," said the Admiral, "how's your head now?" "_S.W. and by W. 3/4 W._," faintly exclaimed our hero, constant in death, as he turned a little on one side and expired. It was three days afterwards, as the fleet were on a wind, making for Malta, that the bell of the ship tolled, and a body, sewed up in a hammock and covered with the Union Jack, was carried to the gangway by the Admiral's bargemen. It had been a dull cloudy day, with little wind; the hands were turned up, the officers and men stood uncovered; the Admiral in advance with his arms folded, as the chaplain read the funeral service over the body of our hero,--and as the service proceeded, the sails flapped, for the wind had shifted a little; a motion was made, by the hand of the officer of the watch, to the man at the helm to let the ship go off the wind, that the service might not be disturbed, and a mizzling soft rain descended. The wind had shifted to our hero's much loved _point_, his fond mistress had come to mourn over the loss of her dearest, and the rain that descended were the tears which she shed at the death of her handsome but not over-gifted lover. The Sky-blue Domino It was a fine autumnal evening; I had been walking with a friend until dusk on the Piazza Grande, or principal square in the town of Lucca. We had been conversing of England, our own country, from which I had then banished myself for nearly four years, having taken up my residence in Italy to fortify a weak constitution, and having remained there long after it was requisite for my health from an attachment to its pure sky, and the _dolce far niente_ which so wins upon you in that luxurious climate. We had communicated to each other the contents of our respective letters arrived by the last mail; had talked over politics, great men, acquaintances, friends, and kindred; and, tired of conversation, had both sank into a pleasing reverie as we watched the stars twinkling above us, when my friend rose hastily and bid me good-night. "Where are you going, Alfred?" inquired I. "I had nearly forgetten I had an appointment this evening. I promised to meet somebody at the Marquesa di Cesto's masquerade." "Pshaw! are you not tired of these things?" replied I; "that eternal round of black masks and dominos of all colours; heavy harlequins, fools and clowns by nature wearing their proper dresses there, and only in masquerade when out of it; nuns who have no holiness in their ideas, friars without a spice of religion, ugly Venuses, Dianas without chastity, and Hebes as old as your grandmother." "All very true, Herbert, and life itself is masquerade enough; but the fact is, that I have made an appointment: it is of importance, and I must not fail." "Well, I wish you more amusement than I have generally extracted from these burlesque meetings," replied I. "Adieu, and may you be successful!" And Albert hastened away. I remained another half hour reclining on the bench, and then returned to my lodgings. My servant Antonio lighted the candle and withdrew. On the table lay a note; it was an invitation from the Marquesa. I threw it on one side and took up a book, one that required reflection and deep examination; but the rattling of the wheels of the carriages as they whirled along past my window would not permit me to command my attention. I threw down the book; and taking a chair at the window, watched the carriages full of masks as they rolled past, apparently so eager in the pursuit of pleasure. I was in a cynical humour. What fools, thought I, and yet what numbers will be there; there will be an immense crowd; and what can be the assignation which Albert said was of such consequence? Such was my reflection for the next ten minutes, during which at least fifty carriages and other vehicles had passed in review before me. And then I thought of the princely fortune of the Marquesa, the splendid palazzo at which the masquerade was given, and the brilliant scene which would take place. "The Grand Duke is to be there, and everybody of distinction in Lucca. I have a great mind to go myself." A few minutes more elapsed. I felt that I was lonely, and I made up my mind that I would go. I turned from the window and rang the bell. "Antonio, see if you can procure me a domino, a dark-coloured one if possible; and tell Carlo to bring the carriage round as soon as he can." Antonio departed, and was away so long that the carriage was at the door previous to his return. "Signor, I am sorry, very, very sorry; but I have run to every shop in Lucca, and there is nothing left but a sky-blue domino, which I have brought with me." "Sky-blue! why, there will not be two sky-blue dominos in the whole masquerade; I might as well tell my name at once, I shall be so conspicuous." "You are as well hidden under a sky-blue domino as a black one, Signor, if you choose to keep your own secrets," observed Antonio. "Very true," replied I; "give me my mask." Enshrouding myself in the sky-blue domino, I went down the stairs, threw myself into the carriage, and directed Carlo to drive to the Palazzo of the Marquesa. In half an hour we arrived at the entrance gates of the Marquesa's superb country seat. From these gates to the palazzo, a sweep of several hundred yards, the avenue through which the driver passed was loaded with variegated lamps, hanging in graceful festoons from branch to branch; and the notes of music from the vast entrance-hall of the palazzo floated through the still air. When I arrived at the area in front of the flight of marble steps which formed the entrance of the palazzo, I was astonished at the magnificence, the good taste, and the total disregard of expense which were exhibited. The palazzo itself appeared like the fabric built of diamonds and precious stones by the genii who obeyed the ring and lamp of Aladdin, so completely was its marble front hidden with a mass of many-coloured lamps, the reflection from whose galaxy of light rendered it bright as day for nearly one hundred yards around; various mottoes and transparencies were arranged in the walks nearest to the palazzo; and then all was dark, rendered still darker from the contrast with the flood of light which poured to a certain distance from the scene of festivity. Groups of characters and dominos were walking to and fro in every direction; most of them retracing their steps when they arrived at the sombre walks and alleys, some few pairs only continuing their route where no listeners were to be expected. This is an animating scene, thought I, as the carriage stopped, and I am not sorry that I have made one of the party. As soon as I had descended, I walked up the flight of marble steps which led to the spacious hall in which the major part of the company were collected. The music had, for a moment, ceased to play; and finding that the perfume of the exotics which decorated the hall was too powerful, I was again descending the steps, when my hand was seized and warmly pressed by one in a violet-coloured domino. "I am so glad that you are come; we were afraid that you would not. I will see you again directly," said the domino; and it then fell back into the crowd and disappeared. It immediately occurred to me that it was my friend Albert who spoke to me. "Very odd," thought I, "that he should have found me out!" And again I fell into the absurdity of imagining that because I had put on a conspicuous domino, I was sure to be recognised. "What can he want with me? He must be in some difficulty, some unexpected one, that is certain." Such were my reflections as I slowly descended the steps, occasionally pausing for a moment on one, as I was lost in conjecture, when I was again arrested by a slight slap on the shoulder. I looked around: it was a female; and although she wore her half-mask, it was evident that she was young, and I felt convinced that she was beautiful. "Not a word," whispered she, putting her finger to her lip; "follow me." Of course I followed: who could resist such a challenge? "You are late," said the incognito, when we had walked so far away from the palazzo as to be out of hearing of the crowd. "I did not make up my mind to come until an hour ago," replied I. "I was so afraid that you would not come. Albert was sure that you would. He was right. He told me just now that he had spoken to you." "What! was that Albert in the rose-coloured domino?" "Yes; but I dare not stay now,--my father will be looking for me. Albert is keeping him in conversation. In half an hour he will speak to you again. Has he explained to you what has occurred?" "Not one word." "If he has not had time--and I doubt if he will have, as he must attend to the preparations--I will write a few lines, if I can, and explain, or at least tell you what to do; but I am so harassed, so frightened! We do indeed require your assistance. Adieu!" So saying the fair unknown tripped hastily away. "What the deuce is all this?" muttered I, as I watched her retreating figure. "Albert said that he had an appointment, but he did not make me his confidant. It appears that something which has occurred this night occasions him to require my assistance. Well, I will not fail him." For about half an hour I sauntered up and down between the lines of orange-trees which were dressed up with variegated lamps, and shed their powerful fragrance in the air: I ruminated upon what might be my friend's intentions, and what might be the result of an intrigue carried on in a country where the stiletto follows Love so close through all the mazes of his labyrinth, when I was again accosted by the violet-coloured domino. "Hist!" whispered he, looking carefully round as he thrust a paper into my hand; "read this after I leave you. In one hour from this be you on this spot. Are you armed?" "No," replied I; "but Albert----" "You may not need it; but nevertheless take this,--I cannot wait." So saying he put a stiletto into my hand, and again made a hasty retreat. It had been my intention to have asked Albert what was his plan, and further why he did not speak English instead of Italian, as he would have been less liable to be understood if overheard by eavesdroppers; but a little reflection told me that he was right in speaking Italian, as the English language overheard would have betrayed him, or at least have identified him as a foreigner. "A very mysterious affair this!" thought I; "but, however, this paper will, I presume, explain the business. That there is a danger in it is evident, or he would not have given me this weapon;" and I turned the stiletto once or twice to the light of the lamp next to me, examining its blade, when, looking up, I perceived a black domino standing before me. "It is sharp enough, I warrant," said the domino; "you have but to strike home. I have been waiting for you in the next walk, which I thought was to be our rendezvous. Here is a paper which you will fasten to his dress. I will contrive that he shall be here in an hour hence by a pretended message. After his death you will put this packet into his bosom;--you understand. Fail not: remember the one thousand sequins; and here is my ring, which I will redeem as soon as your work is done. The others will soon be here. The pass-word is 'Milano.' But I must not be seen here. Why a sky-blue domino? it is too conspicuous for escape;" and as I received from him the packet and ring, the black domino retreated through the orange grove which encircled us. I was lost in amazement: there I stood with my hands full--two papers, a packet, a stiletto, and a diamond ring! "Well," thought I, "this time I am most assuredly taken for somebody else--for a bravo I am not. There is some foul work going on, which, perhaps, I may prevent." "But why a sky-blue domino?" said he. I may well ask the same question. "Why the deuce did I come here in a sky-blue domino, or any domino at all?" I put the ring on my finger, the stiletto and packet in my bosom, and then hastened away to the garden on the other side of the palazzo, that I might read the mysterious communication put into my hands by my friend Albert; and as I walked on, my love for admiration led me away so as to find myself pleased with the mystery and danger attending upon the affair; and feeling secure, now that I had a stiletto in my bosom for my defence, I resolved that I would go right through it until the whole affair should be unravelled. I walked on till I had gained the last lamp on the other side of the palazzo. I held up to its light the mysterious paper: it was in Italian, and in a woman's handwriting. "We have determined upon flight, as we cannot hope for safety here, surrounded as we are by stilettoes on every side. We feel sure of pardon as soon as the papers which Albert received by this day's mail, and which he will entrust to you when you meet again, are placed in my father's hands. We must have your assistance in removing our treasure. Our horses are all ready, and a few hours will put us in safety; but we must look to you for following us in your carriage, and conveying for me what would prove so great an incumbrance to our necessary speed. When Albert sees you again, he will be able to tell you where it is deposited. Follow us quick, and you will always have the gratitude of "VIOLA. "P.S. I write in great haste, as I cannot leave my father's side for a moment without his seeking for me." "What can all this mean? Albert told me of no papers by this day's mail. Viola! I never heard him mention such a name. He said to me, 'Read this, and all will be explained.' I'll be hanged if I am not as much in the dark as ever!--Follow them in my carriage with the treasure--never says where! I presume he is about to run off with some rich heiress. Confound this sky-blue domino! Here I am with two papers, a packet, a stiletto, and a ring; I am to receive another packet, and am to convey treasure. Well, it must solve itself--I will back to my post; but first let me see what is in this paper which I am to affix upon the man's dress after I have killed him." I held it up to the light, and read, in capital letters, "_The reward of a traitor!_" "Short and pithy," muttered I, as I replaced it in my pocket: "now I'll back to the spot of assignation, for the hour must be nearly expired." As I retraced my steps, I again reverted to the communication of Viola--"'Surrounded as we are by stilettoes on every side!' Why, surely Albert cannot be the person that I am required by the black domino to despatch; and yet it may be so--and others are to join me here before the hour is passed." A thought struck me: whoever the party might be whose life was to be taken, whether Albert or another, I could save him. My reverie was again broken by a tap on the shoulder. "Am I right? What is the pass-word?" "Milano!" replied I, in a whisper. "All's right, then--Giacomo and Tomaso are close by--I will fetch them." The man turned away, and in a minute re-appeared with two others, bending as they forced their way under the orange-trees. "Here we all are, Felippo," whispered the first. "_He_ is to be here in a few minutes." "Hush!" replied I, in a whisper, and holding up to them the brilliant ring which sparkled on my finger. "Ah, Signor, I cry your mercy," replied the man, in a low voice; "I thought it was Felippo." "Not so loud," replied I, still in a whisper. "All is discovered, and Felippo is arrested. You must away immediately. You shall hear from me to-morrow." "Corpo di Bacco! Where, Signor? at the old place?" "Yes--now away, and save yourselves." In a few seconds the desperate men disappeared among the trees, and I was left alone. "Slaves of the Ring, you have done my bidding at all events, this time," thought I, and I looked at the ring more attentively. It was a splendid solitaire diamond, worth many hundred crowns. "Will you ever find your way back to your lawful owner?" was the question in my mind when Albert made his appearance in his violet-coloured domino. "'Twas imprudent of you to send me the paper by the black domino," said he, hastily. "Did I not tell you that I would be here in an hour? We have not a moment to spare. Follow me quickly, and be silent." I followed--the paper which Albert referred to needed no explanation; it was, indeed, the only part of the whole affair which I comprehended. He led the way to about three hundred yards of the path through the wood. "There," said he, "in that narrow avenue, you will find my faithful negro with his charge. He will not deliver it up without you show him this ring." And Albert put a ring upon my finger. "But, Albert,"--my mind misgave me--Albert never had a faithful negro to my knowledge; it must be some other person who had mistaken me for his friend,--"I am afraid,"--continued I---- "Afraid!--let me not hear you say that. You never yet knew fear," said he, interrupting me. "What have you to fear between this and Pisa? Your own horses will take you there in three hours. But here's the packet, which you must deliver yourself. Now that you know where the negro is, return to the palazzo, deliver it into his own hands, requesting his immediate perusal. After that do not wait a moment, but hasten here to your charge. While the Grand Duke is reading it I will escape with Viola." "I really cannot understand all this," said I, taking the packet. "All will be explained when we meet at Pisa. Away, now, to the Grand Duke--I will go to the negro and prepare him for your coming." "But allow me----" "Not a word more if you love me," replied the violet-coloured domino, who, I was now convinced, was not Albert; it was not his voice--there was a mystery and a mistake; but I had become so implicated that I felt I could not retreat without sacrificing the parties, whoever they might be. "Well," said I, as I turned back to the palazzo, "I must go on now; for, as a gentleman and man of honour, I cannot refuse. I will give the packet to the Grand Duke, and I will also convey his treasure to Pisa. Confound this sky-blue domino!" As I returned to the palazzo, I was accosted by the black domino. "Milano!" replied I. "Is all right, Felippo?" said he, in a whisper. "All is right, Signor," was my answer. "Where is he?" I pointed with my finger to a clump of orange-trees. "And the paper and packet?" I nodded my head. "Then you had better away--I will see you to-morrow." "At the old place, Signor?" "Yes," replied the black domino, cutting into a cross-path, and disappearing. I arrived at the palazzo, mounted the steps, forced my way through the crowd, and perceived the Grand Duke in an inner saloon, the lady who had accosted me leaning on his arm. It then occurred to me that the Grand Duke had an only daughter, whose name was Viola. I entered the saloon, which was not crowded, and walking boldly up to the Grand Duke, presented the packet, requesting that his Highness would give it his immediate attention. I then bowed, and hastened away, once more passed through the thronged hall, and gained the marble steps of the palazzo. "Have you given it?" said a low voice close to me. "I have," replied I; "but, Signor----" "Not a word, Carlo: hasten to the wood, if you love me." And the violet-coloured domino forced his way into the crowd which filled the hall. "Now for my journey to Pisa," said I. "Here I am, implicated in high treason, perhaps, in consequence of my putting on a sky-blue domino. Well, there's no help for it." In a few minutes I had gained the narrow avenue, and having pursued it about fifty yards, perceived the glaring eyes of the crouched negro. By the starlight, I could just distinguish that he had a basket, or something like one, before him. "What do you come for, Signor?" said the negro, rising on his feet. "For what has been placed under your charge; here is the ring of your master." The negro put his fingers to the ring and felt it, that he might recognise it by its size and shape. "Here it is, Signor," said he, lifting up the basket gently, and putting it into my arms. It was not heavy, although somewhat cumbrous from its size. "Hark! Signor, there is confusion in the palazzo. You must be quick, and I must not be seen with you." And away darted the negro like lightning through the bushes. I also hastened away with the basket (contents unknown), for it appeared to me that affairs were coming to a crisis. I heard people running different ways, and voices approaching me. When I emerged from the narrow avenue, I perceived several figures coming down the dark walk at a rapid pace, and, seized with a sort of panic, I took to my heels. I soon found that they were in pursuit, and I increased my speed. In the gloom of the night, I unfortunately tripped over a stone, and fell with the basket to the ground; and then the screams from within informed me that the treasure intrusted to my safe keeping was a child. Fearful that it was hurt, and forgetting, for the time, the danger of being captured, I opened the lid, and examined its limbs, while I tried to pacify it; and while I was sitting down in my sky-blue domino, thus occupied in hushing a baby, I was seized by both shoulders, and found myself a prisoner. "What is the meaning of this rudeness, Signors?" said I, hardly knowing what to say. "You are arrested by order of the Grand Duke," was the reply. "I am arrested!--why?--I am an Englishman!" "That makes no difference; the orders are to arrest all found in the garden in sky-blue dominos." "Confound the sky-blue domino!" thought I, for the twentieth time at least. "Well, Signors, I will attend you; but first let me try to pacify this poor frightened infant." "Strange that he should be found running away with a child at the same time that the Lady Viola has disappeared!" observed one of my captors. "You are right, Signors," replied I; "it is very strange; and what is more strange is, that I can no more explain it than you can. I am now ready to accompany you. Oblige me by one of you carrying the basket while I take care of the infant." In a few minutes we had arrived at the palazzo. I had retained my mask, and I was conducted through the crowd into the saloon into which I had previously entered when I delivered the packet to the Grand Duke. "There he is! there he is!" was buzzed through the crowd in the hall. "Holy Virgin! he has a child in his arms! _Bambino Bellissimo!_" Such were the exclamations of wonder and surprise as they made a lane for my passage, and I was in the presence of the Grand Duke, who appeared to be in a state of great excitement. "It is the same person!" exclaimed the Duke. "Confess! are you not the party who put a packet into my hands about a quarter of an hour since?" "I am the person, your Highness," replied I, as I patted and soothed the frightened child. "Who gave it to you?" "May it please your Highness, I do not know." "What child is that?" "May it please your Highness, I do not know." "Where did you get it?" "Out of that basket, your Highness." "Who gave you the basket?" "May it please your Highness, I do not know." "You are trifling with me. Let him be searched." "May it please your Highness, I will save them that trouble if one of the ladies will take the infant. I have received a great many presents this evening, all of which I will have the honour of displaying before your Highness." One of the ladies held out her arms to the infant, who immediately bent from mine toward her, naturally clinging to the other sex as its friend in distress. "In the first place, your Highness, I have this evening received this ring," taking off my finger the one given by the party in a violet-coloured domino, and presenting it to him. "And from whom?" said his Highness, instantly recognising the ring. "May it please your Highness, I do not know. I have also received another ring, your Highness," continued I, taking off the ring given me by the black domino. "And who gave you this?" interrogated the Duke, again evidently recognising it. "May it please your Highness, I do not know. Also, this stiletto, but from whom, I must again repeat, I do not know. Also, this packet, with directions to put it into a dead man's bosom." "And you are, I presume, equally ignorant of the party who gave it to you?" "Equally so, your Highness; as ignorant as I am of the party who desired me to present you with the other packet which I delivered. Here is also a paper I was desired to pin upon a man's clothes after I had assassinated him." "Indeed!--and to this, also, you plead total ignorance?" "I have but one answer to give to all, your Highness, which is, I do not know." "Perhaps, sir, you do not know your own name or profession," observed his Highness, with a sneer. "Yes, your Highness," replied I, taking off my mask, "that I do know. I am an Englishman, and, I trust, a gentleman, and a man of honour. My name is Herbert; and I have more than once had the honour to be a guest at your Highness's entertainments." "Signor, I recognise you," replied the Grand Duke. "Let the room be cleared--I must speak with this gentleman alone." When the company had quitted the saloon, I entered into a minute detail of the events of the evening, to which his Highness paid the greatest attention; and when I had finished, the whole mystery was unravelled to me by him, and with which I will now satisfy the curiosity of my readers. The Grand Duke had one daughter, by name Viola, whom he had wished to marry to Rodolph, Count of Istria; but Viola had met with Albert, Marquis of Salerno, and a mutual attachment had ensued. Although the Grand Duke would not force his daughter's wishes and oblige her to marry Count Rodolph, at the same time he would not consent to her espousals with the Marquis Albert. Count Rodolph had discovered the intimacy between Viola and the Marquis of Salerno, and had made more than one unsuccessful attempt to get rid of his rival by assassination. After some time, a private marriage with the marquis had been consented to by Viola; and a year afterwards the Lady Viola retired to the country, and without the knowledge, or even suspicions, of her father, had given birth to a male child, which had been passed off as the offspring of one of the ladies of the court who was married, and to whom the secret had been confided. At this period the secret societies, especially the _Carbonari_, had become formidable in Italy, and all the crowned heads and reigning princes were using every exertion to suppress them. Count Rodolph was at the head of these societies, having joined them to increase his power, and to have at his disposal the means of getting rid of his rival. Of this the Marquis of Salerno had received intimation, and for some time had been trying to obtain proof against the count; for he knew that if once it was proved, Count Rodolph would never be again permitted to appear in the state of Lucca. On the other hand, Count Rodolph had been making every arrangement to get rid of his rival, and had determined that it should be effected at this masquerade. The Marquis of Salerno had notice given him of this intention, and also had on that morning obtained the proof against Count Rodolph, which he was now determined to forward to the Grand Duke; but, aware that his assassination by the _Carbonari_ was to be attempted, and also that the wrath of the Grand Duke would be excessive when he was informed of their private marriage, he resolved to fly with his wife to Pisa, trusting that the proofs of Count Rodolph being connected with the _Carbonari_, and a little time, would soften down the Grand Duke's anger. The marquis had arranged that he should escape from the Duke's dominions on the night of the masquerade, as it would be much easier for his wife to accompany him from thence than from the Grand Duke's palace, which was well guarded; but it was necessary that they should travel on horseback, and they could not take their child with them. Viola would not consent that it should be left behind; and on this emergency he had written to his friend, the Count d'Ossore, to come to their assistance at the masquerade, and, that they might recognise him, to wear a sky-blue domino, a colour but seldom put on. The Count d'Ossore had that morning left his town mansion on a hunting excursion, and did not receive the letter, of which the marquis and Viola were ignorant. Such was the state of affairs at the time that I put on the sky-blue domino to go to the masquerade. My first meeting with the marquis in his violet-coloured domino is easily understood: being in a sky-blue domino I was mistaken for the Count d'Ossore. I was myself led into the mistake by the Marquis Albert having the same Christian name as my English friend. The second meeting with the Count Rodolph, in the black domino, was accidental. The next walk had been appointed as the place of meeting with the _Carbonari_ Felippo and his companions; but Count Rodolph, perceiving me examining my stiletto by the light of the lamp, presumed that I was Felippo, and that I had mistaken the one path for the other which had been agreed upon. The papers given to me by Count Rodolph were _Carbonari_ papers, which were to be hid in the marquis's bosom after he had been assassinated, to make it appear that he had belonged to that society, and by the paper affixed to his clothes, that he had been murdered by the agents of the society for having betrayed them. The papers which the marquis had requested me to give to the Grand Duke were the proofs of Count Rodolph's belonging to the secret society; and with those papers was enclosed a letter to the Grand Duke, in which they acknowledged their secret union. And now, I believe, the reader will comprehend the whole of this mysterious affair. After all had been explained, I ventured to ask his Highness if he would permit me to fulfil my promise of taking the child to its mother, as I considered it a point of honour that I should keep my engagement, the more so, as the delay would occasion the greatest distress to his daughter; and I ventured to add, that I trusted his Highness would pardon what could not now be remedied, and that I should have the satisfaction of being the bearer of such pleasing intelligence to his daughter and the marquis. The Grand Duke paced the room for a minute, and then replied, "Signor Herbert, I feel so disgusted with the treachery and baseness of Count Rodolph, that I hardly need observe, if my daughter were free he never should espouse her; indeed, he will have immediate orders to quit the state. You have been instrumental in preserving the life of the Marquis of Salerno, who is my son-in-law, and as matters now stand, I am indebted to you. Your dismissal of the bravos, by means of the count's ring, was a masterly stroke. You shall have the pleasure of taking my forgiveness to my daughter and her husband; but as for the child, it may as well remain here. Tell Viola I retain it as a hostage for the quick return of its mother." I took my leave of his Highness, and hastened to Pisa, where I soon found out the retreat of the marquis and his wife. I sent up my name, requesting immediate admittance, as having a message from the Grand Duke. I found them in great distress. The Count d'Ossore had returned late on the night of the masquerade, found the letter, hastened to the Marquesa de Cesto's, and had arrived just after the elopement had been discovered. He immediately followed them to Pisa, when an explanation took place, and they discovered that they had been communicating with some unknown person, by whom they had, in all probability, been betrayed. It would be difficult to portray their astonishment and joy when I entered into a detail of what had occurred, and wound up with the message from the Grand Duke; and I hardly need add, now that I wind up my story, that the proofs of gratitude I received from the marquis and his wife, during my subsequent residence in Italy, left me no occasion to repent that I had gone to the masquerade of the Marquesa de Cesto, in a SKY-BLUE DOMINO. Modern Town Houses I have often thought, when you consider the difference of comfort between houses built from sixty to a hundred years back, in comparison with the modern edifices, that the cry of the magician in "Aladdin," had he called out "new houses," instead of "new lamps," for old ones, would not have appeared so very absurd. It was my good fortune, for the major part of my life, to occupy an ancient house, built, I believe, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. My father lived in it before I was in existence: I was born in it, and it was bequeathed to me. It has since been my misfortune to have lived three years in one of the modern-built houses; and although I have had my share of the ills to which we all are heir, I must date my real unhappiness from the first month after I took possession. With your permission, I will enter into my history, as it may prove a warning to others, who will not remember the old proverb of "_Let well alone_." I am a married man, with six children; my three eldest are daughters, and have now quitted a school, near Portman-square, to which my wife insisted upon my sending them, as it was renowned for finishing young ladies. Until their return to domiciliate themselves under my roof, I never heard a complaint of my house, which was situated at Brompton. It was large, airy, and comfortable, with excellent shrubberies, and a few acres of land; and I possessed every comfort and even luxury which could be rationally required, my wife and daughters having their carriage, and in every respect my establishment being that of a gentleman. I had not, however, taken my daughters from school more than two months, before I was told that we were "living out of the world," although not a mile and a half from Hyde Park Corner; and, to my surprise, my wife joined in the cry; it was always from morn to night, "We might do this but, we cannot do this, because we are here quite out of the world." It was too far to dine out in town; too far for people to come and dine with us; too far to go to the play, or the opera; too far to drive in the park; too far even to walk in Kensington Gardens. I remonstrated, that we had managed to dine out, to receive visitors, and to enjoy all other amusements very well for a considerable number of years, and that it did not appear to me that Brompton had walked away from London, on the contrary, that London was making rapid advances towards Brompton; but it would not do,--all day the phrase rang in my ears, "out of the world," until I almost began to wish that I was out too. But it is no use having the best of an argument when opposed to women. I had my choice, either to give up my house, and take another in London, or to give up my peace. With an unwilling sigh, I at last consented to leave a place dear to me, from long association and many reminiscences; and it was arranged that Brompton Hall was to be let, or sold, and that we were to look out immediately for a house in some of the squares in the metropolis. If my wife and daughters found that the distance from London was too far for other purposes, at all events it was not too far for house-hunting. They were at it incessantly week after week; and, at last, they fixed upon one in the neighbourhood of Belgrave-square, which, as they repeated, possessed all the cheerfulness and fresh air of the country, with all the advantages of a town residence. The next day I was to be dragged to see it, and give my opinion; at the same time, from the commendations bestowed upon it previous to my going, I felt assured that I was expected to give _their_ opinion, and not my own. The next day, accordingly, we repaired thither, setting off immediately after breakfast, to meet the surveyor and builder, who was to be on the spot. The house in question was one of a row just building, or built, whitened outside, in imitation of stone. It was No. 2. No. 1 was finished; but the windows still stained with the drippings of the whitewash and colouring. No. 2, the one in question, was complete; and, as the builder asserted, ready for immediate occupation. No. 3 was not so far advanced. As for the others, they were at present nothing but carcases, without even the front steps built to them; and you entered them by a drawbridge of planks. The builder stood at the front door, and bowed most respectfully. "Why," observed I, looking at the piles of mortar, lime, and bricks, standing about in all directions, "we shall be smothered with dust and lime for the next two years." "Don't be alarmed, sir," replied the builder; "every house in the row will be finished before the winter. We really cannot attend to the applications for them." We entered the house. "Is not the entrance handsome?" observed my wife; "so neat and clean." To this I had not a reply to make; it certainly did look neat and clean. We went into the dining-room. "What a nice room!" exclaimed my eldest daughter. "How many can we dine in this room?" "Um!" replied I; "about twelve, I suppose, comfortably." "Dear me!" observed the builder; "you have no notion of the size of the house; rooms are so deceiving, unfurnished. You may sit down twenty with ease; I'll appeal to the lady. Don't you think so, ma'am?" "Yes, I do," replied my wife. After that we went over the drawing-rooms, bedrooms, and attics. Every bedroom was apportioned by my wife and daughters, and the others were allotted to the servants; and that in the presence of the builder, who took good note of all that passed. The kitchen was admired; so were the pantry, scullery, coal-hole, dust-hole, &c.; all so nice and clean; so compact; and, as the builder observed, not a nail to drive anywhere. "Well, my dear, what do you think now? isn't it a charming house?" said my wife, as we re-ascended into the dining-parlour. "It's a very nice house, my dear; but still it requires a little consideration," replied I. "Consideration, my dear!" replied my wife; "what! now that you have gone over it?" "I am afraid that I cannot give you very long, sir," observed the builder; "there are two other parties after the house, and I am to give them an answer by two o'clock." "Mr Smithers told me the same yesterday," whispered my wife. "What did you say the rent was, Mr Smithers?" "Only £200 per annum." "Any ground-rent?" "Only £27, 10_s._" "And the taxes?" "Oh, they will be a mere trifle." "The rent appears to me to be very high." "High, my dear sir! consider the situation, the advantages. We can't build them fast enough at that price. But of course, sir, you best know," replied he, carelessly walking towards the window. "Take it, my dear," said my wife. "You must take it, papa." "Pray take it, papa." "Mr Whats-your-name, I beg your pardon----" "Smithers, sir," said the builder, turning round. "Pray, Mr Smithers, what term of lease do you let at?" "Seven, fourteen, or twenty-one, at the option of either party, sir." "I should have no objection to take it for three years." "Three years, my dear sir!--that would be doing yourself an injustice. You would lose half the value of your fixtures provided you left--and then the furniture. Depend upon it, sir, if you once get into it, you will never wish to leave it." "That may or not be," replied I; "but I will not take it for more than three years. The town-air may not agree with me; and if, as you say, people are so anxious to take the houses, of course it can make no difference to you." "I'm afraid, sir, that for so short a time----" "I will not take it for longer," replied I, rising up, glad of an excuse to be off. "Oh, papa!" "My dear Mr B----" "On that point," replied I, "I will not be overruled. I will not take a lease for more than three years, with the right of continuing if I please." The builder perceived that I was in earnest. "Well, sir," replied he, "I hardly know what to say; but rather than disappoint the ladies, I will accept you as a tenant for three years certain." Confound the fellow, thought I; but I was pinned, and there was an end of the matter. Mr Smithers pulled out paper and ink; two letters of agreement were written upon a small deal table, covered with blotches of various-coloured paints; and the affair was thus concluded. We got into the carriage and drove home, my wife and daughters in ecstasies, and I obliged to appear very well satisfied, that I might not damp their spirits; yet I must say that although the house appeared a very nice house, I had my forebodings. "At all events," thought I, "the lease is only for three years;" and thus I consoled myself. The next day the whole house was in commotion. I believe my wife and daughters were up at daybreak. When I went into the breakfast-room, I discovered that the pictures had been taken down, although there was no chance of their being hung up for many weeks at least, and everything was in preparation for packing up. After breakfast my wife set off for town to order carpets and curtains, and did not come home till six o'clock, very tired with the fatigues of the day. She had also brought the measure of every grate, to ascertain what fenders would suit; the measure of the bedrooms and attics, to remodel the carpets; for it was proposed that Brompton Hall should be disposed of, the new occupier taking at a valuation what furniture might be left. To this I appeared to consent; but was resolved in my own mind that, if taken, it should only be for the same term of years as my new lease. I will pass over a month of hurry, bustle, and confusion; at the end of which I found myself in our new habitation. It was completely furnished, with the exception of the drawing-room carpet, which had not been laid down, but was still in a roll tied up with packthread in the middle of the room. The cause of this I soon understood from my wife. It was always the custom, she said, to give a house-warming upon entering a new house, and she therefore proposed giving a little dance. To this, as it would please her and my daughters, I raised no objection. I have always observed that what is proposed as a little dance invariably ends in a great one; for from the time of proposing till the cards are about, it increases like a snow-ball; but that arises, perhaps, from the extreme difficulty of knowing when to draw the line between friends and acquaintances. I have also observed that when your wife and daughters intend such a thing, they always obtain permission for the ball first, and then tack on the supper afterwards; commencing with a mere stand-up affair--sandwiches, cakes, and refreshments, and ending with a regular sit-down affair, with Gunter presiding over all. The music from two fiddles and a piano also swells into Collinet's band--verifying the old adage, "In for a penny, in for a pound." But to all this I gave my consent; I could afford it well, and I liked to please my wife and daughters. The ball was given, and this house-warming ended in house-breaking; for just before the supper-quadrille, as it was termed, when about twenty-four young ladies and gentlemen were going the grand ronde, a loud noise below, with exclamations and shrieks, was heard, and soon afterwards the whole staircase was smothered with dust. "What _is_ the matter?" cried my wife, who had passed to the landing-place on the stairs before me. "Ma'am," said one of Mr Gunter's men, shaking the lappets of his blue coat, which were covered with white dust, "the whole ceiling of the dining-room has come down." "Ceiling come down!" screamed my wife. "Yes, ma'am," replied our own servant; "and the supper and supper-tables are all smashed flat with the weight on it." Here was a catastrophe. My wife hastened down, and I followed. Sure enough the weight of mortar had crushed all beneath it--all was chaos and confusion. Jellies, blancmanges, patés, cold roasts, creams, trifles--all in one mass of ruin, mixed up with lime, horse-hair, plaster of Paris, and stucco. It wore all the appearance of a Swiss avalanche in miniature. "Good heavens, how dreadful!" exclaimed my wife. "How much more so if there had been people in the room," replied I. "What could be the cause of it?" exclaimed my wife. "These new houses, sir, won't bear dancing in," observed Mr Gunter's head man. "So it appears," replied I. This unfortunate accident was the occasion of the party breaking up: they knew that there was no chance of supper, which they had looked forward to; so they put on their shawls and departed, leaving us to clear up the wreck at our leisure. In fact, as my daughters declared, it quite spoiled the ball as well as the supper. The next morning I sent for Mr Smithers, who made his appearance, and showed him what had taken place. "Dear me, I'm very sorry; but you had too many people above stairs--that is very clear." "Very clear, indeed, Mr Smithers. We had a ball last night." "A ball, sir! Oh, then no wonder." "No wonder! What! do you mean to say that balls are not to be given?" "Why, really, sir, we do not build private houses for ball-rooms--we could not, sir; the price of timber just now is enormous, and the additional strength required would never pay us." "What then! do you mean to say that there are no balls to be given in London?" "Oh no, sir!--certainly not; but you must be aware that few people do. Even our aristocracy hire Willis's rooms for their balls. Some of the old houses indeed, such as Devonshire House, may do for such a thing." "But, Mr Smithers, I expect you will make this ceiling good." "Much obliged to you sir, for giving me the preference--I will do it as reasonable as anybody," replied Mr Smithers, bowing. "I will order my workmen directly--they are only next door." For a fortnight we were condemned to dine in the back dining-room; and after that Mr Smithers sent in a bill which cost me more than the ball and supper. So soon as all was right again, I determined that I would hang up my pictures; for I had been accustomed to look at them for years, and I missed them. I sent for a carpenter and gave him directions. "I have the middle now, sir, exactly," said the man, standing on the high steps; "but," continued he, tapping with his hammer, "I can't find wood." "Can't find wood!" "No, sir," replied the man, tapping as far as he could reach from right to left; "nothing to nail to, sir. But there never is no wood in these new-built houses." "Confound your new houses!" exclaimed I. "Well, it is very provoking, my dear!" exclaimed my wife. "I suppose that their new houses are not built for pictures any more than for balls," replied I; and I sighed. "What must be done?" "I think, sir, if you were to order brass rods to be fixed from one corner to the other, we might find means to fasten them," observed the carpenter; "but there's no wood, that's certain." "What the devil is the house built of then?" exclaimed I. "All lath and plaster, sir," replied the man, tapping right and left. At a heavy expense I procured the rods, and at last the pictures were hung up. The next annoyance that we had was a very bad smell, which we found to proceed from the drains; and the bricklayers were sent for. All the drains were choked, it appeared, from their being so very narrow; and after having up the whole basement, at the expense of £40, that nuisance was abated. We now had two months' repose, and I was in hopes that things would go on more comfortably; but one day I overheard a conversation between my wife and daughters, as I passed by the door of the room, which I must candidly acknowledge gave me satisfaction. "It's really very awkward, mamma--one don't know where to put anything: there's not a cupboard or stow-hole in the whole house--not even a store-room." "Well, it is so, my dear; I wonder we did not observe it when we looked over it. What a nice set of cupboards we had at Brompton Hall." "Oh! yes--I wish we had them here, mamma. Couldn't we have some built?" "I don't like to speak to your papa about it, my dear; he has already been put to such expense, what with the ceiling and the drains." "Then don't, mamma; papa is really very good-natured." The equinoxes now came on, and we had several gales of wind, with heavy rain--the slates blew off and rattled up and down all night, while the wind howled round the corner of the square. The next morning complaints from all the attic residents; one's bed was wetted quite through with the water dropping through the ceiling--another had been obliged to put a basin on the floor to catch the leak--all declared that the roof was like a sieve. Sent again for Mr Smithers, and made a complaint. "This time, Mr Smithers," said I, with the lease in my hand, "I believe you will acknowledge these are landlord's repairs." "Certainly, sir, certainly," exclaimed Mr Smithers; "I shall desire one of my men to look to it immediately; but the fact is, with such heavy gales, the slates must be expected to move a little. Duchesses and countesses are very light, and the wind gets underneath them." "Duchesses and countesses very light!" exclaimed my wife; "what do you mean?" "It's the term we give to slates, madam," replied he; "we cannot put on a heavy roof with a brick-and-a-half wall. It would not support one." "_Brick-and-a-half_ wall!" exclaimed I;--"surely, Mr Smithers, that's not quite safe with a house so high." "Not quite safe, my dear sir, if it were a single house; but," added he, "in a row, one house supports another." "Thank Heaven," thought I, "I have but a three-years' lease, and sixth months are gone already." But the annoyances up to this period were internal; we now had to experience the external nuisances attending a modern-built house. "No. 1 is taken, papa, and they are getting the furniture in," said my eldest daughter one day; "I hope we shall have nice neighbours. And William told Mary that Mr Smithers told him, when he met him in the street, that he was now going to fit up No. 3 as fast as he could." The report was true, as we found from the report of the carpenters' hammers for the next three or four weeks. We could not obtain a moment's sleep except in the early part of the night, or a minute's repose to our ears during the day. The sound appeared as if it was _in_ our house instead of next door; and it commenced at six o'clock in the morning, and lasted till seven in the evening. I was hammered to death; and, unfortunately, there was a constant succession of rain, which prevented me from going out to avoid it. I had nothing to do but to watch my pictures, as they jumped from the wall with the thumps of the hammers. At last No. 3 was floored, wainscotted and glazed, and we had a week's repose. By this time No. 1 was furnished, and the parties who had taken it came in. They were a gouty old gentleman, and his wife, who, report said, had once been his cook. My daughters' hopes of pleasant neighbours were disappointed. Before they had been in a week, we found ourselves at issue: the old gentleman's bed was close to the partition-wall, and in the dead of the night we could distinctly hear his groans, and also his execrations and exclamations, when the fit came on him. My wife and daughters declared that it was quite horrible, and that they could not sleep for them. Upon the eighth day there came a note:-- "Mrs Whortleback's compliments to Mr and Mrs ----, and begs that the young people will not play on the piany, as Mr Whortleback is very ill with the gout." Now, my daughters were proficients on the piano, and practised a great deal. This note was anything but satisfactory: to play when the old gentleman was ill would be barbarous,--not to play was to deprive ourselves of our greatest pleasure. "Oh dear! how very disagreeable," cried my daughters. "Yes, my dear; but if we can hear his groans, it's no wonder that he can hear the piano and harp: recollect the wall is only a brick and a half thick." "I wonder music don't soothe him," observed the eldest. Music is mockery to a man in agony. A man who has been broken on the wheel would not have his last hours soothed by the finest orchestra. After a week, during which we sent every day to inquire after Mr Whortleback's health, we ventured to resume the piano and harp; upon which the old gentleman became testy, and sent for a man with a trumpet, placing him in the balcony, and desiring him to play as much out of tune as possible whenever the harp and piano sounded a note. Thus were we at open hostility with our only neighbour; and, as we were certain if my daughters touched their instruments, to have the trumpet blowing discord for an hour or two either that day or the next, at last the piano was unopened, and the harp remained in its case. Before the year closed, No. 3 became tenanted; and here we had a new annoyance. It was occupied by a large family; and there were four young ladies who were learning music. We now had our annoyance: it was strum, strum, all day long; one sister up, another down; and every one knows what a bore the first lessons in music are to those who are compelled to hear them. They could just manage to play a tune, and that eternal tune was ringing in our ears from morning to night. We could not send our compliments, or blow a trumpet. We were forced to submit to it. The nursery also being against the partition-wall, we had the squalls and noise of the children on the one side, added to groans and execrations of the old gentleman on the other. However, custom reconciled us to everything, and the first vexation gradually wore off. Yet I could not help observing that when I was supposed not to be in hearing, the chief conversation of my wife, when her friends called upon her, consisted of a description of all the nuisances and annoyances that we suffered; and I felt assured that she and my daughters were as anxious to return to Brompton Hall as I was. In fact, the advantages which they had anticipated by their town residence were not realised. In our situation, we were as far off from most of our friends, and still farther from some than we were before, and we had no longer the same amusements to offer them. At our former short distance from town, access was more easy to those who did not keep a carriage, that is, the young men; and those were the parties who, of course, my wife and daughters cared for most. It was very agreeable to come down with their portmanteaus,--enjoy the fresh air and green lanes of the country for an afternoon,--dine, sleep, and breakfast, and return the next morning by conveyances which passed us every quarter of an hour; but to dine with us in ---- square, when the expense of a hackney-coach there and back was no trifle, and to return at eleven o'clock at night, was not at all agreeable. We found that we had not so much society, nor were we half so much courted, as at Brompton Hall. This was the bitterest blow of all, and my wife and daughters would look out of the windows and sigh; often a whole day passed without one friend or acquaintance dropping in to relieve its monotony. We continued to reside there, nevertheless, for I had made up my mind that the three years would be well spent if they cured my wife and daughters of their town mania; and although anxious as I am sure they were to return, I never broached the matter, for I was determined that the cure should be radical. Nos. 4, 5, 6, 7, and 8, were finished the next year, and, by the persuasions of Mr Smithers, were taken by different parties in the spring. And now we had another nuisance. Nothing but eternal rings at the bell. The man-servant grumbled, and was behind with his work; and when scolded, replied that there was no time for anything, that when cleaning his knives and plate the bell was rung, and he was obliged to wash himself, throw on his jacket, and go up to answer the front door; that the bell was not rung for us, but to find out where some new-comer lived, and to ascertain this they always rang at the house which appeared the longest inhabited. There was no end to the ringing for some months, and we had three servants who absolutely refused to stay in so bad a place. We had also to contend with letters and notes in the same way, brought to us at haphazard: "Does Mr So-and-so live here?"--"No, he does not."--"Then pray where does he?" This was interminable, and not five minutes in the day passed without the door-bell being rung. For the sake of not changing my servants I was at last put to the expense of an extra boy for no other purpose but to answer the constant applications at the door. At last we had remained there for two years and nine months, and then my wife would occasionally put the question whether I intended to renew the lease; and I naturally replied that I did not like change. Then she went upon another tack; observed that Clara did not appear well for some time, and that she thought that she required country air; but, in this, I did not choose to agree with her. One day I came home, and, rubbing my hands as if pleased, said, "Well, at last I've an offer for Brompton Villa for a term of seven years,--a very fair offer and good tenants,--so that will now be off my hands." My wife looked mortified, and my daughters held down their heads. "Have you let it, papa?" said one of my daughters, timidly. "No, not yet; but I am to give an answer to-morrow morning." "It requires consideration, my dear," replied my wife. "Requires consideration!" said I. "Why, my dear, the parties have seen the house, and I have been trying to let it these three years. I recollect when I took this house I said it required consideration, but you would not allow any such thing." "I'm sure I wish we had," said Clara. "And so do I." "The fact is, my dear," said my wife, coming round to the back of my chair, and putting her arms round my neck, "we all wish to go back to Brompton." "Yes, yes, papa," added my daughters, embracing me on each side. "You will allow, then, that I was right in not taking a lease for more than three years." "Yes: how lucky you were so positive!" "Well, then, if that is the case, we will unfurnish this house, and, as soon as you please, go back to Brompton Hall." I hardly need observe that we took possession of our old abode with delight, and that I have had no more applications for a change of residence, or have again heard the phrase that we were living "out of the world." The Way to be Happy Cut your coat according to your cloth, is an old maxim and a wise one; and if people will only square their ideas according to their circumstances, how much happier might we all be! If we only would come down a peg or two in our notions, in accordance with our waning fortunes, happiness would be always within our reach. It is not what we have, or what we have not, which adds or subtracts from our felicity. It is the longing for more than we have, the envying of those who possess that more, and the wish to appear in the world of more consequence than we really are, which destroy our peace of mind, and eventually lead to ruin. I never witnessed a man submitting to circumstances with good humour and good sense, so remarkably as in my friend Alexander Willemott. When I first met him, since our school days, it was at the close of the war: he had been a large contractor with government for army clothing and accoutrements, and was said to have realised an immense fortune, although his accounts were not yet settled. Indeed, it was said that they were so vast, that it would employ the time of six clerks for two years, to examine them, previous to the balance sheet being struck. As I observed, he had been at school with me, and, on my return from the East Indies, I called upon him to renew our old acquaintance, and congratulate him upon his success. "My dear Reynolds, I am delighted to see you. You must come down to Belem Castle; Mrs Willemott will receive you with pleasure, I'm sure. You shall see my two girls." I consented. The chaise stopped at a splendid mansion, and I was ushered in by a crowd of liveried servants. Everything was on the most sumptuous and magnificent scale. Having paid my respects to the lady of the house, I retired to dress, as dinner was nearly ready, it being then half-past seven o'clock. It was eight before we sat down. To an observation that I made, expressing a hope that I had not occasioned the dinner being put off, Willemott replied, "On the contrary, my dear Reynolds, we never sit down until about this hour. How people can dine at four or five o'clock, I cannot conceive. I could not touch a mouthful." The dinner was excellent, and I paid it the encomiums which were its due. "Do not be afraid, my dear fellow--my cook is an _artiste extraordinaire_--a regular _Cordon Bleu_. You may eat anything without fear of indigestion. How people can live upon the English cookery of the present day, I cannot conceive. I seldom dine out, for fear of being poisoned. Depend upon it, a good cook lengthens your days, and no price is too great to insure one." When the ladies retired, being alone, we entered into friendly conversation. I expressed my admiration of his daughters, who certainly were very handsome and elegant girls. "Very true; they are more than passable," replied he. "We have had many offers, but not such as come up to my expectations. Baronets are cheap now-a-days, and Irish lords are nothings; I hope to settle them comfortably. We shall see. Try this claret; you will find it excellent, not a headache in a hogshead of it. How people can drink port, I cannot imagine." The next morning he proposed that I should rattle round the park with him. I acceded, and we set off in a handsome open carriage, with four greys, ridden by postilions at a rapid pace. As we were whirling along, he observed, "In town we must of course drive but a pair, but in the country I never go out without four horses. There is a spring in four horses which is delightful; it makes your spirits elastic, and you feel that the poor animals are not at hard labour. Rather than not drive four, I would prefer to stay at home." Our ride was very pleasant, and in such amusements passed away one of the most pleasant weeks that I ever remembered. Willemott was not the least altered--he was as friendly, as sincere, as open-hearted, as when a boy at school. I left him, pleased with his prosperity, and acknowledging that he was well deserving of it, although his ideas had assumed such a scale of magnificence. I went to India when my leave expired, and was absent about four years. On my return, I inquired after my friend Willemott, and was told, that his circumstances and expectations had been greatly altered. From many causes, such as a change in the government, a demand for economy, and the wording of his contracts having been differently rendered from what Willemott had supposed their meaning to be, large items had been struck out of his balance sheet, and, instead of being a millionaire, he was now a gentleman with a handsome property. Belem Castle had been sold, and he now lived at Richmond, as hospitable as ever, and was considered a great addition to the neighbourhood. I took the earliest opportunity of going down to see him. "Oh, my dear Reynolds, this is really kind of you to come without invitation. Your room is ready, and bed well aired, for it was slept in three nights ago. Come--Mrs Willemott will be delighted to see you." I found the girls still unmarried, but they were yet young. The whole family appeared as contented and happy, and as friendly, as before. We sat down to dinner at six o'clock; the footman and the coachman attended. The dinner was good, but not by the _artiste extraordinaire_. I praised everything. "Yes," replied he, "she is a very good cook; she unites the solidity of the English with the delicacy of the French fare; and, altogether, I think it a _decided improvement_. Jane is quite a treasure." After dinner, he observed, "Of course you know I have sold Belem Castle, and reduced my establishment. Government have not treated me fairly, but I am at the mercy of commissioners, and a body of men will do that which, as individuals, they would be ashamed of. The fact is, the odium is borne by no one in particular, and it is only the sense of shame which keeps us honest, I am afraid. However, here you see me, with a comfortable fortune, and always happy to see my friends, especially my old school-fellow. Will you take _port_ or claret; the port is very fine, and so is the claret. By-the-bye, do you know--I'll let you into a family secret; Louisa is to be married to a Colonel Willer--an _excellent_ match! It has made us all happy." The next day we drove out, not in a open carriage as before, but in a chariot and with _a pair of horses_. "These are handsome horses," observed I.--"Yes," replied he, "I am fond of good horses; and, as I only keep a pair, I have the best. There is a certain degree of pretension in _four horses_, I do not much like--it appears as if you wished to overtop your neighbours." I spent a few very pleasant days, and then quitted his hospitable roof. A severe cold, caught that winter, induced me to take the advice of the physicians, and proceed to the South of France, where I remained two years. On my return, I was informed that Willemott had speculated, and had been unlucky on the Stock Exchange; that he had left Richmond, and was now living at Clapham. The next day I met him near the Exchange. "Reynolds, I am happy to see you. Thompson told me that you had come back. If not better engaged, come down to see me; I will drive you down at four o'clock, if that will suit." It suited me very well, and, at four o'clock, I met him according to appointment at a livery stables over the Iron Bridge. His vehicle was ordered out, it was a phaeton drawn by two longed-tailed ponies--altogether a very neat concern. We set off at a rapid pace. "They step out well, don't they? We shall be down in plenty of time to put on a pair of shoes by five o'clock, which is _our dinner-time_. Late dinners don't agree with me--they produce indigestion. Of course, you know that Louisa has a little boy." I did not; but congratulated him. "Yes, and has now gone out to India with her husband. Mary is also engaged to be married--a very _good_ match--a Mr Rivers, in the law. He has been called to the bar this year, and promises well. They will be a little pinched at first, but we must see what we can do for them." We stopped at a neat row of houses, I forget the name, and, as we drove up, the servant, the only man-servant, came out, and took the ponies round to the stable, while the maid received my luggage, and one or two paper-bags, containing a few extras for the occasion. I was met with the same warmth as usual by Mrs Willemott. The house was small, but very neat; the remnants of former grandeur appeared here and there, in one or two little articles, favourites of the lady. We sat down at five o'clock to a _plain_ dinner, and were attended by the footman, who had rubbed down the ponies and pulled on his livery. "A good plain cook is the best thing, after all," observed Willemott. "Your fine cooks won't condescend to roast and boil. Will you take some of this sirloin, the under-cut is excellent. My dear, give Mr Reynolds some Yorkshire pudding." When we were left alone after dinner, Willemott told me, very unconcernedly, of his losses. "It was my own fault," said he; "I wished to make up a little sum for the girls, and risking what they would have had, I left them almost penniless. However, we can always command a bottle of port and a beef-steak, and _what more_ in this world can you have? Will you take port or white?--I have no claret to offer you." We finished our port, but I could perceive no difference in Willemott. He was just as happy and as cheerful as ever. He drove me to town the next day. During our drive, he observed, "I like ponies, they are so little trouble; and I prefer them to driving one horse in this vehicle, as I can put my wife and daughters into it. It's selfish to keep a carriage for yourself alone, and one horse in a four-wheeled double chaise appears like an imposition upon the poor animal." I went to Scotland, and remained about a year. On my return, I found that my friend Willemott had again shifted his quarters. He was at Brighton; and having nothing better to do, I put myself in the "Times," and arrived at the Bedford Hotel. It was not until after some inquiry, that I could find out his address. At last I obtained it, in a respectable but not fashionable part of this overgrown town. Willemott received me just as before. "I have no spare bed to offer you, but you must breakfast and dine with us every day. Our house is small, but it's very comfortable, and Brighton is a very convenient place. You know Mary is married. A good place in the courts was for sale, and my wife and I agreed to purchase it for Rivers. It has reduced us a little, but they are very comfortable. I have retired from business altogether; in fact, as my daughters are both married, and we have enough to live upon, what can we wish for more? Brighton is very gay and always healthy; and, as for carriages and horses, they are no use here--there are _flies_ at every corner of the streets." I accepted his invitation to dinner. A parlour-maid waited, but everything, although very plain, was clean and comfortable. "I have still a bottle of wine for a friend, Reynolds," said Willemott, after dinner, "but, for my part, I prefer _whisky-toddy_--it agrees with me better. Here's to the health of my two girls, God bless them, and success to them in life!" "My dear Willemott," said I, "I take the liberty of an old friend, but I am so astonished at your philosophy, that I cannot help it. When I call to mind Belem Castle, your large establishment, your luxuries, your French cook, and your stud of cattle, I wonder at your contented state of mind under such a change of circumstances." "I almost wonder myself, my dear fellow," replied he. "I never could have believed, at that time, that I could live happily under such a change of circumstances; but the fact is, that, although I have been a contractor, I have a good conscience; then, my wife is an excellent woman, and provided she sees me and her daughters happy, thinks nothing about herself; and, further, I have made it a rule as I have been going down hill, to find reasons why I should be thankful, and not discontented. Depend upon it, Reynolds, it is not a loss of fortune which will affect your happiness, as long as you have peace and love at home." I took my leave of Willemott and his wife, with respect as well as regard; convinced that there was no pretended indifference to worldly advantages; that it was not, that the grapes were sour, but that he had learned the whole art of happiness, by being contented with what he had, and by "cutting his coat according to his cloth." The Legend of the Bell Rock There was a grand procession through the streets of the two towns of Perth and of Dundee. The holy abbots, in their robes, walked under gilded canopies, the monks chanted, the censers were thrown, flags and banners were carried by seamen, lighted tapers by penitents; St Antonio, the patron of those who trust to the stormy ocean, was carried in all pomp through the streets; and, as the procession passed, coins of various value were thrown down by those who watched it from the windows, and, as fast as thrown, were collected by little boys dressed as angels, and holding silver vessels to receive the largesses. During the whole day did the procession continue, and large was the treasure collected in the two towns. Everyone gave freely, for there were few, indeed none, who, if not in their own circle, at least among their acquaintances, had not to deplore the loss of some one dear to them, or to those they visited, from the dangerous rock which lay in the very track of all the vessels entering the Frith of Tay. These processions had been arranged, that a sufficient sum of money might be collected to enable them to put in execution a plan proposed by an adventurous and bold young seaman, in a council held for the purpose, of fixing a bell on the rock, which could be so arranged that the slightest breath of wind would cause the hammer of it to sound, and thus, by its tolling, warn the mariner of his danger; and the sums given were more than sufficient. A meeting was then held, and it was unanimously agreed that Andrew M'Clise should be charged with the commission to go over to Amsterdam, and purchase the bell of a merchant residing there, whom Andrew stated to have one in his possession, which, from its fine tone and size, was exactly calculated for the purport to which it was to be appropriated. Andrew M'Clise embarked with the money, and made a prosperous voyage. He had often been at Amsterdam, and had lived with the merchant, whose name was Vandermaclin; and the attention to his affairs, the dexterity and the rapidity of the movements of Andrew M'Clise, had often elicited the warmest encomiums of Mynheer Vandermaclin; and many evenings had Andrew M'Clise passed with him, drinking in moderation their favourite scheedam, and indulging in the meditative meerschaum. Vandermaclin had often wished that he had a son like Andrew M'Clise, to whom he could leave his property, with the full assurance that the heap would not be scattered, but greatly added to. Vandermaclin was a widower. He had but one daughter, who was now just arrived at an age to return from the pension to her father's house, and take upon herself the domestic duties. M'Clise had never yet seen the beautiful Katerina. "And so, Mynheer M'Clise," said Vandermaclin, who was sitting in the warehouse on the ground-floor of his tenement, "you come to purchase the famous bell of Utrecht; with the intention of fixing it upon that rock, the danger of which we have so often talked over after the work of the day has been done? I, too, have suffered from that same rock, as you well know; but still I have been fortunate. The price will be heavy; and so it ought to be, for the bell itself is of no small weight." "We are prepared to pay it, Mynheer Vandermaclin." "Nevertheless, in so good a cause, and for so good a purport, you shall not be overcharged. I will say nothing of the beauty of the workmanship, or even of the mere manufacture. You shall pay but its value in metal; the same price which the Jew Isaacs offered me for it but four months ago. I will not ask what a Jew would ask, but what a Jew would give, which makes no small difference. Have you ten thousand guilders?" "I have, and more." "That is my price, Mynheer M'Clise, and I wish for no more; for I, too, will contribute my share to the good work. Are you content, and is it a bargain?" "It is; and the holy abbots will thank you on vellum, Mynheer Vandermaclin, for your generosity." "I prefer the thanks of the bold seamen to those of the idle churchmen; but never mind, it is a bargain. Now, we will go in; it is time to close the doors. We will take our pipes, and you shall make the acquaintance of my fair daughter, Katerina." At the time we are speaking of, M'Clise was about six-and-twenty years of age; he was above the middle size, elegant in person, and with a frankness and almost nobility in his countenance, which won all who saw him. His manners were like those of most seamen, bold, but not offensively so. His eye was piercing as an eagle's, and it seemed as if his very soul spoke from it. At the very first meeting between him and the daughter of Vandermaclin, it appeared to both as if their destinies were to unite them. They loved not as others love, but with an intensity which it would be impossible to portray; but they hardly exchanged a word. Again and again they met; their eyes spoke, but nothing more. The bell was put on board the vessel, the money had been paid down, and M'Clise could no longer delay. He felt as if his heartstrings were severed as he tore himself away from the land where all remained that he coveted upon earth. And Katerina, she too felt as if her existence was a blank; and, as the vessel sailed from the port, she breathed short; and when not even her white and lofty top-gallant sail could be discovered as a speck, she threw herself on her couch and wept. And M'Clise as he sailed away, remained for hours leaning his cheek on his hand, thinking of, over and over again, every lineament and feature of the peerless Katerina. The months passed away, during which M'Clise was busied every ebb of the tide in superintending the work on the rock. At last, all was ready; and once more was to be beheld a gay procession; but this time it was on the water. It was on a calm and lovely summer's morn, that the abbots and the monks, attended by a large company of the authorities, and others, who were so much interested in the work in hand, started from the shore of Aberbrothwick in a long line of boats, decorated with sacred and with other various banners and devices. The music floated along the water, and the solemn chants of the monks were for once heard where never yet they had been heard before, or ever will again. M'Clise was at the rock, in a small vessel purposely constructed to carry the bell, and with sheers to hang it on the supports imbedded in the solid rock. The bell was in its place, and the abbot blessed the bell; and holy water was sprinkled on the metal, which was for the future to be lashed by the waves of the salt sea. And the music and the chants were renewed; and as they continued, the wind gradually rose, and with the rising of the wind the bell tolled loud and deep. The tolling of the bell was the signal for return, for it was a warning that the weather was about to change, and the procession pulled back to Aberbrothwick, and landed in good time; for in one hour more, and the rocky coast was again lashed by the waves, and the bell tolled loud and quick, although there were none there but the sea-gull, who screamed with fright as he wheeled in the air at this unusual noise upon the rock, which, at the ebb, he had so often made his resting-place. M'Clise had done his work; the bell was fixed; and once more he hastened with his vessel to Amsterdam. Once more was he an inmate of Vandermaclin's house; once more in the presence of the idol of his soul. This time they spoke; this time their vows were exchanged for life and death. But Vandermaclin saw not the state of their hearts. He looked upon the young seaman as too low, too poor, to be a match for his daughter; and as such an idea never entered his head, so did he never imagine that he would have dared to love. But he was soon undeceived; for M'Clise frankly stated his attachment, and demanded the hand of Katerina; and, at the demand, Vandermaclin's face was flushed with anger. "Mynheer M'Clise," said he, after a pause, as if to control his feelings; "when a man marries, he is bound to show that he has wherewithal to support his wife; to support her in that rank, and to afford her those luxuries to which she has been accustomed in her father's house. Show me that you can do so, and I will not refuse you the hand of Katerina." "As yet, I have not," replied M'Clise; "but I am young and can work; I have money, and will gain more. Tell me what sum do you think that I should possess to warrant my demanding the hand of your daughter?" "Produce twelve thousand guilders, and she is yours," replied the merchant. "I have but three thousand," replied M'Clise. "Then, think no more of Katerina. It is a foolish passion, and you must forget it. And, Mynheer M'Clise, I must not have my daughter's affections tampered with. She must forget you; and that can only be effected by your not meeting again. I wish you well, Mynheer M'Clise, but I must request your absence." M'Clise departed from the presence of the merchant, bowed down with grief and disappointment. He contrived that a letter, containing the result of his application, should be put in the hands of Katerina. But Vandermaclin was informed of this breach of observance, and Katerina was sent to a convent, there to remain until the departure of her lover; and Vandermaclin wrote to his correspondent at Dundee, requesting that the goods forwarded to him might not be sent by the vessel commanded by M'Clise. Of this our young captain received information. All hope was nearly gone; still he lingered, and delayed his departure. He was no longer the active, energetic seaman; he neglected all, even his attire. M'Clise knew in which convent his fair Katerina had been immured; and often would he walk round its precincts, with the hope of seeing her, if it were but for a moment, but in vain. His vessel was now laden, and he could delay no longer. He was to sail the next morning; and once more did the unhappy young man take his usual walk to look at those walls which contained all that was dear to him on earth. His reverie was broken by a stone falling down to his feet; he took it up; there was a small piece of paper attached to it with a silken thread. He opened it; it was the handwriting of Katerina, and contained but two words--"_The Bell_." The bell! M'Clise started; for he immediately comprehended what was meant. The whole plan came like electricity through his brain. Yes; then there was a promise of happiness. The bell was worth ten thousand guilders; that sum had been offered, and would now be given by Isaacs the Jew. He would be happy with his Katerina; and he blessed her ingenuity for devising the means. For a minute or two he was transported; but the re-action soon took place. What was he about to attempt? sacrilege--cruelty. The bell had been blessed by the holy church; it had been purchased by holy and devout alms. It had been placed on the rock to save the lives of his brother seamen; and were he to remove it, would he not be responsible for all the lives lost? Would not the wail of the widow, and the tears of the orphan, be crying out to Heaven against him? No, no! never! The crime was too horrible; and M'Clise stamped upon the paper, thinking he was tempted by Satan in the shape of a woman; but when woman tempts, man is lost. He recalled the charms of Katerina; all his repugnance was overcome; and he resolved that the deed should be accomplished, and that Katerina should be gained, even if he lost his soul. Andrew M'Clise sailed away from Amsterdam, and Katerina recovered her liberty. Vandermaclin was anxious that she should marry: and many were the suitors for her hand, but in vain. She reminded her father, that he had pledged himself, if M'Clise counted down twelve thousand guilders, that she should be his wife; and to that pledge, she insisted that he was bound fast. And Vandermaclin after reasoning with her, and pointing out to her that twelve thousand guilders was a sum so large, that M'Clise might not procure until his old age, even if he were fortunate, acknowledged that such was his promise, and that he would, like an honest man, abide by it, provided that M'Clise should fulfil his part of the agreement in the space of two years; after which he should delay her settlement no longer. And Katerina raised her eyes to heaven, and whispered, as she clasped her hands, "The Bell." Alas! that we should invoke Heaven when we would wish to do wrong; but mortals are blind, and none so blind as those who are impelled by passion. It was in the summer of that year that M'Clise had made his arrangements: having procured the assistance of some lawless hands, he had taken the advantage of a smooth and glassy sea and a high tide to remove the bell on board his own vessel; a work of little difficulty to him, as he had placed it there, and knew well the fastenings. He sailed away for Amsterdam, and was permitted by Heaven to arrive safe with his sacrilegious freight. He did not, as before, enter the canal opposite to the house of Vandermaclin, but one that ran behind the habitation of the Jew Isaacs. At night, he went into the house, and reported to the Jew what he had for sale; and the keen grey eyes of the bent-double little Israelite sparkled with delight, for he knew that his profit would be great. At midnight the bell was made fast to the crane, and safely deposited in the warehouse of the Jew, who counted out the ten thousand guilders to the enraptured M'Clise, whose thoughts were wholly upon the possession of his Katerina, and not upon the crime he had committed. But, alas! to conceal one crime, we are too often obliged to be guilty of even deeper; and thus it was with Andrew M'Clise. The people who had assisted, upon the promise of a thousand guilders being divided among them now murmured at their share, and insisted upon an equal division of the spoils, or threatened with an immediate confession of the black deed. M'Clise raved, and cursed, and tore his hair; promised to give them the money as soon as he had wedded Katerina; but they would not consent. Again the devil came to his assistance, and whispered how he was to act: he consented. The next night the division was to be made. They met in his cabin; he gave them wine, and they drank plentifully; but the wine was poisoned, and they all died before the morning. M'Clise tied weights to their bodies, and sunk them in the deep canal; broke open his hatches, to make it appear that his vessel had been plundered; and then went to the authorities denouncing his crew as having plundered him, and escaped. Immediate search was made, but they were not to be found; and it was supposed that they had escaped in a boat. Once more M'Clise, whose conscience was seared, went to the house of Vandermaclin, counted down his twelve thousand guilders, and claimed his bride; and Vandermaclin, who felt that his daughter's happiness was at stake, now gave his consent. As M'Clise stated that he was anxious to return to England, and arrange with the merchants whose goods had been plundered, in a few days the marriage took place; and Katerina clasped the murderer in her arms. All was apparent joy and revelry; but there was anguish in the heart of M'Clise, who, now that he had gained his object, felt that it had cost him much too dear, for his peace of mind was gone for ever. But Katerina cared not; every spark of feeling was absorbed in her passion, and the very guilt of M'Clise but rendered him more dear; for was it not for her that he had done all this? M'Clise received her portion, and hasted to sail away; for the bodies were still in the canal, and he trembled every hour lest his crime should be discovered. And Vandermaclin bade farewell to his daughter: and, he knew not why, but there was a feeling he could not suppress, that they never should meet again. "Down--down below, Katerina! this is no place for you," cried Mr M'Clise, as he stood at the helm of the vessel. "Down, dearest, down, or you will be washed overboard. Every sea threatens to pour into our decks; already have we lost two men. Down, Katerina! down, I tell you." "I fear not; let me remain with you." "I tell you, down," cried M'Clise in wrath; and Katerina cast upon him a reproachful look, and obeyed. The storm was at its height; the sun had set, black and monstrous billows chased each other, and the dismasted vessel was hurried on towards the land. The wind howled, and whistled sharply at each chink in the bulwarks of the vessel. For three days had they fought the gale, but in vain. Now, if it continued, all chance was over; for the shore was on their lee, distant not many miles. Nothing could save them, but gaining the mouth of the Frith of Tay, and then they could bear up for Dundee. And there was a boiling surge, and a dark night, and roaring seas, and their masts were floating far away; and M'Clise stood at the helm, keeping her broadside to the sea: his heart was full of bitterness, and his guilty conscience bore him down, and he looked for death, and he dreaded it; for was he not a sacrilegious murderer, and was there not an avenging God above? Once more Katerina appeared on deck, clinging for support to Andrew. "I cannot stay below. Tell me, will it soon be over?" "Yes," replied M'Clise, gloomily; "it will soon be over with all of us." "How mean you? you told me there was no danger." "I told you falsely; there is death soon, and damnation afterwards: for you I have lost my soul!" "Oh! say not so." "I say it. Leave me, leave me, woman, or I curse thee." "Curse me, Andrew? Oh, no! Kiss me, Andrew; and if we are to perish, let us expire in each other's arms." "'Tis as well; you have dragged me to perdition. Leave me, I say, for you have my bitter curse." Thus was his guilty love turned to hate, now that death was staring him in the face. Katerina made no reply. She threw herself on the deck, and abandoned herself to her feeling of bitter anguish. And as she lay there, and M'Clise stood at the helm, the wind abated; the vessel was no longer borne down as before, although the waves were still mountains high. The seamen on board rallied; some fragments of sail were set on the remnants of the masts, and there was a chance of safety. M'Clise spoke not, but watched the helm. The wind shifted in their favour; and hope rose in every heart. The Frith of Tay was now open, and they were saved! Light was the heart of M'Clise when he kept away the vessel, and gave the helm up to the mate. He hastened to Katerina, who still remained on the deck, raised her up, whispered comfort and returning love; but she heard not--she could not forget--and she wept bitterly. "We are saved, dear Katerina!" "Better that we had been lost!" replied she, mournfully. "No, no! say not so, with your own Andrew pressing you to his bosom." "Your bitter curse!" "'Twas madness--nothing--I knew not what I said." But the iron had entered into her soul. Her heart was broken. "You had better give orders for them to look out for the Bell Rock," observed the man at the helm to M'Clise. The Bell Rock! M'Clise shuddered, and made no reply. Onward went the vessel, impelled by the sea and wind: one moment raised aloft, and towering over the surge; at another, deep in the hollow trough, and walled in by the convulsed element. M'Clise still held his Katerina in his arms, who responded not to his endearments, when a sudden shock threw them on the deck. The crashing of the timbers, the pouring of the waves over the stern, the heeling and settling of the vessel, were but the work of a few seconds. One more furious shock,--she separates, falls on her beam ends, and the raging seas sweep over her. M'Clise threw from him her whom he had so madly loved, and plunged into the wave. Katerina shrieked, as she dashed after him, and all was over. When the storm rises, and the screaming sea-gull seeks the land, and the fisherman hastens his bark towards the beach, there is to be seen, descending from the dark clouds with the rapidity of lightning, the form of Andrew M'Clise, the heavy bell to which he is attached by the neck, bearing him down to his doom. And when all is smooth and calm, when at the ebbing tide, the wave but gently kisses the rock, then by the light of the silver moon, the occupants of the vessels which sail from the Firth of Tay, have often beheld the form of the beautiful Katerina, waving her white scarf as a signal that they should approach, and take her off from the rock on which she is seated. At times, she offers a letter for her father, Vandermaclin; and she mourns and weeps as the wary mariners, with their eyes fixed on her, and with folded arms, pursue their course in silence and in dread. Moonshine Those who have visited our West India possessions, must have often been amused with the humour and cunning which occasionally appear in a negro more endowed than the generality of his race, particularly when the master also happens to be a humourist. The swarthy servitor seems to reflect his patron's absurdities; and having thoroughly studied his character, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties without fear of punishment. One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro called Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in his own way, who had, for many years, held the situation of harbour-master at Port Royal, but had then retired on a pension, and occupied a small house at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been addressed as Captain Cockle; and this brevet rank he retained until the day of his death. In person he was very large and fat--not unlike a cockle in shape: so round were his proportions, and so unwieldy, that it appeared much easier to roll him along from one place to another, than that he should walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste: he seldom went much farther than round the small patch of garden which was in front of his house, and in which he had some pinks and carnations and chrysanthemums, of which he was not a little proud. His head was quite bald, smooth, and shining white; his face partook of a more roseate tint, increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the tip of his nose. Cockle had formerly been a master of a merchant vessel, and from his residence in a warm climate had contracted a habit of potation, which became confirmed during the long period of his holding his situation at Port Royal. He had purchased Moonshine for three hundred dollars, when he was about seven years old, and, upon his return to England, had taken him with him. Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very much attached to having his own way, and was, farther, very much attached to his master's grog bottle. The first attachment was a virtue; the second human nature; and the third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of serious magnitude. I very often called upon Captain Cockle, for he had a quaint humour about him which amused; and, as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see any of his friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the house without finding some entertainment in the continual sparring between the master and the man. I was at that time employed in the Preventive Service, and my station was about four miles from the residence of Cockle. One morning, I stalked in and found him, as usual, in his little parlour on the ground floor. "Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?" "Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I'm all wrong. I'm on the stool of repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing penance, as you perceive, in a pair of duck trousers. Last night I was half seas over, and tolerably happy; this morning, I am high and dry, and intolerably miserable. Carried more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head; this morning I've found it again, with a pig of ballast in it I believe. All owing to my good nature." "How is that, Cockle?" "Why, that Jack Piper was here last night; and rather than he should drink all the grog and not find his way home, I drank some myself--he'd been in a bad way if I had not, poor fellow!--and now, you see, I'm suffering all from good nature. Easiness of disposition has been my ruin, and has rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp edges, Bob." "It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, Cockle, especially when we know how much you must have acted at variance with your inclinations." "Yes, Bob, yes; I am the milk punch of human kindness; I often cry--when the chimney smokes; and sometimes when I laugh too much. You see, I not only give my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even give my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dispense with it for an hour or two this morning." "Nay, don't say that; for although you might dispense with the upper part, you could not well get on without your mouth, Cockle." "Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth would be like a ship without a companion hatch;--talking about that, the combings of my mouth are rather dry--what do you say, Bob, shall we call Moonshine?" "Why it's rather broad daylight for Moonshine." "He's but an eclipse--a total eclipse, I may say. The fact is, my head is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoulders; and I must have a stiffener down my throat to prop it up. So, Moonshine, shine out, you black-faced rascal!" The negro was outside, cleaning his knives:--he answered, but continued at his work. "How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me _shiner_?" "No: but I'll give you a _shinner_ on your lower limb, that shall make you feel planet-struck, if you don't show your ugly face," replied Cockle. "Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning." "Come here, sir!" "Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar," replied Moonshine, rubbing away at the knife-board--"my face no shine more dan your white skull widout hair." "I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now they are all gone--Hairs! what should I do with heirs when I've nothing to leave," continued Cockle, addressing me--"hairs are like rats, that quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom--but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel angry--the tip of my nose is red already." "Come directly, Massa Cockle." Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance. "You call me, sar?" "What's the use of calling you, you black rascal!" "Now, sar, dat not fair--you say to me, Moonshine, always do one ting first--so I 'bey order and finish knives--dat ting done, I come and 'bey nest order." "Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers." Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the room, grinning at me. "Moonshine, where are you going, you thief?--when did you ever see me drink cold water, or offer it to my friends?" "Nebber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and tink it gin; but you very often gib notin but water to your friends, Massa Cockle." "When, you scoundrel?" "Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough for me." "That's because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad enemy to us." "Massa Cockle real fine Christian--he lub him enemy," interrupted Moonshine, looking at me. "At all events, I'm not ashamed to look mine enemy in the face--so hand us out the bottle." Moonshine put the bottle on the table. "Now, Bob," said Cockle, "what d'ye say to a _seven bell-er_? Why, hallo! what's become of all the grog?" "All drank last night, Massa Cockle," replied Moonshine. "Now, you ebony thief, I'll swear that there was half a bottle left when I took my last glass; for I held the bottle up to the candle to ascertain the ullage." "When you go up tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad! not one drop left in de bottle." "Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not drink any last night?" "No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and nebber tell lie--me drink, because you gib it to me." "Then I must have been drunk indeed. Now, tell me, how did I give it to you?--tell me every word which passed." "Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. When Massa Piper go away, you look at bottel and den you say, 'Fore I go up to bed, I take one more glass for _coming up_'--den I say, ''Pose you do, you nebber be able to _go up_.' Den you say, 'Moonshine, you good fellow (you always call me good fellow when you want me), you must help me.' You drink your grog--you fall back in de chair, and you shut first one eye and den you shut de oder. I see more grog on de table: so I take up de bottel and I say, 'Massa Cockle, you go up stairs?' and you say, 'Yes, yes--directly.' Den I hold de bottel up and say to you, 'Massa, shall I help you?' and you say 'Yes, you must _help_ me.' So den I take one glass of grog, 'cause you tell me to help you." "I didn't tell you to help yourself though, you scoundrel!" "Yes, Massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, I 'bey order, and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, and I say, 'Massa, now you go up'tairs,' and you start up and you wake, and you say, 'Yes, yes;' and den I hold up and show you bottel again, and I say, 'Shall I _help_ you, massa?' and den you say 'Yes.' So I 'bey order again, and take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore--so I look again and I see one little glass more in bottel, and I call you, 'Massa Cockle, Massa Cockle,' and you say, 'high--high!'--and den you head fall on you chest, and you go sleep again--so den I call again and I say, 'Massa Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?' and you nod you head on you bosom, and say noting--so I not quite sure, and I say again, 'Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly drop?' and you nod you head once more. Den I say, 'all right,' and I say, 'you very good helt, Massa Cockle;' and I finish de bottel. Now, Massa, you ab de whole tory, and it all really for true." I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this account of Moonshine's as I was myself, but he put on a bluff look. "So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my helpless situation, to help yourself." "Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farran dat you drink so much, all for good nature to Massa Piper--I do same all for good nature." "Well, Mr Moonshine, I must have some grog," replied Cockle, "and as you helped yourself last night, now you must help me;--get it how you can, I give you just ten minutes----" "'Pose you gib me ten shillings, sar," interrupted Moonshine, "dat better." "Cash is all gone. I havn't a skillick till quarter-day, not a shot in the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some more grog, or you'll get more kicks than halfpence." "You no ab money--you no ab tick--how I get grog, Massa Cockle? Missy O'Bottom, she tell me, last _quarter_-day, no pay _whole_ bill, she not _half_ like it; she say you great deceiver, and no trust more." "Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that Mrs Rowbottom has wanted to grapple with me these last two years--wants to make me landlord of the Goose and Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the premises. I suspect I should be the goose, and she the pepper-box;--but we never could shape that course. In the first place, there's too much of her; and, in the next, there's too much of me. I explained this to the old lady as well as I could; and she swelled up as big as a balloon, saying, that, when people were really _attached_, they never _attached_ any weight to such trifling obstacles." "But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle?" "Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous taste of my long bill out of her mouth. As for the love part of the story, that was all her own. I never contradict a lady, because it's not polite; but since I explained, the old woman has huffed, and wo'n't trust me with half a quartern--will she, Moonshine?" "No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, she say dat _all moonshine_. But, sar, I try 'gain--I tink I know how." And Moonshine disappeared, leaving us in the dark as to what his plans might be. "I wonder you never did marry, Cockle," I observed. "You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that once, and once only, I was very near it. And to whom do you think it was--a woman of colour." "A black woman?" "No: not half black, only a quarter--what they call a quadroon in the West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she refused me." "Refused you! hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you had been refused by a woman of colour." "I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She had been the quadroon wife (you know what that means) of a planter of the name of Guiness; he died, and not only bequeathed her her liberty, but also four good houses in Port Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about two years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She was very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, except in jewels and dress to deck out her own person, which certainly was very handsome, even at that time, for she never had had any family. Well, if I was not quite in love with her, I was with her houses and her money; and I used to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made my proposal. 'Massa Cockle,' said she, 'dere two ting I not like; one is, I not like your name. 'Pose I 'cept you offer, you must change you name.' "'Suppose you accept my offer, Mistris Guiness, you'll change your name. I don't know how I am to change mine,' I replied. "'I make 'quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act and parliament you get anoder name.' "'An act of parliament!' I cried. "'Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe 'fore I hear people call me Missy Cockle--dat _shell_ fish,' said she, and she turned up her nose. "'Humph!' said I, 'and pray what is the next thing which you wish?' "'De oder ting, sar, is, you no ab _coat am arms_, no ab seal to your watch, with bird and beast pon 'em; now 'pose you promise me dat you take oder name, and buy um coat am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into 'sideration.' "'Save yourself the trouble, ma'am,' said I, jumping up; 'my answer is short--I'll see you and your whole generation hanged first!'" "Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a proposal; but here comes Moonshine." The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on the table. "Dare it is, sar," said he, grinning. "Well done, Moonshine, now I forgive you; but how did you manage it?" "Me tell you all de tory, sar--first I see Missy O'Bottom, and I say, 'How you do, how you find yourself dis marning? Massa come, I tink, by-an-bye, but he almost fraid,' I said. She say, 'What he fraid for?' 'He tink you angry--not like see him--no lub him any more: he very sorry, very sick at 'art--he very much in lub wid you.'" "The devil you did!" roared Cockle; "now I shall be bothered again with that old woman; I wish she was moored as a buoy to the Royal George." "Massa no hear all yet. I say, 'Miss O'Bottom, 'pose you no tell?' 'I tell.'--'Massa call for clean shirt dis morning, and I say, it no clean shirt day, sar;' he say, 'Bring me clean shirt;' and den he put him on clean shirt and he put him on clean duck trousers, he make me brush him best blue coat. I say, 'What all dis for, massa?' He put him hand up to him head, and he fetch him breath and say--'I fraid Missy O'Bottom, no hear me now--I no ab courage;' and den he sit all dress ready, and no go. Den he say, 'Moonshine, gib me one glass grog, den I ab courage.' I go fetch bottel, and all grog gone--not one lilly drop left; den massa fall down plump in him big chair, and say, 'I nebber can go.' 'But,' say Missy O'Bottom, 'why he no send for some?' ''Cause,' I say, 'quarter-day not come--money all gone.'--Den say she, 'If you poor massa so _very_ bad, den I trust you one bottel--you gib my compliments and say, I very appy to see him, and stay at home.'--Den I say, 'Missy O'Bottom pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog cut my head off.' Dat all, sar." "That's all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, you scoundrel! What's to be done now?" "Why, let's have a glass of grog first, Cockle," replied I, "we've been waiting a long while for it, and we'll then talk the matter over." "Bob, you're sensible, and the old woman was no fool in sending the liquor--it requires _Dutch_ courage to attack such a Dutch-built old schuyt; let's get the cobwebs out of our throats, and then we must see how we can get out of this scrape. I expect that I shall pay 'dearly for my whistle' this time I wet mine. Now, what's to be done, Bob?" "I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine," said I.' "So I will--Now, sir, as you've got me into this scrape, you must get me out of it.--D'ye hear?" "Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink--but no ab courage." "I understand you, you sooty fellow--here, drink this, and see if it will brighten up your wits. He's a regular turnpike, that fellow, everything must pay toll." "Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O'Bottom dat you come soon as you ab two glass grog; 'pose you only drink one." "That wo'n't do, Moonshine, for I'm just mixing my second; you must find out something better." "One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought--dat you ab--" "Well, then, here's another.--Now recollect, before you drink it, you are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get into a scrape, for I'll beat you as--as white as snow." "'Pose you no _wash_ nigger white, you no _mangle_ him white, Massa Cockle," added Moonshine. "The fellow's _ironing_ me, Bob, ar'n't he?" said Cockle, laughing. "Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions." "Drink first, sar, make sure of dat," replied Moonshine, swallowing off the brandy; "tink about it afterwards.--Eh! I ab it," cried Moonshine, who disappeared, and Cockle and I continued in conversation over our grog, which to sailors is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four. About ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the little front garden. "There's that fellow, Bob; what is he about?" "Only picking a nosegay, I believe," replied I, looking out of the window. "The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. Stop him, Bob." But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was no stopping him. It was nearly an hour before he returned; and when he came in, we found that he was dressed out in his best, looking quite a dandy, and with some of his master's finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his waistcoat. "All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine idee; you nebber ab more trouble bout Missy O'Bottom." "Well, let's hear," said Cockle. "I dress mysel bery 'pruce, as you see, massa. I take nosegay----" "Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you." "Nebber mind, Massa Cockle. I say to Missy O'Bottom, 'Massa no able come, he very sorry, so he send me;' 'Well,' she say, 'what you ab to say, sit down, Moonshine, you very nice man.' Den I say, 'Massa Cockle lub you very much, he tink all day how he make you appy; den he say, Missy O'Bottom very fine 'oman, make very fine wife.' Den Missy O'Bottom say, 'Top a moment,' and she bring a bottel from cupboard, and me drink something did make 'tomach feel really warm; and den she say, 'Moonshine, what you massa say?' den I say, massa say, 'You fine 'oman, make good wife;' but he shake um head, and say, 'I very old man, no good for noting; I tink all day how I make her appy, and I find out--Moonshine, you young man, you 'andsome feller, you good servant, I not like you go away, but I tink you make Missy O'Bottom very fine 'usband; so I not care for myself, you go to Missy O'Bottom, and tell I send you, dat I part wid you, and give you to her for 'usband.'" Cockle and I burst out laughing, "Well, and what did Mrs Rowbottom say to that?" "She jump up, and try to catch me hair, but I bob my head, and she miss; den she say, 'You filthy black rascal, you tell you massa, 'pose he ever come here, I break his white bald pate; and 'pose you ever come here, I smash you woolly black skull.'--Dat all, Massa Cockle; you see all right now, and I quite dry wid talking." "All right! do you call it. I never meant to quarrel with the old woman; what d'ye think, Bob--is it all right?" "Why, you must either have quarrelled with her, or married her, that's clear." "Well, then, I'm clear of her, and so it's all right. It a'n't every man who can get out of matrimony by sacrificing a nosegay and two glasses of grog." "Tree glasses, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine. "Well, three glasses; here it is, you dog, and it's dog cheap, too. Thank God, next Wednesday's quarter-day. Bob, you must dine with me--cut the service for to-day." "With all my heart," replied I, "and I'll salve my conscience by walking the beach all night; but, Cockle, look here, there is but a drop in the bottle, and you have no more. I am like you, with a clean swept hold. You acknowledge the difficulty?" "It stares me in the face, Bob; what must be done?" "I'll tell you--in the first place, what have you for dinner?" "Moonshine, what have we got for dinner?" "Dinner, sar?--me not yet tink about dinner. What you like to ab, sar?" "What have we got in the house, Moonshine?" "Let me see, sar; first place, we ab very fine piece picklum pork; den we hab picklum pork; and den--let me tink--den we ab, we hab picklum pork, sar." "The long and the short of it is, Bob, that we have nothing but a piece of pickled pork; can you dine off that?" "Can a duck swim, Cockle?" "Please, sar, we ab plenty pea for _dog baddy_," said Moonshine. "Well, then, Cockle, as all that is required is to put the pot on the fire, you can probably spare Moonshine, after he has done that, and we will look to the cookery; start him off with a note to Mr Johns, and he can bring back a couple of bottles from my quarters." "Really dat very fine tought, Massa Farren; I put in pork, and den I go and come back in one hour." "That you never will, Mr Moonshine; what's o'clock now? mercy on us, how time flies in your company, Cockle, it is nearly four o'clock, it will be dark at six." "Nebber mind, sar, me always ab _moonshine_ whereber I go," said the black, showing his teeth. "It will take two hours to boil the pork, Bob; that fellow has been so busy this morning that he has quite forgot the dinner." "All you business, Massa Cockle." "Very true; but now start as soon as you can, and come back as soon as you can; here's the note." Moonshine took the note, looked at the direction, as if he could read it, and in a few minutes he was seen to depart. "And now, Cockle," said I, "as Moonshine will be gone some time, suppose you spin us a yarn to pass away the time." "I'll tell you what, Bob, I am not quite so good at that as I used to be. I've an idea that when my pate became bald, my memory oozed away by insensible perspiration." "Never mind, you must have something left, you can't be quite empty." "No, but my tumbler is; so I'll just fill that up, and then I'll tell you how it was that I came to go to sea." "The very thing that I should like to hear, above all others." "Well, then, you must know that, like cockles in general, I was born on the sea-shore, just a quarter of a mile out of Dover, towards Shakespeare's Cliff. My father was a fisherman by profession, and a smuggler by practice, all was fish that came to his net; but his cottage was small, he was supposed to be very poor, and a very bad fisherman, for he seldom brought home many; but there was a reason for that, he very seldom put his nets overboard. His chief business lay in taking out of vessels coming down Channel, goods which were shipped and bonded for exportation, and running them on shore again. You know, Bob, that there are many articles which are not permitted to enter even upon paying duty, and when these goods, such as silks, &c., are seized or taken in prizes, they are sold for exportation. Now, it was then the custom for vessels to take them on board in the river, and run them on shore as they went down Channel, and the fishing-boats were usually employed for this service; my father was a well-known hand for this kind of work, for not being suspected he was always fortunate; of course, had he once been caught, they would have had their eyes upon him after he had suffered his punishment. Now the way my father used to manage was this, there was a long tunnel drain from some houses used as manufactories, about a hundred yards above his cottage, which extended out into the sea at low water mark, and which passed on one side of our cottage. My father had cut from a cellar in the cottage into the drain, and as it was large enough for a man to kneel down in, he used to come in at low water with his coble, and make fast the goods, properly secured from the wet and dirt in tarpaulin bags, to a rope, which led from the cellar to the sea through the drain. When the water had flowed sufficiently to cover the mouth of the drain, he then threw the bags overboard, and, securing the boat, went to the cottage, hauled up the articles, and secured them too; d'ye understand? My father had no one to assist him but my brother, who was a stout fellow, seven years older than myself, and my mother, who used to give a helping hand when required; and thus did he keep his own counsel, and grow rich; when all was right, he got his boat over into the harbour, and having secured her, he came home as innocent as a lamb. I was then about eight or nine years old, and went with my father and brother in the coble, for she required three hands, at least, to manage her properly, and like a tin-pot, although not very big, I was very useful. Now it so happened that my father had notice that a brig, lying in Dover harbour, would sail the next day, and that she had on board of her a quantity of lace and silks, purchased at the Dover custom-house for exportation, which he was to put on shore again to be sent up to London. The sending up to London we had nothing to do with; the agent at Dover managed all that; we only left the articles at his house, and then received the money on the nail. We went to the harbour, where we found the brig hauling out, so we made all haste to get away before her. It blew fresh from the northward and eastward, and there was a good deal of sea running. As we were shoving out, the London agent, a jolly little round-faced fellow, in black clothes, and a bald white head, called to us, and said that he wanted to board a vessel in the offing, and asked whether we would take him. This was all a ruse, as he intended to go on board of the brig with us to settle matters, and then return in the pilot boat. Well, we hoisted our jib, drew aft our foresheet, and were soon clear of the harbour; but we found that there was a devil of a sea running, and more wind than we bargained for; the brig came out of the harbour with a flowing sheet, and we lowered down the foresail to reef it--father and brother busy about that, while I stood at the helm, when the agent said to me, 'When do you mean to make a voyage?' 'Sooner than father thinks for,' said I, 'for I want to see the world.' It was sooner than I _thought for_ too, as you shall hear. As soon as the brig was well out, we ran down to her, and with some difficulty my father and the agent got on board, for the sea was high and cross, the tide setting against the wind; my brother and I were left in the boat to follow in the wake of the brig; but as my brother was casting off the rope forward, his leg caught in the bight, and into the sea he went; however, they hauled him on board, leaving me alone in the coble. It was not of much consequence, as I could manage to follow before the wind under easy sail, without assistance: so I kept her in the wake of the brig, both of us running nearly before it at the rate of five miles an hour, waiting till my father should have made up his packages, of a proper size to walk through the tunnel drain. "The Channel was full of ships, for the westerly winds had detained them for a long time. I had followed the brig about an hour, when the agent went on shore in a pilot boat, and I expected my father would soon be ready; then the wind veered more towards the southward, with dirt; at last it came on foggy, and I could hardly see the brig, and as it rained hard, and blew harder, I wished that my father was ready, for my arms ached with steering the coble for so long a while. I could not leave the helm, so I steered on at a black lump, as the brig looked through the fog: at last the fog was so thick that I could not see a yard beyond the boat, and I hardly knew how to steer. I began to be frightened, tired, and cold, and hungry I certainly was. Well, I steered on for more than an hour, when the fog cleared up a little, and then I saw the stern of the brig just before me. My little heart jumped with delight; and I expected that she would round-to immediately, and that my father would praise me for my conduct; and, what was still more to the purpose, that I should get something to eat and drink. But no: she steered on right down Channel, and I followed for more than an hour more, when it came on to blow very hard, and I could scarcely manage the boat--she pulled my little arms off, and I was quite exhausted. The weather now cleared up, and I could make out the vessel plainly; and I immediately discovered that it was not the _brig_, but a bark which I had got hold of in the fog, so that I did not know what to do; but I did as most boys of nine years old would have done who were frightened, I sat down and cried, still, however, keeping the tiller in my hand and steering as well as I could. At last, I could hold it no longer, I ran forward, let go the fore and jib haulyards and hauled down the sails; drag them into the boat I could not, and there I was, like a young bear adrift in a washing-tub. I looked all round me, and there were no vessels near; the bark had left me two miles astern, it was blowing a gale from the S.E., with a heavy sea; the gulls and sea birds wheeled and screamed in the storm; and as I thought, when they came close to me, looked at me with their keen eyes, as much as to say, 'What the devil are you doing there?' The boat was as light as a cork, and although she was tossed and rolled about so that I was obliged to hold on, she shipped no water of any consequence, for the jib in the water forward had brought her head to wind, and acted as a sort of floating anchor. At last there was nothing in sight, so I laid down at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep. It was daylight before I awoke, and then I got up and looked round me--it blew harder than ever; and, although there were some vessels at a distance, scudding before the gale, they did not mind, or perhaps see me. I sat very melancholy the whole day, the tears ran down my cheeks, my eyes were full of salt from the spray--I saw at last nothing but the roaring and trembling waves. I prayed every prayer I knew, that is, I said the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and as much of the Catechism as I could recollect. It rained in torrents--I was wet, starving, and miserably cold. At night I again fell asleep from exhaustion. The morning broke again, and the sun shone, the gale was breaking off, and I felt more cheered; but I was now ravenous from hunger, as well as choking from thirst, and I was so weak that I could scarcely stand. I looked round me every now and then, and lay down again. In the afternoon I saw a large vessel standing right for me; this gave me courage and strength. I stood up and waved my hat, and they saw me--the sea was still running very high, but the wind had gone down. She rounded-to so as to bring me under her lee. Send a boat she could not, but the sea bore her down upon me, and I was soon close to her. Men in the chains were ready with ropes, and I knew that this was my only chance. At last, a very heavy sea bore her right down upon the boat, lurching over on her beam ends, her main chains struck the boat and sent her down, while I was seized by the scuff of the neck by two of the seamen, and borne aloft by them as the vessel returned to the weather-roll. They hauled me in, and I was safe. It was neck or nothing with me then; wasn't it, Bob?" "It was, indeed, a miraculous escape, Cockle." "Well, as soon as they had given me something to eat, I told my story;--and it appeared that she was an East Indiaman running down Channel, and not likely to meet with anything to send me back again. The passengers, especially the ladies, were very kind to me: and as there was no help for it, why, I took my first voyage to the _East Indies_." "And your father and your brother?" "Why, when I met them, which I did about six years afterwards, I found that they had been in much the same predicament, having lost the coble, and the weather being so bad that they could not get on shore again. As there was no help for it, they took their first voyage to the _West Indies_; so there was a dispersion of a united family--two went west, one went east, coble went down, and mother, after waiting a month or two, and supposing father dead, went off with a soldier. All dispersed by one confounded gale of wind from the northward and eastward, so that's the way that I went to sea, Bob. And now it's time that Moonshine was back." But Moonshine kept us waiting for some time: when he returned it was then quite dark, and we had lighted candles, anxiously waiting for him; for not only was the bottle empty, but we were very hungry. At last we heard a conversation at the gate, and Moonshine made his appearance with the two bottles of spirits, and appeared himself to be also in high spirits. The pork and peas pudding soon were on the table. We dined heartily, and were sitting over the latter part of the first bottle in conversation, it being near upon the eleventh hour, when we heard a noise at the gate--observed some figures of men, who stayed a short time and then disappeared. The door opened, and Moonshine went out. In a few seconds he returned, bringing in his arms an anker of spirits, which he laid on the floor, grinning so wide that his head appeared half off. Without saying a word, he left the room and returned with another. "Why, what the devil's this?" cried Cockle. Moonshine made no answer, but went out and in until he had brought six ankers in, one after another, which he placed in a row on the floor. He then shut the outside door, bolted it, came in, and seating himself on one of the tubs, laughed to an excess which compelled him to hold his sides; during which Cockle and I were in a state of astonishment and suspense. "Where the devil did all this come from?" cried Cockle, actually getting out of his easy chair. "Tell me, sir, or by----" "I tell you all, Massa Cockle:--you find me better friend dan Missy O'Bottom. Now you ab plenty, and nebber need scold Moonshine 'pose he take lilly drap. I get all dis present to you, Massa Cockle." I felt a great degree of anxiety, and pressed Moonshine to tell his story. "I tell you all, sar. When I come back wid de two bottel I meet plenty men wid de tubs: dey say, 'Hollo there, who be you?' I say, 'I come from station; bring massa two bottel, and I show um.' Den dey say, 'Where you massa?' and I say, 'At um house at Ryde'--(den dey tink dat you my massa, Massa Farren)--so dey say, 'Yes, we know dat, we watch him dere, but now you tell, so we beat you dead.' Den I say, 'What for dat; massa like drink, why you no gib massa some tub, and den he never say noting, only make fuss some time, 'cause of Admirality.' Den dey say, 'You sure of dat?' and I say, 'Quite sure massa nebber say one word.' Den dey talk long while; last, dey come and say, 'You come wid us and show massa house.' So two men come wid me, and when dey come to gate I say, 'Dis massa house when he live at Ryde, and dere you see massa;'--and I point to Massa Cockle, but dey see Massa Farren--so dey say, 'All very good; tree, four hour more, you find six tub here; tell you massa dat every time run tub, he alway hab six;' den dey go way, den dey come back, leave tub; dat all, massa." "You rascal!" exclaimed I, rising up, "so you have compromised me; why I shall lose my commission if found out." "No, sar; nobody wrong but de smuggler; dey make a lilly mistake; case you brought to court-martial, I gib evidence, and den I clear you." "But what must we do with these tubs, Cockle?" said I, appealing to him. "Do, Bob?--why, they are a present--a very welcome one, and a very handsome one into the bargain. I shall not _keep_ them, I pledge you my word; let that satisfy you--they shall all be _fairly entered_." "Upon that condition, Cockle," I replied, "I shall of course not give information against you." (I knew full well what he meant by saying he would not _keep_ them.) "How I do, Massa Cockle," said Moonshine, with a grave face; "I take um to the custom-house to-night or to-morrow marning." "To-morrow, Moonshine," replied Cockle; "at present just put them out of sight." I did not think it prudent to make any further inquiries; but I afterwards discovered that the smugglers, true to their word, and still in error, continued to leave six tubs in old Cockle's garden whenever they succeeded in running a cargo, which, notwithstanding all our endeavours, they constantly did. One piece of information I gained from this affair, which was, the numbers of cargoes which were run compared to those which were seized during the remainder of the time I was on that station, and found it to be in the proportion of ten to one. The cargoes run were calculated by the observations of old Cockle, who, when I called upon him, used to say very quietly, "I shouldn't wonder if they did not run a cargo last night, Bob, in spite of all your vigilance--was it very dark?" "On the contrary," replied I, looking at the demure face of the negro; "I suspect it was _Moonshine_." The Fairy's Wand A TALE OF WINDSOR PARK IN THE DAYS OF THE MERRY MONARCH In the time of Charles II., Windsor Park stood just where it stands now, and the castle of Windsor was very often the abode of royalty, as it is now; but in those merry, but licentious times, there was much more fun and feasting going on than perhaps there is at present. Rochester was master of the revels, and the Countesses of ---- but I will say nothing about the ladies, although some of the highest of our aristocracy are descended from them. There were great preparations in the castle, for King Charles had invited down the Mayor of London, and a bevy of aldermen; not so much with a view of doing honour to the magistrates of the great and ancient city, as with the hope to extract some amusement from their peculiarities. The fact is, that the Mayor and aldermen of London had certified to the Earl of Rochester, that they had some complaint to make and some favour to request of his Majesty. Rochester, ever willing to procure amusement for his royal master, at the same time was equally careful not to allow him to be annoyed, and therefore had contrived to ferret out that the complaint against the lords of the court, was for their foo great familiarity with the citizens' wives, and that the favour to be demanded was, a curtailment of the dress, ornaments, and expensive habits of the city ladies.--He considered this a very favourable opportunity for procuring some mirth at the expense of the corporation. With the consent of the king, he had intimated to the mayor and aldermen, that they would be received in the evening, and honoured with a seat at the royal banquet; and at the same time he had privately made known to the lady mayoress, what were the demands about to be made by her husband, desiring her to communicate the same, under a strict promise of secrecy, to the wives of all the aldermen; and also acquainting them that his Majesty would be glad to receive the ladies on the same evening, provided that they could come without the knowledge of their husbands, which might be done by their setting off for Windsor some short time after them. It was the intention of the king, that when the mayor and corporation should present the address, they should be met face to face by their wives, and thus issue be joined. But mortals were not the only parties who revelled in the beauties of the park of Windsor. On the evening that this comedy was about to be enacted, there reclined under the celebrated oak, known as Herne's Oak, in a small clear space between some ferns, two of those beings called fairies who had for time immemorial taken up their quarters in that delightful retreat. Whether they were man and wife is not established, but certainly they were male and female; and as they appeared to be on the very best understanding, it is to be presumed that they were not married. "Elda, there will be a scene to-night at the castle," said the male to the female sprite, as he tickled her nose with a blade of grass. "Yes, Maya; how foolish those mortals are!" "I have a mind to create even more mischief," rejoined Maya, "but if I did, you would want to see it." "Well, and suppose I did, dearest?" "I do not like that you should be in company with those women, Elda; those duchesses and countesses." "Bless me, Maya!--what are you afraid of? my virtue?" "Oh no, dearest! I did not mean that----" "Then I'll tell you what you did mean, you jealous-pated fool: you meant, that you did not like that I should be in the company of the Earl of Rochester and the King. You ought to have more respect for yourself, and more respect for me, than to be jealous of those mortals." "Nay, Elda!" "Yes, yes, and your reason for wanting to go alone, is to hang over that nasty Duchess of Portsmouth." "Upon my honour!--" "Your honour, sir!--you have none--there, sir, you may go." "Oh, very well, madam; just as you please." Certainly there was something very mortal in this quarrel, and may remind the reader of similar scenes in domestic life. It ended by Maya walking sulkily away in the direction of the castle, and of Elda following him at a distance, determined to watch his motions. But if these two lovers had quarrelled, there were two other beings who were indulging in a moonlight walk on the terrace, linked arm-in-arm so affectionately, so fondly, keeping exact pace for pace, and occasionally embracing each other, every one would have thought that nothing in the world could ever have disunited them. They were two young ladies of the court, aged about seventeen, just clear of their governess and bread-and-butter, and newly-appointed maids of honour: they were both beautiful, and had contracted a friendship, as all girls do at that age, when love has with them no precise definition. They had sworn eternal affection after an acquaintance of eight-and-forty hours--the sun and the moon, and all the stars in the firmament--heaven above, the earth below, and everything below that again, had all been summoned to register their vows; and at the time that they were then walking they would have considered it positive heresy to hint at the idea of a disagreement even in thought; but, as I have before observed, they were only seventeen years old. Maya, who had bent his steps towards the castle, perceived these two young damsels parading up and down, and although he had not the full power of Oberon, yet he was still a highly-endowed fairy. Among other powers vested in him, he had a wand, which when it touched any fairy would change that fairy into mortal size and shape, and if it touched any mortal would produce the contrary effect, giving them for the time the size and appearance of fairies, imps, tritons, naiads, or some of those intermediate creatures, which most accorded with their mortal propensities and dispositions. This very wand made him much feared by the other fairies, as they were often punished by him in this way, and it was only Oberon, the king, who had the power of reversing the charm; and it is said, that this very wand was one cause why his fair Elda, generally speaking, behaved so well, as he often threatened to turn her into a Dutch milkmaid; which, as she was of a very beautiful figure, would have been a very severe punishment. It was with this wand--worn like a harlequin's at his side--that the fairy Maya was walking up the terrace; he had changed himself to a handsome young forester, dressed in a suit of green, with bugle by his side, a cap with black feathers hanging down to his right shoulder; wearing the appearance of a very handsome young man of about twenty, and just the description of person to create a difference between two young ladies, who had half an hour before sworn everlasting friendship. As he passed he made a very profound obeisance. "Who is he, dearest?" said Miss Araminta. "Who is he, dearest?" said Miss Euthanasia, both nudging one another at the same moment. "He bowed to _me_, said Araminta. "No, sweetest, it was to _me_ he bowed," rejoined Euthanasia. "Well I declare!" cried Araminta. What was to follow is not known, for the young forester had retraced his steps and now addressed the young ladies. "Fair maids of honour, as I presume you are such," said he, taking off his cap, and displaying such handsome curls that each young lady, for the first time, thought how much better it had been if she had walked out alone, "may I inquire the cause of such revelry to-night in the royal castle?" "The king entertains--" said Araminta. "The mayor and aldermen," cried Euthanasia, taking the remainder of the sentence out of her friend's mouth. "Indeed!" replied the fairy, who then entered into conversation with the young ladies, dividing his attentions as equally as he could. Now it so happened that Elda, who had followed Maya at a distance, could no longer restrain her jealousy when she perceived him walking and talking so earnestly, and, as she considered, really making love to these fair mortals. She took the shape of a big bumble bee, and flying to him settled on his back, stinging him so severely that he uttered an exclamation of pain; and the young ladies were tenderly enquiring where he was hurt, when he felt convinced that it was Elda who had thus punished him. Fairies have consciences as well as mortals. Maya felt that he was, or what was quite as bad, that he appeared to be, guilty. He had already repented of his quarrel with Elda; and, after receiving the condolence of the two young ladies, who vied in their attentions to him, he very suddenly took leave, resolving in his own mind that he would seek out Elda, and make friends with her, infinitely preferring her to two young bread-and-butter maids of honour. Thus did the fairy prove his good sense, and abandon all idea of making mischief at the castle. Now it so happened that the sting received from the jealous Elda was so very severe, that in his jump forward Maya had allowed his wand to drop out of his belt, and when he departed he did not perceive his loss. There it lay on the terrace, between the two young maids of honour, who already had discovered that their eternal friendship was on the wane. They both remained silent and watching the receding figure of the handsome young forester for at least a minute and a half. At last this unheard-of duration of silence between two young ladies who had sworn eternal friendship was broken. It proved to be like the calm which precedes the tornado. "Well, I am sure!" cried Euthanasia. "I shouldn't wonder," replied Araminta. "Courtly manners, indeed!" continued Euthanasia. "Yes, you may say that; no wonder he wouldn't stay," responded Araminta, tossing her head. "No; when you drove him away, miss." "Me, miss?" "Yes, you, miss." "No, miss." "Yes, miss." I regret to report the scene which followed. After trying hard to drown each other's voices, the two young maids of honour, who had sworn eternal friendship, commenced pushing, then spitting, then slapping, then beating. Then they pulled each other's hair--then--yes, then Araminta perceived the wand lying on the terrace, and she seized it with the intention of chastising Euthanasia; and Euthanasia perceiving her intention, seized hold of the other end of the wand. A struggle took place, which ended in the wand breaking in half. Then they separated, Araminta throwing her half at her dearest friend, her dearest friend returning the compliment; after which, they both ran home to the castle, vowing that nothing should ever induce them even to speak one single word to each other as long as they lived. We must leave them to go to their rooms, wash their pretty faces, and repair the damage done to their dresses, while we inform the reader of what is going on in the reception-room of the castle. The mayor and corporation had duly arrived, and had been ushered into a private room until his Majesty should be ready to receive them. The Earl of Rochester had detained them there purposely to give time for the arrival of the ladies of the corporation, who were by his directions received at a private door. The king, amused with the scheme, allowed Rochester to make his arrangements. When all was ready, the mayor and aldermen, who had been very comfortably regaled with sherry and biscuits, so that the time did not appear too tedious, were requested to enter the presence-chamber, where the king received them in due form. The mayor, approaching the throne, knelt down and laid at his Majesty's feet the petition, which he was requested by the king to read. The preamble set forth that the young nobility of the day were not content with the pleasures of the court, but were in the custom of entering the city on the other side of Temple-bar, creating disturbances, and visiting the wives of his Majesty's dutiful citizens, giving much cause for scandal, "and requesting that in future his Majesty would be pleased to give directions that the nobility should not enter the city without the permission of the corporation, as such would prove most advantageous to the morals of the community." "Hah!" observed his Majesty, "how is this, my Lord of Rochester? Do our young gallants create disturbances with our good citizens? This must be looked to." "May it please your Majesty," replied the Earl of Rochester, "assertion is not proof. Here are now twenty-five of the wealthiest citizens of London present, and on their knees before you--they have twenty-five wives--is there any one who will accuse his wife, or his neighbour's wife, of listening to the nonsense of these young nobles? Either they must listen to them, or, if they do not listen to them, there is no harm done." "Very true," replied the king. "Say, Mr Mayor, where are your proofs of what you have now asserted?" "May it please your Majesty, women are women," replied the mayor. "I believe we may admit that, your Majesty," rejoined Rochester, with a smile. "Yes. In that point I agree with Mr Mayor--go on. What further does this petition contain?" "A request that your Majesty will pass some law by which our city dames may be prevented from vying in expense with those of the court--to forbid stuffs of gold, or Genoa velvet, to be worn by them--and all ornaments of too high price--which are not suitable to our condition as simple artisans, and very ruinous to our pockets." "May it please your Majesty, as any man can legislate for his own household, I think this last clause quite unnecessary. If the good citizens of London cannot afford to pay for such finery they must prevent their wives from purchasing it." "That is very true," observed his Majesty; "you must prevent it yourselves." "May it please your Majesty, we cannot," exclaimed the whole deputation, with one voice. "Well, this is a very serious affair," replied the king, "and it must be laid before a special privy-council. Are you prepared to prove before the council, when you are called on, that your wives have been guilty of listening to these young gallants--have received them, and admitted their familiarities--say, Mr Mayor, and gentlemen, are you prepared to prove this?" "All are prepared and ready to swear to it," replied the deputation. "Well then, Mr Mayor, you will have the goodness to retire for a short time while I consult with my council, which I shall immediately summon; and if the facts are as you say, and you prove them, your petition shall be attended to." The mayor and aldermen, delighted at this gracious reply, rose and humbly backed out of the presence-chamber. As soon as they had retired, the lady mayoress and all the aldermen's wives were ushered in, requested by his Majesty to be seated on chairs ranged round the throne, and thus was formed King Charles' special council. Rochester read the petition in a merry way, and then his Majesty requested the lady mayoress, as first in rank, to give her opinion. "May it please your Majesty," said the mayoress, "it is very true that many of the young nobility do come within the city walls and prove good customers to our husbands. As for disturbances, I never heard of any, for our husbands are peaceable men; and as for their paying attention to the ladies, it is in my opinion only paying a compliment to our husbands, as well as to ourselves." "Very well argued," replied the king.--"Your opinion, madam, on this first point," continued the king, addressing himself to one of the aldermen's ladies. "Pray, does your Majesty think it fair," replied the lady, who was very pretty, "that our husbands are to leave us all day long, to add to their heaps of money, which they care for more than they do for us, and that we are not to amuse ourselves in some way? Besides, it can't be wrong, for the king sets the example, and the king can do no wrong." "May it please your Majesty, that last argument settles the point," observed Rochester; "and I believe I may say, that the whole council are of the same opinion." The ladies bowed their heads in acquiescence. "And now as to the other request contained in this petition, that the ladies shall not in future dress in gold stuff, Genoa velvet, and rich ornaments. What say you, ladies?" "May it please your Majesty," observed an alderman's wife, who had been married a week, "aware of what was to come, we have already discussed the point between ourselves. It is admitted that our husbands leave us alone, and that we are justified in receiving the attentions of the young nobles who so honour us. Now if our husbands stayed with us, and kept us company, we would dress to please them; but as they do not, and we are indebted to others for society, why we must dress accordingly. Courtiers require the splendour of the court, and it is our duty to study to please them, and our husbands' duty to accede to it, as a return for the compliments paid to us." "This is remarkably good logic, Sire," observed Rochester. "I doubt whether you ever summoned a more wise council." "A more delightful one, never," replied the king, bowing to the ladies. "Now we will, if you please, summon in the lord mayor and deputation; and if they are willing, as they say they are, to prove----" "Yes, if--" rejoined the lady mayoress; and all the other ladies replied, "Yes, if----" In a few minutes the deputation made its appearance: the mayor and his colleagues entered the room with joyful anticipations, and fully prepared to prove all that their petition asserted; but what was their dismay when they all beheld their own wives, dressed in stuffs of gold, and Genoa velvet, arranged in a circle round the throne, their eyes flashing fire, and their fans moving with a rapidity that was ever the precursor of a storm. Each dame had singled out her husband, fixed her eyes upon him, and every lord and master had quailed at their lightning flashes. They tottered, rather than walked, up to the throne, and when they again went down upon their knees, each one involuntarily turned round to the direction where his own wife was seated, as if to deprecate her wrath and implore her pardon. The king bit his lips to control his laughter; Rochester stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth. "Mr Mayor and gentlemen," said the king, after he had somewhat recovered himself, "I have, as you perceive, summoned a special council to consult on this case; and it has been the decision of the council, that you should now produce these proofs, which you but just now stated you were prepared and willing to do. Mr Mayor, you may proceed, we are all attention." "May it--please your--ladyship," stammered the mayor. "It does not please her ladyship," replied the lady mayoress, fanning herself furiously. "I meant--his Majesty--I would have said--I have no proofs myself to bring forward--but my colleagues are, I believe, well prepared." "Indeed, Mr Mayor, is it possible that I mistook you? You have no proofs? Well then, who are the other gentlemen who are to bring forward the proofs?" The deputation answered not. "My Lord of Rochester, oblige me by putting the question separately to each of these gentlemen." The question was put, but not one of the deputation had a proof to bring forward. "By the mass, but this is strange!" said the king. "But an hour ago they all had proofs, and now they have not one. This is trifling with us, Mr Mayor--an insult to the throne and council. Speak, sir, what means this?" "May it please your Majesty--it means--that we beg pardon of your Majesty--and of the special council." "And your petition?" "Is withdrawn, if it so please your Majesty," said the mayor, looking round to the aldermen. "Yes, your Majesty, is withdrawn." "For myself, Mr Mayor, I accept your excuses, and you have my pardon; but as for the special council, I must leave you to settle with it how you can.--Ladies, a banquet is prepared; when summoned, it will depend upon yourselves, whether you come alone or attended by the mayor and deputation. Come, my Lord of Rochester, we will not interfere in the arrangements, which will take place better when we are out of the way." So saying, the king quitted the presence-chamber with the Earl of Rochester, leaving the ladies seated, and their husbands still kneeling. We shall not dwell upon what took place after the departure of the king; one thing is certain, that the fair sex are very merciful, and as their husbands promised them that in future they should have their own way, dress as they pleased, receive whom they pleased, and spend what money they pleased, the ladies very kindly and magnanimously forgave their spouses; and when they were summoned to the banquet, each lady entered the hall, hanging on the arm of her husband. This happy reconciliation was duly celebrated. Wine flowed, bumper after bumper was drank, pledge succeeded to pledge, and it was long past midnight before the carouse was over. The moon shone bright, and heated with the wine, Rochester proposed to the ladies that they should take a walk on the terrace before they ordered their carriages to go home. It must be confessed that the ladies had not been so cautious as they ought to have been, and that their steps were not very steady; but could a lady refuse to drink wine with a king or an Earl of Rochester? No! and the consequence was, that they all were merry, and some of them more than merry. As for the husbands, they were reeling and tumbling in all directions, and the terrace-wall, wide as it was, was not sufficiently wide for them. Rochester led the way, and all was fun and merry laughter. The party had not proceeded far, when a little altercation took place between the mayoress and the alderman's wife who had given her opinion after her in the council; for it so happened that as they sauntered along, the mayoress had picked up one portion of the broken wand, and the alderman's lady the other. The wand was of ebony, and highly polished--each would possess herself of the half in the hands of the other, and thus commenced the dispute; and it ended, as all disputes between ladies will end, if they happen to have a stick in their hands when they quarrel, by their beating each other. The mayoress gave the alderman's wife a slap with her part of the wand--it was immediately returned--when lo and behold---- It must be here explained, that although the wand when entire had the power of changing people as we have described, yet when broken, its power was divided between the two parts; the one end retaining its half power of changing only the upper portion of the figure, while the other could only change the lower half. The blows were exchanged. The mayoress, who was a tall woman, immediately sank down a foot and a half, the upper portion of her plump body was now resting upon the two diminutive legs of a two-feet-high fairy--which could only make a stride of six inches at a time. The alderman's lady, on the contrary, retained her lower portion of her body; but instead of her lovely face, and graceful neck, she carried a little round head and shoulders, such as is represented in the figure of Puck. They must all have been very tipsy, for the others thought that they had put on masquerade dresses--the sticks were seized, one by Rochester, the other by the king, and they struck right and left--the lord mayor had the head and beard of a satyr--Rochester had the feet of a goat--the king appeared to have the bust of a beautiful woman, with a pair of splendid blue gossamer wings to his shoulders--one of the aldermen found himself with a naiad's tail, and he fell flat on the terrace, with great violence; all of them, men and women, were transformed into some shape or another--and the more strange the metamorphosis, the louder they all laughed and shouted. Some indeed were very much alarmed; particularly one little woman, who whispered to her neighbour, that she believed she was a little man. But the scene did not end here: the two parts of the wand found their way into other hands, who as they capered and jumped beat their companions. King Charles, struck by the lower part of the wand, found his transformation complete--he was now a lovely woman;--Rochester was turned by a blow, into a perfect satyr--while the mayoress, struck by the same portion, sank down into a little fairy not two feet high. As the sticks were passed round there was no end to the transformations: the fat alderman who had fallen down with a fish's tail, now became a perfect naiad, with long hair, and a comb in his hand. Such was the noise and confusion, that the two little maids of honour came out on the terrace to witness this strange revelling. Rochester seized them and kissed them as they screamed with fright at his shaggy beard--the wand was applied to them, and they too were transformed. The Duchess of Portsmouth opened her chamber-window, and perceiving the wild revelling resolved to indulge his Majesty with a good curtain-lecture; but he heard her not. "To the oak of Herne the hunter," cried the king; "away to the oak!" "To the oak! to the oak!" shouted the whole bacchanalian crew; and away they flew across the park, starting the quiescent deer with their shouts, their laughter, and their revelry. Rochester took the naiad under his arm, that she might not be left behind, and dancing, capering, tumbling, and getting up again, led by the merry king, who now was a beautiful fairy, they arrived there out of breath. But before they had reached the oak, their noise had disturbed the slumber of one happy pair who had nestled in each other's arms among the fern. It was Maya and Elda--who had met, and had been reconciled, proving that with fairies, the quarrels of lovers are but the renewal of love; not the case, although supposed to be so, with us mortals. Maya had missed his wand, but he would not leave Elda to return for it--he intended to have searched for it the next morning. "What is all that noise, dearest?" cried Elda, waking up and resting on her elbow, as she listened. "What can it be, but the mad king at his pranks as usual?" replied Maya, who had risen on his feet. "But what is here? I see--I see how it is--they have found my wand and must have broken it; for it does not otherwise do things by halves." As Maya said this, the king with his companions arrived under the oak-tree--Elda retired to a distance, while Maya soon regained the two parts of his wand from the hands of the intoxicated parties, who had possession of them. "I shall have work to-night, and must repair this mischief," said Maya. "Elda, dearest, hasten and bring me poppy-juice to seal up the eyes of these mad people." In a few minutes Elda had executed her commission; the whole company were now seated in a circle, singing songs, hugging one another, all merry but the two little maids of honour, who not having taken wine, were horrified at the transformation--they sat together and cried as if their little hearts would break. Maya pressed the poppy-juice on the eyes of each individual, and in a few seconds they were all in a profound sleep. He then examined the transformations, and completed those which were partial above or below--till then he could not repair his wand. When they were all transformed, he put the two parts of his wand together, breathed upon them, and the wand was reunited. He then went round the circle, touched each person, and the whole company resumed their original forms. "So far have I done my part," observed Maya. "As for colds, catarrhs, fevers, agues, they deserve all they may catch. Now, Elda, let us once more retire to rest." The leaves of the old oak-tree were gilded with the rays of the morning sun, before King Charles and his companions awoke, and very much astonished they were to find themselves in such a place and at such an hour--the ladies blushed and canvassed the affair among themselves--they recollected the transformations, they remembered their setting off for the Hunter's Oak--but still they were confused. The mayor and aldermen were puzzled--not so much at finding themselves asleep under the tree, but that their wives should be there also. The king and Rochester were the only two who appeared indifferent. "Come, ladies--come, my lord mayor and gentlemen of the corporation, we have had a merry night of it, and have slept under the greenwood tree, now let us in to the toilet, and then to breakfast." He offered his arm to the lady mayoress, the rest of the company followed--they hastened to the toilet--they ate their breakfasts, and then hastened back to the good city of London. "Well," said the king, as soon as the company had departed, "what think you of this, Rochester--were we visited by the fairies last night, think you?" "May it please your Majesty," replied the earl, "my opinion is that either we were in the hands of the fairies, or else----" "Else what?" "Or else, Sire, we were all most confoundedly drunk." A Rencontre One evening I was sitting alone in the _salle à manger_ of the _Couronne d'Or_, at Boulogne, when Colonel G----, an old acquaintance, came in. After the first greeting he took a chair, and was soon as busily occupied as I was with a cigar, which was occasionally removed from our lips as we asked and replied to questions as to what had been our pursuits subsequent to our last rencontre. After about half an hour's chit-chat, he observed, as he lighted a fresh cigar-- "When I was last in this room I was in company with a very strange personage." "Male or female?" inquired I. "Female," replied Colonel G----. "Altogether it's a story worth telling, and as it will pass away the time, I will relate it you--unless you wish to retire." As I satisfied him that I was not anxious to go to bed, and very anxious to hear his story, he narrated it as near as I can recollect in the following words:-- "I had taken my place in the diligence from Paris, and when I arrived at _Notre Dame des Victoires_ it was all ready for a start; the luggage, piled up as high as an English haystack, had been covered over and buckled down, and the _conducteur_ was calling out for the passengers. I took my last hasty whiff of my cigar, and unwillingly threw away more than half of a really good Havannah; for I perceived that in the _intérieur_, for which I had booked myself, there was one female already seated: and women and cigars are such great luxuries in their respective ways, that they are not to be indulged in at one and the same time--the world would be too happy, and happiness, we are told, is not for us here below. Not that I agree with that moral, although it comes from very high authority;--there is a great deal of happiness in this world, if you knew how to extract it; or rather, I should say, of pleasure: there is a pleasure in doing good; there is a pleasure, unfortunately, in doing wrong; there is a pleasure in looking forward, ay, and in looking backward also; there is pleasure in loving and being loved, in eating, in drinking, and though last, not least, in smoking. I do not mean to say that there are not the drawbacks of pain, regret, and even remorse; but there is a sort of pleasure even in them: it is pleasant to repent, because you know that you are doing your duty; and if there is no great pleasure in pain, it precedes an excess when it has left you. I say again, that, if you know how to extract it, there is a great deal of pleasure and of happiness in this world, especially if you have, as I have, a very bad memory. "'_Allons, Messieurs!_' said the _conducteur_; and when I got in I found myself the sixth person, and opposite to the lady; for all the other passengers were of my own sex. Having fixed our hats up to the roof, wriggled and twisted a little so as to get rid of coat-tails, etc., all of which was effected previous to our having cleared _Rue Notre Dame des Victoires_, we began to scrutinise each other. Our female companion's veil was down and doubled, so that I could not well make her out; my other four companions were young men, all Frenchmen, apparently good-tempered, and inclined to be agreeable. A few seconds were sufficient for my reconnoitre of the gentlemen, and then my eyes were naturally turned towards the lady. She was muffled up in a winter cloak, so that her figure was not to be made out; and the veil still fell down before her face, so that only one cheek and a portion of her chin could be deciphered:--that fragment of her physiognomy was very pretty, and I watched in silence for the removal of the veil. "I have omitted to state that, before I got into the diligence, I saw her take a very tender adieu of a very handsome woman; but as her back was turned to me at the time, I did not see her face. She had now fallen back in her seat, and seemed disposed to commune with her own thoughts: that did not suit my views, which were to have a view of her face. Real politeness would have induced me to have left her to herself, but pretended politeness was resorted to that I might gratify my curiosity; so I inquired if she wished the window up. The answer was in the negative, and in a very sweet voice; and then there was a pause, of course--so I tried again. "'You are melancholy at parting with your handsome sister,' observed I, leaning forward with as much appearance of interest as I could put into my beautiful phiz. "'How could you have presumed that she was my sister?' replied she. "'From the _strong family_ likeness,' rejoined I, 'I felt certain of it.' "'But she is only my sister-in-law, sir--my brother's wife.' "'Then, I presume, he chose a wife as like his sister as he could find: nothing more natural--I should have done the same.' "'Sir you are very polite,' replied the lady, who lowered down the window, adding, 'I like fresh air.' "'Perhaps you will find yourself less incommoded if you take off your veil?' "'I will not ascribe that proposition to curiosity on your part, sir,' replied the lady, 'as you have already seen my face.' "'You cannot, then, be surprised at my wishing to see it once more.' "'You are very polite, sir.' "Although her voice was soft, there was a certain quickness and decision in her manner and language which were very remarkable. The other passengers now addressed her, and the conversation became general. The veiled lady took her share in it, and showed a great deal of smartness and repartee. In an hour more we were all very intimate. As we changed horses, I took down my hat to put into it my cigar-case, which I had left in my pocket, upon which the lady observed, 'You smoke, I perceive; and so, I dare say, do all the rest of the gentlemen.--Now, do not mind me; I am fond of the smell of tobacco--I am used to it.' "We hesitated. "'Nay, more, I smoke myself, and will take a cigar with you.' "This was decisive. I offered my cigar-case--another gentleman struck a light. Lifting up her veil so as to show a very pretty mouth, with teeth as white as snow, she put the cigar in her mouth, and set us the example. In a minute both windows were down, and every one had a cigar in his mouth. "'Where did you learn to smoke, madam?' was a question put to the _incognita_ by the passenger who sat next to her. "'Where?--In the camp--Africa--everywhere. I did belong to the army--that is, my husband was one of the captains of the 47th. He was killed, poor man! in the last successful expedition to Constantine:--_c'était un brave homme_.' "'Indeed! Were you at Constantine?' "'Yes, I was; I followed the army during the whole campaign.' "The diligence stopped for supper or dinner, whichever it might be considered, and the _conducteur_ threw open the doors. 'Now,' thought I, 'we shall see her face,' and so, I believe, thought the other passengers: but we were mistaken; the lady went upstairs and had a basin of soup taken to her. When all was ready we found her in the diligence, with her veil down as before. "This was very provoking, for she was so lively and witty in conversation, and the features of her face which had been disclosed were so perfect, that I was really quite on a fret that she would leave me without satisfying my curiosity:--they talk of woman's curiosity, but we men have as much, after all. It became dark;--the lady evidently avoided further conversation, and we all composed ourselves as well as we could. It may be as well to state in few words, that the next morning she was as cautious and reserved as ever. The diligence arrived at this hotel--the passengers separated--and I found that the lady and I were the only two who took up our quarters there. At all events, the Frenchmen who travelled with us went away just as wise as they came. "'You remain here?' inquired I as soon as we had got out of the diligence. "'Yes,' replied she. 'And you--' "'I remain here, certainly; but I hope you do not intend to remain always veiled. It is too cruel of you.' "'I must go to my room now and make myself a little more comfortable; after that, Mons l'Anglais, I will speak to you. You are going over in the packet, I presume?' "'I am: by to-morrow's packet.' "'I shall put myself under your protection, for I am also going to London.' "'I shall be most delighted.' "'_Au revoir._' "About an hour afterwards a message was brought to me by the _garçon_, that the lady would be happy to receive me in No. 19. I ascended to the second floor, knocked, and was told to come in. "She was now without a veil; and what do you think was her reason for the concealment of her person?" "By the beard of Mokhanna, how can I tell?" "Well, then, she had two of the most beautiful eyes in the world; her eyebrows were finely arched; her forehead was splendid; her mouth was tempting--in short, she was as pretty as you could wish a woman to be, only she had _broken her nose_--a thousand pities, for it must once have been a very handsome one. Well, to continue, I made my bow. "'You perceive, now, sir,' said she, 'why I wore my veil down.' "'No, indeed,' replied I. "'You are very polite, or very blind,' rejoined she: 'the latter I believe not to be the fact. I did not choose to submit to the impertinence of my own countrymen in the diligence: they would have asked me a hundred questions upon my accident. But you are an Englishman, and have respect for a female who has been unfortunate.' "'I trust I deserve your good opinion, madam; and if I can be in any way useful to you----' "'You can. I shall be a stranger in England. I know that in London there is a great man, one Monsieur Lis-tong, who is very clever.' "'Very true, madam. If your nose, instead of having been slightly injured as it is, had been left behind you in Africa, Mr Liston would have found you another.' "'If he will only repair the old one, I ask no more. You give me hopes. But the bones are crushed completely, as you must see.' "'That is of no consequence. Mr Liston has put a new eye in, to my knowledge. The party was short-sighted, and saw better with the one put in by Mr Liston, than with the one which had been left him.' "'_Est-il possible? Mais, quel homme extraordinaire!_ Perhaps you will do me the favour to sit with me, monsieur; and, if I mistake not, you have a request to make of me--_n'est-ce pas_?' "'I feel such interest about you, madam, that I acknowledge, if it would not be too painful to you, I should like to ask a question.' "'Which is, How did I break my nose?--Of course you want to know. And as it is the only return I can make for past or future obligations to you, you shall most certainly be gratified. I will not detain you now. I shall expect you to supper. Adieu, monsieur.' "I did not, of course, fail in my appointment; and after supper she commenced:-- "'The question to be answered,' said she, 'is, How did you break your nose?--Is it not? Well, then, at least, I shall answer it after my own fashion. So, to begin at the beginning, I am now just twenty-two years old. My father was tambour-major in the Garde Impériale. I was born in the camp--brought up in the camp--and, finally, I was married in the camp, to a lieutenant of infantry at the time. So that, you observe, I am altogether _militaire_. As a child, I was wakened up with the drum and fife, and went to sleep with the bugles; as a girl, I became quite conversant with every military manoeuvre; and now that I am a woman grown, I believe that I am more fit for the _bâton_ than one half of those marshals who have gained it. I have studied little else but tactics; and have, as my poor husband said, quite a genius for them--but of that hereafter. I was married at sixteen, and have ever since followed my husband. I followed him at last to his grave. He quitted my bed for the bed of honour, where he sleeps in peace. We'll drink to his memory.' "We emptied our glasses, when she continued:-- "'My husband's regiment was not ordered to Africa until after the first disastrous attempt upon Constantine. It fell to our lot to assist in retrieving the honour of our army in the more successful expedition which took place, as you of course are aware, about three months ago. I will not detain you with our embarkation or voyage. We landed from a steamer at Bona, and soon afterwards my husband's company were ordered to escort a convoy of provisions to the army which were collecting at Mzez Ammar. Well, we arrived safely at our various camps of Dréan, Nech Meya, and Amman Berda. We made a little _détour_ to visit Ghelma. I had curiosity to see it, as formerly it was an important city. I must say that a more tenable position I never beheld. But I tire you with these details.' "'On the contrary, I am delighted.' "'You are very good. I ought to have said something about the travelling in these wild countries, which is anything but pleasant. The soil is a species of clay, hard as a flint when the weather is dry, but running into a slippery paste as soon as moistened. It is, therefore, very fatiguing, especially in wet weather, when the soldiers slip about, in a very laughable manner to look at, but very distressing to themselves. I travelled either on horseback or in one of the waggons, as it happened. I was too well known, and I hope I may add, too well liked, not to be as well provided for as possible. It is remarkable how soon a Frenchman will make himself comfortable, wherever he may chance to be. The camp of Mzez Ammar was as busy and as lively as if it was pitched in the heart of France. The followers had built up little cabins out of the branches of trees, with their leaves on, interwoven together, all in straight lines, forming streets, very commodious, and perfectly impervious to the withering sun. There were _restaurants_, _cafés_, _débits de vin et eau-de-vie_, sausage-sellers, butchers, grocers--in fact, there was every trade almost, and everything you required; not very cheap certainly, but you must recollect that this little town had sprung up, as if by magic, in the heart of the desert. "'It was in the month of September that Damrémont ordered a _reconnaissance_ in the direction of Constantine, and a battalion of my husband's regiment, the 47th, was ordered to form a part of it. I have said nothing about my husband. He was a good little man, and a brave officer, full of honour, but very obstinate. He never would take advice, and it was nothing but "_Tais-toi, Coralie_," all day long--but no one is perfect. He wished me to remain in the camp, but I made it a rule never to be left behind. We set off, and I rode in one of the little carriages called _cacolets_, which had been provided for the wounded. It was terrible travelling, I was jolted to atoms in the ascent of the steep mountain called the Rass-el-akba; but we gained the summit without a shot being fired. When we arrived there, and looked down beneath us, the sight was very picturesque. There were about four or five thousand of the Arab cavalry awaiting our descent; their white bournous, as they term the long dresses in which they enfold themselves, waving in the wind as they galloped at full speed in every direction; while the glitter of their steel arms flashed like lightning upon your eyes. We closed our ranks and descended; the Arabs, in parties of forty or fifty, charging upon our flanks every minute, not coming to close conflict, but stopping at pistol-shot distance, discharging their guns and then wheeling off again to a distance--mere child's play, sir; nevertheless there were some of our men wounded, and the little waggon upon which I was riding was ordered up in the advance to take them in. Unfortunately, to keep clear of the troops, the driver kept too much on one side of the narrow defile through which we passed; the consequence was, that the waggon upset, and I was thrown out a considerable distance down the precipice----' "'And broke your nose,' interrupted I. "'No indeed, sir, I did not. I escaped with only a few contusions about the region of the hip, which certainly lamed me for some time, and made the jolting more disagreeable than ever. Well, the _reconnaissance_ succeeded. Damrémont was, however, wrong altogether. I told him so when I met him; but he was an obstinate old fool, and his answer was not as polite as it might have been, considering that at that time I was a very pretty woman. We returned to the camp at Mzez Ammar; a few days afterwards we were attacked by the Arabs, who showed great spirit and determination in their desultory mode of warfare, which, however, can make no impression on such troops as the French. The attack was continued for three days, when they decamped as suddenly as they had come. But this cannot be very interesting to you, monsieur.' "'On the contrary, do not, I beg, leave out a single remark or incident.' "'You are very good. I presume you know how we _militaires_ like to fight our battles over again. Well, sir, we remained in camp until the arrival of the Duc de Nemours--a handsome, fair lad, who smiled upon me very graciously. On the 1st of October we set off on our expedition to Constantine; that is to say, the advanced guard did, of which my husband's company formed a portion. The weather which had been very fine, now changed, and it rained hard all the day. The whole road was one mass of mud, and there was no end to delays and accidents. However, the weather became fine again, and on the 5th we arrived within two leagues of Constantine, when the Arabs attacked us, and I was very nearly taken prisoner.' "'Indeed!' "'Yes; my husband, who, as I before observed to you, was very obstinate, would have me ride on a _caisson_ in the rear; whereas I wished to be in the advance, where my advice might have been useful. The charge of the Arabs was very sudden; the three men who were with the _caisson_ were sabred, and I was in the arms of a chieftain, who was wheeling round his horse to make off with me when a ball took him in the neck, and he fell with me. I disengaged myself, seized the horse by the bridle, and prevented its escape; and I also took possession of the Arab's pistols and scimitar.' "'Indeed!' "'My husband sold the horse the next day to one of our generals, who forgot to pay for it after my husband was killed. As for the scimitar and pistols, they were stolen from me that night: but what can you expect?--our army is brave, but a little demoralised. The next day we arrived before Constantine, and we had to defile before the enemy's guns. At one portion of the road, men and horses were tumbled over by their fire; the _caisson_ that I was riding upon was upset by a ball, and thrown down the ravine, dragging the horses after it. I lay among the horses' legs--they kicking furiously; it was a miracle that my life was preserved: as it was----' "'You broke your nose,' interrupted I. "'No, sir, indeed I did not. I only received a kick on the arm, which obliged me to carry it in a sling for some days. The weather became very bad; we had few tents, and they were not able to resist the storms of rain and wind. We wrapped ourselves up how we could and sat in deep pools of water, and the Arabs attacked us before we could open the fire of our batteries; we were in such a pickle that, had the bad weather lasted, we must have retreated; and happy would those have been who could have once more found themselves safe in the camp of Mzez Ammar. I don't think that I ever suffered so much as I did at that time--the weather had even overcome the natural gallantry of our nation; and so far from receiving any attention, the general remark to me was, "What the devil do _you_ do here?" This to be said to a pretty woman!' "'It was not till the 10th that we could manage to open the fire of our batteries. It was mud, mud, and mud again; the men and horses were covered with mud up to their necks--the feathers of the staff were covered with mud--every ball which was fired by the enemy sent up showers of mud; even the face of the Duc de Nemours was disfigured with it. I must say that our batteries were well situated, all except the great mortar battery. This I pointed out to Damrémont when he passed me, and he was very savage. Great men don't like to be told of their faults; however, he lost his life three days afterwards from not taking my advice. He was going down the hill with Rulhières when I said to him, 'Mon Général, you expose yourself too much; that which is duty in a subaltern is a fault in a general.' He very politely told me to go to where he may chance to be himself now; for a cannon-ball struck him a few seconds afterwards, and he was killed on the spot. General Perrégaux was severely wounded almost at the same time. For four days the fighting was awful; battery answered to battery night and day: while from every quarter of the compass we were exposed to the fierce attacks of the Arab cavalry. The commander of our army sent a flag of truce to their town, commanding them to surrender; and, what do you think was the reply?--"If you want powder, we'll supply you; if you are without bread, we will send it to you: but as long as there is one good Mussulman left alive you do not enter the town."--Was not that grand? The very reply, when made known to the troops, filled them with admiration of their enemy, and they swore by their colours that if ever they overpowered them they would give them no quarter. "'In two days, General Vallée, to whom the command fell upon the death of Damrémont, considered the breach sufficiently wide for the assault, and we every hour expected that the order would be given. It came at last. My poor husband was in the second column which mounted. Strange to say, he was very melancholy on that morning, and appeared to have a presentiment of what was to take place. "Coralie," said he to me, as he was scraping the mud off his trousers with his pocket-knife, "if I fall, you will do well. I leave you as a legacy to General Vallée--he will appreciate you. Do not forget to let him know my testamentary dispositions." "'I promised I would not. The drums beat. He kissed me on both cheeks. "Go, my Philippe," said I; "go to glory." He did; for a mine was sprung, and he with many others was blown to atoms. I had watched the advance of the column, and was able to distinguish the form of my dear Philippe when the explosion with the vast column of smoke took place. When it cleared away, I could see the wounded in every direction hastening back; but my husband was not among them. In the meantime the other columns entered the breach--the firing was awful, and the carnage dreadful. It was more than an hour after the assault commenced before the French tricolor waved upon the minarets of Constantine. "'It was not until the next day that I could make up my mind to search for my husband's body; but it was my duty. I climbed up the breach, strewed with the corpses of our brave soldiers, intermingled with those of the Arabs; but I could not find my husband. At last a head which had been blown off attracted my attention. I examined it--it was my Philippe's, blackened and burnt, and terribly disfigured: but who can disguise the fragment of a husband from the keen eyes of the wife of his bosom? I leaned over it. "My poor Philippe!" exclaimed I; and the tears were bedewing my cheeks when I perceived the Duc de Nemours close to me, with all his staff attending him. "What have we here?" said he, with surprise, to those about him. "A wife, looking for her husband's body, mon Prince," replied I. "I cannot find it; but here is his head." He said something very complimentary and kind, and then walked on. I continued my search without success, and determined to take up my quarters in the town. As I clambered along, I gained a battered wall; and, putting my foot on it, it gave with me, and I fell down several feet. Stunned with the blow, I remained for some time insensible; when I came to, I found----" "'That you had broken your nose.' "'No, indeed; I had sprained my ankle and hurt the cap of my knee, but my nose was quite perfect. You must have a little patience yet. "'What fragments of my husband were found, were buried in a large grave, which held the bodies and the mutilated portions of the killed; and, having obtained possession of an apartment in Constantine, I remained there several days, lamenting his fate. At last it occurred to me that his testamentary dispositions should be attended to, and I wrote to General Vallée, informing him of the last wishes of my husband. His reply was very short: it was, that he was excessively flattered, but press of business would not permit him to administer to the will. It was not polite. "'On the 26th I quitted Constantine with a convoy of wounded men. The dysentery and the cholera made fearful ravages, and I very soon had a _caisson_ all to myself. The rain again came on in torrents, and it was a dreadful funeral procession. Every minute wretches, jolted to death, were thrown down into pits by the roadside, and the cries of those who survived were dreadful. Many died of cold and hunger; and after three days we arrived at the camp of Mzez Ammar, with the loss of more than one-half of our sufferers. "'I took possession of one of the huts built of the boughs of the trees which I formerly described; and had leisure to think over my future plans and prospects. I was young and pretty, and hope did not desert me. I had recovered my baggage, which I had left at the camp, and was now able to attend to my toilet. The young officers who were in the camp paid me great attention, and were constantly passing and repassing to have a peep at the handsome widow, as they were pleased to call me; and now comes the history of my misfortune. "'The cabin built of boughs which I occupied was double; one portion was fenced off from the other with a wattling of branches, which ran up about seven feet, but not so high as the roof. In one apartment I was located, the other was occupied by a young officer who paid me attention, but who was not to my liking. I had been walking out in the cool of the evening and had returned, when I heard voices in the other apartment; I entered softly and they did not perceive my approach; they were talking about me, and I must say that the expressions were very complimentary. At last one of the party observed, "Well, she is a splendid woman, and a good soldier's wife. I hope to be a general by-and-bye, and she would not disgrace a marshal's baton. I think I shall propose to her before we leave the camp." "'Now, sir, I did not recognise the speaker by his voice, and, flattered by the remark, I was anxious to know who it could be who was thus prepossessed in my favour. I thought that if I could climb up on the back of the only chair which was in my apartment, I should be able to see over the partition and satisfy my curiosity. I did so, and without noise; and I was just putting my head over to take a survey of the tenants of the other apartment when the chair tilted, and down I came on the floor, and on my face. Unfortunately, I hit my nose upon the edge of the frying-pan, with which my poor Philippe and I used to cook our meat: and now, sir, you know how it was that I broke my nose.' "'What a pity!' observed I. "'Yes; a great pity. I had gone through the whole campaign without any serious accident, and----But after all it was very natural: the two besetting evils of women are Vanity and Curiosity, and if you were to ascertain the truth, you would find that it is upon these two stumbling-blocks that most women are upset and break their noses.' "'Very true, madam,' replied I. 'I thank you for your narrative, and shall be most happy to be of any use to you. But I will detain you from your rest no longer, so wish you a very good night.'" "Well, Colonel," said I, as he made a sudden stop, "what occurred after that?" "I took great care of her until we arrived in London, saw her safe to the hotel in Leicester Square, and then took my leave. Whether Liston replaced her nose, and she is now _flanée_-ing about Paris, as beautiful as before her accident; or, whether his skill was useless to her, and she is among the _Soeurs de Charite_, or in a convent, I cannot say: I have never seen or heard of her since." "Well, I know Liston, and I'll not forget to ask him about her the very first time that I meet him. Will you have another cigar?" "No, I thank you. I've finished my cigar, my bottle, and my story, and so now good-night!" THE END. TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.