31072	----	+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | | | Text printed using the Greek alphabet in the original book | | is shown as follows: [Greek: logos]. | | | | Superscript text in the original book is shown as follows: | | w^ch | +------------------------------------------------------------+ A LETTER BOOK A LETTER BOOK SELECTED WITH AN INTRODUCTION ON THE HISTORY AND ART OF LETTER-WRITING BY GEORGE SAINTSBURY LONDON G. BELL AND SONS, LTD. NEW YORK: HARCOURT, BRACE AND CO. 1922 PREFACE When my publishers were good enough to propose that I should undertake this book, they were also good enough to suggest that the Introduction should be of a character somewhat different from that of a school-anthology, and should attempt to deal with the Art of Letter-writing, and the nature of the Letter, as such. I formed a plan accordingly, by which the letters, and their separate Prefatory Notes, might be as it were illustrations to the Introduction, which was intended in turn to be a guide to them. Having done this with a proper _Pourvu que Dieu lui prête vie_ referring to both book and author, I thought it well to look up next what had been done in the way before me, at least to the extent of what the London Library could provide me in circumstances of enforced abstinence from the Museum and from "Bodley." From its catalogue I selected a curious eighteenth-century _Art of Letter Writing_, and four nineteenth and earliest twentieth century books--Roberts's _History of Letter Writing_ (1843) with Pickering's ever-beloved title-page and his beautiful clear print; the _Littérature Epistolaire_ of Barbey d'Aurevilly--a critic never to be neglected though always to be consulted with eyes wide open and brain alert; finally, two Essays in Dr. Jessopp's _Studies by a Recluse_ and in the _Men and Letters_ of Mr. Herbert Paul, once a very frequent associate of mine. The title of the first mentioned book speaks it pretty thoroughly. "The Art of Letter Writing: Divided into Two Parts. The First: Containing Rules and Directions for writing letters on all sorts of subjects [_this line as well as several others is Rubricked_] with a variety of examples equally elegant and instructive. The Second: a Collection of Letters on the Most interesting occasions of life in which are inserted--The proper method of Addressing Persons of all ranks; some necessary orthographical directions, the right forms of message for cards; and thoughts upon a multiplicity of subjects; the whole composed upon an entirely new plan--chiefly calculated for the instruction of youth, but may be [_sic_] of singular service to Gentlemen, Ladies and all others who are desirous to attain the true style and manner of a polite epistolary intercourse." May our own little book have no worse fortune! Mr. Roberts's avowedly restricts itself to the fifth century as a _terminus ad quem_, though it professes to start "from the earliest times," and its seven hundred pages deal very honestly and fully with their subjects. The essays of Dr. Jessopp and Mr. Paul are of course merely Essays, of a score or two of pages: though the first is pretty wide in its scope. There would be nothing but good to be said of either, if both had not been, not perhaps blasphemous but parsimonious of praise, towards "Our Lady of the Rocks." It cannot be too often or too solemnly laid down that an adoration of Madame de Sévigné as a letter-writer is not crotchet or fashion or affectation--is no result of merely taking authority on trust. The more one reads her, and the more one reads others, the more convinced should one be of her absolute non-pareility in almost every kind of genuine letter (as apart from letters that are really pamphlets or speeches or sermons) except pure love-letters, of which we have none from her. As for _Littérature Epistolaire_, it is a collection of some two dozen reviews of various modern reprints of letters by distinguished writers--mostly but not all French. The author has throughout used the letters he is considering almost wholly as tell-tales of character, not as examples of art: and therefore he does not, except in possible glances, require further attention, though the book is full of interesting things. Its judgment of one of our greatest, and one of the greatest of all, letter-writers--Horace Walpole--is too severe, but not, like Macaulay's, superficially insistent on superficial defects, and ought not to be neglected by anyone who studies the subject. If, however, there was no need to rely on any of these books, they did nothing to hinder in the peculiar way in which I had feared some hindrance. For it is a nuisance to find that somebody else has done something in the precise way in which you have planned doing it. I have not yet encountered that nuisance here. Dr. Jessopp's general plan is most like mine--indeed some similarity was unavoidable: but the two are not identical, and I had planned mine before I knew anything about his. So with this prelude let us go to business, only premising further that the object, unlike that of the anonymous Augustan, is not to "give rules and instructions for writing good letters," except in the way (which far excels all rules and instructions) of showing how good letters have been written. Let us also modestly trust that the collection may deal with some "interesting occasions of life" and contain "thoughts on a [fair] multiplicity of subjects." Having been, as above observed, unable during the composition of this book to visit London or Oxford, I have had to rely occasionally on friendly assistance. I owe particular thanks (as indeed I have owed them at almost any time these forty years) to the Rev. William Hunt, D.Litt., Honorary Fellow of Trinity College, Oxford: and I am also indebted to Miss Elsie Hitchcock for some kind aid at the Museum given me through the intermediation of Professor Ker. Besides the thanks given to Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, Mr. Kipling and Dr. Williamson in the text in reference to certain new or almost new letters, we owe very sincere gratitude for permission to reprint the following important matters: _His Honour Judge Parry._ Two letters from "Letters from Dorothy Osborne to Sir William Temple." _Messrs. Douglas & Foulis._ A letter to Joanna Baillie, from "Familiar Letters of Sir Walter Scott." _Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co._ Two letters from Mrs. Carlyle's "Letters and Memorials," and one letter from Sir G. O. Trevelyan's "Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay." _Messrs. Macmillan & Co., Ltd._ Three letters from "The Letters of Charles Dickens"; one letter by FitzGerald and one by Thomas Carlyle, from "Letters and Literary Remains of Edward FitzGerald"; one letter from "Charles Kingsley: his Letters and Memories of his Life"; and two extracts from "Further Records, 1848-1883," by Frances Anne Kemble. _Mr. John Murray._ One letter from "The Letters of Elizabeth Barrett Browning." GEORGE SAINTSBURY. 1 ROYAL CRESCENT, BATH, _October, 1921_. CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE v INTRODUCTION ON THE HISTORY AND ART OF LETTER-WRITING 1 I. Ancient History. II. Letters in English--before 1700. III. The Eighteenth Century. IV. Nineteenth Century Letters--Early. V. Nineteenth Century Letters--Later. VI. Some Special Kinds of Letter. VII. Conclusion. APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION: GREEK LETTERS--SYNESIUS 100 (i) To his Brother--Preparations to meet Raiders. (ii) To Hypatia--Longing but unable to come to her. LATIN LETTERS--PLINY 102 Accepts a Brief for a Lady. LETTERS OF THE "DARK" AGES--SIDONIUS APOLLINARIS 105 The exploits of Ecdicius. EARLY MEDIAEVAL (TWELFTH CENTURY) LETTER 108 Duchess of Burgundy to King Louis VII.--Matchmaking. ENGLISH LETTERS THE "PASTON" LETTERS 111 1. A Channel Fight. 2. Margery is Willing. ROGER ASCHAM 116 3. "Up the Rhine." 4. Nostalgia for Cambridge. LADY MARY SIDNEY 122 5. Have you no room at Court? GEORGE CLIFFORD, EARL OF CUMBERLAND 125 6. A Death-bed letter. JOHN DONNE 129 7-10. Letters to Magdalen Lady Herbert. JAMES HOWELL 135 11. "Long Melford for Ever." 12. The White Bird. JOHN EVELYN 139 13. How to take care of ears, eyes and brains. DOROTHY OSBORNE 146 14. A discourse of Flying, and several other things. 15. Some testimonies of kindness. JONATHAN SWIFT 154 16. Letter-hunger. LADY MARY WORTLEY-MONTAGU 159 17. Directions for running away with her. PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD 164 18. Some manners that make a gentleman. GEORGE BALLARD 173 19. The wickedness of Reviewers. THOMAS GRAY 180 20. Romanities and Plain English. 21. Kent, Rousseau, Lord Chatham, etc. HORACE WALPOLE (AND W. M. THACKERAY) 187 22. What Horace wrote. 23. What Horace might have written. TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT 195 24. Of Johnson, and Johnson's Frank--To Wilkes. WILLIAM COWPER 197 25. About a Greenhouse. SYDNEY SMITH 201 26. Vegetation, stagnation, and assassination. 27. His "hotel." Hasty judgments deprecated. SIR WALTER SCOTT 206 28. Authors and Morals. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 212 29. From Spinosa to Go_b_win through things in general. ROBERT SOUTHEY 217 30-33. The _Lingo Grande_. CHARLES LAMB 221 34. A Sigh for Solitude. GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON 228 35. Of Pictures, and Sepulture, and his Daughters. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 233 36. Of Pictures only. JOHN KEATS 239 37. A Voyage, and the _Quarterly_ and Charmian. THE CARLYLES 244 38. Thomas on _Latrappism_. 39. Jane Welsh on her Travels. 40. Jane Welsh on the blessings of Photography. THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 253 41. Outfits, and Election Dinners. Miss Berry and Lady Holland. THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES 258 42. Stage-coach tricks, and stage-play ghosts. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 263 43. An extended Honey-moon. EDWARD FITZGERALD 270 44. Of Bath, and Oxford, and some Immortals. FRANCIS ANNE KEMBLE 275 45. A Ghost in Flannel. 46. Bakespearism. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 279 47. As himself. 48. In character. CHARLES DICKENS 286 49. Straight dealing with the personages of _Nicholas Nickleby_. 50. Advice to an Innocent in London. 51. Mr. and Mrs. Harris. CHARLES KINGSLEY 292 52. _Tom Brown's Schooldays_; Pike fishing; and a pretty thing with Garth's. JOHN RUSKIN 296 53. The Servant question. ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR STEVENSON 303 54. John Gibson Lockhart, and an Umbrella. INTRODUCTION THE HISTORY AND ART OF LETTER WRITING I ANCIENT HISTORY On letter-writing, as on most things that can themselves be written and talked about, there are current many _clichés_--stock and banal sayings that express, or have at some time expressed, a certain amount of truth. The most familiar of these for a good many years past has been that the penny post has killed it. Whether revival of the twopenny has caused it to exhibit any kind of corresponding resurrectionary symptoms is a matter which cannot yet be pronounced upon. But it may be possible to avoid these _clichés_, or at any rate to make no more than necessary glances at them, in composing this little paper, which aims at being a discussion of the Letter as a branch of Literature, no less than an introduction to the specimens of the kind which follow. If, according to a famous dictum, "Everything has been said," it follows that every definition must have been already made. Therefore, no doubt, somebody has, or many bodies have, before now defined or at least described the Letter as that kind of communication of thought or fact to another person which most immediately succeeds the oral, and supplies the claims of absence. You want to tell somebody something; but he or she is not, as they used to say "by," or perhaps there are circumstances (and circum_standers_) which or who make speech undesirable; so you "write." At first no doubt, you used signs or symbols like the feather with which Wildrake let Cromwell's advent be known in _Woodstock_--a most ingenious device for which, by the way, the recipients were scantly grateful. But when reading and writing came by nature, you availed yourself of these Nature's gifts, not always, it is to be feared, regarding the interconnection of the two sufficiently. There is probably more than one person living who has received a reply beginning "Dear So-and-So, Thanks for your interesting and _partially legible_ epistle," or words to that effect. But that is a part of the matter which lies outside our range. On the probable general fact, however, some observations may be less frivolously based. If this were a sentimental age, as some ages in the past have been, one might assume that, as the first portrait is supposed to have been a silhouette of the present beloved, drawn on her shadow with a charcoaled stick, so the same, or another implement may have served (on what substitute for paper anybody pleases) to communicate with her when absent. But the silliness of this age--though far be it from us to dispute its possession of so prevailing a quality--does not take the form--at least _this_ form--of sentiment. [Sidenote: THE BEGINNINGS] There is, moreover, nothing silly or sentimental, though of course there is something that may be controverted, in saying that except for purely "business" purposes (which are as such alien from Art and have nothing to do with any but a part, and a rather sophisticated part, of Nature) the less the letter-writer forgets that he is merely substituting pen for tongue the better. Of course, the instruments and the circumstances being different, the methods and canons of the proceedings will be different too. In the letter there is no interlocutor; and there is no possibility of what we may call accompanying it with personal illustrations[1] and demonstrations, if necessary or agreeable. But still it may be laid down, with some confidence, that the more the spoken word is heard in a letter the better, and the less that word is heard--the more it gives way to "book"-talk--the worse. Indeed this is not likely to be denied, though there remain as usual almost infinite possibilities of differences in personal opinion as to what constitutes the desirable mixture of variation and similarity between a conversation and a letter. Let us, before discussing this or saying anything more about the principles, say something about the history of this, at best so delightful, at worst so undelightful art. For if History, in the transferred sense of particular books called "histories," is rather apt to be false: nothing but History in the wider and higher sense will ever lead us to truth. The Future is unknown and unknowable. The Present is turning to Past even as we are trying to know it. Only the Past itself abides our knowledge. [Sidenote: BIBLICAL EXAMPLES] Of the oldest existing examples of epistolary correspondence, except those contained in the Bible, the present writer knows little or nothing. For, except a vanished smattering of Hebrew, he "has" no Oriental tongue; he has never been much addicted to reading translations, and even if he had been so has had little occasion to draw him to such studies, and much to draw him away from them. There certainly appear to be some beautiful specimens of the more passionate letter writing in ancient if not exactly pre-Christian Chinese, and probably in other tongues--but it is ill talking of what one does not know. In the Scriptures themselves letters do not come early, and the "token" period probably lasted long. Isaac does not even send a token with Jacob to validate his suit for a daughter of Laban. But one would have enjoyed a letter from Ishmael to his half-brother, when his daughter was married to Esau, who was so much more like a son of Ishmael himself than of the amiable husband of Rebekah. She, by the way, had herself been fetched in an equally unlettered transaction. It would of course be impossible, and might be regarded as improper, to devote much space here to the sacred epistolographers. But one may wonder whether many people have appreciated the humour of the two epistles of the great King Ahasuerus-Artaxerxes, the first commanding and the second countermanding the massacre of the Jews--epistles contained in the Septuagint "Rest of the Book of Esther" (see our Apocrypha), instead of the mere dry summaries which had sufficed for "the Hebrew and the Chaldee." The exact authenticity of these fuller texts is a matter of no importance, but their substance, whether it was the work of a Persian civil servant or of a Greek-Jew rhetorician, is most curious. Whosoever it was, he knew King's Speeches and communications from "My lords" and such like things, very well indeed; and the contrast of the mention in the first letter of "Aman who excelled in wisdom among us and was approved for his constant good will and steadfast fidelity" with "the wicked wretch Aman--a stranger received of us ... his falsehood and cunning"--the whole of both letters being carefully attuned to the respective key-notes--is worthy of any one of the best ironists from Aristophanes to the late Mr. Traill. Between these two extremes of the Pentateuch and the Apocrypha there is, as has been remarked by divers commentators, not much about letters in the Bible. It is not auspicious that among the exceptions come David's letter commanding the betrayal of Uriah, and a little later Jezebel's similar prescription for the judicial murder of Naboth. There is, however, some hint of that curious attractiveness which some have seen in "the King's daughter all glorious within--" and without (as the Higher Criticism interprets the Forty-Fifth Psalm) in the bland way with which she herself stipulates that the false witnesses shall be "sons of Belial." There is a book (once much utilised as a school prize) entitled _The History of Inventions_. I do not know whether there is a "Dictionary of Attributed Inventors." If there were it would contain some queer examples. One of the queerest is fathered (for we only have it at second hand) on Hellanicus, a Greek writer of respectable antiquity--the Peloponnesian war-time--and respectable repute for book-making in history, chronology, etc. It attributes the invention of letters--_i.e._ "epistolary correspondence"--to Atossa--not Mr. Matthew Arnold's Persian cat but--the Persian Queen, daughter of Cyrus, wife of Cambyses and Darius, mother of Xerxes, and in more than her queenly status a sister to Jezebel. Atossa had not a wholly amiable reputation, but she was assuredly no fool: and if, to borrow a famous phrase, it had been necessary to invent letters, there is no known reason why she might not have done it. But it is perfectly certain that she did not, and no one who combines, as all true scholars should endeavour to combine, an unquenchable curiosity to know what can be known and is worth knowing with a placid resignation to ignorance of what cannot be known and would not be worth knowing--need in the least regret the fact that we do not know who did. There are said to be Egyptian letters of immense antiquity and high development; but once more, I do not profess direct knowledge of them, and once more I hold that of what a man does not possess direct knowledge, of that he should not write. Besides, for practical purposes, all our literature begins with Greek: so to Greek let us turn. We have a fair bulk of letters in that language. Hercher's _Epistolographi Graeci_ is a big volume, and would not be a small one, if you cut out the Latin translations. But it is unfortunate that nearly the whole, like the majority of later Greek literature, is the work of that special class called rhetoricians--a class for which, though our term "book-makers" may be a little too derogatory, "men of letters" is rarely (it is sometimes) applicable, as we use it when we mean to be complimentary. These letters are still close to "speech," thus meeting in a fashion our initial requirement, but they are close to the speech of the "orator"--of the sophisticated speaker to the public--not to that of genuine conversation. In fact in some cases it would require only the very slightest change to make those exercitations of the rhetors which are not called "epistles" definite letters in form, while some of the best known and characteristic of their works are so entitled. [Sidenote: THE RHETORICIANS] It was unfortunate for the Greeks, as it would seem, and for us more certainly, that letter-writing was so much affected by these "rhetoricians." This curious class of persons has perhaps been too much abused: and there is no doubt that very great writers came out of them--to mention one only in each division--Lucian among the extremely profane, and St. Augustine among the greatest and most intellectual of divines. But though their habitual defects are to be found abundantly enough in modern society, these defects are, with us, as a rule distributed among different classes; while anciently they were united in this one. We have our journalists, our book-makers (literary, not sporting), our platform and parliamentary palaverers, our popular entertainers; and we also have our pedagogues, scholastic and collegiate, our scientific and other lecturers, etc. But the Rhetorician of old was a Jack of all these trades; and he too frequently combined the triviality, unreality, sophistry and catch-pennyism of the one division with the priggishness, the lack of tact and humour, and above all the pseudo-scientific tendency to generalisation, classification and, to use a familiar word, "pottering" of the other. In particular he had a mania in his more serious moods for defining and sub-defining things and putting them into pigeon-holes under the sub-definitions. Thus the so-called Demetrius Phalereus, who (or a false namesake of his) has left us a capital _general_ remark (to be given presently) on letter-writing, elaborately divides its kinds, with prescriptions for writing each, into "friendly," "commendatory," "reproving," "objurgatory," "consolatory," "castigatory," "admonishing," "threatening," "vituperatory," "laudatory," "persuasive," "begging," "questioning," "answering," "allegorical," "explanatory," "accusing," "defending," "congratulatory," "ironic" and "thankful," while the neo-Platonist, Proclus, is responsible for, or at least has attributed to him, a list of nearly double the length, including most of those given above and adding many. Of these last, "love-letters" is the most important, and "mixed" the _canniest_, for it practically lets in everything. This way, of course, except for purely business purposes--where established forms save time, trouble and possible litigation--no possible good lies; and indeed the impossibility thereof is clearly enough indicated in the above-glanced-at general remark of Demetrius (or whoever it was) himself. In fact the principle of this remark and its context in the work called "Of Interpretation," which it is more usual now to call, perhaps a little rashly, "Of Style," is so different from the catalogue of types that they can hardly come from the same author. "You _can_ from this, as well as from all other kinds of writing, discern the character of the writer; indeed from none other can you discern it so well." Those who know a little of the history of Criticism will see how this anticipates the most famous and best definitions of Style itself, as being "the very man," and they may perhaps also think worthy of notice another passage in the same context where the author finds fault with a rather "fine" piece of an epistle as "not the way a man would talk to his friend," and even goes on to use the most familiar Greek word for talking--[Greek: lalein]--in the same connection. [Sidenote: ALCIPHRON. JULIAN] Of such "talking with a friend" we have unfortunately very few examples--hardly any at all--from older Greek. The greater collections--not much used in schools or colleges now but well enough known to those who really know Greek Literature--of Alciphron, Aristaenetus, Philostratus and (once most famous of all) Phalaris are--one must not perhaps say obvious, since men of no little worth were once taken in by them but--pretty easily discoverable counterfeits. They are sometimes, more particularly those of Philostratus, interesting and even beautiful;[2] they have been again sometimes at least supposed, particularly those of Alciphron, to give us, from the fact that they were largely based upon lost comedies, etc., information which we should otherwise lack; and in many instances (Aristaenetus is perhaps here the chief) they must have helped towards that late Greek creation of the Romance to which we owe so much. Nor have we here much if anything to do with such questions as the morality of personating dead authors, or that of laying traps for historians. It is enough that they do not give us, except very rarely, good letters: and that even these exceptions are not in any probability _real_ letters, real written "confabulations of friends" at all. Almost the first we have deserving such a description are those of the Emperor Julian in the fourth century of that Christ for whom he had such an unfortunate hatred; the most copious and thoroughly genuine perhaps those of Bishop Synesius a little later. Of these Julian's are a good deal affected by the influence of Rhetoric, of which he was a great cultivator: and the peculiar later Platonism of Synesius fills a larger proportion of his than some frivolous persons might wish. Julian is even thought to have "written for publication," as Latin epistolers of distinction had undoubtedly done before him. Nevertheless it is pleasant to read the Apostate when he is not talking Imperial or anti-Christian "shop," but writing to his tutor, the famous sophist and rhetorician Libanius, about his travels and his books and what not, in a fashion by no means very unlike that in which a young Oxford graduate might write to an undonnish don. It is still pleasanter to find Synesius telling his friends about the very thin wine and very thick honey of Cyrenaica; making love ("camouflaged," as they say to-day, under philosophy) to Hypatia, and condescending to mention dogs, horses and hunting now and then. But it is unfortunately undeniable that the bulk of this department of Greek literature is spurious to begin with, and uninteresting, even if spuriousness be permitted to pass. The Letters of Phalaris--once famous in themselves, again so as furnishing one of the chief battle-grounds in the "Ancient and Modern" quarrel, and never to be forgotten because of their connection with Swift's _Battle of the Books_--are as dull as ditchwater in matter, and utterly destitute of literary distinction in style. * * * * * [Sidenote: ROMAN LETTER-WRITING] It is a rule, general and almost universal, that every branch of Latin literature is founded on, and more or less directly imitative of Greek. Even the Satire, which the Romans relied upon to prove that they could originate, is more apparently than really an invention. Also, though this may be more disputable, because much more a matter of personal taste, there were very few such branches in which the pupils equalled, much fewer in which they surpassed, their masters. But in both respects letter-writing may be said to be an exception. Unless we have been singularly unlucky in losing better Greek letters than we have, and extraordinarily fortunate in Fate's selection of the Latin letters that have come down to us, the Romans, though they were eager students of Rhetoric, and almost outwent their teachers in composing the empty things called Declamations, seem to have allowed this very practice to drain off mere verbosity, and to have written letters about matters which were worth pen, ink, paper and (as we should say) postage. We have in Greek absolutely no such letters from the flourishing time of the literature as those of Cicero, of Pliny[3] and even of Seneca--while as we approach the "Dark" Ages Julian and Synesius in the older language cannot touch Sidonius Apollinaris or perhaps Cassiodorus[4] in the younger. Of course all these are beyond reasonable doubt genuine, while the Greek letters attributed to Plato, Socrates and other great men are almost without doubt and without exception spurious. But there is very little likelihood that the Greeks of the great times wrote many "matter-ful" letters at all. They lived in small communities, where they saw each other daily and almost hourly; they took little interest in the affairs of other communities unless they were at war with them, and when they did travel there were very few means of international communication. Women write the best letters, and get the best letters written to them: but it is doubtful whether Greek women, save persons of a certain class and other exceptions in different ways like Sappho and Diotima,[5] ever wrote at all. The Romans, after their early period, were not merely a larger and ever larger community full of the most various business, and constantly extending their presence and their sway; but, by their unique faculty of organisation, they put every part of their huge world in communication with every other part. Here also we lack women's letters; but we are, as above remarked, by no means badly off for those of men. There have even been some audacious heretics who have preferred Cicero's letters to his speeches and treatises; Seneca, the least attractive of those before mentioned, put well what the poet Wordsworth called in his own poems "extremely va_loo_able thoughts"; one of the keenest of mathematicians and best of academic and general business men known to the present writer, the late Professor Chrystal of Edinburgh, made a special favourite of Pliny; and if people can find nothing worse to say against Sidonius than that he wrote in contemporary, and not in what was for his time archaic, Latin, his case will not look bad in the eyes of sensible men. [Sidenote: SIDONIUS] Sidonius, like Synesius, was a Christian, and, though the observation may seem no more logical than Fluellen's about Macedon and Monmouth, besides being in more doubtful taste, there would seem to be some connection between the spread of Christianity and that of letter-writing. At any rate they synchronise, despite or perhaps because of the deficiency of formal literature during the "Dark" Ages. It is not really futile to point out that a very large part of the New Testament consists of "Epistles," and that by no means the whole of these epistles is occupied by doctrinal or hortatory matter. Even that which is so, often if not always, partakes of the character of a "live" letter to an extent which makes the so-called letters of the Greek Rhetoricians mere school exercises. And St. Paul's allusions to his journeys, his salutations, his acknowledgment of presents, his reference to the cloak and the books with its anxious "but especially the parchments," and his excellent advice to Timothy about beverages, are all the purest and most genuine matter for mail-bags. So is St. Peter's very gentleman-like (as it has been termed) retort to his brother Apostle; and so are both the Second and the Third of St. John. Indeed it is not fanciful to suggest that the account of the voyage which finishes the "Acts," and other parts of that very delightful book, are narratives much more of the kind one finds in letters than of the formally historical sort. However this may be, it is worth pointing out that the distrust of other pagan kinds of literature which the Fathers manifested so strongly, and which was inherited from them by the clergy of the "Dark," and to some extent the Middle Ages, clearly could not extend to the practice of the Apostles. If from the Dark Ages themselves we have not very many, it must be remembered that from them we have little literature at all: while from the close of that period and the beginning of the next we have one of the most famous of all correspondences, the Letters of Abelard and Heloise. Of the intrinsic merit of these long-and far-famed compositions, as displaying character, there have been different opinions--one of the most damaging attacks on them may be found in Barbey d'Aurevilly's already mentioned book. But their influence has been lasting and enormous: and even if it were to turn out that they are forgeries, they are certainly early forgeries, and the person who forged them knew extremely well what he was about. There is no room here to survey, even in selection, the letter-crop of the Middle Ages; and from henceforward we must speak mainly, if not wholly (for some glances abroad may be permitted), of _English_ letters.[6] But the ever-increasing bonds of union--even of such union in disunion as war--between different European nations, and the developments of more complex civilisation, of more general education and the like--all tended and wrought in the same direction. II LETTERS IN ENGLISH--BEFORE 1700 Exceptions have sometimes been taken to the earliest collection of genuine private letters, not official communications written in or inspired by Latin--which we possess in English. "The Paston Letters" have been, from opposite sides, accused of want of literary form and of not giving us interesting enough details in substance. The objections in either case[7] are untenable, and in both rather silly. In the first place "literary form" in the fifteenth century was exceedingly likely to be bad literary form, and we are much better off without it. Unless Sir Thomas Malory had happened to be chaplain at Oxnead, or Sir John Fortescue had occupied there something like the position of Mr. Tulkinghorn in _Bleak House_, we should not have got much "literature" from any known prose-writer of the period. Nor was it wanted. As for interestingness of matter, the people who expect newspaper-correspondent fine writing about the Wars of the Roses may be disappointed; but some of us who have had experience of that dialect from the Russells of the Crimea through the Forbeses of 1870 to the chroniclers of Armageddon the other day will probably not be very unhappy. The Paston Letters are simply genuine family correspondence--of a genuineness all the more certain because of their commonplaceness. It is impossible to conceive anything further from the initial type of the Greek rhetorical "letter" of which we have just been saying something. They are not, to any but an excessively "high-browed" and high-flying person, uninteresting: but the chief point about them is their solidity and their satisfaction, in their own straightforward unvarnished way, of the test we started with. When Margaret Paston and the rest write, it is because they have something to say to somebody who cannot be actually spoken to. And that something is said. [Sidenote: ASCHAM] The next body of letters--Ascham's--which seems to call for notice here is of the next century. It has not a few points of appeal, more than one of which concern us very nearly. Most of the writers of the Paston Letters were, though in some cases of good rank and fairly educated, persons entirely unacademic in character, and their society was that of the last trouble and convulsion through which the Early Middle Ages struggled into the Renaissance, so long delayed with us. Ascham was one of our chief representatives of the Renaissance itself--that is to say, of a type at once scholarly and man-of-the-worldly, a courtier and a diplomatist as well as a "don" and a man of letters; a sportsman as well as a schoolmaster. And while from all these points of view his letters have interest, there is one thing about them which is perhaps more interesting to us than any other: and that is the fact that while he begins to write in Latin--the all but mother-tongue of all scholars of the time, and the universal language of the educated, even when not definitely scholarly, throughout Europe--he exchanges this for English latterly, in the same spirit which prompted his famous expression of reasons for writing the _Toxophilus_ in our own and his own tongue. There is indeed a double attraction, which has not been always or often noticed, in this change of practice. Everybody has seen how important it is, not merely as resisting the general delusion of contemporary scholars that the vernaculars were things unsafe, "like to play the bankrupt with books," but as protesting by anticipation against the continuance of this error which affected Bacon and Hobbes, and was not entirely without hold even on such a magician in English as Browne. But perhaps everybody has not seen how by implication it acknowledges the peculiar character of the genuine letter--that, though it may be a work of art, it should not be one of artifice--that it is a matter of "business _or_ bosoms," not of study or display. Contemporary with these letters of Ascham, and going on to the end of the century and the closely coincident end of the reign of Elizabeth, we have a considerable bulk of letter-writing of more or less varied kinds. The greatest men of letters of the time--to the disgust of one, but not wholly so to that of another, class of "scholar"--give us little. Spenser is the most considerable exception: and his correspondence with Gabriel Harvey, though it is personal to a certain extent and on Gabriel's side sufficiently character-revealing, is really of the hybrid kind, partaking rather more of pamphlet or essay than of letter proper. Indeed a good part of that very remarkable pamphlet-literature of this time, which has perhaps scarcely yet received its due share of attention, takes the letter-form: but is mostly even farther from genuine letter-writing than the correspondence of "Immerito" and "Master G. H." We have of course more of Harvey's; we have laments from others, such as Lyly and Googe, about their disappointments as courtiers; we have a good deal of State correspondence. There are some, not very many, agreeable letters of strictly private character in whole or part, the pleasantest of all perhaps being some of Sir Philip Sydney's mother, Lady Mary Dudley. Others are from time to time being made public, such as those in Dr. Williamson's recent book on the Admiral-Earl of Cumberland. As far as mere bulk goes, Elizabethan epistolography would take no small place, just as it would claim no mean one in point of interest. But in an even greater degree than its successor (_v. inf._) this _corpus_ would expose itself to the criticism that the time for perfect letter-writing was not quite yet, in this day of so much that was perfect, that the style was not quite the right style, the knack not yet quite achieved. And if the present writer--who swore fealty to Elizabethan literature a full third of a century ago after informal allegiance for nearly as long a time earlier--admits some truth in this, there probably is some. The letters included in it attract us more for the matter they contain than for the manner in which they contain it: and when this is the case no branch of literature has perfected itself in art. [Sidenote: THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY] The position of the seventeenth century in England with regard to letter-writing has been the subject of rather different opinions. The bulk of its contributions is of course very considerable: and some of the groups are of prominent importance, the most singular, if not the most excellent, being Cromwell's, again to be mentioned. As in other cases and departments this century offers a curious "split" between its earlier part which declines--not in goodness but like human life in vitality--from, but still preserves the character of, the pure Elizabethan, and its later, which grows up again--not in goodness but simply in the same vitality--towards the Augustan. This relationship is sufficiently illustrated in the actual letters. The great political importance of the Civil War of course reflects itself in them. Indeed it may almost be said that for some time letters are wholly concerned with such things, though of course there are partial exceptions, such as those of Dorothy Osborne--"mild Dorothea" as she afterwards became, though there is no mere mildness of the contemptuous meaning in her correspondence. In most remarkable contrast to these stand the somewhat earlier letters of James Howell--our first examples perhaps of letters "written for publication" in the fullest sense, very agreeably varied in subject and great favourites with a good many people, notably Thackeray--but only in part (if at all) genuine private correspondence. Not a few men otherwise distinguished in literature wrote letters--sometimes in curious contrast with other productions of theirs. The most remarkable instance of this, but an instance easily comprehensible, is that of Samuel Pepys. Only a part of Pepys' immense correspondence has ever been printed, but there is no reason to expect from the remainder--whether actually extant, mislaid or lost--anything better than the examples which are now accessible, and which are for the most part the very opposite in every respect of the famous and delectable Diary. They are perfectly "proper," and for the most part extremely dull; while propriety is certainly not the most salient characteristic of the Diary; and the diarist manages, in the most eccentric manner, to communicate interest not merely to things more specially regarded as "interesting," but to his accounts and his ailments, his business and his political history. His contemporary and rather patronising friend Evelyn keeps his performances less far apart from each other: but is certainly, though a representative, not a great letter-writer, and the few that we have of Pepys' patronised fellow-Cantabrigian Dryden are of no great mark, though not superfluous. In the earlier part of the century Latin had not wholly shaken off its control as the epistolary language; and it was not till quite the other end that English itself became supple and docile enough for the purposes of the letter-writer proper. It was excellent for such things as formal Dedications, semi-historical narratives, and the like. And it could, as in Sir Thomas Browne's, supply another contrast, much more pleasing than that referred to above, of domestic familiarity with a most poetical transcendence of style in published work. Yet, as was the case with the novel, the letter, to gain perfection, still wanted something easier than the grand style of the seventeenth century and more polished than its familiar style. III THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY [Sidenote: THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY] But whatever may be the position of the seventeenth in respect of letter-writing it is impossible for anything but sheer ignorance, hopeless want of critical discernment, or idle paradox to mistake, in the direction of belittlement, that of the eighteenth. By common consent of all opinion worth attention that century was, in the two European literatures which were equally free from crudity and decadence--French and English--the very palmiest day of the art. Everybody wrote letters: and a surprising number of people wrote letters well. Our own three most famous epistolers of the male sex, Horace Walpole, Gray and Cowper--belong wholly to it; and "Lady Mary"--our most famous she-ditto--belongs to it by all but her childhood; as does Chesterfield, whom some not bad judges would put not far if at all below the three men just mentioned. The rise of the novel in this century is hardly more remarkable than the way in which that novel almost wedded itself--certainly joined itself in the most frequent friendship--to the letter-form. But perhaps the excellence of the choicer examples in this time is not really more important than the abundance, variety and popularity of its letters, whether good, indifferent, or bad. To use one of the informal superlatives sanctioned by familiar custom it was the "letterwritingest" of ages from almost every point of view. In its least as in its most dignified moods it even overflowed into verse if not into poetry as a medium. Serious epistles had--of course on classical models--been written in verse for a long time. But now in England more modern patterns, and especially Anstey's _New Bath Guide_, started the fashion of actual correspondence in doggerel verse with no thought of print--a practice in which persons as different as Madame d'Arblay's good-natured but rather foolish father, and a poet and historian like Southey indulged; and which did not become obsolete till Victorian times, if then. At the present moment one does not remember an exact equivalent in England to the story of two good writers in French if not French writers[8] living in the same house, meeting constantly during the day, yet exchanging letters, and not short ones, before breakfast. But very likely there is or was one, and more than one. For those no doubt estimable persons who are not content with facts but must have some explanations of them, it is less difficult to supply such things than is sometimes the case. One--the attainment at last of a "middle" style neither grand nor vulgar--has already been glanced at. It has been often and quite truly observed that there are sentences, passages, paragraphs, almost whole letters in Horace Walpole and Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, in Fanny Burney and in Cowper, which no one would think old-fashioned at the present day in any context where modern slang did not suggest itself as natural. But this was by no means the only predisposing cause, though perhaps most of the others were, in this way or that, connected with it. Both in France and in England literature and social matters generally were in something like what political economists call "the stationary state" till (as rather frequently happens with such apparently stationary states) the smoothness changed to the Niagara of the French Revolution, and the rapids of the quarter-century War. There were no great poets:[9] and even verse-writers were rarely grand: but there was a greater diffusion of competent writing faculty than had been seen before or perhaps--for all the time, talk, trouble, and money spent on "education,"--has been since. New divisions and departments of interest were accumulating--not merely in Literature itself[10] (as to which, if people's ideas were rather limited, they _had_ ideas), but in the arts which were in some cases practised almost for the first time and in all taken more seriously, in foreign and home politics, commerce, manufactures, all manner of things. People were by no means so apt to stay in the same place as they had been: and when friends were in different places they had much easier means of communicating with each other. Nor should it be forgotten that the more elaborate system of ceremonial manners which then prevailed, but which has been at first gradually, and latterly with a run, breaking down for the last hundred years, had an important influence on letter-writing. One does not of course refer merely to elaborate formulas of beginning and ending--such as make even the greatest praisers of times past among us smile a little when they find Dr. Johnson addressing his own step-daughter as "Dear Madam," and being her "most humble servant" though in the course of the letter he may use the most affectionate and intimate expressions. But the manners of yester-year made it obligatory to make your letters--unless they were merely what were called "cards" of invitation, message, etc.--to some extent _substantive_. You gave the news of the day, if your correspondent was not likely to know it; the news of the place, especially if you were living in a University town or a Cathedral city. If you had read a book you very often criticised it: if you had been to any kind of entertainment you reported on it, etc. etc. Of course all this is still done by people who really do write real letters: but it is certainly done by a much smaller proportion of letter-writers than was the case two hundred, one hundred, or even fifty years ago. The newspaper has probably done more to kill letters than any penny post, halfpenny postcard or even sixpenny telegram could do. Nor perhaps have we yet mentioned the most powerful destructive agent of all, and that is the ever increasing want of leisure. The dulness of modern Jack, in letters as elsewhere, arises from the fact that when he is not at work he is too desperately set on playing to have time for anything else. The Augustans are not usually thought God-like: but they have this of Gods, that they "lived _easily_." There is perhaps still something to be said as to the apparently almost pre-established harmony between the eighteenth century and letter-writing. It concerns what has been called the "_Peace_ of the Augustans"; the at least comparative freedom alike from the turmoil of passion and the most riotous kinds of fun. Tragedy may be very fine in letters, as it may be anywhere: but it is in them the most dangerous,[11] most rarely successful and most frequently failed-in of all motives--again as it is everywhere. Comedy in letters is good: but it should be fairly "genteel" comedy, such as this age excelled in--not roaring Farce. An "excruciatingly funny" letter runs the risk of being excruciating in a sadly literal sense. Now the men of good Queen Anne and the first three Georges were not given to excess, in these ways at any rate; and there are few better examples of the happy mean than the best of their letters. The person who is bored by any one of those sets which have been mentioned must bring the boredom with him--as, by the way, complainers of that state of suffering do much oftener than they wot of. Nor is much less to be said of scores of less famous epistolers of the time, from the generation of Berkeley and Byrom to that of Scott and Southey. [Sidenote: SWIFT] To begin with Swift, it is a scarcely disputable fact that opinions about this giant of English literature--not merely as to his personal character, though perhaps this has had more to do with the matter than appears on the surface, but as to his exact literary value--have differed almost incomprehensibly. Johnson thought, or at least affected to think, that _A Tale of a Tub_ could not be Swift's, because it was too good for him, and that "Tom Davies might have written _The Conduct of the Allies_": while on the other hand Thackeray, indulging in the most extravagant denunciation of Swift as a man, did the very fullest, though not in the least too full, homage to his genius. But one does not know many things more surprising in the long list of contradictory criticisms of man and genius alike, than Mr. Herbert Paul's disapproval of the _Journal to Stella_ as letters while admitting its excellence as "narrative."[12] To other judges these are some of the most perfect letters in existence, some of the most absolutely genuine and free from the slightest taint of writing for publication; some of the most extraordinarily blended of intense intimacy which is neither ridiculous nor productive of the shame-faced feeling that you ought not to have heard it; and full of that dealing with matters less intimate but still interesting to both correspondents which displays the "narrative" excellence conceded by this acute critic. It must of course be remembered that these "Journal-letters" are by no means Swift's only proofs of his epistolary expertness. The Vanessa ones perhaps display a little of the hopelessly enigmatic character which spreads like a mist over the whole of that ill-starred relationship: but they make all the more useful contrast to the "wholeheartedness"--one may even use that word in reference to the little bit of what we may call constructive deception as to "the other person"--of those to her rival.[13] Those to Pope (of which so shabby a use was made by their strangely constituted recipient), to Bolingbroke and others are among the best of friendly letters: and the curious batch to the Duchess of Queensberry might be classed with those "court-paying" letters of man to woman which are elsewhere more particularly noted. But the "Stella" or "Stella-cum-Dingley" division (if that most singular of value-completing zeros is to be brought in) is a thing by itself. Perhaps appreciating or not appreciating the "little language" is a matter very largely of personal constitution, and the failure to appreciate is (like colour-blindness or other physical deficiencies) a thing to be sorry for, not to condemn. But one might have thought that even if what we may call "feeling" of this were absent there would be an intellectual understanding of the way in which it completes the whole-heartedness just mentioned--the manner in which the writer deals with politics, society, letters, the common ways of life, and his own passion--this last sometimes in the fore-sometimes in the background, but never far off. Other letters, from Horace Walpole's downwards, may contain a panorama of life as brilliant as these give, or more brilliant. Yet it is too frequently a panorama or a puppet show, or at the best a marvellously acted but somewhat bloodless drama. On the other hand, the pure passion-letters lack as a rule this many-sidedness. With Swift we get both. Seldom has any collection shown us more varied interests. But through it all there is an anticipation of the knell of this commerce of his--"Only a woman's hair"--and that hair threads, in subtle fashion, the whole of the Journal, turning the panorama to something felt as well as seen, and the puppet-show to realities of flesh and blood. That this magical transforming element is wanting in a most remarkable pair of contemporaries, Chesterfield and "Lady Mary," has been generally allowed; though a strong fight has been made by some of her sisters for "my lady" and though the soundest criticism allows that "my lord" did not so much lack as dissemble heart and even sometimes showed the heart he had. It would be out of our proper line to discuss such questions here at any length. It may be enough to warn readers who have not yet had time to look into the matter for themselves that Pope's coarse attacks on Lady Mary and Johnson's fine rhetorical rebuff of Chesterfield were unquestionably outbursts of hurt personal pride. Horace Walpole made hits at both for reasons which we may call personal at second-hand, because the one was a friend of his sister-in-law and the other an enemy of his father. As for Dickens' caricature of "Sir John Chester" in _Barnaby Rudge_ it is not so much a caricature as a sheer and inexcusable libel. Anyhow, the letters of the Earl and the Lady are exceedingly good reading. Persons of no advanced years who have been introduced to them in the twentieth century have been known to find them positively captivating: and their attractions are, not merely as between the two but even in each case by itself, singularly various. Lady Mary's forte--perhaps in direct following of her great forerunner and part namesake, Marie de Sévigné, though she spoke inadvisedly of her--lies in description of places and manners, and in literary criticism.[14] Her accounts of her Turkish journey in earlier days, and of some scenes in Italy later, of her court and other experiences, etc., rank among the best things of the kind in English; and her critical acuteness, assisted as it was by no small possession of what might almost be called scholarship, was most remarkable for her time. Also, she does all these things naturally--with that naturalness at which--when they possess it at all--women are so much better than men. People say a lady can never pass a glass without looking at herself. (One thinks by the way one has seen men do that.) But after all what the glass gives is a reflection and record of nature: and women learn to see it in others as well as in themselves. [Sidenote: CHESTERFIELD] Few English writers have suffered more injustice in popular estimation than Chesterfield. Even putting aside the abuse by which, as above mentioned, Johnson showed (on Fluellen's principles convincingly) that he had more in common with the Goddess Juno than the J in both their names--that is to say an _insanabile vulnus_ of vanity--there remain sources of mistakes and prejudice which have been all too freely tapped. The miscellaneous letters--which show sides of him quite different from those most in evidence throughout the "Letters to his Son"--are rarely read: these latter have been, at least once and probably oftener, made into a schoolbook for translation into other languages--an office by no means likely to conciliate affection. And even when they are not suspected of positive immorality there is a too general idea that they are frivolously and trivially didactic--the sort of thing that Mr. Turveydrop the elder might have written on Deportment--if he had had brains enough. Yet again, unbiassed appreciation of them has been hampered by all sorts of idle controversies as to the kind of man that young Stanhope actually turned out to be--a point of merely gossiping importance in any case, and, whatever be the facts of this one, having no more to do with the merit of the letters than the other fact that some people make mistakes in their accounts after having learnt the multiplication table has to do with the value of that composition. As a matter of relevant fact the letters--except (and even here the accusations against them are much exaggerated) from the point of view of very severe morality in regard to one or two points--perhaps no more than one--are full of sound advice, clear common-sense, and ripe experience of the world. The manners they recommend are not those of any but a very exceptional "dancing master," they are those of a gentleman. The temper that they inculcate and that they exhibit in the inculcator is positively kindly and relatively correct. Both these and the other batch of "Letters to his Godson" and successor in the Earldom (the Lord Chesterfield for forging whose name Dr. Dodd was hanged) show the most curious and unusual pains on the part of a man admitted to be in the highest degree a man of the world, and sometimes accused of being nothing else, to make himself intelligible and agreeable to young--at first very young--boys. In his letters to older folk, both men and women, qualities for which there was no room in the others arise--the thoughts of a statesman and a philosopher, the feelings of a being quite different from the callous, frivolous, sometimes "insolent"[15] worldling who has been so often put in the place of the real Chesterfield. And independently of all this there is present in all these letters--though most attractively in those to his son--a power of literary expression which would have made the fortune of any professional writer of the time. If Chesterfield's literary taste was too often decided by the fashionable limitations of this time, it was, within those limitations, accomplished: and it was accompanied, as mere taste very often is not, by no small command of literary production. He could and did write admirable light verse; his wit in conversation is attested in the most final fashion by his enemy Horace Walpole, and some of the passages in the letters where he indulges in description or even dialogue are by no means unworthy of the best genteel comedy of the time. But he could also, as was said of someone else, be "nobly serious," as in his "character" writing and elsewhere. His few contributions to the half-developed periodical literature of his day show how valuable he would have been to the more advanced Review or Magazine of the nineteenth century: and if he had chosen to write Memoirs they would probably have been among the best in English.[16] Now the Memoir and the Letter are perhaps the most straitly and intimately connected forms of literature. [Sidenote: HORACE WALPOLE] Horace Walpole--like his two contemporaries, fellow-members of English aristocratic society, acquaintances and objects of aversion just discussed--has been the subject of very various opinions. Johnson (of whom he himself spoke with ignorant contempt and who did not know his letters, but did know some of his now half-forgotten published works) dismissed him with good-natured belittlement. Macaulay made him the subject of some of the most unfortunately exaggerated of those antitheses of blame and praise which, in the long run, have done the writer more harm than his subjects. To take one example less likely to be known to English readers, the wayward and prejudiced, but often very acute French critic already mentioned, Barbey d'Aurevilly, though he admits Horace's _esprit_ pronounces it _un fruit brillant, amer, et glacé_. There are undoubtedly many things to be said against him as a man--if you take the "Letters-a-telltale-of-character" view, especially so. He was certainly spiteful, and he had the particularly awkward--though from one point of view not wholly unamiable--peculiarity of being what may be called spiteful at second hand. To stand up for your friends at the proper time and in the proper place is the duty, and should be the pleasure, of every gentleman. But to bite and for the most part, if not almost always, to _back_-bite your friends' supposed enemies--often when they have done nothing adverse to those friends on the particular occasion--is the act at the best of an intempestively officious person, at the worst of a cur. And Horace was always doing this in regard to all sorts of people--his abuse of Johnson himself, of Chesterfield and Lady Mary, of Fielding and others, having no personal excuse or reason whatsoever. His taste in collecting, building, etc., is not a matter in which men of other times should be too ready to throw stones, for taste in all such matters at almost all times, however sure a stronghold it may seem to those who occupy it, is the most brittle of glass-houses to others. He had also a considerable touch of almost original genius in important kinds of literature, as _The Mysterious Mother_ and _The Castle of Otranto_ showed--a touch which undoubtedly helped him in his letters. But of critical power he had nothing at all; and his knowledge (save, perhaps in Art) was anything but extensive and still less accurate. Politically he was a mere baby, all the eighty years of his life; though he passed many of them in the House of Commons and might have passed several in the House of Lords, had he chosen to attend it. When he was young he was a theoretical republican rejoicing in the execution of Charles I.: when he was old the French Revolution was to him anathema and he was horrified at the execution of Louis XVI. He was incapable of sustaining, perhaps of understanding, an argument: everything with him was a matter, as the defamers of women say it is with them, of personal and arbitrary fancy, prejudice, or whim. But all this does not prevent him from being one of the best letter-writers in the English language: and if you take bulk of work along with variety of subject; maintenance of interest and craftsmanship as well as bulk, perhaps the very best of all. The latest standard edition of his letters, to which additions are still being made, is in sixteen well-filled volumes, and there are probably few readers of good taste and fair knowledge who would object if it could be extended to sixty. There is perhaps no body of epistles except Madame de Sévigné's own--which Horace fervently admired and, assisted perhaps by the feminine element in his own nature, copied assiduously--exhibiting the possible charm of letter-writing more distinctly or more copiously. To examine the nature of this charm a little cannot be irrelevant in such an Introduction as this: and from what has just been said it would seem that these letters will form as good a specimen for examination as any. They are not very much "mannerised": indeed, nobody but Thackeray, in the wonderful chapter of _The Virginians_ where Horace is made to describe his first interview with one of the heroes, has ever quite imitated them. Their style, though recognisable at once, is not a matter so much of phrase as of attitude. His revelations of character--his own that is to say, for Horace was no conjuror with any one else's--are constant but not deeply drawn. He cannot, or at least does not, give a plot of any kind: every letter is a sort of _review_ of the subject--larger or smaller--from the really masterly accounts of the trial of the Jacobite Lords after the "Forty-five" to the most trivial notices of people going to see "Strawberry"; of remarkable hands at cards; of Patty Blount (Pope's Patty) in her autumn years passing his windows with her gown tucked up because of the rain. Art and letters appear; travelling and visiting; friendship and society; curious belated love-making with the Miss Berrys; scandal (a great deal of it); charity (a little, but more than the popular conception of Horace allows for); the court-calendar, club life, almost all manner of things except religion (though it is said Horace had an early touch of Methodism) and really serious thought of any kind, form the budget of his letter-bag. And it is all handled with the most unexpected equality of success. There is of course nothing very "arresting." Cooking chickens in a sort of picnic with madcap ladies, and expecting "the dish to fly about our ears" is perhaps the most exciting incident[17] of the sixteen volumes and seven or eight thousand pages. But everywhere there is interest; and that of a kind that does not stale itself. The fact would seem to be that the art of letter-writing is a sort of mosaic or macédoine of nearly all departments of the general Art of Literature. You want constant touches of the art narrative, and not very seldom some of the art dramatic. Always you want that of conversation--subtly differentiated. Occasionally, though in the ordinary letter not very often, you want argument: much oftener description. Pathos, tenderness, etc., are more exceptionally required: and it is, in modern times at least, generally accepted that in the letter consolatory, that almost greatest of Shakespearian magic phrases, "the rest is silence" should never be forgotten and very quickly applied. Wit is welcome, if it be well managed: but that is a pretty constant proviso in regard to the particular element. Perhaps the greatest negative caution of all is that the letter should not be _obviously_ "written for publication." Now the curious thing about Walpole is that his letters were, pretty certainly in some cases (those to Mann) and not improbably in nearly all, written with some view to publication if only of a limited sort, and yet that the intention is rarely prominent to an offensive degree. Even if we did not know the curious and disgusting tricks that Pope played with his, we should be certain that he was always thinking of the possibility of somebody else than the reader to whom they were addressed reading them. With nearly an equal presumption as to the fact in the case of Horace (though to do him justice he did not indulge in any ignoble tricks with them) this fact rarely occurs and never offends. An unkind critic with a turn for rather obvious epigram might say that the man's nature was so artificial that his artifice seems natural. If so, all the more credit to him as an artificer. And another feather in his cap is that, although you can hardly ever mistake the writer, his letters take a slight but sufficient colour of difference according to the personality of the recipient. He does not write to Montagu exactly as he writes to Mann; to Gray as to Mason; to Lady Upper-Ossory as to earlier she-correspondents. So once more, though there are large and important possible subjects for letters on which "Horry" does not write at all, it is questionable whether, everything being counted in that he has, and no unfair offsets allowed for what he does not attempt, we have in English any superior to him as a letter-writer. [Sidenote: GRAY] The case of another famous eighteenth-century epistoler--Walpole's schoolfellow and except for the time of a quarrel (the blame of which Horace rather generously took upon himself but in which there were doubtless faults on both sides)[18] life-long friend--is curiously different. Gray was a poet, while Walpole, save for a touch of fantastic imagination, had nothing of poetry in him and could not, as some who are not poets can, even appreciate it. In more than one other intellectual gift he soared above Horace. He was essentially a scholar, while his friend was as essentially a sciolist. He even combined the scientific with the literary temperament to a considerable extent: and thus was enabled to display an orderliness of thought by no means universal in men of letters, and (at least according to common estimation) positively rare in poets. His tastes were as various as his friend's: but instead of being a mere bundle of casual likings and dislikings, they were aesthetically conceived and connected. He was not exactly an amiable person: indeed, though there was less spitefulness in him than in Horace there was, perhaps, more positive "bad blood." As for the feature in his character, or at least conduct, that impressed itself so much on Mr. Matthew Arnold--that he "never spoke out"--it might be thought, if it really existed, to have been rather fatal to letter-writing, in which a sense of constraint and "keeping back" is one of the very last things to be desired. And some of the positive characteristics and accomplishments above enumerated (not the poetry--poets have usually been good epistolers) might not seem much more suitable. As a matter of fact, however, Gray _is_ a good letter-writer--a very good letter-writer indeed. His letters, as might be expected from what has been said, carry much heavier metal than Horace's; but in another sense they are not in the least heavy. They are very much less in bulk than those of the longer lived and more "scriblative" though hardly more leisured writer:[19] and--as not a defect but a consequence of the quality just attributed to them--they do not quite carry the reader along with them in that singular fashion which distinguishes the others. But no one save a dunce can find them dull: and their variety is astonishing when one remembers that the writer was, for great part of his life, a kind of recluse. He touches almost everything except love (one wonders whether there were any unpublished, and feels pretty sure that there must have been some unwritten, letters to Miss Speed which would have filled the gap) and with a result of artistic success even more decided than that assigned to Goldsmith's versatility by Gray's enemy or at least "incompatible" Johnson.[20] His letters of travel are admirable: his accounts of public affairs, though sometimes extremely prejudiced, very clever; those of University society and squabbles among the very best that we have in English; those touching "the picturesque" extremely early and remarkably clear-sighted; those touching literature among the least one-sided of their time. If there are, as observed or hinted above, some unamiable touches, his persistent protection of the poor creature Mason; his general attitude to his friends the Whartons; and his communications with younger men like Norton Nicholls and Bonstetten, go far to remove, or, at least, to counterbalance, the impression. This last division indeed, and the letters to Mason, emphasize what is evident enough in almost all, a freedom on his part (which from some things in his character and history we might not altogether have expected) from a fault than which hardly any is more disagreeable in letters. This is the manifestation of what is called, in various more or less familiar terms, "giving oneself airs," "side," "patronising," etc. He may sometimes come near this pitfall of "intellectuals," but he never quite slips into it, being probably preserved by that sense of humour which he certainly possessed, though he seldom gave vent to it in verse and not very often in prose. Taking them altogether, Gray's letters may be said to have few superiors in the combination of intellectual weight and force with "pastime" interest. To some of course they may be chiefly or additionally interesting because of such light as they throw or withhold on a rather problematic character, but this, like the allegory in Spenser according to Hazlitt, "won't bite" anyone who lets it alone. They are extremely good letters to read: and the more points of interest they provide for any reader the better for that reader himself. Once more too, they illustrate the principle laid down at the beginning of this paper. They are good letters because they are, with the usual subtle difference necessary, like very good talk, recorded.[21] [Sidenote: COWPER] Nor is there any more doubt about the qualifications of the fifth of our selected eighteenth-century letter-writers. Cowper's poetry has gone through not very strongly marked but rather curious variations of critical estimate. Like all transition writers he was a little too much in front of the prevailing taste of his own time, and a little too much behind that of the time immediately succeeding. There may have been a very brief period, before the great romantic poets of the early nineteenth century became known, when he "drove" young persons like Marianne Dashwood "wild": but Marianne Dashwoods and their periods succeed and do not resemble each other.[22] He had probably less hold on this time--when he had the best chance of popularity--than Crabbe, one of his own group, while he was destitute of the extraordinary appeals--which might be altogether unrecognised for a time but when felt are unmistakable--of the other two, Burns and Blake, of the poets of the seventeen-eighties. His religiosity was a doubtful "asset" as people say nowadays: and even his pathetic personal history had its awkward side. But as to his letters there has hardly at any time, since they became known, existed a difference of opinion among competent judges. There may be some unfortunates for whom they are too "mild": but we hardly reckon as arbiters of taste the people for whom even brandy is too mild unless you empty the cayenne cruet into it. Moreover the "tea-pot pieties" (as a poet-critic who ought to have known better once scornfully called them) make no importunate appearance in the bulk of the correspondence: while as regards the madness this supplies one of the most puzzling and perhaps not the least disquieting of "human documents." A reader may say--by no means in his haste, but after consideration--not merely "Where is the slightest sign of insanity in these?" but "How on earth did it happen that the writer of these _ever_ went mad?" even with the assistance of Newton, and Teedon, and, one has to say, Mrs. Unwin. For among the characteristics of Cowper's letters at their frequent and pretty voluminous best, are some that seem not merely inconsistent with insanity, but likely to be positive antidotes to and preservatives from it. There is a quiet humour--not of the fantastic kind which, as in Charles Lamb, forces us to admit the possibility of near alliance to _over_-balance of mind--but _counter_-balancing, antiseptic, _salt_. There is abundant if not exactly omnipresent common-sense; excellent manners; an almost total absence in that part of the letters which we are now considering of selfishness, and a total absence of ill-nature.[23] It is no business of ours here to embark on the problem, "What was the dram of eale" that ruined all this and more "noble substance" in Cowper? though there is not much doubt about the agency and little about the principal agents that effected the mischief. But it is quite relevant to point out that all the good things noticed are things distinctly and definitely good for letter-writing. And sometimes one cannot help regretfully wondering whether, if he--who dealt so admirably with such interests as were open to him--had had more and wider ones to deal with, _we_ should not have had still more varied and still more delightful letters, and _he_ would have escaped the terrible fate that fell on him. For although Cowper was the reverse of selfish in the ordinary sense, he was intensely self-centred, and his life gave too much opportunity for that excessive self-concentration which is the very hotbed of mental disease. It is not a little surprising from this point of view, and it perhaps shows how imperative the letter-writing faculty is when it is possessed--that Cowper's letters are as good as they are: while that point of view also helps us to understand why they are sometimes not so good. Of all the floating thoughts we find Upon the surface of the mind, as he himself very happily sums up the subjects of letter-writing, there are few in his case which are of more unequal value than his criticisms. Cowper had more than one of the makings of a critic, and a very important critic. He was, or at any rate had been once, something of a scholar; he helped to effect and (which is not always or perhaps even often the case) helped _knowingly_ to effect, one of the most epoch-making changes in English literature. But for the greater part of his life he read very little; he had little chance of anything like literary discussion with his peers; and accordingly his critical remarks are random, uncoordinated, and mostly a record of what struck him at the moment in the way of like and dislike, agreement or disagreement. But then there is nothing that we go for to Cowper as a letter-writer so little as for things of this kind: and even things of this kind take the benefit of what Coleridge happily called--and what everybody has since wisely followed Coleridge in calling--his "divine chit-chat." As with Walpole--though with that difference of idiosyncrasy which all the best things have from one another--it does not in the least matter what, among mundane affairs at least, Cowper was talking about. If his conversation--and some of the few _habitués_ of Olney say it was--was anything like his letter-writing, it is no wonder that people sat over even breakfast for an hour to "satisfy sentiment not appetite" as they said with that slight touch of priggishness which has been visited upon them heavily, but which perhaps had more to do with their merits than more mannerless periods will allow. And not even Walpole's show to quite the same degree, that extraordinary power of making anything interesting--of entirely transcending the subject--which belongs to the letter-writer in probably a greater measure than to any man-of-letters in the other sense, except the poet. The matter which these letters have to chronicle is often the very smallest of small beer. The price, conveyance and condition of the fish his correspondents buy for him or give him (Cowper was very fond of fish and lived, before railways, in the heart of the Midlands); one of the most uneventful of picnics; hares and hair (one of his most characteristic pieces of quietly ironic humour is a brief descant on wigs with a suggestion that fashion should decree the cutting off of people's own legs and the substitution of artificial ones); the height of chairs and candlesticks--anything will do. He remarks gravely somewhere, "What nature expressly designed me for, I have never been able to conjecture; I seem to myself so universally disqualified for the common and customary occupations and amusements of mankind." Perhaps poetry--at least poetry of the calibre of "Yardley Oak," and "The Castaway," of "Boadicea" and the "Royal George" in one division; of "John Gilpin" in the other, may not be quite properly classed among the "common and customary occupations of mankind." But letter-writing might without great impropriety be so classed: and there cannot be the slightest doubt that Nature intended Cowper for a letter-writer. Whether he writes "The passages and events of the day as well as of the night are little better than dreams" or "An almost general cessation of egg-laying among the hens has made it impossible for Mrs. Unwin to enterprise a cake" one has (but perhaps a little more vividly) that agreeable sensation which at one time visited Tennyson's Northern Farmer. One "thinks he's said what he ought to 'a said" in the exact manner in which he ought to have said it. [Sidenote: MINORS] It is however most important to remember that these Five are only, as it were, commanding officers of the great Army, representative of the very numerous constituents, who do the service and enjoy the franchise of letter-writing in the eighteenth century. There is hardly a writer of distinction in any other kind whose letters are not noteworthy; and there are very numerous letter-writers of interest who are scarcely distinguished in any other way. Perhaps Fielding disappoints us most in this section by the absence of correspondence, all the more so that the "Voyage to Lisbon" is practically letter-stuff of the best. From Smollett also we might have more--especially more like his letter to Wilkes on the subject of the supposed impressment of Johnson's negro servant Frank, which we hope to give here. Sterne's character would certainly be better if his astonishing daughter had suppressed some of his epistles, but it would be much less distinct, and they are often, if sometimes discreditably so, amusing if not edifying. The vast mass of Richardson's correspondence would correspond in another sense to the volume of his novels. We have letters from Berkeley at the beginning and others from Gibbon at the end--these last peculiarly valuable, because, as sometimes but not perhaps very often happens, they do not merely illustrate but supplement and complete the published work. From ladies, courtly, domestic, literary and others, we have shelves--and cases--and almost libraries full; from the lively chat of the Lepels and Bellendens and Howards of the early Georgian time to those copious and unstudied but never dull, compositions which Fanny Burney poured forth to "Susan and Fredy," to Maria Allen and to "Daddy Crisp" and a score of others; those of the Montagu circle; the documents upon which some have based aspersion and others defence of Mrs. Thrale; and the prose utterances of the "Swan of Lichfield," otherwise Miss Seward.[24] There are Shenstone's letters for samples of one kind and those of the Revd. Mr. Warner (the supposed original of Thackeray's Parson Sampson) for another and very different one. Even outside the proper and real "mail-bag" letter all sorts of writings--travels, pamphlets, philosophical and theological arguments, almost everything--throw themselves into the letter form. To come back to that with which we began there is no doubt that the eighteenth century is the century of the letter with us. IV NINETEENTH CENTURY LETTERS. EARLY [Sidenote: EARLY NINETEENTH CENTURY GROUPS] There is, however, not the slightest intention of suggesting here that the art of letter-writing died with the century in which it flourished so greatly. In the first place, periods of literary art seldom or never "die" in a moment like a tropical sunset; and, in the second, the notion that centennial years necessarily divide such periods, as well as the centuries in which they appear, is an unhistorical delusion. There have been dates in our history--1400 was one of them--where something of the kind seems to have happened: but they are very rare. Most ships of literature at such times are fortunately what is called in actual ships "clinker-built"--that is to say overlappingly--and except at 1600 this has never been so much the case as two hundred years later and one hundred ago. When the eighteenth century closed, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Scott and Southey were men approaching more or less closely, thirty years of age. Landor, Hazlitt, Lamb and Moore were at least, and some of them well, past the conventional "coming of age"; De Quincey, Byron and Shelley were boys and even Keats was more than an infant. In the first mentioned of these groups there was still very marked eighteenth-century idiosyncrasy; in the second some; and it was by no means absent from Byron though hardly present at all in most respects as regards Shelley and Keats. Certainly in none of the groups, and only in one or two individuals, is there much if any shortcoming as concerns letter-writing. Wordsworth indeed makes no figure as a letter-writer, and nobody who has appreciated his other work would expect him to do so. The first requisite of the letter-writer is "freedom"--in a rather peculiar sense of that word, closest to the way in which it has been employed by some religious sects. Wordsworth could _preach_--nearly always in a manner deserving respect and sometimes in one commanding almost infinite admiration; but when the letter-writer begins to preach he is in danger of the waste-paper basket or the fire. Coleridge's letters are fairly numerous and sometimes very good: but more than one of his weaknesses appears in them. The excellence of Scott's, though always discoverable in Lockhart, was perhaps never easily appreciable till they were separately collected and published not very many years ago. It may indeed be suggested that the "Life and Letters" system, though very valuable as regards the "Life" is apt a little to obscure the excellence of the "Letters" themselves. Of this particular collection it is not too much to say that while it threw not the least stain on the character of one of the most faultless (one singular and heavily punished lapse excepted) of men of letters, it positively enhanced our knowledge of the variety of his literary powers. Perhaps however the best of letter-writers amongst these four protagonists of the great Romantic Revival in England (the inevitable attempt sometimes made now to quarrel with that term is as inevitably silly) is the least good poet. Southey's letters, never yet fully but very voluminously published, have not been altogether fortunate in their fashion of publication. There have been questionings about the propriety of "Selected" Works; but there surely can be little doubt that in the case of Letters a certain amount of selection is not only justifiable but almost imperative. Everyone at all addicted to correspondence must know that in writing to different people on the same or closely adjacent days, if "anything has" in the common phrase "happened" he is bound to repeat himself. He may, if he has the sense of art, take care to vary his phrase even though he knows that no two letters will have the same reader; but he cannot vary his matter much. Southey's letters, in the two collections by his son and his son-in-law, were edited without due regard to this: and the third--those to Caroline Bowles, his second wife--might have been "thinned" in a different way. But the bulk of interesting matter is still very large and the quality of the presentation is excellent. If anyone fears to plunge into some dozen volumes let him look at the "Cats" and the "Statues" of Greta Hall, printed at the end of the _Doctor_, but both in form and nature letters. He will not hesitate much longer, if he knows good letter-stuff when he sees it.[25] [Sidenote: LANDOR] Most of the second group wrote letters worth reading, but only one of them reaches the first rank in the art; it is true that he is among the first _of_ the first. The letters of Landor supply not the least part of that curious problem which is presented by his whole work. They naturally give less room than the _apices_ of his regular prose and of his poetry for that marvellous perfection of style and phrase which is allowed even by those who complain of a want of substance in him. And another complaint of his "aloofness" affects them in two ways rather damagingly. When it is present it cuts at the root of one of the chief interests of letters, which is intimacy. When it is absent, and Landor presents himself in his well-known character of an angry baby (as for instance when he remarked of the Bishop who did not do something he wanted, that "God alone is great enough for him [Walter Savage Landor] to ask anything of _twice_") he becomes merely--or perhaps to very amiable folk rather painfully--ridiculous. De Quincey and Hazlitt diverted a good deal of what might have been utilised as mere letter-writing faculty into their very miscellaneous work for publication. Moore could write very good letters himself: but is perhaps most noted and notable in connection with the subject as being one of the earliest and best "Life-and-Letters" craftsmen in regard to Byron. But none of these restrictions or provisos is requisite, or could for a moment be thought of, in reference to Charles Lamb. Of him, as of hardly any other writer of great excellence (perhaps Thackeray is most like him in this way) it can be said that if we had nothing but his letters we should almost be able to detect the qualities which he shows in his regular works. Some of the _Essays of Elia_ and his other miscellanies are or pretend to be actual letters. Certainly not a few of his letters would seem not at all strange and by no means unable to hold up their heads, if they had appeared as Essays of that singularly fortunate Italian who had his name taken, _not_ in vain but in order to be titular author of some of the choicest things in literature. Indeed that unique combination of bookishness and native fancy which makes the "Eliesque" quality is obviously as well suited to the letter as to the essay, and would require but a stroke or two of the pen, in addition or deletion, to produce examples of either. One often feels as if it must have been, as the saying goes, a toss-up whether the _London Magazine_ or some personal friend got a particular composition; whether it was issued to the public direct or waited for Serjeant Talfourd to collect and edit it. The two English writers whom, on very different sides of course, Lamb most resembles, and whom he may be said to have copied (of course as genius copies) most, are Sterne and Sir Thomas Browne. But between the actual letters and the actual works of these two, themselves, there is a great difference, while (as has just been noted) in Lamb's case there is none. The reason of course is that though Sir Thomas is one of our very greatest authors and the Reverend Yorick not by any means unplaced in the running for greatness, both are in the highest degree artificial: while Lamb's way of writing, complex as it is, necessitating as it must have done not a little reading and (as would seem almost necessary) not a little practice, seems to run as naturally as a child's babble. The very tricks--mechanical dots, dashes, aposiopeses--which offend us now and then in Sterne; the unfamiliar Latinisms which frighten some and disgust others in Browne, drop from Lamb's lips or pen like the pearls of the Fairy story. Unless you are born out of sympathy with Elia, you never think about them as tricks at all. Now this naturalness--it can hardly be said too often here--is the one thing needful in letters. The different forms of it may be as various and as far apart from each other as those of the other Nature in flora or fauna, on mountain and sea, in field and town. But if it is there, all is right. [Sidenote: BYRON] There are few more interesting groups in the population of our subject than that formed by the three poets whom we mentioned last when classifying the epistolers of the early nineteenth century. There is hardly one of them who has not been ranked by some far from contemptible judgments among our greatest as poets; and merely as letter-writers they have been put correspondingly high by others or the same. It is rather curious that the most contested as to his place as a poet has been, as a rule, allowed it most easily as a letter-writer. The enormous vogue which Byron's verse at once attained both at home and abroad--has at home if not abroad (where reputations of poets often depend upon extra-poetical causes) long ceased to be undisputed: indeed has chiefly been sustained by spasmodic and not too successful exertions of individuals. It was never, of course, paralleled in regard to his letters. But these letters early obtained high repute and have never, in the general estimate, lost it. Some good judges even among those who do not care very much for the poems, have gone so far as to put him among our very best epistolers; and few have put him very much lower. Acceptance of the former estimate certainly--perhaps even of the latter--depends however upon the extent to which people can also accept recognition in Byron of the qualities of "Sincerity and Strength." That he was always a great though often a careless craftsman, and sometimes a great artist in literature, nobody possessed of the slightest critical ability can deny or doubt. But there are some who shake their heads over the attribution of anything like "sincerity" to him, except very occasionally: and who if they had to translate his "strength" into Greek would select the word _Bia_ ("violence") and not the word _Kratos_ (simple "strength") from the _dramatis personae_ of the _Prometheus Vinctus_. Now "sincerity" of a kind--even of that kind which we found in Walpole and did not find in Pope--has been contended for here as a necessity in the best, if not in all good, letters; and "violence" is almost fatal to them. Of a certain kind of letter Byron was no doubt a skilful practitioner.[26] But to some it will or may always seem that the vital principle of his correspondence is to that of the real "Best" as stage life to life off the stage. These two can sometimes approach each other marvellously: but they are never the same thing. [Sidenote: SHELLEY] When Mr. Matthew Arnold expressed the opinion that Shelley's letters were more valuable than his poetry it was, of course, as Lamb said of Coleridge "only his fun." In the words of another classic, he "did it to annoy, because he knew it teased" some people. The absurdity is perhaps best antagonised by the perfectly true remark that it only shows that Mr. Arnold understood the letters and did not understand the poetry. But it was a little unfortunate, not for the poetry but for the letters, against which it might create a prejudice. They are so good that they ought not to have been made victims of what in another person the same judge would have called, and rightly, a _saugrenu_[27] judgment. Like all good letters--perhaps all without exception according to Demetrius and Newman--they carry with them much of their author's idiosyncrasy, but in a fashion which should help to correct certain misjudgments of that idiosyncrasy itself. Shelley _is_ "unearthly," but it is an entire mistake to suppose that his unearthliness can never become earthly to such an extent as is required. The beginning of _The Recollection_ ("We wandered to the pine forest") is as vivid a picture of actual scenery as ever appeared on the walls of any Academy: and _The Witch of Atlas_ itself, not to mention the portrait-frescoes in _Adonais_, is quite a _waking_ dream. The quality of liveness is naturally still more prominent in the letters, because poetical transcendence of fact is not there required to accompany it. But it _does_ accompany now and then; and the result is a blend or brand of letter-writing almost as unlike anything else as the writer's poetry, and in its own (doubtless lower) kind hardly less perfect. To prefer the letters to the poems is merely foolish, and to say that they are as good as the poems is perhaps excessive. But they comment and complete the Shelley of the Poems themselves in a manner for which we cannot be too thankful. [Sidenote: KEATS] The letters of Keats did not attract much notice till long after those of Byron, and no short time after those of Shelley, had secured it. This was by no means wholly, though it may have been to some extent indirectly, due to the partly stupid and partly malevolent attempts to smother his poetical reputation in its cradle. The letters were inaccessible till the late Lord Houghton practically resuscitated Keats; and till other persons--rather in the "Codlin not Short" manner--rushed in to correct and supplement Mr. Milnes as he then was. And it was even much later still before two very different editors, Sir Sidney Colvin and the late Mr. Buxton Forman, completed, or nearly so, the publication. Something must be said and may be touched on later in connection with a very important division of our subject in general, as to the publication by the last-named, of the letters to Fanny Brawne: but nothing in detail need be written, and it is almost needless to say that none of these letters will appear here. No one but a brute who is also something of a fool will think any the worse of Keats for writing them. A thought of _sunt lacrimae rerum_ is all the price that need be paid by any one who chooses to read them, nor is it our business to characterise at length the taste and wits of the person who could publish them.[28] But putting this question aside, it is unquestionable that for some years past there has been a tendency to value the Letters as a whole very highly. Not only has unusual critical power been claimed for Keats on the strength of them, but general epistolary merit; and though nobody, so far as one knows, has yet paralleled the absurdity above mentioned in the case of Shelley, Keats has been taken by some credit-worthy judges as an unusually strong witness to the truth of the proposition already adopted here, that poets are good letter-writers. He certainly is no exception to the rule; but to what exact extent he exemplifies it may not be a matter to be settled quite off hand. There is no doubt that at his best Keats is excellent in this way, and that best is perhaps to be found with greatest certainty, by anyone who wants to dip before plunging, in the letters to his brother and sister-in-law, George and Georgiana. Those to his little sister Fanny are also charming in their way, though the peculiar and very happy mixture of life and literature to be found in the others does not, of course, occur in them. His letters of description, to whomsoever written, are, as one might expect, first-rate; and the very late specimen--one of his very last to anyone--to _Mrs._ not Miss Brawne is as brave as it is touching. As for the criticism, there are undoubtedly (as again we should expect from the author of the wonderful preface to _Endymion_) invaluable remarks--the inspiration of poetical practice turned into formulas of poetical theory. On the other hand, the famous advice to Shelley to "be more of an artist and load every rift with ore"--Shelley whose art transcends artistry and whose substance is as the unbroken nugget gold, so that there are no rifts in it to load--is, even when one remembers how often poets misunderstand each other,[29] rather "cold water to the back" of admiration. It may, however, not unfairly introduce a very few considerations on the side of Keats's letters which is not so good. All but idolaters acknowledge a certain boyishness in him--a boyishness which is in fact no mean source contributary of his charm in verse. It is perhaps not always quite so charming in prose, and especially in letters. You do not want self-criticism of an obviously second-thought kind in them. But you do want that less obtrusive variety which prevents them from appearing unkempt, "down-at-heel" etc. Perhaps there is, at any rate in the earlier letters, something of this unkemptness in Keats as an epistoler. A hasty person may say "What! do you venture to quarrel with letters where, side by side with agreeable miscellaneous details, you may suddenly come upon the original and virgin text of 'La Belle Dame sans Merci'?" Most certainly not. Such a find, or one ten times less precious, would make one put up with accompaniments much more than ten times worse than the worst of Keats's letters. But it may be observed that the objection is only a fresh example of the unfortunate tendency[30] of mankind to "ignore elenchs" as the logicians say, or, as less pedantic phraseology has it, to talk beside the question. A man might put a thousand pound note (and you might spend many thousand pound notes without buying anything like the poem just mentioned) in a coarse, vulgar, trivial or in other ways objectionable letter. The note would be most welcome in itself, but it would not improve the quality of its covering epistle. Not, of course, that Keats's letters are coarse or vulgar, though they are sometimes rather trivial. But the point is that their excellency, _as_ letters, does not depend on their enclosures (as we may call them) or even directly on their importance as biography which is certainly consummate. Are they good letters as such, and of how much goodness? Have they been presented as letters should be presented for reading? These are points on which, considering the title and range of this Introduction, it may not be improper to offer a few observations. We have already ventured to suggest that, if not the "be all and end all," at any rate the quality to be first enquired into as to its presence or its absence in letters, is "naturalness." And we have said something as to the propriety or impropriety of different modes of editing and publishing them. The present division of the subject seems to afford a specially good text for adding something more on both these matters. As to the first point, the text is specially good because of the position of Keats in the most remarkable group in which we have rather found than placed him. To the present writer, as a reader, it seems, as has been already said whether justly or unjustly, that the element of "naturalness"--it is an ugly word, and French has no better, in fact none at all: though German is a little luckier with _natürlichkeit_ and Spanish much with _naturaleza_--is rather conspicuously deficient in Byron. In Shelley it is pre-eminent, and can only be missed by those who have no kindred touch of the nature which it reflects. Shelley could be vague, unpractical, mystical; he could sometimes be just a little silly; but it was no more possible for him to be affected, or to make those slips of taste which are a sort of _minus_ corresponding to the _plus_ of affectation, than it was (after _Queen Mab_ at least) to write anything that was not poetry. Thus in addition to the literary perfection of his letters, they have the _sine qua non_ of naturalness in perfection also. But with Keats things are different. Opinions differ as to whether he ever quite reached maturity even in poetry to the extent into which Shelley struck straight with _Alastor_, never losing it afterwards, and leaving us only to wonder what conceivable accomplishment might have even transcended _Adonais_ and its successors. That with all his marvellous promise and hardly less marvellous achievement, Keats was only reaching maturity when he died has been generally allowed by the saner judgments.[31] Now _im_maturity has perhaps its own naturalness which is sometimes, and in a way, very charming, but is not the naturalness pure and simple of maturity. Children are sometimes, nay often, very pretty, agreeable and amusing things: but there comes a time when we rather wish they would go to the nursery. Perhaps the "sometimes" occurs with Keats's earlier letters if not with his later. [Sidenote: EDITING OF LETTERS] He is thus also a text for the second part of our sermon--the duty of editors and publishers of correspondence. There is much to be said for the view that publication, as it has been put, "is an unpardonable sin," that is to say, that no author (or rather no author's ghost) can justly complain if what he once deliberately published is, when all but the control of the dead hand is off, republished. _Il l'a voulu_, as the famous tag from Molière has it. But letters in the stricter sense--that is to say, pieces of private correspondence--are in very different case. Not only were they, save in very few instances, never _meant_ for publication: but, which is of even more importance, they were never _prepared_ for publication.[32] Not only, again, did the writer never see them in "proof," much less in "revise," as the technical terms go, but he never, so far as we know, exercised on them even the revision which all but the most careless authors give before sending their manuscripts to the printer. Some people of course do read over their letters before sending them: but it must be very rarely and in special, not to say dubious, cases that they do this with a view to the thing being seen by any other eyes than those of the intended recipient. It is therefore to the last degree unfair to plump letters on the market unselected and uncastigated. To what length the castigation should proceed is of course matter for individual taste and judgment. Nothing must be put in--that is clear; but as to what may or should be left out, "there's the rub." Perhaps the best criterion, though it may be admitted to be not very easy of application, is "Would the author, in publishing, have left it out or not?" Sometimes this will pass very violent expressions of opinion and even sentiments of doubtful morality and wisdom. But that it should invariably exclude mere trivialities, faults of taste, slovenlinesses of expression, etc., is at least the opinion of the present writer. And a "safety razor" of such things might perhaps with advantage have been used on Keats's, though he has written nothing which is in the least discreditable to him. V NINETEENTH CENTURY LETTERS. LATER [Sidenote: A NINETEENTH CENTURY GROUP] Part at least of these general remarks has a very special relevance to the rest of our story. There may be differences of respectable opinion as to the system of editing just advocated; but they will hardly concern one point--that the susceptibilities of living persons must be considered. To some extent indeed this is a mere counsel of selfish prudence: for an editor who neglects it may get himself into serious difficulties. Even where such danger does not exist, or might perhaps be disregarded, it is impossible for any decent person to run the risk of needlessly offending others. It will be seen at once that this introduces a new matter for consideration in regard to most--practically all--of the correspondences which we have still to survey. Even those just discussed have only recently passed from under its range. Shelley's son died not so very long ago: grandchildren of Byron much more recently; and if Keats had lived to the ordinary age of man and had, as he very likely would have done, married not Fanny Brawne, but somebody else later, a son or daughter of his (daughters are particularly and sometimes inconveniently loyal to their deceased parents) might be alive and flourishing now. As this constraint extends not merely to the families of the writers but to those of persons mentioned by them (not to speak of these persons themselves in the most recent cases), it exercises, as will at once be seen, a most wide-ranging cramp and brake upon publication. Blunders are occasionally made of course: the most remarkable in recent times was probably an oversight of the editor of Edward FitzGerald's letters, than which hardly any more interesting exist among those yet to be noticed. FitzGerald, quite innocently and without the slightest personal malevolence but thinking only of Mrs. Browning's work, had expressed himself (as anybody might in a private letter) to the effect that perhaps we need not be sorry for her death. Unfortunately the letter was published while her husband was still alive: and many people must remember the very natural and excusable, but somewhat excessive and undignified, explosion which followed on his part. Such things must of course be avoided at all costs; and the consequence is that nineteenth century letters must frequently--in fact with rare if any exceptions--have appeared in a condition of expurgation which cannot but have affected their spirit and savour to a very considerable extent. It is for instance understood that Mr. Matthew Arnold's were very severely censored; and, while readily believing this and acquiescing in its probable propriety, the old Adam in some readers may be unable to refrain from regret. Again, there is something to be said about the less good effects of that "Life-and-Letters" system which has been quite rightly welcomed and praised for its better ones. Drawing on the Letters--with good material to work on and good skill in the worker--improves the Life enormously; but it is by no means certain--indeed it has been hinted already--that the Letters themselves do not to a certain extent lose by it. Indeed from one point of view, the word "loss" may be used in its most literal meaning. The compiler of one very famous biography was said, for instance, to have--with a disregard of the value of letters as autographs which was magnificent perhaps in one way but far from "the game" in others--cut up the actual sheets and pasted the pieces on his manuscript, sending the whole to the printers and chancing the survival even of what was sent, when it came back with the proofs. But there is another sense of "loss" which has also to be reckoned. The framework of biography is, or at least ought to be, something more than a mere frame: and it distracts attention from the letters themselves, breaks up their continuous effect, and in many cases necessitates at least occasional omission of parts which an editor of them by themselves would not think of excluding. Of course this is no argument against the plan as such: but it has, together with what was said recently, to be taken into account when we compare the epistolary position of the last century with that of its immediate predecessor.[33] These remarks are made not in the least by way of depreciating or even making an apology for nineteenth century letters, but only in order to put the reader in a proper state for critical estimation of them. Nor is it necessary to repeat--still less to discuss--the more general lamentations with some reference to which we started as to any decay of letter-writing. Provisos and warnings may be taken as having been made sufficiently: and we pass to the actual survey. It may have been noticed in reference to the principal group of letter-writers in the eighteenth that, with the exception of Cowper, they were all acquainted with each other. Walpole knew Lady Mary, Chesterfield and Gray; while Gray, if he did not know the other two, knew Walpole very well indeed. Something of the same sort might be contended for among those whom we have selected on the bridge of the eighteenth and nineteenth. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey and Lamb were of course intimately connected: Southey knew Landor and Shelley, Keats knew Shelley, Wordsworth and Lamb; while Byron and Shelley, however unequally, were pretty closely yoked together. It is not meant that in all these groups everybody wrote to each other; but that the writing faculty was curiously prominent--diffused like a kind of atmosphere--in all. Now if we look in the nineteenth for such a group it will be found perhaps less readily. But one such at least certainly exists, to wit that which includes Tennyson, Thackeray, Edward FitzGerald, Carlyle and his wife, Fanny Kemble, Sterling and one or two more. There are of course numerous others outside this group, and even in it Tennyson himself is not a very remarkable letter-writer, any more than his great rival, Browning, was. But there was the same diffusion of the letter-writing spirit which has been noticed above, and Thackeray, FitzGerald, the Carlyles, and perhaps Fanny Kemble are quite of the greater clans among our peculiar people. The most remarkable of all these--and as it seems to the present writer, one of the most remarkable of all English letter-writers is one whose letters have never been collected,[34] and from whom, until comparatively lately, we had only few and as it were accidental specimens. It is hoped that, notwithstanding the great changes of taste recently as to reticence or indiscretion, there are still many people who can not only understand but thoroughly sympathise with Thackeray's disgust at the idea of having his "Life" written; and the even greater reluctance which he would certainly have felt at that of having his letters published. But, as has been suggested on a former occasion, when things _are_ published there is nothing disgraceful in reading them: and it may be frankly admitted that lovers of English literature would have missed much pleasure and the opportunity of much admiration if the "Brookfield" letters, those to the Baxter family and others in America, those finally included in the "Biographical" edition, and yet others which have turned up sporadically had remained unknown. It may be doubted whether there is anything like them in our literature--if indeed there is in any other--for the double, treble or even more complicated gift of view into character, matter of interest, positive literary satisfaction, and (perhaps most remarkable of all) resemblance to and explanation of the author's "regular literature," as it has been called. In some respects they resemble the letters of Keats; but there is absent from them the immaturity which was noted in those, and which extended to both matter and style. They are more various in subject and tone than Shelley's. They are not deliberately quaint like Lamb's; and they naturally lack (whether this is wholly an advantage or not, may admit, though not here, of dispute) the restraint[35] which, in greater or less degree and in varied kind, characterizes the great eighteenth century epistolers. [Sidenote: THACKERAY] One additional charm which many of them possess may be regarded by extreme precisians as of doubtful legitimacy as far as comment here is concerned: but this may be ruled out as a superfluous scruple. It is the illumination of the text "by the author's own candles" as he himself says in a well-known Introduction: the actual "illustration" by insertion in the script, of little pen-drawings. The shortcomings of Thackeray's draughtsmanship have always been admitted: and by nobody more frankly than by himself. But they hardly affect this sort of "picturing" at all. The unfortunate inability to depict a pretty face which he deplored need do no harm whatever: and his lack of "composition" not much. A spice of caricature is almost invariably admissible in such things: and the same tricksy spirit which prompted the hundreds of initials, _culs-de-lampe_ etc. contributed by him to _Punch_ and to be found collected in the "Oxford" edition of his works, was most happily at hand for use in letters. Some years ago there appeared, in a catalogue of autographs for sale, an extract of text and cut which was irresistibly funny. The author and designer had had a mishap by slipping on that peculiarly treacherous suddenly frozen rain for which (though we are liable enough to it in England and though some living have seen the entire Strand turned into one huge pantomime scene, roars of laughter included, as people came out of theatres) we have no special name. (The French, in whose capital it is said to be even more frequent, call it _verglas_.) In telling it he had drawn himself sitting (as involuntarily though one hopes not so eternally as _infelix Theseus_) with arms, legs, hat, etcetera in disorder suitable to the occasion and with a facial expression of the most ludicrous dismay. It can hardly have taken a dozen strokes of the pen: but they simply glorified the letter. In no sense, however, can the value and delight of Thackeray's letters be said to depend upon this _bonus_ of illustration. Without it they would be among the most noteworthy and the most delectable of their kind. One sees in them the "first state" of that extraordinary glancing at all sorts of side-views, possible objections and comments on "what the other fellow thinks," which is the main secret in his published writings. If the view of him as a "sentimentalist" (which nobody, unless it is taken offensively, need refuse to accept) is strengthened by them, that absurd other view, which strangely prevailed so long, of his "cynicism" is utterly destroyed. We see the variety of his interests; the keenness of his sensations; the strange and kaleidoscopic rapidity of the changes in his mood and thought. And through the whole there runs the wonderful style which was so long unrecognised--nay, which those who go by the trumpery machine-made rules of "composition books" used gravely to stigmatise as "incorrect." Time lifts a great many (though not perhaps all) the restraints upon publication which have been discussed and advocated above: and it will probably be possible some day for posterity to possess, not only a collected body of the now scattered Thackeray letters, but a considerably larger one than has ever appeared even in extracts and catalogues. It will be an addition to our Epistolary Library which can bear comparison with any previous occupant of those shelves: and one of the books which deserve, in a very peculiar sense, the hackneyed praise of being "as good as a novel." For it will be almost the equivalent of an additional novel of its author's own--a _William Makepeace Thackeray_ in the familiar novel-form of title, and in the old Richardsonian form of contents--but oh! how different from anything of Richardson's save that it might possibly make you hang yourself, not because you could not get to the story, but because you had come to the end of it. [Sidenote: FITZGERALD] If, however, anyone insists on a formal and more or less complete presentation, already existing, of nineteenth century "Letters" in a body by a single writer, the palm must probably be given to those (already referred to) of the translator or paraphrast of Omar Khayyàm. Besides their great intrinsic interest and peculiar idiosyncrasy, they have, for anyone studying the subject as we are endeavouring to do, a curious attraction of comparison. Letter-writing, though by no means exclusively, would appear to be specially and peculiarly the _forte_ of men who live somewhat special and peculiar lives--men without the ordinary family ties of wife and children--sometimes though by no means always, recluses; possibly to some extent "originals," "humourists," "eccentrics," as they have been called at different times and from different points of view. Even Walpole, fond as he was of society, belongs to the class after a fashion, as do also Chesterfield[36] and Lady Mary, while Gray, Cowper, and at a later period Lamb, are eminently of it. But hardly anyone so unquestionably comes under the classification as Edward FitzGerald. He certainly was for a time married, but that marriage as certainly was not made in Heaven, if it was not conspicuously of the other origin: and actual cohabitation lasted but a short time. He had no children, and though he frequently foregathered with the family from which he sprang, he was essentially a "solitary." Such solitaries, even if they do not ticket and advertise themselves as such after the fashion of Rousseau and Senancour and the author of _Jacopo Ortis_, naturally enough find in letters the outlet for communication with their fellows[37] which others find in conversation, and the occupation which those others have ready-made, in society, business of all kinds etc. That some copious and excellent letter-writers, such as for instance Southey, have been extremely busy, and "family men" of the most unblemished character, merely shows that the rule is not universal. But it may be observed that their letters usually have less intense idiosyncrasy than those of the others. Of such idiosyncrasy, both in letters and in other work, few men have had more than the author of _Euphranor_ and (as we have had to say before) the "translator or paraphrast" not merely of Persian but of Spanish and Greek masterpieces. It is indeed notorious that it was in this latter capacity that he showed the individuality of his genius most strongly. It is a frequently but perhaps idly[38] disputed question how much is Omar and how much FitzGerald, while the problem might certainly be extended by asking how much is Aeschylus and how much Calderon in his versions of those masters: but it does not concern us here. What does concern us is the fact that he has contrived to make his most famous exercise in translation signally, and the others to some extent, not dead "versions," but as it were reincarnations of the original, the spirit or the flesh (whichever anyone pleases) being his own, or both being blended of his and the author's. To do this requires a "strong nativity" though not in the equivocal sense in which another great translator of FitzGerald's own type[39] used that term. It shows in his scanty "original" work: but it shows also and perhaps more strongly in his letters. Everyone who has studied the history of the English Universities in connection with that of English literature knows, even if he has not been fortunate enough to experience it, the remarkable fashion in which, at certain times, colleges and coteries at Oxford and Cambridge have seemed to throw a strange and almost magical influence over a generation (hardly more) of undergraduates. There was unmistakably such an _aura_ or atmosphere about in Trinity College, Cambridge, during the last of the twenties and the first of the thirties of the nineteenth century--a spirit of literature and humour, of seriousness and jest, of prose sense and half mystical poetry--which produced things as diverse as _The Dying Swan_ and Clarke's _Library of Useless Knowledge_, _Vanity Fair_ and the English _Rubaiyàt_. Of this curiously blended mood-combination--of which in their different ways Tennyson and Thackeray, as universally known, Brookfield, W. B. Donne, G. S. Venables, as less known, but noteworthy instances suggest themselves as examples--FitzGerald was certainly not the least remarkable. He had, as eccentrics usually and almost necessarily have, not a few limitations, some of which possibly were, though others certainly were not, deliberately assumed or accepted. He would not allow that Tennyson had ever in his later work (not latest by any means) done anything so good as his earlier. In that unlucky though quite blameless observation on Mrs. Browning which was referred to above, he ignored or showed himself unable to appreciate the fact that the poetess had never done anything better than, if anything so good as, some of her very latest work.[40] It cannot be considered an entirely adequate cause for ceasing to live with your wife,[41] that her dresses rustle; and many other instances of what may be called practical and literary _non-sequiturs_ might be alleged against him. But all these "queernesses" are evidence of a temperament and a mode of thinking which are likely to produce very satisfactory letters. They are sure not to be dull: and when the queerness is accompanied by such literary power as "Fitz" possessed they are not likely to be merely silly, as some things are which attempt not to be dull. As a matter of fact they are delightful: and their variety is astonishing. Odd stories and odd experiences seem, despite his almost claustral life, to have had a habit of flying to FitzGerald like filings to a magnet--as for instance the irresistible anecdote of the parish clerk who insisted on giving out for singing casual remarks of the parson above him as if they were verses of a hymn, and who was duly echoed by the congregation. Even when he does not make you laugh he satisfies you: even when you do not agree with him you are obliged to him for having expressed his heresy. [Sidenote: FANNY KEMBLE] One of FitzGerald's special correspondents was, for reasons then imperative, not a member of the Cambridge group itself, but as closely connected with it as possible: being the sister of one of its actual members. John M. Kemble, one of our earliest and best Anglo-Saxon scholars in modern times, was, like others of his famous family (so far as is generally known) a person of varied talents, though he showed these neither in letter writing nor in the direction which Tennyson incorrectly augured in the "Sonnet to J. M. K." His sister Frances (invariably, like most though by no means all ladies of her name, called "Fanny"[42]) was a very remarkable person indeed. After taking early and with brilliant success to the stage which might almost be said to be hers by inheritance,[43] she married an American planter with even worse results (they were actually divorced) than her friend FitzGerald's marriage brought about later: and for many years returned to public life, not as an actress but as a reader. She wrote and published both prose and verse of various kinds: but her best known work and that which places her here, is a voluminous series of "Records," etc., much of which is composed of actual letters, while practically the whole of it is what we have called "letter-stuff." It has perhaps been published _too_ voluminously: and it is certain that, as indeed one might expect, its parts are not equal in interest. But experienced and balanced judgment must always sum up in her favour as possessing, in letter- and even other writing, more than ordinary talent, perhaps never quite happily or fully developed. Merely as a person she seems to have exercised an extraordinary attraction without being exactly amiable[44]: and from the intellectual and artistic sides as a writer (we have nothing here to do with her histrionic powers) to have been what has sometimes in others been called "inorganic," "ill-regulated," "not brought off," etc., but of extraordinary capacity. This may have had something to do with her sudden and exceptional success, when at barely twenty, and with no training except what heredity might give her, she "took the town [and the country] by storm" as Juliet, and very soon afterwards "carried" America likewise. But her "records" of these and other things are of almost the first quality: and this power of "recording" continued and was perhaps stimulated by the less as well as the more fortunate events of her life. It may be said indeed that in her time a young woman of full age (she was five and twenty), unusual experience of the world, and still more unusual wits, had no business to marry a planter in the Southern States, knowing that she was to live there, unless she had reconciled herself to the institution of slavery. Nor can anybody without prejudice deny this. But the inconsistency and the troubles it developed gave occasion to some very remarkable "recording," and the same had been the case earlier with her life, whether at home, on the stage, or in society, and was the case later whether she lived in England, in the Northern States, or on the Continent of Europe. Perhaps you never exactly like her: an unusual experience in the reading of letters, which for the most part are singularly reconciling from the mere fact of their explanatory quality. There is indeed no better confirmation of the well-known French saying _tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner_. Here, however, there are, as elsewhere, exceptions--Gray being perhaps one[45] as our present subject is another. But there are few things more interesting, though their interest may be somewhat tragic, than the spectacle of the way "things go wrong" so easily, so finally, so fatally. Fanny Kemble had a sister Adelaide, afterwards Mrs. Sartoris, with whom everything appears to have gone right: but with herself it "seemed otherwise to the Gods." And her letters or memoirs, or whatever they are to be called, are the record thereof, as well as of other things. [Sidenote: THE CARLYLES] The letters and "letter-stuff" of the Carlyles, husband and wife, according to the inevitable misfortune attending so much of our subject--supplied the occasion of volumes of that disgusting and most idle controversy which has made many people of taste pray that nothing biographical may ever be published about them. Far be it from us to take part in a game which if it does not always, like the unpleasant personage in the old ballad, Come for ill and never for good, certainly comes for the former much oftener than for the latter purpose and result. _Sunt lacrimae rerum_ is--once more and as so often--the best and the sufficient observation. But there remains in the letters of both, and especially in those of the lady, plenty of wholesome interest and of justifiable--not spying or eavesdropping--information as to character. Judged comparatively, they certainly do not contradict the notion formerly referred to, that in some respects letter-writing is a specially feminine gift. Carlyle's own letters[46] have plenty of merit and attraction--some of the descriptive ones especially: and they demonstrate, in the infallible way which letters and letters alone can supply in the absence of long personal familiarity, that the general tone and key of his writings was no falsetto but a perfectly genuine thing--that the often urged contrast of the _Life of Schiller_, instead of evidencing affectation in the later work, only proves constraint in the earlier. At the same time, except for what may be called side-illustration of the works, and completion of the biography for those who want it, there is not very much in Carlyle's letters which would be a serious loss. With his wife the case is different. Without her "Letters and Memorials" we might (it is rather improbable that we _should_, owing to the misdemeanours of more persons than one and the blow-fly appetite of a part of the public for sore places) have escaped a good deal of the ignoble wrangling above referred to. But we should not only have failed to appreciate a very remarkable character, but have missed some of the very best of our now existing contributions to epistolary literature. Personally Mrs. Carlyle was by no means a general favourite. She had a fearfully sharp tongue, and a still sharper wit in directing it upon her victims; her experiences were not very likely to edulcorate her acids and mollify her asperities. The letters show that, as so often happens, there was plenty of sweetness within the sharp exterior, and that her strength was the strength of passion, not of obduracy. But this is not all. There might have been biographical whitewashing of this kind without much gain to pure literature. But the letters showed likewise a power of expression, both lighter and more serious, which is hardly inferior to that found in any correspondence of man or woman, genuine or fictitious. Some people, not given to rash superlatives and pretty extensively acquainted with literature, have held that the letter describing her visit after many years to Haddington, and the reminiscences it called forth, has no superior in the vast range of our subject for pure pathos perfectly expressed, without constraint on nature yet without loss of dignity.[47] On the other hand, the half comic accounts of her domestic troubles etc. are worthy of Fielding or Thackeray. The fact is that Mrs. Carlyle possessed what is rare in women--humour. And she exemplified, as few other women and not so very many men have done, Anne Evans's matchless definition of it as "thinking in jest while feeling in earnest." Moreover while, as all true humourists can, she could drop the jest altogether when necessary, she could, as is the case with them likewise, never quite discard the earnest. [Sidenote: MACAULAY AND DICKENS] Some of the most distinguished of Carlyle's contemporaries, the great men of letters of the mid-nineteenth century, have left letters more or less copious and more or less valuable from one or both of the two sides, biographical and literary, but not eminently so. Macaulay's letters and diaries suit biography excellently, and have been excellently used in his. They lighten and sweeten the rather boisterous "cocksureness" of the published writings: and help his few but very remarkable poems other than the _Lays_ (which are excellent but in a different kind) to show the soul and heart of the man as apart from his mere intellect. But they are not perhaps intrinsically very capital. So also in Dickens's case the "Life-and-Letters" system is excellently justified, but one does not know that the letters in themselves would always deserve a first class in this particular school of _Literae Humaniores_. Letter-writing admits--if it may not even require--a certain kind of egotism. But it must be what the French call an _Egoisme à plusieurs_--a temper which takes, if only for the moment, other people into itself and cares for them there. "The Inimitable" was perhaps too generally thinking of that Inimitable himself or of the fictitious creations of his marvellous genius. If, like his own Mr. Toots, he could have written some letters to or from _them_ it would have been a very different thing. In this respect he does not, as in others he does, resemble Balzac, whose egotism was in a way as intense as his own and like it extended to his creations, but could extend farther: while the contrast with Thackeray is even more salient than in other cases from this same point of view. At the same time it must not be supposed that there is any intention here of belittling Dickens, either as a letter-writer or in any other way. It is only suggested that he lacks one of the things necessary to perfect letter-writing. Perhaps his most noteworthy productions in the style are his editorial criticisms--rather limited in taste and purview, but singularly shrewd within other limits. And many of the others tell their substance with that faculty of "telling" which he possessed as few have ever done, while the comedy of those given here is "the true Dickens." [Sidenote: SOME NOVELISTS] Mention of the three greatest novelists (English and French) of the mid-nineteenth century naturally suggests the rest of a class so predominant in that century's literary production. Their record in the matter is rather chequered, for reasons, in some respects and cases at any rate, not difficult to discover. Reference is elsewhere made to the disappointment experienced (perhaps not too reasonably) by some readers of the letters of George Eliot. A not dissimilar feeling had been expressed earlier in regard to those of Miss Austen: which, however, were intrinsically far superior. Except to her sister, and it may be even to her, Jane Austen was not at all likely to indulge in what is called in French _épanchement_: it was not in the least her line, whether in writing for publication or otherwise. Only one full year passed between the death of Miss Austen and the birth of Miss Evans, and the two illustrated very fairly the comfortable if not invariably accurate idea that when one human being dies another is born to succeed him or her in their special functions. But, as in other respects, they differed here remarkably; and though in neither case was the nature of the writer exactly expansive, this want of expansiveness was very differently conditioned. Miss Austen no doubt could, if she had chosen, (she has done something like it as it is) have written most delightful letters. A hundred scenes in the novels from Catherine Morland's tremors and trials, or John Dashwood's progressive limitations of generosity for his sisters, to some of the best things in _Persuasion_, would take letter form with the happiest results. But she did not choose that it should be so. George Eliot, on the other hand, after her earlier days, had ensconced herself in such a chrysalis of quasi-philosophical and quasi-scientific thought and speech that she could hardly have recovered the freedom of expression which is almost the soul of letter-writing. Some of Bulwer's (the first Lord Lytton's) letters are remarkable in ways, especially that of literary criticism, which might hardly be expected by anyone who had insufficiently taken the measure of his strangely unequal and imperfect, yet as strangely varied, talent. But as the century went on a new prohibitory influence arose in the enormous professional production which began to be customary with novelists--principally tempted no doubt by the corresponding gain of money, but perhaps also by the nobler desire of increasing, or at least living up to, their reputations. Even short of the unbroken drudgery which, it is said, compelled one lady novelist, of high rank for a time, to scribble her novels as she was actually receiving and talking to morning callers, the production of three or four novels a year--and those not the cock-boats we often see now but attempts at least at "the old three-decker" in its fullest dimensions--could leave little time or inclination for extensive letter-writing. There were, however, some exceptions. Charles Kingsley--who, though his novels were not very numerous, supplemented them with all sorts of miscellaneous writing for publication, was a diligent sportsman, an active cleric, and a busy man in many kinds and ways--wrote certainly good and probably many letters. The two brighter stars in the Brontë constellation, especially Charlotte, were scarcely less remarkable with the pen in this way than in others: and Mrs. Gaskell, Charlotte's biographer, has been put high by some. The unconquerable personality of Charles Reade showed itself here as elsewhere[48]: and others might be mentioned.[49] But perhaps the most distinguished novelist next to Thackeray of the nineteenth century, who was also a most distinguished letter-writer, was one who died in middle age not long before its end--Robert Louis Stevenson. [Sidenote: STEVENSON] Stevenson had in fact practically all the qualifications necessary for a good practitioner of our art. He had, eminently, that gift which the Romans called _facundia_ and the French can translate, if with a slight degradation of meaning, by _faconde_; but for which we, though the adjective "facund" has, one believes, been tried, possess no noun, "Eloquence" being too much specified to "fine" writing or speaking. "Facility of expression" perhaps comes nearest. Whether he corrected or corrupted this native gift by his famous "sedulous aping" of stylists before him is a debated question: but one quite unnecessary to touch here. It is sufficient to say that he never aped anyone in his letters, unless playfully and in a sort of concert with his correspondent. Indeed he possessed, quintessentially, that "naturalness" of matter and form on which so much stress has been laid. He had a disposition equally favourable to the business--if business we may call it. A person who is habitually gloomy may write capital letters of an impressive character now and then: but is likely to produce little but boredom if he extends his practice. Louis Stevenson did not habitually "regard the world through a horse collar" (as it was once put), but he certainly did not pass through it gnashing his teeth or holding his handkerchief to his eyes. Although he did a good deal of work, sometimes under no small difficulties, he had very little if any of that _collar_-work--that grinding "in Gaza at the mill with slaves" which takes the spring out of all but the springsomest of men. He had widely varied experience of scene, occupation, personal society. He knew plenty of books without being in the least bookish; had, as the old saying goes, "wit at will," and, though he never made deliberate and affected efforts to _get_ out of ruts, _kept_ out of them without the least trouble. He was as little of a "poser" or of a "rotter" as he was of a prig, and there was not a drop of bad blood in his veins. If these things could not make a good letter-writer nothing could; and there is little doubt that he will hold his place as such as long as English literature lasts. It is a great pleasure to me to give, as I hope to do, one unpublished letter of his to myself as a sort of _bonus_ to the reader of this little book--a letter of rather unusual interest in literary as in other respects. At this point, perhaps, actual survey may, and indeed had best, stop: not merely because space is closing in. Lovers of letters will of course detect what seem to them omissions in what has gone before and what comes after. Some of these, no doubt, will have been real oversights. Others, for this or that reason deliberate, such as Gibbon and Newman--the latter not merely for his re-statement of the character-value of correspondence, but for his exemplifications of it--might certainly have been more fully noticed. But in regard to later writers there are several obstacles in the path. Of some it would not be easy to speak on account of their own lives being too recent: in regard of nearly all the same fact must have occasioned exercise of "censorship" to a degree which makes absolute judgment of their competence as epistolers rash, and comparative judgment almost impossible. To take up once more one example of men who were born a full or almost a full century ago, Mr. Paul,[50] speaking apparently with intimate knowledge of the originals, speaks also of the "severe process of excision and retrenchment to which these [_the letters of Mr. Matthew Arnold_] have been exposed." And he thinks that very few letters "could have endured" it. Those who remember the appearance of these letters will also remember that some critics doubted whether even "these" had exactly "endured it"--that is to say, whether the expected salt of the author of so much published _persiflage_ had not been left out or had singularly lost its savour. To take another from the next generation, it is pretty certain that Mr. Swinburne's letters, though we have judicious selections from them, must have needed much more excision or retrenchment than Mr. Arnold's, unless he wrote them in a manner remarkably different both from his conversation and from his published works. In such cases it is best, the evidence being not fully before us, not to anticipate either the privileges or the decisions of posterity. VI SOME SPECIAL KINDS OF LETTER A few more general remarks, however, on _kinds_ of letter-writing--as distinguished from personality and accomplishment of letter-writers--may not improperly be added. [Sidenote: LETTERS AND THE NOVEL] One extremely curious application of the Letter has not yet been noticed, except by a glance or two: and that is the way in which--when after birth-struggles for some two thousand years the novel at last got itself born--letter-writing was pressed into its service. Historically, as was briefly indicated near the beginning of this, one may connect Greek Rhetoric and Greek Romance, and suggest the connection as the origin of the "novel-in-letters." In the romance proper--that is to say that of the Middle Ages--letters do not play any very important part, just as they played none in life. But in the "Heroic" variety of the late sixteenth and the whole of the seventeenth centuries they play a much larger--partly no doubt because of the influence (here noted) of the Greek Romance itself, but more because of the increased frequency and importance of actual correspondence in life and society. We need not, however, attribute too much to this influence of imitation in seeking for the cause or causes which made Richardson adopt the form: nor need we even put down to Richardson's own popularity, abroad as well as at home, the very general further adoption and continuance of a form which has perhaps more to be said against it than for it. Most serious students of the history of prose fiction must have noticed, and some of them have already pointed out, the curious, rather naïf, but quite obvious feeling on the part of the earlier practitioners of such fiction that somebody might ask them, in more polite language than that in which Cardinal Ippolito d'Este asked Ariosto a similar question, "Where they got their stories from?" The feeling seems sometimes to have affected poets, but much more rarely: the Muse being allowed to possess and confer a certain immunity from such cross-examination. Of the unnecessary and sometimes unnatural devices invented to answer this inconvenient question Scott in one well-known passage,[51] and others elsewhere, have made ironic lists: and not the least characteristic of Miss Austen's satiric touches is the passage where Catherine Morland expects palpitating interest from a bundle of washing-bills in a wardrobe-cupboard. But the anticipation of such a question, though perhaps it became conventional before it disappeared altogether, was certainly at one time real. At any rate, helped by the example of Richardson--Father of English novels as he is with whatever justice called--and by that overmastering fancy for letter-writing itself, which, as should have been already made clear, affected the century in which English novels were born--the practice spread and held its ground. Fielding was too perfect an artist in the higher and purer kind of fiction to favour it: and though Sterne himself was a sufficiently characteristic letter-writer, the form would not have suited the peculiar eccentricity of his two novels. But Smollett's best, _Humphrey Clinker_, adopts the method, and is perhaps one of its most successful examples. It suited the author's preference for a succession of scenes rather than a connected plot; for the sharp presentation of "humours" in character and incident. And it continued to be practised both early in the nineteenth century--examples had swarmed at the end of the eighteenth--and later. _Redgauntlet_ (which some have thought one of the best of Scott's novels and which few good judges would put much lower) is written in it to a great extent, but not wholly. And it may be noticed that this combination of Letters and narrative, which came in pretty early, is rather tell-tale. It is a sort of confession of what certainly is the fact--that the novel entirely by letters is a clumsy device, constantly getting in the way of the "story." Indeed the method of _Redgauntlet_ is a kind of retreat to the elder and more modern--one may say the more artistic and rational--plan of _introducing_ letters, but only occasionally as auxiliaries to, and as it were illustrations of, the actual narrative, not as substitutes for, or at any rate main constituents of, it.[52] Indeed, in order to make a novel wholly composed of letters thoroughly and absorbingly attractive, either charm of style such as to make the kind of literature in which it appears, more or less indifferent; or passion which is more suitable to poetry or drama than to prose; or both, may seem unnecessary. [Sidenote: LETTERS AND BIOGRAPHY] It was also in the eighteenth century--_the_ century once more of letter-writing--that letters, this time genuine not fictitious, began to play, to an important extent, a subsidiary part in yet another department of literature--biography. They had always done so, of course, to an extent less important in History, of which Biography is really a subdivision. The truth expressed in that dictum of the pseudo-Demetrius quoted above as to the illuminative power of letters on character could be missed by no historian and by no biographer who had his wits about him--even if he had less striking examples at hand than that letter of the Emperor Tiberius to the Senate which is one of the Tacitean flashes of lightning through the dark of history. But the credit of using letters as a main constituent of biography--of originating the "Life-and-Letters" class of books which fills so large a part of modern library-shelves--has been given, as far as English is concerned, to Mason in his dealings with Gray. There is so little to be said in favour of Mason, that we need not enquire too narrowly into his right to this commendation: though critical conscience must be appeased by adding that he abused his privilege as an editor and "literary executor" by garbling unblushingly. Boswell did Mason honour by acknowledging his example, and much more also by following it; and this practically settled the matter. Except in short pieces, which had need be of special excellence like Carlyle's _Sterling_, the plan has always been followed since: and there can here at least be no question that with a little favour of circumstances, it is the best plan possible. You get, as has been said, your character at first hand; if the letters include epistles to as well as from him or her, you get invaluable side-lights; you get, except in cases of wilful deception or great carelessness, the most trustworthy accounts of fact; and you can, or ought to be able to, hear the man talking. At the same time it must be admitted that this "Life-and-Letters" scheme, like every kind of art, requires care: and like most human things, is exposed to dangers and difficulties in addition to some previously noticed. To begin with, the _quality_ of the letters has to be considered. It so happened that Mason, the originator by courtesy, had unusually good material to work with. Gray, as is above pointed out and as is also, with some provisos already made or very soon to be made, universally admitted, is one of our best letter-writers. But not everybody--not every considerable man or woman of letters even--can write good letters. And besides this--besides the temptation to rely on the letters and merely to print them whether they deserve it or not--there is the further difficulty--to judge by the scarcity of good biographies a very great and insistent one--of composing the framework of the biography itself so as to suit the letters--to give the apples of gold in a picture not too obviously composed of some metal baser than silver. Unless this is done it would be better simply to "calendar" the letters themselves, with the barest schedule of dates and facts to assist the comprehension of them. But to consider the different methods of doing this--still more of presenting letters apart from deliberate biographical intention--would lead us too far. Carlyle's _Cromwell_--the presentation of an extraordinarily difficult set of documents not merely with connecting narrative, but with a complete explanatory commentary including paraphrase, is as remarkable an achievement as, and a far more elaborate one than, his _Sterling_ in the way of biography pure and simple. It is perhaps, though less delectable, not less admirable in its style than the other in its own. But it has, of course, the drawback of carrying with it a distinctly controversial character and, indeed, intention. We have more recently had at least two examples of the fullest possible comment with the least possible controversy in Mr. Tovey's "Gray," and of less voluminous but excellently adequate editing in Mrs. Toynbee's "Walpole." [Sidenote: "LETTERS FROM UNKNOWNS"] One not very large, but extremely curious division of letter-writing closely connected with those most recently mentioned, invites if it does not insist upon a word or two. Many people--almost all who have happened to be at any time "in the lime-light" as a modern phrase goes--that is to say in positions of publicity--must have had experience of the strange appetite of their fellow-creatures for writing them letters without previous acquaintance, without excuse of introduction, and on the most flimsy pretexts of occasion. The present writer once received from Australia a long list of queries on a book of his--most if not all of which could have been answered from the ordinary reference-bookshelf in the writing-room of such a club as that--never mind whether it was in Sydney or Melbourne or Adelaide--from which the querist dated his epistle. Indeed, on another occasion somebody demanded a catalogue of "the important references to the medical profession in French literature"! This tendency of humanity sometimes exercises and magnifies itself into really remarkable correspondences. There is perhaps none such in English quite to match those _Lettres à une Inconnue_ which (after standing the brunt of not a little unfavourable criticism, provoked not so much by their contents as by the personal, political, and above all religious or anti-religious idiosyncrasy of their author, Prosper Mérimée) have taken their place, for good and all, among the classics of the art. Our most curious example perhaps is to be found in the _Letters of the Duke of Wellington to Miss J._, the genuineness of which has been a matter of some controversy, but which are rather more inexplicable as forgeries than as authentic documents. Authors, from Richardson onwards, have been the special targets of such correspondents: and romance reports some, perhaps even history might accept a few, instances of the closest relations resulting. On the other hand, one of the very best of Miss Edgeworth's too much neglected stories, "L'Amie Inconnue" not only may be useful as a warning to the too open-hearted but has probably had not a few parallels in fact. Generally, of course, the uninvited correspondent is merely a passing phenomenon--rarely perhaps welcome except to persons of very much self-centred temperament with a good deal of time on their hands; tolerated and choked off placably by the good-natured and well-mannered; answered snappishly or not answered at all by moroser victims. [Sidenote: LOVE LETTERS] There is yet a kind of letter, fictitious or real examples whereof are not usually given in books which (as the Articles say of the Apocrypha) are to be read "for example of life and instruction of manners," though it is in a way the most interesting of all; and that is the love-letter. It is, however, so varied in kind and not so very seldom so pre-eminent as an illustration of the epistolary ideal--"writing as you would talk"--that it would be absurd to say nothing about it in this Introduction, and that it may even be possible to give some examples of it--one such of Swift's must be given--in the text. Of those which, as it was said of one famous group (those of Mlle. de Lespinasse) "burn the paper," those of which the Abelard and Heloise collection, with those of "The Portuguese Nun," Maria Alcoforado, and Julie de Lespinasse herself are the most universally famous--we have two pretty recent collections in English from two of the greatest poets and one of the greatest poetesses in English of the nineteenth century. They are the letters, referred to above, of Keats to Fanny Brawne, and those of the Brownings to each other. There are, it is to be hoped, few people who read such letters (unless they are of such a date that Time has exercised his strange power of resanctifying desecration and making private property public) without an unpleasant consciousness of eavesdropping. But there is another class which is not exposed to any such disagreeable liability: and that is the very large proportion of love-letters where the amativeness is, so to speak, more or less concealed, or where, though scarcely covered with the thinnest veil, it is mixed with jest sometimes, jest rather on the wrong side of the mouth, perhaps, but jest exercising its usual power of embalming. (Salt and sugar both preserve: but in this particular instance the danger is of oversweetness already.) There can--or perhaps we should say there could, but for some differences of opinion worth attending to--be no doubt that Swift owes much to this mixture: and if anybody ever undertook a large collection of the best private love-letters he would probably find the same seasoning in the best of them. For examples in which the actual amatory element is present but as it were under-current, like blood that flushes a cheek but does not show outside it, some of the best examples are those of Scott to Lady Abercorn. Those recently published, and already glanced at, of Disraeli to various ladies would seem to be more demonstrative and more histrionic. But the section as admitted lies, for us, on the extreme border of our province. It is too important to be wholly omitted and therefore these paragraphs have been given to it. And it may require future touching in reference to some particular writers, especially that greatest and most unhappy of all Deans of Saint Patrick, the greatest perhaps of all Deans that ever were with the exception of John Donne--himself no small epistoler, but greatest in those verse-letters which are denied us.[53] It is perhaps superfluous, but for completeness' sake may be permissible, to say a very little about the use of letters for purposes other than that of genuine personal communication. Indeed in doing so we are only executing the time-honoured manoeuvre of returning to the point whence we set out, and bringing the wheel full circle.[54] The strictly "business" letter--which is, of course, a personal communication in a way--and the "despatch" which is a form of it intended sooner or later for more general information, require no notice or at best mere mention. But in times past if not also in those present, "Letters" have been used--specially perhaps in that century of letters, the eighteenth--for purposes of definite instruction, argument, propaganda and so forth. There are obvious advantages in the form for certain of the lighter of these purposes as it is used in Montesquieu's _Lettres Persanes_ or Goldsmith's _Citizen of the World_. But why Bishop Hurd's _Letters on Chivalry and Romance_ (really valuable as they are) should have been "Letters" at all, except for fashion's sake, it is difficult to say. There is perhaps more excuse for the pamphlet, especially the political pamphlet, assuming the title of letter as it has so often done in instances from the great example of Bolingbroke and Burke downwards.[55] You have, with less unreality, the advantage of the classical "speech" addressed often to a single person, who is supposed to be specially aware of the facts or specially to need instruction and encouragement, or modified remonstrance, as to them. It was probably from these great exemplars--perhaps also aided by the custom of eighteenth century periodicals, that pamphlets of all kinds became titular epistles such as "A Letter to the deputy-manager of a Theatre Royal, London, on his lately acquired notoriety in contriving and arranging the 'Hair Powder Act'" (but this was satire), or "A letter writ by a clergyman to his neighbour concerning the kingdom and the allegiance due to the King and Queen."[56] [Sidenote: LETTERS TO THE PAPERS] For a last class may be taken the ever increasing body of things "written to the papers." It is unnecessary to consider the justice of a sarcastic division of mankind into "those who write to the papers and those who do not read the letters," or to discuss what men have been heard to say--that the people who write _to_ papers are people who have not written _in_ them. It is quite certain that, for many years past, the less frivolous kind of newspaper-correspondence has been of admitted interest and importance; indeed a paper might conceivably maintain its position after its repute has sunk in other ways, simply because more letters of importance appear in it than in others. As a source of illustrations of how to write and how not to write letters this modern development of the art could hardly be quite neglected; and it offers a curious study of various kinds. Except with very guileless writers the character-index quality is of course less certainly present than in letters written _not_ for publication. A man must be, in the old Greek phrase, "either a God or a beast," if he does not prepare for print--if not exactly with a touch of "stage-fright," at any rate with the premeditation with which even stage-fright-free actors go on the stage. But it requires a great master or mistress of dissimulation to write even these letters at all frequently without a certain amount of self-revelation. And there is perhaps no more curious and interesting part of that most curious and interesting business of editing than (when it is not merely tedious), the reading of offered correspondence. There is the pure lunatic, such as the man who for years sends despatches in a sort of cuneiform cipher, probably quite meaningless and certainly not likely to meet with a decipherer; there is the abusive person who (less piquantly than Reade in the letter quoted above) gives his opinion of your paper; the volunteer-corrector of obvious misprints; the innocent who merely wants to see his own signature in print, and who generally tries to bribe his way into it by references to "your powerful journal," etc. They are all there--waiting for the waste-paper basket. VII CONCLUSION A few more general remarks may close this Introduction. Something on the Art of Letter-writing and also something on its history, especially in English, was promised. It is hoped that the promise has not been too much falsified, at least to the extent necessary for illustration and understanding of the specimens which should follow, and which in their turn should illustrate it and make it more intelligible. The History part requires little or no postscript; whether ill or well done it should pretty well speak for itself. What touches the Art may require certain cautions and provisos. This is especially the case with regard to the stress laid above on "naturalness." It is (as the present writer at least believes) the very passport of admission to the company of good letter-writers. But it must not be misconstrued. It is quite possible that too little care may be taken with the matter and style of letters. After all they correspond--in a certain, if in the most limited degree--to appearance "in company," and require as that does a certain etiquette of observance. Complete deshabille[57] on paper is not attractive: and there are letters (it is unnecessary to specify any particular examples) which somewhat exaggerate "simplicity." Cowper is perhaps the accepted classic in this style who has the least of _apparatus_: but even Cowper bestows a certain amount of care--indeed, a very considerable amount--on the dress of his letter's body, on the cookery of its provender. If you have only small beer to chronicle you can at the worst draw it and froth it and pour it out with some gesture. In this respect as in others, while letter-writing has not been inaccurately defined or described as the closest to conversation of literary forms that do not actually reproduce conversation itself, it remains apart from conversation and subject to an additional degree of discipline. [Sidenote: CONCLUSION] Enough should have been said earlier of the opposite fault by excess of dressing, which has, however, for a sort of solace the fact that it may pass as literature though not exactly as letter-writing. Actually beautiful style--not machine-made "fine writing," but that embodiment of thought which is a special incarnation of it--is the one thing secure of success and survival, whatever literary form it takes. And even short of this supreme beauty accomplished literary manner can never be quite unwelcome. The highest place in letter-writing has been refused here to Pope: and unfortunately there is hardly a division of his work which, when you know a little more about it and him, excites more disgust at the man's nature. But, at the same time, hardly even his verse convinces one more of that extraordinary power of expression as he wished to express things which this Alexander, in some ways the infinitely Little, possessed. Yet it gives in the first place a rather sophisticated enjoyment, open only to those whom the gods have made, or who have made themselves, critical. And in the second, whether sophisticated or not, what it gives is the enjoyment of literature not of life:[58] whereas the direct satisfaction which genuine letters afford is almost identical with that given by actual intercourse with other human beings. However, it is unnecessary to "go on refining." Perhaps indeed, after all, the artificial letters may be permitted if only in an "utmost, last, provincial band," to add to the muster of pleasure-giving things which epistolary literature so amply provides. Even fiction itself, which, as has been said often, draws on this source, cannot supply anything more "pastimeous"; even drama anything more arresting to the attention. Indeed good letters may be said to be constantly presenting little stories, little dramas, little pictures--all of them sometimes not so _very_ little--which are now practically complete; now easily filled up by any reasonable intelligence; now perhaps tantalizingly, but all the more interestingly enigmatic. For those people (one may or may not sympathise with them, but they are certainly pretty numerous) who cannot take interest or can only take a reduced interest in things that "did not really happen"; letters may be even more interesting than novels. Only to very wayward or very unimaginative ones can they be less so, if they are in any respect good of their kind. One of their main attractions is, with the same caution, their remarkable _variety_. It has been complained with a certain amount of truth that fiction, whether in prose or verse, is a little apt to fall into grooves: that all the histories are told, all the plays acted. This is undoubtedly the curse of Art, and every now and then we see it acknowledged in the most convincing manner by the frantic efforts made to be "different." But that real things and persons are never quite identical is not merely a philosophical doctrine but a practical fact. The "two peas" of one saying are never so much "alike" as the "two blades of grass" of another are unlike. Now as letters--that is to say letters that deserve to exist at all--are bound to reproduce the personality of their writers, it will follow that a refreshing diversity must also belong to them. And as a matter of fact this will be found to be the case. Even the eighteenth century--the century of rule and class, of objection to "the streaks of the tulip," of machine-made verse, etc.,--has, except in the case of letters artificially made to pattern, shown this signally. One last recommendation. A bad letter-writer is sure to betray himself almost everywhere, and letters are as a rule short. Most people must have attempted books of other classes, especially novels, and hoping against hope turned them over, and dipped and peeped till repeated disappointment compelled the traditional flinging to the other end of the room, or simply dropping the thing in less explosive weariness. You never need do that with letters. If a man's letters are not worth reading you will "have a confessing criminal" at once; if they are he will hardly be able to keep the quality latent whenever he goes beyond the shortest business note. The man of one book, in the sense of having read it, is proverbially formidable but in fact too frequently a bore. The man of one letter, in the sense of having written a good one and no more, probably never existed.[59] APPENDIX TO INTRODUCTION I GREEK LETTERS.--SYNESIUS (_c._ 375-430) English readers may know something, from Kingsley's _Hypatia_, of the excellent bishop of Ptolemais who, at the meeting of the fourth and fifth centuries, combined the functions of neo-Platonist philosopher, Christian prelate, country gentleman, and most efficient yeomanry officer against the ancestors, or at least forerunners, of the present Senussi, who were constantly raiding his diocese and its neighbourhood. These two letters--to Hypatia herself and to his brother--show him in different, but in each case favourable lights. LETTER CVIII. (TO HIS BROTHER) I have already got 300 spears and as many cutlasses, though I had, even before, only half a score two-edged swords: and these long flat blades are not forged with us. But I think the cutlasses can be struck more vigorously into the enemies' bodies, and so we shall use them. And at need we shall have bludgeons--for the wild olive trees are good with us.[60] Some of our men have single-bladed axes at their belts with which those of us who have no defensive armour shall chop their[61] shields and make them fight on equal terms. The fight will, at a guess, come off to-morrow: for when some of the foe had fallen in with scouts of ours and pursuing them at their best speed had found them too good to catch, they bade them tell us what pleased us mightily--if indeed we may no more have to wander in the footsteps of those fellows who made off into the wastes of the interior. For they said they were going to stay where they were and wanted to find out what sort of fellows _we_ were, who dared to separate ourselves so many days' journey from our own place that we might fight with men of war, nomads in way of life, and whose civil polity was like our discipline in war-time. Therefore, as one who by God's help shall to-morrow conquer--nay, conquer again if needful (for I would say nothing of bad omen) I commit to thee the care of my children: for it is fitting that thou, their uncle, shouldest carry over thine affection to them. LETTER CXXIV "But if oblivion be the lot of the dead in Hades yet will _I_, even there, remember" my dear Hypatia. Beset as I am by the sufferings of my country, and sick, as I see daily weapons of war about me and men slaughtered like altar-victims; drawing as I do breath infected by rotting corpses; expecting myself a similar fate, (for who can be hopeful when the very atmosphere is weighed down and dusky with the shadow of carnivorous birds?) yet do I cling to my country. For what else would my feeling be, born and bred as I am, and with the not ignoble tombs of my fathers before my eyes? For thee alone does it seem to me that I could neglect my country, and if I could get leisure, force myself to run away.[62] LATIN LETTERS.--PLINY (62-114) The most famous letters of the younger Pliny are those which describe his country houses, that which gives account of his uncle's death in the great eruption of Vesuvius, and his correspondence with Trajan. But the first mentioned are rather long and require a good deal of technical annotation;[63] the second is to be found in many books; and the letters which make up the third (except those concerning Christianity, which are again to be found in many places) are mostly short and on points of business merely. The one I have chosen is extremely characteristic, in two respects, of the author and of Roman ways generally. It shows Pliny's good-nature and right feeling, but it shows also a certain "priggishness" with which he has been specially and personally charged, but which, to speak frankly, he shared with a great many of his famous countrymen. Priggishness was almost unknown among the Greeks--though one may suspect its presence among those Spartans who have told so few tales of themselves. But it flourished at Rome, and was one of Rome's many--and one of her worst--legacies to us moderns. Secondly, the letter is amusing because one thinks what an English judge would surely think and would probably say, if counsel for a lady were to inform the court _uberius et latius_ what an extremely good opinion that lady's father had of him, the learned speaker. A minor but still interesting difference is in Pliny's slight hesitation about taking a brief against a consul-elect. The subtleties of Roman etiquette are endless. PLINIUS TO HIS ASINIUS GALLUS--HEALTH You both advise[64] and ask me to take up the cause of Corellia in her absence against C. Caecilius, Consul elect. I am obliged to you for advising me but I complain of your _asking_. I ought to be advised that I may know the fact, but not asked to do what it would be most disgraceful for me _not_ to do. Could I doubt about protecting the daughter of Corellius? True, there is between me and him against whom you call on me, not exactly close friendship but still some friendship. There is also to be taken into account the man's worth and the honour to which he is destined, a thing which I ought to hold in the greater respect that I have myself already enjoyed it. For it is natural that things which one has oneself attained, one should wish to be regarded with the greatest respect. But when I think that I am to help Corellius' daughter, all this appears idle and empty. I seem to see the man than whom our age had no one more dignified, more pious, of an acuter mind; the man whom, when I had begun to like him out of admiration I admired more, contrary to what usually happens, the more thoroughly I knew him. For I did know him thoroughly; he kept nothing hid from me, neither jocular nor serious, neither sad nor glad. I was quite a young man: but already he held me in honour and I will dare to say respect--as if I were his contemporary. He gave me his vote and interest in my standings for honours; he, when I entered upon them, was my introducer and companion; when I carried them out, my adviser and guide. In fact, in every business of mine, though he was an old man and in weak health, he was as forward as if he were young and strong. How much he furthered my reputation, privately, publicly, and even with the Chief of the State! For when by chance, in the presence of the Emperor Nerva, the conversation had turned on young men of worth, and several persons spoke in praise of me, he kept silence for a little, which gave him the more authority. Then in the weighty manner you know, "I must needs," he said, "say all the less about Secundus[65] because he never does anything but by my advice." By saying this he gave me the credit (which it would have been extravagant in me to hope for) of never doing anything in other than the wisest way, seeing that I always acted on the advice of the wisest man. Moreover, when dying, he said to his daughter, as she is wont to declare, "I have provided you, as if I were myself to live longer, many friends: but for the chief of them Secundus and Cornutus." Now when I remember this, I see I must take care not in any way to disappoint the trust in me of this most fore-thoughtful man. Therefore I will come to Corellia's help without the least delay and will not refuse to undergo inconveniences: though I think I shall secure not merely pardon but even praise from the very person who as you say is bringing a new action as against a woman, if it should happen to me to say these same things in court more amply and fully than the narrow room of a letter permits, either to excuse or indeed commend myself. Farewell. LETTER OF THE "DARK" AGES SIDONIUS APOLLINARIS (431?-482-4) Caius Sollius Sidonius Apollinaris is one of the most interesting figures of the troubled and obscure period intervening between the fall of the Roman Empire _proper_ and the rise of mediaeval Europe. He was born at Lyons, married Papianilla, daughter of Flavius Avitus, who was to be one of the ephemeral "Emperors" of the West and the Decadence, but was not injured by his father-in-law's dethronement, and enjoyed various civil honours and posts. In 471, though a married layman, he was peremptorily made a bishop, and accordingly took orders, put away his wife, and discharged his sacred duties as creditably as he had discharged his profane ones. Sidonius was a not contemptible poet, and an interesting letter-writer. Like most literary men of his class he was given to what we call flattery; and this Ecdicius, of whom he made a sort of Dark Age Admirable Crichton, was his brother-in-law, an Emperor's son, and Count or Duke (the titles were often interchangeable) of the district. But it is fair to say that Gregory of Tours, the accepted historian of the period, and living only in the next century, makes the exploit over the Goths even more signal--for he reduces the troopers to _ten_. The Arverni (inhabitants of Auvergne and its neighbourhood) were the strongest tribe in Southern Gaul when the Romans first came into contact with them, retained much prominence in Caesar's time, and had not lost individuality, if they had lost independence, by this (5th) century. The mixture of "Arms" and the "Gown" is noteworthy. BOOK III. LETTER III SIDONIUS TO HIS ECDICIUS--HEALTH If ever, now you are longed for by my Arvernians, whose love for you subdues them remarkably, and indeed for all sorts of reasons. First, because a man's native land has the greatest part in creating affection for him.[66] Then, because in your time you are about the only mortal who was longed for before his birth as much as he was rejoiced in after it.... I say nothing of such things--common to all, but no mean incitement to affection--as that you crawled as a child on the same turf with them. I pass over the grass which you first trod, the river you first swam, the woods you broke through in hunting. I leave out the fact that it was here you first played ball[67] and backgammon,[68] that you hawked, coursed, rode, shot with the bow. I omit the fact that for the sake of your boyish presence students of letters came hither from all parts; and that it was due to you as an individual that our nobility, anxious to shed the slough of Celtic speech, imbued itself now with the style of oratory, now with the measures of the Muse. And this specially kindled the love of the community[69] that you forbade those whom you had already made Latins[70] to remain barbarians.[71] For it could never slip the memory of our citizens what and how great you seemed, to every age and rank and sex on the half-ruined mounds of our walls, when, accompanied by scarcely eighteen horsemen, you cut your way through some thousands of Goths in full daylight and (which posterity will hardly believe) in the open field. A well trained army stood aghast at the sound of your name and the sight of your person: so that the leaders of the enemy, in their astonishment, hardly knew how many were their followers, how few yours. Their line was then withdrawn to the brow of a steep hill; it had before been gathered together to storm, but on your appearance was not deployed for battle. Meanwhile you, having slain some of their best men whom not sloth but courage had made the rearmost of the troop, occupied the level ground alone, though such a fight gave you not so many comrades as your table is wont to contain guests. And when you returned to the town at your leisure what came to meet you in the way of official compliments, applause, tears, rejoicings can be better guessed than described. One might see in the crammed halls of the spacious palace that happy ovation for your thronged return. Some caught up the dust of your footsteps to kiss it: others took out the horses' curbs stained with blood and foam; others prepared the stands for the saddles drenched with the horses' sweat; others, when you were about to put off your helmet, unbuckled the clasps of its plated chin-straps, or busied themselves with unlacing your greaves. Yet others counted the notches on the swords, blunted with slaughter, or measured with livid[72] fingers the rings of the corslets, slashed or pierced by weapons.[73] EARLY MEDIAEVAL LETTER (TWELFTH CENTURY) Of the other persons mentioned in this letter besides the widowed Duchess and King Louis VII., the first is Ralph, Count of (Peronne and) Vermandois, a leper. The lady's name was Eleanor, and she also was probably a widow; the Duchess's son Hugh was third of that name as Duke of Burgundy. Ivo, Count of Soissons, was the guardian of the Count of Vermandois, incapacitated legally by his plague. The proposed marriage did not come off. The business-like tone of the letter will only surprise those who do not really know the "Ages of Romance." I owe the selection of it to my friend the Rev. W. Hunt, D.Litt., who came to my aid in the dearth of books of this period which circumstances imposed on me. To Louis[74] most excellent King of the Franks by the grace of God, and her most beloved Lord, Mary, Duchess of Burgundy--health and due respect. It is known to your Majesty that my son is your liegeman, and, if it please you, your kinsman also. Whatsoever he can do is yours: and if he could do more it were yours. And so I all the more confidently ask your highest affection for my son. For it has been told me that Count Ralph of Peronne has a certain marriageable sister who, as has been reported to me and her own people, would be a suitable wife for my son. For this reason, most beloved Lord, I and he ask that you would look to this matter yourself and speak about it to the Count of Soissons, and settle how this marriage may be contracted. You must know that though my son might marry in another kingdom, I greatly prefer that he should take a wife in yours, rather than in any other. The nearer he becomes connected with you the more will he be yours and altogether a profit to you. FOOTNOTES: [1] It may of course be "illustrated" in the other sense by a second use of the pen; and we shall have instances of this kind to notice. [2] As has often been pointed out Ben Jonson's exquisite "Drink to me only with thine eyes" is a verse-paraphrase or mosaic from this writer's prose. [3] Pliny, if he did not always "write for publication," deliberately "published," as we should say, his letters. Indeed, he is one of the first to use the word in this sense, even if he uses it immediately of an oration not a letter. Some think Cicero meant publication; and he was very likely to do so. [4] The Latin statesman, like the Greek bishop, condescends to write about wine and even more fully. One of the most interesting and informing things on the subject is his discourse on _vinum acinaticium_, a sort of Roman Imperial Tokay made from grapes kept till the frost had touched them. [5] Genuine letters of Sappho would have been of the first interest to compare with those of Heloise, and the "Portuguese Nun" and Mademoiselle de Lespinasse. Diotima's might have been as disappointing as George Eliot's: but by no means must necessarily have been so. Aspasia's, sometimes counterfeited, ought to have been good. [6] It is part of the plan to give, as a sort of Appendix to the Introduction, and extension of it towards the main body of text, some specimens of Greek, Roman (classical and post-classical) and Early Mediaeval letter-writing, translated for the purpose by the present writer. The _continuity_ of literary history is a thing which deserves to be attended to, especially when there is an ever-growing tendency to confine attention to things modern--albeit so soon to be antiquated! I owe the last of these specimens, in the Latin from which I translate it, to the kindness of my friend the Rev. W. Hunt, D.Litt., to whom I had recourse as not myself having access to a large library at the moment, and who has assisted me in other parts of this book. [7] Yet others, as to authenticity, have, I believe, been rejected by all competent scholarship. [8] Benjamin Constant and Madame de Charrière. [9] Some of us think Blake a great poet; but this is scarcely a general opinion, and he does not appear till the century was three parts over. Burns (whose own letters by the way do him little justice) hardly comes in. [10] Especially the most popular and voluminous if not the most important of all--the periodical and the novel. [11] The danger being of many sorts--usually in the direction of various kinds of _excess_. A _quietly_ tragic letter may be a masterpiece: perhaps there is no finer example than one to be again referred to, of Mrs. Carlyle's. [12] Mr. Paul thinks that "the baby language" is terribly out of character, and that there is "too much of it"; that Swift "would try to make love though he did not know what love meant"; and that the whole rings hollow and insincere. Others, women as well as men, have held that the "little language" is only less pathetic than it is charming; that Swift was one of the greatest, if one of the unhappiest lovers of the world; and that the thing is as sincere as if it had been written in the Palace of Truth and only hollow as is the space between Heaven and Hell. [13] It should never be, but perhaps sometimes is, forgotten that "Stella" was a lady of unusual wits, and of what Swift's greatest decrier called in his own protegée Mrs. Williams "universal curiosity," that is to say not "inquisitiveness" but "intelligent interest." The politics etc. are not mere selfish attention to what interests the writer only. [14] It must not be forgotten that she was Fielding's cousin. And after the remark above on Swift it is pleasant and may be fair to say that Mr. Paul is a hearty "Marian." [15] Johnson is again the chief and by no means trustworthy witness for this "insolence." But in the same breath he admitted that Chesterfield was "dignified." Now dignity is almost as doubtfully compatible with insolence as with impudence. [16] It is difficult to think of anyone who has combined statesmanship (Chesterfield's accomplishments in which are constantly forgotten), social gifts and literary skill in an equal degree. [17] Excluding of course purely historical and public things like the trials of the '45 and the riots of '80. [18] They were travelling together (always rather a test of friendship) in Italy, and Horace, as he confesses, no doubt gave himself airs. But it is pretty certain that Gray had not at this time, if he ever had, that fortunate combination of good (or at least well-commanded) temper and good breeding which enables a gentleman to meet such conduct with conduct on his own side as free from petulant "touchiness" as from ignoble parasitism. [19] Gray was not, like Walpole, a richly endowed sinecurist. But to use a familiar "bull" he seems never to have had anything to do, and never to have done it when he had. His poems are a mere handful; his excellent _Metrum_ is a fragment; and as Professor of History at Cambridge he never did anything at all. [20] They do not seem to have known each other personally. But (for reasons not difficult to assign but here irrelevant) Johnson was on the whole, though not wholly, unjust to Gray, and Gray seems to have disliked and spoken rudely of Johnson. [21] The varieties of what may be called literary _exercise_ which have been utilised for educational or recreative purposes, are almost innumerable. Has anyone ever tried "breaking up" a letter (such as those to be given hereafter) into a conversation by interlarded comment, questions, etc.? [22] As far as the accidents are concerned. The essentials vary not. Marianne is eternal, whether she faints and blushes, or jazzes and--does not blush. [23] One unfortunate exception, the _ex-post facto_ references to the split with Lady Austin, may be urged by a relentless prosecutor. But when William has to choose between Mary and Anna it will go hard but he will _have_ to be unfair to one of them. [24] This "swan's" utterances in poetry were quite unlike those of Tennyson's dying bird: and her taste in it was appalling. She tells Scott that the Border Ballads were totally destitute of any right to the name. [25] For a singular misjudgment on this point see Prefatory Note _infra_. [26] Particularly when he is able to apply the _Don Juan_ mood of sarcastic if rather superficial life-criticism in which he was a real master. [27] _I.e._ "violently and vulgarly absurd." [28] It may, however, be suggested that the extraordinary _bluntness_ (to use no stronger word) of both is almost sufficiently evidenced in the fact that in his last edition of Keats Mr. Forman committed the additional outrage of distributing these letters according to their dates among the rest. The isolation of the agony gives almost the only possible excuse for revealing it. [29] It is of course true that Shelley himself did not at first quite appreciate Keats. But _Adonais_ cancels the deficit and leaves an almost infinite balance in favour. One can only hope that, had the circumstances been reversed, Keats would have set the account right as triumphantly. [30] This tendency makes it perhaps desirable to observe that in the _particular_ context of the _Belle Dame_ there is nothing whatever to cavil at. [31] The recent centenary saw, as usual, with much welcome appreciation some uncritical excesses. [32] In not a few cases they may be said to have been deliberately _un_prepared--intended though not labelled as "private and confidential." [33] In which, be it remembered, the "Life-and-Letters" system only came in quite late. [34] At the very moment when this is being written a considerable new body of them is announced for sale. [35] The word "restraint" may be misunderstood: but it is intended to indicate something of the general difference between "classical" ages on the one side and "romantic" or "realist" on the other. [36] Chesterfield's deafness might, without frivolity, be brought in. It is a hindrance to conversation, but none to letter-writing. [37] Or at least expression of themselves. [38] Idly: because he himself expressly and repeatedly disclaims _mere_ "translation." [39] Dryden, in reference to Shadwell. [40] "The Great God Pan" piece ("A Musical Instrument"), one of the last, was perhaps her _very_ best. But he may have been thinking of _Poems before Congress_, which are poor enough. [41] Lucy, daughter of that curious Quaker banker's clerk Bernard Barton, whose poetry is negligible, but who must have had some strong personal attraction. For he was a favourite correspondent of two of the greatest of contemporary letter-writers, Lamb and FitzGerald, though he constantly misunderstood their letters; he received from Byron--on an occasion likely to provoke one of the "noble poet's" outbursts of pseudo-aristocratic insolence--a singularly wise and kindly answer; and having as a perfect stranger lectured Sir Robert Peel he was--invited to dinner! [42] Some have attempted to make a distinction, alleging that there are Franceses who can be called "Fanny" and others who can not. But it is doubtful whether this holds. Of two great proficients of "letter-stuff" in overlapping generations Fanny Burney was eminently a "Fanny." Fanny Kemble, though always called so, was not. [43] She was the niece of Mrs. Siddons and of John Kemble, generally considered the greatest tragic actor and actress we have had; the daughter of Charles Kemble, a player and manager of long practice and great ability; while she had yet another uncle and any number of more distant relations in the profession. [44] See Prefatory Note on her letters _infra_, for an illustration of what is said of her here and of Mrs. Carlyle a little further. [45] Gray may not produce this effect of slight repulsion on everyone: but on the other hand it is pretty generally admitted that the more you read Walpole the more does the prejudice, which Macaulay and others have helped to create against him, crumble and melt. [46] They grow more and more numerous; a fresh batch having been announced while this Introduction was being written. [47] I see that Mr. Paul also has made special reference to this letter and no wonder. From the time of its first publication I have regarded it as matchless. But it seems to me that while it is lawful to mention it, it should not have been published and that to republish it here would be at least questionable. [48] The present writer remembers as a boy reading (he supposes in the newspaper to which it was addressed but is not sure) this very remarkable epistle of Reade's to an editor: "Sir, you have brains of your own and good ones. Do not echo the bray of such a very small ass as the...." There was more, but this was the gist of it. Whether it has ever reappeared he cannot say. [49] Anthony Trollope did not choose to make his Autobiography a "Life-and-Letters." But he has used the inserted letter very freely and sometimes with great effect in his novels, for instance Mr. Slope's to Eleanor Harding in _Barchester Towers_. [50] In his Essay mentioned in Preface. [51] The "Answer to the Introductory Epistle" of _The Monastery_. [52] This plan was older than the "novel _by_ letters," and had, as noticed above, been largely used in the sixteenth and seventeenth century "heroic" romance. [53] There is of course a class exactly opposite to the love-letter--that of more or less modified hate or at least dislike. Johnson's epistle to Chesterfield is an example of the dignified form of this; Hazlitt's to Gifford of the undignified. But considering our deserved reputation for humour we are less strong than might be expected in letters which make the supposed writer make _himself_ ridiculous. Sydney Smith's "Noodle's Oration" is the sort of thing in another kind: and some of the letters in the _Spectator_ class of periodical are fun in the kind itself. Defoe's _Shortest Way with the Dissenters_ comes near. But we have nothing like the famous _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_, which are the very triumph of the style. [54] See the extensive classification of the Greeks, as noticed and reproduced before. [55] The "Letter to Sir W. Windham" of the one and the "Letter to a noble Lord" of the other, have ample justification. _Letters on a Regicide Peace_, great as they are in themselves, have less claim to their title. But it was a favourite with both writers. [56] The King was William and the Queen Mary, which limits considerably the otherwise rather illimitable "concerning the kingdom." [57] This word is of course a _vox nihili_, being neither French nor English. But it has usage in its favour, and I do not see that it is improved by writing it "_dis_habille." If anyone prefers the actual French form he can add the accents. [58] The account of the journey with Lintot the publisher is sometimes quoted in disproof of this. It is amusing, but has still to some tastes Pope's factitiousness without the technical charm of his verse to carry it off. [59] There is one small but rather famous class of letters which perhaps should receive separate though brief notice. It is that of laconic and either intentionally or unintentionally humorous utilisations of the letter-form. Of one sort Captain Walton's "Spanish fleet taken and destroyed as per margin" is probably the most noted type: of another the equally famous rejoinder of the Highland magnate to his rival "Dear Glengarry, When you have proved yourself to be my chief, I shall be happy to admit your claim. Meanwhile I am Yours, Macdonald." In pure farce of an irreverent kind, the possibly apocryphal interchange between a Royal Duke and a Right Reverend Bishop, "Dear Cork, Please ordain Stanhope, Yours, York," and "Dear York, Stanhope's ordained. Yours, Cork," has the palm as a recognised "chestnut." But these things are only the frills if not even the froth of the subject; and those who imitate them should exercise caution in the imitation. The police-courts, and even more exalted, but still more unwholesome abodes of Justice, have sometimes been the consequences of misguided satire in letters. Even in Captain Walton's case the Spaniards are said to have endeavoured to show that his ironical laconism (which, moreover, tradition has perhaps exaggerated in form) was not strictly in accordance with fact. [60] Wild olive, with more peaceful uses, was also the usual material for the _un_peaceful club, or quarter-staff, often iron-shod, of the ancients. It was probably like the _lathi_ which the mild Hindoo takes with him to political meetings. The [Greek: pelekys] of the ancients was generally double-bladed, hence the limitation here. This would be lighter and more convenient to carry in the belt. [61] Of course "the enemies'." [62] Synesius addresses his letters to Hypatia [Greek: tê philosophô]--"To _the_ Philosophess." This contains at least two of the unapproachable "portmanteau" words in which Greek, and especially late Greek abounds--[Greek: philochôrôn], "loving one's country," and [Greek: metanasteuein], a rare and complicated compound in which I have ventured to see a hint of ironic intention. He feels that he will be a sort of shirker or deserter ([Greek: meta] often imparts this meaning) but he will be coming to _her_. [63] This necessity of annotating beyond suitable limits was what prevented me, after due re-reading for the purpose, from giving any letter of Cicero's. [64] _Admoneo_ in Latin not unfrequently has our commercial sense of "advise" = inform, or remind of a fact. It will be remembered that in Elizabethan English this sense was not limited to business, as in "Art thou aviséd of that." [65] The younger Pliny's full name was C. Plinius _Secundus_. [66] Among other natives of course. [67] Doubtless the game still played in Italy (_pallone_) and the South of France, with a wooden hand-guard strapped to the arm. [68] _Pyrgus_ is not exactly backgammon. The Romans had a sort of combined dice-box and board--the latter having a kind of tower fixed on the side with interior steps or stops, among which the dice tumbled and twisted before they fell out. [69] _Universitas_: but though the context seems tempting, it is too early for "university" as a translation. [70] _I.e._ in citizenship. [71] _I.e._ in speech. [72] Why _livescentibus_ I am not sure. "Bruised by the rough mail"? But Lucretius has _digiti livescunt_: and Sidonius, like other poets of other decadences, is apt to borrow the phrases of his great predecessors. [73] Sidonius has nearly as much more of this curious story: but the picture of the excitable Celts mobbing their heroes is vivid enough to make a good stopping-place. If things really went as described, one must suppose that a sudden panic came on the Goths, and that they took Ecdicius and his handful of troopers as merely _éclaireurs_ of a sally in force, and drew back to the higher ground to resist it. [74] His own experience of marriage cannot have made the subject wholly agreeable to him: for he was, it may not be quite impertinent to remind the reader, the first husband of Eleanor of Guienne. ENGLISH LETTERS THE PASTONS. FIFTEENTH CENTURY Few families in England have achieved a permanent "place i' the story" after such a curious fashion as the Pastons of Paston (Pastons "of that ilk") in Norfolk. They were not exactly "great people" and no member of the family was of very eminent distinction in any walk of life, though they had judges, soldiers, and sailors etc. among them, and though, some time before the house became extinct, its representative attained the peerage with the title of Earl of Yarmouth. But they were busy people in the troublesome times of the Roses, and they obtained a good deal of property, partly by the death of Sir John Fastolf, noted in the French wars and muddled by posterity (there seems to have been no real resemblance between them except an accusation of cowardice, probably false in both cases, and an imperfectly anagrammatised relation of names) with Shakespeare's "Falstaff." But they produced, received, and kept a great mass of letters which, despite the extinction of the family in 1732 survived, were partially printed later in the century by Fenn, and more fully a hundred years after by the late Mr. Gairdner. Although (see Introduction) of no particular literary merit they are singularly varied in subject and authorship, and they give us perhaps a more complete view of the domestic experiences of a single family (not dissociated from public affairs) than we have from any period of English history till quite modern times. Indeed, it would not be easy to put the finger on an exact parallel to them at _any_ time. I have selected from a great mass of documents two--one of love and one of war according to the good old division. John Jernyngan's letter to Margaret Mauteby--wife of John Paston, and one of the most notable and businesslike, though not the least affectionate of wives and mothers--is interesting for its combination of the two motives (were there also _two_ "Mistress Blanches"?) and for the delightfully English frankness of its confession that "we were well and truly beat." On the other hand, that of Miss Margery Brews to John Paston the youngest (the John named above had two sons of his own name) is one of the most agreeable pieces of "plain and holy innocence," as Miranda calls it, on record. It is immediately preceded in the collection by another in which she is equally loving, and quotes some of the shockingly bad fifteenth century verse. One regrets to say that her "Valentine" had, apparently, more than one string to his bow at the moment. However, after vicissitudes in the "matter," as she delicately calls it, John and Margery did marry, and from them proceeded the later stages of the family. Whether things went equally well with Mr. Jernyngan and his Blanche (or either of his Blanches) does not seem to be recorded. (It has been thought better, though the taste of the moment seems to go rather the other way, not to encumber the reader with the original spelling, but there is no further modernisation.) 1. LETTER 317 (GAIRDNER) Date June 1, 1458 Right worshipful and my most best beloved mistress and cousin, I recommend me to you as lowly as I may, ever more desiring to hear of your good welfare; the which I beseech almighty Jesus to preserve you and keep you to his pleasure and to your gracious heart's desire. And, if it please you to hear of my welfare, I was in good heal(th) at the making of this letter, blessed be God. Praying you that it please you for to send me word if my father was at Norwich with you at this Trinitymas or no, and how the matter doth between my mistress Blanche Witchingham and me and if ye suppose that it shall be brought about or no, and how ye feel my father, if he be well willing thereto or no; praying you lowly that I may be recommend(ed) lowly to my mistress Arblaster's wife, and to my mistress Blanche her daughter specially. Right worshipful cousin, if it please you for to hear of such tidings as we have here, the embassy of Burgundy shall come to Calais the Saturday after Corpus Christi day, as men say, 500 horse of them. Moreover on Trinity Sunday in the morning came tidings unto my Lord of Warwick that there were 28 sails of Spaniards on the sea, and whereof there was 16 great ships of forecastle. And then my Lord[75] went and manned 5 ships of forecastle and three carvells, and four pinnaces, and on the Monday, in the morning after Trinity Sunday, we met together afore Calais at 4 at the clock in the morning and fought that (_sic_) gether till 10 at the clock. And there we took six of their ships and they slew of our men about four twenties and hurt a two hundred of us right sore; and there were slain on their part about twelve twenties and hurt a five hundred of them. And (it) happened me at the first aboarding of us, we took a ship of three hundred ton, and I was left therein and 23 men with me; and they fought so sore that our men were fain to leave them, and then come they and aboarded[76] the ship that I was in and there I was taken, and was prisoner with them 6 hours, and was delivered again for their men that were taken before. And as men say, there was not so great a battle upon the sea this forty winters. And forsooth we were well and truly beat: and my Lord hath sent for more ships, and like to fight together again in haste. No more I write unto you at this time, but that it please you for to recommend me unto my right reverend and worshipful cousin your husband, and mine uncle Gurney, and to mine aunt his wife and to all good masters and friends where it shall please you; and after the writing I have from you, I shall be at you in all haste. Written on Corpus Christi day in great haste by your own humble servant and cousin, JOHN JERNYNGAN. 2. LETTER 784 (GAIRDNER) Date Feb. 1477 Right worshipful and well-beloved Valentine, in my most humble wise I recommend me unto you. And heartily I thank you for the letter which that ye send me by John Beckerton, whereby I am informed and know that ye be purposed to come to Topcroft in short time, and without any errand or matter but only to have a conclusion of the matter between my father and you. I would be most glad of any creature in life so that the matter might grow to effect. And there as ye say, an ye come and find the matter no more towards you than ye did aforetime, ye would no more put my father and my lady my mother to no cost nor business, for that cause, a good while after--which causeth mine heart to be full heavy: and if that ye come, and the matter take to none effect, then should I be much more sorry and full of heaviness. And as for myself I have done and understood in the matter that I can and may, as good[77] knoweth: and I let you plainly understand that my father will no more money part withal in that behalf but £100 and one mark which is right far from the accomplishment of your desire. Wherefore if that ye could be content with that good, and my poor person, I would be the merriest maiden on ground. And if ye think not yourself so satisfied, or that ye might have much more good, as I have understood by you afore--good, true, and loving Valentine,[78] that ye take no such labour upon you as to come more for that matter but let it pass and never more be spoken of, as I may be your true lover and bedeswoman[79] during my life. No more unto you at this time but Almighty Jesus preserve you both body and soul. By your Valentine, M. B. FOOTNOTES: [75] It is to be feared that "My Lord's" action was rather piratical. The "Spanish Fleet" was of merchantmen ("convoyed" perhaps) on their way to the North with iron etc. for fish, silk, etc., and we were not definitely at war with Spain. But Henry the IV. of Castile was an ally of France. Warwick had just been appointed "Captain of Calais," and it was a general English idea that anything not English in the Channel was fair prize. Warwick's conduct was warmly welcomed in London. [76] This use of "abord" and that just before are slightly different derivatives of the French _aborder_, which means to "approach," "accost," "come together with" as well as to "board" in the naval sense. The first use here is evidently of the more general, the second of the particular kind. [77] This may be a mere mis-spelling of "God," or a sort of euphemism like the modern "thank _goodness_!" to avoid the more sacred name. [78] "I would" or "take care" or something similar to be supplied to make a somewhat softened imperative. [79] One who prays for you. ROGER ASCHAM (1515-1568) Although the old phrase about "the schoolmaster being abroad" has never before had anything like the amount of applicableness which it now possesses, there is perhaps still a certain prejudice against schoolmasters. Indeed even some who have more than served time in that capacity will admit that it is a dangerous employment, profession, or vocation. But if all of us had been ever, or ever would try to be, like Roger Ascham, our class would never have deserved, or would victoriously wiped off, any obloquy. It was extraordinary good quality, or more extraordinary good fortune, that made the same man write _Toxophilus_ and _The Schoolmaster_. And there need hardly be any admission of possible good luck as causing, though some certainly helped, his performance as a letter-writer. Something was said before as to the importance of his "getting to English" in this matter. But it may be permissible to remind, or perhaps even inform, some readers of the curious combination which made this importance. As a Renaissance scholar; as a College tutor before the middle of the sixteenth century; as a Secretary of Embassy on the Continent; and as Latin Secretary at Court, he was positively _un_likely to favour the vernacular. Nor could anyone be a warmer or wiser lover of the classics than he was. But what he, being all these things, did for English was all the more influential, while the manner of his doing it could hardly be bettered. Ascham's letters being partly in English and partly in Latin, there is a certain temptation to translate one of the latter and put it side by side with one of the former. But the process might not be fair: and to give the fairer chance of comparison between originals in the two tongues would be out of the scheme of this book. I therefore choose a part of one of his long letters of travel to Cambridge friends--one of the earliest of the many "Up the Rhines" in English literature--and another part of his letters to Cecil. He has been reproached with the "begging" character of these, but it was the way of the time with Renaissance scholars. In the first "ioney" (Giles's text) must be wrong and towards the end "vile" is an amusing blunder for "_o_ile." "Peter Ailand" a Cambridge friend's child. "Brant" = "steep." In the second "Denny" is Sir Anthony D., a great favourite of Henry VIII. and Edward VI. who was now dead. "Cheke" the still better known "Sir John" had "taught Cambridge and King Edward Greek," and so raised the "goodly crop" but had taken to politics, which were to bring him into trouble.[80] 3. TO MR. EDWARD RAVEN [EXTRACT] AUGSBURG Jan. 20 1551 13 Octob. We took a fair barge, with goodly glass windows, with seats of fir, as close as any house, we knew not whether it went or stood. Rhene is such a river that now I do not marvail that the poets make rivers gods. Rhene at Spires having a farther course to rin into the ocean sea than is the space betwixt Dover and Barwick is broader over a great deal than is Thames at Greenwich when it is calm weather. The Rhene runs fast and yet as smooth as the sea water stands in a vessel. From Colen this day we went to Bonna, the bishop's town, the country about Rhene here is plain and ioney. We were drawn up Rhene by horses. Little villages stand by Rhene side, and as the barge came by, six or seven children, some stonenaked, some in their shirts, of the bigness of Peter Ailand, would run by use on the sands, singing psalms, and would rin and sing with us half a mile, whilst they had some money. We came late to Bonna at eight of the clock: our men were come afore with our horse: we could not be let into the town, no more than they do at Calise, after an hour. We stood cold at the gate a whole hour. At last we were fain, lord and lady, to lie in our barge all night, where I sat in my lady's side-saddle, leaning my head to a malle, better lodged than a dozen of my fellows. 14 Octob. We sailed to Brousik: 15 miles afore we come to Bonna begin the vines and hills keeping in Rhene on both sides for the space of five or six days journey as we made them almost to Mayence, like the hills that compass Halifax about, but far branter up, as though the rocks did cover you like a pentice (pent-house): on the Rhene side all this journey be pathways where horse and man go commonly a yard broad, so fair that no weather can make it foul: if you look upwards ye are afraid the rocks will fall on your head; if you look downwards ye are afraid to tumble into Rhene, and if your horse founder it is not seven to six that ye shall miss falling into Rhene, there be many times stairs down into Rhene that men may come from their boats and walk on his bank, as we did every day four or five miles at once, plucking grapes not with our hands but with our mouths if we list. The grapes grow on the brant rocks so wonderfully that ye will marvel how men dare climb up to them, and yet so plentifully, that it is not only a marvel where men be found to labour it, but also almost where men dwell that drink it. Seven or eight days journey ye cannot cast your sight over the compass of vines. And surely this wine of Rhene is so good, so natural, so temperate, so ever like itself, as can be wished for man's use. I was afraid when I came out of England to miss beer; but I am more afraid when I shall come into England, that I cannot lack this wine. It is wonder to see how many castles stand on the tops of these rocks unwinable. The three bishops electors, Colen, Trevers and Mayence; be the princes almost of whole Rhene. The lansgrave hath goodly castles upon Rhene which the emperor cannot get. The palatine of Rhene is also a great lord on this river, and hath his name of a castle standing in the midst of Rhene on a rock. There be also goodly isles in Rhene, so full of walnut trees that they cannot be spent with eating, but they make vile of them. In some of these isles stand fair abbeys and nunneries wonderfully pleasant. The stones that hang so high over Rhene be very much of that stone that you use to write on in tables; every poor man's house there is covered with them. 4. TO CECIL [EXTRACT] BRUSSELS March 24. 1553 If I should write oft, ye might think me too bold: and if I did leave off, ye might judge me either to forget your gentleness, or to mistrust your good will, who hath already so bound me unto you, as I shall rather forget myself, and wish God also to forget me, than not labour with all diligence and service to apply myself wholly to your will and purpose; and that ye shall well know how much I assure myself on your goodness, I will pass a piece of good manners, and be bold to borrow a little of your small leisure from your weighty affairs in the commonwealth. Therefore, if my letters shall find you at any leisure, they will trouble you a little in telling you ate length, as I promised in my last letters delivered unto you by Mr. Francis Yaxeley, why I am more desirous to have your help for my stay at Cambridge still than for any other kind of living elsewhere. I having now some experience of life led at home and abroad, and knowing what I can do most fitly, and how I would live most gladly, do well perceive there is no such quietness in England, nor pleasure in strange countries, as even in St. John's college, to keep company with the Bible, Plato, Aristotle, Demosthenes, and Tully. Which my choice of quietness is not purposed to lie in idleness, nor constrained by a wilful nature, because I will not or can not serve elsewhere, when I trust I could apply myself to mo kinds of life than I hope any need shall ever drive me to seek, but only because in choosing aptly for myself I might bring some profit to many others. And in this mine opinion I stand the more gladly, because it is grounded upon the judgment of worthy Mr. Denny. For the summer twelvemonth before he departed, dinner and supper he had me commonly with him, whose excellent wisdom, mingled with so pleasant mirth, I can never forget: emonges many other talks he would say oft unto me, if two duties did not command him to serve, the one his prince, the other his wife, he would surely become a student in St. John's, saying, "The Court, Mr. Ascham, is a place so slippery, that duty never so well done, is not a staff stiff enough to stand by always very surely, where ye shall many times reap most unkindness where ye have sown greatest pleasures, and those also ready to do you most hurt to whom you never intended to think any harm." Which sentences I heard very gladly then, and felt them soon after myself to be true. Thus I, first ready by mine own nature, then moved by good counsel, after driven by ill fortune, lastly called by quietness, thought it good to couch myself in Cambridge again. And in very deed, too many be pluckt from thence before they be ripe, though I myself am withered before I be gathered, and yet not so for that I have stood too long, but rather because the fruit which I bear is so very small. Yet seeing the goodly crop of Mr. Cheke is almost clean carried from thence, and I in a manner alone of that time left a standing straggler, peradventure though my fruit be very small, yet because the ground from whence it sprung was so good, I may yet be thought somewhat fit for seed, when all you the rest are taken up for better store, wherewith the king and his realm is now so nobly served. And in such a scarcity both of those, that were worthily called away when they were fit, and of such as unwisely part from thence, before they be ready, I dare now bolden myself, when the best be gone, to do some good among the mean that do tarry, trusting that my diligence shall deal with my disability, and the rather because the desire of shooting is so well shot away in me, either ended by time or left off for better purpose. Yet I do amiss to mislike shooting too much, which hath been hitherto my best friend, and even now looking back to the pleasure which I found in it, and perceiving small repentence to follow after it, by Plato's judgment I may think well of it. No, it never called me to go from my book, but it made both wit the lustier, and will the readier, to run to it again, and perchance going back sometimes from learning may serve even as well as it doth at leaping, to pass some of those which keep always their standing at their book. FOOTNOTES: [80] The allusions to the writer's own _Toxophilus_ at the end require, it is to be hoped, no annotation. LADY MARY SIDNEY (?[81]-1586) This "old Molly," as she so agreeably calls herself, was very unfortunate in her father (that intrusive holder for a short time of the title of Northumberland, who was offensive in success and abject in adversity) and not too lucky in her brother, Leicester. But she must have been far too good for her own breed; she had an excellent husband, Sir Henry Sidney, Deputy of Ireland and President of Wales, one of Elizabeth's best deserving and worst treated servants, and she was the mother of "Astrophel" and Astrophel's sister. "One has known persons more unfortunate," as a famous phrase of a French poem not very long after her own time has it. And she must have thoroughly deserved good fortune: for her letters show her as one of the best of wives and mothers (if not of spellers): though it is quite possible that she might not have made a good jurywoman or a good member of parliament. As her husband was not merely governor (repeatedly and with such success as was possible) of Ireland, but "President of Wales," they usually, when in England but not at Court or at Penshurst, lived at Ludlow Castle and so enjoyed two of the most beautiful homes in the country. But Sir Henry in these and other functions had seas of trouble, great expenses, and according to "Gloriana's" wont, very small thanks for it all. He is said, indeed, to have had his life shortened by weariness and worry. But his son and daughter[82] may have been a comfort to him: and his wife must have been so. The letter itself, as will be seen, is not to himself but to his secretary: and there was more correspondence on the subject of their lodging and its difficulties. Lady Mary was not well, and there must be a place to see friends, and the Queen might come in! The original letter[83] is better spelt than others of hers, the principal curiosity being the form "hit" for "it," which, however, is by no means peculiar. 5. TO EDWARD MOLINEUX, ESQ. You have used the matter very well; but we must do more yet for the good dear Lord [her husband] than let him be thus dealt withal. Hampton Court I never yet knew so full as there were not spare rooms in it, when it has been thrice better filled than at the present it is. But some would be sorry, perhaps, my Lord should have so sure a footing in the Court. Well, all may be as well when the good God will. The whilst, I pray let us do what we may for our Lord's ease and quiet. Whereunto I think if you go to my Lord Howard, and in my Lord's name also move his Lordship to shew his brother my Lord, (as they call each other)--to show him a cast of his office[84] and that it should not be known allege your former causes, I think he will find out some place to serve that purpose. And also if you go to Mr Bowyer,[85] the gentleman-Usher, and tell him his mother requireth him (which is myself) to help my Lord with some one room, but only for the dispatch of the multitude of Welsh and Irish people that follow him; and that you will give your word in my Lord's behalf and mine, it shall not be accounted as a lodging[86] or known of, I believe he will make what shift he can: you must assure him it is but for the day-time for his business, as indeed it is. As for my brother's answer of[87] my stay here for five or six days, he knows I have ventured far already with so long absence, and am ill thought of for it,[88] so as that may not be. But when the worst is known, old Lord Harry and his old Moll will do as well as they can in parting[89] like good friends the small portion allotted our long service in Court, which as little as it is, seems something too much.[90] And this being all I can say to the matter, farewell, Mr. Ned. In haste this Monday 1578, your assured loving mistress and friend, M. SYDNEY. If all this will not serve, prove[91] Mr Huggins, for I know my Lord would not for no good be destitute in this time for some convenient place for his followers and friends to resort to him, which in the case I am in, is not possible to be in _my_ chamber till after sunset, when the dear good Lord shall be, as best becomes him, Lord of his own. FOOTNOTES: [81] Her birth-date does not seem to be known, but she was married in 1551. [82] He had another, of the (for an English girl) very unusual name of "Ambros[z]ia" who died unmarried, at twenty. [83] Most kindly copied for me by the Rev. W. Hunt from Arthur Collins's _Sydney Papers_. [84] An agreeable phrase, not in the least obsolete, though I have known ignorant persons who thought it so. The "office" was that of Lord Chamberlain; the holder was Lord Howard of Effingham, afterwards famous in the Armada fights. [85] See _Kenilworth_ (chap. xvi.), where Scott brings him in as experiencing Gloriana's extreme uncertainty of temper. [86] _I.e._ a permanent one such as Hampton Court affords to some. [87] "About"? [88] Either by the Queen herself, whose touchiness is well known, or by jealous and mischief-making fellow courtiers. [89] "Sharing." [90] "Is grudged." [91] We should say "try." GEORGE CLIFFORD EARL OF CUMBERLAND (1558-1605) This not very fortunate or wholly blameless but very remarkable and representative person was the third holder of the earldom and the sixteenth of the famous barony of Clifford. He was great-grandson of Wordsworth's "Shepherd Lord"; father of Anne Countess of Dorset, Pembroke and Montgomery (pupil of Daniel the poet and a typical great lady of her time); one of the foremost of Elizabeth's privateering courtiers; one of the chief victims of her caprice and parsimony; a magnificent noble, but a great spendthrift, something of a libertine, never unkindly but hardly ever wise. This remarkable deathbed letter (the giving of which depended on the kindness of Dr. G. C. Williamson of Hampstead, author of the _Life and Voyages of G. Clifford, 3rd Earl of Cumberland_, Cambridge University Press, 1920, in which it appeared, p. 270-1), pretty well explains itself. "Sweet Meg," his wife, was Lady Margaret Russell, daughter of the Earl of Bedford. The pair were on very affectionate terms for many years: but had latterly been estranged by certain infidelities on the Earl's part and by money disputes and difficulties, so that when his last illness attacked him Lady Cumberland was not with him. She was not, however, proof against this repentant appeal: but returned with her daughter. Both were present at his death in the Savoy soon after he wrote. He had made, personally or by deputy, ten if not twelve voyages against the Spaniards, and though there was a good deal of mismanagement about them he took Porto Rico in one; captured, but made little profit out of, an enormously valuable prize, the _Madre de Dios_, in another; gave the warning which enabled Lord Thomas Howard to escape, but which Sir Richard Grenville refused to take "at Flores, in the Azores"; and built at his own expense, the largest privateer then or perhaps ever constructed, the _Malice Scourge_--for the remarkable subsequent history of which, see Mr. David Hannay's article, "_The Saga of a Ship_," in _Blackwood_, May, 1921. 6. Sweet and dear Meg, Bear[92] with, I pray thee, the short and unapt setting together of these my last lines, a token of true kindness, which I protest cometh out of an unfeigned heart of love to thee. For whose content, and to make satisfaction for the wrongs done to thee I have, since I saw thee more desired to return than for any other earthly cause. But being so low brought that, without God's miraculous favour, there is no great likelihood of it I, by this, if so it please God that I shall not, in earnestness make my last requests, which as ever thou lovest me lying so, I pray thee perform for me being dead. First, in greedy earnestness I desire thee not to offend God in grieving too much at His disposing of me: but let my assured hope that He hath done it for the saving of my soul rather comfort thee, considering that we ought most to rejoice, when we see a thing that it is either for the good of our souls or of our friends. And further I beg of thee that thou wilt take, as I have meant, in kindness the course I have set down for disposing of my estate and things left behind. Which truly, if I have not dealt most kindly with thee in, I am mistaken, and as ever thou lovest, (which I know thou hast done faithfully and truly) sweet Meg, let neither old conceit, new opinion, nor false lying tale, make thee fall to hard opinion nor suit with my brother. For this I protest now, when I tremble to speak that which upon any just colour may be turned to a lie, thou hast conceived wrong of him, for his nature is sweet, and though wrong conceit might well have urged him, yet he hath never to my knowledge said or done anything to harm thee or mine, but with tears hath often bemoaned himself to me that he could not devise how to make thee conceive rightly of him. And lastly, before the presence of God, I command thee, and in the nearest love of my heart I desire thee, to take great care that sweet Nan[93] whom God bless, may be carefully brought up in the fear of God, not to delight in worldly vanities, which I too well know be but baits to draw her out of the heavenly kingdom. And I pray thee thank thy kind uncle and aunt for her (?) and their many kindnesses to me. Thus, out of the bitter and greedy desire of a repentant heart, begging thy pardon for any wrong that ever in my life I did thee, I commend these my requests to thy wonted and undeserved kind wifely and lovely consideration, my body to God's disposing and my love (soul?) to His merciful commisseration. Thine as wholly as man was ever woman's, GEORGE CUMBERLAND. To my dear wife, the Countess of Cumberland, give this, of whom, from the bottom of my heart in the presence of God, I ask forgiveness for all the wrongs I have done her. FOOTNOTES: [92] There is, as often, little or no punctuation in the original, of which Dr. Williamson's beautiful book gives a facsimile. I have ventured to adjust that of the printed text, here and there, to bring out the meaning. [93] Lady Anne was at this time only 15. She seems to have been fond of her father and proud of him: nor is there any direct evidence that the fear of God was not in her. But she had no fear of man: and no excessive respect for her father's will. During the lives of her uncle Francis and her cousin Henry, 4th and 5th Earls, she fought it hard at law: and at last, Henry dying without issue, and the title lapsing, came into possession of the great Clifford estates in the North. She lived to be 86, and was masterful all her days. JOHN DONNE (1573-1631) "The first poet in the world for some things,"--as Ben Jonson, who nevertheless did not like his metric, thought he would perish for not being understood, and perhaps did not understand him--called Donne with justice, might not be thought likely to be among the first letter-writers. The marvellous lightning-flashes of genius in a dark night of context which illuminate his poetry and his sermons, can hardly be expected--would indeed be almost out of place--in ordinary letter-writing. Moreover, Donne is, perhaps, with Browne, the most characteristic exponent of that magnificent seventeenth century style which accommodates itself ill to merely commonplace matters. Browne, a younger man by an entire generation who lived far into the age of Dryden, could drop this style when he chose: with Donne it was rather the skin--if not even the very flesh and bone and all but spirit--than the cloak of his thought. Nevertheless there is no exact contemporary of his--and certainly none possessing anything like his literary power--who deserves selection as a representative of his own school and time better than he does; and there is something in him which adds distinction to any company in which he appears. As mentioned in the Introduction, his verse-epistles were even more noteworthy, but in prose he is noteworthy enough. The batch of letters here chosen was most fortunately preserved by Izaak Walton, who published the first of them _in_ the life not of Donne but of George Herbert, while the rest were "added" to it in 1670.[94] The lady to whom they were written, Magdalen Newport by maiden name, was mother not only of the pious and poetical George, but of Edward Lord Herbert of Cherbury, himself not a very bad poet but by no means in the usual sense pious, a very great coxcomb, and a hero chiefly by his own report. His mother, however, seems to have been one of those "elect ladies" who were among the chief glories of England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and were fortunately numerous. After her widowhood she lived at Oxford for some time, but seems to have moved to London when Donne, about 1607, wrote these letters. He was himself living at Mitcham (spelt "Michin" in one letter), not yet famous for golf though perhaps already for lavender. Later he visited her at Montgomery Castle, the famous seat of the Herberts. She is said to have been very beautiful, and the subtle touch of not in the least fatuous or foppish "devotion" is most agreeable. 7. TO THE LADY MAGDALEN HERBERT Madam, Your favours to me are everywhere. I use them, and have them. I enjoy them at London, and leave them there: and yet find them at Mitcham. Such riddles as these become things inexpressible: and such is your goodness. I was almost sorry to find your servant here this day, because I was loath to have any witness of my not coming home last night, and indeed of my coming this morning. But my not coming was excusable, because earnest business detained me; and my coming this day is by example of your St. Mary Magdalen, who rose early upon Sunday, to seek that which she loved most; and so did I. And, from her and myself, I return such thanks as are due to one, to whom we owe all the good opinion that they, whom we need most, have of us. By this messenger and on this good day, I commit the enclosed Holy Hymns and Sonnets--which for the matter not the workmanship have yet escaped the fire,--to your judgment and to your protection too, if you think them worthy of it; and I have appointed this enclosed Sonnet to usher them to your happy hand. Your unworthiest servant unless your accepting him to be so have mended him JO. DONNE. (MITCHAM July 11. 1607) TO THE LADY MAGDALEN HERBERT: OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN Her of your name, whose fair inheritance Bethina was, and jointure Magdalo, An active faith so highly did advance, That she once knew, more than the church did know, The Resurrection! so much good there is Delivered of her, that some Fathers be Loath to believe one woman could do this; But think these Magdalens were two or three. Increase their number, Lady, and their fame: To their devotion, add your innocence; Take so much of the example as the name The latter half--and in some recompense That they did harbour Christ Himself--a guest Harbour these Hymns, to His dear Name addressed. 8. TO THE LADY MAGDALEN HERBERT Madam, Every excuse hath in it somewhat of accusation; and since I am innocent, and yet must excuse, how shall I do for that part of accusing. By my troth, as desperate and perplexed men, grow from thence bold; so must I take the boldness of accusing you, who would draw so dark a Curtain betwixt me and your purposes, as that I had no glimmering, neither of your goings, nor the way which my Letters might haunt. Yet, I have given this Licence to Travel, but I know not whither, nor it. It is therefore rather a Pinnace to discover; and the entire Colony of Letters, of Hundreds and Fifties, must follow; whose employment is more honourable, than that which our State meditates to _Virginia_ because you are worthier than all that Country, of which that is a wretched inch; for you have better treasure and a harmlessness. If this sound like a flattery, tear it out. I am to my Letters as rigid a Puritan as Caesar was to his Wife. I can as ill endure a suspicious and misinterpretable word as a fault; and of the grossest flatteries there is this good use, that they tell us what we should be. But, _Madam_, you are beyond instruction, and therefore there can belong to you only praise; of which, though you be no good hearer, yet allow all my Letters leave to have in them one part of it, which is thankfulness towards you. _Your unworthiest Servant Except your accepting have mended him_ JOHN DONNE. MITCHAM, July 11, 1607. 9. _To the worthiest Lady, Mrs._ MAGDALEN HERBER(T) _Madam_, This is my second Letter, in which though I cannot tell you what is good, yet this is the worst, that I must be a great part of it; yet to me, that is recompensed, because you must be mingled. After I knew you were gone (for I must, little less than accusingly tell you, I knew not you would go) I sent my first Letter, like a _Bevis of Hampton_, to seek Adventures. This day I came to Town, and to the best part of it, your House; for your memory is a State-cloth and Presence; which I reverence, though you be away; though I need not seek that there which I have about and within me. There, though I found my accusation, yet anything to which your hand is, is a pardon; yet I would not burn my first Letter, because as in great destiny no small passage can be omitted or frustrated, so in my resolution of writing almost daily to you, I would have no link of the Chain broke by me, both because my Letters interpret one another, and because only their number can give them weight. If I had your Commission and Instructions to do you the service of a Legier Ambassador here, I could say something of the Countess of _Devon_: of the States, and such things. But since to you, who are not only a World alone, but the Monarchy of the World your self, nothing can be added, especially by me; I will sustain myself with the honour of being _Your Servant Extraordinary And without place_ JOHN DONNE. LONDON July 23, 1607 10. _To the worthiest Lady, Mrs_. MAGDALEN HERBERT _Madam_, As we must die before we can have full glory and happiness, so before I can have this degree of it, as to see you by a Letter, I must almost die, that is, come to _London_, to plaguy _London_; a place full of danger, and vanity, and vice, though the Court be gone. And such it will be, till your return redeem it: Not that, the greatest virtue in the World, which is you, can be such a Marshal, as to defeat, or disperse all the vice of this place; but as higher bodies remove, or contract themselves, when better come, so at your return we shall have one door open to innocence. Yet, Madam, you are not such an Ireland, as produceth neither ill, nor good; no Spiders or Nightingales, which is a rare degree of perfection: But you have found and practised that experiment, That even nature, out of her detesting of emptiness, if we will make that our work to remove bad, will fill us with good things. To abstain from it, was therefore but the Childhood and Minority of your Soul, which hath been long exercised since, in your manlier active part, of doing good. Of which since I have been a witness and subject, not to tell you some times, that by your influence and example I have attained to such a step of goodness, as to be thankful, were both to accuse your power and judgment of impotency and infirmity. _Your Ladyship's in all Services_, JOHN DONNE.[95] August 2d, 1607. FOOTNOTES: [94] Mr. Gosse (who has inserted them in his _Life and Letters of Donne_) is perhaps right in putting letter 7 last. I give no opinion on this but merely keep the order in which they originally appeared in the text and in an appendix to the _Life of Herbert_ (1670 edit.). I am not certain to which "first" the "second" in letter 9 refers. "Bevis of Hampton" generally for "knight errant"; "Legier," a _resident_ Ambassador; "States" in the plural--always then "the Dutch"; _Snake_lessness is more often assigned to Ireland than spiderlessness. [95] The first of these letters, with the sonnet, appears, I think, in all editions of Walton, who has apparently entered the date wrongly. The other three were copied for me from the 1670 original by Miss Elsie Hitchcock, I have slightly modernised a few spellings in them. JAMES HOWELL (1593-1666) "The Father" of something is an expression in the history of literature which has become, more justly than some other traditional expressions, rather odious to the modern mind. For in the first place it is an irritatingly conventional phrase, and in the second the paternity is usually questionable. But "the priggish little clerk of the Council," as Thackeray (who nevertheless loved his letters) calls Howell, does really seem to deserve the fathership of all such as in English write unofficial letters "for publication."[96] He wrote a great deal else: and would no doubt in more recent times have been a "polygraphic" journalist of some distinction. And he had plenty to write about. He was an Oxford man; he travelled abroad on commercial errands (though by no means as what has been more recently called a "commercial traveller"); he was one of Ben Jonson's "sons," a Royalist sufferer from the Rebellion, and finally Historiographer Royal as well as Clerk to the Council. His letters, which are sometimes only titularly such[97] but sometimes quite natural, deal with all sorts of subjects--from the murder of Buckingham by Felton to the story of the Oxenham "White Bird" which Kingsley has utilised in _Westward Ho!_ And, to do him justice, there is a certain character about the book which is not _merely_ the expression of the character of the writer, though no doubt connected with it. Now the possession of this is what makes a book literature. It has been usual to select from Howell's letters of travel, and from historical ones like the Buckingham one above mentioned. I have preferred the "White Bird"; and before it one of several documents, of the same or nearly the same period, which deal with the old English life of country houses--between the mediaeval time and the degradation of the "servant" class, which came in with the eighteenth century or a little earlier. Howell would evidently have echoed Isopel Berners--that admirable girl whom George Borrow slighted--in saying, "Long Melford for ever!" though the house would not with him, as with her, have meant a workhouse. Neither letter seems to require annotation. 11. TO DAN CALDWELL, ESQ., FROM THE LORD SAVAGE'S HOUSE IN LONG MELFORD My dear Dan, Tho' considering my former condition of life, I may now be called a countryman, yet you cannot call me a rustic (as you would imply in your letter) as long as I live in so civil and noble a family, as long as I lodge in so virtuous and regular a house as any, I believe, in the land, both for economical government and the choice company; for I never saw yet such a dainty race of children in all my life together. I never saw yet such an orderly and punctual attendance of servants, nor a great house so neatly kept; here one shall see no dog, nor a cat, nor cage to cause any nastiness within the body of the house. The kitchen and gutters and other offices of noise and drudgery are at the fag-end; there's a back-gate for the beggars and the meaner sort of swains to come in at; the stables butt upon the park, which, for a cheerful rising ground, for groves and browsings for the deer, for rivulets of water, may compare with any of its bigness in the whole land; it is opposite to the front of the great house, whence from the gallery one may see much of the game when they are a-hunting. Now for the gardening and costly choice flowers, for ponds, for stately large walks green and gravelly, for orchards and choice fruits of all sorts, there are few the like in England; here you have your Bon Chrétien pear and Burgamot in perfection; your Muscadel grapes in such plenty that there are some bottles of wine sent every year to the King: and one Mr. Daniel, a worthy gentleman hard by who hath been long abroad, makes good store in his vintage. Truly this house of Long Melford tho' it be not so great, yet is so well compacted and contriv'd with such dainty conveniences every way; that if you saw the landskip of it, you would be mightily taken with it and it would serve for a choice pattern to build and contrive a house by. If you come this summer to your Manor of Sheriff in Essex, you will not be far off hence; if your occasions will permit, it will be worth your coming hither, tho' it be only to see him, who would think it a short journey to go from St. David's Head to Dover Cliffs to see and serve you, were there occasion; if you would know who the same is, 'tis-- Yours, J. H. 20. May, 1619. 12. TO MR. E. D. Sir, I thank you a thousand times for the noble entertainment you gave me at Bury; and the pains you took in showing me the antiquities of that place. In requital, I can tell you of a strange thing I saw lately here, and I believe 'tis true. As I passed by St. Dunstan's in Fleet Street the last Saturday, I stepped into a lapidary, or stone-cutter's shop, to treat with the master for a stone to be put upon my father's tomb; and casting my eyes up and down, I might spy a huge marble with a large inscription upon't, which was thus to my best remembrance: _Here lies _John Oxenham_, a goodly young man, in whose chamber, as he was struggling with the pangs of death, a bird with a white breast was seen fluttering about his bed, and so vanished._ _Here lies also _Mary Oxenham_, the sister of the said _John_, who died the next day, and the said apparition was seen in the room._ Then another sister is spoke of, then, _Here lies hard by _James Oxenham_, the son of the said _John_, who died a child in his cradle a little after; and such a bird was seen fluttering about his head, a little before he expired, which vanished afterwards._ At the bottom of the stone there is: _Here lies _Elizabeth Oxenham_ the mother of the said _John_, who died sixteen years since, when such a bird with a white breast was seen about her bed before her death._ To all these there be divers witnesses, both squires and ladies, whose names are engraven upon the stone. This stone is to be sent to a town hard by Exeter, where this happened. Were you here, I could raise a choice discourse with you hereupon. So, hoping to see you the next term, to requite some of your favours, I rest-- Your true friend to serve you, J. H. WESTMINSTER, 3 July. 1632 FOOTNOTES: [96] _Epistolae Hoelianae or Familiar Letters_ (1657). [97] Indeed his correspondents are probably sometimes, if not always, imaginary: and many of the letters are only what in modern periodicals are called "middle" articles on this and that subject, headed and tailed with the usual letter-formulas. JOHN EVELYN (1620-1706) As is naturally the case with writers of "Diaries," "Memoirs," "Autobiographies," and the like, a good deal of matter is deflected into Evelyn's famous _Diary_ from possible letters: while his numerous and voluminous published works may also to some extent abstract from or duplicate his correspondence. But there is enough of this[98] to make him a noteworthy epistoler. And it is interesting, though not perhaps surprising, to find that while his Diary is less piquant than his friend Mr. Pepys's, his letters are more so. Not surprising--first, because official letter-writers (Evelyn did a good deal of public work but was never _exactly_ an official) often get into a habit of noncommittal; and secondly, because there is, in these things as in others, a principle of compensation. Evelyn was almost sure to be a good letter-writer[99] for he had a ready pen, a rather extraordinary range of interests and capacities, plenty of time and means, extensive knowledge of the world, and last but not least, a tendency--not missed by the aforesaid Mr. Pepys--to bestow his information and opinion freely upon less fortunately endowed and equipped mortals. If he never quite reaches in letters the famous passages of the Diary, describing the great Fire, and Whitehall on the eve of Charles the Second's mortal seizure, he sometimes comes near to this, and diffuses throughout a blend of humanism, and humanity, of science and art, which is very agreeable. His wife also was no mean letter-writer, but only one of the minor stars of that day round the moon, Dorothy Osborne, to whom we come next. Of Evelyn's own letters several are specially tempting. His curious plan (a particularly favourite craze of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries) for a small "college" or lay convent of ladies and gentlemen, a sort of miniature "Abbey of Thelema" is one. His magnificent eulogy of the Duchess of Newcastle (Lamb's "dear Margaret"), which puzzled his editor Bray (from this and other notes a rather stupid man), is another: and his very interesting letter to Pepys on Dreams (Oct. 4, 1689) a third. But on the whole I have preferred the following, which may remind some readers of Mr. Kipling's charming poem on the wonderful things our fathers did and believed, with its invaluable reminder that after all it would be lucky for us if we were no worse than they. The date is not given: but the letter is printed between one of August and one of September, 1668. [Greek: kollourion] = Collyrium = "eyewash." "Stillatim" = "drop by drop." "Lixivium" (Fr. "lessive") = "lye," "soapwater." "Catoptrics" and "otacoustics" (though the "ot" = "ear" has gone)--are fairly modern words, "phonocamptics" scarcely so. In fact, I do not remember seeing it elsewhere. It does not appear to be a classical Greek compound, but should mean "the art of guiding and managing the voice."[100] The Tom Whittal story shows that Evelyn, though given to seriousness, could (God rest his soul) be a merry man sometimes. The other proper names, from Mr. Oldenburg to Thom. Fazzello, could be expounded without difficulty, but with unnecessary expenditure of space. 13. JOHN EVELYN TO DOCTOR BEALE Sir, I happened to be with Mr Oldenburg some time since, almost upon the article of his receiving the notice you sent him of your fortunate and useful invention; and I remember I did first of all incite him, both to insert it into his next transactions, and to provoke your further prosecution of it; which I exceedingly rejoice to find has been so successful, that you give us hopes of your further thoughts upon that, and those other subjects which you mention. You may haply call to remembrance a passage of the Jesuit Honorati Fabri, who speaking of perspectives, observes, that an object looked on through a small hole appears magnified; from whence he suggests, the casting of two plates neatly perforated, and fitted to look through, preferable to glasses, whose refractions injure the sight. Though I begin to advance in years (being now on the other side of forty), yet the continuance of the perfect use of my senses (for which I bless Almighty God) has rendered me the less solicitous about those artificial aids; which yet I foresee I must shortly apply myself to, and therefore you can receive but slender hints from me which will be worthy your acceptance upon that argument; only, I well remember, that besides Tiberius of old (whom you seem to instance in), Joseph Scaliger affirms the same happened both to his father Julius and himself, in their younger years. And sometimes, methinks, I myself have fancied to have discerned things in a very dark place, when the curtains about my bed have been drawn, as my hands, fingers, the sheet, and bedclothes; but since my too intent poring upon a famous eclipse of the sun, about twelve years since, at which time I could as familiarly have stared with open eyes upon the glorious planet in its full lustre, as now upon a glow-worm (comparatively speaking), I have not only lost the acuteness of sight, but much impaired the vigour of it for such purposes as it then served me. But besides that, I have treated mine eyes very ill near these twenty years, during all which time I have rarely put them together, or composed them to sleep, before one at night, and sometimes much later: that I may in some sort redeem my losses by day, in which I am continually importuned with visits from my neighbours and acquaintance, or taken up by other impertinencies of my life in this place. I am plainly ashamed to tell you this, considering how little I have improved myself by it; but I have rarely been in bed before twelve o'clock as I said, in the space of twenty years; and yet I read the least print, even in a jolting coach, without other assistance, save that I now and then used to rub my shut eye-lids over with a spirit of wine well rectified, in which I distil a few rosemary flowers much after the process of the Queen of Hungary's water, which does exceedingly fortify, not only my sight, but the rest of my senses, especially my hearing and smelling; a drop or two being distilled into the nose or ears, when they are never so dull; and other [Greek: kollourion] I never apply. Indeed, in the summer time, I have found wonderful benefit in bathing my head with a decoction of some hot and aromatical herbs, in a lixivium made of the ashes of vine branches; and when my head is well washed with this, I immediately cause abundance of cold fountain water to be poured upon me _stillatim_, for a good half-hour together; which for the present is not only one of the most voluptuous and grateful refreshments imaginable, but an incredible benefit to me the whole year after: for I never need other powdering to my hair, to preserve it bright and clean, as the gallants do; but which does certainly greatly prejudice transpiration by filling up, or lying heavy upon the pores. Those, therefore, who (since the use of perukes) accustom to wash their heads, instead of powdering, would doubtless find the benefit of it; both as to the preventing of aches in their head, teeth, and ears, if the vicissitude and inconstancy of the weather, and consequently the use of their monstrous perukes, did not expose them to the danger of catching colds. When I travelled in Italy, and the Southern parts, I did sometimes frequent the public baths (as the manner is), but seldom without peril of my life, till I used this frigid effusion, or rather profusion of cold water before I put on my garments, or durst expose myself to the air; and for this method I was obliged to the old and noble Rantzow, in whose book _De conservandâ valetudine_ I had read a passage to this purpose; though I might have remembered how the Dutchmen treated their labouring horses when they are all over in a froth, which they wash off with several buckets of cold water, as I have frequently observed it in the Low Countries. Concerning other aids; besides what the masters of the catoptrics, phonocamptics, otacoustics, &c., have done, something has been attempted by the Royal Society; and you know the industrious Kircher has much laboured. The rest of those artificial helps are summed up by the Jesuit And. Schottus. I remember that Monsieur Huygens (author of the pendulum), who brought up the learned father of that incomparable youth Monsieur de Zulichem, who used to prescribe to me the benefit of his little wax taper (a type whereof is, with the history of it, in some of our Registers) for night elucubrations, preferable to all other candle or lamp light whatsoever. And because it explodes all glaring of the flame, which by no means ought to dart upon the eyes, it seems very much to establish your happy invention of tubes instead of spectacles, which have not those necessary defences. Touching the sight of cats in the night, I am not well satisfied of the exquisiteness of that sense in them. I believe their smelling or hearing does much contribute to their dexterity in catching mice, as to all those animals who are born with those prolix smelling hairs. Fish will gather themselves in shoals to any extraordinary light in the dark night, and many are best caught by that artifice. But whatever may be said of these, and other senses of fish, you know how much the sagacity of birds and beasts excel us; how far eagles and vultures, ravens and other fowls will smell the carcase; _odorumque canum vis_, as Lucretius expresses it, and we daily find by their drawing after the games. Gesner affirms that an otter will wind a fish four miles distance in the water, and my Lord Verulam (cent. 8) speaks of that element's being also a medium of sounds, as well as air. Eels do manifestly stir at the cracking of thunder, but that may also be attributed to some other tremulous motion; yet carps and other fish are known to come at the call and the sound of a bell, as I have been informed. Notorious is the story of Arion, and of Lucullus's lampreys which came _ad nomen_; and you have formerly minded me of Varro's Greek pipe, of which Lucian and Cicero (ad Atticum) take occasion to speak. Pliny's dolphin is famous, and what is related of the American Manati: but the most stupendous instance, that of the xiphia or sword-fish, which the Mamertines can take up by no other strategem than a song of certain barbarous words, as the thing is related by Thom. Fazzello. It is certain that we hear more accurately when we hold our mouths a little open, than when we keep them shut; and I have heard of a dumb gentleman in England who was taught to speak (and therefore certainly brought to hear in some degree) by applying the head of a base viol against his teeth, and striking upon the strings with the bow. You may remember the late effect of the drum extending the tympanum of a deaf person to great improvement of his hearing, so long as that was beaten upon; and I could at present name a friend of mine, who though he be exceedingly thick of hearing, by applying a straight stick of what length soever, provided it touch the instrument and his ear, does perfectly and with great pleasure hear every tune that is played: all which, with many more, will flow into your excellent work, whilst the argument puts me in mind of one Tom Whittal, a student of Christ Church, who would needs maintain, that if a hole could dexterously be bored through the skull to the brain in the midst of the forehead, a man might both see and hear and smell without the use of any other organs; but you are to know, that this learned problematist was brother to him, who, preaching at St. Mary's, Oxford, took his text out of the history of Balaam, Numb. xxii., "Am I not thine ass?" Dear Sir, pardon this rhapsody of, Sir, your, &c. FOOTNOTES: [98] Some 400 pages from and to him in the most compendious edition. [99] He thought, writing to Lord Spencer about 1690, that we have "few tolerable letters of our own country" excepting--and that only in a fashion--those of Bacon, Donne and Howell. [100] "_Odorumque canum vis_--as Lucretius expresses it"--perhaps requires a note. Evelyn ought to have known his Lucretius, the first book of which he translated and which he was only prevented from completing by some foolish scruples which Jeremy Taylor wisely but vainly combated. And Lucretius is fond of _vis_ as meaning "quality" or "faculty." But Evelyn almost certainly was thinking also, more or less, of Virgil's "odora canum vis," _Aen._ iv. 132. DOROTHY OSBORNE (1627-1695) This very delightful lady--who became the wife of Sir William Temple, famous in political and literary history, and, by so doing or being, mistress of the household in which Swift lived, suffered, but met Stella--was the daughter of Sir Peter Osborne, one of the stoutest of Royalists who, as Governor of Guernsey, held its Castle Cornet for years against the rebels. Whether she was (in 1627) born there--her father had been made _Lieutenant_ Governor six years earlier--is not known and has been thought unlikely: but the present writer (who has danced, and played whist within its walls) hopes she was. When we come to know her she was living at Chicksands in Bedfordshire and hoping to marry Temple, though the course of love ran by no means smooth. Attention was first drawn to her letters, and some of them were partly printed, in Courtenay's _Life_ of her husband--a book which was reviewed by Macaulay in a famous essay, not overlooking Dorothy. But as a body, they waited till some half century later, when they were published by Judge Parry and received with joy by all fit folk. They were written between 1652 and 1654. The first passage is in her pleasant mood and touches on a subject--aviation--which interested that day and interests this. The second strikes some people as one of the most charming specimens of the love-letter--written neither in the violent delight that has violent end, nor in namby-pamby fashion.[101] 14. TO SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE Sir,-- You say I abuse you; and Jane says you abuse me when you say you are not melancholy: which is to be believed? Neither, I think; for I could not have said so positively (as it seems she did) that I should not be in town till my brother came back: he was not gone when she writ, nor is not yet; and if my brother Peyton had come before his going, I had spoiled her prediction. But now it cannot be; he goes on Monday or Tuesday at farthest. I hope you did truly with me, too, in saying that you are not melancholy (though she does not believe it). I am thought so, many times, when I am not at all guilty on't. How often do I sit in company a whole day, and when they are gone am not able to give an account of six words that was said, and many times could be so much better pleased with the entertainment my own thoughts give me, that 'tis all I can do to be so civil as not to let them see they trouble me. This may be your disease. However, remember you have promised me to be careful of yourself, and that if I secure what you have entrusted me with, you will answer for the rest. Be this our bargain then; and look that you give me as good an account of one as I shall give you of t'other. In earnest I was strangely vexed to see myself forced to disappoint you so, and felt your trouble and my own too. How often I have wished myself with you, though but for a day, for an hour: I would have given all the time I am to spend here for it with all my heart. You could not but have laughed if you had seen me last night. My brother and Mr. Gibson were talking by the fire; and I sat by, but as no part of the company. Amongst other things (which I did not at all mind), they fell into a discourse of flying; and both agreed it was very possible to find out a way that people might fly like birds, and despatch their journeys: so I, that had not said a word all night, started up at that, and desired they would say a little more on't, for I had not marked the beginning; but instead of that, they both fell into so violent a laughing, that I should appear so much concerned in such an art; but they little knew of what use it might have been to me. Yet I saw you last night, but 'twas in a dream; and before I could say a word to you, or you to me, the disorder my joy to see you had put me into awakened me. Just now I was interrupted, too, and called away to entertain two dumb gentlemen;--you may imagine whether I was pleased to leave my writing to you for their company;--they have made such a tedious visit, too; and I am so tired with making of signs and tokens for everything I had to say. Good God! how do those that live with them always? They are brothers; and the eldest is a baronet, has a good estate, a wife and three or four children. He was my servant heretofore, and comes to see me still for old love's sake; but if he could have made me mistress of the world I could not have had him; and yet I'll swear he has nothing to be disliked in him but his want of tongue, which in a woman might have been a virtue. I sent you a part of _Cyrus_ last week, where you will meet with one Doralise in the story of Abradate and Panthée. The whole story is very good; but the humour makes the best part of it. I am of her opinion in most things that she says in her character of "L'honnest homme" that she is in search of, and her resolution of receiving no heart that had been offered to anybody else. Pray, tell me how you like her, and what fault you find in my Lady Carlisle's letter? Methinks the hand and the style both show her a great person, and 'tis writ in the way that's now affected by all that pretend to wit and good breeding; only, I am a little scandalized to confess that she uses that word faithful,--she that never knew how to be so in her life. I have sent you my picture because you wished for it; but, pray, let it not presume to disturb my Lady Sunderland's. Put it in some corner where no eyes may find it out but yours, to whom it is only intended. 'Tis not a very good one, but the best I shall ever have drawn of me; for, as my Lady says, my time for pictures is past, and therefore I have always refused to part with this, because I was sure the next would be a worse. There is a beauty in youth that every one has once in their lives; and I remember my mother used to say there was never anybody (that was not deformed) but were handsome, to some reasonable degree, once between fourteen and twenty. It must hang with the light on the left hand of it; and you may keep it if you please till I bring you the original. But then I must borrow it (for 'tis no more mine, if you like it), because my brother is often bringing people into my closet where it hangs, to show them other pictures that are there; and if he miss this long thence, 'twould trouble his jealous head. 15. Sir,-- Who would be kind to one that reproaches one so cruelly? Do you think, in earnest, I could be satisfied the world should think me a dissembler, full of avarice or ambition? No, you are mistaken; but I'll tell you what I could suffer, that they should say I married where I had no inclination, because my friends thought it fit, rather than that I had run wilfully to my own ruin in pursuit of a fond passion of my own. To marry for love were no reproachful thing if we did not see that of the thousand couples that do it, hardly one can be brought for an example that it may be done and not repented afterwards. Is there anything thought so indiscreet, or that makes one more contemptible? 'Tis true that I do firmly believe we should be, as you say, _toujours les mesmes_; but if (as you confess) 'tis that which hardly happens once in two ages, we are not to expect the world should discern we were not like the rest. I'll tell you stories another time, you return them so handsomely upon me. Well, the next servant I tell you of shall not be called a whelp, if 'twere not to give you a stick to beat myself with. I would confess that I looked upon the impudence of this fellow as a punishment upon me for my over care in avoiding the talk of the world; yet the case is very different, and no woman shall ever be blamed that an inconsolable person pretends to her when she gives no allowance to it, whereas none shall 'scape that owns a passion, though in return of a person much above her. The little tailor that loved Queen Elizabeth was suffered to talk out, and none of her Council thought it necessary to stop his mouth; but the Queen of Sweden's kind letter to the King of Scots was intercepted by her own ambassador, because he thought it was not for his mistress's honour (at least that was his pretended reason), and thought justifiable enough. But to come to my Beagle again. I have heard no more of him, though I have seen him since; we meet at Wrest again. I do not doubt but I shall be better able to resist his importunity than his tutor was; but what do you think it is that gives him his encouragement? He was told I had thought of marrying a gentleman that had not above two hundred pound a year, only out of my liking to his person. And upon that score his vanity allows him to think he may pretend as far as another. Thus you see 'tis not altogether without reason that I apprehend the noise of the world, since 'tis so much to my disadvantage. Is it in earnest that you say your being there keeps me from the town? If so, 'tis very unkind. No, if I had gone, it had been to have waited on my neighbour, who has now altered her resolution and goes not herself. I have no business there, and am so little taken with the place that I could sit here seven years without so much as thinking once of going to it. 'Tis not likely, as you say, that you should much persuade your father to what you do not desire he should do; but it is hard if all the testimonies of my kindness are not enough to satisfy without my publishing to the world that I can forget my friends and all my interest to follow my passion; though, perhaps, it will admit of a good sense, 'tis that which nobody but you or I will give it, and we that are concerned in't can only say 'twas an act of great kindness and something romance, but must confess it had nothing of prudence, discretion, nor sober counsel in't. 'Tis not that I expect, by all your father's offers, to bring my friends to approve it. I don't deceive myself thus far, but I would not give them occasion to say that I hid myself from them in the doing it; nor of making my action appear more indiscreet than it is. It will concern me that all the world should know what fortune you have, and upon what terms I marry you, that both may not be made to appear ten times worse than they are. 'Tis the general custom of all people to make those that are rich to have more mines of gold than are in the Indies, and such as have small fortunes to be beggars. If an action take a little in the world, it shall be magnified and brought into comparison with what the heroes or senators of Rome performed; but, on the contrary, if it be once condemned, nothing can be found ill enough to compare it with; and people are in pain till they find out some extravagant expression to represent the folly on't. Only there is this difference, that as all are more forcibly inclined to ill than good, they are much apter to exceed in detraction than in praises. Have I not reason then to desire this from you; and may not my friendship have deserved it? I know not; 'tis as you think; but if I be denied it, you will teach me to consider myself. 'Tis well the side ended here. If I had not had occasion to stop there, I might have gone too far, and showed that I had more passions than one. Yet 'tis fit you should know all my faults, lest you should repent your bargain when 'twill not be in your power to release yourself; besides, I may own my ill-humour to you that cause it; 'tis the discontent my crosses in this business have given me makes me thus peevish. Though I say it myself, before I knew you I was thought as well an humoured young person as most in England; nothing displeased, nothing troubled me. When I came out of France, nobody knew me again. I was so altered, from a cheerful humour that was always alike, never over merry but always pleased, I was grown heavy and sullen, froward and discomposed; and that country which usually gives people a jolliness and gaiety that is natural to the climate, had wrought in me so contrary effects that I was as new a thing to them as my clothes. If you find all this to be sad truth hereafter, remember that I gave you fair warning. Here is a ring: it must not be at all wider than this, which is rather too big for me than otherwise; but that is a good fault, and counted lucky by superstitious people. I am not so, though: 'tis indifferent whether there be any word in't or not; only 'tis as well without, and will make my wearing it the less observed. You must give Nan leave to cut a lock of your hair for me, too. Oh, my heart! what a sigh was there! I will not tell you how many this journey causes; nor the fear and apprehensions I have for you. No, I long to be rid of you, am afraid you will not go soon enough: do not you believe this? No, my dearest, I know you do not, whatever you say, you cannot doubt that I am yours. FOOTNOTES: [101] The second passage needs little annotation except that Wrest, in Bedfordshire, where Dorothy met her importunate lover, was the seat of Anthony Grey, Earl of Kent. There is said to be a picture there of Sir William Temple--a copy of Lely's. Wrest Park is only a few miles from Chicksands. In the first "Lady Carlisle" is Lucy Percy or Hay, a "_great person_" in many ways--beauty, rank, wit, influence etc.--but hardly a good one. As for "Doralise" Dorothy is quite right. She is one of the brightest features of the huge _Grand Cyrus_. Perhaps it may be just necessary to remind readers that "servant" constantly = "lover"; that "side" refers to the sheet of paper she is using; and that "abuse" = "deceive," not "misuse" or "vituperate." JONATHAN SWIFT (1667-1745) The Introduction has dealt rather more fully with Swift than with some others: and a further reference to a dominant influence or conflict of influences on his letters will be found below in the head-note on Thackeray. But a little more may be said here. It is rather unfortunate that we have not more _early_ letters from him (we have some, if only fragments, from Thackeray, and they are no small "light"). We should like some concerning that curious career at Trinity College, Dublin, which was ended _speciali gratia_, leaving the usual wranglers to their usual wrangle whether the last word meant "grace" or "_dis_grace." Others, written in various moods from the time when Sir William Temple "spoiled a fine gentleman," and Esther Johnson set running a life-long course of _un_-smooth love, would be more welcome still. They would no doubt be stumbling-blocks to those apt to stumble, just as the existing epistles are: but they would be stepping-stones for the wise. As it is, we have to do without them and perhaps, like most things that are, it is better. For the stumblers are saved the sin of stumbling, and the wise men the nuisance of seeing them do it, and trying to set them right. And there might have been only more painful revelations of the time when, to adjust the words of the famous epitaph "fierce indignation still _could_ lacerate the heart," that had felt so fondly and so bitterly what it had to feel. What follows is characteristic enough[102] and intelligible enough to those who will give their intelligence fair play, asking only for information of _facts_. These latter can be supplied at no great length even to those who are unacquainted with Swift's biography. "M. D." is the pet name for Stella, and her rather mysterious companion Mrs. Dingley who lived with her in Dublin and played something like the part of the alloys which are used in experimenting with some metals.[103] "Presto" is Swift himself. "Prior" is the poet. "Sir A. Fountaine" was a Norfolk squire and a great collector of artistic things, most of which were sold not very long ago. "Sterne" (John) was an Irish clergyman and afterwards a bishop, but not of the same family as the novelist. "Cousin _Dryden_ Leach" reminds us that Swift was also a cousin of Dryden the poet. "Oroonoko" refers to Afra Behn's introduction of the "noble savage" to English interest. "Patrick" was Swift's very unsatisfactory man-servant. "Bernage" a French Huguenot refugee. "George Granville," of the family of the hero of the _Revenge_, was a great Tory, a peer a little later with the title of Lansdowne, and a rather better poet than Johnson thought him. "St. John" and "Harley," if not also "Masham," should not need annotation. Notice the seven, (literally seven!) leagued word at the end. Swift calls their attention to it when beginning his next instalment. 16. TO STELLA LONDON, January 16, 1710-11. O faith, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb of an answer to any of MD's; there's for you now; and yet Presto ben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next Irish post, except he sees MD's little hand-writing in the glass frame at the bar of St James's Coffeehouse, where Presto would never go but for that purpose. Presto's at home, God help him, every night from six till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as any body in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry. As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of happiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I love the expectation of it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself, that I have it yet to be happy with. Yes, faith, and when I write to MD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and I prating to you, and telling you where I have been: Well, says you, Presto, come, where have you been to-day? come, let 's hear now. And so then I answer; Ford and I were visiting Mr Lewis, and Mr Prior, and Prior has given me a fine Plautus, and then Ford would have had me dine at his lodgings, and so I would not; and so I dined with him at an eating-house; which I have not done five times since I came here; and so I came home, after visiting Sir Andrew Fountaine's mother and sister, and Sir Andrew Fountaine is mending, though slowly. 17. I was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve I called at the coffeehouse for a letter from MD; so the man said he had given it to Patrick; then I went to the Court of Requests and Treasury to find Mr Harley, and after some time spent in mutual reproaches, I promised to dine with him; I staid there till seven, then called at Sterne's and Leigh's to talk about your box, and to have it sent by Smyth. Sterne says he has been making inquiries, and will set things right as soon as possible. I suppose it lies at Chester, at least I hope so, and only wants a lift over to you. Here has little Harrison been to complain, that the printer I recommended to him for his Tatler is a coxcomb; and yet to see how things will happen; for this very printer is my cousin, his name is Dryden Leach; did you never hear of Dryden Leach, he that prints the Postman? He acted Oroonoko, he's in love with Miss Cross.--Well, so I came home to read my letter from Stella, but the dog Patrick was abroad; at last he came, and I got my letter; I found another hand had superscribed it; when I opened it, I found it written all in French, and subscribed Bernage: faith, I was ready to fling it at Patrick's head. Bernage tells me, had been to desire your recommendation to me to make him a captain; and your cautious answer, "That he had as much power with me as you," was a notable one; if you were here, I would present you to the ministry as a person of ability. Bernage should let me know where to write to him; this is the second letter I have had without any direction; however, I beg I may not have a third, but that you will ask him, and send me how I shall direct to him. In the mean time, tell him, that if regiments are to be raised here, as he says, I will speak to George Granville, Secretary at War, to make him a captain; and use what other interest I conveniently can. I think that is enough, and so tell him, and don't trouble me with his letters when I expect them from MD; do you hear, young women, write to Presto. 18. I was this morning with Mr Secretary St John, and we were to dine at Mr Harley's alone, about some business of importance, but there were two or three gentlemen there. Mr Secretary and I went together from his office to Mr Harley's, and thought to have been very wise; but the deuce a bit: the company staid, and more came, and Harley went away at seven, and the Secretary and I staid with the rest of the company till eleven; I would then have had him come away, but he was in for't; and though he swore he would come away at that flask, there I left him. I wonder at the civility of these people; when he saw I would drink no more, he would always pass the bottle by me, and yet I could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor he would not let me go neither, nor Masham, who was with us. When I got home I found a parcel directed to me, and opening it, I found a pamphlet written entirely against myself, not by name, but against something I writ: it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and I think I will take no notice of it; 'tis against something written very lately; and indeed I know not what to say, nor do I care; and so you are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at Stoyte's; to let that bungler beat you, fy Stella, an't you ashamed? well, I forgive you this once, never do so again; no, noooo. Kiss and be friends, sirrah.--Come, let me go sleep; I go earlier to bed than formerly; and have not been out so late these two months; but the secretary was in a drinking humour. So good night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues. FOOTNOTES: [102] As such, it has commended itself to other selectors. But duplication, though it has been sedulously avoided here, is sometimes almost inevitable. [103] _I.e._ the part of facilitating the operation, and disappearing in the results aimed at. LADY MARY WORTLEY-MONTAGU (1689-1762) The ratio of importance between life and letters varies a good deal with different writers: and the circumstances of the life have seldom been of more importance to the letter than in the case of "Lady Mary"--Pierrepont as she was born. When she was a girl she held an unusual place in the house of her widowed father the Duke of Kingston. Her courtship by, or with, or of (one doubts as to the preposition) Edward Wortley-Montagu, a descendant of Pepys's Lord Sandwich, had peculiarities, and her marriage with him more. She was a sort of pet at George the First's court; she went with her husband to Constantinople as Ambassadress; she introduced inoculation into England; she was, under imperfectly known circumstances, first the idol and then the abomination of Pope; she lived for more than twenty years in France and Italy, having left her husband without, apparently, any quarrel between them; and she only came home in 1761 to die next year. Like her predecessor as Queen of letter-writers, Madame de Sévigné (to whom she was amusingly and rather femininely unjust), she had a favourite daughter (who became Lady Bute[104]); but, unlike her, she had a most objectionable son who was apparently half mad. There was, however, not the slightest madness about Lady Mary--in fact, most of the objectors (perhaps unjust ones) to her have held that her head was very much better than her heart. Her most popular letters have usually been the Turkish ones, and, at the other end of her life, her Italian descriptions: but selections almost invariably pitch on the curious early one in which she, so to speak, "proposes" to her future husband rather more than, or at least as much as, she accepts his proposal. I prefer, both as less popularised and as more unique still, the following most business-like[105] plan and programme of an elopement. Like Mr. Foker's fight with the post-boy it "didn't come off" as first planned; but Fortune favoured it later. 17. TO MR. WORTLEY-MONTAGU Saturday morning (August, 1712) I writ you a letter last night in some passion. I begin to fear again; I own myself a coward.--You made no reply to one part of my letter concerning my fortune. I am afraid you flatter yourself that my F. [father] may be at length reconciled and brought to reasonable terms. I am convinced, by what I have often heard him say, speaking of other cases like this, he never will. The fortune he has engaged to give with me, was settled on my B. [brother's] marriage, on my sister and on myself; but in such a manner, that it was left in his power to give it all to either of us, or divide it as he thought fit. He has given it all to me. Nothing remains for my sister, but the free bounty of my F. [father] from what he can save; which, notwithstanding the greatness of his estate, may be very little. Possibly after I have disobliged him so much, he may be glad to have her so easily provided for, with money already raised; especially if he has a design to marry himself, as I hear. I do not speak this that you should not endeavour to come to terms with him, if you please; but I am fully persuaded it will be to no purpose. He will have a very good answer to make:--that I suffered this match to proceed; that I made him make a very silly figure in it; that I have let him spend £400 in wedding-cloaths; all which I saw without saying any thing. When I first pretended to oppose this match, he told me he was sure I had some other design in my head; I denied it with truth. But you see how little appearance there is of that truth. He proceeded with telling me that he never would enter into treaty with another man, &c., and that I should be sent immediately into the North to stay there; and, when he died, he would only leave me an annuity of £400. I had not courage to stand this view, and I submitted to what he pleased. He will now object against me,--why, since I intended to marry in this manner, I did not persist in my first resolution; that it would have been as easy for me to run away from T. [Thoresby] as from hence; and to what purpose did I put him, and the gentleman I was to marry, to expences, &c.? He will have a thousand plausible reasons for being irreconcileable, and 'tis very probable the world will be of his side. Reflect now for the last time in what manner you must take me. I shall come to you with only a night-gown and petticoat, and that is all you will get with me. I told a lady of my friends what I intend to do. You will think her a very good friend when I tell you she has proffered to lend us her house if we would come there the first night. I did not accept of this till I had let you know it. If you think it more convenient to carry me to your lodgings, make no scruple of it. Let it be where it will: if I am your wife I shall think no place unfit for me where you are. I beg we may leave London next morning, wherever you intend to go. I should wish to go out of England if it suits with your affairs. You are the best judge of your father's temper. If you think it would be obliging to him, or necessary for you, I will go with you immediately to ask his pardon and his blessing. If that is not proper at first, I think the best scheme is going to the Spa. When you come back, you may endeavour to make your father admit of seeing me, and treat with mine (though I persist in thinking it will be to no purpose). But I cannot think of living in the midst of my relations and acquaintance after so unjustifiable a step:--unjustifiable to the world,--but I think I can justify myself to myself. I again beg you to hire a coach to be at the door early Monday morning, to carry us some part of our way, wherever you resolve our journey shall be. If you determine to go to that lady's house, you had better come with a coach and six at seven o'clock tomorrow. She and I will be in the balcony that looks on the road: you have nothing to do but to stop under it, and we will come down to you. Do in this what you like best. After all, think very seriously. Your letter, which will be waited for, is to determine everything. I forgive you a coarse expression in your last, which, however, I wish had not been there. You might have said something like it without expressing it in that manner; but there was so much complaisance in the rest of it I ought to be satisfied. You can shew me no goodness I shall not be sensible of. However, think again, and resolve never to think of me if you have the least doubt, or that it is likely to make you uneasy in your fortune. I believe to travel is the most likely way to make a solitude agreeable, and not tiresome: remember you have promised it. 'Tis something odd for a woman that brings nothing to expect anything; but after the way of education, I dare not pretend to live but in some degree suitable to it. I had rather die than return to a dependancy upon relations I have disobliged. Save me from that fear if you love me. If you cannot, or think I ought not to expect it, be sincere and tell me so. 'Tis better I should not be yours at all, than, for a short happiness, involve myself in ages of misery. I hope there will never be occasion for this precaution; but, however, 'tis necessary to make it. I depend entirely on your honour, and I cannot suspect you of any way doing wrong. Do not imagine I shall be angry at any thing you can tell me. Let it be sincere; do not impose on a woman that leaves all things for you. FOOTNOTES: [104] The likeness, however, ended with the favouritism: for Madame de Grignan, in spite of good looks and good wits, was apparently detested by everybody, except her mother, and deserved it: while nobody has anything to say against Lady Bute. [105] It is, of course, not _merely_ business-like--the mixture of something else makes it rather fascinating. They were curiously fond of elopements in the eighteenth century, Sheridan's satire in _The Rivals_ having ample justification. Nor was this merely due to the more severe exercise of paternal authority. For they often preferred (as the philosophical parent of the celebrated Mrs. Greville remarked when his daughter ran away with Mr. G.) to "get out of the window when there was not the slightest objection to their passing through the door." PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD (1694-1773) As was suggested in the Introduction, where perhaps enough has been said of his actual letters, the fourth Earl of Chesterfield is too commonly known, or rather _mis_known, only by Johnson's refusal of his patronage and condemnation of his manners and morals, by Dickens's caricature, and by Thackeray's not untrue but merely fragmentary sketch of him as a gambler. Therefore, though these preliminary notes are not as a rule biographical, this may be one of the exceptions; for his life was anything but that of a mere idler and _grand Seigneur_. He entered the House of Commons before he was of age, and had much to do with political and literary as well as Court society before, in 1725, he succeeded to the peerage. A year or two afterwards he went as ambassador to the Hague, a post which he held, doing some important business, for four years. On coming home he became a formidable opponent of Walpole, and at one time led the opposition in the Upper House. He was a most successful Viceroy in Ireland at the difficult period of the "'45," and a judicious "Secretary for the North" after it. He conducted the reform of the Calendar through Parliament, and only gave up active participation in home politics because of his increasing deafness. In foreign affairs he was an adroit and successful diplomatist, and made an early and remarkably clear-sighted anticipation of the French Revolution. It is not extravagant to say that, if he had had his fortune and position to make, he might have been one of the foremost men of his time in politics or letters or both; and that he was not far below such rank in either. The following letter is one of the most characteristic of those at which it has been the fashion to sneer. All one can say of it is, "What a blessing it would be if a good many people in the twentieth century, and in places varying from the streets to the House of Commons, would obey at least some of its precepts!" 18. LORD CHESTERFIELD TO HIS SON LONDON. Sept. 22, O.S., 1749 Dear Boy, If I had faith in philters and love potions, I should suspect that you had given Sir Charles Williams some, by the manner in which he speaks of you, not only to me, but to everybody else. I will not repeat to you what he says of the extent and correctness of your knowledge, as it might either make you vain, or persuade you that you had already enough of what nobody can have too much. You will easily imagine how many questions I asked and how narrowly I sifted him upon your subject: he answered me, and I daresay with truth, just as I could have wished; till, satisfied entirely with his accounts of your character and learning, I inquired into other matters, intrinsically indeed of less consequence, but still of great consequence to every man, and of more to you than to almost any man; I mean, your address, manners and air. To these questions, the same truth which he had observed before, obliged him to give me much less satisfactory answers. And, as he thought himself in friendship both to you and me, obliged to tell me the disagreeable as well as the agreeable truths, upon the same principle I think myself obliged to repeat them to you. He told me, then, that in company you were frequently most _provokingly_ inattentive, absent, and _distrait_. That you came into a room, and presented yourself very awkwardly; that at table you constantly threw down knives, forks, napkins, bread, etc., and that you neglected your person and dress, to a degree unpardonable at any age, and much more so at yours. These things, however immaterial soever they may seem to people who do not know the world and the nature of mankind, give me, who know them to be exceedingly material, very great concern. I have long distrusted you, and therefore frequently admonished you upon these articles; and I tell you plainly, that I shall not be easy till I hear a very different account of them. I know of no one thing more offensive to a company, than that inattention and _distraction_. It is showing them the utmost contempt; and people never forgive contempt. No man is _distrait_ with the man he fears, or the woman he loves; which is a proof that every man can get the better of that _distraction_ when he thinks it worth his while to do so; and, take my word for it, it is always worth his while. For my own part, I would rather be in company with a dead man than with an absent one; for if the dead man gives me no pleasure, at least he shows me no contempt; whereas the absent man, silently indeed, but very plainly, tells me that he does not think me worth his attention. Besides, can an absent man make any observations upon the characters, customs, and manners of the company? No. He may be in the best companies of his lifetime (if they will admit him, which, if I were they, I would not), and never be one jot the wiser. I never will converse with an absent man; one may as well talk with a deaf one. It is, in truth, a practical blunder, to address ourselves to a man, who we see plainly neither hears, minds, nor understands us. Moreover, I aver that no man is, in any degree, fit for either business or conversation, who cannot, and does not, direct and command his attention to the present object, be that what it will. You know, by experience, that I grudge no expense in your education, but I will positively not keep you a flapper. You may read, in Dr. Swift, the description of these flappers, and the use they were of to your friends the Laputans; whose minds (Gulliver says) are so taken up with intense speculations, that they neither can speak, nor attend to the discourses of others, without being roused by some external taction upon the organs of speech and hearing; for which reason, those people who are able to afford it, always keep a flapper in their family, as one of their domestics, nor ever walk about, or make visits, without him. This flapper is likewise employed diligently to attend his master in his walks, and, upon occasion, to give a soft flap upon his eyes; because he is always so wrapt up in cogitation, that he is in manifest danger of falling down every precipice, and bouncing his head against every post, and, in the streets, of jostling others, or being jostled into the kennel himself. If _Christian_ will undertake this province into the bargain, with all my heart; but I will not allow him any increase of wages upon that score. In short, I give you fair warning, that when we meet, if you are absent in mind, I will soon be absent in body; for it will be impossible for me to stay in the room; and if at table you throw down your knife, plate, bread, etc., and hack the wing of a chicken for half an hour, without being able to cut it off, and your sleeve all the time in another dish, I must rise from table to escape the fever you would certainly give me. Good God! How I should be shocked if you came into my room, for the first time, with two left legs, presenting yourself with all the graces and dignity of a tailor, and your clothes hanging upon you like those in Monmouth Street, upon tenter-hooks! Whereas I expect, nay require, to see you present yourself with the easy and gentle air of a man of fashion who has kept good company. I expect you not only well dressed, but very well dressed; I expect a gracefulness in all your motions, and something particularly engaging in your address. All this I expect, and all these it is in your power, by care and attention, to make me find; but, to tell you the plain truth, if I do not find it, we shall not converse very much together; for I cannot stand inattention and awkwardness; it would endanger my health. You have often seen, and I have as often made you observe, L[yttelton]'s distinguished inattention and awkwardness. Wrapped up like a Laputan in intense thought, and possibly sometimes in no thought at all--which, I believe, is very often the case with absent people--he does not know his most intimate acquaintance at sight, or answers them as if they were at cross purposes. He leaves his hat in one room, his sword in another, and would leave his shoes in a third, if his buckles, although awry, did not save them; his legs and arms, by his awkward management of them, seem to have undergone the _question extraordinaire_; and his head, always hanging upon one or other of his shoulders, seems to have received the first stroke upon a block. I sincerely value and esteem him for his parts, learning, and virtue; but, for the soul of me, I cannot love him in company. This will be universally the case, in common life, of every inattentive awkward man, let his real merit and knowledge be ever so great. When I was of your age, I desired to shine, as far as I was able, in every part of life; and was as attentive, to my manners, my dress, and my air, in company on evenings, as to my books, and my tutor in the mornings. A young fellow should be ambitious to shine in everything; and, of the two, rather overdo than underdo. These things are by no means trifles; they are of infinite consequence to those who are to be thrown into the great world, and who would make a figure or a fortune in it. It is not sufficient to deserve well, one must please well too. Awkward, disagreeable merit, will never carry anybody far. Wherever you find a good dancing master, pray let him put you upon your haunches; not so much for the sake of dancing, as for coming into a room and presenting yourself genteelly and gracefully. Women, whom you ought to endeavour to please, cannot forgive a vulgar and awkward air and gestures; _il leur faut du brillant_. The generality of men are pretty like them, and are equally taken by the same exterior graces. I am very glad that you have received the diamond buckles safe: All I desire in return for them, is, that they may be buckled even upon your feet, and that your stockings may not hide them. I should be sorry you were an egregious fop; but I protest that, of the two, I would rather have you a fop than a sloven. I think negligence in my own dress, even at my age, when certainly I expect no advantages from my dress, would be indecent with regard to others. I have done with fine clothes; but I will have my plain clothes fit me, and made like other people's. In the evenings I recommend to you the company of women of fashion, who have a right to attention, and will be paid it. Their company will smooth your manners, and give you a habit of attention and respect; of which you will find the advantage among men. My plan for you, from the beginning, has been to make you shine, equally in the learned and in the polite world; The former part is almost completed to my wishes, and will, I am persuaded, in a little time more, be quite so. The latter part is still in your power to complete; and I flatter myself that you will do it, or else the former part will avail you very little; especially in your deportment, where the exterior address and graces do half the business; they must be harbingers of your merit, or your merit will be very coldly received: all can, and do judge of the former, few of the latter. Mr. Harte tells me that you have grown very much since your illness: if you get up to five feet ten, or even nine inches, your figure will, probably, be a good one; and if well dressed and genteel, will probably please; which is a much greater advantage to a man than people commonly think. Lord Bacon calls it a letter of recommendation. I would wish you to be an _omnis homo_, _l'homme universel_. You are nearer it, if you please, than ever anybody was at your age; and if you will but, for the course of this next year only, exert your whole attention to your studies in the morning, and to your address, manners, air, and _tournure_ in the evenings, you will be the man I wish you, and the man that is rarely seen. Our letters go, at best, so irregularly and so often miscarry totally, that, for greater security, I repeat the same things. So, though, I acknowledged by last post Mr Harte's letter of the 8th September, N.S., I acknowledge it again by this to you. If this should find you still at Verona, let it inform you, that I wish you to set out soon for Naples; unless Mr. Harte should think it better for you to stay at Verona, or any other place on this side Rome, till you go there for the Jubilee. Nay, if he likes it better, I am very willing that you should go directly from Verona to Rome; for you cannot have too much of Rome, whether upon account of the language, the curiosities, or the company. My only reason for mentioning Naples, is for the sake of the climate, upon account of your health; but, if Mr. Harte thinks your health is now so well restored as to be above climate, he may steer your course wherever he thinks proper; and, for aught I know, your going directly to Rome, and consequently staying there so much the longer, may be as well as anything else. I think you and I cannot put our affairs into better hands than in Mr. Harte's; and I will take his infallibility against the Pope's, with some odds on his side. _A propos_ of the Pope; remember to be presented to him before you leave Rome, and go through the necessary ceremonies for it, whether of kissing his slipper or...; for I would never deprive myself of anything I wanted to do or see, by refusing to comply with an established custom. When I was in Catholic countries, I never declined kneeling in their churches at the elevation, nor elsewhere, when the Host went by. It is a complaisance due to the custom of the place, and by no means, as some silly people have imagined, an implied approbation of their doctrine. Bodily attitudes and situations are things so very indifferent in themselves, that I would quarrel with nobody about them. It may indeed be improper for Mr. Harte to pay that tribute of complaisance, upon account of his character. This letter is a very long, and possibly a very tedious one; but my interest for your perfection is so great, and particularly at this critical and decisive period of your life, that I am only afraid of omitting, but never of repeating, or dwelling too long upon anything that I think may be of the least use to you. Have the same anxiety for yourself that I have for you, and all will do well. Adieu, my dear child! GEORGE BALLARD (1706-1755) The extreme wickedness of reviewers has been a conviction with many authors--who have sometimes, it would seem, succumbed to it themselves and retaliated in reviewing others. The following letter to Dr. Lyttelton, Dean of Exeter, is a very early (1753) and not unamusing example of this conviction: and is given as such, though the writer has no wide fame. His history is, however, interesting and shows, among other things, how entirely erroneous is the idea that till recently (and even now to some extent) opportunities of showing themselves able to profit by education were and are denied to the "lower classes" in England. Ballard was apprenticed to a staymaker ("habit-maker" as others say) at Chipping-Campden, but betook himself in his leisure hours to the study of Anglo-Saxon. Hearing of which fact the gentlemen of the local hunt (the boozy squire-tyrants of popular tradition) subscribed for an annuity of £100 a year to him, but he would only accept £60. With this he went up to Oxford to enjoy the Bodleian, was made a "clerk" at Magdalen and later an esquire-bedell to the University. He did much good work of the antiquarian kind, and died a year or two after writing this letter, having (one hopes) relieved himself by his protest and been consoled by a kind answer from Lyttelton.[106] 19. TO DR. LYTTELTON, DEAN OF EXETER A DEFENCE OF THE HISTORY OF LEARNED LADIES Revd. and Hond. Sir, My best acknowledgments are due for the favour of two epistles; the first of which I received a few minutes after my last set forward for Exeter. I would have answered it immediately, but that I thought a little respite might be agreeable, before I gave you the trouble of another long letter. The day before I received your first epistle, a Gent. of my acquaintance brought me the _Monthly Review_ for February, that I might see what the candid and genteel authors of that work had said of mine. They observe to the publick, that _I have said_ C. Tishem was so skilled in the Greek Tongue, that she could read Galen in its original, which very few Physicians are able to do. Whether this was done maliciously, in order to bring the wrath of the Æsculapians upon me, or inadvertently, I cannot say: but I may justly affirm, that they have used me very ill in that affair; since if they had read with attention, which they ought to have done before they attempted to give a character of the Book, they must have known that the whole account of that lady (which is but one page) is not mine, but borrowed with due acknowledgment from the _General Dictionary_. They are likewise pleased to inform the world that I have been rather too industrious in the undertaking, having introduced several women who hardly deserved a place in the work. I did not do this for want of materials; neither did I do it rashly, without advising with others of superior judgment in those affairs, of which number Mr. Professor Ward was one. But those pragmatical Censors seem to have but little acquaintance with those studies, or otherwise they might have observed that all our general Biographers, as Leland, Bale, Pits, Wood, and Tanner, have trod the very same steps; and have given an account of all the authors they could meet with, good and bad, just as they found them: and yet, I have never heard of anyone that had courage or ill-nature enough, to endeavour to expose them for it. While I was ruminating on these affairs, three or four letters came to my hands, and perceiving one of them come from my worthy friend the Dean of Exeter, I eagerly broke it open, and was perfectly astonished to find myself charged with _party zeal_ in my book; and that from thence the most candid reader might conclude the author to be both a Church and State Tory. But after having thoroughly considered all the passages objected to, and not finding the least tincture of either Whig or Tory principles contained in them, I began to cheer up my drooping spirits, in hopes that I might possibly out-live my supposed crime; but, alas! to my still greater confusion! when I opened my next letter from a Tory acquaintance, I was like one thunderstruck at the contents of it. He discharges his passionate but ill-grounded resentment upon me most furiously. He tells me, he did not imagine Magdalen College could have produced such a rank Whig. He reproaches me with want of due esteem for the Stuart Family, to whom he says I have shewn a deadly hatred, and he gives me, as he imagines, three flagrant instances of it. 1. That I have unseasonably and maliciously printed a letter of Queen Elizabeth's, in order to blacken the memory of Mary Queen of Scots, and that too, at a time when her character began to shine as bright as the Sun. 2dly. That I have endeavoured to make her memory odious, by representing her as wanting natural affection to her only son, in my note at p. 162, where he says I have printed part of a Will, &c. And 3dly, tho' she was cut off in such a barbarous and unprecedented manner, yet she has fallen unlamented by me. I am likewise charged with having an affection to Puritanism; the reasons for which are, my giving the Life of a Puritan Bishop's Lady, which it seems need not have been done by me, had I not had a particular regard for her, since it had been done before by Goodwin who reprinted her Devotions. And not content with this, I have blemished my book with the memoirs of a Dissenting teacher's wife, and have been kind enough to heighten even the character given her by her indulgent husband: and that I am very fond of quoting Fox and Burnet upon all occasions. These are thought strong indications of the above-mentioned charge. It may be thought entirely unnecessary to answer any of the objections from Exeter, after having given you this Summary of my kind Friend's Candid Epistle; but to you, Sir, to whom I could disclose the very secrets of my soul, I will endeavour to say a word or two upon this subject, and make you my Confessor upon this occasion; and I will do it with as much sincerity, as if I lay on my death-bed. Before I was fourteen years old, I read over Fox's Acts and Monuments of the Church, and several of the best books of Polemical Divinity, which strongly fortified me in the Protestant Religion; and gave me the greatest abhorrence to Popery. And soon after I perused Mercurius Rusticus, The Eleventh Persecution, Lloyd, Walker's Sufferings of the Clergy, and many others, which gave me almost as bad an opinion of the Dissenters. But then I learned in my childhood _to live in Charity with all Men_, and I have used my best endeavours to put this doctrine in practice all my life long. I never thought ill, or quarrelled with any man merely because he had been educated in principles different to mine; and yet I have been acquainted with many papists, dissenters, &c. and if I found any of them learned, ingenuous, and modest, I always found my heart well-disposed for contracting a firm friendship with them: and notwithstanding that, I dare believe that all those people will, with joint consent, vouch for me, that I have ever been steady in my own principles. I can truly affirm that never any one engaged in such a work, with an honester heart, or executed it with more unbiassed integrity, than I have done. And indeed, I take the unkind censures passed upon me by the furious uncharitable zealots of both parties, to be the strongest proof of it. And after all, I dare challenge any man, whether Protestant, Papist, or Dissenter, Whig or Tory, (and I have drawn up and published memoirs of women who professed all those principles) to prove me guilty of partiality, or to shew that I have made any uncharitable reflections on any person, and whenever that is done, I will faithfully promise to make a public recantation. I wish, Sir, you would point out to me any one unbecoming word or expression which has fell from me on Bishop Burnet. Had I had the least inclination to have lessened his character, I did not want proper materials to have done it. I have in my possession two original letters from Bishop Gibson and Mr Norris of Bemerton, to Dr Charlett, which, if published, would lessen your too great esteem for him. And what, I beseech you, Sir, have I said in praise of Mrs Hopton and her pious and useful labours, which they do not well deserve, and which can possibly give any just offence to any good man? I dare not censure or condemn a good thing merely because it borders upon the Church of Rome. I rather rejoice that she retains any thing I can fairly approve. Should I attempt to do this, might I not condemn the greater part of our Liturgy, &c.? and should I not stand self-condemned for so doing? I cannot for my life perceive that I have said any thing of that excellent woman, which she does not merit; and I must beg leave to say that I think her letter to F. Turbeville deserves to be wrote in letters of gold, and ought to be carefully read and preserved by all Protestants. Mary Queen of Scots fell under my notice, no otherwise than as a learned woman. The affairs you mention would by no means suit my peaceable temper. I was too well acquainted with the warm disputes, and fierce engagement both of domestic and foreign writers on that head, once to touch upon the subject. And indeed, unless I had been the happy discoverer of some secret springs of action which would have given new information to the public, it would have been excessive folly in me to intermeddle in an affair of so tender a nature, and of so great importance. I have often blamed my dear friend Mr. Brome for destroying his valuable collections, but I now cease to wonder at it. He spent his leisure hours pleasantly and inoffensively, and when old age came on, which not only abates thirst, but oftentimes gives a disrelish to these and almost all other things, which do not help to make our passage into eternity more easy, he then destroyed them (I dare believe) in order to prevent the malicious reflections of an ill-natured world. I have always been a passionate lover of History and Antiquity, Biography, and Northern Literature: and as I have ever hated idleness, so I have in my time filled many hundred sheets with my useless scribble, the greater part of which I will commit to the flames shortly, to prevent their giving me any uneasiness in my last moments.[107] [May 22, 1753.] FOOTNOTES: [106] Ballard's _Memoirs of Learned Ladies of Great Britain who have been celebrated for their writings or skill in the Learned Languages Arts & Sciences_, appeared at Oxford in 4to (1752) and 8vo (1775). It contains some sixty lives, the most noteworthy names being those of Queens Elizabeth and Mary of Scotland, Lady Jane Grey, Margaret Countess of Richmond (_the_ "Lady Margaret"), the Duchess of Newcastle, Lady Winchelsea, the two Countesses of Pembroke ("Sidney's sister" and Anne Clifford), Dame Juliana Barnes or Berners, Dryden's Anne Killigrew, Dorothy Pakington (the alleged author of _The Whole Duty of Man_), and "the matchless Orinda." [107] Perhaps a note should be added on "Mrs. Hopton" and "F. Turbe(r)ville." The former, born Susanna Harvey (1627-1709), was the wife of a Welsh judge, and wrote devotional works. The latter, Henry T. (d. 1678: the "F" of text is of course "Father"), was a writer of doctrinal and controversial manuals on the Roman side. THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) The chief thing to add to what has been said of Gray in the Introduction is something that may draw attention to a curious feature of his letters, not there distinctly noticed. Letters, it must be sufficiently seen even from this little book, have a curious _variety_ of relation to the characters, personal and literary, of their writers. Sometimes they show us phases entirely or almost entirely concealed in the published works; sometimes again, without definitely revealing new aspects, they complete and enforce the old; while, in yet a third, though perhaps the smallest, class of instances, they are as it were results of the same governing formula as that of the published works themselves, the difference lying almost wholly in the subjects and in the methods and circumstances of treatment. Gray belongs to this last division. There is not, of course, in his letters the same severity of discipline and restriction of utterance, that we find in his poems. But that, in letters, was impossible--at least in letters that should supply tolerable reading. Yet the same general principle, which was somewhat exaggerated in the phrase about his "never speaking out," appears in them. There is always a certain restraint (at least in all that have been published) and it would probably have extended in proportion to others, however little their subject might seem compatible with it. In what we have it gives a curious _seasoning_--something which preserves as well as flavours like salt or vinegar. Of those which follow the first is an early one. Mason's apologetic note is to the effect that it "may appear whimsical" but it gives him an opportunity of remarking that Mr. Gray was "extremely skilled in the customs of the ancient Romans," both utterances being characteristic, to some extent of the time but to a greater of the writer. The second letter, to Gray's most intimate friend Dr. Wharton, and more than a quarter of a century later, is a good example of the _variety_ of these epistles--scenery, literature, politics, science, gossip and what not, being all dealt with. 20. TO RICHARD WEST [EXTRACT] ROME, May, 1740. I am to-day just returned from Alba, a good deal fatigued; for you know the Appian is somewhat tiresome. We dined at Pompey's; he indeed was gone for a few days to his Tusculan, but, by the care of his Villicus, we made an admirable meal. We had the dugs of a pregnant sow, a peacock, a dish of thrushes, a noble scarus just fresh from the Tyrrhene, and some conchylia of the Lake with garum sauce: For my part I never eat better at Lucullus's table. We drank half-a-dozen cyathi a-piece of ancient Alban to Pholoë's health; and after bathing, and playing an hour at ball, we mounted our essedum again, and proceeded up the mount to the temple. The priests there entertained us with an account of a wonderful shower of bird's eggs that had fallen two days before, which had no sooner touched the ground, but they were converted into gudgeons; as also that, the night past, a dreadful voice had been heard out of the Adytum, which spoke Greek during a full half-hour, but nobody understood it. But quitting my Romanities, to your great joy and mine, let me tell you in plain English, that we come from Albano. The present town lies within the inclosure of Pompey's Villa in ruins. The Appian way runs through it, by the side of which, a little farther, is a large old tomb, with five pyramids upon it, which the learned suppose to be the burying-place of the family, because they do not know whose it can be else. But the vulgar assure you it is the sepulchre of the Curiatii, and by that name (such is their power) it goes. One drives to Castle Gandolfo, a house of the Pope's, situated on the top of one of the Collinette, that forms a brim to the basin, commonly called the Alban lake. It is seven miles round; and directly opposite to you, on the other side, rises the Mons Albanus, much taller than the rest, along whose side are still discoverable (not to common eyes) certain little ruins of the old Alba Longa. They had need be very little, as having been nothing but ruins ever since the days of Tullus Hostilius. On its top is a house of the Constable Colonna's, where stood the temple of Jupiter Latialis. At the foot of the hill Gandolfo, are the famous outlets of the lake, built with hewn stone, a mile and a half under ground. Livy you know, amply informs us of the foolish occasion of this expence, and gives me this opportunity of displaying all my erudition, that I may appear considerable in your eyes. This is the prospect from one window of the palace. From another you have the whole Campagna, the City, Antium, and the Tyrrhene sea (twelve miles distant) so distinguishable, that you may see the vessels sailing upon it. All this is charming. Mr. Walpole says, our memory sees more than our eyes in this country. Which is extremely true; since, for realities, Windsor or Richmond Hill is infinitely preferable to Albano or Frescati. I am now at home, and going to the window to tell you it is the most beautiful of Italian nights, which, in truth, are but just begun (so backward has the spring been here, and every where else, they say) There is a moon! there are stars for you! Do not you hear the fountain? Do not you smell the orange flowers? That building yonder is the convent of S. Isidore; and that eminence, with the cypress trees and pines upon it, the top of M. Quirinal. This is all true, and yet my prospect is not two hundred yards in length. 21. TO WHARTON Dear Doctor Whatever my pen may do, I am sure my thoughts expatiate nowhere oftener or with more pleasure, than to Old-Park. I hope you have made my peace with Miss Deborah. it is certain, whether her name were in my letter or not, she was as present to my memory, as the rest of the little family, & I desire you would present her with two kisses in my name, & one a-piece to all the others: for I shall take the liberty to kiss them all (great & small) as you are to be my proxy. In spite of the rain, w^ch I think continued with very short intervals till the beginning of this month, & quite effaced the summer from the year, I made a shift to pass May & June not disagreeably in Kent. I was surprised at the beauty of the road to Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me in the same manner before. The whole country is a rich and well-cultivated garden, orchards, cherry-grounds, hop-gardens, intermix'd with corn & frequent villages, gentle risings cover'd with wood, and everywhere the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the Landscape with all their navigation. It was indeed owing to the bad weather, that the whole scene was dress'd in that tender emerald-green, w^ch one usually sees only for a fortnight in the opening of spring, & this continued till I left the country. My residence was eight miles east of Canterbury in a little quiet valley on the skirts of Barhamdown. In these parts the whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is dry enough to walk out. I took the opportunity of three or four days fine weather to go into the Isle of Thanet, saw Margate (w^ch is Bartholomew-Fair by the sea side), Ramsgate, & other places there, and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkstone, & Hithe, back again. The coast is not like Hartlepool: there are no rocks, but only chalky cliffs of no great height, till you come to Dover. There indeed they are noble & picturesque, and the opposite coasts of France begin to bound your view, w^ch was left before to range unlimited by anything but the horizon: yet it is by no means a _shipless_ sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails & vessels of all sizes in motion. And take notice (except in the Isle, w^ch is all corn-fields, and has very little inclosure) there are in all places hedgerows & tall trees even within a few yards of the beach. Particularly Hithe stands on an eminence cover'd with wood. I shall confess we had fires of a night (ay, & a day too) several times even in June: but don't go & take advantage of this, for it was the most untoward year that ever I remember. Your Friend Rousseau (I doubt) grows tired of M^r Davenport and Derbyshire. He has picked a quarrel with David Hume & writes him letters of 14 pages Folio upbraiding him of all his _noirceurs_. Take one only as a specimen, he says, that at Calais they chanced to sleep in the same room together, & that he overheard David talking in his sleep, and saying, _Ah! Je le tiens, ce Jean-Jacques là._ In short (I fear) for want of persecution & admiration (for these are real complaints) he will go back to the Continent. What shall I say to you about the Ministry? I am as angry as a Common-council Man of London about my L^d Chatham: but a little more patient, & will hold my tongue till the end of the year. In the mean time I do mutter in secret & to you, that to quit the house of Commons, his natural strength; to sap his own popularity & grandeur (which no one but himself could have done) by assuming a foolish title; & to hope that he could win by it and attach to him a Court, that hate him, & will dismiss him, as soon as ever they dare, was the weakest thing, that ever was done by so great a Man. Had it not been for this, I should have rejoiced at the breach between him & L^d Temple, & at the union between him & the D: of Grafton & M^r Conway: but patience! we shall see! St:[108] perhaps is in the country (for he hoped for a month's leave of absence) and if you see him, you will learn more than I can tell you. Mason is at Aston. He is no longer so anxious about his wife's health, as he was, tho' I find she still has a cough, & moreover I find she is not with child: but he made such a bragging, how could one choose but believe him. When I was in town, I mark'd in my pocket-book the utmost limits & divisions of the two columns in your Thermometer, and asked Mr. Ayscough the Instrument-Maker on Ludgate Hill, what scales they were. He immediately assured me, that one was Fahrenheit's, & shew'd me one exactly so divided. The other he took for Reaumur's, but, as he said there were different scales of his contrivance, he could not exactly tell, w^ch of them it was. Your Brother told me, you wanted to know, who wrote Duke Wharton's life in the Biography: I think, it is chiefly borrowed from a silly book enough call'd _Memoirs of that Duke_: but who put it together there, no one can inform me. The only person certainly known to write in that vile collection (I mean these latter volumes) is D^r Nicholls, who was expell'd here for stealing books. Have you read the _New Bath-Guide_?[109] it is the only thing in fashion, & is a new & original kind of humour. Miss Prue's Conversion I doubt you will paste down, as S^r W: S^t Quintyn did, before he carried it to his daughter. Yet I remember you all read _Crazy Tales_[110] without pasting. Buffon's first collection of Monkeys are come out (it makes the 14^th volume) something, but not much, to my edification: for he is pretty well acquainted with their persons, but not with their manners. I shall be glad to hear, how far M^rs Ettrick has succeeded, & when you see an end to her troubles. my best respects to Mrs. Wharton, & compliments to all your family: I will not name them, least I should affront any body. Adieu, dear S^r, I am most sincerely yours, TG: August 26, 1766, Pembroke College. Mr. Brown is gone to see his Brother near Margate. When is L^d Str:[111] to be married? If M^r and M^rs Jonathan are with you, I desire my compliments. FOOTNOTES: [108] "St." is Richard Stonhewer, a Fellow of Peterhouse, secretary to the Duke of Grafton, and a man of considerable, though not public, importance in politics. [109] Anstey's--referred to in the Introduction. [110] By Sterne's friend, John Hall Stevenson. [111] Lord Strathmore. HORACE WALPOLE (1717-1797) [AND W. M. THACKERAY]. As much has been already said of Horace Walpole's letters, but practically nothing of his other works except his novel and his play, something more may be added here to show that he was not _merely_ a "trifler." His private press at "Strawberry" was mainly a means of amusement to him, like a billiard-room or a tennis-court. But it provided some useful books--such as editions of Anthony Hamilton's _Memoirs of Grammont_, of Lord Herbert of Cherbury's _Life_ and of part of Gray's _Poems_. He had neither historic knowledge nor historic sense enough to deal satisfactorily with such a subject as _Historic Doubts on Richard III._, though the subject itself was quite worth dealing with. But his _Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors_, his _Anecdotes of Painting in England_, and his _Catalogue of Engravers_ are not without value; and he could usefully handle the history of his own time, with proper corrections for his prejudices, etc. He was weakest of all as a literary critic: and his dealings with Chatterton were most unfortunate, though the mischief done was not intentional, and might not have been serious in any other case. These things have been said with a definite purpose--that of showing that Horace's interests, if seldom deep, were unusually wide. Now though width of interest is not, as Cowper's case shows, indispensable to goodness of letter-writing, it is a very great qualification for it, as giving to the result variety, colour, and "bite." At the same time, unless one had space on a very different scale from any possible here, it would be _im_possible to illustrate this "extensive curiosity" as they called it then: and Horace ought to be shown here in his _most_ native element as a chronicler of "society." I have thought it worth while to subjoin for comparison Thackeray's wonderful _pastiche_ in _The Virginians_, which is almost better Horace than Horace himself.[112] 22. TO THE COUNTESS OF OSSORY ARLINGTON STREET, April 31. 1773 It is most true, madam, that I did purpose to regale myself with a visit to Ampthill; but this winter, which has trod hard upon last week's summer, blunted my intention for a while, though revivable in finer weather. Oh! but I had another reason for changing my mind; you are leaving Ampthill, and I do not mean only to write my name in your park-keeper's book. Yes, in spite of your ladyship's low spirited mood, you are coming from Ampthill, and you are to be at Strawberry Hill to-morrow se'nnight. You may not be in the secret, but Lord Ossory and I have settled it, and you are to be pawned to me while he is at Newmarket. He told me you certainly would if I asked it, and as they used to say in ancient writ, I do beg it upon the knees of my heart. Nay, it is unavoidable; for though a lady's word may be ever so crackable, you cannot have the conscience to break your husband's word, so I depend upon it. I have asked Mr. Craufurd to meet you, but begged he would refuse me, that I might be sure of his coming. Mrs Meynel has taken another year's lease of her house, so you probably, madam, will not be tired of me for the livelong day for the whole time you shall honour my mansion. Your face will be well and your fever gone a week before to-morrow se'nnight, and you will look as well as ever you did in your life, that is, as you have done lately, which is better than ever you did before. You must not, in truth, expect that I your shepherd should be quite so fit to figure in a fan mount. Besides the gout for six months, which makes some flaws in the bloom of elderly Arcadians, I have been so far from keeping sheep for the last ten days, that I have kept nothing but bad hours; and have been such a rake that I put myself in mind of a poor old cripple that I saw formerly at Hogarth's auction: he bid for the Rake's Progress, saying, "I will buy my own progress," though he looked as if he had no more title to it than I have, but by limping and sitting up. In short, I have been at four balls since yesterday se'nnight, though I had the prudence not to stay supper at Lord Stanley's. That festival was very expensive, for it is the fashion now to make romances rather than balls. In the hall was a band of French horns and clarionets in laced uniforms and feathers. The dome of the staircase was beautifully illuminated with coloured glass lanthorns; in the ante-room was a bevy of vestals in white habits, making tea; in the next, a drapery of sarcenet, that with a very funereal air crossed the chimney, and depended in vast festoons over the sconces. The third chamber's doors were heightened with candles in gilt vases, and the ballroom was formed into an oval with benches above each other, not unlike pews, and covered with red serge, above which were arbours of flowers, red and green pilasters, more sarcenet, and Lord March's glasses, which he had lent, as an upholsterer asked Lord Stanley 300l. for the loan of some. He had burst open the side of the wall to build an orchestra, with a pendant mirror to reflect the dancers, à la Guisnes; and the musicians were in scarlet robes, like the candle-snuffers who represent the senates of Venice at Drury Lane. There were two more chambers at which I never arrived for the crowd. The seasons, danced by himself, the younger Storer, the Duc de Lauzun and another, the youngest Miss Stanley, Miss Poole, the youngest Wrottesley and another Miss, who is likewise anonymous in my memory, were in errant shepherdly dresses without invention, and Storer and Miss Wrottesley in banians with furs, for winter, cock and hen. In six rooms below were magnificent suppers. I was not quite so sober last night at Mons. de Guisnes', where the evening began with a ball of children, from eighteen to four years old. They danced amazingly well, yet disappointed me, so many of them were ugly; but Dr. Delawarr's two eldest daughters and the Ancaster infanta performed a pas de trois as well as Mlle. Heinel, and the two eldest were pretty; yet I promise you, madam, the next age will be a thousand degrees below the present in beauty. The most interesting part was to observe the anxiety of the mothers while their children danced or supped; they supped at ten in three rooms. I should not omit telling you that the Vernons, especially the eldest, were not the homeliest part of the show. The former quadrilles then came again upon the stage, and Harry Conway the younger was so astonished at the agility of Mrs. Hobart's bulk, that he said he was sure she must be hollow. The tables were again spread in five rooms, and at past two in the morning we went to supper. To excuse _we_, I must plead that both the late and present chancellor, and the solemn Lord Lyttleton, my predecessors by some years, stayed as late as I did--and in good sooth the watchman went four as my chairman knocked at my door. Such is the result of good resolutions! I determined during my illness to have my colt's tooth drawn, and lo! I have cut four new in a week. Well! at least I am as grave as a judge, looked as rosy as Lord Lyttleton, and much soberer than my Lord Chancellor. To shew some marks of grace, I shall give up the opera, (indeed it is very bad) and go and retake my doctor's degrees among the dowagers at Lady Blandford's; and intending to have no more diversions than I have news to tell your ladyship, I think you shall not hear from me again till we meet, as I shall think it, in heaven. 23. (_Thackeray imitating_). TO THE HON. H. S. CONWAY ARLINGTON STREET, Friday night. I have come away, child, for a day or two from my devotions to our Lady of Strawberry. Have I not been on my knees to her these three weeks, and aren't the poor old joints full of rheumatism? A fit took me that I would pay London a visit, that I would go to Vauxhall and Ranelagh. _Quoi!_ May I not have my rattle as well as other elderly babies? Suppose, after being so long virtuous, I take a fancy to cakes and ale, shall your reverence say nay to me? George Selwyn and Tony Storer and your humble servant took boat at Westminster t'other night. Was it Tuesday?--no, Tuesday I was with their Graces of Norfolk, who are just from Tunbridge--it was Wednesday. How should I know? Wasn't I dead drunk with a whole pint of lemonade I took at White's? The Norfolk folk had been entertaining me on Tuesday with the account of a young savage Iroquois, Choctaw, or Virginian, who has lately been making a little noise in our quarter of the globe. He is an offshoot of that disreputable family of Esmond-Castlewood, of whom all the men are gamblers and spendthrifts, and all the women--well, I shan't say the word, lest Lady Ailesbury should be looking over your shoulder. Both the late lords, my father told me, were in his pay, and the last one, a beau of Queen Anne's reign, from a viscount advanced to be an earl through the merits and intercession of his notorious old sister Bernstein, late Tusher, _nee_ Esmond--a great beauty, too, of her day, a favourite of the old Pretender. She sold his secrets to my papa, who paid her for them; and being nowise particular in her love for the Stuarts, came over to the august Hanoverian house at present reigning over us. "Will Horace Walpole's tongue never stop scandal?" says your wife over your shoulder. I kiss your ladyship's hand. I am dumb. The Bernstein is a model of virtue. She had no good reasons for marrying her father's chaplain. Many of the nobility omit the marriage altogether. She _wasn't_ ashamed of being Mrs. Tusher, and didn't take a German _Baroncino_ for a second husband, whom nobody out of Hanover ever saw. The Yarmouth bears no malice. Esther and Vashti are very good friends, and have been cheating each other at Tunbridge at cards all the summer. "And what has all this to do with the Iroquois?" says your ladyship. The Iroquois has been at Tunbridge, too--not cheating, perhaps, but winning vastly. They say he has bled Lord March of thousands--Lord March, by whom so much blood hath been shed, that he has quarrelled with everybody, fought with everybody, rode over everybody, been fallen in love with by everybody's wife except Mr. Conway's, and _not_ excepting her present Majesty, the Countess of England, Scotland, France and Ireland, Queen of Walmoden and Yarmouth, whom heaven preserve to us. You know an offensive little creature _de par le monde_, one Jack Morris, who skips in and out of all the houses of London. When we were at Vauxhall, Mr. Jack gave us a nod under the shoulder of a pretty young fellow enough, on whose arm he was leaning, and who appeared hugely delighted with the enchantments of the garden. Lord, how he stared at the fireworks! Gods, how he huzzayed at the singing of a horrible painted wench who shrieked the ears off my head! A twopenny string of glass beads and a strip of tawdry cloth are treasures in Iroquois-land, and our savage valued them accordingly. A buzz went about the place that this was the fortunate youth. He won three hundred at White's last night very genteelly from Rockingham and my precious nephew, and here he was bellowing and huzzaying over the music so as to do you good to hear. I do not love a puppet-show, but I love to treat children to one, Miss Conway! I present your ladyship my compliments, and hope we shall go and see the dolls together. When the singing-woman came down from her throne, Jack Morris must introduce my Virginian to her. I saw him blush up to the eyes, and make her, upon my word, a very fine bow, such as I had no idea was practised in wigwams. "There is a certain _jenny squaw_ about her, and that's why the savage likes her," George said--a joke certainly not as brilliant as a firework. After which it seemed to me that the savage and the savagess retired together. Having had a great deal too much to eat and drink three hours before, my partners must have chicken and rack-punch at Vauxhall, where George fell asleep straightway, and for my sins I must tell Tony Storer what I knew about this Virginian's amiable family, especially some of the Bernstein's antecedents and the history of another elderly beauty of the family, a certain Lady Maria, who was _au mieux_ with the late Prince of Wales. What did I say? I protest not half of what I knew, and of course not a tenth part of what I was going to tell, for who should start out upon us but my savage, this time quite red in the face; and in his _war paint_. The wretch had been drinking fire-water in the next box! He cocked his hat, clapped his hand to his sword, asked which of the gentlemen was it that was maligning his family? so that I was obliged to entreat him not to make such a noise, lest he should wake my friend Mr. George Selwyn. And I added, "I assure you, sir, I had no idea that you were near me, and I most sincerely apologize for giving you pain." The Huron took his hand off his tomahawk at this pacific rejoinder, made a bow not ungraciously, said he could not, of course, ask more than an apology from a gentleman of my age (_Merci, Monsieur!_) and, hearing the name of Mr. Selwyn, made another bow to George, and said he had a letter to him from Lord March, which he had had the ill-fortune to mislay. George has put him up for the club, it appears, in conjunction with March, and no doubt these three lambs will fleece each other. Meanwhile, my pacified savage sat down with us, and _buried the hatchet_ in another bowl of punch, for which these gentlemen must call. Heaven help us! 'Tis eleven o'clock, and here comes Bedson with my gruel! H. W. FOOTNOTES: [112] There is an amicable dispute among Thackerayans whether this or the imitation-_Spectator_ paper in _Esmond_ is the more wonderful of their joint kind. To facilitate this comparison the letter part (for there is one) of that paper will be given here under Thackeray's own name. TOBIAS GEORGE SMOLLETT (1721-1771) Smollett's reputation has been of course always mainly, indeed almost wholly, that of a novelist, though his miscellaneous work is of no small merit. But that he wrote his best novel _in_ letters and that perhaps it is one of the best so written, has been mentioned. His _Travels_ are also of the letter-kind--especially of the ill-tempered-letter-kind. Of his actual correspondence we have not much. But the following has always seemed to the present writer an admirable and agreeably characteristic example. Smollett's outwardly surly but inwardly kindly temper, and his command of phrase ("great Cham of literature" has, as we say now, "stuck") both appear in it: and the matter is interesting. We have, so far as I remember, no record of any interview between Johnson and Smollett, though they must have met. They were both Tories, and Johnson wrote in the _Critical Review_ which Smollett edited. But Johnson's gibes at Scotland are not likely to have conciliated Smollett: and there was just that combination of likeness and difference between the two men which (especially as the one was as typically English as the other was Scotch) generates incompatibility. How victoriously Wilkes got over Johnson's personal dislike to him all readers of Boswell know: and it is one of the most amusing passages in the book. On this occasion, too, he did what was asked of him. "Frank" had not been _pressed_, but had joined for some reason of his own. However, he accepted his discharge and returned to his master, staying till that master's death. 24. TO JOHN WILKES, ESQ. CHELSEA, 16th March, 1759. Dear Sir I am again your petitioner, in behalf of that great CHAM of literature, Samuel Johnson. His black servant, whose name is Francis Barber, has been pressed on board the Stag frigate, Captain Angel, and our lexicographer is in great distress. He says the boy is a sickly lad, of a delicate frame, and particularly subject to a malady in his throat, which renders him very unfit for His Majesty's service. You know what matter of animosity the said Johnson has against you: and I dare say you desire no other opportunity of resenting it, than that of laying him under an obligation. He was humble enough to desire my assistance on this occasion, though he and I were never cater-cousins; and I gave him to understand that I would make application to my friend Mr. Wilkes, who, perhaps, by his interest with Dr. Hay and Mr. Elliot, might be able to procure the discharge of his lacquey. It would be superfluous to say more on this subject, which I leave to your own consideration; but I cannot let slip this opportunity of declaring that I am, with the most inviolable esteem and attachment, dear Sir, your affectionate, obliged, humble servant, T. SMOLLETT. WILLIAM COWPER (1731-1800) It was necessary to say a good deal about Cowper's letters in the Introduction, but it would hardly do to stint him of some further comment. It will be a most unfortunate evidence of degradation in English literary taste if he ever loses the position there assigned to him, and practically acknowledged by all the best judges for the last century. For there is certainly no other epistoler who has displayed such consummate (if also such unconscious) art in making the most out of the least. Of course people who must have noise, and bustle, and "importance" of matter, and so forth, may be dissatisfied. But their dissatisfaction convicts not Cowper but themselves: and the conviction is not for want of Art, but for want of appreciation of Art. Now this last is one of the most terrible faults to be found in any human creature. Not everybody can be an artist: but everybody who is not deficient to this or that extent in sense--to use that word in its widest and best interpretation, for understanding and feeling both--can enjoy an artist's work. Nor is there any more important function of the often misused word "education" than "bringing out" this sense when it is dormant, and training and developing it when it is brought out. And few things are more useful for exercise in this way than the under-current of artistry in Cowper's "chit-chat." His letters are so familiar that it is vain to aim at any great originality in selecting them. The following strikes me as an excellent example. What more trite than references to increased expense of postage (rather notably topical just now though!) and remarks on a greenhouse? And what less trite--except to tritical tastes and intellects--than this letter? 25. TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON Sept. 18. 1784. My dear Friend, Following your good example, I lay before me a sheet of my largest paper. It was this moment fair and unblemished but I have begun to blot it, and having begun, am not likely to cease till I have spoiled it. I have sent you many a sheet that in my judgment of it has been very unworthy of your acceptance, but my conscience was in some measure satisfied by reflecting, that if it were good for nothing, at the same time it cost you nothing, except the trouble of reading it. But the case is altered now. You must pay a solid price for frothy matter, and though I do not absolutely pick your pocket, yet you lose your money, and, as the saying is, are never the wiser; a saying literally fulfilled to the reader of my epistles. My greenhouse is never so pleasant as when we are just upon the point of being turned out of it. The gentleness of the autumnal suns, and the calmness of this latter season, make it a much more agreeable retreat than we ever find it in summer; when, the winds being generally brisk, we cannot cool it by admitting a sufficient quantity of air, without being at the same time incommoded by it. But now I sit with all the windows and the door wide open, and am regaled with the scent of every flower in a garden as full of flowers as I have known how to make it. We keep no bees, but if I lived in a hive I should hardly hear more of their music. All the bees in the neighbourhood resort to a bed of mignonette, opposite to the window, and pay me for the honey they get out of it by a hum, which, though rather monotonous, is as agreeable to my ear as the whistling of my linnets. All the sounds that nature utters are delightful,--at least in this country. I should not perhaps find the roaring of lions in Africa, or of bears in Russia, very pleasing; but I know no beast in England whose voice I do not account musical, save and except always the braying of an ass. The notes of all our birds and fowls please me, without one exception. I should not indeed think of keeping a goose in a cage, that I might hang him up in the parlour for the sake of his melody, but a goose upon a common, or in a farmyard, is no bad performer; and as to insects, if the black beetle, and beetles indeed of all hues, will keep out of my way, I have no objection to any of the rest; on the contrary, in whatever key they sing, from the gnat's fine treble to the bass of the humble bee, I admire them all. Seriously however it strikes me as a very observable instance of providential kindness to man, that such an exact accord has been contrived between his ear, and the sounds with which, at least in a rural situation, it is almost every moment visited. All the world is sensible of the uncomfortable effect that certain sounds have upon the nerves, and consequently upon the spirits:--and if a sinful world had been filled with such as would have curdled the blood, and have made the sense of hearing a perpetual inconvenience, I do not know that we should have had a right to complain. But now the fields, the woods, the gardens have each their concert, and the ear of man is for ever regaled by creatures who seem only to please themselves. Even the ears that are deaf to the Gospel, are continually entertained, though without knowing it, by sounds for which they are solely indebted to its author. There is somewhere in infinite space a world that does not roll within the precincts of mercy, and as it is reasonable, and even scriptural, to suppose that there is music in Heaven, in those dismal regions perhaps the reverse of it is found; tones so dismal, as to make woe itself more insupportable, and to acuminate[113] even despair. But my paper admonishes me in good time to draw the reins, and to check the descent of my fancy into deeps, with which she is but too familiar. Our best love attends you both, with yours, _Sum ut semper, tui studiossimus_, W. C. FOOTNOTES: [113] "Acuminate" = "sharpen," is a perfectly good word in itself, but perhaps does not so perfectly suit "despair," which crushes rather than pierces. SYDNEY SMITH (1771-1845) It has been said of Sydney Smith that he was not only a humourist, but a "good-humourist," and this is undoubtedly true. Politics, indeed, according to their usual custom, sometimes rather acidulated his good humour; but anybody possessed of the noun, with the least allowance of the adjective, should be propitiated by the way in which the almost Radical reformer of _Peter Plymley's Letters_ in 1807 became the almost Tory and wholly conservative maintainer of ecclesiastical rights in those to Archdeacon Singleton thirty years later. Both, however, were "Letters" of the sophisticated kind: but we have plenty of perfectly genuine correspondence, also agreeable and sometimes extremely amusing. Whether Sydney (his friends always abbreviated him thus, and he accepted the Christian name) describes the makeshifts of his Yorkshire parish or the luxuries of his Somerset one; whether he discusses the effect of a diet of geraniums on pigs or points out that as Lord Tankerville has given him a whole buck "this takes up a great deal of my time"--he is always refreshing. He has no great depth, but we do not go to him for that: and he is not shallow in the offensive sense of the word. His gaiety does not get on one's nerves as does that of some--perhaps most--professional jokers: neither, as is too frequently the case with them, does it bore. His letters are not the easiest to select from: for they are usually short and their excellence lies rather in still shorter _flashes_ such as those glanced at above; as the grave proposition that "the information of very plain women is so inconsiderable that I agree with you in setting no store by it;" or as this other (resembling a short newspaper paragraph) "The Commissioner will have hard work with the Scotch atheists: they are said to be numerous this season and in great force, from the irregular supply of rain." But the following specimens are fairly representative. They were written at an interval of about ten years: the first from Foston, the second from Combe Florey. "Miss Berry," the elder of the famous sisters who began by fascinating Horace Walpole and ended by charming Thackeray: "Donna Agnes" was the younger. "Lady Rachel," the famous wife of the person who suffered for the Rye House plot (Lady Rachel Wriothesley, of Rachel Lady Russell, but Miss Berry had written a _Life_ of her under her maiden name). Sydney's politics show in his allusion to the assassination of the Duc de Berri, son of Charles X. of France (who had, however, not then come to the throne); in his infinitely greater sorrow for the dismissal of the mildly Liberal minister Decazes; and in his spleen at the supporters of the English Tory government of Lord Liverpool. (The "little plot" was Thistlewood's). In the second letter the "hotel" is his new parsonage in Somerset: "Bowood," Lord Lansdowne's Wiltshire house, a great Whig rallying place. I suppose "Sea-shore Calcott" is Sir A. W. Calcott the painter. "Luttrell" (Henry), a talker and versifier very well known in his own day, but of less enduring reputation than some others. "Napier's Book," the brilliant if somewhat partisan _History of the Peninsular War_. I am not quite certain in which of two senses Sydney uses the word _caractère_. As ought to be well known this does not exactly correspond to our "character"--but most commonly means "temper" or "disposition." It has, however, a peculiar technical meaning of "official description" or "estimate" which would suit Sir William Napier well. The Napiers were "kittle cattle" from the official point of view. 26. TO MISS BERRY FOSTON, Feb 27th, 1820. I thank you very much for the entertainment I have received from your book. I should however have been afraid to marry such a woman as Lady Rachel; it would have been too awful. There are pieces of china very fine and beautiful, but never intended for daily use.... I have hardly slept out of Foston since I saw you. God send I may be still an animal, and not a vegetable! but I am a little uneasy at this season for sprouting and rural increase, for I fear I should have undergone the metamorphose so common in country livings. I shall go to town about the end of March; it will be completely empty, and the drugs that remain will be entirely occupied about hustings and returning-officers. Commerce and manufacturers are still in a frightful state of stagnation. No foreign barks in British ports are seen, Stuff'd to the water's edge with velveteen, Or bursting with big bales of bombazine; No distant climes demand our corduroy, Unmatch'd habiliment for man and boy; No fleets of fustian quit the British shore, The cloth-creating engines cease to roar, Still is that loom which breech'd the world before. I am very sorry for the little fat Duke de Berri, but infinitely more so for the dismissal of De Cases,--a fatal measure. I must not die without seeing Paris. Figure to yourself what a horrid death,--to die without seeing Paris! I think I could make something of this in a tragedy, so as to draw tears from Donna Agnes and yourself. Where are you going to? When do you return? Why do you go at all? Is Paris more agreeable than London? We have had a little plot here in a hay-loft. God forbid anybody should be murdered! but, if I were to turn assassin, it should not be of five or six Ministers, who are placed where they are by the folly of the country gentlemen, but of the hundred thousand squires, to whose stupidity and folly such an Administration owes its existence. Ever your friend, SYDNEY SMITH. 27. TO N. FAZAKERLY, ESQ. COMBE FLOREY, October, 1829. Dear Fazakerly, I don't know anybody who would be less affronted at being called hare-brained than our friend who has so tardily conveyed my message, and I am afraid now he has only given you a part of it. The omission appears to be, that I had set up an hotel on the Western road, that it would be opened next spring, and I hoped for the favour of yours and Mrs. Fazakerly's patronage. "Well-aired beds, neat wines, careful drivers, etc. etc." I shall have very great pleasure in coming to see you, and I quite agree in the wisdom of postponing that event till the rural Palladios and Vitruvii are chased away; I have fourteen of them here every day. The country is perfectly beautiful, and my parsonage the prettiest place in it. I was at Bowood last week: the only persons there were seashore Calcott and his wife,--two very sensible, agreeable people. Luttrell came over for the day; he was very agreeable, but spoke too lightly, I thought, of veal soup. I took him aside, and reasoned the matter with him, but in vain; to speak the truth, Luttrell is not steady in his judgments on dishes. Individual failures with him soon degenerate into generic objections, till, by some fortunate accident, he eats himself into better opinions. A person of more calm reflection thinks not only of what he is consuming at the moment, but of the soups of the same kind he has met with in a long course of dining, and which have gradually and justly elevated the species. I am perhaps making too much of this; but the failures of a man of sense are always painful. I quite agree about Napier's book. I do[114] not think that any[114] man would venture to write so true, bold, and honest a book; it gave me a high idea of his understanding, and makes me very anxious about his _caractère_ Ever yours, SYDNEY SMITH. FOOTNOTES: [114] One would expect either "did" or "other": but the actual combination is a very likely slip of pen or press. SIR WALTER SCOTT (1771-1832) Since this little book was undertaken it has been announced, truly or not, that the bulk of Scott's autograph letters has been bought by a fortunate and wise man of letters for the sum of £1500. Neither life nor literature can ever be expressed in money value: but if one had £1500 to spend on something not directly necessary, it is possible to imagine a very large number of less satisfactory purchases. For as was briefly suggested in the Introduction, Scott's letters--while saturated with that singular humanity and nobility of character in which he has hardly a rival among authors of whom we know much--are distinctly remarkable from the purely literary point of view. His published work, both in verse and prose, has been accused (with what amount of justice we will not here trouble ourselves to discuss)--of carelessness in style and art. No such charge could possibly be brought against his letters, which hit the happy mean between slovenliness and artificial elaboration in a fashion that could hardly be bettered. The great variety of his correspondents, too, provides an additional attraction: for letters indited to the same person are apt to show a certain monotony. And Scott is equal to any and every occasion. Here as elsewhere the "Diary" drains off a certain proportion of matter: but chiefly for the latest period and in circumstances scarcely happy enough for letters themselves. The following letter was selected because of its admirable treatment of a theme--the behaviour, responsibility, and general _status_ of Authors as objects of public judgment--on which an infinite amount of deplorable and disgusting nonsense has been talked and written. It starts, as will be seen, with the quarrel between Lord and Lady Byron--and then generalises. Not many things show Scott's golden equity and fairness better. He is perhaps "a little kind" to Campbell, who was, one fears, an extra-irritable specimen of the irritable race: but this is venial. And probably he did not mean the stigma which might be inferred from the conjunction of "Aphra _and_ Orinda." They were certainly both of Charles II.'s time: but while poor Aphra was, if not wholly vicious, far from virtuous, the "matchless Orinda" (Katherine Philips) bears no stain on her character. 28. TO JOANNA BAILLIE (End of April 1816) My dear friend, I am glad you are satisfied with my reasons for declining a direct interference with Lord B[yron]. I have not, however, been quite idle, and as an old seaman have tried to go by a side wind when I had not the means of going before it, and this will be so far plain to you when I say that I have every reason to believe the good intelligence is true that a separation is signed between Lord and Lady Byron. If I am not as angry as you have good reason to expect every thinking and feeling man to be, it is from deep sorrow and regret that a man possessed of such noble talents should so utterly and irretrievably lose himself. In short, I believe the thing to be as you state it, and therefore Lord Byron is the object of anything rather than indignation. It is a cruel pity that such high talents should have been joined to a mind so wayward and incapable of seeking control where alone it is to be found, in the quiet discharge of domestic duties and filling up in peace and affection his station in society. The idea of his ultimately resisting that which should be fair and honourable to Lady B. did not come within my view of his character--at least of his natural character; but I hear that, as you intimated, he has had execrable advisers. I hardly know a more painful object of consideration than a man of genius in such a situation; those of lower minds do not feel the degradation, and become like pigs, familiarised with the filthy elements in which they grovel; but it is impossible that a man of Lord Byron's genius should not often feel the want of that which he has forfeited--the fair esteem of those by whom genius most naturally desires to be admired and cherished. I am much obliged to Mrs. Baillie for excluding me in her general censure of authors; but I should have hoped for a more general spirit of toleration from my good friend, who had in her own family and under her own eye such an exception to her general censure--unless, indeed (which may not be far from the truth), she supposes that female genius is more gentle and tractable, though as high in tone and spirit as that of the masculine sex. But the truth is, I believe, we will find a great equality when the different habits of the sexes and the temptations they are exposed to are taken into consideration. Men early flattered and coaxed, and told they are fitted for the higher regions of genius and unfit for anything else,--that they are a superior kind of automaton and ought to move by different impulses than others,--indulge their friends and the public with freaks and caprioles like those of that worthy knight of La Mancha in the Sierra Morena. And then, if our man of genius escapes this temptation, how is he to parry the opposition of the blockheads who join all their hard heads and horns together to butt him out of the ordinary pasture, goad him back to Parnassus, and "bid him on the barren mountain starve." It is amazing how far this goes, if a man will let it go, in turning him out of the ordinary course of life into the stream of odd bodies, so that authors come to be regarded as tumblers, who are expected to go to church in a summerset, because they sometimes throw a Catherine-wheel for the amusement of the public. A man even told me at an election, thinking I believe he was saying a severe thing, that I was a poet, and therefore that the subject we were discussing lay out of my way. I answered as quietly as I could, that I did not apprehend my having written poetry rendered me incapable of speaking common sense in prose, and that I requested the audience to judge of me not by the nonsense I might have written for their amusement, but by the sober sense I was endeavouring to speak for their information, and only expected [of] them, in case I had ever happened to give any of them pleasure, in a way which was supposed to require some information and talent, [that] they would not, for that sole reason, suppose me incapable of understanding or explaining a point of the profession for which I had been educated. So I got a patient and very favourable hearing. But certainly these great exertions of friends and enemies have forced many a poor fellow out of the common paths of life, and obliged him to make a trade of what can only be gracefully executed as an occasional avocation. When such a man is encouraged in all his freaks and follies, the bit is taken out of his mouth, and, as he is turned out upon the common, he is very apt to deem himself exempt from all the rules incumbent on those who keep the king's highway. And so they play fantastic tricks before high heaven. The lady authors are not exempt from these vagaries, being exposed to the same temptations; and all I can allow Mrs. Baillie in favour of the fair sex is that since the time of the Aphras and Orindas of Charles II's time, the authoresses have been ridiculous only, while the authors have too often been both absurd and vicious. As to our leal friend Tom Campbell, I have heard stories of his morbid sensibility chiefly from the Minto family, with whom he lived for some time, and I think they all turned on little foolish points of capricious affectation, which perhaps had no better foundation than an ill-imagined mode of exhibiting his independence. But whatever I saw of him myself--and we were often together, and sometimes for several days--was quite composed and manly. Indeed, I never worried him to make him get on his hind legs and spout poetry when he did not like it. He deserves independence well; and if the dog which now awakens him to the recollection of his possessing it, happened formerly to disturb the short sleep that drowned his recollection of so great a blessing, there is good reason for enduring the disturbance with more patience than before. But surely, admitting all our temptations and irregularities there are men of genius enough living to restrain the mere possession of talent from the charge of disqualifying the owner for the ordinary occupation and duties of life. There never were better men, and especially better husbands, fathers, and real patriots, than Southey and Wordsworth; they might even be pitched upon as most exemplary characters. I myself, if I may rank myself in the list, am, as Hamlet says, indifferent honest, and at least not worse than an infidel in loving those of my own house. And I think that generally speaking, authors, like actors, being rather less commonly believed to be eccentric than was the faith fifty years since, do conduct themselves as amenable to the ordinary rules of society. This tirade was begun a long time since, but is destined to be finished at Abbotsford. Your bower is all planted with its evergreens, but must for seven years retain its original aspect of a gravel pit. (Rest lost.) SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE (1772-1834) It is a strange thing, and could hardly have happened in any country but England, that there is to this day no complete collection or edition of the works of Coleridge--one of the most poetical of our poets, one of the most important of our critics, and one of the most influential, if one of the least methodical and conclusive, of our philosophers. Indeed we never knew what good prose he could write till the fragments called _Anima Poetae_ were published, two-thirds of a century after his death. But that no collected edition of his letters appeared till very shortly before this is explicable without any difficulty. Coleridge's temperament was not heroic, and his correspondence as well as his conduct justified, in regard to much more than his nonage, the ingenious phrase of an American lady-essayist that he must have been "a very _beatable_ child." To a certain extent, however, the correspondence does also justify our adoption (see _Introduction_) of the charitable theory that enlargement of understanding brings about extension of pardon. And putting this aside, the letters sometimes give us an idea of what his admittedly marvellous conversation (or rather monologue) must have been like. They are not very easy to select from, for their author's singular tendency to _divagation_ affects them. But they sometimes display that humour which he undoubtedly possessed, though his best-known published writings seldom admit of it: and the divagation itself has its advantages. In the following Coleridge appears in curiously different lights. After joking at his own Pantheism he becomes amazingly practical, for it _was_, as Scott points out somewhere, a fault of Southey's to cling to the system of "half-profits," a fault which often made his enormous labours altogether unprofitable. "I-rise to I-set" = "getting-up to bed-time" seems to have been a favourite quip of his. "Stuart," the Editor of the _Morning Post_ for which Coleridge was then writing. "The Anthology"--an _Annual_ one edited by Southey. As for the _Anti-Jacobin_ libel it was, admirable as was the wit that accompanied it, utterly indefensible; for it accused Coleridge of having _at this time_ "left his poor children fatherless and his wife destitute" (the extraordinary thing is that he actually did this later!) Of course he never executed the Life of Lessing.[115] "The Wedgwoods" had given him an annuity. The assault on "Mr. Go_b_win" is one of poor Hartley Coleridge's most delightful feats. Had he been a little older, he might have pointed out to the author of _Political Justice_ that lecturing his mother for his, Hartley's, fault was quite unjustifiable: and indeed that objecting to it at all was improper. The right way (according to that great work itself) would have been to discuss with Hartley whether the advantage in physical exercise and animal spirits derived by him from wielding the nine-pin, outweighed the pain experienced by Go_b_win, and so was justifiable on the total scheme of things. ("Moshes," as indeed is obvious, was Hartley's pet-name). 29. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY Tuesday night, 12 o'clock (December 24) 1799. My dear Southey, My Spinosism (if Spinosism it be, and i' faith 'tis very like it) disposed me to consider this big city as that part of the supreme One which the prophet Moses was allowed to see--I should be more disposed to pull off my shoes, beholding Him in a _Bush_, than while I am forcing my reason to believe that even in theatres _He_ is, yea! even in the Opera House. Your "Thalaba" will beyond all doubt bring you two hundred pounds, if you will sell it at once; but _do_ not print at a venture, under the notion of selling the edition. I assure you that Longman regretted the bargain he made with Cottle concerning the second edition of the "Joan of Arc," and is indisposed to similar negotiations; but most and very eager to have the property of your works at almost any price. If you have not heard it from Cottle, why, you may hear it from me, that is, the arrangement of Cottle's affairs in London. The whole and total copyright of your "Joan," and the first volume of your poems (exclusive of what Longman had before given), was taken by him at three hundred and seventy pounds. You are a strong swimmer, and have borne up poor Joey with all his leaden weights about him, his own and other people's! Nothing has answered to him but your works. By me he has lost somewhat--by Fox, Amos, and himself _very much_. I can sell your "Thalaba" quite as well in your absence as in your presence. I am employed from I-rise to I-set (that is, from nine in the morning to twelve at night), a pure scribbler. My mornings to booksellers' compilations, after dinner to Stuart, who pays _all_ my expenses here, let them be what they will; the earnings of the morning go to make up an hundred and fifty pounds for my year's expenditure; for, supposing _all clear_, my year's (1800) allowance is anticipated. But this I can do by the first of April (at which time I leave London). For Stuart I write often his leading paragraphs on Secession, Peace, Essay on the new French Constitution, Advice to Friends of Freedom, Critiques on Sir W. Anderson's Nose, Odes to Georgiana D. of D. (horribly misprinted), Christmas Carols, etc., etc.--anything not bad in the paper, that is not yours, is mine. So if any verses there strike you as worthy the "Anthology," "do me the honour, sir!" However, in the course of a week I _do mean_ to conduct a series of essays in that paper which may be of public utility. So much for myself, except that I long to be out of London; and that my Xstmas Carol is a quaint performance, and, in as strict a sense as is _possible_, an Impromptu, and, had I done all I had planned, that "Ode to the Duchess" would have been a better thing than it is--it being somewhat dullish, etc. I have bought the "Beauties of the Anti-jacobin," and attorneys and counsellors advise me to prosecute, and offer to undertake it, so as that I shall have neither trouble or expense. They say it is a clear case, etc. I will speak to Johnson about the "Fears in Solitude." If he gives them up they are yours. That dull ode has been printed often enough, and may now be allowed to "sink with deep swoop, and to the bottom _go_," to quote an admired author; but the two others will do with a little trimming. My dear Southey! I have said nothing concerning that which most oppresses me. Immediately on my leaving London I fall to the "Life of Lessing"; till that is done, till I have given the Wedgwoods some proof that I am _endeavouring_ to do well for my fellow-creatures, I cannot stir. That being done, I would accompany you, and see no impossibility of forming a pleasant little colony for a few years in Italy or the South of France. Peace will come soon. God love you, my dear Southey! _I_ would write to Stuart, and give up his paper immediately. You should do nothing that did not absolutely _please_ you. Be idle, be very idle! The habits of your mind are such that you will necessarily do much; but be as idle as you can. Our love to dear Edith. If you see Mary, tell her that we have received our trunk. Hartley is quite well, and my talkativeness is his, without diminution on my side. 'Tis strange but certainly many things go in the blood, beside gout and scrophula. Yesterday I dined at Longman's and met Pratt, and that honest piece of prolix dullity and nullity, young Towers, who desired to be remembered to you. To-morrow Sara and I dine at Mister Gobwin's, as Hartley calls him, who gave the philosopher such a rap on the shins with a ninepin that Gobwin in huge pain _lectured_ Sara on his boisterousness. I was not at home. _Est modus in rebus._ Moshes is somewhat too rough and noisy, but the cadaverous silence of Gobwin's children is to me quite catacombish, and, thinking of Mary Wollstonecraft, I was oppressed by it the day Davy and I dined there. God love you and S. T. COLERIDGE. FOOTNOTES: [115] I cannot remember whether anybody has ever made a list of the books that Coleridge did not write. It would be the catalogue of a most interesting library in Utopia. ROBERT SOUTHEY (1774-1843) One of the strangest things met by the present writer in the course of preparing this book was a remark of the late Mr. Scoones--an old acquaintance and a man who has deserved most excellently on the subject--in reference to Southey's letters, that they show the author as "dry and unsympathetic." "They contain too much information to be good as letters." Well: there certainly is information in the specimen that follows: whether it is "dry" or not readers must decide. The fact is that Southey, despite occasional touches of self-righteousness and of over-bookishness, was full of humour, extraordinarily affectionate, and extremely natural. There is moreover a great deal of interest in this skit on poor Mrs. Coleridge: for "lingos" of the kind, though in her case they may have helped to disgust her husband with his "pensive Sara," were in her time and afterwards by no means uncommon, especially--physiologists must say why--with the female sex. The present writer, near the middle of the nineteenth century, knew a lady of family, position and property who was fond of the phrase, "hail-fellow-well-met," but always turned it into "Fellowship Wilmot"--a pretty close parallel to "horsemangander" for "horse-godmother". Extension--with levelling--of education, and such processes as those which have turned "Sissiter" into "Syrencesster" and "Kirton" into "Credd-itt-on", have made the phenomenon rarer: but have also made such a _locus classicus_ of the habit as this all the more valuable and amusing. It may be added that Lamb, in one of his letters, has a sly if good-natured glance at this peculiarity of the elder Sara Coleridge in reference to the aptitude of the younger in her "_mother_-tongue." Southey has dealt with the matter in several epistles to his friend Grosvenor Bedford. The whole would have been rather long but the following mosaic will, I think, do very well. Dr. Warter, the editor of the supplementary collection of Southey's letters from which it comes, was the husband of Edith May Southey, the heroine of not a little literature, sometimes[116] in connection, not merely as here with Sara Coleridge the younger, but with Dora Wordsworth--the three daughters of the three Lake Poets. She was, as her father says, a very tall girl, while her aunt, Mrs. Coleridge, was little (her husband, writing from Hamburg, speaks with surprise of some German lady as "smaller than you are"). 30. TO GROSVENOR C. BEDFORD ESQ: KESWICK, Sep. 14, 1821 Dear Stumparumper, Don't rub your eyes at that word, Bedford, as if you were slopy. The purport of this letter, which is to be as precious as the Punic scenes in Plautus, is to give you some account (though but an imperfect one) of the language spoken in this house by ... and invented by her. I have carefully composed a vocabulary of it by the help of her daughter and mine, having my ivory tablets always ready when she is red-raggifying in full confabulumpatus. 31. TO GROSVENOR C. BEDFORD ESQ: KESWICK, Oct. 7, 1821. My dear G, I very much approve your laudable curiosity to know the precise meaning of that noble word _horsemangandering_. Before I tell you its application, you must be informed of its history and origin. Be it therefore known unto you that ... the whole and sole inventor of the never-to-be-forgotten _lingo grande_ (in which, by the bye, I purpose ere long to compose a second epistle), thought proper one day to call my daughter a great _horsemangander_, thinking, I suppose, that that appellation contained as much unfeminine meaning as could be put into any decent compound. From this substantive the verb has been formed to denote an operation performed by the said daughter upon the said aunt, of which I was an astonished spectator. The horsemangander--that is to say, Edith May--being tall and strong, came behind the person to be horsemangandered (to wit, ...), and took her round the waist, under the arms, then jumped with her all the way from the kitchen into the middle of the parlour; the motion of the horsemangandered person at every jump being something like that of a paviour's rammer, and all resistance impossible. 32. TO GROSVENOR C. BEDFORD ESQ: KESWICK, Oct. 8, 1821. * * * * * P.S. The name of the newly-discovered language (of which I have more to say hereafter) is the _lingo grande_. 33. TO GROSVENOR C. BEDFORD ESQ: KESWICK, Dec. 24, 1822 Dear Stumparumper, So long a time has elapsed since I sent you the commencement of my remarks upon the peculiar language spoken by ... which I have denominated the LINGO-GRANDE, that I fear you may suppose that I have altogether neglected the subject. Yet such a subject, as you must perceive, requires a great deal of patient observation, as well as of attentive consideration; and were I to flustercumhurry over it, as if it were a matter which could be undercumstood in a jiffump (that is to say in a momper), this would be to do what I have undertaken shabroonily, and you might shartainly have reason to think me fuffling and indiscruckt. Upon my vurtz I have not dumdawdled with it, like a dangleampeter; which being interpreted in the same _lingo_ is an undecider, or an improvidentur, too idle to explore the hurtch mine which he has had the fortune to discover. No, I must be a stupossum indeed to act thus, as well as a slouwdowdekcum, or slowdonothinger; and these are appellations which she has never bestowed upon me; though, perhaps, the uncommon richness, and even exuberance of her language has not been more strikingly displayed in anything than in the variety of names which it has enabled her to shower upon my devoted person. * * * * * And so-o-o, Dear Miscumter Bedfordiddlededford, I subcumscribe myself, Your sincumcere friendiddledend and serdiddledeservant, ROBCUMBERT SOUTHEY DIDDIEDOUTHEY. Student in the Lingo-Grande, Graduate in Butlerology, Professor of the science of Noncumsensediddledense, of sneezing and of vocal music, P.L. and LL.D. etc etc. FOOTNOTES: [116] See Wordsworth's _Triad_. CHARLES LAMB (1775-1834) There are not many people about whom it is more difficult--or more unnecessary--to write than it is about Lamb. A few very unfortunate people do not enjoy him, and probably never could be made to do so. Most of those who care for literature at all revel in him: and do not in the least need to be told to do so. And, as was said before, there is hardly any difference between his published works and his letters except that the former stand a little--a very little--more "upon ceremony." As to selecting the letters one remembers Mr. Matthew Arnold's very agreeable confession, when he was asked to select his poems, that he wanted to select them all. This being impossible, one has to confess that, putting subject, scale etc. aside, any one is almost as tempting as any other, and that whatever is chosen reminds one, half-regretfully, of the letters that were left. When a man can write (to William Wordsworth too), "The very head and sum of the girlery were two young girls," there is nothing left to do but to repeat, with the slight alteration of "write to" for "ask," Thackeray's ejaculation to the supposed host at an unusually satisfactory dinner, "Dear Sir! do _ask_ us again." And on almost every page of his letters, whether in Talfourd's original issue of them or in the more recent and fuller editions of his works, the spirit is the same everywhere: the volume only differs. If (but you never know exactly when Lamb is speaking seriously) at the time he had "an aversion from letter writing," then most certainly Mrs. Malaprop was justified in saying that there "is nothing like beginning with a little aversion"! The letter which follows is, though it may have pleased others besides myself, not one of the stock examples. But it seems to me to present a rather unusual combination of Lamb's attractive qualities, not a little of his rare phrase ("divine plain face" especially) and a remarkable expression of that yearning for _solitude_ which some people seem to think rather shameful, but which to others is a thing no more to be accounted for than it is to be got rid of. It will be observed that the letter, ostensibly to Mrs. W., is really both to her and to her husband. "W. H." is of course Hazlitt, and the "lectures" are his famous ones on English Poets. As for Lamb's criticisms on lectures generally, they would perhaps be endorsed by some who have given, as well as by many who have received, this form of instruction. The "gentleman at Haydon's" was the hero or victim of a story good, but too long to give here. He said some excessively foolish things and Lamb, after dinner, behaved to him in a fashion possibly not quite undeserved but entirely unsanctioned by the conventions of society. 34. TO MRS. WORDSWORTH East India House. February 18, 1818. My dear Mrs. Wordsworth, I have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. My sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, I consider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardamoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters at home is, that I am never alone. Plato's (I write to W. W. now)--Plato's double animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation than I sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. Except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, I am never so. I cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I am pestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write "paid" against this, and "unpaid" against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind "some darling thoughts all my own,"--faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice--a snatch of Miss Burrell's singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's I mean), or as I sometimes turn round till I am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there are a set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres--the gay science--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, etc,--what Coleridge said at the lecture last night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have been Ante-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. These pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one of them, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary for a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up I go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door, in comes Mr. Hazlitt, or Mr. Martin Burney, or Morgan Demigorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. O the pleasure of eating alone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. But in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle of orange; for my meat turns into stone when any one dines with me, if I have not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(God bless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bed-time. Come never, I would say to those spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! The fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. Evening company I should always like had I any mornings, but I am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as I should covet to be in company; but I assure you that is a wonderful week in which I can get two, or one to myself. I am never C. L. but always C. L. and Co. He who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! I forget bed-time, but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. Once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, I go to bed at the hour I ought always to be a-bed; just close to my bedroom window is the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers, I take them to be chorus-singers of the two theatres (it must be both of them), begin their orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I conceive) who, being limited by their talents to the burthen of the song at the play-houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by Bishop, or some cheap composer, arranged for choruses; that is, to be sung all in chorus. At least I never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the Babylonish choral howl at the tail on't. "That fury being quenched"--the howl, I mean--a burden succeeds of shouts and clapping, and knocking of the table. At length overtasked nature drops under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. And then I think of the words Christabel's father used (bless me, I have dipt in the wrong ink!) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke: "Every knell, the Baron saith, Wakes us up to a world of death" or something like it. All I mean by this senseless interrupted tale, is, that by my central situation I am a little over-companied. Not that I have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. I like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass; but I mean merely to give you an idea, between office confinement and after-office society, how little time I can call my own. I mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. I would not that I know of have it otherwise. I only wish sometimes I could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, at being so often favoured with that kind northern visitation. My London faces and noises don't hear me--I mean no disrespect, or I should explain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, and the return of W. W. etc., seven times in 104 weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kind love, and my poor name, C. LAMB. * * * * * W. H. goes on lecturing against W. W. and making copious use of quotations from said W. W. to give a zest to said lectures. S. T. C. is lecturing with success. I have not heard either of him or H., but dined with S. T. C. at Gillman's a Sunday or two since, and he was well and in good spirits. I mean to hear some of the course but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. If _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you could read so much better at leisure yourself. If delivered extempore I am always in pain lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honour of me at the London tavern.[117] "Gentlemen," said I, and there I stopped; the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. Mrs. Wordsworth _will_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never can be realised. Between us there is a great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, I hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned in the Stamp Office, that I so strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. I think I had an instinct that he was the head of an office. I hate all such people--accountants' deputy-accountants. The dear abstract notion of the East India Company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, I loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of Babylon. I thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst; but I was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go. They are the tyrants; not Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this week they have abridged us of the immemorially-observed custom of going at one o'clock of a Saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. Dear W. W., be thankful for liberty. FOOTNOTES: [117] Lamb would have enjoyed a recent newspaper paragraph which, stating that an inquest had been held on some one who, after lecturing somewhere was taken ill and expired, concluded thus: "Verdict: death from natural causes." GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON (1788-1824) It is one of the commonest of commonplaces that there are certain subjects and persons who and which always cause difference of opinion: and something like a full century has established the fact that Byron is one of them. As far as his poetry is concerned we have nothing to do with this difference or these differences. They affect his letters less, inasmuch as almost everybody admits them to be remarkably good of their kind. But when the further questions are raised, "What _is_ that kind?" and "Is it the best, or even a very good kind?" the old division manifests itself again. That they are extraordinarily _clever_ is again more or less matter of agreement. That they make some people dislike him more than they otherwise might is perhaps not a fatal objection: for the people may be wrong. Besides, as a matter of fact, they sometimes make other people _like_ him more than they would have done without these letters: so the two things at least cancel each other. The chief objection to them, which is hardly removable, is their too frequent artificiality. Byron did not play the tricks that Pope played: for, he was not, like Pope, an invalid with an invalid's weaknesses and excuses. But almost more than in his poems, where the "dramatic" excuse is available, (_i.e._ that the writer is speaking not for himself but for the character) the letters provoke the question, "Is this what the man thought, felt, did, or what he wished to seem to feel, think, do?" In other words, "Is this _persona_ or _res_?" The following shows Byron in perhaps as favourable a light as any that could be chosen, and with as little of the artificiality as is anywhere to be found. It is true that even here Moore, his biographer and letter-giver, at first included, though he afterwards cut out, some attacks on Sir Samuel Romilly, whom Byron thought guilty of causing or abetting dissension between Lady Byron and himself. But the letter loses nothing by the omission and does not even gain unfairly by it. There is nothing _false_ in the contrast of comedy and sentiment concerning the cemetery. His impression by the epitaphs Byron gave in more letters than one. Nor is there any affectation in his remarks about his own burial, about his children, or any other subject. They did "pickle him and bring him home" (a quotation, not quite literal, from Sheridan's _Rivals_), and his funeral procession through London is the theme of a memorable passage in Borrow's _Lavengro_. "Juan" is of course _Don Juan_. "Allegra," his daughter by Jane (or as she re-christened herself, Claire) Clairmont--step-daughter of Godwin, through his second wife, and so a connection though no relation of Mrs. Shelley--died at five years old. "Ada," his and Lady Byron's only child, lived to marry Lord Lovelace, and continued his blood to the present day. "Electra" works out no further than the fact of her being the daughter of his "_moral_ Clytemnestra," as he called Lady Byron, from her having been almost as fatal to his reputation as the actual Clytemnestra to her husband's life. 35. TO MR. MURRAY Bologna, June 7. 1817. Tell Mr. Hobhouse that I wrote to him a few days ago from Ferrara. It will therefore be idle in him or you to wait for any further answers or returns of proofs from Venice, as I have directed that no English letters be sent after me. The publication can be proceeded in without, and I am already sick of your remarks, to which I think not the least attention ought to be paid. Tell Mr. Hobhouse that since I wrote to him I had availed myself of my Ferrara letters, and found the society much younger and better than that at Venice. I am very much pleased with the little the shortness of my stay permitted me to see of the Gonfaloniere Count Mosti, and his family and friends in general. I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino and Guido, both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to the beautiful cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls and found, besides the superb burial ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded me of the gravedigger in _Hamlet_. He has a collection of capuchins' skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them said "This is Brother Desiderio Birro, who died at forty--one of my best friends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it in lime and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went he brought joy, and whenever anyone was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never saw before, nor ever shall again!" He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Bartorini, dead two centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and "as yellow as gold."[118] Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance:-- "MARTINI LUIGI IMPLORA PACE." "LUCREZIA PICINI IMPLORA ETERNA QUIETE." Can anything be more full of pathos? Those few words say all that can be said or sought, the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave--'implora pace.' I hope, whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think of "pickling, and bringing me home to clod or Blunderbuss Hall." I am sure my bones would not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my death-bed, could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass back to your soil. I would not even feed your worms if I could help it. So, as Shakespeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who died at Venice (see _Richard II._), that he, after fighting "Against black Pagans, Turks and Saracens, And toiled with works of war, retired himself To Italy, and there, at _Venice_, gave His body to that _pleasant_ country's earth. And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long!" Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your late, and Mr. Hobhouse's sheets of Juan. Don't wait for further answers from me, but address yours to Venice as usual. I know nothing of my own movements; I may return there in a few days, or not for some time. All this depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well, as well as his son and Mrs. Hoppner. My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her temper and her ways, Mrs. H. says, are like mine, as well as her features: she will make, in that case, a manageable young lady. I have never heard anything of Ada, the little Electra of my Mycenae. But there will come a day of reckoning, even if I should not live to see it. What a long letter I have scribbled. Yours &c. P.S. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on the tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, scattered over the graves at Ferrara. It has the most pleasing effect you can imagine. FOOTNOTES: [118] No one who has seen the Roman girl's hair at York, nearer two thousand than two hundred years old, will doubt this, though _her_ tresses are not "yellow." PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (1792-1822) It may sometimes seem as if there were only two things that Shelley lacked--humour and common sense. As a matter of fact he possessed both, but allowed them to be perpetually stifled by other elements--not in themselves necessarily bad--of his character. If either--still better both--had been able to constitute themselves monarchs of his Brentford, Duumvirs of the rest, his political and religious extravagances would have been curbed; his less admirable actions would probably--for he would not have married and therefore would not have deserted poor Harriet--have been obviated; and it is by no means necessary that his poetry, though it could not have been much improved, should have been in any degree worsened. Shakespeare, one thinks, had plenty of both. Nor is this consideration irrelevant to the study of his letters. There are glimmerings of the humour which shines in _Peter Bell the Third_, and more of the common sense which is not needed, but by no means negatived, in the sublimer poems. But in the case suggested we should certainly have had more of them in a department than which they could have found no better home. Shelley wrote everything (after his intellectual infancy) that he did write, so excellently that he must have excelled here also. As it is, we must take him as we find him and be thankful. Since he wrote the following, English readers have perhaps been satiated with writings about Art. But rather more than 100 years ago there had been comparatively little of it and hardly anything, if anything at all, of this quality. And it may not be absurd to draw attention to the differences between these descriptions and those in ornate prose that we have had since from Mr. Ruskin and others. Most of the latter are essentially prose though often very beautiful prose: Shelley's, though pure prose in form, are as it were scenarios for poetry. Indeed by this time poetry had taken almost entire possession of him, and he of her. 36. TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK BOLOGNA, Monday, Nov[ember] 9, 1818. My dear Peacock, I have seen a quantity of things here--churches, palaces, statues, fountains, and pictures; and my brain is at this moment like a portfolio of an architect, or a print-shop, or a commonplace-book, I will try to recollect something of what I have seen; for, indeed, it requires, if it will obey, an act of volition. First, we went to the cathedral, which contains nothing remarkable, except a kind of shrine, or rather a marble canopy, loaded with sculptures, and supported on four marble columns. We went then to a palace--I am sure I forget the name of it--where we saw a large gallery of pictures. Of course, in a picture gallery you see three hundred pictures you forget, for one you remember. I remember, however, an interesting picture by Guido, of the Rape of Proserpine, in which Proserpine casts back her languid and half-unwilling eyes, as it were, to the flowers she had left ungathered in the fields of Enna. There was an exquisitely executed piece of Correggio, about four saints, one of whom seemed to have a pet dragon in a leash. I was told that it was the devil who was bound in that style--but who can make anything of four saints? For what can they be supposed to be about? There was one painting, indeed, by this master, Christ beatified, inexpressibly fine. It is a half figure, seated on a mass of clouds, tinged with an ethereal, rose-like lustre; the arms are expanded; the whole frame seems dilated with expression; the countenance is heavy, as it were, with the weight of the rapture of the spirit; the lips parted, but scarcely parted, with the breath of intense but regulated passion; the eyes are calm and benignant; the whole features harmonised in majesty and sweetness. The hair is parted on the forehead, and falls in heavy locks on each side. It is motionless, but seems as if the faintest breath would move it. The colouring, I suppose, must be very good, if I could remark and understand it. The sky is of pale aërial orange, like the tints of latest sunset; it does not seem painted around and beyond the figure, but everything seems to have absorbed, and to have been penetrated by its hues. I do not think we saw any other of Correggio, but this specimen gives me a very exalted idea of his powers. We went to see heaven knows how many more palaces--Ranuzzi, Marriscalchi, Aldobrandi. If you want Italian names for any purpose, here they are; I should be glad of them if I was writing a novel. I saw many more of Guido. One, a Samson drinking water out of an ass's jaw-bone, in the midst of the slaughtered Philistines. Why he is supposed to do this, God, who gave him this jaw-bone, alone knows--but certain it is, that the painting is a very fine one. The figure of Samson stands in strong relief in the foreground, coloured, as it were, in the hues of human life, and full of strength and elegance. Round him lie the Philistines in all the attitudes of death. One prone, with the slight convulsion of pain just passing from his forehead, whilst on his lips and chin death lies as heavy as sleep. Another leaning on his arm, with his hand, white and motionless, hanging out beyond. In the distance, more dead bodies; and, still further beyond, the blue sea and the blue mountains, and one white and tranquil sail. There is a Murder of the Innocents, also, by Guido, finely coloured, with much fine expression--but the subject is very horrible, and it seemed deficient in strength--at least, you require the highest ideal energy, the most poetical and exalted conception of the subject, to reconcile you to such a contemplation. There was a Jesus Christ crucified, by the same, very fine. One gets tired, indeed, whatever may be the conception and execution of it, of seeing that monotonous and agonised form for ever exhibited in one prescriptive attitude of torture. But the Magdalen, clinging to the cross with the look of passive and gentle despair beaming from beneath her bright flaxen hair, and the figure of St. John, with his looks uplifted in passionate compassion; his hands clasped, and his fingers twisting themselves together, as it were, with involuntary anguish; his feet almost writhing up from the ground with the same sympathy; and the whole of this arrayed in colours of diviner nature, yet most like nature's self. Of the contemplation of this one would never weary. There was a "Fortune," too, of Guido; a piece of mere beauty. There was the figure of Fortune on a globe, eagerly proceeding onwards, and Love was trying to catch her back by the hair, and her face was half turned towards him; her long chestnut hair was floating in the stream of the wind, and threw its shadow over her fair forehead. Her hazel eyes were fixed on her pursuer, with a meaning look of playfulness, and a light smile was hovering on her lips. The colours which arrayed her delicate limbs were ethereal and warm. But, perhaps, the most interesting of all the pictures of Guido which I saw was a Madonna Lattante. She is leaning over her child, and the maternal feelings with which she is pervaded are shadowed forth on her soft and gentle countenance, and in her simple and affectionate gestures--there is what an unfeeling observer would call a dulness in the expression of her face; her eyes are almost closed; her lip depressed; there is a serious, and even a heavy relaxation, as it were, of all the muscles which are called into action by ordinary emotions: but it is only as if the spirit of love, almost insupportable from its intensity, were brooding over and weighing down the soul, or whatever it is, without which the material frame is inanimate and inexpressive. There is another painter here, called Franceschini, a Bolognese, who, though certainly very inferior to Guido, is yet a person of excellent powers. One entire church, that of Santa Catarina, is covered by his works. I do not know whether any of his pictures have ever been seen in England. His colouring is less warm than that of Guido, but nothing can be more clear and delicate; it is as if he could have dipped his pencil in the hues of some serenest and star-shining twilight. His forms have the same delicacy and aërial loveliness; their eyes are all bright with innocence and love; their lips scarce divided by some gentle and sweet emotion. His winged children are the loveliest ideal beings ever created by the human mind. These are generally, whether in the capacity of Cherubim or Cupid, accessories to the rest of the picture; and the underplot of their lovely and infantine play is something almost pathetic from the excess of its unpretending beauty. One of the best of his pieces is an Annunciation of the Virgin:--the Angel is beaming in beauty; the Virgin, soft, retiring, and simple. We saw, besides, one picture of Raphael--St. Cecilia: this is in another and higher style; you forget that it is a picture as you look at it; and yet it is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. It is of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived and executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced among the ancients those perfect specimens of poetry and sculpture which are the baffling models of succeeding generations. There is a unity and a perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. The central figure, St. Cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as produced her image in the painter's mind; her deep, dark, eloquent eyes lifted up; her chestnut hair flung back from her forehead--she holds an organ in her hands--her countenance, as it were, calmed by the depth of its passion and rapture, and penetrated throughout with the warm and radiant light of life. She is listening to the music of heaven, and, as I imagine, has just ceased to sing, for the four figures that surround her evidently point, by their attitudes, towards her; particularly St. John, who, with a tender yet impassioned gesture, bends his countenance towards her, languid with the depth of his emotion. At her feet lie various instruments of music, broken and unstrung. Of the colouring I do not speak; it eclipses nature, yet it has all her truth and softness. JOHN KEATS (1795-1821) A good deal has already been said of Keats in the Introduction; but a little more may be pardoned on that most remarkable correspondence with his brother and sister-in-law which is there mentioned, and which it is hoped may be fairly sampled here. There is nothing quite like it: and one can only be thankful to the Atlantic (which here at least can have "disappointed" nobody worth mentioning) for causing the separation that brought it about. The inspirations which it shows were happily double. We do not know very much about George Keats, but John's family affection was of the keenest, and this was the only member of the family who was, in all the circumstances, likely to sympathise thoroughly with the poet in his poetry as in other things. Georgiana is said to have been personally attractive and mentally gifted beyond the common: and there is no doubt that this excited something more than mere family devotion in such an impressionable person as Keats. The combined reagency of these relatives has given us what we have from no other English poet--for the simple reason that no other English poet has had such a chance of giving it to us. The only thing to regret is that it could not continue longer: and that is only a necessary operation of Fate. The particular passage chosen here is one of the best known perhaps, but it is also one of the most illuminating: for it gives at once Keats's natural and simple interest in ordinary things, with no mere trivialities: his _real_ attitude (so different from that long attributed to him!) as regards the attacks of critics, and his passion for beauty apart from mere hedonism. The "Charmian" was at one time supposed to be Miss Brawne: but this was an error. She was a Miss Jane Cox, and nothing is heard of her afterwards. 37. TO GEORGE AND GEORGIANA KEATS [October 14 or 15, 1818] I came by ship from Inverness, and was nine days at Sea without being sick. A little qualm now and then put me in mind of you; however, as soon as you touch the shore, all the horrors of sickness are soon forgotten, as was the case with a lady on board, who could not hold her head up all the way. We had not been in the Thames an hour before her tongue began to some tune--paying off, as it was fit she should, all old scores. I was the only Englishman on board. There was a downright Scotchman, who, hearing that there had been a bad crop of potatoes in England, had brought some triumphant specimens from Scotland. These he exhibited with national pride to all the ignorant lightermen and watermen from the Nore to the Bridge. I fed upon beef all the way; not being able to eat the thick porridge which the Ladies managed to manage, with large, awkward, horn spoons into the bargain. Reynolds has returned from a six-weeks' enjoyment in Devonshire; he is well, and persuades me to publish my "Pot of Basil" as an answer to the attacks made on me in "Blackwood's Magazine" and the "Quarterly Review." There have been two Letters in my defence in the Chronicle and one in the Examiner, copied from the Exeter Paper, and written by Reynolds. I do not know who wrote those in the Chronicle. This is a mere matter of the moment--I think I shall be among the English Poets after my death. Even as a Matter of present interest the attempt to crush me in the "Quarterly" has only brought me more into notice, and it is a common expression among book-men, "I wonder the Quarterly should cut its own throat." It does me not the least harm in Society to make me appear little and ridiculous: I know when a man is superior to me and give him all due respect; he will be the last to laugh at me; and as for the rest I feel that I make an impression upon them which insures me personal respect while I am in sight, whatever they may say when my back is turned. The Misses ---- are very kind to me, but they have lately displeased me much, and in this way: Now I am coming the Richardson! On my return, the first day I called, they were in a sort of taking or bustle about a Cousin of theirs, who, having fallen out with her Grandpapa in a serious manner, was invited by Mrs. ---- to take asylum in her house. She is an East-Indian, and ought to be her grandfather's heir. At the time I called, Mrs. ---- was in conference with her upstairs, and the young ladies were warm in her praises downstairs, calling her genteel, interesting and a thousand other pretty things to which I gave no heed, not being partial to nine-days' wonders--Now all is completely changed--they hate her, and from what I hear she is not without faults of a real kind: but she has others, which are more apt to make women of inferior charms hate her. She is not a Cleopatra, but is, at least, a Charmian. She has a rich Eastern look; she has fine eyes and fine manners. When she comes into the room she makes an impression the same as the Beauty of a Leopardess. She is too fine and too conscious of herself to repulse any Man who may address her; from habit she thinks that nothing _particular_. I always find myself more at ease with such a woman: the picture before me always gives me a life and animation which I cannot possibly feel with anything inferior. I am at such times too much occupied in admiring to be awkward or in a tremble: I forget myself entirely, because I live in her. You will, by this time, think that I am in love with her, so, before I go any further, I will tell you I am not. She kept me awake one night, as a tune of Mozart's might do. I speak of the thing as a pastime and an amusement, than which I can feel none deeper than a conversation with an imperial woman, the very "yes" and "no" of whose life is to me a banquet. I don't cry to take the moon home with me in my pocket, nor do I fret to leave her behind me. I like her, and her like, because one has no _sensations_; what we both are is taken for granted. You will suppose I have by this had much talk with her--no such thing; there are the Misses ----on the look out. They think I don't admire her because I don't stare at her; they call her a flirt to me--what a want of knowledge! She walks across a room in such a manner that a man is drawn towards her with a magnetic power; this they call flirting! They do not know things; they do not know what a woman is. I believe, though, she has faults; the same as Charmian and Cleopatra might have had. Yet she is a fine thing, speaking in a worldly way; for there are two distinct tempers of mind in which we judge of things--the worldly, theatrical and pantomimical; and the unearthly, spiritual and ethereal. In the former, Buonaparte, Lord Byron and this Charmian hold the first place in our minds; in the latter, John Howard, Bishop Hooker rocking his child's cradle, and you, my dear sister, are the conquering feelings. As a man of the world I love the rich talk of a Charmian; as an eternal being I love the thought of you. I should like her to ruin me, and I should like you to save me. "I am free from men of pleasure's cares, By dint of feelings far more deep than theirs." This is "Lord Byron," and is one of the finest things he has said. THE CARLYLES--THOMAS (1795-1881) AND JANE WELSH (1801-1866) A paradoxer, even of a less virulent-frivolous type than that with which we have been recently afflicted, might sustain, for some little time at any rate, the argument against preservation of letters from the case of this eminent couple. If Mrs. Carlyle had not written hers, or if they had remained unknown, the whole sickening controversy about the character and married life of the pair might, as was said in the Introduction, never have existed. And if Carlyle himself had written none, persons of any intelligence would still have had a pretty adequate idea of him from his _Works_. On the other hand the addition to knowledge in his case is quite welcome: and in hers it practically gives us what we could hardly have known otherwise--one of the most remarkable of woman-natures, and one of the most striking confirmations of the merciless adage "Whom the gods curse, to them they grant the desires of their hearts." For she wanted above all things to be the wife of a man of genius--and she was. So the _pro_ and the _con_ in this matter may so far be set against each other. But there remains to credit a considerable amount of most welcome and (notably in the instance specified in the Introduction) almost consummate literature of the epistolary kind. This instance itself is perhaps too tragic for our little collection: indeed it might help to spread the exaggerated idea of the writer's unhappiness which has been too prevalent already. There is some "metal more attractive" in her letters, which perhaps, taken all round, put her with Madame de Sévigné and "Lady Mary" at the head of all _published_ women letter-writers. And Carlyle's annotations to them, when not too bilious or too penitent, show him almost at his best. His own (given below) to FitzGerald (the way in which epistolary literature interconnects itself has been noted) appears to me one of his most characteristic though least volcanic utterances. It was written while he was in the depths of what his wife called "the Valley of the Shadow of Frederick," (_i.e._ his vast book on that amiable monarch) and had retired to _extra_-solitude in consequence. "Farlingay" refers to a recent stay in Suffolk with FitzGerald. As often with Carlyle, there may be more than one interpretation of his inverted commas at "gentleman" as regards Voltaire, to whom he certainly would not have allotted the word in its best sense. The phrase about Chaos and the Evil Genius is Carlyle shut up in narrow space like the other genius or genie in the Arabian Nights. The "_awful jangle_ of bells" speaks his horror of any invading sound. The "Naseby matter" refers to a monument which he and FitzGerald had planned, and which (with the precedent investigation as to the battle which F. had conducted years before for his _Cromwell_), occupies a good deal of FitzGerald's own correspondence. Indeed, it is thanks to Naseby that we possess this very letter. FitzGerald says elsewhere that he kept only these Naseby letters of all Carlyle's correspondence with him, destroying the rest, as he did Thackeray's and Tennyson's, lest "private personal history should fall into some unscrupulous hands." One admires the conduct while one feels the loss. As for the monument, it never came off: though it was talked about for some thirty years. Mrs. Carlyle's--one of the early and, despite complaints, cheerful time, the other later and, despite its resignation, from "the Valley of the Shadow"--require no annotation, save in respect of Carlyle's own on _Deerbrook_. He might well call it "poor": it is indeed one of the few novels by a writer of any distinction, which one tolerably voracious novel-reader has found incapable of being read. And this is curious: for she had written good stories earlier. 38. TO EDWARD FITZGERALD ADDISCOMBE FARM, CROYDON. 15th Septr. 1855 Dear Fitzgerald, I have been here ever since the day you last heard of me; leading the strangest life of absolute _Latrappism_; and often enough remembering Farlingay and you. I live perfectly alone, and without speech at all,--there being in fact nobody to speak to, except one austerely punctual housemaid, who does her functions, like an eight-day clock, generally without bidding. My wife comes out now and then to give the requisite directions; but commonly withdraws again on the morrow, leaving the monster to himself and his own ways. I have Books; a complete Edition of _Voltaire_, for one Book, in which I read for _use_, or for idleness oftenest,--getting into endless reflexions over it, mostly of a sad and not very utterable nature. I find V. a 'gentleman,' living in a world partly furnished with such; and that there are now almost no 'gentlemen' (not quite _none_): this is one great head of my reflexions, to which there is no visible _tail_ or finish. I have also a Horse (borrowed from my fat Yeoman friend, who is at sea-bathing in Sussex); and I go riding, at great lengths daily, over hill and dale; this I believe is really the main good I am doing,--if in this either there be much good. But it is a strange way of life to me, for the time; perhaps not unprofitable; To let _Chaos_ say out its say, then, and one's Evil Genius give one the very worst language he has, for a while. It is still to last for a week or more. Today, for the first time, I ride back to Chelsea, but mean to return hither on Monday. There is a great circle of yellow light all the way from Shooter's Hill to Primrose Hill, spread round my horizon every night, I see it while smoking my pipe before bed (so bright, last night, it cast a visible shadow of me against the white window-shutters); and this is all I have to do with London and its _gases_ for a fortnight or more. My wife writes to me, there was an awful jangle of bells last day she went home from this; a Quaker asked in the railway, of some porter, 'Can thou tell me what these bells mean?'--'Well, I suppose something is up. They say Sebastopol is took, and the Rushans run away.'--_À la bonne heure_; but won't they come back again, think you? On the whole I say, when you get your little Suffolk cottage, you must have in it a 'chamber in the wall' for me, _plus_ a pony that can trot, and a cow that gives good milk: with these outfits we shall make a pretty rustication now and then, not wholly _Latrappish_, but only _half_, on much easier terms than here; and I shall be right willing to come and try it, I for one party.--Meanwhile, I hope the Naseby matter is steadily going ahead; sale _completed_; and even the _monument_ concern making way. Tell me a little how that and other matters are. If you are at home, a line is rapidly conveyed hither, steam all the way: after the beginning of the next week, I am at Chelsea, and (I dare so) there is a fire in the evenings now to welcome you there. Shew face in some way or other. And so adieu; for my hour of riding is at hand. Yours ever truly, T. CARLYLE. 39. TO MRS. WALSH, CHELSEA: Sept. 5, 1836. My dear Aunt, Now that I am fairly settled at home again, and can look back over my late travels with the coolness of a spectator, it seems to me that I must have tired out all men, women and children that have had to do with me by the road. The proverb says 'there is much ado when cadgers ride.' I do not know precisely what 'cadger' means, but I imagine it to be a character like me, liable to head-ache, to sea-sickness, to all the infirmities 'that flesh is heir to,' and a few others besides; the friends and relations of cadgers should therefore use all soft persuasions to induce them to remain at home.[119] I got into that Mail the other night with as much repugnance and trepidation as if it had been a Phalaris' brazen bull, instead of a Christian vehicle, invented for purposes of mercy--not of cruelty. There were three besides myself when we started, but two dropped off at the end of the first stage, and the rest of the way I had, as usual, half of the coach to myself. My fellow-passenger had that highest of all terrestrial qualities, which for me a fellow-passenger can possess--he was silent. I think his name was Roscoe, and he read sundry long papers to himself, with the pondering air of a lawyer. We breakfasted at Lichfield, at five in the morning, on muddy coffee and scorched toast, which made me once more lyrically recognise in my heart (not without a sign of regret) the very different coffee and toast with which you helped me out of my headache. At two there was another stop of ten minutes, that might be employed in lunching or otherwise. Feeling myself more fevered than hungry, I determined on spending the time in combing my hair and washing my face and hands with vinegar. In the midst of this solacing operation I heard what seemed to be the Mail running its rapid course, and quick as lightning it flashed on me, 'There it goes! and my luggage is on the top of it, and my purse is in the pocket of it, and here am I stranded on an unknown beach, without so much as a sixpence in my pocket to pay for the vinegar I have already consumed!' Without my bonnet, my hair hanging down my back, my face half dried, and the towel, with which I was drying it, firm grasped in my hand, I dashed out--along, down, opening wrong doors, stumbling over steps, cursing the day I was born, still more the day on which I took a notion to travel, and arrived finally at the bar of the Inn, in a state of excitement bordering on lunacy. The barmaids looked at me 'with wonder and amazement.' 'Is the coach gone?' I gasped out. 'The coach? Yes!' 'Oh! and you have let it away without me! Oh! stop it, cannot you stop it?' and out I rushed into the street, with streaming hair and streaming towel, and almost brained myself against--the Mail! which was standing there in all stillness, without so much as a horse in it! What I had heard was a heavy coach. And now, having descended like a maniac, I ascended again like a fool, and dried the other half of my face, and put on my bonnet, and came back 'a sadder and a wiser woman.' I did not find my husband at the 'Swan with Two Necks'; for we were in a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. So I had my luggage put on the backs of two porters, and walked on to Cheapside, where I presently found a Chelsea omnibus. By and by, however, the omnibus stopped, and amid cries of 'No room, sir,' 'Can't get in,' Carlyle's face, beautifully set off by a broad-brimmed white hat, gazed in at the door, like the Peri, who, 'at the Gate of Heaven, stood disconsolate.' In hurrying along the Strand, pretty sure of being too late, amidst all the imaginable and unimaginable phenomena which the immense thoroughfare of a street presents, his eye (Heaven bless the mark!) had lighted on my trunk perched on the top of the omnibus, and had recognised it. This seems to me one of the most indubitable proofs of genius which he ever manifested. Happily, a passenger went out a little further on, and then he got in. My brother-in-law had gone two days before, so my arrival was most well-timed. I found all at home right and tight; my maid seems to have conducted herself quite handsomely in my absence; my best room looked really inviting. A bust of Shelley (a present from Leigh Hunt), and a fine print of Albert Durer, handsomely framed (also a present) had still further ornamented it during my absence. I also found (for I wish to tell you all my satisfaction) every grate in the house furnished with a supply of coloured clippings, and the holes in the stair-carpet all darned, so that it looks like new. They gave me tea and fried bacon, and staved off my headache as well as might be. They were very kind to me, but, on my life, everybody is kind to me, and to a degree that fills me with admiration. I feel so strong a wish to make you all convinced how very deeply I feel your kindness, and just the more I would say, the less able I am to say anything. God bless you all. Love to all, from the head of the house down to Johnny. Your affectionate, JANE W. CARLYLE. 40. TO MRS. STIRLING, HILL STREET, EDINBURGH. 5 CHEYNE ROW, CHELSEA: October 21, 1859. You dear nice woman! there you are! a bright cheering apparition to surprise one on a foggy October morning, over one's breakfast--that most trying institution for people who are 'nervous' and 'don't sleep!' It (the photograph) made our breakfast this morning 'pass off,' like the better sort of breakfasts in Deerbrook,[120] in which people seemed to have come into the world chiefly to eat breakfast in every possible variety of temper! Blessed be the inventor of photography! I set him above even the inventor of chloroform! It has given more positive pleasure to poor suffering humanity than anything that has 'cast[121] up' in my time or is like to--this art by which even the 'poor' can possess themselves of tolerable likenesses of their absent dear ones. And mustn't it be acting favourably on the morality of the country? I assure you I have often gone into my own room, in the devil's own humour--ready to answer at 'things in general,' and some things in particular--and, my eyes resting by chance on one of my photographs of long-ago places and people, a crowd of sad, gentle thoughts has rushed into my heart, and driven the devil out, as clean as ever so much holy water and priestly exorcism could have done! I have a photograph of Haddington church tower, and my father's tombstone in it--of every place I ever lived at as a home--photographs of old lovers! old friends, old servants, old dogs! In a day or two, you, dear, will be framed and hung up among the 'friends.' And that bright, kind, indomitable face of yours will not be the least efficacious face there for exorcising my devil, when I have him! Thank you a thousand times for keeping your word! Of course you would--that is just the beauty of you, that you never deceive nor disappoint. Oh my dear! my dear! how awfully tired I was with the journey home, and yet I had taken two days to it, sleeping--that is, attempting to sleep--at York. What a pity it is that Scotland is so far off! all the good one has gained there gets shaken off one in the terrific journey home again, and then the different atmosphere is so trying to one fresh from the pure air of Fife--so exhausting and depressing. If it hadn't been that I had a deal of housemaiding to execute during the week I was here before Mr. C. returned, I must have given occasion for newspaper paragraphs under the head of 'Melancholy Suicide.' But dusting books, making chair covers, and 'all that sort of thing,' leads one on insensibly to live--till the crisis gets safely passed. My dear! I haven't time nor inclination for much letter-writing--nor have you, I should suppose, but do let us exchange letters now and then. A friendship which has lived on air for so many years together is worth the trouble of giving it a little human sustenance. Give my kind regards to your husband--I like him--and believe me, Your ever affectionate, JANE WELSH CARLYLE. FOOTNOTES: [119] Clever as she was, she surely made a mistake here--unless she did it on purpose, which is quite possible. "Cadger" is of course only "beggar," and the proverb is the Scotch equivalent of ours about the "beggar on horseback," pretty frequently illustrated now-a-days. [120] The Deerbrook breakfasts refer to Miss Martineau's poor novel. (T. C.) [121] Turned. (T. C.) THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY (1800-1859) There are very few examples in biography where the publication of letters has had a happier effect on the general idea of the writer than in Macaulay's case. It is not here a question of historical trustworthiness, or even of literary-style, in both which respects he has come in for severe strictures and sometimes for rather half-hearted defence. Nor do the letters display any purely literary gifts in him (except perhaps a playfulness of humour or at least wit) which do not appear in the _History_ and the _Essays_. But, as the exception may perhaps partly indicate, they extend and improve the notion of his personality in the most remarkable fashion. Even those who did not quarrel with his views sometimes, before Sir George Trevelyan's book, disliked and regretted what have been called his "pistolling ways"--the positive, hectoring "hold-your-tongue" sort of tone which dominated his productions. With the very rarest exceptions, themselves sometimes of a revealing and excusable frankness, this tone is, if not quite absent[122] from, much seldomer present in, his letters. He jokes without difficulty; talks without in the least monopolising the conversation; shows himself often willing to live and let live; and is on the whole as different a person as possible from the Macaulay who is sure that "every schoolboy" knows better than the author he is reviewing, and who finds Johnson guilty of superstition and Swift of apostasy. "Happy thrice and more also" are those whose letters thus vindicate them. I have purposely chosen the following example (written to his sister) from the most _mundane_ class. "Appointment" was to the _Indian_ Council, which explains the "Cotton" and "Muslin" and other things. "Ellis" (Thomas Flower), a friend of Macaulay's from Cambridge days and his literary executor in part. "Lushington" (Stephen), a civilian lawyer of great eminence as a judge in Admiralty and ecclesiastical matters, but a rather violent politician. "Town"--Leeds. "Miss Berry" is annotated elsewhere. "Sir Stratford Canning," later Viscount Stratford de Redcliffe, George Canning's cousin, and one of the most famous diplomatists of the nineteenth century, especially during his long tenure of the Embassy at Constantinople. _Vivian Grey_--Disraeli's first novel. "Lady Holland," the most famous hostess on the Whig side in the first half of the nineteenth century, but, by all accounts, a person now and then quite intolerable. "Allen" (John), an _Edinburgh Reviewer_, was familiarly called her "tame atheist" (All the company were of the Holland House "set"). "Bobus"--Robert Percy Smith, Sydney's elder brother, a great wit and scholar. "Cosher," an Irish word, is not always used in this sense of "chat." 41. TO HIS SISTER LONDON: November 1833. Dear Hannah, Things stand as they stood; except that the report of my appointment is every day spreading more widely; and that I am beset by advertising dealers begging leave to make up a hundred cotton shirts for me, and fifty muslin gowns for you, and by clerks out of place begging to be my secretaries. I am not in very high spirits to-day, as I have just received a letter from poor Ellis, to whom I had not communicated my intentions till yesterday. He writes so affectionately and so plaintively that he quite cuts me to the heart. There are few indeed from whom I shall part with so much pain; and he, poor fellow, says that, next to his wife, I am the person for whom he feels the most thorough attachment, and in whom he places the most unlimited confidence. On the 11th of this month there is to be a dinner given to Lushington by the electors of the Tower Hamlets. He has persecuted me with importunities to attend and make a speech for him; and my father has joined in the request. It is enough, in these times, Heaven knows, for a man who represents, as I do, a town of a hundred and twenty thousand people to keep his own constituents in good humour; and the Spitalfields weavers and Whitechapel butchers are nothing to me. But, ever since I succeeded in what everybody allows to have been the most hazardous attempt of the kind ever made,--I mean in persuading an audience of manufacturers, all Whigs or Radicals, that the immediate alteration of the corn-laws was impossible,--I have been considered as a capital physician for desperate cases in politics. However, to return from that delightful theme, my own praises, Lushington, who is not very popular with the rabble of the Tower Hamlets, thinks that an oration from me would give him a lift. I could not refuse him directly, backed as he was by my father. I only said that I would attend if I were in London on the 11th, but I added that, situated as I was, I thought it very probable that I should be out of town. I shall go to-night to Miss Berry's _soirée_. I do not know whether I told you that she resented my article on Horace Walpole so much that Sir Stratford Canning advised me not to go near her. She was Walpole's greatest favourite. His Reminiscences are addressed to her in terms of the most gallant eulogy. When he was dying at past eighty, he asked her to marry him, merely that he might make her a Countess and leave her his fortune. You know that in _Vivian Grey_ she is called Miss Otranto. I always expected that my article would put her into a passion, and I was not mistaken; but she has come round again, and sent me a most pressing and kind invitation the other day. I have been racketing lately, having dined twice with Rogers, and once with Grant. Lady Holland is in a most extraordinary state. She came to Rogers's, with Allen, in so bad a humour that we were all forced to rally, and make common cause against her. There was not a person at table to whom she was not rude; and none of us were inclined to submit. Rogers sneered; Sydney made merciless sport of her; Tom Moore looked excessively impertinent; Bobus put her down with simple straightforward rudeness; and I treated her with what I meant to be the coldest civility. Allen flew into a rage with us all, and especially with Sydney, whose guffaws, as the Scotch say, were indeed tremendous. When she and all the rest were gone, Rogers made Tom Moore and me sit down with him for half an hour, and we coshered over the events of the evening. Rogers said that he thought Allen's firing up in defence of his patroness the best thing that he has seen in him. No sooner had Tom and I got into the street than he broke forth: "That such an old stager as Rogers should talk such nonsense, and give Allen credit for attachment to anything but his dinner! Allen was bursting with envy to see us so free, while he was conscious of his own slavery." Her Ladyship has been the better for this discipline. She has overwhelmed me ever since with attentions and invitations. I have at last found out the cause of her ill-humour, or at least of that portion of it of which I was the object. She is in a rage at my article on Walpole, but at what part of it I cannot tell. I know that she is very intimate with the Waldegraves, to whom the manuscripts belong, and for whose benefit the letters were published. But my review was surely not calculated to injure the sale of the book. Lord Holland told me, in an aside, that he quite agreed with me, but that we had better not discuss the subject. A note; and, by my life, from my Lady Holland: "Dear Mr. Macaulay, pray wrap yourself very warm, and come to us on Wednesday." No, my good Lady. I am engaged on Wednesday to dine at the Albion Tavern with the Directors of the East India Company; now my servants; next week, I hope, to be my masters. Ever yours, T. B. M. FOOTNOTES: [122] Indeed it exemplifies Defoe's favourite proverb about "What is bred in the bone," etc.--as for instance when, while admitting Chesterfield's high position in some ways, he calls the _Letters_ "for the most part trash." It is scarcely too much to call such criticism itself "trashy." THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES (1803-1849) Beddoes belongs to the small but remarkable company of authors who, making little mark in their own time and none at all for some time afterwards, before very long come into something like their due, though they never can be exactly popular. He was certainly very eccentric and possibly quite mad: the circumstances of his suicide do more than justify the hopes of charity and the convention of coroners' juries, as to the latter conclusion. But he was an extremely poetical poet and a letter-writer of remarkable individuality and zest. Little notice seems to have been taken, by any save a very few elect, of the first collected publication of his work just after his death: though a single piece, _The Bride's Tragedy_, not by any means his best, had obtained praise in 1822--a time between the great poetical outburst of the early nineteenth century and the revival of its middle period. But Mr. Gosse's reissue in completer form of the _Poems_ in 1890 and the _Letters_ four years later, lodged him at once in the affection of all competent critics. With something of the more eccentric spirit of the seventeenth century in him, and something of the Romantic revival as shown in Coleridge, Shelley and Keats, he had much of his own, though he never got it thoroughly or sustainedly organised and expressed. His mingled passion and humour (especially the latter) "escape"--make fitful spurts and explosions--in his correspondence. Latterly this reflects his mental breakdown, increasingly in the prose; though only a few years before the end it contains wonderful verse such as the song, "The swallow leaves her nest," which is a link between Blake and Canon Dixon. But earlier, as in the following, there is nothing beyond oddity. Of this there may seem to be a good share, but a few notes will make it intelligible. It clearly heralds, though the thing is first definitely indicated in a later letter, Beddoes' marvellous tragedy _Death's Jest-book_, which he wrote and re-wrote till it became like the picture in Balzac's story an "Unknown [and Unknowable] Masterpiece." The letter is further remarkable as combining intense admiration for the _old_ masterpieces with a quite "modern" insistence on "begetting" rather than "reviving"--on "giving the literature of the age a spirit of its own," etc. For details: "Sulky" (compare the French _désobligeante_, celebrated by Sterne)--an obsolete form of chaise. "Breaking Priscian's head" is familiar enough for "using bad grammar," which the book-keeper very likely did; but the explanation may be more remote. "Like a ghost from the tomb" though not "quoted" is, of course, his beloved Shelley's ("The Cloud"). "_Biped_ knock" = merely "double"--the peculiar rat-tat which postmen have mostly forgotten or not learnt--perhaps regarding it as a badge of slavery like "tips." _The Fatal Dowry_--attributed to (Field and) Massinger, and spoilt by Rowe into his nevertheless popular _Fair Penitent_,--is one of the finest examples of the second stage of Elizabethan drama. _Ultracrepidarian_--a term derived from the Latin proverb _ne sutor supra_ (or _ultra_) _crepidam_ and specially applied to the unpopular critic Gifford who had been a shoemaker--meaning generally "some one who _does_ go beyond his last and meddles with things he does not understand." "McCready's" (Macready, the famous actor and manager) friend Walker was probably Sidney Walker the Shakespearian critic. 42. TO THOMAS FORBES KELSALL 26 MALL, CLIFTON. (Postmark, Jan. 11. 1825) Dear Kelsall-- Day after day since Christmas I have intended to write or go to London, and day after day I have deferred both projects; and now I will give you the adventures and mishaps of this present sunday. Remorse, and startling conscience, in the form of an old, sulky, and a shying, horse, hurried me to the 'Regulator' coach-office on Saturday: 'Does the Regulator and its team conform to the Mosaic decalogue, Mr. Book-keeper?' He broke Priscian's head, and through the aperture, assured me that it did not: I was booked for the inside:--"Call at 26 Mall for me."--"Yes, Sir, at 1/2 past five, A.M."--At five I rose like a ghost from the tomb, and betook me to coffee. No wheels rolled through the streets but the inaudible ones of that uncreated hour. It struck six,--a coach was called,--we hurried to the office but _the_ coach was gone. Here followed a long Brutus-and-Cassius discourse between a shilling-buttoned-waistcoatteer of a porter and myself, which ended in my extending mercy to the suppliant coach-owners, and agreeing to accept a place for Monday. All well thus far. The biped knock of the post alighted on the door at twelve, and two letters were placed upon my German dictionary,--your own, which I at first intended to reply to vivâ voce, had not the second informed me of my brother's arrival in England, his short leave of absence, and his intention to visit me here next week. This twisted my strong purpose like a thread, and disposed me to remain here about ten days longer. On the 21st at latest I go to London. Be there and I will join you, or, if not, pursue you to Southampton. The Fatal Dowry has been cobbled, I see, by some purblind ultra-crepidarian--McCready's friend, Walker, very likely; but nevertheless, I maintain 'tis a good play, and might have been rendered very effective by docking it of the whole fifth act, which is an excrescence,--re-creating Novall, and making Beaumelle a great deal more ghost-gaping and moonlightish. The cur-tailor has taken out the most purple piece in the whole web--the end of the fourth Act--and shouldered himself into toleration through the prejudices of the pit, when he should have built his admiration on their necks. Say what you will, I am convinced the man who is to awaken the drama must be a bold trampling fellow, no creeper into worm-holes, no reviver even, however good. These reanimations are vampire-cold. Such ghosts as Marloe, Webster &c. are better dramatists, better poets, I dare say, than any contemporary of ours, but they are ghosts; the worm is in their pages; and we want to see something that our great-grandsires did not know. With the greatest reverence for all the antiquities of the drama, I still think that we had better beget than revive; attempt to give the literature of this age an idiosyncrasy and spirit of its own, and only raise a ghost to gaze on, not to live with--just now the drama is a haunted ruin. * * * * * ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING (1806-1861) Mrs. Browning was in the habit of using rather extravagant language herself: and she has certainly been the victim of language extravagant enough both in praise (the more damaging of the two) and blame from others. FitzGerald's unlucky exaggeration (see Introduction) in one way may be set off by such opposite assertions as that some of her poems are "the best of their kind in the English language." But her letters need cause no such alarums and excursions. If they are sometimes what is called by youth "Early Victorian"--"Early Anything," and "Middle Anything" and "Late Anything," are sure to be found sooner or later by all wise persons to have their own place in life and history. And sentimentalism has, in private prose, an infinitely less provocative character than when it is displayed in published verse. A distinguished Scotch philosopher of the last generation laid it down that, in literature, for demonstrative exhibitions of affection and sorrow "the occasion should be adequate, and the actuality rare." But letter-writing, though it can be eminently literary, is always literature with a certain license attached to it: arising from the fact that it was not--or ought not to have been--intended for publication. And that naturalness of which so much has been said is displayed constantly and by no means disagreeably in Elizabeth Barrett Browning's epistles. In fact, you cannot help liking her the better for them--which in one way at least is the supreme test. The following, written soon after her marriage--an elopement of a kind, but certainly justifiable if ever one was--is a very pleasant specimen in more ways than one, as regards taste, temper, and descriptive powers. It also contains no criticism, which in her case was apt to be extremely uncertain. 43. TO MRS. MARTIN (PISA) November 5, (1846) It was pleasant to me, my dearest friend, to think while I was reading your letter yesterday, that almost by that time you had received mine, and could not even seem to doubt a moment longer whether I admitted your claim of hearing and of speaking to the uttermost. I recognised you too entirely as my friend. Because you had put faith in me, so much the more reason there was that I should justify it as far as I could, and with as much frankness (which was a part of my gratitude to you) as was possible from a woman to a woman. Always I have felt that you have believed in me and loved me, and, for the sake of the past and of the present, your affection and your esteem are more to me than I could afford to lose, even in these changed and happy circumstances. So I thank you once more, my dear kind friends, I thank you both--I never shall forget your goodness. I feel it, of course, the more deeply, in proportion to the painful disappointment in other quarters.... Am I bitter? The feeling, however, passes while I write it out, and my own affection for everybody will wait patiently to be 'forgiven' in the proper form, when everybody shall be at leisure properly. Assuredly, in the meanwhile, however, my case is not to be classed with other cases--what happened to me could not have happened, perhaps, with any other family in England.... I hate and loathe everything too which is clandestine--we _both_ do, Robert and I; and the manner the whole business was carried on in might have instructed the least acute of the bystanders. The flowers standing perpetually on my table for the last two years were brought there by one hand, as everybody knew; and really it would have argued an excess of benevolence in an unmarried man with quite enough resources in London, to pay the continued visits he paid to me without some strong motive indeed. Was it his fault that he did not associate with everybody in the house as well as with me? He desired it; but no--that was not to be. The endurance of the pain of the position was not the least proof of his attachment to me. How I thank you for believing in him--how grateful it makes me! He will justify to the uttermost that faith. We have been married two months, and every hour has bound me to him more and more; if the beginning was well, still better it is now--that is what he says to me, and I say back again day by day. Then it is an 'advantage' to have an inexhaustible companion who talks wisdom of all things in heaven and earth, and shows besides as perpetual a good humour and gaiety as if he were--a fool, shall I say? or a considerable quantity more, perhaps. As to our domestic affairs, it is not to _my_ honour and glory that the 'bills' are made up every week and paid more regularly 'than bard beseems,' while dear Mrs. Jameson laughs outright at our miraculous prudence and economy, and declares that it is past belief and precedent that we should not burn the candles at both ends, and the next moment will have it that we remind her of the children in a poem of Heine's who set up housekeeping in a tub, and inquired gravely the price of coffee. Ah, but she has left Pisa at last--left it yesterday. It was a painful parting to everybody. Seven weeks spent in such close neighbourhood--a month of it under the same roof and in the same carriages--will fasten people together, and then travelling _shakes_ them together. A more affectionate, generous woman never lived than Mrs. Jameson[123] and it is pleasant to be sure that she loves us both from her heart, and not only _du bout des lèvres_. Think of her making Robert promise (as he has told me since) that in the case of my being unwell he would write to her instantly, and she would come at once if anywhere in Italy. So kind, so like her. She spends the winter in Rome, but an intermediate, month at Florence, and we are to keep tryst with her somewhere in the spring, perhaps at Venice. If not, she says that she will come back here, for that certainly she will see us. She would have stayed altogether perhaps, if it had not been for her book upon art which she is engaged to bring out next year, and the materials for which are to be _sought_. As to Pisa, she liked it just as we like it. Oh, it is so beautiful and so full of repose, yet not _desolate_: it is rather the repose of sleep than of death. Then after the first ten days of rain, which seemed to refer us fatally to Alfieri's 'piove e ripiove' came as perpetual a divine sunshine, such cloudless, exquisite weather that we ask whether it may not be June instead of November. Every day I am out walking while the golden oranges look at me over the walls, and when I am tired Robert and I sit down on a stone to watch the lizards. We have been to your seashore, too, and seen your island, only he insists on it (Robert does) that it is not Corsica but Gorgona, and that Corsica is not in sight. _Beautiful_ and blue the island was, however, in any case. It might have been Romero's instead of either. Also we have driven up to the foot of the mountains, and seen them reflected down in the little pure lake of Ascuno, and we have seen the pine woods, and met the camels laden with faggots all in a line. So now ask me again if I enjoy my liberty as you expect. My head goes round sometimes, that is all. I never was happy before in my life. Ah, but, of course, the painful thoughts recur! There are some whom I love too tenderly to be easy under their displeasure, or even under their injustice. Only it seems to me that with time and patience my poor dearest papa will be melted into opening his arms to us--will be melted into a clear understanding of motives and intentions; I cannot believe that he will forget me, as he says he will, and go on thinking me to be dead rather than alive and happy. So I manage to hope for the best, and all that remains, all my life here, _is_ best already, could not be better or happier. And willingly tell dear Mr. Martin I would take him and you for witnesses of it, and in the meanwhile he is not to send me tantalising messages; no, indeed, unless you really, really, should let yourselves be wafted our way, and could you do so much better at Pau? particularly if Fanny Hanford should come here. Will she really? The climate is described by the inhabitants as a 'pleasant spring throughout the winter,' and if you were to see Robert and me threading our path along the shady side everywhere to avoid the 'excessive heat of the sun' in this November (?) it would appear a good beginning. We are not in the warm orthodox position by the Arno because we heard with our ears one of the best physicians of the place advise against it. 'Better,' he said, 'to have cool rooms to live in and warm walks to go out along.' The rooms we have are rather over-cool perhaps; we are obliged to have a little fire in the sitting-room, in the mornings and evenings that is; but I do not fear for the winter, there is too much difference to my feelings between this November and any English November I ever knew. We have our dinner from the Trattoria at two o'clock, and can dine our favourite way on thrushes and Chianti with a miraculous cheapness, and no trouble, no cook, no kitchen; the prophet Elijah or the lilies of the field took as little thought for their dining, which exactly suits us. It is a continental fashion which we never cease commending. Then at six we have coffee, and rolls of milk, made of milk, I mean, and at nine our supper (call it supper, if you please) of roast chestnuts and grapes. So you see how primitive we are, and how I forget to praise the eggs at breakfast. The worst of Pisa is, or would be to some persons, that, socially speaking, it has its dullnesses; it is not lively like Florence, not in that way. But we do not want society, we shun it rather. We like the Duomo and the Campo Santo instead. Then we know a little of Professor Ferucci, who gives us access to the University library, and we subscribe to a modern one, and we have plenty of writing to do of our own. If we can do anything for Fanny Hanford, let us know. It would be too happy, I suppose, to have to do it for yourselves. Think, however, I am quite well, quite well. I can thank God, too, for being alive and well. Make dear Mr. Martin keep well, and not forget himself in the Herefordshire cold--draw him into the sun somewhere. Now write and tell me everything of your plans and of you both, dearest friends. My husband bids me say that he desires to have my friends for his own friends, and that he is grateful to you for not crossing that feeling. Let him send his regards to you. And let me be throughout all changes, Your ever faithful and most affectionate, BA. FOOTNOTES: [123] Anna Jameson (1794-1860) was a woman of letters and an art-critic at one time of immense influence through her illustrated books on "Sacred and Legendary" (as well as some other) "Art." But, as somehow or other happens not infrequently, the objects of her "affection and generosity" did not include her husband. EDWARD FITZGERALD (1809-1883) Not much need be added to what was said in the Introduction about this famous translator and almost equally, though less uniquely, remarkable letter-writer. His life was entirely uneventful and his friendships have been already commemorated. The version of Omar Khayyàm appeared in 1859; was an utter "drug"--remainder copies going at a few pence--for a time; but became one of the most admired books of the English nineteenth century before very long. Some of his _Letters_ were published at various times from 1889 to 1901 (those to Fanny Kemble in 1895). It is not perhaps merely fanciful to suggest that the "uniqueness" above glanced at does supply a sort of connection between the _Letters_ and the _Works_. The faculty of at once retaining the matter of a subject and transforming it in treatment has perhaps never, as regards translation, been exhibited in such transcendence as in the English _Rubaiyàt_. But something of this same faculty must belong to every good letter-writer--and a good deal of it certainly is shown by FitzGerald in _his_ letters. Indeed one of the processes of letter-and memoir-study (the memoir as has been said is practically an "open" letter) is that of comparing the treatments of the same subject by different persons--say of the Great Fire by Pepys and Evelyn, of the Riots of '80 by Walpole and Johnson. He himself, as will be seen, calls the letter given below "not very interesting." It seems to me very interesting indeed: and likely to be increasingly so as time goes on. Few things could be more characteristic of the writer than his way of "visiting his sister" by living alone in lodgings all _day_ for a month. The "_old_ age"--forty-five--is hardly less so. The allusions to "Alfred" (Tennyson); "old" Thackeray, for whom he constantly keeps the affectionate school and college use of the adjective; Landor[124] (who unluckily did _not_ die at Bath though he might have done so but for one of the last and least creditable of his eccentricities); Beckford ("Old Vathek"), and a fourth "old," Rogers (who was one of FitzGerald's aversions); Oxford (as yet almost unstained by any modernities spiritual or material); and Bath[125] (to remain still longer a "haunt of ancient peace")--are precious. The fifth "old," Spedding, who devoted chiefly to Bacon talents worthy of more varied exercise, was one of the innermost Tennyson set, as was "Harry" Lushington, who died very soon after this letter was written. "Your Book" is F. Tennyson's _Days and Hours_, a volume of poetry while reading which probably many people have wondered in what respect it came short of really great poetry, though they felt it did so. 44. TO FREDERIC TENNYSON BATH May 7/54. My dear Frederic, You see to what fashionable places I am reduced in my old Age. The truth is however I am come here by way of Visit to a sister I have scarce seen these six years; my visit consisting in this that I live alone in a lodging of my own by day, and spend two or three hours with her in the Evening. This has been my way of Life for three weeks, and will be so for some ten days more: after which I talk of flying back to more native counties. I was to have gone on to see Alfred in his "Island Home" from here: but it appears he goes to London about the same time I quit this place: so I must and shall defer my Visit to him. Perhaps I shall catch a sight of him in London; as also of old Thackeray who, Donne writes me word, came suddenly on him in Pall Mall the other day: while all the while people supposed _The Newcomes_ were being indited at Rome or Naples. If ever you live in England you must live here at Bath. It really is a splendid City in a lovely, even a noble, Country. Did you ever see it? One beautiful feature in the place is the quantity of Garden and Orchard it is all through embroidered with. Then the Streets, when you go into them, are as handsome and gay as London, gayer and handsomer because cleaner and in a clearer Atmosphere; and if you want the Country you get into it (and a very fine Country) on all sides and directly. Then there is such Choice of Houses, Cheap as well as Dear, of all sizes, with good Markets, Railways etc. I am not sure I shall not come here for part of the Winter. It is a place you would like, I am sure: though I do not say but you are better in Florence. Then on the top of the hill is old Vathek's Tower, which he used to sit and read in daily, and from which he could see his own Fonthill, while it stood. Old Landor quoted to me 'Nullus in orbe locus, etc.,' apropos of Bath: he, you may know, has lived here for years, and I should think would die here, though not yet. He seems so strong that he may rival old Rogers; of whom indeed one Newspaper gave what is called an 'Alarming Report of Mr. Rogers' Health' the other day, but another contradicted it directly and indignantly, and declared the Venerable Poet never was better. Landor has some hundred and fifty Pictures; each of which he thinks the finest specimen of the finest Master, and has a long story about, how he got it, when, etc. I dare say some are very good: but also some very bad. He appeared to me to judge of them as he does of Books and Men; with a most uncompromising perversity which the Phrenologists must explain to us after his Death. By the bye, about your Book, which of course you wish me to say something about. Parker sent me down a copy 'from the Author' for which I hereby thank you. If you believe my word, you already know my Estimation of so much that is in it: you have already guessed that I should have made a different selection from the great Volume which is now in Tatters. As I differ in Taste from the world, however, quite as much as from you, I do not know but you have done very much better in choosing as you have; the few people I have seen are very much pleased with it, the Cowells at Oxford delighted. A Bookseller there sold all his Copies the first day they came down: and even in Bath a Bookseller (and not one of the Principal) told me a fortnight ago he had sold some twenty copies. I have not been in Town since it came out: and have now so little correspondence with literati I can't tell you about them. There was a very unfair Review in the _Athenaeum_; which is the only Literary Paper I see: but I am told there are laudatory ones in _Examiner_ and _Spectator_. I was five weeks at Oxford, visiting the Cowells in just the same way that I am visiting my Sister here. I also liked Oxford greatly: but not so well I think as Bath: which is so large and busy that one is drowned in it as much as in London. There are often concerts, etc., for those who like them; I only go to a shilling affair that comes off every Saturday at what they call the Pump Room. On these occasions there is sometimes some Good Music if not excellently played. Last Saturday I heard a fine Trio of Beethoven. Mendelssohn's things are mostly tiresome to me. I have brought my old Handel Book here and recreate myself now and then with pounding one of the old Giant's Overtures on my sister's Piano, as I used to do on that Spinnet at my Cottage. As to Operas, and Exeter Halls, I have almost done with them: they give me no pleasure, I scarce know why. I suppose there is no chance of your being over in England this year, and perhaps as little Chance of my being in Italy. All I can say is, the latter is not impossible, which I suppose I may equally say of the former. But pray write me. You can always direct to me at Donne's, 12, St. James' Square, or at Rev. G. Crabbe's, Bredfield, Woodbridge. Either way the letter will soon reach me. Write soon, Frederic, and let me hear how you and yours are: and don't wait, as you usually do, for some inundation of the Arno to set your pen agoing. Write ever so shortly and whatever-about-ly. I have no news to tell you of Friends. I saw old Spedding in London; only doubly calm after the death of a Niece he dearly loved and whose deathbed at Hastings he had just been waiting upon. Harry Lushington wrote a martial Ode on seeing the Guards march over Waterloo Bridge towards the East: I did not see it, but it was much admired and handed about, I believe. And now my paper is out: and I am going through the rain (it is said to rain very much here) to my Sister's. So Goodbye, and write to me, as I beg you, in reply to this long if not very interesting letter. FOOTNOTES: [124] "Fitz's" remarks on Landor's judgment of "Pictures, Books and Men" are very amusing; for they have been often repeated in regard to his own on all these subjects. In fact the two, though FitzGerald was not so childish as Landor, had much in common. [125] The curious eulogy--preferring it to Oxford as being "large and busy" enough to "drown one as much" as London--is also very characteristic of FitzGerald. You can be alone in the country _and_ in a large town--hardly in a small one. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE (1809-1893) To what has been said before of this remarkably gifted lady little need be added. The two letters which follow, derived from _Further Records_ (London, 1890), were written rather late in her life, but are characteristic, in ways partly coinciding, partly divergent, of her strong intellect[126] and her powers of expression. The note to the ghost-story leaves open the question whether Fanny did or did not know the accepted doctrine that the master and mistress of a haunted house are exempt from actual haunting. The "whiff of grape-shot" (as Carlyle might have called it) on the "Bakespearian" absurdity is one of the best things on the subject that the present writer, in a long and wide experience, has come across. 45. TO H---- [EXTRACT] YORK FARM, BRANCHTOWN, PHILADELPHIA, Monday May 18th, 1874. One evening that my maid was sitting in the room from which she could see the whole of the staircase and upper landing, she saw the door of my bedroom open, and an elderly woman in a flannel dressing-gown, with a bonnet on her head, and a candle in her hand come out, walk the whole length of the passage, and return again into the bedroom, shutting the door after her. My maid knew that I was in the drawing-room below in my usual black velvet evening dress; moreover, the person she had seen bore no resemblance either in figure or face to me, or to any member of my household, which consisted of three young servant women besides herself, and a negro man-servant. My maid was a remarkably courageous and reasonable person, and, though very much startled (for she went directly upstairs and found no one in the rooms), she kept her counsel, and mentioned the circumstance to nobody, though, as she told me afterwards, she was so afraid lest I should have a similar visitation, that she was strongly tempted to ask Dr. W----'s advice as to the propriety of mentioning her experience to me. She refrained from doing so, however, and some time later, as she was sitting in the dusk in the same room, the man-servant came in to light the gas and made her start, observing which, he said, "Why, lors, Miss Ellen, you jump as if you had seen a ghost." In spite of her late experience, Ellen very gravely replied, "Nonsense, William, how can you talk such stuff! You don't believe in such things as ghosts, do you?" "Well," he said, "I don't know just so sure what to say to that, seeing it's very well known there was a ghost in this house." "Pshaw!" said Ellen. "Whose ghost?" "Well, poor Mrs. R----'s ghost, it's very well known, walks about this house, and no great wonder either, seeing how miserably she lived and died here." To Ellen's persistent expressions of contemptuous incredulity, he went on, "Well, Miss Ellen, all I can say is, several girls" (_i.e._ maid-servants) "have left this house on account of it"; and there the conversation ended. Some days after this, Ellen coming into the drawing-room to speak to me, stopped abruptly at the door, and stood there, having suddenly recognized in a portrait immediately opposite to it, and which was that of the dead mistress of the house, the face of the person she had seen come out of my bedroom. I think this a very tidy ghost story; and I am bound to add, as a proper commentary on it, that I have never inhabited a house which affected me with a sense of such intolerable melancholy gloominess as this; without any assignable reason whatever, either in its situation or any of its conditions. My maid, to the present day, persists in every detail (and without the slightest variation) of this experience of hers, absolutely rejecting my explanation of it; that she had heard, without paying any particular attention to it, some talk among the other servants about the ghost in the house, which had remained unconsciously to her in her memory, and reproduced itself in this morbid nervous effect of her imagination. 46. To H---- [EXTRACT] YORK FARM, Sunday, December 6th, 1874. My dearest H----, It is not possible for me to feel the slightest interest in the sort of literary feat which I consider writing upon "who wrote Shakespeare?" to be. I was very intimate with Harness, Milman, Dyce, Collier--all Shakespearian editors, commentators, and scholars--and this absurd theory about Bacon, which was first broached a good many years ago, never obtained credit for a moment with them; nor did they ever entertain for an instant a doubt that the plays attributed to William Shakespeare of Stratford-on-Avon were really written by him. Now I am intimately acquainted and in frequent communication with William Donne, Edward FitzGerald, and James Spedding, all thorough Shakespeare scholars, and the latter a man who has just published a work upon Bacon, which has been really the labour of his life; none of these men, competent judges of the matter, ever mentions the question of "Who wrote Shakespeare?" except as a ludicrous thing to be laughed at, and I think they may be trusted to decide whether it is or is not so. I have a slight feeling of disgust at the attack made thus on the personality of my greatest mental benefactor; and consider the whole thing a misapplication, not to say waste, of time and ingenuity that might be better employed. As I regard the memory of Shakespeare with love, veneration, and gratitude, and am proud and happy to be his countrywoman, considering it among the privileges of my English birth, I resent the endeavour to prove that he deserved none of these feelings, but was a mere literary impostor. I wonder the question had any interest for you, for I should not have supposed you imagined Shakespeare had not written his own plays, Irish though you be. Do you remember the servant's joke in the farce of "High Life Below Stairs" where the cook asks, "Who wrote Shakespeare?" and one of the others answers, with, at any rate, partial plausibility, "Oh! why, Colley Cibber, to be sure!" FOOTNOTES: [126] Sometimes one thinks her the wisest woman who ever lived. "Nothing seems stranger than the delusions of other people _when they have ceased to be our own_" suggests La Rochefoucauld and comes near to Solomon; but whosoever may have anticipated or prompted her, he is not at the moment within my memory. But she is often not wise at all: and even her good wits are not always left unaffected by her bad temper. It is really amusing to read Mrs. Carlyle's rather mischievous account of Mrs. Butler (F. K.'s married name) calling and carrying a whip "to keep her hand in": and _then_ to come on F. K.'s waspish resentment at these words, when they were published. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY (1811-1863) So much has been said of Thackeray's letter-writing powers in the Introduction that not much need be added here on the general side. But a few words may be allowed on what we may call the _conditioning_ circumstances which affected these powers, and made the result so peculiar. Except in Swift's case--a thing piquant in itself considering the injustice of the later writer to the earlier--hardly any body of letters exhibits these conditions so obviously and in so varied a fashion. In both there was the utmost intellectual satire combined with the utmost tenderness of feeling. Thackeray of course, partly from nature and partly from the influence of time, did not mask his tenderness and double-edge his severity with roughness and coarseness. But the combination was intrinsically not very different. There has also to be taken into account in Thackeray's case domestic sorrow--coming quickly and life-long after it began; means long restricted (partly by his own folly but not so more tolerable); recognition of genius almost as long deferred; and yet other "maladies of the soul." The result was a constant ferment, of which the letters are in a way the relieving valve or tap. That they are often apparently light-hearted has nothing surprising in it: for when a man habitually "eats his heart" it naturally becomes lighter--till there is nothing of it left. He is, however, not easy to "sample," there being, as has been said, no authorised collection to draw upon and other difficulties in the way. What follows may serve for fault of a better: and the _Spectator_ letter-pastiche referred to above under Walpole, will complete it perhaps more appropriately than may at first appear. For while the latter is quite Addisonian, not merely in dress but in body, its soul is blended of two natures--the model's and the artist's--in the rather uncanny fashion which makes _Esmond_ as a whole so marvellous, except to those stalwarts who hold that, as nobody before the twentieth century knew anything about anything, Thackeray could not know about the eighteenth. 47. TO MISS LUCY BAXTER WASHINGTON, Saturday Feb. 19. 1853. My dear little kind Lucy: I began to write you a letter in the railroad yesterday, but it bumped with more than ordinary violence, and I was forced to give up the endeavour. I did not know how ill Lucy was at that time, only remembered that I owed her a letter for that pretty one you wrote me at Philadelphia, when Sarah was sick and you acted as her Secretary. Is there going to be always Somebody sick at the brown house? If I were to come there now, I wonder should I be allowed to come and see you in your night-cap--I wonder even do you wear a night-cap? I should step up, take your little hand, which I daresay is lying outside the coverlet, give it a little shake; and then sit down and talk all sorts of stuff and nonsense to you for half an hour; but very kind and gentle, not so as to make you laugh too much or your little back ache any more. Did I not tell you to leave off that beecely jimnayshum? I am always giving fine advice to girls in brown houses, and they always keep on never minding. It is not difficult to write lying in bed--this is written not in bed, but on a sofa. If you write the upright hand it's quite easy; slanting-dicular is not so pleasant, though. I have just come back from Baltimore and find your mother's and sister's melancholy letters. I thought to myself, perhaps I might see them on this very sofa and pictured to myself their 2 kind faces. Mr. Crampton was going to ask them to dinner, I had made arrangements to get Sarah nice partners at the ball--Why did dear little Lucy tumble down at the Gymnasium? Many a pretty plan in life tumbles down so, Miss Lucy, and falls on its back. But the good of being ill is to find how kind one's friends are; of being at a pinch (I do not know whether I may use the expression--whether "pinch" is an indelicate word in this country; it is used by our old writers to signify poverty, narrow circumstances, res angusta)--the good of being poor, I say, is to find friends to help you, I have been both ill and poor, and found, thank God, such consolation in those evils; and I daresay at this moment, now you are laid up, you are the person of the most importance in the whole house--Sarah is sliding about the room with cordials in her hands and eyes; Libby is sitting quite disconsolate by the bed (poor Libby! when one little bird fell off the perch, I wonder the other did not go up and fall off, too!) the expression of sympathy in Ben's eyes is perfectly heart-rending; even George is quiet; and your Father, Mother and Uncle (all 3 so notorious for their violence of temper and language) have actually forgotten to scold. "Ach, du lieber Himmel," says Herr Strumpf--isn't his name Herr Strumpf?--the German master, "die schöne Fräulein ist krank!" and bursts into tears on the Pianofortyfier's shoulder when they hear the news (through his sobs) from black John. We have an Ebony femme de chambre here; when I came from Baltimore just now I found her in the following costume and attitude standing for her picture to Mr. Crowe. She makes the beds with that pipe in her mouf and leaves it about in the rooms. Wouldn't she have been a nice lady's-maid for your mother and Miss Bally Saxter? But even if Miss Lucy had not had her fall, I daresay there would have been no party. Here is a great snow-storm falling, though yesterday was as bland and bright as May (English May, I mean) and how could we have lionized Baltimore, and gone to Mount Vernon, and taken our diversion in the snow? There would have been nothing for it but to stay in this little closet of a room, where there is scarce room for 6 people, and where it is not near so comfortable as the brown house. Dear old b.h., shall I see it again soon? I shall not go farther than Charleston, and Savannah probably, and then I hope I shall get another look at you all again before I commence farther wanderings--O, stop! I didn't tell you why I was going to write you--well, I went on Thursday to dine with Governor and Mrs. Fish, a dinner in honor of me--and before I went I arrayed myself in a certain white garment of which the collar-button-holes had been altered, and I thought of the kind, friendly little hand that had done that deed for me; and when the Fisheses told me how they lived in the Second Avenue (I had forgotten all about 'em)--their house and the house opposite came back to my mind, and I liked them 50 times better for living near some friends of mine. She is a nice woman, Madam Fish, besides; and didn't I abuse you all to her? Good bye, dear little Lucy--I wish the paper wasn't full. But I have been sitting half an hour by the poor young lady's sofa, and talking stuff and nonsense, haven't I? And now I get up, and shake your hand with a God bless you! and walk down stairs, and please to give everybody my kindest regards, and remember that I am truly your friend. W. M. T. 48. THE "TRUMPET" COFFEE-HOUSE, WHITEHALL. 'Mr Spectator-- 'I am a gentleman but little acquainted with the town, though I have had a university education, and passed some years serving my country abroad, where my name is better known than in the coffee-houses and St. James's. 'Two years since my uncle died, leaving me a pretty estate in the county of Kent; and being at Tunbridge Wells last summer, after my mourning was over, and on the look-out, if truth must be told, for some young lady who would share with me the solitude of my great Kentish house, and be kind to my tenantry (for whom a woman can do a great deal more good than the best-intentioned man can), I was greatly fascinated by a young lady of London, who was the toast of all the company at the Wells. Everyone knows Saccharissa's beauty; and I think, Mr. Spectator, no one better than herself. 'My table-book informs me that I danced no less than seven-and-twenty sets with her at the assembly. I treated her to the fiddles twice. I was admitted on several days to her lodging, and received by her with a great deal of distinction, and, for a time, was entirely her slave. It was only when I found, from common talk of the company at the Wells, and from narrowly watching one, who I once thought of asking the most sacred question a man can put to a woman, that I became aware how unfit she was to be a country gentleman's wife; and that this fair creature was but a heartless worldly jilt, playing with affections that she never meant to return, and, indeed, incapable of returning them. 'Tis admiration such women want, not love that touches them; and I can conceive, in her old age, no more wretched creature than this lady will be, when her beauty hath deserted her, when her admirers have left her, and she hath neither friendship nor religion to console her. 'Business calling me to London, I went to St. James's Church last Sunday, and there opposite me sat my beauty of the Wells. Her behaviour during the whole service was so pert, languishing and absurd; she flirted her fan, and ogled and eyed me in a manner so indecent, that I was obliged to shut my eyes, so as actually not to see her, and whenever I opened them beheld hers (and very bright they are) still staring at me. I fell in with her afterwards at Court, and at the playhouse; and here nothing would satisfy her but she must elbow through the crowd and speak to me, and invite me to the assembly, which she holds at her house, nor very far from Ch--r--ng Cr--ss. 'Having made her a promise to attend, of course I kept my promise; and found the young widow in the midst of a half-dozen of card-tables, and a crowd of wits and admirers. I made the best bow I could, and advanced towards her; and saw by a peculiar puzzled look in her face, though she tried to hide her perplexity, that she had forgotten even my name. 'Her talk, artful as it was, convinced me that I had guessed aright. She turned the conversation most ridiculously upon the spelling of names and words; and I replied with as ridiculous, fulsome compliments as I could pay her; indeed, one in which I compared her to an angel visiting the sick-wells, went a little too far; nor should I have employed it, but that the allusion came from the Second Lesson last Sunday, which we both had heard, and I was pressed to answer her. 'Then she came to the question, which I knew was awaiting me, and asked how I _spelt_ my name? "Madam," says I, turning on my heel, "I spell it with the y." And so I left her, wondering at the light-heartedness of the town-people, who forget and make friends so easily, and resolved to look elsewhere for a partner for your constant reader. 'CYMON WYLDOATS. 'You know my real name, Mr. Spectator, in which there is no such a letter as _hupsilon_. But if the lady, whom I have called Saccharissa, wonders that I appear no more at the tea-tables, she is hereby respectfully informed the reason y.' CHARLES DICKENS (1812-1870) There are few better examples by converse of the saying (familiar in various forms and sometimes specially applied to writing and answering letters) that it is only idle people who have no time to do anything, than Dickens. He was by no means long-lived: and for the last three-fifths--practically the whole busy time--of his life, he was one of the busiest of men. He wrote many universally known books, and not a few, in some cases not so well known, articles. He travelled a great deal; edited periodicals for many years, taking that duty by no means in the spirit of Olympian aloofness which some popular opinion connects with editorship; only sometimes shirked society; and had all sorts of miscellaneous occupations and avocations. His very fancy for long walks might seem one of the least compatible with letter-writing; yet a very large bulk of his letters (by no means mainly composed of editorial ones) has been published, and there are no doubt many unpublished. There have been different opinions as to their comparative rank as letters, but there can be no difference as to the curious full-bloodedness and plenitude of life which, in this as in all other divisions of his writing, characterises Dickens's expression of his thoughts and feelings. Perhaps, as might be generally though not universally expected, the comic ones are the more delightful: at any rate they seem best worth giving here. The first--to a schoolboy who had written to him about _Nicholas Nickleby_--is quite charming; the second, to the famous actor-manager who after being a Londoner by birth and residence for half a century had just retired, is almost Charles Lamb-like; and the third deserved to have been put in the original mouth of Mrs. Gamp![127] 49. TO MASTER HASTINGS HUGHES DOUGHTY STREET, LONDON. Dec. 12th. 1838. Respected Sir, I have given Squeers one cut on the neck and two on the head, at which he appeared much surprised and began to cry, which, being a cowardly thing, is just what I should have expected from him--wouldn't you? I have carefully done what you told me in your letter about the lamb and the two "sheeps" for the little boys. They have also had some good ale and porter, and some wine. I am sorry you didn't say _what_ wine you would like them to have. I gave them some sherry, which they liked very much, except one boy, who was a little sick and choked a good deal. He was rather greedy, and that's the truth, and I believe it went the wrong way, which I say served him right, and I hope you will say so too. Nicholas had his roast lamb, as you said he was to, but he could not eat it all, and says if you do not mind his doing so he should like to have the rest hashed to-morrow with some greens, which he is very fond of, and so am I. He said he did not like to have his porter hot, for he thought it spoilt the flavour, so I let him have it cold. You should have seen him drink it. I thought he never would have left off. I also gave him three pounds of money, all in sixpences, to make it seem more, and he said directly that he should give more than half to his mamma and sister, and divide the rest with poor Smike. And I say he is a good fellow for saying so; and if anybody says he isn't I am ready to fight him whenever they like--there! Fanny Squeers shall be attended to, depend upon it. Your drawing of her is very like, except that I don't think the hair is quite curly enough. The nose is particularly like hers, and so are the legs. She is a nasty disagreeable thing, and I know it will make her very cross when she sees it; and what I say is that I hope it may. You will say the same I know--at least I think you will. I meant to have written you a long letter, but I cannot write very fast when I like the person I am writing to, because that makes me think about them, and I like you, and so I tell you. Besides, it is just eight o'clock at night, and I always go to bed at eight o'clock, except when it is my birthday, and then I sit up to supper. So I will not say anything more besides this--and that is my love to you and Neptune; and if you will drink my health every Christmas Day I will drink yours--come. I am, Respected Sir, Your affectionate Friend. P.S. I don't write my name very plain,[128] but you know what it is you know, so never mind. 50. TO MR. W. C. MACREADY Saturday, May 24th, 1851. My dear Macready, We are getting in a good heap of money for the Guild. The comedy has been very much improved, in many respects, since you read it. The scene to which you refer is certainly one of the most telling in the play. And there _is_ a farce to be produced on Tuesday next, wherein a distinguished amateur will sustain a variety of assumption-parts, and in particular, Samuel Weller and Mrs. Gamp, of which I say no more. I am pining for Broadstairs, where the children are at present. I lurk from the sun, during the best part of the day, in a villainous compound of darkness, canvas, sawdust, general dust, stale gas (involving a vague smell of pepper), and disenchanted properties. But I hope to get down on Wednesday or Thursday. Ah! you country gentlemen, who live at home at ease, how little do you think of us among the London fleas! But they tell me you are coming in for Dorsetshire. You must be very careful, when you come to town to attend to your parliamentary duties, never to ask your way of people in the streets. They will misdirect you for what the vulgar call "a lark," meaning, in this connection, a jest at your expense. Always go into some respectable shop or apply to a policeman. You will know him by his being dressed in blue, with very dull silver buttons, and by the top of his hat being made of sticking-plaster. You may perhaps see in some odd place an intelligent-looking man, with a curious little wooden table before him and three thimbles on it. He will want you to bet, but don't do it. He really desires to cheat you. And don't buy at auctions where the best plated goods are being knocked down for next to nothing. These, too, are delusions. If you wish to go to the play to see real good acting (though a little more subdued than perfect tragedy should be), I would recommend you to see ---- at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Anybody will show it to you. It is near the Strand, and you may know it by seeing no company whatever at any of the doors. Cab fares are eightpence a mile. A mile London measure is half a Dorsetshire mile, recollect. Porter is twopence per pint; what is called stout is fourpence. The Zoological Gardens are in the Regent's Park, and the price of admission is one shilling. Of the streets, I would recommend you to see Regent Street and the Quadrant, Bond Street, Piccadilly, Oxford Street, and Cheapside. I think these will please you after a time, though the tumult and bustle will at first bewilder you. If I can serve you in any way, pray command me. And with my best regards to your happy family, so remote from this Babel. Believe me, my dear Friend, Ever affectionately yours. [CHARLES DICKENS] P.S. I forgot to mention just now that the black equestrian figure you will see at Charing Cross, as you go down to the House, is a statue of _King Charles the First_.[129] 51. TO MR. EDMUND YATES TAVISTOCK HOUSE, Tuesday, Feb. 2nd. 1858. My dear Yates, Your quotation is, as I supposed, all wrong. The text _is not_ "Which his 'owls was organs." When Mr. Harris went into an empty dog-kennel, to spare his sensitive nature the anguish of overhearing Mrs. Harris's exclamations on the occasion of the birth of her first child (the Princess Royal of the Harris family), "he never took his hands away from his ears, or came out once, till he was showed the baby." On encountering that spectacle, he was (being of a weakly constitution) "took with fits." For this distressing complaint he was medically treated; the doctor "collared him, and laid him on his back upon the airy stones"--please to observe what follows--"and she was told, to ease her mind, his 'owls was organs." That is to say, Mrs. Harris, lying exhausted on her bed, in the first sweet relief of freedom from pain, merely covered with the counterpane, and not yet "put comfortable," hears a noise apparently proceeding from the backyard, and says, in a flushed and hysterical manner: "What 'owls are those? Who is a-'owling? Not my ugebond?" Upon which the doctor, looking round one of the bottom posts of the bed, and taking Mrs. Harris's pulse in a reassuring manner, says, with much admirable presence of mind: "Howls, my dear madam?--no, no, no! What are we thinking of? Howls, my dear Mrs. Harris? Ha, ha, ha! Organs, ma'am, organs. Organs in the streets, Mrs. Harris; no howls." Yours faithfully, [C. D.] FOOTNOTES: [127] One of the pleasantest, _to me_, of Dickens's letters is that in which, extravagant anti-Tory as he was, he refuses to let a contributor echo the too common grudges at Lockhart (see _inf._ under Stevenson). But it is very short, and perhaps of no general interest. [128] Referring, I suppose, to the well-known and "inimitable" (but by no means indispensable) flourish of his signature. [129] "The comedy" is Bulwer-Lytton's _Not so Bad as we Seem_, acted by Dickens and other amateurs for charity at Devonshire House seventy years ago, and about to be reproduced _in loco_ as these proofs are being revised. CHARLES KINGSLEY (1819-1875) There are some people who, while thinking that the author of _Westward Ho!_ has not, at least recently, been given his due rank in critical estimation, admit certain explanations of this. As a historian and in almost all his writings Kingsley was inaccurate,--almost (as his friend and brother-in-law Froude was once said to be) "congenitally inaccurate"; in his novels and elsewhere he went out of his way to tread on the corns of all sorts of people; he constantly ventured out of his depth in such subjects as philosophy and theology; and he suffered a terrible defeat by rashly engaging, and by tactical ineptitude, in his contest with Newman. His politics, in which matter at one time he engaged hotly, were those of a busier and more educated Colonel Newcome. His poems, which were his least unequal work, seem never to have attracted due notice. But none of his foibles--not even corn-treading--is a fatal defect in familiar letter-writing: consequently he has good chance here, and his _Letters and Memoirs_ have been deservedly often reprinted. It is true that letters cannot show in full the really exceptional versatility which enabled the same man to write _Yeast_ and _Westward Ho!_, _Andromeda_ and _The Water Babies_, the best of the Essays and the best of the Sermons, _Alton Locke_ and _At Last_. But they can and they do show it in part: and it gives them the interest which has been noticed in other cases. Indeed in one respect--as a writer--Kingsley is perhaps better in his letters than in his _Essays_, where he too often affects a Macaulayesque positiveness on rather inadequate grounds. The following specimen should show him in pleasantly varied character--as a thoroughly human person, a good sportsman, and what Matthew Arnold (by no means himself very liberal of praise to his literary contemporaries) thought him--"the most generous man [he had] ever known; the most forward to praise, the most willing to admire, the most free from all thought of himself in praising and admiring and the most incapable of being made ill-natured by having to support ill-natured attacks upon himself." It is to be feared that Mr. Arnold did not go far wrong when he declared, "Among men of letters I know nothing so rare as this." It is true that the author of _Tom Brown's Schooldays_ was an intimate personal friend, and in politics and other things a close comrade of Kingsley's; but he was as generous to others, and while the scars of the battle with Newman were almost fresh, he writes that he has read _The Dream of Gerontius_ "with admiration and awe." [Greek: thymos], in this sense = "spirit." "Jaques" = "Jack" = "Pike," while on the other side we get, through him of _As You Like It_, an explanation of "melancholies." And in fact the pike is not a cheerful-looking fish. Even two whom the present writer once saw tugging at the two ends of one dead trout in a shallow, did it sulkily. 52. TO TOM HUGHES, ESQ. Jan. 12. 1857. I have often been minded to write to you about 'Tom Brown.' I have puffed it everywhere I went, but I soon found how true the adage is that good wine needs no bush, for every one had read it already, and from every one, from the fine lady on her throne to the red-coat on his cock-horse and the school-boy on his forrum (as our Irish brethren call it), I have heard but one word, and that is, that it is the jolliest book they ever read. Among a knot of red-coats at the cover-side, some very fast fellow said, 'If I had had such a book in my boyhood, I should have been a better man now!' and more than one capped his sentiment frankly. Now isn't it a comfort to your old bones to have written such a book, and a comfort to see that fellows are in a humour to take it in? So far from finding men of our rank in a bad vein, or sighing over the times and prospects of the rising generation, I can't help thinking they are very teachable, humble, honest fellows, who want to know what's right, and if they don't go and do it, still think the worst of themselves therefor. I remark now, that with hounds and in fast company, I never hear an oath, and that, too, is a sign of self-restraint. Moreover, drinking is gone out, and, good God, what a blessing! I have good hopes, of our class, and better than of the class below. They are effeminate, and that makes them sensual. Pietists of all ages (George Fox, my dear friend, among the worst) never made a greater mistake than in fancying that by keeping down manly [Greek: thymos], which Plato saith is the root of all virtue, they could keep down sensuality. They were dear good old fools. However, the day of 'Pietism' is gone, and 'Tom Brown' is a heavy stone on its grave. 'Him no get up again after that,' as the niggers say of a buried obi-man. I am trying to polish the poems: but Maurice's holidays make me idle; he has come home healthier and jollier than ever he was in all his life, and is truly a noble boy. Sell your last coat and buy a spoon. I have a spoon of huge size (Farlow his make). I killed forty pounds weight of pike, &c., on it the other day, at Strathfieldsaye, to the astonishment and delight of ----, who cut small jokes on 'a spoon at each end,' &c., but altered his tone when he saw the melancholies coming ashore, one every ten minutes, and would try his own hand. I have killed heaps of big pike round with it. I tried it in Lord Eversley's lakes on Monday, when the fish wouldn't have even his fly. Capricious party is Jaques. Next day killed a seven pounder at Hurst.... We had a pretty thing on Friday with Garth's, the first run I've seen this year. Out of the Clay Vale below Tilney Hall, pace as good as could be, fields three acres each, fences awful, then over Hazeley Heath to Bramshill, shoved him through a false cast, and a streamer over Hartford Bridge flat, into an unlucky earth. Time fifty-five minutes, falls plentiful, started thirty, and came in eight, and didn't the old mare go? Oh, Tom, she is a comfort; even when a bank broke into a lane, and we tumbled down, she hops up again before I'd time to fall off, and away like a four-year old. And if you can get a horse through that clay vale, why then you can get him 'mostwards'; leastwise so I find, for a black region it is, and if you ain't in the same field with the hounds, you don't know whether you are in the same parish, what with hedges, and trees, and woods, and all supernumerary vegetations. Actually I was pounded in a 'taty-garden,' so awful is the amount of green stuff in these parts. Come and see me, and take the old mare out, and if you don't break her neck, she won't break yours. JOHN RUSKIN (1819-1900) The peculiar wilfulness--the unkind called it wrong-headedness--which flecked and veined Mr. Ruskin's genius, had, owing to his wealth and to his entire indifference to any but his own opinion, opportunities of displaying itself in all his work, public as well as private, which are not common. Naturally, it showed itself nowhere more than in letters, and perhaps not unnaturally he often adopted the epistolary form in books which, had he chosen, might as well have taken another--while he might have chosen this in some which do not actually _call_ themselves "letters." There is, however, little difference, except "fuller dress" of expression, between any of the classes of his work, whether it range from the first volume of _Modern Painters_ to _Verona_ in time, or from _The Seven Lamps of Architecture_ to _Unto This Last_ in subject. If anybody ever could "write beautifully about a broomstick" he could: though perhaps it is a pity that he so often did. But this faculty, and the entire absence of bashfulness which accompanied it, are no doubt grand accommodations for letter-writing; and the reader of Mr. Ruskin's letters gets the benefit of both very often--of a curious study of high character and great powers uncontrolled by logical self-criticism almost always. The following--part of a still longer letter which he addressed to the _Daily Telegraph_, Sep. 11, 1865, on the eternal Servant Question--was of course written for publication, but so, practically, was everything that ever came from its author. It so happens too that, putting aside his usual King Charles's Head of Demand and Supply, there is little in it of his more mischievous crotchets, nothing of the petulance (amounting occasionally to rudeness) of language in which he sometimes indulged, but much of his nobler idealism, while it is a capital example of his less florid style. "Launce," "Grumio" and "Old Adam" are of course Shakespeare's: "Fairservice" (of whom, tormenting and selfish as he was, Mr. Ruskin perhaps thought a little too harshly) and "Mattie," Scott's. "Latinity enough"--the unfortunate man had written, and the newspaper had printed, _hoc_ instead of _hac_. "A book of Scripture," Colenso's work had just been finished. "Charlotte Winsor" a baby-farmer of the day. 53. From "THE DAILY TELEGRAPH" September 18, 1865. DOMESTIC SERVANTS: SONSHIP AND SLAVERY. To the Editor of "The Daily Telegraph." Sir, I have been watching the domestic correspondence in your columns with much interest, and thought of offering you a short analysis of it when you saw good to bring it to a close, and perhaps a note or two of my own experience, being somewhat conceited on the subject just now, because I have a gardener who lets me keep old-fashioned plants in the greenhouse, understands that my cherries are grown for the blackbirds, and sees me gather a bunch of my own grapes without making a wry face. But your admirable article of yesterday causes me to abandon my purpose; the more willingly, because among all the letters you have hitherto published there is not one from any head of a household which contains a complaint worth notice. All the masters or mistresses whose letters are thoughtful or well written say they get on well enough with their servants; no part has yet been taken in the discussion by the heads of old families. The servants' letters, hitherto, furnish the best data; but the better class of servants are also silent, and must remain so. Launce, Grumio, or Fairservice may have something to say for themselves; but you will hear nothing from Old Adam nor from Carefu' Mattie. One proverb from Sancho, if we could get it, would settle the whole business for us; but his master and he are indeed "no more." I would have walked down to Dulwich to hear what Sam Weller had to say; but the high-level railway went through Mr. Pickwick's parlour two months ago, and it is of no use writing to Sam, for, as you are well aware, he is no penman. And, indeed, Sir, little good will come of any writing on the matter. "The cat will mew, the dog will have its day." You yourself, excellent as is the greater part of what you have said, and to the point, speak but vainly when you talk of "probing the evil to the bottom." This is no sore that can be probed, no sword nor bullet wound. This is a plague spot. Small or great, it is in the significance of it, not in the depth, that you have to measure it. It is essentially bottomless, cancerous; a putrescence through the constitution of the people is indicated by this galled place. Because I know this thoroughly, I say so little, and that little, as your correspondents think, who know nothing of me, and as you say, who might have known more of me, unpractically. Pardon me, I am no seller of plasters, nor of ounces of civet. The patient's sickness is his own fault, and only years of discipline will work it out of him. That is the only really "practical" saying that can be uttered to him. The relation of master and servant involves every other--touches every condition of moral health through the State. Put that right, and you put all right; but you will find that it can only come ultimately, not primarily, right; you cannot begin with it. Some of the evidence you have got together is valuable, many pieces of partial advice very good. You need hardly, I think, unless you wanted a type of British logic, have printed a letter in which the writer accused (or would have accused, if he had possessed Latinity enough) all London servants of being thieves because he had known one robbery to have been committed by a nice-looking girl. But on the whole there is much common sense in the letters; the singular point in them all, to my mind, being the inapprehension of the breadth and connection of the question, and the general resistance to, and stubborn rejection of, the abstract ideas of sonship and slavery, which include whatever is possible in wise treatment of servants. It is very strange to see that, while everybody shrinks at abstract suggestions of there being possible error in a book of Scripture, your sensible English housewife fearlessly rejects Solomon's opinion when it runs slightly counter to her own, and that not one of your many correspondents seems ever to have read the Epistle to Philemon. It is no less strange that while most English boys of ordinary position hammer through their Horace at one time or other time of their school life, no word of his wit or his teaching seems to remain by them: for all the good they get out of them, the Satires need never have been written. The Roman gentleman's account of his childhood and of his domestic life possesses no charm for them; and even men of education would sometimes start to be reminded that his "_noctes coenaeque Deum!_" meant supping with his merry slaves on beans and bacon. Will you allow me, on this general question of liberty and slavery, to refer your correspondents to a paper of mine touching closely upon it, the leader in the _Art-Journal_ for July last? and to ask them also to meditate a little over the two beautiful epitaphs on Epictetus and Zosima, quoted in the last paper of the _Idler_? "I, Epictetus, was a slave; and sick in body, and wretched in poverty; and beloved by the gods." "Zosima, who while she lived was a slave only in her body, has now found deliverance for that also." How might we, over many an "independent" Englishman, reverse this last legend, and write-- "This man, who while he lived was free only in his body, has now found captivity for that also." I will not pass without notice--for it bears also on wide interests--your correspondent's question, how my principles differ from the ordinary economist's view of supply and demand. Simply in that the economy I have taught, in opposition to the popular view, is the science which not merely ascertains the relations of existing demand and supply, but determines what _ought_ to be demanded and what _can_ be supplied. A child demands the moon, and, the supply not being in this case equal to the demand, is wisely accommodated with a rattle; a footpad demands your purse, and is supplied according to the less or more rational economy of the State, with that or a halter; a foolish nation, not able to get into its head that free trade does indeed mean the removal of taxation from its imports, but not of supervision from them, demands unlimited foreign beef, and is supplied with the cattle murrain and the like. There may be all manner of demands, all manner of supplies. The true political economist regulates these; the false political economist leaves them to be regulated by (not Divine) Providence. For, indeed, the largest final demand anywhere reported of, is that of hell; and the supply of it (by the broad gauge line) would be very nearly equal to the demand at this day, unless there were here and there a swineherd or two who could keep his pigs out of sight of the lake. Thus in this business of servants everything depends on what sort of servant you at heart wish for or "demand." If for nurses you want Charlotte Winsors, they are to be had for money; but by no means for money, such as that German girl who, the other day, on her own scarce-floating fragment of wreck, saved the abandoned child of another woman, keeping it alive by the moisture from her lips. What kind of servant do you want? It is a momentous question for you yourself--for the nation itself. Are we to be a nation of shopkeepers, wanting only shop-boys: or of manufacturers, wanting only hands: or are there to be knights among us, who will need squires--captains among us, needing crews? Will you have clansmen for your candlesticks, or silver plate? Myrmidons at your tents, ant-born, or only a mob on the Gillies' Hill? Are you resolved that you will never have any but your inferiors to serve you, or shall Enid ever lay your trencher with tender little thumb, and Cinderella sweep your hearth, and be cherished there? It _might_ come to that in time, and plate and hearth be the brighter; but if your servants are to be held your inferiors, at least be sure they _are_ so, and that you are indeed wiser, and better-tempered, and more useful than they. Determine what their education ought to be, and organize proper servants' schools, and there give it them. So they will be fit for their position, and will do honour to it, and stay in it: let the masters be as sure they do honour to theirs, and are as willing to stay in that. Remember that every people which gives itself to the pursuit of riches, invariably, and of necessity, gets the scum uppermost in time, and is set by the genii, like the ugly bridegroom in the Arabian Nights, at its own door with its heels in the air, showing its shoe-soles instead of a Face. And the reversal is a serious matter, if reversal be even possible, and it comes right end uppermost again, instead of to conclusive Wrong-end. ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR STEVENSON (1850-1894) The author of _Treasure Island_ (invariably known to his friends simply as "Louis," the "Robert" being reserved in the form of "Bob" for his less famous but very admirable cousin the art-critic) will perhaps offer to some Matthew Arnold of posterity the opportunity of a paradox like that of our Matthew on Shelley. For a short time some of these friends--not perhaps the wisest of them--were inclined to regard him as, and to urge him to continue to be, a writer of criticisms and miscellaneous articles--a sort of new Hazlitt. Others no sooner saw the _New Arabian Nights_ than they recognised a tale-teller such as had not been seen for a long time--such as, in respect of anything imitable, had never been seen before. And he fortunately fell in with these views and hopes. But all his tales are pure Romance, and Romance has her eclipses with the vulgar. On the other hand his letters are almost as good as his fiction, and not in the least open to the charges of a certain non-naturalness of style--even of thought--which could, justly or not, be brought against his other writings. And it is perhaps worth noting here that letters have held their popularity with all fit judges almost better than any other division of literature. Whether this is the effect of their "touches of nature" (using the famous phrase without the blunder so common in regard to it but not without reference to its context) need not be discussed. As, by the kindness of Mr. Lloyd Osbourne, I am enabled to give here an unpublished letter of Stevenson's to myself, it may require some explanation, not only of the commentatory and commendatory kind but of fact. Stevenson, coming to dine with me, had brought with him, and showed with much pride, a new umbrella (a seven-and-sixpenny one) which, to my surprise, he had bought. But when he went away that night he forgot it; and when I met him next day at the Savile and suggested that I should send it to him, there or somewhere, he said he was going abroad almost immediately and begged me to keep it for him. By this or that accident, but chiefly owing to his constant expatriations, no opportunity of restitution ever occurred: though I used to remind him of it as a standing joke, and treasured it religiously, stored and unused. This letter is partly in answer to a last reminder in which I said that I was going to present it to the nation, that it might be kept with King Koffee Kalcalli's, but as a memory of a "victor in romance" not of a vanquished enemy. I of course told Mr. Kipling of the contents which concerned him: and he, equally of course, demanded delivery of the goods at once. But, half in joke, I demurred, saying that I was a bailee, and the gift was not formal enough, being undated and only a "suggestion"; he should have it without fail at my death, or Stevenson's.[130] When alas! this latter came, I prepared to act up to my promise; but, alas! again, the umbrella had vanished! Some prated of mislaying in house-removal, of illicit use by servants, etc.; but for my part I had and have no doubt that the thing had been enskyed and constellated--like Ariadne's Crown, Berenice's Locks, Cassiopeia's Chair, and a whole galaxy of other now celestial objects--to afford a special place to my dead friend then, and to my live one when (may the time still be far distant) he is ready for it. As for the more serious subject of the letter, I must refer curious readers to an essay of mine on Lockhart, originally published in 1884 and reprinted in _Essays in English Literature_ some years later. To this reprint I subjoined, _before_ I got this letter from R. L. S., a reasoned defence of Lockhart from the charge of cowardice and "caddishness": but it is evident that Stevenson had not yet seen it. When he did see it, he wrote me another letter chiefly about my book itself, and so of no interest to the public, but touching again on this Lockhart question. He avowed himself still dissatisfied: but said he was sorry for his original remark which was "ungracious and unhandsome" if not untrue, adding, "for to whom do I owe more pleasure than to Lockhart?" 54. My dear Saintsbury, Thanks for yours. Why did I call Lockhart a cad? That calls for an answer, and I give it. "Scorpion"[131] literature seems at the best no very fit employment for a man of genius, which Lockhart was--and none at all for a gentleman. But if a man goes in for such a trade, he must be ready for the consequences; and I do not conceive a gentleman as a coward; the white feather is not his crest, it _almost_ excludes--and I put the "almost" with reluctance. Well, now about the duel? Even Bel-Ami[132] turned up on the _terrain_. But Lockhart? _Et responsum est ab omnibus, Non est inventus._[133] I have often wondered how Scott took that episode.[134] I do not know how this view will strike you;[135] it seems to me the "good old honest" fashion of our fathers, though I own it does not agree with the New Morality. "Cad" may be perhaps an expression too vivacious and not well chosen; it is, at least upon my view, substantially just. Now if you mean to comb my wig, comb it from the right parting--I know you will comb it well. An infinitely small jest occurs to me in connection with the historic umbrella: and perhaps its infinite smallness attracts me. Would you mind handing it to Rudyard Kipling with the enclosed note?[136] It seems to me fitly to consecrate and commemorate this most absurd episode. Yours very sincerely, ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. [_Enclosure_] This Umbrella purchased in the year 1878 by Robert Louis Stevenson (and faithfully stabled for more than twelve years in the halls of George Saintsbury) is now handed on at the suggestion of the first and by the loyal hands of the second, to Rudyard Kipling. PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, GLASGOW. FOOTNOTES: [130] Of this _moratorium_ I believe I duly advised R. L. S. and I don't think he objected. There was, if I remember rightly, a further reason for it--that I was living in two places at the time and the subject was not immediately at hand. [131] Lockhart's (self-given) name in the "_Chaldee MS._" was "the Scorpion that delighteth to sting the faces of men." [132] Maupassant's ineffable hero and title-giver. [133] Hardly any school-boy of my or Stevenson's generation would have needed a reference to the _Essay on Murder_. But I am told that De Quincey has gone out of fashion, with school-boys and others. [134] We know now: also what "The Duke" said when consulted. They did not agree with Stevenson, but then they knew all the facts and he did not. [135] I should have held it myself, if the facts had been what R. L. S. thought them. [136] Which of course is Mr. Kipling's property, not mine. But he has most kindly joined in, authorising its publication, and that of the rest of the letter as far as he is concerned. BY THE SAME AUTHOR The Peace of the Augustans A Survey of Eighteenth Century Literature as a Place of Rest and Refreshment _Demy 8vo. 10s. 6d. net_ "No one living," according to the _Times_, "knows English eighteenth century literature as well as Mr. Saintsbury knows it.... If you do not know and like your eighteenth century, then he will make you; and if you do, he will show you that even what you thought the dullest parts are full of rest and refreshment." In the opinion of the _Spectator_, "Mr. Saintsbury in his new book has given to the world a singularly delightful gift. _The Peace of the Augustans_ is in no sense written down. Yet every page is so subtly seasoned with amusing comment, and the whole book is so charmingly garnished that none but a dullard could fail to find delight in its perusal, however little he knew of the spirit which animated the eighteenth century. One can hardly imagine better reading after a day of hard or uncongenial work." "No bush is necessary to proclaim where good wine may be had," says the _Glasgow Herald_, "and no author's name was required to indicate the source of this always fresh and in some respects original treatment of the Augustan literature.... In literature there are many mansions, and Mr. Saintsbury is at home in them all.... A book it has been very pleasant and very profitable to read." LONDON: G. BELL AND SONS, LTD. YORK HOUSE, PORTUGAL STREET, W.C. 2 Handbooks of English Literature Edited by the late J. W. HALES, M.A. Professor of English Literature, King's College, London _Small Crown 8vo. 5s. net each_ =THE AGE OF ALFRED= (664-1154). By F. J. SNELL, M.A. =THE AGE OF CHAUCER= (1346-1400). By F. J. SNELL, M.A., with an Introduction by PROFESSOR HALES. _Third edition._ =THE AGE OF TRANSITION= (1400-1580). By F. J. SNELL, M.A. In 2 vols. With Introduction by PROFESSOR HALES, Vol. I.--Poetry. Vol. II.--Prose and Drama. _Third edition._ =THE AGE OF SHAKESPEARE= (1579-1631). By THOMAS SECCOMBE and J. W. ALLEN. In 2 vols. Vol. I.--Poetry and Prose, with an Introduction by PROFESSOR HALES. Vol. II.--Drama. _Seventh edition._ =THE AGE OF MILTON= (1632-1660). By Rev. Canon J. H. B. MASTERMAN, M.A., with an Introduction, &c., by J. BASS MULLINGER, M.A. _Eighth edition._ =THE AGE OF DRYDEN= (1660-1700). By the late RICHARD GARNETT, C.B., LL.D. _Eighth edition._ =THE AGE OF POPE= (1700-1744). By JOHN DENNIS. _Tenth edition._ =THE AGE OF JOHNSON= (1744-1798). By THOMAS SECCOMBE. _Seventh edition._ =THE AGE OF WORDSWORTH= (1798-1832). By PROFESSOR C. H. HERFORD, Litt.D. _Twelfth edition._ =THE AGE OF TENNYSON= (1830-1870). By PROFESSOR HUGH WALKER, M.A. _Ninth edition._ LONDON: G. BELL AND SONS, LTD. YORK HOUSE, PORTUGAL STREET, W.C. 2 +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes | | | | Page 108: full stop inserted after "Duke of Burgundy" | | Page 125: Second opening parenthesis from before "Cambridge | | University Press" removed | | Page 245: Removed closing parenthesis following "the Valley | | of the Shadow of Frederick" | | Page 260: "sunday" _sic_ | | | | Generally spelling, capitalization and punctuation in | | letters has been retained as per the book, with the | | following exceptions: | | | | Page 305: Removed closing quote marks following "terrain" | | (Letter 54) | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
603	----	Transcribed from the 1911, Hodder and Stoughton edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org LETTERS OF GEORGE BORROW TO THE BRITISH AND FOREIGN BIBLE SOCIETY Published by Direction of the Committee EDITED BY T. H. DARLOW HODDER AND STOUGHTON LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO 1911 TO WILLIAMSON LAMPLOUGH CHAIRMAN OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRITISH AND FOREIGN BIBLE SOCIETY THESE LETTERS FROM THE SOCIETY'S DISTINGUISHED AGENT ARE DEDICATED WITH MOST SINCERE RESPECT AND REGARD BY THEIR EDITOR To the Rev. J. Jowett WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH, _Feb._ 10_th_, 1833. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have just received your communication, and notwithstanding it is Sunday morning, and the bells with their loud and clear voices are calling me to church, I have sat down to answer it by return of post. It is scarcely necessary for me to say that I was rejoiced to see the Chrestomathie Mandchou, which will be of no slight assistance in learning the Tartar dialect, on which ever since I left London I have been almost incessantly occupied. It is, then, your opinion, that from the lack of anything in the form of Grammar I have scarcely made any progress towards the attainment of Mandchou; perhaps you will not be perfectly miserable at being informed that you were never more mistaken in your life. I can already, with the assistance of Amyot, _translate Mandchou_ with no great difficulty, and am perfectly qualified to write a critique on the version of St. Matthew's Gospel, which I brought with me into the country. Upon the whole, I consider the translation a good one, but I cannot help thinking that the author has been frequently too paraphrastical, and that in various places he must be utterly unintelligible to the Mandchous from having unnecessarily made use of words which are not Mandchou, and with which the Tartars cannot be acquainted. What must they think, for example, on coming to the sentence . . . _apkai etchin ni porofiyat_, _i.e._ the prophet of the Lord of heaven? For the last word in the Mandchou quotation being a modification of a Greek word, with no marginal explanation, renders the whole dark to a Tartar. [Greek text]; _apkai_ I know, and _etchin_ I know, but what is _porofiyat_, he will say. Now in Tartar, there are words synonymous with our seer, diviner, or foreteller, and I feel disposed to be angry with the translator for not having used one of these words in preference to modifying [Greek text]; and it is certainly unpardonable of him to have Tartarized [Greek text] into . . . _anguel_, when in Tartar there is a word equal to our messenger, which is the literal translation of [Greek text]. But I will have done with finding fault, and proceed to the more agreeable task of answering your letter. My brother's address is as follows: Don Juan Borrow, Compagnia Anglo Mexicana, Guanajuato, Mexico. When you write to him, the letter must be put in post before the third Wednesday of the month, on which day the Mexican letter-packet is made up. I suppose it is unnecessary to inform you that the outward postage of all foreign letters must be paid at the office, but I wish you particularly to be aware that it will be absolutely necessary to let my brother know in what dialect of the Mexican this translation is made, in order that he may transmit it to the proper quarter, for within the short distance of twenty miles of the place where he resides there are no less than six dialects spoken, which differ more from each other than the German does from the English. I intend to write to him next Thursday, and if you will favour me with an answer on this very important point, by return of post, I shall feel obliged. Return my kind and respected friend Mr. Brandram my best thanks for his present of _The Gypsies' Advocate_, and assure him that, next to the acquirement of Mandchou, the conversion and enlightening of those interesting people occupy the principal place in my mind. Will he be willing to write to the Gypsy Committee concerning me? I wish to translate the Gospel of St. John into their language, which I could easily do with the assistance of one or two of the old people, but then they must be paid, for the Gypsies are more mercenary than Jews. I have already written to my dear friend Mr. Cunningham on this subject, and have no doubt that he will promote the plan to the utmost of his ability. I must procure a letter of introduction from him to Joseph Gurney, and should be very happy to obtain one also from Mr. Brandram, for in all which regards the Gospel and the glory of Christ, Joseph Gurney is the principal person to look to in these parts. I will now conclude by beseeching you to send me as soon as possible _whatever can serve to enlighten me in respect to Mandchou Grammar_, for had I a Grammar, I should in a month's time be able to send a Mandchou translation of Jonah. In the meanwhile I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your most humble and obedient servant, G. BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett 18_th_ _March_, 1833, WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH. DEAR SIR,--As yourself and Mr. Brandram expressed a desire to hear from me occasionally concerning my progress in Mandchou, I now write to inform you that I am advancing at full gallop, and am able to translate with pleasure and facility the specimens of the best authors who have written in the language contained in the compilation of Klaproth. But I must confess that the want of a Grammar has been, particularly in the beginning of my course, a great clog to my speed, and I have little doubt that had I been furnished with one I should have attained my present knowledge of Mandchou in half the time. I was determined however not to be discouraged, and, not having a hatchet at hand to cut down the tree with, to attack it with my knife; and I would advise every one to make the most of the tools which happen to be in his possession, until he can procure better ones, and it is not improbable that by the time the good tools arrive he will find he has not much need of them, having almost accomplished his work. This is not exactly my case, for I shall be very glad to receive this same tripartite Grammar which Mr. Brandram is hunting for, my ideas respecting Mandchou construction being still very vague and wandering, and I should also be happy if you could and would procure for me the original grammatical work of Amyot, printed in the _Memoires_, etc. Present my kind regards to Mr. Hattersley, and thank him in my name for his kind letter, but at the same time tell him that I was sorry to learn that he was putting himself to the trouble of transferring into Mandchou characters the specimens which Amyot has given in Roman, as there was no necessity for it in respect to myself, a mere transcript being quite sufficient to convey the information I was in need of. Assure him likewise that I am much disposed to agree with him in his opinion of Amyot's Dictionary, which he terms in his letter 'something not very first-rate,' for the Frenchman's translations of the Mandchou words are anything but clear and satisfactory, and being far from literal, frequently leave the student in great doubt and perplexity. I have sent to my brother one copy of St. Luke's Gospel with a letter; the postage was 15s. 5d. My reason for sending only one was, that the rate of postage increases with the weight, and that the two Gospels can go out much cheaper singly than together. The other I shall dispatch next month. I subjoin a translation from the Mandchou, as I am one of those who do not wish people to believe words but works; and as I have had no Grammar, and been only seven weeks at a language which Amyot says _one may acquire in five or six years_, I thought you might believe my account of my progress to be a piece of exaggeration and vain boasting. The translation is from the Mongol History, which, not being translated by Klaproth, I have selected as most adapted to the present occasion; I must premise that I translate as I write, and if there be any inaccuracies, as I daresay there will, some allowance must be made for haste, which prevents my devoting the attention necessary to a perfectly correct rendering of the text. I will conclude by observing that I believe myself at present competent to edit any book in Mandchou, _if that be what is wanted_, and beg leave to remain, dear Sir, your obedient humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett _June_ 9_th_, 1833 WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have mastered Mandchou, and I should feel obliged by your informing the Committee of the fact, and also my excellent friend Mr. Brandram. I assure you that I have had no easy and pleasant task in acquiring this language. In the first place, it is in every respect different from all others which I have studied, with perhaps the exception of the Turkish, to which it seems to bear some remote resemblance in syntax, though none in words. In the second place, it abounds with idiomatic phrases, which can only be learnt by habit, and to the understanding of which a Dictionary is of little or no use, the words separately having either no meaning or a meaning quite distinct from that which they possess when thus conjoined. And thirdly the helps afforded me in this undertaking have been sadly inadequate. However, with the assistance of God, I have performed my engagement. I have translated several pieces from the Mandchou, amongst which is the . . . or Spirit of the Hearth ([Greek text]), which is a peculiarly difficult composition, and which had never previously been translated into a European language. Should you desire a copy, I shall have great pleasure in sending one. I shall now be happy to be regularly employed, for though I am not in want, my affairs are not in a very flourishing condition. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your most obedient humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH, _July_ 3rd, 1833. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Owing to the culpable tardiness of the post-office people, I have received your letter so late that I have little more than a quarter of an hour to answer it in, and be in time to despatch it by this day's mail. What you have written has given me great pleasure, as it holds out hope that I may be employed usefully to the Deity, to man, and myself. I shall be very happy to visit St. Petersburg and to become the coadjutor of Mr. Lipoftsoff, and to avail myself of his acquirements in what you very happily designate a most singular language, towards obtaining a still greater proficiency in it. I flatter myself that I am for one or two reasons tolerably well adapted for the contemplated expedition, for besides a competent knowledge of French and German, I possess some acquaintance with Russian, being able to read without much difficulty any printed Russian book, and I have little doubt that after a few months' intercourse with the natives I should be able to speak it fluently. It would ill become me to bargain like a Jew or a Gypsy as to terms; all I wish to say on that point is, that I have nothing of my own, having been too long dependent on an excellent mother, who is not herself in very easy circumstances. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 13, 1833) HAMBURG, _August_ 4_th_, 1833. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I arrived at Hamburg yesterday after a disagreeable passage of three days, in which I suffered much from sea-sickness, as did all the other passengers, who were a medley of Germans, Swedes, and Danes, I being the only Englishman on board, with the exception of the captain and crew. I landed about seven o'clock in the morning, and the sun, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour, shone so fiercely that it brought upon me a transient fit of delirium, which is scarcely to be wondered at, if my previous state of exhaustion be considered. You will readily conceive that my situation, under all its circumstances, was not a very enviable one; some people would perhaps call it a frightful one. I did not come however to the slightest harm, for the Lord took care of me through two of His instruments, Messrs. Weil and Valentin, highly respectable Jews of Copenhagen, who had been my fellow-passengers, and with whom I had in some degree ingratiated myself on board, in our intervals of ease, by conversing with them about the Talmud and the book Sohar. They conveyed me to the Konig von Engeland, an excellent hotel in the street called the Neuenwall, and sent for a physician, who caused me to take forty drops of laudanum and my head to be swathed in wet towels, and afterwards caused me to be put to bed, where I soon fell asleep, and awoke in the evening perfectly recovered and in the best spirits possible. This morning, Sunday, I called on the British Consul, Mr. H. Canning, to whom I had a letter of recommendation. He received me with great civility, and honoured me with an invitation to dine with him to-morrow, which I of course accepted. He is a highly intelligent man, and resembles strikingly in person his illustrious relative, the late George Canning. Since visiting him I have been to one of the five tall churches which tower up above the tall houses; I thought its interior very venerable and solemn, but the service seemed to be nothing more than a low-muttered chanting, from which it was impossible to derive much spiritual edification. There was no sermon, and not more than twenty persons were present, though the edifice would contain thousands conveniently. Hamburg is a huge place, and the eastern part of it is intersected by wide canals communicating with the Elbe, so that vessels find their way into most parts of the city; the bridges are consequently very numerous, and are mostly of wood. Some of the streets are planted with trees, which have a pretty appearance, though upon the whole it has certainly no claim to the appellation of a handsome town. But no observer can fail to be struck with the liveliness and bustle which reign in this emporium of continental Europe, worthy to be compared with Tyre of old or our own Liverpool. Another city adjoins it called Altona, the park of which and the environs are the favourite Sunday lounge of the Hamburgers. Altona is in Holstein, which belongs to the Danish Government. It is separated from the Hanseatic town merely by a small gateway, so that it may truly be said here that there is but one step from a republic to a monarchy. Little can be said in commendation of the moral state of this part of the world, for rope-dancers were displaying their agility in the park to-day, and the dancing-saloons, which I am informed are most infamous places, are open to the public this evening. England with all her faults has still some regard to decency, and will not tolerate such a shameless display of vice on so sacred a season, when a decent cheerfulness is the freest form in which the mind or countenance ought to invest themselves. I shall depart for Lubeck on the sixth (Tuesday), and shall probably be on the Baltic on my way to St. Petersburg on the eighth, which is the day notified for the departure the steamboat. My next letter, provided it pleases the Almighty to vouch-safe me a happy arrival, will be from the Russian capital; and with a fervent request that you will not forget me in your prayers, and that you will present my kind remembrances and best respects to Mr. Brandram, and also remember me to Mr. Hattersley and Mr. Tarn, I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your most obedient and most humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 26th, 1833) ST. PETERSBURG, No. 221 GALERNOY ULITZA. [Undated.] REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--My last letter was from Hamburg, which I hope and trust you received. I started from thence on the 24th, and embarking at Travemunde I arrived at the Russian capital on the 31st July (old style) after an exceedingly pleasant passage, accomplished in the short space of 72 hours; for the wind was during the greatest part of our way favourable and gentle, the sea being quite as smooth as a mill pond, so that the paddles of our noble steamer, the _Nikolai_, were not at all impeded in their working by any rolling or pitching of the vessel. Immediately on my arrival I sought out Mr. Swan, one of the most amiable and interesting characters I have ever met with, and delivered to him your letter, the contents of which were very agreeable to him; for from applying himself too un-interruptedly to transcribing the manuscript of the Mandchou Old Testament he had in some degree injured his health; and the arrival of a coadjutor in the task was exceedingly opportune. In a day or two I went with him to pay a visit to Mr. Schmidt, who resides a few miles out of town. He assured us that he had no doubt of permission being granted for the printing of the Mandchou New Testament, and promised to make all the necessary inquiries, and to inform Mr. Swan and myself of the result. He was at the time we saw him much occupied with his Mongolian Grammar and Dictionary, which are in the press. We have not heard from him since this visit, and I shall probably call upon him again in a week or two to hear what steps he has taken. I resided for nearly a fortnight in a hotel, as the difficulty of procuring lodgings in this place is very great, and when you have procured them, you have to furnish them yourself at a considerable expense. During this time I collated with Mr. Swan the greatest part of what he had transcribed, and eventually I took up my abode with Mr. Egerton Hubbard, a friend of Mr. Venning's, where I am for the present very comfortably situated, and I do assure you exerting myself to the utmost to fulfil the views of the Society. I have transcribed from the Mandchou Old Testament the second book of Chronicles, which when I had done, I put aside the Old Testament for a season, and by the advice of Mr. Swan began to copy St. Matthew's Gospel from the version of the New, executed by the same hand as the Old, with the purpose of comparing it with that of Mr. Lipoftsoff. This task I have just completed, and am now about to commence a transcript of the Acts. Respecting this manuscript translation of the Old and New Testaments I must here observe, that with scarcely one exception it is the most laborious and best executed work of the kind which I have ever seen, and I cannot but admire the diligence and learning of him who, probably unasked and unrewarded, engaged in and accomplished it. The style, as far as I can judge, is to an eminent degree elegant and polished, and likely to captivate those whose taste is cultivated, and with this advantage, it exhibits none of that obscurity which too frequently attends refinement of language; and as for fidelity--it is upon the whole executed as literally, and with as much adherence to the original, as the genius of the Tartar language and the understandings of the people, for whose edification it is intended, will permit. But the notes and elucidations (which I copy not) which follow every chapter, both of the Old and New Testament, constitute the most surprising feature of this work. They are so full and copious, that they occupy far more space than the text; indeed, I think I speak quite within bounds when I say that for every page of text there are two of explanatory matter. The author was a French Jesuit, and when did a Jesuit any thing which he undertook, whether laudable or the reverse, not far better than any other person? Staunch Protestant though I be, I am not ashamed to say that all the skill and talent of our own missionaries, in acquiring languages and making versions of the Scriptures, are, when compared with the capabilities displayed by the seminary priests, faint and seemingly insignificant; and yet it is singular enough that the labours of the latter in this line have had almost invariably no other fate than to be buried in continental public libraries or in the literary collections of the learned and curious; from which it is manifest that the Lord smiled not upon their undertakings. They thought not of His glory but of the glory of their order, and the consequence has been that 'He has put down the mighty from their seat and has exalted the humble and meek.' A few days since I called upon Mr. Lipoftsoff, and to my surprise discovered that he was totally unaware of any plan being in agitation for the printing of his translation of the Scriptures. He said that he had had no communication with Mr. Schmidt for several months; and far from being able to furnish me with any information respecting the probable destiny of his work, he asked questions of me concerning it. He is a gentleman rather advanced in years, probably between sixty and seventy, but is nevertheless surprisingly hale and robust. He was very kind, and promised to give me any assistance in his power towards acquiring a thorough knowledge of the Mandchou; and, permit me to say, that Petersburg is the only place in Europe where such a knowledge can be obtained, for the manuscripts and printed books in that tongue are very plentiful here, and there are moreover several individuals who speak and write it. I of course most gladly accepted such an offer, and shall endeavour to turn it to the best account. Mr. L. speaks no European language but Russ, which I am not sorry for, because frequent conversation and intercourse with him will improve my knowledge of that language. It is a great error to suppose that a person resident in this country can dispense with Russ, provided he is acquainted with French and German. The two latter languages, it is true, are spoken by the French and German shop-keepers settled here. French is moreover spoken (to foreigners) by the nobility and a few of the officers in the army; but neither are so generally understood as in England--German far less so; and as for the Russians being the best general linguists in Europe, I am totally unable to guess how the idea could have originated, but am certain from personal experience that they are quite the contrary. Petersburg is the finest city in the world; neither London nor Paris nor any other European capital which I have visited has sufficient pretensions to enter into comparison with it in respect to beauty and grandeur. Many of the streets are miles in length, as straight as an arrow and adorned with the most superb edifices. The so-called Nevsky Prospect, a street which runs from the Admiralty to the Monastery of St. Alexander Nevsky, is nearly three miles in length and for the greatest part of the way floored with small blocks of wood shaped octagonally. The broad and rapid Neva runs through the centre of this Queen of cities, and on either side is a noble quay, from which you have a full view of the river and of what is passing on its bosom. But I will not be diffuse in the description of objects which have been so often described, but devote the following lines which my paper will contain to more important matters. The lower orders of the Russians are very willing to receive Scriptural information, and very willing to purchase it if offered to them at a price which comes within their means. I will give an interesting example of this. A young man of the name of Nobbs, in the employ of Mr. Leake, an English farmer residing a few _versts_ from Petersburg, is in the habit on his return from the latter place, whither he is frequently sent by his master, to carry with him a satchel filled with Russian New Testaments and religious tracts, with which he is supplied by an excellent English lady who dwells there. He says that before he has reached home, he has invariably disposed of his whole cargo to the surrounding peasantry; and such is the hunger and thirst which they display for the word of salvation that his stock has always been insufficient to answer all the demands made, after it was known what merchandise he brought with him. There remain at present three hundred copies unsold of the modern Russian New Testament at the shop which has the disposal of the works of the late Russian Bible Society; these copies, all of which are damaged from having been immersed during the inundation of 1824, might all be disposed of in one day, provided proper individuals were employed to hawk them about in the environs of this capital. There are twenty thousand copies on hand of the Sclavonian Bible, which being in a language and character differing materially from the modern Russ character and language, and only understood by the learned, is unfit for general circulation, and the copies will probably remain unsold, though the Synod is more favourable to the distribution of the Scriptures in the ancient than in the modern form. I was informed by the attendant in the shop that the Synod had resolved upon not permitting the printing of any fresh edition of the Scriptures in the modern Russ until these twenty thousand copies in the ancient language had been disposed of. But it is possible that this assertion is incorrect. I must now conclude; and with an earnest request that you will write to me speedily, and deliver my kindest remembrances to Mr. Brandram and to my other good friends at the Society House, I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your most obedient servant, G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram ST. PETERSBURG, _August_ 27, 1833. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--The bearer of this letter is Mr. Glen, the son of the celebrated missionary of Astracan. He is desirous of forming your acquaintance, and I take the liberty of making him known to you. He is a young man of considerable learning, and a devout Christian. His object in visiting England is to qualify himself for the missionary calling, in the hope that at some future period he may tread in the steps of his father and proclaim a crucified Saviour to the Oriental heathens. I am at present, thanks be to the Lord, comfortable and happy, and am every day busily engaged in transcribing the Mandchou Old Testament and collating with Mr. Swan. In the hope that these lines will find you in good health, I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your most obedient servant, G. BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 17th, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, 20_th_ _January_ (old style), 1834. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I received in due time your epistle of the 2nd January, which gave me considerable pleasure, as it is exceedingly cheering in a foreign land to hear from one's friends and to know that one is not forgotten by them. I now proceed to give an account of my stewardship up to the present time, which account I humbly trust will afford perfect satisfaction to the Society which has honoured a frail creature like myself with a charge, the importance and difficulty of which I at present see much more clearly than I originally did. My dear Sir, even when transcribing the Mandchou Scripture, I was far from being forgetful of the ulterior object of my mission, and therefore, as in duty bound, applied to Dr. Schmidt for advice and information, who was the person upon whom I mainly depended. But I found that gentleman so involved in a multiplicity of business that it was utterly impossible for him to afford me either; and though he was kind enough to promise to make inquiry, etc. etc., it is very probable that he forgot to fulfil his promise, for the result never came to my ears. Thus circumstanced, and being very uneasy in my mind, I determined to take a bold step, and directly and without further feeling my way to petition the Government in my own name for permission to print the Mandchou Scriptures. Having communicated this determination to our beloved, sincere, and most truly Christian friend Mr. Swan (who has lately departed to his station in Siberia, shielded I trust by the arm of his Master), it met with his perfect approbation and cordial encouragement. I therefore drew up a petition, and presented it with my own hand to his Excellence Mr. Bludoff, Minister of the Interior. He having perused it, briefly answered, that he believed the matter did not lie with him, but that he would consider. I now began greatly to fear that the affair would not come to a favourable issue, but nevertheless prayed fervently to God, and confiding principally in Him, resolved to leave no human means untried which were within my reach. Since residing here I have assiduously cultivated the friendship of the Honourable Mr. Bligh, His Britannic Majesty's plenipotentiary at the Court of Russia, who has shown me many condescending marks of kindness, and who is a person of superb talents, kind disposition, and of much piety. I therefore, on the evening of the day of my presenting the petition, called upon him, and being informed that he was out of town, and was not expected till late at night, I left a letter for him, in which I entreated him to make use of whatever influence his high official situation was calculated to give him with the Minister, towards procuring a favourable reply; assuring him that the Mandchou version was not intended for circulation nor calculated for circulation in any part of the Russian Empire, but in China and Chinese Tartary solely. I stated that I would call for an answer the next morning. I did so, and upon seeing Mr. Bligh, he was kind enough to say that if I desired it he would apply officially to the Minister, and exert all his influence in his official character in order to obtain the accomplishment of my views; but at the same time suggested that it would, perhaps, be as well at a private interview to beg it as a personal favour; and to this I instantly assented. He spoke twice to Mr. Bludoff upon the subject; and I shortly afterwards received a summons to appear at the Asiatic Department, whither I went, and found that Mr. Bludoff had been enquiring whether any person was to be found capable of being employed as Censor over the work, and that it had been resolved that Mr. Lipoftsoff, who is one of the clerks of the Asiatic Department, should be appointed Censor, and that I should be the Editor of the work, provided permission were granted to print it. I went away, and having received no intelligence during the space of a fortnight, I waited upon Mr. Bligh and begged that, provided it were not disagreeable to him, he would make a fresh application to the Minister. And, singularly enough, Mr. Bludoff was to dine at Mr. Bligh's that evening, and the latter amiable gentleman assured me that he would not let so excellent an opportunity slip of saying what was calculated to bring the matter to a conclusion. That same night I received a message, whereby I was requested to wait on Mr. Bludoff the next day, at one. I did so, and he received me in the most polite manner and said that the matter did not entirely depend upon him, but that it would be necessary to obtain the permission also of the Director of Worship, that however he would give me a letter to that Dignitary, which he doubted not would have some effect. I received the letter, and without losing any time repaired to the Director's Office and having delivered my letter, after waiting some time, was told to call at the Asiatic Department on the first day of the next week (the very day your letter arrived). On calling there _I found that permission had been granted to print the Mandchou Scripture_. I hope that the honourable Committee and yourself will feel no displeasure at my presuming here to make a slight suggestion. We are under great obligations to Mr. Bligh; and I have certainly taken great liberties with the friendship with which he has thought proper to favour me, liberties which I should certainly not have felt myself authorised to have taken in any affair, the end of which was not the glorifying of God, as the aim of this certainly is. I therefore should wish to hint the expediency of a letter in which the thanks of the Committee be presented to Mr. Bligh for the interest which he has been pleased to take in this business, and for the trouble he has given himself. You are well aware that a handsome acknowledgement of a kindness received is never taken amiss; and as it is not impossible that Mr. Bligh, at another time and even at another place, may have an opportunity of promoting the excellent views of the Society, I cannot help thinking that such an acknowledgement would be unwise neither in respect to what has occurred or may occur hereafter. In reply to your inquiries respecting my progress in the Mandchou language, I have to observe that for some time past I have taken lessons from a person who was twelve years in Pekin, and who speaks Mandchou and Chinese with fluency. I pay him about six shillings English for each lesson, which I grudge not, for the perfect acquirement of Mandchou is one of my most ardent wishes; as I am convinced that it is destined by providence to be the medium for the spiritual illumination of countless millions of Chinese and Tartars. At present I can transcribe the Manchou character with much greater facility and speed than I can the English. I can translate from it with tolerable facility, and have translated into it, for an exercise, the second homily of the Church of England "On the Misery of Man." I have likewise occasionally composed a few hymns in this language, the difficulty of which I am at present more fully aware of than when I left England. It is one of those deceitful tongues, the seeming simplicity of whose structure induces you to suppose, after applying to them for a month or two, that little more remains to be learned, but which, should you continue to study a year, as I have studied this, show themselves to you in their veritable colours, amazing you with their copiousness, puzzling with their idioms. In a word Mandchou is equally as difficult as Sanscrit or Persian, neither of which languages has ever been thoroughly acquired by any European, though at first acquaintance they flatter the student with their deceitful simplicity. I take the liberty of sending you a short original epigram in rhymed Mandchou, which if it answers no other purpose will afford you some idea of my running Mandchou hand, which, as I now write perpendicularly, is very different from that hand which I wrote previously to my coming hither. The epigram is upon the exploits of the Tartars. [Here follow four upright lines in Manchu characters.] Milites qui e Manjurico deserto exierunt, bellando silvas, campos et oppida Sinensis imperii captarunt. Want of room obliges me to defer making a report upon Mr. Lipoftsoff's translation until my next letter, which will follow in a week or two; for I am unwilling in a matter of such immense importance to deliver a brief and hurried opinion. I have much to communicate also respecting the proper means to be pursued for the introduction and circulation of the volume, when printed, in China and Tartary. This information I have derived from the most authentic sources, namely from individuals who have spent many years in these countries, and whose acquaintance I have eagerly sought. From England I have lately received a letter in which is an extract from an epistle of my brother in Mexico, amounting to this--that there is no native language in that country entitled to the appellation of _the_ Mexican language; that it is as incorrect to make use of such an expression, as it would be to say definitely _the_ European language; that setting aside the Spanish there are upwards of twenty languages and dialects spoken in Mexico, none of which are read (except perhaps here and there by a few individuals) but communicated by the mouth and only acquired by the ear; that my brother has shown the sheet of St. Luke's Gospel, which I transmitted to him, to various Spaniards and Indians, but it was unintelligible to them, the latter not recognising the words when read to them. I should therefore advise that the copies of this version be sent, if possible, to the place where the version was purchased, as it was probably made in the language or dialect of that place or neighbourhood, and where there is a chance of its being of some utility. Should my brother have survived the late dreadful commotions in Mexico, I have no doubt that he will be exceedingly happy to assist in flinging the rays of Scriptural light over that most benighted and miserable region; but having lately read in the Russian newspapers that the town of Guanajuato, where he resided, has been taken and sacked by the murderous bands of the insurgents, I have great reason to fear that his earthly course is terminated, for the former, incited by their demoniacal priests, in comparison with whom the Shamans of Manjuria and the lamas of Mongolia and China are innocent and holy, lay hold of every opportunity of shedding the blood of Protestants and foreigners. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. March 10th, 1834, with Report on the Mandchou New Testament.) ST. PETERSBURG, GALERNOY ULITZA, 4 _February_ (old style) 1834. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--In compliance with the request of the Committee, expressed in your epistle of the 2nd January, I herewith send a report upon Mr. Lipoftsoff's translation; and as there were many things which I wished to mention in my last letter, but was unable from want of room, I take this opportunity of stating them, with the hope that they will meet with your approbation. In the first place, whatever communication you wish to make to Mr. Lipoftsoff I think you had best charge me with to him, for in that case you will be certain that he will receive it, without loss of time. But I must inform you that he is rather a singular man, and to all appearances perfectly indifferent to the fate of his excellent translation, caring nothing whether it be published as a powerful instrument to open the closed eyes and soften the hard hearts of the idolators of China and Tartary, or whether it be committed to the flames, and for ever lost to the world. You cannot conceive the cold, heartless apathy in respect to the affair, on which I have been despatched hither as an _assistant_, which I have found in people, to whom I looked, not unreasonably, for encouragement and advice. But thanks be to the Lord, the great object has been accomplished, permission has been obtained to print the New Testament, and have no doubt that permission for the whole Bible is within our reach. And in regard to what we have yet to do, let it be borne in mind, that we are by no means dependent upon Mr. Lipoftsoff; though certainly to secure the services which he is capable of performing would be highly desirable, and though he cannot act outwardly in the character of Editor, he having been appointed Censor, he may privately be of great utility to us. Therefore let the attempt to engage his services be made without delay. At the Sarepta House is a chest containing Mandchou characters, belonging to the Bible Society, which I shall cause to be examined for the purpose of ascertaining whether they have sustained any injury from rust during the long time they have been lying neglected; if any of them have, my learned friend Baron Schilling, who is in possession of a small fount of Mandchou types for the convenience of printing trifles in that tongue, has kindly promised to assist us with the use of as many of his own as may be necessary. There is one printing office here, where they are in the habit of printing with the Mongolian character, which differs but little from the Mandchou; consequently the Mongolian compositors will be competent to the task of composing in Mandchou. There are no Mandchou types in St. Petersburg, with the exception of our own and Baron Schilling's. I suppose that it will be thought requisite to print the town for a year or so, it is my humble opinion, and the opinion of much wiser people, that if he were active, zealous and likewise courageous, the blessings resulting from his labours would be incalculable. It would be by no means a difficult thing to make excursions into Tartary and to form friendships amongst the Tartar hordes, and I am far from certain that with a little management and dexterity he would be unable to penetrate even to Pekin, and to return in safety, after having examined the state of the land. I can only say that if it were my fortune to have the opportunity, I would make the attempt, and should consider myself only to blame if I did not succeed. In my last letter I informed you that I had procured myself an instructor in Mandchou, and that I was making tolerable progress in the language. I should now wish to ask whether this person could not be turned to some further account; for example, to assist me in making a translation into Mandchou of the Psalms and Isaiah, which have not yet been rendered. A few shillings a week, besides what I give him for my own benefit, would secure his co-operation, for he is a person in very low circumstances. He is not competent to undertake any thing of the kind by himself, being in many respects very simple and ignorant; but as an assistant I think he might be of considerable utility, and that between us we could produce a version which, although it might not be particularly elegant, would be clear, grammatical and faithful to the original. In the mean time I shall pursue my studies, and be getting every thing in readiness for setting the printers at work; and with a humble request for _speedy instructions_, in order that as little time as possible may be lost in the work of the Lord, I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Your most obedient and humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. P.S.--My kindest regards to Mr. Brandram and my other dear friends at the Bible House. I thank you heartily for your kind advice in the latter part of your last epistle. Do me the favour to inform Dr. Richardson that I have followed his instructions in regard to clothing, etc., and have derived great benefit therefrom. To the Rev. Joseph Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. March ---, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, _Febry._ 15 (old style), 1834. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Having forgotten in my last letter to say something which I intended, I take the liberty of troubling you with these lines. But first of all I must apologise for certain slips of the pen in the Report which I transmitted; for it left me without having been corrected, Baron Schilling having called upon me just as I sat down to the task, and when he had departed, I had barely time to seal it and despatch it by that week's post. There was in it, I believe, nothing of much importance which required alteration, but, if I mistake not, I had written, in the third side, vibebam, instead of _viverem_, and unaparelled, or some such word, instead of _unparalleled_, in the fourth. Now to the point. What is to be done with the transcript of Puerot's translation of the Acts of the Apostles, which I made, and which is now in my possession? The translation is in every respect an admirable one; clear, faithful, and elegant. It would not do to print it in lieu of Mr. Lipoftsoff's translation of that part of the New Testament; because the styles of the two individuals are so different, that to mix up the writings of the one with those of the other would only serve to disfigure the work, and Mr. Lipoftsoff's translation is well worthy of being printed separately and entire; but I conceive that we possess a treasure in Puerot's writings, and that it would be a great pity to hide any portion of them from the world. Pray communicate this hint to the Committee, and pardon me for troubling you. I remain, Rev. and dear Sir, most sincerely yours, G. BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd, May 16th, 1834) GALERNOY ULITZA, ST. PETERSBURG, 15_th_ _April_ (old style) 1834. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Upon the receipt of your letter of the [21st] ult. [date omitted], I lost no time in endeavouring to obtain the necessary information upon the points to which you directed my attention; and I have some hope that what I am about to communicate will not be altogether unsatisfactory; but I must first of all state that it was not acquired in a day, and that I have been obliged to go to many people and many places, which will account for my not having sooner returned an answer. First, respecting the most important point, the expense of printing the New Testament in Mandchou. I was quite terrified at the enormous sums which some of the printers to whom I made application required for the work. At length our friend Dr. Schmidt recommended me to the University Press, and I having spoken to the directors of the establishment, they sent me in the course of a week an estimate which neither Dr. Schmidt nor myself considered to be unreasonable, and of this estimate I here subjoin a translation: To Mr. Borrow. 'After much consultation with the compositor, I have come to the following result concerning the Mandchou business about which you consulted me. If the work be printed on as thin paper as that of the original, it can only be printed on one side. Now supposing that the size is to be folio like that of the original, two sides will make a sheet, and the price of composition will be 26 roubles, 20 copecks--that is to say; 12R. to the compositor, wages 2R. 50c., percentage to the printing office 11R. 60c., making 26R. 20c. The printing of 1000 on one side 2R. 50c., percentage 2R., making 4R. 50c. Thus for composition and printing 30R. 60c. for 1000; for 2000, 35R. 10c.; for 3000, 39R. 60c.-- Your very obedient servant, KORLER.' In the meantime I had become acquainted with two German printers, Schultz and Beneze, who being young men and just entered into business are very eager to obtain the printing of a work of such importance, which they hope will serve to bring them into notice, as well as being advantageous to them in a pecuniary view. The difference, as to the expense of printing, in the estimate made by these gentlemen and that of the University Press, will doubtless as much surprise you, as it did me. Here it follows: 'In respect to the printing of the New Testament in the Manchou language, the undersigned oblige themselves to undertake the printing of the said work. In the first place, as the Bible Society, and in particular their agent Mr. Borrow, think fit to furnish the printers with the necessary types and paper, the undersigned offer to supply the sheet consisting of four pages with composition, clean and black printing, at the rate of 25 roubles, paper currency, for a thousand copies; for two thousand copies, five additional roubles assignats, so that the same sheet, only by a greater edition, amounts to 30 roubles assignats; thirdly, for 3000 copies in the above proportion, 35 roubles. Fourthly, we promise during the interval of a certain period to supply at the rate of three sheets per week. SCHULTZ & BENEZE.' You will perceive that the amount of this estimate is less, by more than one-half, than the amount of the other. Schultz and Beneze's sheet consists of four sides, and they charge less for it than the printers of the University charge for theirs which consists only of two. I should therefore think that upon this ground they are entitled to the preference, were there nothing else to recommend them, which, in my humble opinion, there is; for being young beginners, and not having very much to do, they are more likely to push the work forward, than a firm overwhelmed with business, from whom, whatever might be promised, a sheet per week is the utmost to be expected, by which much valuable time must be lost. Dr. Schmidt is acquainted with Messrs. S. & B., and highly approves of their being employed. Secondly, concerning paper, with which the printer has no concern. I can as yet say little for certain upon this matter, which has been the occasion of no little trouble and expense; for I have been obliged to take no less than three journeys to Peterhof, a town about 30 _versts_ distant, where stands the paper manufactory, for there is no such paper as we want in the Russian capital. In this manufactory they have about 50 _stopes_ or reams (we should require ten times that quantity for only 1000 copies) of the very paper, I believe, on which the Mandchou Gospel of St. Matthew was printed, and some of the workmen said that they could make as much more as should be required. Concerning the price of this paper, I could obtain no positive information, for the director and first and second clerks were invariably absent, and the place abandoned to ignorant understrappers (according to the custom of Russia). And notwithstanding I found out the director in Petersburg, he himself could not tell me the price, but informed me that he would inquire, and speedily send me word; but as I have as yet heard nothing from him, I write lest it should be supposed in England that I am sleeping on my station. _I shall write again in a few days on this point_; _in the mean time you would oblige me by causing the accounts of Dr. Pinkerton's expenses to be referred to_, for the purpose of ascertaining how much he paid per ream for this kind of paper. I believe it to be extravagantly dear, at least five times dearer than good common paper, which can be procured for fifteen roubles per ream; and if that be the case, common paper must be used and the book printed in the common fashion, unless the Society be prepared to disburse thousands instead of hundreds; for if the work were printed on this Chinese paper, four times more paper would be required than if it were printed on the other, as five multiplied by four make twenty, the expense of paper would be twenty times greater. Thirdly, respecting Mr. Lipoftsoff, with whom I have of late had much conversation. He has behaved very handsomely. He has made an immense number of alterations in his translation, all of which are excellent improvements, and all these are to be at our disposal gratis. He says that he cannot receive any remuneration for looking over the work, being bound to do so as Censor. I shall therefore edit it, and have the supervision of the proof sheets, which he will peruse last of all. He having examined me in Mandchou did me the honour to say I required no assistance at all; but should the Committee and yourself be of opinion that it would be advisable to procure a little, the 'pundit' would be very happy for an extra six or seven shillings per week to collate with me when wanted. I have derived great benefit from this man, who though in many respects a most singular and uncouth being speaks Mandchou gallantly, with the real pronunciation of _Pekin_, which differs considerably from that of _Pekhan_ (the desert), being far more soft and melodious. During the interval which will elapse between my writing to you and hearing from you, I shall borrow from Baron Schilling the Mandchou Old Testament and reperuse the notes in order to be able to give a suitable opinion as to their value. My present opinion of them is no mean one. In answer to your query _respecting the transcript of the Old Testament_, I beg leave to inform you that it is in the hands of a Mr. Merrilies, an English merchant, to whom Mr. Swan entrusted it. I believe he starts for England by the first steam-boat. I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, sincerely yours, GEORGE BORROW. P.S.--Since my last letter I have been laid up for some time with a nervous fever, but thank God I am quite recovered. My best respects to Mr. Brandram. Pray excuse the haste in which this letter is written, it will be barely in time for the post. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. May 26th, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, April 28 (old style) 1834. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Being at length able to communicate some positive information respecting the price of the paper, which we are in need of, I lose no time in doing so. The day after I despatched my last epistle, which I hope you have received, I was favoured with a communication from the director of the Peterhof Fabrik or Manufactory, a gentleman who amongst other titles bears that of Councillor of State. He was kind enough to say that I should have the 50 reams of paper which remained, and which I before alluded to, at 75 roubles per ream; but that if any more were necessary, one hundred roubles per ream would be required, and not any reduction would be made. You may easily guess that I was somewhat startled at this piece of information, for upon making a calculation I found that one ream of paper would be little more than sufficient for two copies of the entire Mandchou New Testament. There are 480 sheets in a Russian ream, and I suppose that our book will consist of seven parts, each containing about the same number of sheets as the printed Mandchou Gospel of St. Matthew. Now that Gospel contains 31 sheets, and 31 multiplied by 7 amounts to 211 [_sic_], which multiplied by 2 makes 422 sheets, leaving only a surplus of 58. Therefore the paper necessary for 1000 copies only would amount to about 450 reams, the price of which, after allowance had been made for the 50 reams at 75 roubles, would exceed 40,000 roubles. The next day I hired a calash, and spent the best part of a week in causing myself to be driven to all the places in the vicinity of Petersburg where paper is made. Knowing but too well that it is the general opinion of the people of this country that Englishmen are made of gold, and that it is only necessary to ask the most extravagant price for any article in order to obtain it, I told no person, to whom I applied, who I was, or of what country; and I believe I was supposed to be a German. In some places I had now the pleasure of hearing that I could have the paper at 60 roubles per ream. At last I came to a person whom, after having informed him that I was in need of a very great quantity, perhaps a thousand reams or more, I beat down from 50 to 40 roubles, from 40 to 35, and it is probable that I may be able to obtain a large quantity at 30. I must inform you that I also employed two agents, and we three going various ways have ascertained that the necessary paper may be procured for between 30 and 40 roubles per ream, paper of as good a quality--nay, better than that on which the Gospel of St. Matthew was printed, and that for which 100 roubles were demanded at Peterhof. It is therefore now time for the Committee to come to a decision respecting the number of copies to be printed, and I wish it to be borne in mind that the price of the paper per ream in some degree depends upon the quantity required. I do not think it possible to obtain any where paper of a similar quality at a less price than 30 or 35 roubles; for the specimens which I have obtained are very beautiful, and a work printed on such paper need not be ashamed to show its face amongst the most fastidious Tartars and Chinese. To print the Testament on common paper would certainly not be advisable, as in that case the probability is that notwithstanding the reverence of those singular people for written or printed characters, the sacred volume, if put into their hands, would be destroyed. I am in conformity with your expressed desire getting every thing into readiness for commencing printing, and therefore earnestly beg for a speedy communication, informing me how much paper I am to bespeak, and in what manner I am to pay for it. I must here observe that in all dealings within Russia the purchaser must have his money ready in his hand; consequently, if I am authorised to purchase any quantity of paper, I must have a letter of credit upon some firm here resident, that I may be able to pay for the article immediately upon its delivery. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. P.S.--With respect to the paper, if purchased; would you have me deliver the whole of it into the printer's hands at once, or should a small apartment be hired in which to keep part of it until wanted? In this country the wisdom of the serpent is quite as necessary as the innocence of the dove. To J. Thornton, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. July 22nd, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, _June_ 27_th_, 1834. SIR,--Having drawn upon Messrs. Simondsen and Company of St. Petersburg for the sum of 2000 roubles (two thousand roubles) as a deposit upon an order for 450 reams of Chinese paper, at _twenty-five roubles_ per ream, I have to request that you will honour their draft to the like amount. I remain, Sir, yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Our types are in the hands of the printer, they have been cleaned and set in order. St. Matthew's Gospel has been corrected, and the work of printing commences next week. Most truly yours, G. B. To John Jackson, Esq. _Octr._ 1 (old style), 1834, ST. PETERSBURG. MY DEAR SIR,--I am exceedingly sorry that you should have had the trouble of writing to me to no purpose; for in respect to the letter, which it seems by your favour of the 29th ult. you committed to a private hand to be forwarded to me, I beg leave to state that I have never received it, or heard anything of it. I must earnestly intreat that in future all letters relating to business be despatched by the regular post, otherwise great inconvenience and misunderstanding will be the result. Private individuals seldom give themselves the slightest trouble to deliver letters. If they chance to fall in with the persons for whom they are intended--well and good! if not, the letters are flung aside and forgotten. In respect to the monies furnished me by our friend Mr. Tarn for my journey I have sent an account of the disbursement on the other side, and also of what I have expended already upon the Mandchou New Testament, of which _St. Matthew's Gospel has been completed and St. Mark's entered upon_. I remain, my dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To J. Tarn, Esq., _Under-Treasurer of the British and Foreign Bible Society_. Account of the disbursement of certain monies received by me for my journey to St. Petersburg in the service of the B. S.:-- Received of Mr. Tarn (if I mistake not) 30 pounds, and 7 pounds, making together 37 pounds. Paid for fare to Hamburg by steam-boat, diet not included, 7 pounds, 0s 0d For expenses of conveying myself and baggage to the custom-house wharf, and of getting on board, 0 pounds, 6s, 0d Carry forward, 7 pounds, 6s, 0d Brought forward 7 pounds, 6s, 0d Expenses on board the packet, viz. diet, servants, and baggage fees at Stade on the Hanoverian coast, 1 pound, 9s, 0d Expenses attending my landing at Hamburg, conveyg. baggage to the hotel, etc., 0 pounds, 5s, 0d Expenses on the day of my arrival, for medical advice, physic, etc., having been seized by severe illness, 0 pounds, 7s, 0d Expenses during three days' sojourn at Hamburg, viz. for lodging, diet, and _valet de place_, 1 pound, 19s, 0d Expenses of journey to Lubeck, namely hire of calash, driver, etc., 1 pound, 10s, 0d Expenses of two days' sojourn at Lubeck, 1 pound, 7s, 0d Expenses for removal of baggage to the river-side and journey down the river Trave to steam-boat at Travemunde, 0 pounds, 7s, 0d Fare from Travemunde to St. Petersburg, diet not included, 1 pound, 0s, 0d For diet, servants, etc., 1 pound, 17s, 6d Total, 27 pounds, 7s, 6d Surplus of money, 9 pounds, 12s, 6d From which surplus of 9 pounds, 12s. 6d. are to be deducted 7 pounds, 4s., or the salary of twelve days not drawn for, which twelve days were spent in the journey. The salary commencing from the hour of embarcation. Surplus due to Mr. Tarn, 2 pounds, 8s, 6d MY DEAR SIR,--At the expiration of this quarter I shall draw for the sum of 47 pounds, 11s. 6d. instead of the usual 50 pounds, whereby my account with you will be liquidated. I have, according to your suggestion when we parted, deducted the salary of the days passed in journeying from the money which I received from you, Messrs. Simondsen having received advice to pay me from the day of my arrival at St. Petersburg, whereas by the words of my agreement (see books) the salary commences from the time of embarcation. I believe, previous to my departure, that I accounted to you for the sums advanced for passports. I have had the good fortune, as I suppose you are aware, to procure for 25 roubles per ream the paper for which I was originally asked 60, and of which previously the very lowest price has ever been 35. This paper is far superior to that for which the Society formerly paid 40 (and which was not dear at 40), being far stronger and more glossy. You will particularly oblige me by taking care that Messrs. Simondsen's drafts are honored without the slightest delay. If I were unable to pay for the paper at the stated time I should probably be arrested, and, what would be far more lamentable, the contract with the merchants would be broken; and upon a fresh contract I could not obtain the paper in question for less than 60 roubles per ream, for the winter has already come upon us, during which most of the paper manufactories are at a stand-still, and an order for paper would be consequently given under every possible disadvantage. I have forwarded, according to your desire, an account of the sums of money hitherto drawn for, and of the manner in which they have been disbursed. I intended to have reserved my account for Christmas, by which season I hope, with the blessing of God, to have brought out the four Gospels. Excuse these hasty lines, and believe me, dear Sir, ever yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Nov. 10th, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, _Oct._ 8 [old style], 1834. I have just received your most kind epistle, the perusal of which has given me both pain and pleasure--pain that from unavoidable circumstances I have been unable to gratify eager expectation, and pleasure that any individual should have been considerate enough to foresee my situation and to make allowance for it. The nature of my occupations during the last two months and a half has been such as would have entirely unfitted me for correspondence, had I been aware that it was necessary, which, on my sacred word, I was not. Now, and only now, when by the blessing of God I have surmounted all my troubles and difficulties, I will tell, and were I not a Christian I should be proud to tell, what I have been engaged upon and accomplished during the last ten weeks. I have been working in the printing-office, as a common compositor, between ten and thirteen hours every day during that period; the result of this is that St. Matthew's Gospel, printed from such a copy as I believe nothing was ever printed from before, has been brought out in the Mandchou language; two rude Esthonian peasants, who previously could barely compose with decency in a plain language which they spoke and were accustomed to, have received such instruction that with ease they can each compose at the rate of a sheet a day in the Mandchou, perhaps the most difficult language for composition in the whole world; considerable progress has also been made in St. Mark's Gospel, and I will venture to promise, provided always the Almighty smiles upon the undertaking, that the entire work of which I have the superintendence will be published within eight months from the present time. Now, therefore, with the premise that I most unwillingly speak of myself and what I have done and suffered for some time past, all of which I wished to keep locked up in my own breast, I will give a regular and circumstantial account of my proceedings from the day when I received your letter, by which I was authorised by the Committee to bespeak paper, engage with a printer, and cause our type to be set in order. My first care was to endeavour to make suitable arrangements for the obtaining of Chinese paper. Now those who reside in England, the most civilised and blessed of countries, where everything is to be obtained at a fair price, have not the slightest idea of the anxiety and difficulty which, in a country like this, harass the foreigner who has to disburse money not his own, if he wish that his employers be not shamefully and outrageously imposed upon. In my last epistle to you I stated that I had been asked 100 roubles per ream for such paper as we wanted. I likewise informed you that I believed that it was possible to procure it for 35 roubles, notwithstanding our Society had formerly paid 40 roubles for worse paper than the samples I was in possession of. Now I have always been of opinion than in the expending of money collected for sacred purposes, it behoves the agent to be extraordinarily circumspect and sparing. I therefore was determined, whatever trouble it might cost me, to procure for the Society unexceptionable paper at a yet more reasonable rate than 35 roubles. I was aware, that an acquaintance of mine, a young Dane, was particularly intimate with one of the first printers of this city, who is accustomed to purchase vast quantities of paper every month for his various publications. I gave this young gentleman a specimen of the paper I required, and desired him (he was under obligations to me) to enquire of his friend, _as if from curiosity_, the least possible sum per ream at which the _printer himself_ (who from his immense demand for paper should necessarily obtain it cheaper than any one else) could expect to purchase the article in question. The answer I received within a day or two was 25 roubles. Upon hearing this I prevailed upon my acquaintance to endeavour to persuade his friend to bespeak the paper at 25 roubles, and to allow me, notwithstanding I was a perfect stranger, to have it at that price. All this was brought about. I was introduced to the printer, Mr. Pluchard, by the Dane, Mr. Hasfeldt, and between the former gentleman and myself a contract was made to the effect that by the end of October he should supply me with 450 reams of Chinese paper at 25 roubles per ream, the first delivery to be made on the 1st of August; for as my order was given at an advanced period of the year, when all the paper manufactories were at full work towards the executing of orders already received, it was but natural that I should verify the old apophthegm, 'Last come, last served.' As no orders are attended to in Russia unless money be advanced upon them, I deposited in the hands of Mr. Pluchard the sum of 2000 roubles, receiving his receipt for that amount. Having arranged this most important matter to my satisfaction, I turned my attention to the printing process. I accepted the offer of Messrs. Schultz and Beneze to compose and print the Mandchou Testament at the rate of 25 roubles per sheet, and caused our fount of type to be conveyed to their office. I wish to say here a few words respecting the state in which these types came into my possession. I found them in a kind of warehouse, or rather cellar. They had been originally confined in two cases; but these having burst, the type lay on the floor trampled amidst mud and filth. They were, moreover, not improved by having been immersed within the waters of the inundation of '27 [1824]. I caused them all to be collected and sent to their destination, where they were purified and arranged--a work of no small time and difficulty, at which I was obliged to assist. Not finding with the type what is called 'Durchschuss' by the printers here, consisting of leaden wedges of about six ounces weight each, which form the spaces between the lines, I ordered 120 pounds weight of those at a rouble a pound, being barely enough for three sheets. I had now to teach the compositors the Mandchou alphabet, and to distinguish one character from another. This occupied a few days, at the end of which I gave them the commencement of St. Matthew's Gospel to copy. They no sooner saw the work they were called upon to perform than there were loud murmurs of dissatisfaction, and . . . [four Russian words] which means 'It is quite impossible to do the like,' was the cry--and no wonder. The original printed Gospel had been so interlined and scribbled upon by the author in a hand so obscure and irregular, that, accustomed as I was to the perusal of the written Mandchou, it was not without the greatest difficulty that I could decipher the new matter myself. Moreover, the corrections had been so carelessly made that they themselves required far more correction than the original matter. I was therefore obliged to be continually in the printing-office, and to do three parts of the work myself. For some time I found it necessary to select every character with my own fingers, and to deliver it to the compositor, and by so doing I learnt myself to compose. We continued in this way till all our characters were exhausted, for no paper had arrived. For two weeks and more we were obliged to pause, the want of paper being insurmountable. At the end of this period came six reams; but partly from the manufacturers not being accustomed to make this species of paper, and partly from the excessive heat of the weather which caused it to dry too fast, only one ream and a half could be used, and this was not enough for one sheet; the rest I refused to take, and sent back. The next week came fifteen reams. This paper, from the same causes, was as bad as the last. I selected four reams, and sent the rest back. But this paper enabled us to make a beginning, which we did not fail to do, though we received no more for upwards of a fortnight, which caused another pause. At the end of that time, owing to my pressing remonstrances and entreaties, a regular supply of about twelve reams per week of most excellent paper commenced. This continued until we had composed the last five sheets of St. Matthew, when some paper arrived which in my absence was received by Mr. Beneze, who, without examining it, as was his duty, delivered it to the printers to use in the printing of the said sheets, who accordingly printed upon part of it. But the next day, when my occupation permitted me to see what they were about, I observed that the last paper was of a quality very different from that which had been previously sent. I accordingly instantly stopped the press, and, notwithstanding eight reams had been printed upon, I sent all the strange paper back, and caused Mr. Beneze to recompose three sheets, which had been broken up, at his own expense. But this caused the delay of another week. This last circumstance made me determine not to depend in future for paper on one manufactory alone. I therefore stated to Mr. P[luchard] that, as his people were unable to furnish me with the article fast enough, I should apply to others for 250 reams, and begged him to supply me with the rest as fast as possible. He made no objection. Thereupon I prevailed upon my most excellent friend, Baron Schilling, to speak to his acquaintance, State-Councillor Alquin, who is possessed of a paper manufactory, on the subject. M. Alquin, as a personal favour to Baron Schilling (whom, I confess, I was ashamed to trouble upon such an affair, and should never have done so had not zeal for the _cause_ induced me), consented to furnish me with the required paper on the same terms as Mr. P. At present there is not the slightest risk of the progress of our work being retarded--at present, indeed, the path is quite easy; but the trouble, anxiety, and misery which have till lately harassed me, _alone_ in a situation of great responsibility, have almost reduced me to a skeleton. My dearest Sir, do me the favour to ask our excellent Committee, Would it have answered any useful purpose if, instead of continuing to struggle with difficulties and using my utmost to overcome them, I had written in the following strain--and what else could I have written if I had written at all?--'I was sent out to St. Petersburg to assist Mr. Lipoftsoff in the editing of the Mandchou Testament. That gentleman, _who holds three important situations under the Russian Government_, _and who is far advanced in years_, has neither time, inclination, or eyesight for the task, and I am apprehensive that my strength and powers unassisted are incompetent to it' (praised be the Lord, they were not!), 'therefore I should be glad to return home. Moreover the compositors say that they are unaccustomed to compose in an unknown tongue from such scribbled and illegible copy, and they will scarcely assist me to compose. Moreover the working printers say (several went away in disgust) that the paper on which they have to print is too thin to be wetted, and that to print on dry requires a two-fold exertion of strength, and that they will not do such work for double wages, for it ruptures them.' Would that have been a welcome communication to the Committee? Would that have been a communication suited to the public? I was resolved 'to do or die,' and, instead of distressing and perplexing the Committee with complaints, to write nothing until I could write something perfectly satisfactory, as I now can; and to bring about that result I have spared neither myself nor my own money. I have toiled in a close printing-office the whole day, during 90 degrees of heat, for the purpose of setting an example, and have bribed people to work whom nothing but bribes would induce so to do. I am obliged to say all this in self-justification. No member of the Bible Society would ever have heard a syllable respecting what I have undergone but for the question, 'What has Mr. Borrow been about?' I hope and trust that question is now answered to the satisfaction of those who do Mr. Borrow the honour to employ him. In respect to the expense attending the editing of such a work as the New Testament in Mandchou, I beg leave to observe that I have obtained the paper, the principal source of expense, at fifteen roubles per ream less than the Society paid formerly for it--that is to say, at nearly half the price. As St. Matthew's Gospel has been ready for some weeks, it is high time that it should be bound; for if that process be delayed, the paper with be dirtied and the work injured. I am sorry to inform you that book-binding in Russia is incredibly dear, and that the expenses attending the binding of the Testament would amount, were the usual course pursued, to two-thirds of the entire expenses of the work. Various book-binders to whom I have applied have demanded one rouble and a half for the binding of every section of the work, so that the sum required for the binding of one Testament alone would be twelve roubles. Dr. Schmidt assured me that one rouble and forty copecks, or, according to the English currency, fourteenpence halfpenny, were formerly paid for the binding of every individual copy of St. Matthew's Gospel. I pray you, my dear Sir, to cause the books to be referred to, for I wish to know if that statement be correct. In the meantime arrangements have been made, and the Society will have to pay for each volume of the Testament the comparatively small sum of forty-five copecks, or fourpence halfpenny, whereas the usual price here for the most paltry covering of the most paltry pamphlet is fivepence. Should it be demanded how I have been able to effect this, my reply is that I have had little hand in the matter. A nobleman, who honours me with particular friendship, and who is one of the most illustrious ornaments of Russia and of Europe, has, at my request, prevailed on his own book-binder, over whom he has much influence, to do the work on these terms. That nobleman is Baron Schilling. Commend me to our most respected Committee. Assure them that in whatever I have done or left undone, I have been influenced by a desire to promote the glory of the Trinity and to give my employers ultimate and permanent satisfaction. If I have erred, it has been from a defect of judgment, and I ask pardon of God and them. In the course of a week I shall write again, and give a further account of my proceedings, for I have not communicated one-tenth of what I have to impart; but I can write no more now. It is two hours past midnight. The post goes away to-morrow, and against that morrow I have to examine and correct three sheets of St. Mark's Gospel, which lie beneath the paper on which I am writing. With my best regards to Mr. Brandram, I remain, dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. _P.S._--I wrote to Mr. Jackson and Mr. Tarn last week. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Nov. 14, 1834) ST. PETERSBURG, _Oct._ 13_th_ (old style) 1834. REVEREND AND DEAR SIR,--In pursuance of the promise given in my epistle of last week, which I trust in the Lord you have received, I again address you. In the first place I must intreat you to peruse and to read to the Committee the enclosed Latin certificate penned by Mr. Lipoftsoff, a gentleman as little inclined to be prodigal of praise, as was of old the learned Scaliger himself, to whom in many points indeed, he bears no faint resemblance. In the second place, I must inform you that a few hurried lines are all that I can afford to write at present; my proof sheets are rushing in so fast that time is exceedingly precious to me, and I grudge every moment that is not devoted to my Maker or to my great undertaking. Before this letter reaches you St. Mark's Gospel will have passed through the press. The two remaining Gospels will be printed before the arrival of Christmas, and by the first of May the entire New Testament, in the Mandchou language, will have been published. I wish this intelligence to be communicated to the public, who are at liberty, provided the Lord does not visit me with some heavy affliction, to hold me culpable, if my assertion is belied by the event. It is true that were I to pursue the common practice of editors, it would be impossible to complete the work in less than two years; the quantity of proofs, successively required for every sheet, fail not, in general, to retard the progress of all such undertakings. My beloved friend Mr. Swan published in this city a small tract in Mongolian; he found that it was absolutely necessary to demand six proofs of every sheet, for in the second, nay the third proof, there were frequently as many errors as in the first, from the compositors not being able properly to read the corrections. But I never entrust the task of making alterations in the press to other hands than my own. Having corrected the first proof at home, I proceed to the printing office and rectify all errors myself. I consequently never require more than two proofs; the second, which I generally show to Mr. Lipoftsoff, is frequently faultless. I am so perfectly convinced of the excellence of this plan, that it is my firm intention to pursue it in whatever foreign, or even English works, it may be my destiny to edit. I wish now to say a few words upon a subject, on which I have previously said something. At the present moment my principal inducement to such a step is the observation every now and then made to me, both by Christians and no Christians, namely: 'You are printing Testaments for which you will never find readers. Do not tell us that you can distribute them at Canton and its environs, or on the coasts of China; there are not ten individuals amongst a million of the aboriginal Chinese, and such constitute the inhabitants of Canton, of the coasts and of the isles, who understand the language in which your Testaments are printed. If you wish for readers you must seek them amongst the masters of Pekin and the fierce hordes of desert Tartary; but what means do you possess for introducing them to Tartary or Pekin?' I stated in a former letter that the town of Kiachta, upon the northern frontier of China, appeared to me to be in many respects a suitable head-quarters for any person on whom might devolve the task of endeavouring to supply the Mandchou Tartars with the word of life in their own language. I am still of opinion, and so are many individuals much more experienced than myself, that if a passport could be obtained from the Russian Government, the Bible Society would do well in despatching an agent to Kiachta, to see what might be done at, or rather from, that place in the great cause. Kiachta is little more than 800 miles from Pekin, and not more than half that distance from Manjuria; he might therefore, trusting in the Lord, not unreasonably hope to be able to penetrate to the Tartar of the capital and the desert. True it is that his undertaking would not 'come within the limits of safe and prudent speculation.' But is it possible for a plan to come within the limits of safe speculation, which has in view the conversion of the Tartar? Far be it from me to advise that the entire stock of Testaments be hazarded in such an enterprise; 200 is the extreme number which should be ventured, the others shipped for England, for a seizure upon the agent and his books would be no improbable event. I am a person of few words, and will therefore state without circumlocution that I am willing to become that agent. I speak Russ, Mandchou, and the Tartar or broken Turkish of the Russian steppes, and have also some knowledge of Chinese, which I might easily improve at Kiachta, half of the inhabitants of which town are Chinamen. I am therefore not altogether unqualified for such an adventure. Were the attempt to be made, the winter of the ensuing year would be the proper time for starting, because the book will not be ready before next spring, and the expenses of a summer journey would be enormous. A few days since, upon taking leave of Prince Abbas Khoulgi, who has departed from this place to his patrimonial territories, near the Caucasus, I presented him with a Testament in the Russian-Tartar language, which is his native tongue. He is without one exception the most interesting man I have ever met. Though by religion a Mahometan he is totally divested of the blind bigotry which so peculiarly characterises the followers of the Camel-driver-warrior-pseudo-prophet, but on the contrary is possessed of a mind ever restless in the pursuit of truth, and which will doubtless eventually lead him to the narrow path which leadeth unto salvation. The Testament which he received from me was the very last, in the Tartar language, which remained in the shop at which are sold the publications of what was once the Russian Bible Society. It is a sad fact that though there are upwards of three thousand Tartars in St. Petersburg, most of whom can read and write the Turkish dialect which they speak, not one Testament is at hand suited to their understandings. I have formed many acquaintances among these most singular people, whose language I have acquired, during my residence in the Russian capital, chiefly from conversing with my servant Mahomet Djaffier, a native of Bucharia, son of the Iman or Mahometan priest of this place. Notwithstanding the superstition and fanaticism of these men I am much attached to them; for their conscientiousness, honesty, and fidelity are beyond all praise. They stand in strong contrast with the lower orders of the Russians, a good-natured, lowly-vicious, wavering race, easily excited, easily soothed; whilst the former are sedate, sober, temperate beings, with minds like Egyptian granite, from which it is no easy matter to efface an impression, once made. How lamentable that such people should in the all-important matter of religion have embraced error instead of truth; what ornaments they would prove at the present day to Christianity, if, instead of Mahometanism, Christianity had originally come in their way! Of a surety they would reflect much more lustre on the religion of Christ than millions whose deeds and behaviour are more worthy of the followers of the impostor than of Him 'in whose mouth was found no craft or subtlety.' I have much more to write and wish so to do, but I have really no time. It is probable that you will not hear from me again before Christmas (old style), but I entreat _you_ to inform me as soon as possible whether my proceedings give satisfaction or not; but I must here take the liberty of stating that if I were moved one inch from my own course, the consequences might prove disastrous to the work, as I should instantly lose all power of exertion. I want no assistance but that of God, and will accept of none. Pray, I beseech you, that _That_ be granted. You would, my dear Sir, be conferring a great favour upon me, if you would so far trouble yourself as to write a few lines to my venerated friend Mr. Cunningham of Lowestoft, informing him that I am tolerably well, and that the work is going on most prosperously. I remain, Reverend and dear Sir, Your most humble and obliged servant, GEORGE BORROW. P.S.--Baron Schilling wishes to have a Chinese Testament of the large edition: pray, send one if possible, and direct it to me at the Sarepta House. Be particular to remember that it must be of the large edition, for he has one of the small already in his possession. He wishes likewise to have Gutzlaff and Lindsay's Voyages. _Enclosed in the letter is the following certificate_. Testifico-- Dominum Burro ab initio usque ad hoc tempus summa cum deligentia et studio in re Mantshurica laborasse. LIPOVZOFF. To J. Tarn, Esq. ST. PETERSBURG, _Decr._ 15/27, 1834. On the other side I send an account of the money disbursed since the period of my last writing to you until the present moment. In respect to the 75 roubles charged for the reprinting of three sheets of St. Matthew, I beg leave to observe, that after several sheets of that Gospel had been printed, after the same manner as that adopted in the first edition, Mr. Lipoftsoff, the Censor, gave me notice that he had determined that the position of the vowel-points should be altered; and I did not think proper to make any opposition. But as common-sense informed me that it was by no means expedient to exhibit two systems of pointing in the same work, I subsequently caused the first sheets to be reprinted. I think it necessary to offer this short explanation to prevent any misunderstanding; for this superfluous expense must be attributed to the Censor's not knowing originally his own mind, and not to any negligence on my part. I am so pressed for time that I have not been able to refer to my last account, which lies buried amongst the ocean of my papers, and in stating that I retained in hand 123 roubles, I have merely trusted to memory and calculation; but I am sure the Committee and yourself will excuse my little inaccuracy, when I state my situation. My two compositors, whom I had instructed in all the mysteries of Mandchou composition, are in the hospital down with the brain fever, for every kind of sickness is at present raging in this place; and during the last three days I have been running about in all directions in quest of people to fill their situation, until they recover. Thanks be to the Lord, I have discovered and engaged the person who composed the first Mandchou Gospel of St. Matthew, ten years since; and as next week I shall again station myself in the printing office for the purpose of assisting and instructing, the great work will not be delayed, and in a fortnight or ten days I trust to be able, provided an opportunity occurs, to transmit to England copies of the four Gospels. With my best rewards to Mr. Brandram and Mr. Jowett (whose last letter I have received), I remain, etc., GEORGE BORROW. To J. Tarn, Esq. ST. PETERSBURG, _Feb._ 1, 1835. The last account which I had the honour of transmitting to you detailed expenses in the editing of the Mandchou Testament as far as the first two sheets of St. John. That Gospel having by the blessing of the Almighty passed through the press, and a copy of it bound, and also copies of the three other Gospels, having been forwarded to London, I snatch a moment from my occupation to give an account of my late outgoings, the sums drawn for having been considerable on account of my having many and large bills to discharge. When I last wrote, I retained in hand 75 roubles 50 copecks, of the sum of 3500 drawn for; since which sum I have drawn for the separate sums of 5000 and 500 according to the books of the Sarepta House. I had advanced to the printer in consequence of the illness of his compositors the sum of 250, which being deducted from the 5000 I shall, in order to prevent confusion, take no notice of, and proceed to give an account of the disbursement of R. C. 5575 50 11 Jany. 4125 1835, paid Mr. Pluchard for one hundred and sixty-five reams of paper at 25R. per ream 27 Dec. 450 1834, paid Mr. Lauffert for the binding of St. Matthew Do. for 2 10 chests to contain St. Matthew Jan. 2, 200 1835, to printer for 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 of St. John Do. for 60 printing 6000 titles, being sufft. for 6 of the 8 parts of the Test. Jany. 9, 150 from 10 to 16 of St. John Do. for the 4 casting of 6 large type, for titles, not in Baron Schilling's colln., the rest being furnished by him Do. 16. 150 From 16 to 22 of St. John Do. 22. To 450 Mr. Lauffert for bindg. St. Mark's Gospel Chests 10 Do. 22,. 22 112 50 5721 50 to 26 and a half of St. John The Society 146R. 0C. are therefore at the present moment further indebted to me Should you discover at any time any inaccuracy in the accounts which I transmit, you will much oblige me by instantly making me acquainted with the same, in order that a satisfactory explanation may be given. The sacrifice of time to the correction of the manuscript and proof-sheets scarcely allows me a moment's leisure, and I am moreover compelled to superintend the printers and book-binders, for everything goes wrong without a strict surveillance. By the time these lines reach you the Acts of the Apostles (the Lord willing) will have passed through the press. Next week I hope to write to the Revd. J. Jowett. I remain, etc., G. BORROW. P.S.--I believe that the seven shillings may be accounted for in this manner. I charged seven _pounds_ for my passage to Hamburg, whereas I paid seven _guineas_. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. March 23, 1835) ST. PETERSBURG, _Febry._ 20 [old style], 1835. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I take advantage of the period of the Russian Carnival, during which all business is at a stand-still, to transmit to you some account of the manner in which I have been engaged, since the time when I last addressed myself to you. True it is, that I have not much to communicate; for the history of one day is that of a week, and a month; and when I state that the printing of the Mandchou New Testament is advancing rapidly to a conclusion, I shall have stated all I can of much importance; but as you and our excellent friends at home have a right to demand particulars, I will endeavour to be as particular as lies within my power. About a month since I placed in the hands of Baron Schilling bound copies of the first four parts of the Testament, the Gospels; he having kindly promised to cause them to be conveyed to London by one of the couriers belonging to the Foreign Department, to which the Baron is attached. I have reason to believe, however, that you have not received them yet, as I have been informed that they remained in Petersburg some weeks after they had been deposited in the Foreign Office; but in this respect I am not culpable; and having no direct means of sending packets to London, I am glad to embrace any which may come in my way, especially those not attended with expense to the Society. In the mean time, I wish to inform you that I am at present occupied on the last sheets of the fifth volume of the Testament, namely, the Acts of the Apostles, in getting which through the press I have experienced much difficulty, partly from the illness of my compositors, and partly from the manner in which the translation was originally executed, which has rendered much modification highly necessary. How I have been enabled to maintain terms of friendship and familiarity with Mr. Lipoftsoff, and yet fulfil the part which those who employ me expect me to fulfil, I am much at a loss to conjecture; and yet such is really the case. It is at all times dangerous to find fault with the style and composition of authors and translators, even when they come to your door to ask for your advice and assistance. You may easily conceive then, that my situation has been one of treble peril. Mr. L. is the Censor of his own work, and against the Censor's fiat in Russia there is no appeal; he is moreover a gentleman whom the slightest contradiction never fails to incense to a most incredible degree; and being a strict member of the Greek Sclavonian Church, imagines that the revealed word and will of the Supreme are only to be found in the Sclavonian Scriptures, from which he made his Mandchou version. Yet whenever anything has displeased me in his translation, I have frankly told him my opinion; and in almost every instance (and the instances have been innumerable: for in translations of the sacred writings omissions and additions must ever be avoided) he has suffered himself to be persuaded to remodel what he originally concluded to be perfect, and which perhaps he still does. So that in what has been hitherto printed of the Testament, there is little, if any thing, with which any one but a professed caviller can find fault. I confess that in one instance I have not been able to carry my point; though I assure you that I did not yield until I found that it was absolutely of no avail to offer any further opposition. For although I was convinced that Mr. L. was wrong, and I think when I state the particulars that you will be of my opinion, he had on his side the Chinese scholars of St. Petersburg, Baron Schilling amongst the rest, and moreover being Censor he could have prohibited the work from proceeding if I had been too obstinate. I will tell you the ground of dispute; for why should I conceal it? Mr. L., amongst what he called his improvements of the translation, thought proper, when the Father Almighty is addressed, to erase the personal and possessive pronouns _thou_ or _thine_, as often as they occur, and in their stead to make use of the noun as the case may require. For example, 'O Father, thou art merciful,' he would render, 'O Father! the Father is merciful'; 'Our Father which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,' by 'Our . . . may the name of the Father be made holy, may the kingdom of the Father come, may the will of the Father be done on earth,' etc. I of course objected to this, and enquired what reason he had for having recourse to so much tautology. He replied that he had the best of reasons; for that amongst the Chinese and Tartars none but the dregs of society were ever addressed in the second person; and that it would be most uncouth and indecent to speak to the Almighty as if He were a servant or a slave. I told him that Christians, when they address their Creator, do not address Him as if He were a great gentleman or illustrious personage, but rather as children their father, with a mixture of reverence and love; and that this mixture of reverence and love was one of the most characteristic traits of Christianity. But he said that in China children never address their parent in this manner; and that it was contrary to all received usage; and that in speaking to a parent the children observe the same respectful formula of phraseology as in addressing an Emperor or Viceroy. I then observed that our object in sending the Bible into China was not to encourage the Chinese in any of their customs or observances, but rather to wean them from them; and that however startling any expression in the Bible might prove to them at first, it was our hope and trust that it would eventually cease to be disagreeable and extraordinary, and that the Chinese were at present in a state which required stirring and powerful medicine, medicine which must necessarily be disagreeable to the palate to prove beneficial in another quarter. However, he said that I talked '_pustota_' (emptiness or nonsense), and as he was not to be moved, I was compelled to acquiesce with his dictum. This occurred some months since, and I rejoice to see in the last letter with which you favoured me a fortuitous corroboration of my views on this subject. I allude to that part of your letter where you state that you do not desire the Chinese to consider the Bible the work of a Chinese, etc. Nor do I; and throughout the progress of the work I have collated every sheet with the Greek Testament, and whenever I have found anything still adhering to the translation which struck me as not being faithful to the original, I have invariably modified it, so that, with the exception of the one instance above mentioned, I can safely assert that the Word of God has been rendered into Mandchou as nearly and closely as the idiom of a very singular language would permit. I have now received and paid for, as you will perceive by my accompts, 495 reams of paper, which will be barely sufficient for the work, which will consist of eight parts, instead of seven, as we at first supposed. I take the liberty of requesting that when the books arrive you will examine the texture of the paper on which they are printed. Mr. L. is exceedingly pleased with it, and says that it is superior to the paper of the first edition of St. Matthew by at least ten roubles per ream; and that it is calculated to endure for 200 years. It certainly does possess uncommon strength and consistency, notwithstanding its tenuity, and the difficulty of tearing it is remarkable. By my direction it received a slight tinge of yellow, as no books are printed in China upon paper entirely colourless. I must be permitted to say that the manner in which the book-binder, Mr. Lauffert, is performing his task is above all praise; but he has been accustomed for many years to this kind of work, the greatest part of Baron Schilling's immense collection of Chinese works having been bound by him. We may esteem ourselves very fortunate in having met with a person so competent to the task, and whose terms are so remarkably reasonable. Any other book-binder in St. Petersburg would have refused double the price at which he has executed this important part of the work, and had they undertaken the affair, would probably have executed it in a manner which would have exposed the book to the scorn and laughter of the people for whom it is intended. A few months since I saw Mr. Glen, the missionary from Astracan, as he passed through St. Petersburg on his return to England. He is a very learned man, but of very simple and unassuming manners. The doom which had been pronounced upon his translation seems to have deeply affected him; but he appears to me to labour under a very great error respecting the motives which induced the Editorial Committee to reject his work, or at least to hesitate upon publishing it. He assured me that all that was urged against it was the use, here and there, of Arabic words, which in a language like the Persian, which on an original foundation exhibits a superstructure nearly one moiety of which is Arabic, is unavoidable. As I was totally unacquainted with the facts of the case, I said nothing upon the subject; but I now suspect, from a few words dropped in your letter, that the objection is founded not on the use of Arabic words, but on attempts at _improving_ or _adorning_ the simplicity of the Bible. However this may be, there can be no doubt that Mr. Glen is a Persian scholar of the first water. Mirza Achmed, a Persian gentleman now living at St. Petersburg, who resided some time at Astracan, informed me that he had seen the translation, and that the language was highly elegant; but whether or not the translation was faithful, and such as a translation of the sacred volume ought to be, he of course was entirely ignorant; he could merely speak as to the excellence of the Persian. Mirza Djaffar also, the Persian professor here, spoke much to the same effect. Mr. Stallybrass, the Siberian missionary, is at present here on his way to England, whither he is conducting his two sons, for the purpose of placing them in some establishment, where they may receive a better education than it is possible for him to give them in Siberia. I have seen him several times, and have heard him preach once at the Sarepta House. He is a clever, well-informed man, and in countenance and manner much like Mr. Swan--which similarity may perhaps be accounted for by their long residence under the same roof; for people who are in the habit of conversing together every day insensibly assume each other's habits, manner of speaking, and expression of countenance. Mr. Stallybrass's youngest son, a lad of fifteen, shows marks of talent which may make him useful in the missionary field for which he is intended. The most surprising instance of precocious talent that I have ever seen, or ever heard of, is exhibited in a young nobleman, who visits me every day. He is the eldest son of Count Fredro, Marshal of the Imperial Court, and though only fourteen years of age, speaks eight languages perfectly well, is a good Grecian and Latinist, is one of the best draftsmen in Russia, is well acquainted with physics, botany, geography, and history, and to crown all, has probably the most beautiful voice that ever mortal was gifted with. A admirable _Chrishna_ again by metempsychosis; the religion of the family, with whom I am very intimate, is the Romish. I now and then attend the service of the Armenian Church, for the purpose of perfecting myself in the language, and have formed many acquaintances amongst the congregation: there are several very clever and very learned Armenians in this place; one of them I will particularly mention, a little elderly gentleman of the name of Kudobashoff, who is the best Armenian scholar at present in existence. He is on the eve of publishing a work, calculated to be very interesting to us: an Armenian and Russian Dictionary, on which he has been occupied for the space of thirty-seven years, and which will be of the highest assistance to any future editor of the Armenian Scriptures; and be it known, that no place in Europe, with perhaps the exception of Venice, offers more advantages to the editing of the A.S. than St. Petersburg. I will now conclude, and repeat the assurance that I am ready to attempt anything which the Society may wish me to execute; and, at a moment's warning, will direct my course towards Canton, Pekin, or the court of the Grand Lama. With my best respects to Mr. Brandram, I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. To J. Tarn, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. May, 1835) ST. PETERSBURG, _April_ 28th [old style], 1835. I send you an account of monies spent in the editing of the Acts of the Apostles and the first volume of the Epistles. I beg leave at the same time to acknowledge the receipt of Mr. Jackson's letter. I am sorry that any mistake should have occurred, but the cause of the one in question was, that at the time I last wrote to you, I was unable to refer to my previous account; however, the mistake now stands rectified. I take this opportunity of informing you that I shall be obliged to order sixty or seventy more reams of paper, as the quantity which I at present possess will not be sufficient to complete the work. You will see the reason of this in the account which I now send you. In the first volume of the Epistles there are forty-three sheets, and in the second there will be nearly the same number; these two volumes in thickness will be equal to three of the previous parts. During the last month I have experienced great difficulty in keeping the printers at work on account of the festivals of the season, but I am glad to say that I have never failed to obtain six sheets every week. I have received the Revd. Mr. Jowett's letter, and shall write to him in a few days. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. June 1, 1835) _May_ 3, 1835 [old style], ST. PETERSBURG. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write a few hasty lines for the purpose of informing you that I shall not be able to obtain a passport for Siberia, except on the condition that I carry not one single Mandchou Bible thither. The Russian Government is too solicitous to maintain a good understanding with that of China to encourage any project at which the latter could take umbrage. Therefore pray inform me to what place I am to despatch the Bibles. I have had some thoughts of embarking the first five parts without delay to England, but I have forborne from an unwillingness to do anything which I was not commanded to do. By the time I receive your answer everything will be in readiness, or nearly so, to be forwarded wherever the Committee shall judge expedient. I wish also to receive orders respecting what is to be done with the types. I should be sorry if they were to be abandoned in the same manner as before, for it is possible that at some future time they may prove eminently useful. As for myself, I suppose I must return to England, as my task will be speedily completed. I hope the Society are convinced that I have served them faithfully, and that I have spared no labour to bring out the work, which they did me the honour of confiding to me, correctly and within as short a time as possible. At my return, if the Society think that I can still prove of utility to them, I shall be most happy to devote myself still to their service. I am a person full of faults and weaknesses, as I am every day reminded by bitter experience, but I am certain that my zeal and fidelity towards those who put confidence in me are not to be shaken. Should it now become a question what is to be done with these Mandchou Bibles which have been printed at a considerable expense, I should wish to suggest that Baron Schilling be consulted. In a few weeks he will be in London, which he intends visiting during a summer tour which he is on the point of commencing. He will call at the Society's House, and as he is a nobleman of great experience and knowledge in all that relates to China, it would not be amiss to interrogate him on such a subject. _I again repeat that I am at command_. In your last letter but one you stated that our noble President had been kind enough to declare that I had but to send in an account of any extraordinary expenses which I had been put to in the course of the work to have them defrayed. I return my most grateful thanks for this most considerate intimation, which nevertheless I cannot avail myself of, as according to one of the articles of my agreement my salary of 200 pounds was to cover all extra expenses. Petersburg is doubtless the dearest capital in Europe, and expenses meet an individual, especially one situated as I have been, at every turn and corner; but an agreement is not to be broken on that account. I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, your obedient humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To J. Thornton, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. July 20, 1835) ST. PETERSBURG, _June_ 15, 1835. SIR,--Having drawn upon Messrs. Asmus, Simondsen & Compy. of St. Petersburg for the following sums, I have to request that you will honour this draft to a like amount, 1000 roubles (one thousand), received the 11th May. 2000 (two thousand), received at the present moment. I take the liberty of stating that the printing of the Mandchou Testament is brought to a conclusion, and that six of the eight parts are bound. As soon as the other two are completed I shall take my departure for England. I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your most obedient and most humble servant, G. BORROW. To J. Tarn, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. 17 Aug. 1835) ST. PETERSBURG, _July_ 16, 1835. MY DEAR SIR,--I herewith send you a bill of lading for six of the eight parts of the New Testament which I have at last obtained permission to send away, _after having paid sixteen visits to the House of Interior Affairs_. The seventh part is bound and packed up; the eighth is being bound and will be completed in about ten days. It would have been ready a month since, having been nearly six weeks in the book-binder's hands, but he was disappointed in obtaining the necessary paper; I hope to have shipped all off, and to have bidden adieu to Russia, at the expiration of a fortnight. I take this opportunity of informing you that I was obliged to purchase additional 85 reams of paper, of every sheet of which I shall give an account. 1020 copies of every sheet I ordered to be printed, that we might have a full 1000 at the conclusion. 20 reams have at various times been sent to the binder for frontings and endings to the work, and there were 36 sheets in the seventh and 33 in the eighth part, consequently the demand for paper is not surprising. Since my last drafts upon the Treasurer I have received two thousand roubles from Asmus, Simondsen and Co., for which I shall give them a draft on my departure when I receive my salary. My accompt since the period of my last writing to you, when I held in hand 518 roubles of the Society's money, I shall deliver to you on my arrival. I have the honour to remain, Dear Sir, Truly yours, G. BORROW. Pray excuse this hasty letter, which I write from the Custom House. To Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 14th, 1835) ST. PETERSBURG, _Aug._ 12, 1835. As it is probable that yourself and my other excellent and Christian friends at the Bible House are hourly expecting me and wondering at my non-appearance, I cannot refrain from sending you a few lines in order to account for my prolonged stay abroad. For the last fortnight I have been detained at St. Petersburg in the most vexatious and unheard-of manner. The two last parts of our Testaments have been bound and ready for shipping a considerable time, and are at present in the warehouse of a most pious and excellent person in this place, whom the Bible Society are well acquainted with; but I have hitherto not been able to obtain permission to send them away. You will ask how I contrived to despatch the first six volumes, which you have doubtless by this time received. But I must inform you that at that time I had only a verbal permission, and that the Custom House permitted them to pass because they knew not what they were. But now, notwithstanding I obtained a regular permission to print, and transacted everything in a legal and formal manner, I am told that I had no right at all to print the Scriptures at St. Petersburg, and that my coming thither on that account (I use their own words) was a step in the highest degree suspicious and mysterious, and that there are even grounds for supposing that I am not connected with the Bible Society or employed by them. To-day, however, I lost patience, and said that I would not be trifled with any longer; that next week I should send away the books by a vessel which would then sail, and that whosoever should attempt to stop them would do so at his peril--and I intend to act up to what I said. I shall then demand my passport and advertise my departure, as every one before quitting Russia must be advertised in the newspapers two weeks successively. Pray do me the justice to believe that for this unpleasant delay I am by no means accountable. It is in the highest degree tormenting to myself. I am very unwell from vexation and disquietude of mind, and am exposed to every kind of inconvenience. The term for which I took my chambers is expired, and I am living in a dirty and expensive hotel. But there is One above who supports me in these troubles, and I have no doubt that everything will turn out for the best. I take this opportunity of sending my accounts to Mr. Tarn; if there be any inaccuracy let him excuse it, for the post hurries me. G. BORROW. Report of Mr. George Borrow _To the Members of the Committee of the British and Foreign Bible Society_. GENTLEMEN,--It is now about two years since I quitted England for St. Petersburg in consequence of the duty which you have been pleased to confide to my hands, namely, that of editing at the Russian capital the New Testament in the Mandchou language which has been translated by Mr. Lipoftsoff, at present Councillor of State and Chinese Translator at that place, but formerly one of the members of the Russian mission at Pekin. On my arrival, before entering upon this highly important and difficult task, I, in obedience to your command, assisted Mr. Swan, the missionary from Selinginsk, to complete a transcript which he had commenced some time previous of a manuscript translation of the principal part of the Old Testament into Mandchou executed by Puerot, who, originally a Jesuit emissary at Pekin, passed the latter years of his life in the service of the Russian mission in the capacity of physician. The united labours of Mr. Swan and myself speedily brought the task in question to a conclusion, so that the transcript has for a considerable time been in the possession of the Bible Society. I will here take the liberty of offering a few remarks upon this translation; but as the work is not at the present moment before me, it is impossible to enter upon a critical and minute examination of its merits. Nevertheless, having either transcribed or at various times perused it, I have formed a general opinion concerning it which, though very probably a faulty one, I shall lay before you in a few words, which at any future time I hope you will permit me to recall, if fresh lights upon the subject compel me to believe that my original conclusion was an erroneous one; having no doubt that those who are embarked in so noble a cause as the propagation of The Great Truth, will be at all times willing to excuse error when confessed, as by the confession of error the truth becomes more glaringly manifest. The merits of this translation are, upon the whole, of a very high order; but it would be an untruth and an absurdity to say that it does not exhibit defects and blemishes of a striking and peculiar kind--peculiar, from the singular fact that those portions of the original which, being narrative are exceedingly simple as to idea and style, have been invariably rendered in a manner the most liable to censure, exhibiting not only a slovenly carelessness in regard to diction, but not unfrequently a disregard of accuracy when the slightest particle of attention was only necessary to render the meaning which the sacred writer endeavours to convey. These are its greatest, and, it may perhaps be said, its only defects; for if a regard for truth compel me to state that the style of the translation frequently sinks far below the original when at its lowest grade, that same regard compels me to say that in yet more instances it rises with the same [to a degree] which I believe it is scarcely possible for any individual with the limited powers of uninspired man to surpass. This soaring tendency is particularly observable in the version of the Book of Job, which is certainly the most beautiful, is believed by many to be the most ancient, and is confessedly one of the most important portions of the Old Testament. I consider myself in some degree entitled to speak particularly of this part of the Mandchou version in question, having frequently at the time I was engaged upon it translated into English several of the chapters which particularly struck me, for the purpose of exhibiting them to Mr. Swan, who invariably sympathised with my admiration. The translation of most of the writings of the prophets, as far as Puerot went, has been executed in the same masterly manner, and it is only to be lamented that, instead of wasting much of his time and talents upon the Apocryphal writings, as is unfortunately the case, the ex-Jesuit left behind him no Mandchou version of Isaiah and the Psalms, the lack of which will be sensibly felt whenever his work shall be put in a printed state into the hands of those for whose benefit it is intended, an event most devoutly to be wished for by all those who would fain see Christ reign triumphant in that most extraordinary country of which the Mandchou constitutes one of the principal languages, being used in diplomacy and at court, and being particularly remarkable for possessing within it translations of all the masterpieces of Chinese, Tibetian, and Brahmanic literature with which it has been enriched since the period of the accession of the present Tartar dynasty to the Chinese throne, the proper language of which dynasty it is well known to be. To translate literally, or even closely, according to the common acceptation of the term, into the Mandchou language is of all impossibilities the greatest; partly from the grammatical structure of the language, and partly from the abundance of its idioms. The Mandchou is the only one of any of the civilised languages of the world with which the writer of these lines has any acquaintance, whose grammar stands far aloof from the rest in wonderful singularity; the most remarkable feature of which is the want of some of those conjunctions generally considered as indispensable, and which are certainly of the first utility. The result of this peculiarity is that such a combination of other parts of speech must be employed as will express the idea without the aid of the conjunction; but as these combinations are invariably and necessarily lengthy, much more space is required in the translation of a sentence into this language than the original occupies. I am induced to make this remark, which I am afraid will be considered an excursory one, from the apprehensiveness that some, observing the translations of the Scriptures into this language to be bulkier than the originals, might conclude that extraneous and unnecessary matter had crept in, which a knowledge of the above fact will prevent. The transcript of the Mandchou Old Testament having been brought to a conclusion and permission having been obtained to print the New at St. Petersburg--the accomplishment of which last point was, as you are well aware, attended with much difficulty--I set myself seriously to work upon the principal object of my mission. With the recapitulation of my labours I wish not to trouble you, the various particulars having been communicated to you in letters written at various times upon the subject. I will content myself with observing that within ten months from the commencement of printing, the entire work, consisting of eight volumes, had with the blessing of the Almighty passed through the press, and, I believe, with as few typographical errors as would have been the case had a much more considerable portion of time been devoted to the enterprise, which, it is true, I was in haste to accomplish, but in a manner not calculated to render the undertaking futile nor cast discredit upon the Society and myself [being well aware that an edition of the Scriptures exhibiting marks of carelessness must at best be a futile work, and that the speed with which it was executed could be no apology; as few will be tempted to deny that no edition at all of the sacred volume in the languages of the heathen is far preferable to one whose incorrectness would infallibly and with some reason awaken ridicule, which, though one of the most contemptible, is certainly one of the most efficacious weapons in the armoury of the Prince of Darkness and the Enemy of Light, as it is well known that his soldiers here on earth accomplish by its means what they would never be able to effect by the utmost force of eloquence and carnal reasoning, in the use and management of which they are, however, by no means unskilled, as many a follower of Jesus from his own individual experience can testify]. After the termination of my editorial task, having little to employ myself upon whilst the two last volumes were undergoing the process of binding, I determined upon a journey to Moscow, the ancient capital of the Russian Empire, which differs widely from St. Petersburg in appearance, structure, and in the manners, habits, and opinions of its inhabitants. I arrived there after a journey of four days. Moscow is by far the most remarkable city it has ever been my fortune to see; but as it has been frequently described, and with tolerable correctness, there is no necessity for me to enter into a particular account of all that presented itself to my observation. I ascended the celebrated tower of Ivan Velike, situated within the walls of the Kremlin, from the top of which there is a glorious view of Moscow and of the surrounding country, and at the foot of which, in a deep hole in the earth, is the gigantic bell which weighs 27,000 _poods_, or eight hundred and seventy thousand pounds. I likewise visited the splendid church of the Kremlin, and had much conversation with the priest who is in the habit of showing its curiosities to strangers. He is a most intelligent and seemingly truly pious person, and well acquainted with English spiritual literature, especially with the writings of Bishops Taylor and Tillotson, whom he professed to hold in great admiration; though he asserted that both these divines, great men as they undoubtedly were, were far inferior writers to his own celebrated countryman Archbishop Teekon, and their productions less replete with spiritual manna--against which assertion I felt little inclined to urge any objection, having myself perused the works of the great Russian divine with much comfort and satisfaction, and with which I can only regret [that] the devout part of the British public are up to the present moment utterly unacquainted. As one of the principal motives of my visit to Moscow was to hold communication with a particular part of its population, which from the accounts I had received of it had inspired me with the most vivid interest, I did not fail shortly after my arrival to seek an opportunity of accomplishing my work, and believe that what I have now to communicate will be of some interest to the Christian and the philosopher. I allude to the people called Zigani or Gypsies, or, as they style themselves, Rommany, of which there are several thousands in and about Moscow, and who obtain a livelihood by various means. Those who have been accustomed to consider these people as wandering barbarians, incapable of civilisation and unable to appreciate the blessings of a quiet and settled life, will be surprised at learning that many of those in Moscow inhabit large and handsome houses, appear abroad in elegant equipages, and if distinguishable from the genteel class of the Russians [are] only so by superior personal advantages and mental accomplishments. Of this singular phenomenon at Moscow the female Gypsies are the principal cause, having from time immemorial cultivated their vocal powers to such an extent that, although in the heart of a country in which the vocal art has arrived at greater perfection than in any other part of the world, the principal Gypsy choirs in Moscow are allowed by the general voice of the public to be unrivalled and to bear away the palm from all competitors. It is a fact notorious in Russia that the celebrated Catalani was so filled with admiration for the powers of voice displayed by one of the Gypsy songsters, who, after the former had sung before a splendid audience at Moscow, stepped forward and with an astonishing burst of melody ravished every ear, that she tore from her own shoulders a shawl of immense value which had been presented to her by the Pope, and embracing the Gypsy compelled her to accept it, saying that it had been originally intended for the matchless singer which she now discovered was not herself. The sums obtained by these performers are very large, enabling them to live in luxury of every description and to maintain their husbands in a princely way. Many of them are married to Russian gentlemen; and every one who has resided for any length of time in Russia cannot but be aware that the lovely, talented, and domesticated wife of Count Alexander Tolstoi is by birth a Gypsy, and was formerly one of the ornaments of a Rommany choir at Moscow as she is now one of the principal ornaments of the marriage state and of illustrious life. It is not, however, to be supposed that all the female Gypsies in Moscow are of this high, talented, and respectable order; amongst them there are a great number of low, vulgar, and profligate females who sing in taverns, or at the various gardens in the neighbourhood, and whose husbands and male connections subsist by horse-jobbing and such kinds of low traffic. The principal place of resort of this class is Marina Rotche, lying about two _verses_ from Moscow, and thither I drove, attended by a _valet-de-place_. Upon my arriving there the Gypsies swarmed out from their tents and from the little _tracteer_ or tavern, and surrounded me. Standing on the seat of the _caleche_, I addressed them in a loud voice in the dialect of the English Gypsies, with which I have some slight acquaintance. A scream of wonder instantly arose, and welcomes and greetings were poured forth in torrents of musical Rommany, amongst which, however, the most pronounced cry was: _ah kak mi toute karmuma_--'Oh, how we love you,' for at first they supposed me to be one of their brothers, who, they said, were wandering about in Turkey, China, and other parts, and that I had come over the great _pawnee_, or water, to visit them. Their countenances exactly resembled those of their race in England and Spain, brown, and for the most part beautiful, their eyes fiery and wildly intelligent, their hair coal-black and somewhat coarse. I asked them numerous questions, especially as to their religion and original country. They said that they believed in 'Devil,' which, singularly enough, in their language signifies God, and that they were afraid of the evil spirit, or 'Bengel'; that their fathers came from Rommany land, but where that land lay they knew not. They sang many songs both in the Russian and Rommany languages; the former were modern popular pieces which are in vogue on the stage, but the latter were evidently very ancient, being composed in a metre or cadence to which there is nothing analogous in Russian prosody, and exhibiting an internal character which was anything but European or modern. I visited this place several times during my sojourn at Moscow, and spoke to them upon their sinful manner of living, upon the advent and suffering of Christ Jesus, and expressed, upon my taking a final leave of them, a hope that they would be in a short period furnished with the word of eternal life in their own language, which they seemed to value and esteem much higher than the Russian. They invariably listened with much attention; and during the whole time I was amongst them exhibited little in speech or conduct which was objectionable. I returned to Petersburg, and shortly afterwards, the business which had brought me to Russia being successfully terminated, I quitted that country, and am compelled to acknowledge, with regret. I went thither prejudiced against the country, the government, and the people; the first is much more agreeable than is generally supposed; the second is seemingly the best adapted for so vast an empire; and the third, even the lowest classes, are in general kind, hospitable, and benevolent. True it is that they have many vices, and their minds are overshadowed by the gloomy clouds of Grecian superstition, but the efforts of many excellent and pious persons amongst the English at St. Petersburg are directed to unveiling to them the cheering splendour of the lamp of the Gospel; and it is the sincere prayer of the humble individual who now addresses you that the difficulties which at present much obstruct their efforts may be speedily removed, and that from the boundless champains of Russia may soon resound the Jubilee hymn of millions, who having long groped their way in the darkness of the shadow of death, are at once blessed with light, and with joyful hearts acknowledge the immensity of the blessing. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 27, 1835) _Oct._ 26 [1835.] WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Pray excuse the liberty I take in troubling you with these lines, which I write for the purpose of informing you that I am perfectly ready to undertake anything which yourself or Mr. Brandram may deem expedient. I should be most happy to explore Portugal and Spain, and to report upon the possibility of introducing the Gospel into those countries, provided that plan has not been given up; or to commence the Armenian Testament forthwith, if the types are ready. If you would so far condescend as to return an answer as soon as it suits your convenience, you would confer no slight obligation upon me, for I am weary of doing nothing, and am sighing for employment. I have the honour to remain, Revd. and Dear Sir, your most obliged and most obedient servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 28,1835) WILLOW LANE, ST. GILES, NORWICH, 27 _Octr._, 1835. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have received your letter of the 26th, as I suppose Mr. Jowett has received mine of the same date which I needlessly sent. As you ask me to favour you with my thoughts, I certainly will; for I have thought much upon the matters in question, and the result I will communicate to you in a very few words. I decidedly approve (and so do all the religious friends whom I have communicated it to) of the plan of a journey to Portugal, and am sorry that it has been suspended, though I am convinced that your own benevolent and excellent heart was the cause, unwilling to fling me into an undertaking which you supposed might be attended with peril and difficulty. Therefore I wish it to be clearly understood that I am perfectly willing to undertake the expedition, nay, to extend it into Spain, to visit the town and country, to discourse with the people, especially those connected with institutions for infantine education, and to learn what ways and opportunities present themselves for conveying the Gospel into those benighted countries. I will moreover undertake, with the blessing of God, to draw up a small volume of what I shall have seen and heard there which cannot fail to be interesting, and if patronised by the Society will probably help to cover the expenses of the expedition. On my return I can commence the Armenian Testament, and whilst I am editing that, I may be acquiring much vulgar Chinese from some unemployed Lascar or stray Cantonman whom I may pick up upon the wharves; and then--to China. I have no more to say, for were I to pen twenty pages, and I have time enough for so doing, I could communicate nothing which would make my views more clear. Many thanks to you for enclosing the letter from St. Petersburg: it was written in Danish, and came from a very dear and excellent friend who rendered me in Russia services of no common nature. I have the honour to be, Revd. and Dear Sir, your most obedient servant, GEORGE BORROW. P.S.--There has been a Bible meeting at Oulton in Suffolk, to which I was invited. The speaking produced such an effect that some of the most vicious characters in the neighbourhood have become weekly subscribers to the Branch Society. So says the _Chronicle_ of Norfolk in its report. To the Rev. J. Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. Dec. 8, 1835) LISBON, 30 _Nov._ 1835. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I arrived safe at Lisbon on the twelfth of the present month after a passage which, considering the season in which it was made, may be termed a fair one. On the morning of the tenth we found ourselves about two leagues from the coast of Galicia, whose lofty mountains gilded by the rising sun presented a magnificent appearance. We soon passed Cape Finisterre, and standing farther out to sea speedily lost sight of land. On the morning of the eleventh the sea was very rough, and a most remarkable circumstance occurred. I was on the forecastle, discoursing with two of the sailors, [and] one of them who had just left his hammock told me that he had had a most disagreeable dream, for, said he, pointing up to the mast, 'I dreamt that I fell into the sea from off the cross-trees.' He was heard to say this by several of the crew besides myself. A moment after, the captain of the vessel, perceiving that the squall was increasing, ordered the topsails to be taken in, whereupon this man with several others instantly ran up aloft. The yard was presently loosened, and in the act of being hauled down, when a violent gust of wind whirled it round with violence, and a man was struck down from the cross-trees into the sea, which was raging and tumbling below. In a few moments he emerged, and I saw his head distinctly on the crest of a wave, and I recognised in the unfortunate man the sailor who shortly before had been relating his dream. I shall never forget the look of agony he cast us whilst the ship hurried past him. The alarm was given, and in a moment everything was in confusion. It was at least two minutes before the vessel was stopped, and the man was left a considerable way behind, but I still kept my eye upon him, and could perceive that he was struggling gallantly with the waves. A boat was at length lowered, but the rudder unfortunately was not at hand, and only two oars could be procured, with which the men who manned her could make but little progress in the tremendous sea; however, they did their best, and had arrived within ten yards of the man who had continued struggling for his life, when I lost sight of him, and the men on their return said that they saw him below the waters at glimpses, sinking deeper and deeper, his arms stretched out and his body to all appearance stiff, but they found it impossible to save him. Presently afterwards the sea, as if satisfied with the prey it had received, became comparatively calm, and the squall subsided. The poor fellow who was drowned in this singular manner was a fine young man, twenty-seven years of age, the only son of a widowed mother. He was the best sailor on board, and beloved by every one who was acquainted with him. The event occurred on the 11th of November 1835, the vessel was the 'London Merchant' Steamship, commanded by Captain Whittingham. Wonderful indeed are the ways of Providence. I experienced some difficulty in landing at Lisbon, the custom-house officers being exceedingly dilatory in examining the baggage. I had yet more difficulty in obtaining a lodging, but at last found one, dark, dirty, and exceedingly expensive, without attendance. I shall not trouble you with a description of Lisbon, for as I have much that is important to communicate I must not waste paper with uninteresting details. I will merely observe that it is a noble town, situated on seven hills on the left bank of the Tagus, the houses are very lofty, like castles, the streets are in general precipitously steep, and no animals of burden but mules, asses, and oxen can traverse them with safety. I found the streets by no means so dirty as they have been represented, and at night they are tolerably well lighted, but between the hours of nine and twelve they swarm with robbers and assassins. I should have written to you before, but I wished to transmit in my first letter a stock of information which would enable you at once to form some idea as to the state of this country; and in order to acquire such I have visited every part of Lisbon, entered into discourse with the people on all occasions, and have made a journey of nearly one hundred miles about the country, during which I visited Cintra and Mafra, at the former of which places I remained four days, making excursions in the meanwhile on foot or on a mule amongst the mountains, and visiting whatever villages are contained within its beautiful and picturesque neighbourhood. In Lisbon carelessness for religion of any kind seems to prevail. The people appear in general to have shaken off the old superstition and to feel no inclination to bend their necks to another yoke. Many of them have told me that the priests are the veriest knaves in the world, and that they have for many years subsisted by imposing upon them, and that they wished the whole body was destroyed from the face of the earth. I have enquired of many of the lower orders whether they ever confessed themselves, whereupon they laughed in my face and said that they had not done so for years, demanding what good would result to them for so doing, and whether I was fool enough to suppose that a priest could forgive sins for a sum of money. One day whilst speaking to a muleteer I pointed to a cross over the gate of a chapel opposite to us, and asked him if he reverenced it; he instantly flew into a rage, stamped violently, and spitting on the ground said it was a piece of stone, and that he should have no more objection to spit upon it than the stones on which he trod: 'I believe that there is a God,' he added, 'but as for the nonsense which the priests tell us I believe no part of it.' It has not yet been my fortune during my researches in Lisbon to meet one individual of the populace amongst the many I have addressed who had read the Scripture or knew anything of its contents; though many of them have assured me that they could read, which in many instances I have found to be the fact, having repeatedly taken from my pocket the New Testament in Portuguese which I constantly carry with me, and requested them to read a few verses, which they were able to do. Some of these individuals had read much in their own language, which indeed contains a store of amusing and instructive literature--for example, the chronicles of the various kings of Portugal and of the heroes who distinguished themselves in the various wars of India, after Vasco da Gama had opened the way into the vast regions of the East by doubling the Cape. Amongst the many public places which I have visited at Lisbon is the Convent of San Geronymo, the church of which is the most beautiful specimen of Gothic architecture in the Peninsula, and is furnished with the richest shrines. Since the expulsion of the monks from the various religious houses in Portugal, this edifice has served as an asylum for orphans, and at present enjoys the particular patronage of the young [Queen]. In this establishment upwards of five hundred children, some of them female, are educated upon the Lancastrian system, and when they have obtained a sufficient age are put out to the various trades and professions for which they are deemed most suited, the tallest and finest of the lads being drafted into the army. One of the boys of his own accord became my guide and introduced me to the various classes, where I found the children clean and neat and actively employed upon their tasks. I asked him if the Holy Scripture (_Santa Escritura_) was placed in the hands of the scholars. He answered in the affirmative; but I much doubt the correctness of his answer, for upon my requesting him to show me a copy of the Holy Scripture, he did not appear to know what I meant by it. When he said that the scholars read the Holy Scripture he probably meant the vile papistical book called 'Christian Doctrine,' in which the office of the mass is expounded, which indeed I saw in the hands of the junior boys, and which, from what I have since seen, I believe to be a standard school-book in Portugal. I spent nearly two hours in examining the various parts of this institution, and it is my intention to revisit it in a short time, when I hope to obtain far better information as to the moral and religious education of its inmates. On my arrival at Lisbon I was disappointed in my expectation of finding Mr. Wilby, who was in the country and was not expected for a week. I therefore had at first no person to whom I could apply for counsel as to the best means of proceeding; but unwilling to remain idle till the period of his arrival, I at once commenced operations at Lisbon as I have narrated. At the end of four or five days I started for Cintra, distant about four leagues from Lisbon, situate on a ledge of the northern declivity of a wild and picturesque mountain. Cintra contains about eight hundred inhabitants, and in its environs are many magnificent _quintas_ or country seats of some of the first families in Portugal; it is likewise a royal residence, for at its north-eastern side stands an ancient palace, which though unfurnished is preserved in [good repair], and which was the favourite residence of the ancient kings. On one of the ridges of [this] mountain are seen the ruins of an immense castle, which for centuries was the stronghold of the Moors in this part of the Peninsula. The morning after my arrival I was about to ascend the mountain to examine it, when I observed a person, advanced in years, whom, by his dress, I judged to be an ecclesiastic; upon enquiry I found in effect that he was one of the three priests of the place. I instantly accosted him, and had no reason to repent for so doing, for I found him affable and communicative. After praising the beauty of the scenery, I made some enquiry as to the state of education amongst the people beneath his care. He told me that he was sorry to [say that] they were in a state of great ignorance, that very few of them could either write or [read], that there was no school in the place but one at which a few children were taught the alphabet, but which was not then open, that there was a school at Colhares, about a league [distant]. He said that nothing so surprised him as to see English, the most learned and intelligent people in the world, visiting a place like Cintra, where there was no literature and nothing of utility (_aonde no ha nem leitura_, _nem sciencia_, _nem alguma cousa que presta_). You may easily guess that I was in no slight degree surprised to hear a priest of Portugal lament the ignorance of the populace, and began to entertain hopes that I should not find the priests in general so indisposed to the mental improvement of the people as I at first imagined. That same day I visited Colhares, a romantic village lower down the mountain to the west, near the sea. Seeing some peasants collected round the smithy I enquired about the school, and one instantly offered to be my guide thither. I went upstairs into a small apartment where I found the master with about a dozen pupils standing in a row, for there was but one chair, or rather stool, to which, after having embraced me, he conducted me with great civility. After some discourse he shewed me the books which he used for the instruction of his pupils; they were spelling-books like those used in our village schools and the before-mentioned 'Christian Doctrine.' Upon my enquiring whether it was his custom to use the Scripture in his school, he told me that long before the children had acquired sufficient intelligence to understand the Scriptures their parents took them from school in order that they might assist them in the labours of the field, and that in general they were by no means solicitous that their children should learn anything, as they considered the time occupied in acquiring learning as squandered away. He added that all the village schools in Portugal were supported by the Government, but that many of them had lately been discontinued, as the schoolmasters experienced the greatest difficulty in obtaining their salaries; but that he had heard that it was the intention of the Government to establish schools in all parts of the country on the Lancastrian system--which since my return to Lisbon I have discovered to be a fact. He told me that he had a copy of the New Testament in his possession, which I desired to see; but on examining it I discovered that it was only the Epistles (from Pereira's version) with long Popish notes. I asked him whether he considered that there was any harm in reading the Scripture without notes; he said that there was certainly no harm in it, but that simple people without the assistance of notes could derive but little benefit therefrom, as the greatest part that they read would be unintelligible to them. Whereupon I shook hands with him, and on departing said that there was no part of Scripture so difficult to understand as those very notes which were intended to elucidate it, and that the Almighty would never have inspired His saints with a desire to write what was unintelligible to the great mass of mankind. For some days after this I traversed the country in all directions, riding into the fields where I saw the peasants at work, and entering into discourse with them; and notwithstanding many of my questions must have appeared to them very singular, I never experienced any incivility, though they frequently answered me with smiles and laughter. (I have now communicated about half of what I have to say; the remainder next week. G. BORROW.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jan. 10, 1836) EVORA IN THE ALEMTEJO, 15_th_ _Dec._, 1835. At length I departed for Mafra; the principal part of the way lay over steep and savage hills, very dangerous for horses, and I had reason to repent, before I got back to Cintra, that I had not mounted one of the sure-footed mules of the country. I reached Mafra in safety; it is a large village, which has by degrees sprung up in the vicinity of an immense building, originally intended to serve as a convent and palace, and which next to the Escurial is the most magnificent edifice in the Peninsula. In this building is to be seen the finest library in Portugal, comprising books in all sciences and languages, and which, if not suited to the place in which the building stands, which is almost a desert, is yet well suited to the size and grandeur of the building which contains it. But here are now no monks to take care of it; they have been driven forth, some of them to beg their bread, some of them to serve under the banners of Don Carlos in Spain, and many, as I have been informed, to prowl about as banditti. The place is now abandoned to two or three menials, and exhibits an aspect of solitude and desolation which is truly appalling. Whilst I was viewing the cloisters an exceedingly fine and intelligent-looking lad came up to me, and asked (I suppose in the hope of obtaining a trifle) if I would permit him to show me the village church, which he told me was well worth seeing. I said 'No,' but that if he would show me the village school, I should be much obliged to him. He looked at me with astonishment, and assured me that there was nothing to be seen in the school, at which not more than half a dozen boys were instructed, and that he himself was one of the number; but I told him that he should show me no other place, and he at last unwillingly attended me. On the way he said that the schoolmaster was one of the brothers of the convent who had lately been expelled, and that he was a very learned man and spoke French and Greek. We went past a stone cross, and the boy bent and crossed himself with much devotion: I mention this circumstance, as it was the first instance of devotion which I had observed amongst the Portuguese since my arrival. When near the house where the schoolmaster resided, he pointed it out to me and then hid himself behind a wall, where he waited till I returned. On stepping over the threshold I was confronted by a short stout man, between sixty and seventy years of age, dressed in a blue jerkin and grey trousers, without shirt or waistcoat. He looked at me sternly, and enquired in the French language what was my pleasure. I apologised for intruding upon him, and stated that, being informed that he occupied the situation of schoolmaster to the place, I had come to pay my respects to him, and to beg to be informed respecting the manner of instruction which he adopted. He said that whosoever told me that he was a schoolmaster lied, for that he was a brother of the convent. I replied that I had heard that all the friaries had been broken up and the brothers dismissed; whereupon he sighed, and said it was too true. He was then silent for a minute, and his better nature overcoming his angry feelings he produced a snuff-box and offered it to me. The snuff-box is the olive-branch of the Portuguese, and he who wishes to be on good terms with them, or to conciliate them, must never refuse to put his finger and thumb into it when preferred; I took therefore a large pinch, though I detest the dust, and we were soon friendly enough. He was eager to obtain news, especially from Lisbon and Spain. I told him that the officers of the regiments at Lisbon had the day before I left that place gone in a body to the Queen, and insisted upon her either receiving their swords or dismissing her Ministers; whereupon he rubbed his hands and said, 'I am sure that things will not remain tranquil at Lisbon.' Upon my saying that the affairs of Don Carlos were on the decline, he frowned, and said that it could not possibly be, for that God was too just to suffer it. I felt for the poor man, who had been driven from his home in the noble convent close by, and from a state of comfort and affluence reduced in his old age to indigence and misery, for his dwelling seemed to contain scarcely an article of furniture. I tried twice or thrice to induce him to converse on the school, but he always avoided the subject or said shortly that he knew nothing about it; the idea of being a schoolmaster was evidently humiliating to him. On my leaving him, the boy came from his hiding-place and rejoined me; he said his reason for hiding himself was fear that his master might know that it was he who brought me to him, for that the old man was ashamed of appearing in the character of a schoolmaster. I asked the boy whether he or his parents were acquainted with the Scripture and ever read it; but he did not understand me. I must here observe that the boy was fifteen years of age, and that he was in many respects very intelligent and had some knowledge of the Latin language; nevertheless he knew not the Scripture even by name, and I have no doubt that at least one half of his countrymen are, in that respect, no wiser than himself. I have questioned the children of Portugal at the doors of village inns, at the hearths of their cottages, in the fields where they labour, at the stone Mountains by the way-sides where they water their cattle, about the Scripture, the Bible, the Old and New Testament, and in scarcely one instance have they known what I was alluding to or could return me a rational answer, though in all other instances I had no reason to complain of their want of apprehension. Indeed nothing has surprised me more than the free and unembarrassed manner with which the Portuguese peasantry sustain a conversation, and the purity of the language in which they express their thoughts; and yet very few of them can write or read, whereas the peasantry of our own country, whose education is in general much superior, are in their conversation coarse and dull almost to brutality, and absurdly ungrammatical in the language which they use, though the English tongue, upon the whole, is more simple in its grammar than the Portuguese. On my way back from Mafra to Cintra I very nearly lost my life. As the night was closing in fast, we left the regular road by the advice of the guide, and descending the hill on which Mafra stands reached the bottom of the valley, from which there is a narrow pathway winding round the next hill, exceedingly steep, with a precipice on the left side; the horse on which I was mounted, and which was by no means suited for such climbing, in his violent struggles to accomplish the ascent burst the girth of the saddle, so that I was cast violently off, with the saddle beneath me. Fortunately, I fell on the right side, or I should have rolled down the hill and probably have been killed; as it was, I remained stunned and senseless for two or three minutes, when I revived, and with the assistance of the guide and the man who waits on me, walked up the remaining part of the hill, when, the saddle being readjusted, I mounted again. I was very drowsy and stupid for two or three days, from the influence of the fall, but I am happy to say at present, thanks to the Almighty, I have long ceased to feel any inconvenience from it. On my return to Lisbon I saw Mr. Wilby, who received me with great kindness; the next ten days were exceedingly rainy and prevented me from making any excursions into the country, and during this time I saw him frequently and had a good deal of conversation with him, concerning the best means of causing God's glorious Gospel to be read in Portugal. He informed me that four hundred copies of the Bible and New Testament were arrived, and he thought that we could do no better than put them into the hands of the booksellers; but I strongly advised that at least half of them should be entrusted to colporteurs, to hawk about, upon receiving a certain profit on every copy they sold. He thought the idea a good one, as far as regards Lisbon, but said that no colporteur would venture to carry them about the country, as the fanatical priests would probably cause him to be assassinated. He was kind enough to promise to look out for people suited to make the essay in the streets of Lisbon; and as the lower orders are very poor I wrote to Mr. Whiteley at Oporto, requesting to be informed whether he had any objection to our selling the books to the populace at Lisbon at a lower price than a _cruzado novo_, which he had determined to sell them at. I thought it but right to consult him on the subject, as the Society are under great obligations to him; and I was unwilling to do anything at which he could possibly take umbrage. During one of my conversations with Mr. Wilby I enquired which was the province of Portugal, the population of which he considered to be the most ignorant and benighted: he replied, 'The Alemtejo.' The Alemtejo means 'the other side of the Tagus.' This province is not beautiful and picturesque like the other portions of Portugal, it has few hills or mountains; the greatest part of it consists of heaths, broken by knolls and gloomy dingles, swamps, and forests of stunted pine. These places are infested with banditti, and not a week passes by without horrible murders and desperate robberies occurring. The principal town is Evora, one of the most ancient cities in Portugal, and formerly the seat of an Inquisition far more cruel and baneful than the terrible one of Lisbon. Evora lies about sixty miles from the farther bank of the Tagus, which is at Lisbon three leagues broad; and to Evora I determined on going with a small cargo of Testaments and Bibles. My reasons I need not state, as they must be manifest to every Christian; but I cannot help thinking that it was the Lord who inspired me with the idea of going thither, as by so doing I have introduced the Scriptures into the worst part of the Peninsula, and have acquired lights and formed connections (some of the latter most singular ones, I admit) which if turned to proper account will wonderfully assist us in our object of making the heathen of Portugal and Spain acquainted with God's holy word. My journey to Evora and my success there shall be detailed in my next letter. G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 15, 1836) Badajoz, _Janry._ 8, 1836. JOURNEY TO EVORA An Extract from My Journal On the afternoon of the sixth of December I set out for this place, accompanied by my servant Anthonio. I had been informed that the tide would serve for the _felouks_, or passage-boats, employed in crossing the Tagus, at about four o'clock, but on reaching the river's side opposite Aldea Gallega, between which place and Lisbon they ply, I found that the tide would not permit them to start before eight o'clock. Had I waited for them I should probably have landed at Aldea Gallega at midnight, and I felt little inclination to make my _entree_ in the Alemtejo at that hour; therefore as I saw small boats which can push off at any time lying near in abundance, I determined upon hiring one of them for the passage, though the expense would be thus considerably increased. I soon agreed with a wild-looking lad to take us over, who told me that he was in part owner of one of the boats. I was not aware of the danger in crossing the Tagus at any time in these small boats at its broadest part, which is between Lisbon and Aldea Gallega, but especially at close of day in the winter season, or I should certainly not have ventured. The lad and his comrade, a miserable object, whose only clothing, notwithstanding the severity of the weather, was a battered jerkin and trousers, rowed until we had advanced about half a mile from the land; they then hoisted a large sail, and the lad, who seemed to be the principal and to direct everything, took the helm and steered. The evening was now setting in; the sun was not far from its bourne in the horizon, the air was very cold, the wind was rising, and the waves of the noble Tagus began to be crested with foam. I told the boy that it was scarcely possible for the boat to carry so much sail without upsetting; upon which he laughed, and began to gabble in a most incoherent manner. He had the most harsh and rapid articulation that has ever come under my observation; it was the scream of the hyena blended with the bark of the terrier; but it was by no means an index of his disposition, which I soon found to be light, merry, and anything but malevolent; for when I, in order to show him that I cared little about him, began to hum: '_Eu que sou contrabandista_' ('I, who am a smuggler'), he laughed heartily, and clapping me on the shoulder said that he would not drown us if he could help it. The other poor fellow seemed by no means averse to go to the bottom; he sat at the forepart of the boat looking the image of famine, and only smiled when the waters broke over the side and drenched his scanty clothing. In a little time I had made up my mind that our last hour was come; the wind was becoming higher, the short dangerous waves were more foamy, the boat was frequently on its beam-ends, and the water came over the lee side in torrents; but still the wild lad at the helm held on, laughing and chattering, and occasionally yelling out parts of the Miguelite air '_Quando el Rey chegou_' ['When the King arrived'], the singing of which in Lisbon is punished with imprisonment. The stream was against us, but the wind was in our favour, and we sprang along at a wonderful rate. I saw that our only chance of escape was in speedily getting under the shelter of that part of the farther bank of the Tagus, where the bight or bay commences at the extremity of which stands Aldea Gallega, as we should not then have to battle with the waves of the adverse stream, which the wind lashed into fury. It was the will of the Almighty to permit us speedily to gain this shelter, but not before the boat was nearly filled with water, and we were all wet to the skin. At about seven o'clock in the evening we reached Aldea Gallega, shivering with cold and in a most deplorable plight. Aldea Gallega, or the Galician Village, for the two words have that signification, is a place containing, I should think, about four thousand inhabitants. It was pitchy dark when we landed, but rockets soon began to fly about in all directions, illumining the air far and wide. As we passed along the dirty unpaved street which leads to the _Largo_ or square in which the town is situated, a horrible uproar of drums and voices assailed our ears. On enquiring the cause of all this bustle, I was informed that it was the Eve of the Conception of the Blessed Virgin. As it was not the custom of the people of the inn to provide provisions for the guests, I wandered about in search of food, and at last seeing some soldiers eating and drinking in a sort of wine-house, I went in and asked the people to let me have some supper. In a short time they furnished me with a tolerable meal, for which, however, they charged two crowns. Having engaged with a person for mules to carry us to Evora, which were to be ready at five next morning, I soon retired to bed, my servant sleeping in the same apartment, which was the only one in the house vacant. I closed not an eye during the whole night; beneath us was a stable in which some _almocreves_, or carriers, slept with their mules, and at our back in the yard was a hog-stye. How could I sleep? The hogs grunted; the mules screamed; and the _almocreves_ snored most horribly. I heard the village clock strike the hours until midnight, and from midnight till four in the morning, when I sprang up and began to dress, and despatched my servant to hasten the man with his mules, for I was heartily tired of the place, and wished to leave it. An old man, but remarkably bony and hale, accompanied by a bare-footed lad, brought the beasts. He was the proprietor of them, and intended to accompany us to Evora with the lad, who was his nephew. When we started the moon was shining brightly, and the morning was piercingly cold. We soon entered a sandy, hollow way, emerging from which we passed by a large edifice, standing on a high, bleak sand-hill, on our left. We were speedily overtaken by five or six men on horseback, riding at a rapid pace, each with a long gun slung at his saddle, the muzzle depending about two feet below the horses belly. I questioned the old man as to the cause of their going thus armed; he answered that the roads were very bad (meaning that they abounded with robbers), and that these people carried arms for their defence. They soon turned off to the right towards Palmella. We reached a sandy plain studded with stunted pine; the road was little more than a footpath, and as we proceeded the trees thickened and became a wood, which extended for two leagues with clear spaces at intervals, in which herds of cattle and sheep were feeding. The sun was just beginning to show itself, but the morning was misty and dreary, which together with the aspect of desolation which the country exhibited had an unfavourable effect on my spirits. I got down and walked, entering into conversation with the man. He seemed to have but one theme of conversation, 'the robbers' and the atrocities they were in the habit of practising in the very spots we were passing. The tales he related were truly horrible, and to avoid them I mounted again and rode on considerably in front. In about an hour and a half we emerged from the forest and entered upon wild broken ground covered with _mato_ or brushwood. The mules stopped to drink at a shallow pool, and on looking to the right I saw a ruined wall. This, the guide informed me, was the remains of the Vendal Velhas, or the old inn, formerly the haunt of the celebrated robber Sabocha. This Sabocha, it seems, had, about sixteen years since, a band of forty ruffians at his command, who infested these wilds, and supported themselves by plunder. For a considerable time Sabocha pursued his atrocious trade unsuspected, and many an unfortunate traveller was murdered, in the dead of night, at the solitary inn by the wood's side, which he kept; indeed a more fit situation for plunder and murder I never saw. The gang were in the habit of watering their horses at the pool, and perhaps of washing therein their hands stained with the blood of their victims. The brother of Sabocha was the lieutenant of the troop, a fellow of great strength and ferocity, particularly famous for the skill he possessed in darting a long knife and transfixing his opponents. Sabocha's connection with the gang at last became known, and he fled with the greatest part of his associates across the Tagus, to the northern provinces. He and his brother eventually lost their lives on the road to Coimbra, in an engagement with the military. His house was razed by order of the Government. The ruins of this house are still frequently visited by banditti, who eat and drink amongst the stones and look out for prey, as the place commands a view of the road. The old man assured me that about two months previous, on returning from Aldea Gallega with his mules from accompanying some travellers, he had been knocked down, stript naked, and had all his money taken from him, by a fellow who, he believed, came from this murderers' nest. He said that he was an exceedingly powerful young man with immense moustaches and whiskers, and was armed with an _espingarda_ or musket. About ten days subsequently he saw the robber at Vendas Novas, where we were to pass the night. The fellow on recognising him took him aside and threatened, with horrid imprecations, that he should never be permitted to return home if he attempted to discover him; he therefore held his peace, as he said there was little to be gained and everything to be lost by apprehending him, as he would have been speedily set at liberty for want of evidence to criminate him, and then he would not have failed to have his revenge, or would have been anticipated therein by his comrades. I dismounted and went up to the place, and saw the vestiges of a fire and a broken bottle. The sons of plunder had been there very lately. I left a New Testament and some tracts amongst the ruins, and hastened away. The sun had dispelled the mists and was beaming very hot; we rode on for about an hour, when I heard the neighing of a horse in our rear, and our guide said that there was a party of horsemen behind. Our mules were good, and they did not overtake us for at least twenty minutes. The foremost rider was a gentleman in a fashionable travelling dress; a little way behind were an officer, two soldiers, and a servant in livery. I heard the principal horseman, on overtaking Anthonio, enquiring who I was, and whether I was French or English. He was told I was an English gentleman, travelling. He then asked whether I understood Portuguese; the man said I understood it, but that he believed I spoke French and Italian better. The gentleman then spurred on his horse and accosted me, not in Portuguese, or in French, or Italian, but in the purest English that I have ever heard spoken by a foreigner. It had indeed nothing of foreign accent or pronunciation in it, and had I not known by the countenance of the speaker that he was no Englishman (for there is a peculiarity in the English countenance which, though it cannot be described, is sure to betray the Englishman), I should have concluded that I was conversing with a countryman. He continued in company and discourse until we arrived at Pegoens. Pegoens consists of about two or three houses and an inn; there is likewise a species of barrack, where half a dozen soldiers are stationed. In the whole of Portugal there is no place of worse reputation, and the inn is nicknamed _Estalagem de Ladroens_, or the hostelry of thieves; for it is there that the banditti of the wilderness, which extends around it on every side for leagues, are in the habit of coming and spending the fruits of their criminal daring; there they dance and sing, feast on fricasseed rabbits and olives, and drink the muddy but strong wine of the Alemtejo. An enormous fire, fed by the trunk of a cork-tree, was blazing in a niche on the left hand on entering the spacious kitchen; by it, seething, were several large jars, which emitted no disagreeable odour, and reminded me that I had not yet broken my fast, although it was now nearly one o'clock and I had ridden five leagues. Some wild-looking men, who, if they were not banditti, might easily be mistaken for such, were seated on logs about the fire; I asked them some unimportant question, to which they replied with readiness and civility, and one of them, who said he could read, accepted a tract which I offered him. My new friend, who had been bespeaking dinner, or rather breakfast, now with great civility invited me to partake of it, and at the same time introduced me to the officer who accompanied him, and who was his brother, and also spoke English, though not so well as himself. I found I had become acquainted with Don Geronimo Joze d'Azveto, Secretary to the Government at Evora. His brother belonged to a regiment of hussars, whose headquarters were at Evora, but which had outlying parties along the road; for example, at the place where we were stopping. Rabbits at Pegoens seem to be a standard article of food, being produced in abundance on the moors around. We had one fricasseed, the gravy of which was delicious; and afterwards a roasted one, which was brought up on a dish entire. The hostess having first washed her hands proceeded to tear the animal to pieces, which having accomplished she poured over the fragments a sweet sauce. I ate remarkably heartily of both dishes, particularly of the last, owing perhaps to the novel and curious manner in which it was served up. Excellent figs from the Algarves and apples completed our repast, which we ate in a little side room with a mud-floor, which sent such a piercing chill into my system as prevented me from deriving that pleasure from my good fare and agreeable companions which I might otherwise have experienced. Don Joze d'Azveto had been educated in England, in which country he passed his boyhood, which to a certain degree accounted for his proficiency in the English language, the idioms and pronunciation of which can only be acquired by a residence in the country at that period of one's life. He had also fled thither shortly after the usurpation of the throne of Portugal by Don Miguel, and from thence had passed over to the Brazils, where he had devoted himself to the service of Don Pedro, and had followed him in that expedition which terminated in the downfall of the Usurper and the establishment of the constitutional government in Portugal. Our conversation rolled chiefly on literary and political subjects, and my acquaintance with the writings of the most celebrated authors of Portugal was hailed with surprise and delight; for nothing is more gratifying to a well-educated Portuguese than to observe a foreigner taking an interest in the literature of his nation, of which he is so justly proud. About two o'clock we were once more in the saddle, and pursued our way through a country exactly resembling that which we had previously been traversing, rugged and broken, with here and there a clump of pines. The afternoon was exceedingly fine, and the bright rays of the sun relieved the desolation of the scene. Having advanced about two leagues, I caught sight of a large edifice in the distance, which I learnt was a royal palace, standing at the farther extremity of Vendas Novas, the village where we were to halt. It was considerably more than a league from us, yet, seen through the clear transparent atmosphere of Portugal, it appeared much nearer. Before reaching it, we passed by a stone cross, on the pedestal of which was an inscription commemorating a horrible murder of a native of Lisbon, which had been perpetrated on that spot. It looked ancient, and was covered with moss, and the greatest part of the inscription was illegible, at least it was to me, who could not bestow much time on the deciphering of it. Having arrived at Vendas Novas and bespoke supper, my new friends and myself strolled forth to view the palace. It was built by the late King of Portugal, and presents little that is remarkable in its exterior. It is a long edifice with wings, and is only two stories high, though it can be seen afar, owing to its being situated on elevated ground. It has fifteen windows in the upper and twelve in the lower story, with a paltry-looking door something like that of a barn, the ascent to which is by a single step. The interior corresponds with the exterior, offering nothing which can gratify curiosity, if we except the kitchens, which are indeed magnificent, and so large that food enough might be prepared in them to serve as a repast to all the inhabitants of the Alemtejo. I passed the night with great comfort in a clean bed, remote from all those noises in general so rife in a Portuguese inn, and the next morning at six we again set out on our journey, which we hoped to terminate before sunset, as Evora is but ten leagues from Vendas Novas. The preceding morning had been cold, but the present one was far more, so much so that just before sunrise I could no longer support it whilst riding, and therefore dismounting ran and walked until we reached a few houses, at the termination of these desolate moors. It was in one of these houses that the commissioners of Don Pedro and Miguel met, and it was there agreed that the latter should resign the crown in favour of Donna Maria; for Evora was the last stronghold of the Usurper, and the moors of the Alemtejo the last area of the combats which so long agitated unhappy Portugal. I therefore gazed on the miserable huts with considerable interest, and did not fail to scatter in the neighbourhood several of the precious little tracts with which, together with a small quantity of Bibles, my carpet-bag was provided. The country began to improve, the savage heaths were left behind, and we saw hills and dales, cork-trees and _azineirias_, on the last of which trees grows that kind of sweet acorn called _bolota_, which is pleasant as a chestnut, and forms in winter the principal food on which the numerous swine of the Alemtejo subsist. Gallant swine they are, with short legs and portly bodies, of a black or dark-red colour, and for the excellence of their flesh I can avouch, having frequently partaken of it in the course of my wanderings in this province. The _lumbo_, or loin, when broiled on the live embers, is delicious, especially when eaten with olives. We were now in sight of Monte Moro, which as the name denotes was once a fortress of the Moors; it is a high, steep hill, on the summit and sides of which are ruined walls and towers. At its western side is a deep ravine or valley, through which a small stream rushes, traversed by a stone bridge; farther down there is a ford, through which we passed and ascended to the town, which commencing near the northern base, passes over the lower ridge towards the north-east; the town is exceedingly picturesque, and many of the houses are very ancient and built in the Moorish fashion. I wished much to examine the relics of Moorish sway on the upper part of the mountain, but time pressed, and the shortness of our stay in this place did not permit me to gratify my inclination. Monte Moro is the head of a range of hills crossing this part of the Alemtejo, and from hence they fork towards the east and south-east, in the former of which directions lies the direct road to Elvas, Badajoz, and Madrid, and in the latter the road to Evora. A beautiful mountain, covered to the top with cork trees, is the third in the chain which skirts the way in the direction of Evora. It is called Monte Almo; a brook brawls at its base, and as I passed it the sun was shining gloriously on the green herbage, on which flocks of goats were feeding with their bells ringing merrily, so that the _tout ensemble_ resembled a fairy scene; and that nothing might be wanted to complete the picture, I here met a man, a goat-herd, beneath an _azineiria_ whose appearance recalled to my mind the Brute-man mentioned in an ancient Danish poem: 'A wild swine on his shoulders he kept, And upon his bosom a black bear slept, And about his fingers with hair o'erhung The squirrel sported and weasel clung.' Upon the shoulders of the goat-herd was a beast, which he told me was a _lontra_ or otter, which he had lately caught in the neighbouring brook, it had a string round its neck which was attached to his arm; at his left side was a bag from the top of which peeped the heads of two or three singular-looking animals; and beside him was squatted the sullen cub of a wolf, which he was endeavouring to tame. His whole appearance was to the last degree savage and wild. After a little conversation, such as those who meet on the road frequently hold, I asked him if he could read; but he made no answer. I then enquired if he knew anything of God or Jesus Christ; he looked me fixedly in the face for a moment, and then turned his countenance towards the sun which was beginning to sink, nodded to it, and then again looked fixedly upon me. I believed I understood this mute reply, which probably was, that it was God who made that glorious light which illumines and gladdens all creation; and gratified with this belief I left him, and hastened after my companions who were, by this time, a considerable way in advance. I have always found amongst the children of the fields a more determined tendency to religion and piety than amongst the inhabitants of towns and cities, and the reason is obvious; they are less acquainted with the works of man's hands than with those of God; their occupations are simple, and requiring less of ingenuity and skill than those which engage the intention of the other portion of their fellow-creatures, are less favourable to the engendering of self-conceit and sufficiency, so utterly at variance with that lowliness of spirit which constitutes the best test of piety. The sneerers and scoffers at religion do not spring from amongst the simple children of nature, but are the excrescences of overwrought refinement, and though their baneful influence has indeed penetrated to the country and corrupted many there, the fountain-head was amongst crowded houses where nature is scarcely known. I am not one of those who look for perfection amongst the rural population of any country; perfection is not to be found amongst the children of the fall, be their abode where it may; but until the heart disbelieve the existence of a God, there is still hope for the possessor, however stained with crime he may be, for even Simon the Magician was converted. But when the heart is once steeled with infidelity, infidelity confirmed by carnal reasoning, an exuberance of the grace of God is required to melt it, which is seldom or never manifested; for we read in the blessed book that the Pharisee and the Wizard became receptacles of grace, but where is mention made of the conversion of the sneering Sadducee? and is the modern infidel aught but a Sadducee of later date? _To be continued_. To the Rev. Andrew Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 29th, 1836) _Journal continued_ BADAJOZ, 10th _January_ 1836. The night had closed in before we reached Evora, and having taken leave of my friends, who kindly requested me to consider their house my home, myself and my little party proceeded to the Largo de San Francisco, where was a hostelry, which the muleteer informed me was the best in the town. We rode into the kitchen, at the extreme end of which was the stable, as is customary in Portugal. The house was kept by an aged gypsy-like female and her daughter, a fine blooming girl about eighteen years of age. The house was large; in the upper story was a very long room, like a granary, extending nearly the whole length of the house; the further end was partitioned off, and formed a tolerably comfortable chamber, but rather cold, the floor being of tiles, as was that of the large room in which the muleteers were accustomed to sleep on the furniture of their mules. Having supped I went to bed, and after having offered up my devotions to Him who had protected me through a dangerous journey, I slept soundly till the morning. Evora is a walled town, but not regularly fortified, and could not sustain a siege of a day. It has five gates; before that to the south-west is the principal promenade of the inhabitants; the fair on St. John's Day is likewise held there. The houses are mostly very ancient; many of them are unoccupied. It contains about five thousand inhabitants, though twice that number would be by no means disproportionate to its size. The two principal edifices are the See or Bishop's Palace, and the Convent of San Francisco, opposite to which I had taken up my abode. A large barrack for cavalry stands on the right-hand side on entering the south-west gate. The adjacent country is uninteresting; but to the south-east, at the distance of six leagues, is to be seen a range of blue hills, the highest of which is called Serra Dorso. It is picturesquely beautiful, and contains within its recesses wolves and wild boars in numbers. About a league and a half on the other side of this hill is Estremoz. I passed the day succeeding my arrival principally in examining the town and its environs, and as I strolled about I entered into conversation with various people that I met. Several of these were of the middle classes, shopkeepers and professional men; they were all Constitutionalists, or pretended to be so, but had very little to say, except a few commonplace remarks on the way of living of the friars, their hypocrisy and laziness. I endeavoured to obtain some information respecting the state of instruction at Evora, and from their replies was led to believe that it must be very low, for it seemed that there was neither book-shop nor school in the place. When I spoke of religion, they exhibited the utmost apathy, and making their bows left me as soon as possible. Having a letter of introduction to a person who kept a shop in the market-place, I called upon him, found him behind his counter and delivered it to him. I found that he had been persecuted much whilst the old system was in its vigour, and that he entertained a hearty aversion to it. I told him that the nurse of that system had been the ignorance of the people in religious matters, and that the surest means to prevent its return was to enlighten them in those points. I added that I had brought with me to Evora a small stock of Testaments and Bibles, which I wished to leave for sale in the hands of some respectable merchant, and that if he were desirous to lay the axe to the root of superstition and tyranny he could not do so more effectually than by undertaking the charge of these books. He declared his willingness to do so, and that same evening I sent him ten Testaments and a Bible, being half my stock. I returned to the hostelry, and sat down on a log of wood on the hearth within the immense chimney in the common apartment. Two men were on their knees on the stones; before them was a large heap of pieces of iron, brass, and copper; they were assorting it and stowing it away in various large bags. They were Spanish _contrabandistas_, or smugglers of the lowest class, and earned a miserable livelihood by smuggling such rubbish from Portugal into Spain. Not a word proceeded from their lips, and when I addressed them in their native language they returned no answer but a kind of growl. They looked as dirty and rusty as the iron in which they trafficked. The woman of the house and her daughter were exceedingly civil, and coming near to me crouched down, asking various questions about England. A man dressed something like an English sailor, who sat on the other side of the hearth, confronting me, said: 'I hate the English, for they are not baptized, and have not the law' (meaning the law of God). I laughed, and told him, that according to the law of England no one who was not baptized could be buried in consecrated ground; whereupon he said; 'Then you are stricter than we.' He then asked: 'What is meant by the lion and the unicorn which I saw the other day on the coat of arms over the door of the English consul at St. Uves?' I said that they were the arms of England. 'Yes,' he replied; 'but what do they represent?' I said I did not know. 'Then,' said he, 'you do not know the story of your own house.' I answered: 'Suppose I were to tell you that they represented the lion of Belem (Bethlehem) and the horned monster of the flaming pit in combat as to which should obtain the mastery in England, what would you say?' He replied: 'I should say that you gave a fair answer.' This man and myself became great friends; he came from Palmella, not far from St. Uves; he had several mules and horses with him, and dealt in corn and barley. I again walked out in the environs of the town. About half a mile from the southern wall is a stone fountain, where the muleteers and other people approaching the town are accustomed to water their cattle. I sat down by it, and there I remained about two hours, entering into discourse with every one who halted at the fountain; and I will here observe that during the time of my sojourn at Evora I repeated my visit every day, and remained there about the same time, and by following this plan I believe that I spoke to near two hundred of the children of Portugal upon matters connected with their eternal welfare. Of those whom I addressed I found very few had received any species of literary education; none of them had seen the Bible, and not more than half a dozen had the slightest knowledge of what the Holy Book consisted. I found that most of them were bigoted Romanists and Miguelites at heart. When they told me they were Christians, I denied the possibility of their being so, as they were ignorant of Christ and His commandments, and rested their hope of salvation in outward forms and superstitious observances which were the inventions of Satan, who wished to keep them in darkness in order that at last they might stumble into the pit which he had digged for them. I said repeatedly that the Pope whom they revered was a deceiver and the prime minister of Satan here on earth, and that the monks and friars, to whom they had been accustomed to confess themselves, and whose absence they so deplored, were his subordinate agents. When called upon for proofs, I invariably cited the ignorance of my hearers respecting the Scripture, and said that if their spiritual guides had been really ministers of Christ they would not have permitted their flocks to remain unacquainted with His word. Since this occasion I have been frequently surprised that I received no insult or ill-treatment from the people whose superstitions I was thus attacking, but I really experienced none; and am inclined to believe that the utter fearlessness which I displayed, trusting in the protection of the Almighty, may have been the cause. When threatened by danger the best policy is to fix your eye steadily upon it, and it will in general vanish like the morning mist before the sun; whereas if you quail before it, it becomes more imminent. I have fervent hope that the words which I uttered sunk deep into the hearts of some of my hearers, as I observed many of them depart musing and pensive. I occasionally distributed tracts among them, for although they themselves were unable to turn them to much account, I thought that by their means they might become of service at some future time, and might fall into the hands of others to whom they might be instruments of regeneration; as many a book which is cast on the waters is wafted to some remote shore, and there proves a blessing and a comfort to millions who are ignorant from whence it came. The next day, which was Friday, I called at the house of my friend Azveto; I did not find him there, but was directed to the Episcopal Palace, in an apartment of which I found him writing with another gentleman, to whom he introduced me. It was the Governor of Evora, who welcomed me with every mark of kindness and affability. After some discourse we went out together to examine an ancient edifice, which was reported to have served in ancient times as a temple to Diana. Part of it was evidently of Roman architecture, for there was no mistaking the beautiful light pillars which supported a dome, under which the sacrifices to the most captivating and poetical divinity of the heathen Theocracy had probably been made; but the original space between the pillars had been filled up with rubbish of a modern date, and the rest of the building was apparently of the architecture of the latter end of the middle ages. It is situated at one end of the building which was once the seat of the Inquisition, and I was informed that before the erection of the present See, it served as the residence of the Bishop. Within the See, where the Governor now resides, is a superb library, occupying an immense vaulted room, like the aisle of a cathedral, and in a side apartment is a collection of pictures by Portuguese artists, chiefly portraits, amongst which is that of Don Sebastian. I hope it did not do him justice; for it represents him in the shape of an awkward lad, of about eighteen, with staring eyes and a bloated booby face, and wearing a ruff round a short apoplectic neck. I was shown several beautifully illuminated missals and other manuscripts, but the one which most arrested my attention, I scarcely need say why, bore the following title:-- _Forma sive ordinatio Capelli illustrissimi et xtianissimi principis Henrici sexti Regis Anglie et Francie am diu Hibernie descipta serenissio principi Alfonso Regi Portugalie illustri per humilem servitorem sm Willm Sav Decanum capelli supradicti_. It seemed a voice from the olden times of my dear native land. This library and picture-gallery had been formed by one of the latter Bishops, a person of commendable learning and piety. In the evening I dined with Don Joze d'Azveto and his brother; the latter soon left us, in order to attend to his military duties. My friend and myself had then much conversation of considerable interest. He lamented feelingly the deplorable state of ignorance in which his countrymen were at present buried, and said that his friend the Governor and himself were endeavouring to establish a school in the vicinity, and that they had made application to the Government for the use of an empty convent called the _Espinhero_, or thorn-tree, at about a league's distance, and that they had little doubt of their request being complied with. I had before told him who I was; and now, after expressing my joy at the plan which he had in contemplation, I urged him in the most pressing manner to use all his influence to cause the knowledge of the Scripture to be the basis of the education of the pupils in the intended school, and added that half of the Testaments and Bibles which I had brought with me to Evora were heartily at his service. He instantly gave me his hand, [and] said he accepted my offer with the greatest pleasure, and would do all in his power to further my views, which were in many respects his own. I now told him that I did not come to Portugal with the view of introducing the dogmas of any particular sect, but with the hope of introducing the Bible, which is the well-head of all that is useful and conducive to the happiness of society and individuals; that I cared not what people called themselves, provided they read the Scripture, for that where the Scripture was read neither priestcraft nor tyranny could long exist; and instanced my own country, the cause of whose freedom and happiness was the Bible, and that only, for that before the days of Tyndal it was the seat of ignorance, oppression, and cruelty, and that after the fall of ignorance, the oppression and cruelty soon ceased, for that the last persecutor of the Bible, the last upholder of ignorance--_the bloody and infamous Mary_--was the last tyrant who had sat on the throne of England. We did not part till the night was considerably advanced; and the next day I sent him the books, in the steadfast hope that a bright and glorious morning was about to rise upon the night which had so long cast its dreary shadow over the regions of the Alemtejo. The day after this interesting event, which was Saturday, I had more conversation with the man from Palmella. I asked him if in his journeys he had never been attacked by robbers; he answered 'No,' for that he generally travelled in company with others; 'however,' said he, 'were I alone I should have little fear, for I am well protected.' I said that I supposed he carried arms with him. 'No other arms than this,' said he, and he pulled out a long, desperate-looking knife of English manufacture, like that with which every Portuguese peasant is provided, and which I should consider a far more efficient weapon than a dagger. 'But,' said he, 'I do not place much confidence in the knife.' I then enquired in what were his hopes of protection. 'In this,' he replied; and unbuttoning his waistcoat he showed me a small bag, attached to his neck by a silken string. 'In this bag is an _oracam_ (or prayer), written by a person of power; and as long as I carry it about me no ill can befall me.' Curiosity is one of the leading features of my character, and I instantly said that to be allowed to read the prayer would give me great pleasure. 'Well,' he replied, 'you are my friend, and I would do for you what I would do for few others. I will show it you.' He then asked me for my penknife and proceeded to unrip the bag, and took out of it a large piece of paper closely folded up. I hurried with it to my chamber, and commenced the examination of it. It was scrawled over in a very illegible hand, and was moreover much stained with perspiration, so that I had considerable difficulty in making myself master of its contents; but at last I accomplished the following literal translation of the charm, which was written in bad Portuguese, but which struck me at the time as being the most remarkable composition I had ever seen. The Charm 'Just Judge and divine Son of the Virgin Maria, who wast born at Bethlehem, a Nazarene, and who wast crucified in the midst of all Jewry! I beseech Thee, O Lord, by virtue of Thy sixth day {137} that the body of me, Francisco, be not caught nor put to death by the hands of Justice! Pazes teco (pax tecum), pazes Cristo. May you receive peace, said Christ to His disciples. If the accursed Justice should distrust me, or have its eye on me, in order to take me, or to rob me, may it have an eye which shall not see me; may it have a mouth which shall not speak to me; may it have an ear which shall not hear me; may it have a hand which shall not seize me; may it have a foot which shall not overtake me; for may I be armed with the arms of Saint George; may I be covered with the cloak of Abraham; and embarked in the ark of Noah; so that it can neither see me, nor hear me, nor draw the blood from my body! I also conjure Thee, O Lord, by those three blessed crosses--by those three blessed chalices--by those three blessed clergymen--by those three consecrated hosts, that Thou give me that sweet company which Thou gavest the Virgin Maria, from the gates of Bethlehem even unto the portals of Jerusalem, that I may go and come with peace and joy with Jesus Christ, Son of the Virgin Maria, the prolific, yet nevertheless the eternal Virgin Maria our Lady.' The woman of the house and her daughter had similar bags tied to their necks, containing charms, which they said prevented the witches having power to harm them. The belief in witchcraft is very prevalent amongst the peasantry of the Alemtejo, and I believe of other provinces of Portugal. This is one of the relics of the monkish system, the aim of which in all countries where it has existed, or does exist, seems to be to besot the minds of the people that they may be the more easily plundered and misled. The monks of the Greek and Syriac Churches likewise deal in this kind of ware, which they know to be poison, but which, as it brings them a price and fosters delusion by which they are maintained in luxury and idleness, they would rather vend than the wholesome drug. The Sunday morning was fine, and the plain before the church of the Convent of San Francisco was thronged with people going to mass or returning. After having performed my morning devotions and breakfasted, I went down to the kitchen. The fine girl Geronima was seated by the fire. I asked if she had heard mass; she replied, 'No,' and that she did not intend to hear it. Upon my inquiring her motive for absenting herself, she replied that, since the friars had been expelled from their churches and convents, she had ceased to attend mass or to confess herself, for that the Government priests had no spiritual power, and consequently she never troubled them. She said the friars were holy men and charitable; for that every morning those of the convent over the way had fed forty poor persons with the remains of their meals of the preceding day, but that now these people were allowed to starve. I replied that the friars who had lived upon the dainties of the land could well afford to bestow a few bones on the poor, and that their doing so was not the effect of charity, but merely a part of their artful policy, by which they hoped to secure to themselves friends in time of need. The girl then said that as it was Sunday I should perhaps like to see some of her books, and without waiting for a reply she produced them. They consisted principally of popular stories and lives and miracles of saints, but amongst them was a translation of Volney's _Ruins of Empires_. I inquired how she became possessed of this book; she said that a young man, a great Constitutionalist, had given it her some months since and had pressed her much to read it, telling her that it was the best book in the world. Whereupon I told her that the author of the book in question was an emissary of Satan and an enemy of Jesus Christ and the souls of mankind; that he had written it with the sole view of bringing all religion into contempt, and that he had inculcated therein the doctrine that there was no future state nor rewards for the righteous nor punishments for the wicked. She made no reply, but going into another room, returned with her apron full of dry brushwood and faggot; all of this she piled upon the fire, and produced a bright blaze. She then took the book from my hand, and placed it upon the flaming pile; then sitting down, took her rosary out of her pocket, and told her beads till the volume was consumed. This was an _Auto-da-fe_, in the true sense of the word. On the Monday and Tuesday I paid my usual visits to the fountain, and likewise rode about the neighbourhood for the purpose of circulating tracts. I dropped a great many in the favourite walks of the people of Evora, as I felt rather dubious of their accepting them had I proffered them with my own hands; whereas if they found them on the ground, I thought that curiosity might induce them to pick them up and examine them. I likewise on the Tuesday evening paid a farewell visit to my friend Don Azveto, as it was my intention to leave Evora on the Thursday following; in which view I had engaged a cabriolet of a man who informed me that he had served as a soldier in the _Grande Armee_ of Napoleon, and had been present throughout the Russian campaign. He looked the image of a drunkard; his face was covered with carbuncles, and his breath impregnated with the fumes of strong waters. He wished much to converse with me in French, in the speaking of which language, it seems, he prided himself much; but I refused, and told him to speak the language of the country, or I would hold no discourse with him. Wednesday was stormy, with occasional rain. On coming down I found that my friend from Palmella had departed, but several _contrabandistas_ had arrived from Spain. They were mostly fine fellows, and, unlike the two I had seen the previous week, who were of much lower degree, were chatty and communicative; they spoke their native language and no other, and seemed to hold Portuguese in great contempt; their magnificent Spanish tones were heard to great advantage amidst the shrill chirping dialect of Portugal. I was soon in deep conversation with them, and was much pleased to find that all of them could read. I presented the eldest of them, a man of about fifty years of age, with a tract in Spanish. He examined it for some time with great attention; he then rose from his seat, and going into the middle of the apartment, began reading it aloud, slowly and emphatically; his companions gathered round him, and every now and then expressed their satisfaction at what they heard. The reader occasionally called upon me to explain particular passages which, as they referred to Scripture, he did not exactly understand, for not one of the party had ever seen either the Old or New Testament. He continued reading for nearly an hour until he had finished the tract, and at its conclusion the whole party were clamorous for similar ones, with which I was happy to be able to supply them. Most of them spoke of priestcraft and the monks with the utmost abhorrence, and said that they should prefer death to again submitting to the yoke which had formerly galled their necks. I questioned them very particularly respecting the opinion of their neighbours and acquaintances on this point, and they assured me that in their part of the Spanish frontier all were of the same mind, and that they cared as little for the Pope and his monks as they did for Don Carlos, for the latter was a dwarf (_chicotito_) and a tyrant, and the others were plunderers and robbers. I told them that they must beware of confounding religion with priestcraft, and that in their abhorrence of the latter they must not forget that there is a God and a Christ, to whom they must look for salvation, and whose word it was incumbent upon them to study on every occasion; whereupon they all expressed a devout belief in Christ and the Virgin. These men, though in many respects far more enlightened than the surrounding peasantry, were in others quite as much in the dark; they believed in witchcraft and in the efficacy of particular charms. The night was very stormy, and about nine we heard a galloping towards the door, and then a loud knocking; it was opened, and in rushed a wild-looking man mounted upon a donkey. He wore a jerkin of sheepskin, called in Spanish _zamarras_, with breeches of the same as far down as his knee; his legs were bare. Around his _sombrero_, or shadowy hat, was tied a large quantity of the herb called in English rosemary, in Spanish _romero_, and in the rustic language of Portugal _ellecrin_, which last is a word of Scandinavian origin, and properly signifies the elfin plant. [It was probably] carried into the south by the Vandals or the Alani. The [man seemed] frantic with terror, and said that the witches had been pursuing him, and hovering over his head, for the last two leagues. He came from the Spanish frontier with meal and other articles; he informed us that his wife was following him and would soon arrive, and within a quarter of an hour she made her appearance, dripping with rain, and also mounted upon a donkey. I asked my friends the _contrabandistas_ why he wore the rosemary in his hat, and they told me that it was good against witches and the mischances of the road. I had no time to argue against this superstition, for as the chaise was to be ready at five o'clock next morning I wished to make the most of the few hours which I could devote to rest. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 15, 1836) The following Translations into the Romanee, or language of the Spanish Tchai, Tchabos, Gitanos, Callos, or Gypsies, were made by me at Badajoz during the first two weeks of January 1836. THE 15TH CHAP. OF THE BLESSED GOSPEL OF SAINT LUKE. [Here follow thirty-two verses of the translation, followed by a version of the Lord's Prayer.] SPECIMENS OF THE HORRID CURSES IN USE AMONGST THE SPANISH GYPSIES. [Here follow sixteen of these 'curses,' to each of which is added a rendering in English.] To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 29th, 1836) MADRID, CALLE DE LA ZARZA, _Feby._ 13_th_, 1836. The game is now in our own hands, and it is our fault if we do not win it, for a little patience and a little prudence is all that is required. I came to Madrid without a single letter of introduction, and without knowing an individual there. I have now some powerful friends, and through the kindness of Sir Geo. Villiers, the British Ambassador at the Spanish Court, I have had an interview with that most singular man, Mendizabal, whom it is as difficult to get nigh as it is to approach the North Pole. I have obtained his promise that when matters are in some degree settled in this country, he will allow us to commence our operations; but the preposterous idea, which by some means or other he has embraced, that we have been endeavouring to foment disturbances amongst the slaves of Cuba, prevents his looking upon us with favourable eyes. I now write for orders; if you have received my letters and journals (copious extracts from which you had better print), you will see how successful I have been in the Alemtejo, as our books are now for sale at Evora and Elvas, the two principal towns, and the Gospel of Christ has been preached to many who were ignorant of it even by name; you will see what I have been doing at Badajoz, especially amongst the Spanish Gypsies, whose dialect of the Rommany I have so far mastered as to be able to translate into it with tolerable ease. Now, until my friends here and myself can claim the fulfilment of Mr. Mendizabal's promise, do you wish me to go to Granada, or back to Badajoz, and finish my translation of St. Luke into Rommany, with the assistance of the Gypsies of those places, who are far more conversant with their native language than their brethren in other parts of Spain; or shall I return to Lisbon and exert all my interest towards the execution of the plan which I communicated first to Mr. Wilby, and then to yourself, namely, attempting to induce the Government to adopt the Scriptures in the schools which they are about to establish? Since I have been at Madrid I have obtained letters to individuals of great importance at Lisbon, and I know that Don Jose d'Azveto will do anything to serve me within the limits of reason. Therefore let the Committee be summoned, and a resolution forthwith adopted as to my next course. I think all our negotiations in the Peninsula may be brought to a successful termination in a few months; then you must send over an agent, a plain man of business, to engage colporteurs and to come to arrangements with booksellers, both in Spain and in the provincial towns of Portugal, but let him not be a hesitater and starter of needless doubts and difficulties; anything may be accomplished with a little shrewdness, a little boldness, and a great trust in God. I hope that my exertions have afforded satisfaction at home, but if not, let me be allowed to state that it was not in my power to accomplish more than I have. I have borne hunger and thirst, cold and fatigue, I have exposed myself to danger from robbers, and was near losing my life from the ruffian soldiery at Arrayolos, whose bullets so narrowly missed me. I have been as economical as possible, though the charges in Portugal for everything are enormous, and a stranger there is like a ship on shore, a mark for plunder. In Spain the people are far more honest, and the charges, though high, reasonable in comparison. Before leaving Lisbon I drew on excellent Mr. Wilby for 75 pounds; of this sum 12 pounds was remitted to Malaja, through which place I shall probably pass on my return to Lisbon. I have still remaining by me money sufficient for two months, I therefore need not enter into a detail of my expenses. I now wait for a letter from you; and when you write, please to remit to me a small letter of credit on some one at Madrid, or request Mr. Wilby to do so, as he has correspondents here, and in that case communicate my address to him. I give you below an abridgment of my interview with Mr. Mendizabal. I think it will make you laugh. I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, etc., G. BORROW. Interview with Mr. Mendizabal At about 8 o'clock in the morning of the 7th inst. I went to the palace, where Mr. Mendizabal resides. I informed the usher that I came from the British Ambassador, whereupon I was shown into a room, and after waiting about three hours I was admitted to the presence of the Prime Minister of Spain. He was dressed in a morning gown and sat behind a table covered with papers. He is a man of about five-and-forty, somewhat above the middle height, with very handsome features, aquiline nose and large sparkling eyes; his hair is partly grey. I presented him the letter with which Sir Geo. Villiers had furnished me, and when he had read it, I said that before entering upon the matter which more immediately brought me to him, I begged leave to set him right upon a point relating to which he was labouring under considerable error: Sir Geo. Villiers had informed me that Mr. M. entertained an opinion that the Bible Society had been endeavouring to exercise an undue influence over the minds of the slave population of Cuba by means of their agents; but that I could assure him with truth, that neither directly nor indirectly had they exerted or attempted to exert any influence at all over any part of the inhabitants of that island, as they had neither sent agents there, nor held any communication with the residents. While I was saying this, he interrupted me several times, insisting that it was so, and that he had documents to prove it. I told him that it was probable he confounded the Bible Society with some other institution for the propagation of religion, perhaps with one of the missionary societies, more especially one of those belonging to the United States, which might have sent individuals to the island in question for the purpose of communicating religious instruction to the slaves--but all I could say was to no avail; he would have it that it was the British Bible Society who had despatched missionaries to Cuba to incite the blacks to rise up against their masters. The absurdity of this idea struck me so forcibly that it was with difficulty I restrained myself from laughing outright. I at last said that, whatever he might think to the contrary, the Committee of the Bible Society were by no means of that turbulent and outrageous disposition; that they were for the most part staid, quiet gentlemen, who attended to their own affairs, and a little, and but a little to the promulgation of Christ's Gospel, which, however, they too much respected to endeavour to kindle a spirit of insurrection anywhere, as they all know full well that it is the Word of God says that servants are to obey their masters at all times and occasions. I then requested permission to print the New Testament in Spanish at Madrid. He said he should not grant it, for that the New Testament was a very dangerous book, especially in disturbed times. I replied that I was not aware that the holy book contained any passages sanctioning blood-shedding and violence, but I rather thought that it abounded with precepts of an entirely opposite tendency; but he still persisted that it was an improper book. I must here observe that it was with the utmost difficulty I obtained an opportunity of explaining myself, on account of the propensity which he possesses of breaking in upon the discourse of the person who is addressing him; and at last, in self-defence, I was myself obliged to infringe the rules of conversation, and to hold on without paying any attention to his remarks--not that I gained much by so doing, for he plainly told me that he was an obstinate man, and that he never abandoned his opinions. I certainly do not think him the most tractable of men, but I am inclined to think that he is not ill-natured, as he preserved his temper very well during the interview, and laughed heartily at two or three of my remarks. At last he said: 'I will not give you permission now: but let the war be concluded, let the factious be beaten, and the case will be altered; come to me six months hence.' I then requested to be allowed to introduce into Spain a few copies of the New Testament in the Catalan dialect, as we had lately printed a most beautiful edition at London, but he still said 'No, no,' and when I asked if he had any objection to my calling again on the morrow and showing him a copy, he made use of these remarkable words: 'I do not wish you should come, lest you should convince me, and I do not wish to be convinced.' To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. April 2, 1836) _Mar._ 22, 1836, CALLE DE LA ZARZA, MADRID. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I received your letter of the 8th inst., which gave me much pleasure, as I understood from it that my humble efforts had afforded satisfaction. I also received the two letters from St. Petersburg which were written by a dear friend of that place, to whom I shall trouble you to forward a letter as soon as I have an opportunity of writing, which at present I have not, as my time is much occupied. I have to communicate to you what will not fail to be interesting. The Spanish press have taken up our affair, and I am at present engaged in attempting to lay the foundation of a Bible Society at Madrid, to accomplish which the editor of the influential newspaper, the _Espanol_, has promised me his assistance. There has already appeared in that journal a most brilliant article which gives the history of our Society, and states the advantages which would result to Spain from the establishment within its bosom of a society whose aim should be the propagation of the Scripture, in the Spanish language, amongst the population. Of this article I send extracts below, and shall probably, when I have more time, send the whole. The person whom we are looking forward to as a head of the projected institution is a certain Bishop, advanced in years, a person of great piety and learning, who has himself translated the New Testament in a manner, as I am informed, far superior to that of any of his predecessors; but I have not as yet seen it, and therefore cannot speak positively as to its merits. However, he is disposed to print and circulate it, and if the translation be really an excellent one it would not be unwise in us to patronise it, if by so doing we could induce him to co-operate with us in our plans for enlightening unhappy Spain. But more of this anon. I have little doubt that the time is almost at hand when the cause of God will triumph in this country, and I am exerting every means which I can devise in humbleness of heart to help to bring about an event so desirable. I intend to remain a few weeks longer at Madrid at all events, for the present moment is too fraught with interest to allow me to quit it immediately. As far as self is concerned I should rejoice to return instantly to Lisbon, for I am not partial to Madrid, its climate, or anything it can offer, if I except its unequalled gallery of pictures; but I did not come hither to gratify self but as a messenger of the Word. May I take the liberty of begging you to write a line to my dear and revered friend Mr. Cunningham, informing him that I am in tolerable health, and that I hope to write myself speedily. The three letters which you say have not arrived were, I believe, destroyed by a servant for the sake of the postage, but I shall send you parts of my journal to supply the deficiency. Extracts from the 'Espanol' 'The first founders of the Bible Societies (for by this name they were known) immediately comprehended their philosophic and civilising mission, and fulfilled the thought of its inventor. In a short period the circle of their action expanded itself, and not content with making Great Britain alone a participator of this salutary institution, they wished to extend it to all countries, and therefore called to their assistance the majority of the known languages. To all the quarters of the inhabited world they sent at their own expense agents to traverse the countries and discover the best means of disseminating the truths of the Bible, and to discover manuscripts of the ancient versions. They did more: convinced of the necessity of placing themselves above the miserable considerations of sectarian spirit, they determined that the text should not be accompanied by any species of note or commentary which might provoke the discord which unhappily reigns among the different fractions of Christianity, which separates more and more their views instead of guiding them to the religious end which they propose. 'Thus the doctrine of the Nazarene might be studied with equal success by the Greek schismatic and the Catholic Spaniard, by the sectary of Calvin and the disciple of Luther: its seed might bless at one and the same time the fruitful plains of Asia and the sterile sands of desert Arabia, the burning soil of India and the icy land of the ferocious Esquimaux. Antiquity knew no speedier means of conveying its ideas than the harangues which the orators pronounced from the summit of the tribune, amidst assemblies of thousands of citizens; but modern intelligence wished to discover other means infinitely more efficacious, more active, more rapid, more universal, and has invented the press. Thus it was that in the preceding ages the warm and animated words of the missionary were necessarily the only organ which Christianity had at command to proclaim its principles; but scarcely did this invention come to second the progress of modern civilisation, than it foresaw the future ally destined to complete the intelligent and social labour which it had taken upon itself.' (After stating what has been accomplished by the B. F. B. Society, and how many others have sprung up under her auspices in different lands, the article continues:) 'Why should Spain which has explored the New World, which has generalised inoculation in order to oppose the devastations of a horrid pest, which has always distinguished herself by zeal in labouring in the cause of humanity--why should she alone be destitute of Bible Societies? Why should a nation eminently Catholic continue isolated from the rest of Europe, without joining in the magnificent enterprise in which the latter is so busily engaged?' GEORGE BORROW. (My best respects to Mr. Jowett.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 5, 1836) MADRID, No. 3, CALLE DE LA ZARZA, 20 _April_ 1836 REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have received your letter of the 6th inst., in which you request me to write to you a little more frequently, on the ground that my letters are not destitute of interest; your request, however, is not the principal reason which incites me to take up the pen at the present moment. Though I hope that I shall be able to communicate matter which will afford yourself and our friends at home subject for some congratulation, my more immediate object is to inform you of my situation, of which I am sure you have not the slightest conception. For the last three weeks I have been without money, literally without a farthing. About a month ago I received fifteen pounds from Mr. Wilby, and returned him an order for twenty, he having, when I left Lisbon, lent me five pounds, on account, above what I drew for, as he was apprehensive of my being short of money before I reached Madrid. 12 pounds, 5s. of this I instantly expended for a suit of clothes, {153} my own being so worn, that it was impossible to appear longer in public with them. At the time of sending him the receipt I informed him that I was in need of money, and begged that he would send the remaining 30 pounds by return of post. I have never heard from him from that moment, though I have written twice. Perhaps he never received my letters, or I may not have received his, the post of Estremadura having been three times robbed; I can imagine no other reason. The money may still come, but I have given up all hopes of it, and am compelled to write home, though what I am to do till I can receive your answer I am at a loss to conceive. But God is above all, and I am far from complaining; but you would oblige me, upon receiving this, to procure me instantly a letter of credit on some house in Madrid. I believe Messrs. Hammersley of London have correspondents here. Whatever I undergo, I shall tell nobody my situation: it might hurt the Society and our projects here. I know enough of the world to be aware that it is considered as the worst of crimes to be without money. Above all, let me intreat you never to hint of this affair in any communication to Mr. Wilby; he is a most invaluable man, and he might take offence. A week ago, after having spent much time in drawing up a petition, I presented it to the Ecclesiastical Committee of Censors. It was strongly backed by the Civil Governor of Madrid, within whose department the Censorship is. In this petition, after a preamble on the religious state of Spain, I requested permission to print the New Testament without note or comment, according to the version of Father Scio, and in the same form and size as the small edition of Paris, in order that the book might be '_al alcance asi de los pobres como de los ricos_' (within the reach of the poor as well as of the wealthy). {154} The Ecclesiastical Board are at present consulting about it, as I was informed to-day, upon my repairing to their house for the purpose of knowing how matters were going on. I have hopes of success, having done all in my power to prevent a failure by making important friends since the moment of my arrival. I was introduced to the Governor by his most intimate acquaintance Synudi, the Deputy of Huelba, to whom I was introduced by the celebrated Alcala de Galiano, the Deputy of Cadiz, who will sooner or later be Prime Minister, and to him I was introduced by--but I will not continue, as I might run on for ever, much after the fashion as 'This is the house which Jack built.' And now I have something to tell you which I think will surprise you, and which, strange as it may sound, is nevertheless true. The authority of the Pope in this country is in so very feeble and precarious a situation, that little more than a breath is required to destroy it, and I am almost confident that in less than a year it will be disowned. I am doing whatever I can in Madrid to prepare the way for an event so desirable. I mix with the people, and inform them who and what the Pope is, and how disastrous to Spain his influence has been. I tell them that the indulgences, which they are in the habit of purchasing, are of no more intrinsic value than so many pieces of paper, and were merely invented with the view of plundering them. I frequently ask: 'Is it possible that God, who is good, would sanction the sale of sin?' and, 'Supposing certain things are sinful, do you think that God, for the sake of your money, would permit you to perform them?' In many instances my hearers have been satisfied with this simple reasoning, and have said that they would buy no more indulgences. Moreover, the newspapers have, in two or three instances, taken up the subject of Rome upon national and political grounds. The Pope is an avowed friend of Carlos, and an enemy of the present Government, and in every instance has refused to acknowledge the Bishops who have been nominated to vacant sees by the Queen. Therefore the editors say, and very naturally, if the Pope does everything in his power to impede the progress of Spanish regeneration, it is high time to cut the ties which still link Spain to the papal chair. It is my sincere prayer, and the prayer of many of those who have the interest of Spain at heart, that The Man of Rome will continue in the course which he is at present pursuing, for by so doing he loses Spain, and then he is nothing. He is already laughed at throughout Italy--Ireland will alone remain to him--much good it may do him! In respect to the Apocrypha, let me be permitted to observe that an anticipation of that difficulty was one of my motives for forbearing to request permission to print the entire Bible; and here I will hint that in these countries, until the inhabitants become Christian, it would be expedient to drop the Old Testament altogether, for if the Old accompany the New the latter will be little read, as the former is so infinitely more entertaining to the carnal man. Mr. Wilby in his [last] letter informs me that 30 Bibles have been sold in Lisbon within a short time, but that the demand for Testaments has not amounted to half that number. My best respects to Mr. Jowett. G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 1, 1836) MADRID, _May_ 22, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write in the greatest hurry. I shall receive the permission, the Lord willing, in a few days; the Duke de Rivas has this moment told me so, and he is Minister of the Interior. The Ecclesiastical Court declined deciding upon the matter, and left it entirely in the hands of the Ministers. Just as the English Ambassador was about to remind Mr. Mendizabal of his promise to me, the latter gentleman and his colleagues retired from office; a new Ministry was formed composed entirely of my friends, amongst them Alcala Galiano (turn to my last letter). As soon as the Minister of Finance, with whom I am very intimate, returns from France, I shall request to be permitted to introduce the Catalan New Testament upon paying a reasonable duty. I received Mr. Jackson's letter containing the money, and yours, also with money, and a rap on the knuckles besides; it was scarcely merited, as I can prove in five words. Not having the Scripture to offer to the people, I was obliged to content myself with mentioning it to them; the people here know not the Scripture even by name, but they know a certain personage well enough, and as soon as the subject of religion is brought up they are sure to bring him forward, as they consider him the fountainhead of all religion. Those therefore in the situation of myself have three things at their option; to speak nothing--to speak lies--or to speak the truth. In simpleness of heart I thought proper to adopt the last principle as my line of conduct; I do not think I have erred, but I shall be more reserved in future. In conclusion let me be permitted to observe that the last skirts of the cloud of papal superstition are vanishing below the horizon of Spain; whoever says the contrary either knows nothing of the matter or wilfully hides the truth. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 2, 1836) 10 AT NIGHT, [MADRID, _May_ 22, 1836.] MY DEAR SIR,--There has been a partial disturbance at Madrid, and it is not impossible that the new Ministry will go out and Mr. M. be reinstated--which event, however, will make little difference to us, as the British Ambassador has promised to back the application which I shall instantly make. There are so many changes and revolutions here that nothing is certain even for a day. I wish to let you know what is going forward, and am aware that you will excuse two letters arriving at one time. G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 4, 1836) [MADRID], _Monday night_, half p. 11, _May_ 30. The post will presently depart, therefore I have no time to lose. Every thing, thank God, is again tranquil, and it appears that the present Ministry will stand its ground. I am just returned from the house of one of the Ministers; I can consequently speak pretty positively. The Queen will not accept their resignations, and the army is on their side. The Cortes have been dissolved. The whole Cabinet are of opinion that my petition is just and reasonable and ought to be granted. I have been requested to appear next Thursday at the Office, when I expect to receive the permission, or to hear that steps have been taken towards making it out. The reason of Mr. Mendizabal's resignation was his inability to accomplish the removal of General Cordova from the head of the army. It is not for me to offer an opinion on the General's military talents, but he is much beloved by the soldiers, whose comforts and interests he has much attended to; to deprive him of command would therefore be attended with danger. I have no complaint to make against Mr. M.; he is a kind, well-meaning man, and had he remained in office I have no doubt that he would have acceded to my petition. I hope you will pray that God will grant me wisdom, humbleness of spirit, and success in all that is right. G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 11, 1836) CALLE SANTIAGO, No. 16 PISO 3RO, MADRID, _June_ 30, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--As I have little doubt that you are anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from me, I write a few lines which I have no doubt will prove satisfactory to you, and in the course of a few days I hope to write again, when I shall probably be able to announce the happy termination of the affair which brought me to Spain. The difficulties which I have had to encounter since I last wrote to you have been so many and formidable that I have been frequently on the verge of despairing ever to obtain permission to print the Gospel in Spain, which has become the most ardent wish of my heart. Only those who have been in the habit of dealing with Spaniards, by whom the most solemn promises are habitually broken, can form a correct idea of my reiterated disappointments and of the toil of body and agony of spirit which I have been subjected to. One day I have been told, at the Ministry, that I had only to wait a few moments and all I wished would be acceded to; and then my hopes have been blasted with the information that various difficulties, which seemed insurmountable, had presented themselves, whereupon I have departed almost broken-hearted; but the next day I have been summoned in a great hurry and informed that 'all was right,' and that on the morrow a regular authority to print the Scriptures would be delivered to me; but by that time fresh and yet more terrible difficulties had occurred--so that I became weary of my life. During the greatest part of the last six weeks I have spent upon an average ten hours every day, dancing attendance on one or another of the Ministers, and when I have returned home I have been so fatigued that I have found it impossible to write, even to my nearest friends. The heat has been suffocating, for the air seems to be filled with flaming vapours, and the very Spaniards are afraid to stay out, and lie gasping and naked on their brick floors; therefore if you have felt disappointed in not having heard from me for a considerable time, the above statement must be my excuse. During the last fortnight the aspect of my affair has become more favourable, and, notwithstanding all the disappointments I have met, I now look forward with little apprehension to the result. The English Ambassador, Mr. Villiers, has taken me by the hand in the most generous manner and has afforded me the most effectual assistance. He has spoken to all the Ministers, collectively and individually, and has recommended the granting of my petition in the strongest manner, pointing out the terrible condition of the people at present who are without religious instruction of any kind, and the impossibility of exercising any species of government over a nation of atheists, which the Spaniards will very shortly become if left to themselves. Whether moved by his arguments or by a wish to oblige a person of so much importance as the British Ambassador, the Cabinet of Madrid now exhibit a manifest willingness to do all in their power to satisfy me; and though by the law of Spain the publishing of the Scripture in the vulgar tongue without notes is forbidden, measures have been taken by which the rigor of the law can be eluded and the printer be protected, until such time as it shall be deemed prudent to repeal the law made, as is now generally confessed, in a time of ignorance and superstitious darkness. I herewith send you a letter which I received some days since from Mr. Villiers; I have several others on the same subject, but I prefer sending this particular one as it is the last. Since I received it, the Ministers have met and discussed the petition, and the result was, as I have been informed, though not officially, in its favour. You would oblige me by mentioning to his Lordship the President of the Bible Society the manner in which Mr. Villiers has befriended me, and to beg that he would express by letter an acknowledgment of the favour which I have received; and at the same time, I think that a vote of thanks from the Committee would not be amiss, as I may be again in need of Mr. V.'s assistance before I leave Spain. The interest which he has taken in this affair is the more surprising, as Mr. Graydon informed me that upon his applying to him he declined to interfere. I saw Mr. Graydon twice or thrice. He left Madrid for Barcelona about a month since, because the heat of the former place in the summer months is more than he can bear, and as he found I was so far advanced, he thought he might be of more utility in Catalonia. I have at present nothing more to say, and am so weak from heat and fatigue that I can hardly hold the pen. I have removed from my old lodgings to those which Mr. Graydon occupied; therefore when you write, direct as above. With my best remembrances to Mr. Jowett, I remain, my dear Sir, very truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 18, 1836) 7 _July_, 1836, MADRID, CALLE SANTIAGO, No. 16 PISO 3RO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--The affair is settled--thank God!!! and we may begin to print whenever we think proper. Perhaps you have thought I have been tardy in accomplishing the business which brought me to Spain; but to be able to form a correct judgment you ought to be aware of all the difficulties which I have had to encounter, and which I shall not enumerate; I shall content myself with observing that for a thousand pounds I would not undergo again all the mortifications and disappointments of the last two months. The present Ministry have been afraid to offend the clergy, and with great reason, as they are not of the movement or radical party, and many of their friends are bigoted papists; nevertheless, influenced by the pressing applications of the British Ambassador and being moreover well-disposed to myself, they have consented to the printing of the Testament; but it must be done in a private manner. I have just had a long interview with Mr. Isturitz, who told me that if we were resolved upon the enterprise we had best employ the confidential printer of the Government, who would keep the matter secret; as in the present state of affairs he would not answer for the consequences if it were noised abroad. I of course expressed my perfect readiness to comply with so reasonable a request. I will now candidly confess to you that I do not think that the present Ministry, or, as it is generally called, the Court Ministry, will be able to stand its ground; nevertheless a change of Ministry would not alter the aspect of our affair in the least, for if the other or movement party come in, the liberty of the press (a great misfortune for Spain) would be probably granted; at all events, the influence of the English Ambassador would be greater than it is even at present, and upon his assistance I may rely at all times and occasions. I am not aware that there is any great necessity for my continuance in Spain; nevertheless, should you think there is, you have only to command. But I cannot help thinking that in a month or two when the heats are over Mr. Graydon might return, as nothing very difficult remains to be accomplished, and I am sure that Mr. Villiers at my entreaty would extend to him the patronage with which he has honoured me. But, as I before observed, I am ready to do whatever the Bible Society may deem expedient. Do not forget _the two_ letters of thanks to the Ambassador, and it would not be unwise to transmit a _vote_ of thanks to 'His Excellence Antonio Alcala Galiano, President of Marine,' who has been of great assistance to me. I have the honour to be, Revd. and dear Sir, your most obedient servant, G. B. P.S.--In about six weeks I shall want some more money. My best remembrances to Mr. Jowett. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 30th, 1836) MADRID, _July_ 19th, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--As I believe you have no account of my proceedings at Badajoz, I send you the following which will perhaps serve for your 'Monthly Extracts.' I have corrected and improved my translation of the Lord's Prayer into Rommany, and should it be printed, let it be done so with care. Perhaps in a few days I shall send a general account of what I have been about since my arrival at Madrid, but I am at present very feeble and languid, and can scarcely hold a pen. There is nothing new here, all is quiet, and I hope will continue so. My time does not pass very agreeably, I am without books or conversation, for all my acquaintance have left the place to escape from the intolerable heat. I often sigh for Russia, and wish I was there, editing Mandchou or Armenian; pray remember me kindly to Mr. Jowett and to my other friends. I remain, etc. G. BORROW. About one o'clock in the afternoon of the 6th of January, 1836, I crossed the bridge of the Guadiana, a boundary river between Portugal and Spain, and entered Badajoz, a strong Spanish town containing about 8000 inhabitants, and founded by the Romans. I instantly returned thanks to God who had protected me during a journey of five days through the wilds of Alemtejo, the province of Portugal the most infested by robbers and desperate characters, and which I had traversed with no other human companion than a lad, nearly idiotic, who was to convey back the mules which carried myself and baggage. It was not my intention to make much stay at Badajoz, and as a vehicle would set out for Madrid the day next but one after my arrival, I proposed to depart therein for the capital of Spain. The next morning I was standing at the door of the inn where I had taken up my residence; the weather was gloomy, and rain seemed to be at hand. I was thinking of the state of the country I had lately entered, which was involved in bloody anarchy and confusion, and where the ministers of a religion, falsely styled Catholic and Christian, were blowing the trump of war, instead of preaching the love-engendering words of the blessed Gospel. Suddenly two men wrapped in long cloaks came down the narrow and almost deserted street. They were about to pass me, and the face of the nearest was turned full towards me. I knew to whom the countenance which he displayed must belong, and I touched him on the shoulder. The man stopped and his companion also; I said a certain word, to which after an exclamation of surprise he responded in the manner which I expected. The men were of that singular family, or race, which has diffused itself over every part of the civilized globe, and the members of which are known as Gypsies, Bohemians, Gitanos, Zigani, and by many other names, but whose proper appellation seems to be 'Rommany,' from the circumstance that in many and distant countries they so style themselves, and also the language which they speak amongst each other. We began conversing in the Spanish dialect of this language, with which I was tolerably well acquainted. Upon inquiring of my two newly-made acquaintances whether there were many of their people at Badajoz and in the vicinity, they informed me that there were nine or ten families residing in the town, and that there were others at Merida, a town about nine leagues distant. I asked by what means they supported themselves, and they replied that they and their brethren gained a livelihood by jobbing in horses, mules, etc., but that all those in Badajoz were very poor, with the exception of one man, who was exceedingly _mubalballo_ or rich, as he was in possession of many horses and other beasts. They removed their cloaks for a moment, and I saw that their undergarments were rags. They left me in haste, and went about the town informing the rest that a stranger was arrived, who spoke Rommany as well as themselves, who had the eyes and face of a Gitano, and seemed to be of the _eratti_, or blood. In less than half-an-hour the street before the inn was filled with the men, women, and children of Egypt. I went out amongst them, and my heart sank within me as I surveyed them; so much squalidness, dirt, and misery I had never before seen amongst a similar number of human beings. But the worst of all was the evil expression of their countenances, plainly denoting that they were familiar with every species of crime; and it was not long before I found that their countenances did not belie them. After they had asked me an infinity of questions, and felt my hands, face, and clothes, they retired to their homes. My meeting with these wretched people was the reason of my remaining at Badajoz a much longer time than I originally intended. I wished to become better acquainted with their condition and manners, and above all to speak to them about Christ and His Word, for I was convinced that should I travel to the end of the universe I should meet with none who were more in need of Christian exhortation, and I accordingly continued at Badajoz for nearly three weeks. During this time I was almost constantly amongst them, and as I spoke their language and was considered by them as one of themselves, I had better opportunities of coming to a fair conclusion respecting their character than any other person, whether Spaniard or foreigner, could have hoped for, not possessed of a similar advantage. The result of my observations was a firm belief that the Spanish Gitanos are the most vile, degraded, and wretched people upon the earth. In no part of the world does the Gypsy race enjoy a fair fame and reputation, there being no part where they are not considered, and I believe with justice, as cheats and swindlers; but those of Spain are not only all this, but far more. The Gypsies of England, Russia, etc., live by fraud of various descriptions, but they seldom commit acts of violence, and their vices are none or very few; the men are not drunkards, nor are the women harlots; but the Gypsy of Spain is a cheat in the market-place, a brigand and murderer on the high-road, and a drunkard in the wine-shop, and his wife is a harlot and thief on all times and occasions. The excessive wickedness of these outcasts may perhaps be attributed to their having abandoned their wandering life and become inmates of the towns, where to the original bad traits of their character they have super-added the evil and vicious habits of the rabble. Their mouths teem with abomination, and in no part of the world have I heard such frequent, frightful, and extraordinary cursing as amongst them. Religion they have none; they never attend mass, nor confess themselves, and never employ the names of God, Christ and the Virgin, but in imprecation and blasphemy. From what I learnt from them it appeared that their ancestors had some belief in metempsychosis, but they themselves laughed at the idea, and were decidedly of opinion that the soul perished when the body ceased to breathe; and the argument which they used was rational enough, so far as it impugned metempsychosis: 'We have been wicked and miserable enough in this life,' they said; 'why should we live again?' I translated certain portions of Scripture into their dialect, which I frequently read to them, especially the parables of Lazarus and the Prodigal Son, and told them that the latter had been as wicked as themselves, and both had suffered as much or more; but that the sufferings of the former, who always looked forward to a blessed resurrection, were recompensed in the world to come by admission to the society of Abraham and the prophets, and that the latter, when he repented of his crimes, was forgiven and received into as much favour as the just son had always enjoyed. They listened with admiration, but alas! not of the truths, the eternal truths I was telling them, but at finding that their broken jargon could be written and read. The only words of assent to the heavenly doctrine which I ever obtained, and which were rather of the negative kind, were the following, from a woman: 'Brother, you tell us strange things, though perhaps you do not lie; a month since I would sooner have believed these tales, than that I should this day have seen one who could write Rommany.' They possess a vast number of songs or couplets which they recite to the music of the guitar. For the purpose of improving myself in the language I collected and wrote down upwards of one hundred of these couplets, the subjects of which are horse-stealing, murder, and the various incidents of gypsy-life in Spain. Perhaps a collection of songs more characteristic of the people from whom they originated was never made, though amongst them are to be found some tender and beautiful thoughts, though few and far between, as a flower or shrub is here and there seen springing from the interstices of the rugged and frightful rocks of which are composed the mountains and sierras of Spain. The following is their traditionary account of the expulsion of their fathers from Egypt. 'And it came to pass that Pharaoh the King collected numerous armies for the purpose of war; and after he had conquered the whole world, he challenged God to descend from heaven and fight him; but the Lord replied, "There is no one who shall fight with Me"; and thereupon the Lord opened a mountain, and He cast therein Pharaoh the King and all his numerous armies; so that the Egyptians remained without defence, and their enemies arose and scattered them wide abroad.' To the Rev. A. Brandram No. 16 CALLE DE SANTIAGO, MADRID, _July_ 25th, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I enclose you a letter from a Spanish gentleman who wishes to become a subscriber to the Society. He is a person of great respectability, great learning, and is likewise one of the editors of the _Espanol_, the principal newspaper in Spain. Should you accept his offer of becoming a correspondent, he may be of infinite service, as the newspaper which he superintends would be always open to the purposes of the Society. He has connections all over Spain, and no one could assist more effectually in diffusing the Scriptures when printed. He wishes very much to have an account of the proceedings of the Society, therefore any books you could send him relating thereto would be highly acceptable. Great things might be done in Spain, and I am convinced that if there was a Protestant church in Madrid it would be crammed. I have spoken to Mr. Wood, an Englishman, the printer of the _Espanol_, who has the best printing presses in Spain, and he is willing to begin the work whenever you think proper: he will engage to bring it out in three months, in the same shape as the Catalan Testaments. In order that you may have as little trouble as possible, I have translated Dr. Usoz's letter. I have not thought fit to transmit the printed paper which he alludes to, as it would make this letter very bulky. It is an official account of his studies, and the honours he attained at the University. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Most truly yours, G. BORROW. TRANSLATION OF DR. USOZ'S LETTER. Gentlemen of the British and Foreign Bible Society, Having by good fortune become acquainted with your Agent, Mr. G. Borrow, at present residing in this city, and having learnt from him that I might take the liberty of addressing myself to you for the purpose of inquiring whether you would have any objection to insert my name in your list as a member, I avail myself of the present opportunity to do so, and hope that my wishes will be gratified. I believe it is necessary for every member to pay 1 pound sterling, or 100 _reals_ of our coin, annually; perhaps you will inform me when, and in whose hands, I may deposit this sum. As I have no other object in this than to endeavour, by all the means in my power, to cause the Scriptures to be read as much as possible in my unhappy country, I should wish to be considered in the light of a correspondent, as I flatter myself that if you would consent, after taking the necessary precautions, to entrust me with copies of the Scripture, I should find no difficulty in circulating them in every province of my country. Being fully convinced that nothing but the reading of the Bible can form the basis of solid liberty in Spain, I will employ every effort to promote it, if your philanthropic Society will assist me. It would answer no purpose to occupy your attention by speaking prolixly of the purity of my intention and my zeal; time and experience will speak either for or against me; I will merely enclose this printed paper, by which you will learn who he is who has taken the liberty of writing to you. It is superfluous to add that, should you consent to my desire, I should want all the notices and documents respecting your Society which you could supply me with. As I possess some knowledge of English, you might avail yourselves of this language in your answer, provided the letters used be written clearly. I have the honour, etc. LUIS DE USOZ Y RIO. P.S.--Should you direct to me directly, or by other means than the post, my address is: A D. Luis de Usoz y Rio, Calle de Santa Catalina, No. 12 nuevo, Madrid. To J. Jackson, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 26th, 1836) MADRID, _Aug._ 10, 1836. MY DEAR SIR,--I have received your two letters containing the 50 pounds and the resolution of the Society; I have likewise received Mr. Brandram's. I shall make the provisional engagement [to print] as desired, and shall leave Madrid as soon as possible; but I must here inform you that I shall find much difficulty in returning to England, as all the provinces are disturbed in consequence of the Constitution of 1812 having been proclaimed, and the roads are swarming with robbers and banditti. It is my intention to join some muleteers and attempt to reach Granada, from whence, if possible, I shall proceed to Malaga or Gibraltar, and thence to Lisbon, where I left the greatest part of my baggage. Do not be surprised therefore, if I am tardy in making my appearance. It is no easy thing at present to travel in Spain. But all these troubles are for the benefit of the Cause, and must not be repined at. I remain, my dear Sir, most truly yours, G. B. Report of Mr. Geo. Borrow's late Proceedings in Spain LONDON, _October_ 17, 1836. On the 16th of January I quitted Badajoz, a Spanish town on the frontier of Portugal, for Madrid, whither I arrived in safety. As my principal motive for visiting the Spanish capital was the hope of obtaining permission from the Government to print the New Testament in the Castilian language in Spain, I lost no time upon my arrival in taking what I considered to be the necessary steps. I must here premise that I was an entire stranger at Madrid, and that I bore no letters, of introduction to any person of influence whose credit might have assisted me in this undertaking; so that notwithstanding I entertained a hope of success, relying on the assistance of the Almighty, this hope was not at all times very vivid, but was frequently overcast with the clouds of despondency. Mr. Mendizabal was at this time Prime Minister of Spain, and was considered as a man of almost unbounded power, in whose hands were placed the destinies of the country. I therefore considered that if I could by any means induce him to favour my view I should have no reason to fear interruption from other quarters, and I determined upon applying to him; but though I essayed two or three times to obtain an interview with him, I failed, as he was far too much engrossed in important business to receive a humble and unknown stranger. In this dilemma I bethought me of waiting upon Mr. Villiers, the British Ambassador at Madrid, and craving with the freedom permitted to a British subject his advice and assistance in this most interesting affair. I was received by him with great kindness, and enjoyed a conversation with him on various subjects, before I introduced the matter which I had most at heart. He said that if I wished for an interview with Mr. M. he would endeavour to procure me one; but at the same time told me frankly that he could not hope that any good would arise from it, as Mr. M. was violently prejudiced against the British and Foreign Bible Society, and was far more likely to discountenance than encourage any efforts which they might be disposed to make for introducing the Gospel into Spain. I however remained resolute in my desire to make the trial, and before I left him obtained a letter of introduction to Mr. Mendizabal, with whom I had an interview a few days after. The particulars of this interview have been detailed on a former occasion. It will be sufficient to state here that I obtained from Mr. Mendizabal, if not immediate permission to print the Scriptures, a promise that at the expiration of a few months, when he hoped that the country would be in a more tranquil state, I should be at full liberty to do so, with which promise I departed well satisfied, and full of gratitude to the Lord, who seemed to have so wonderfully smoothed my way in an enterprise which at first sight seemed particularly arduous and difficult. Before three months had elapsed Mr. Mendizabal had ceased to be Prime Minister; with his successor, Mr. Isturitz, I had become acquainted, and also with his colleagues, Galiano and the Duke de Rivas, and it was not long before I obtained--not however without much solicitation and difficulty--the permission which I so ardently desired. Before, however, I could turn it to my account, the revolution broke out in Spain, and the press became free. The present appears to be a moment peculiarly well adapted for commencing operations in Spain, the aim and view of which should be the introducing into that singularly unhappy portion of the world the knowledge of the Saviour. The clouds of bigotry and superstition which for so many centuries cast their dreary shadow upon Spain, are to a considerable degree dispelled, and there is little reason for supposing that they will ever again conglomerate. The Papal See is no longer regarded with reverence, and its agents and ministers have incurred universal scorn and odium; therefore any fierce and determined resistance to the Gospel in Spain is not to be apprehended either from the people themselves, or from the clergy, who are well aware of their own weakness. It is scarcely necessary to remark that every country which has been long subjected to the sway of popery is in a state of great and deplorable ignorance. Spain, as might have been expected, has not escaped this common fate, and the greatest obstacle to the diffusion of the Gospel light amongst the Spaniards would proceed from the great want of education amongst them. Perhaps there are no people in the world to whom nature has been, as far as regards mental endowments, more bounteously liberal than the Spaniards. They are generally acute and intelligent to an extraordinary degree, and express themselves with clearness, fluency, and elegance upon all subjects which are within the scope of their knowledge. It may indeed be said of the mind of a Spaniard, as of his country, that it merely requires cultivation to be a garden of the first order; but, unhappily, both, up to the present time, have been turned to the least possible account. Few amongst the lower class of the population of the towns are acquainted with letters, and fewer still amongst the peasantry; but though compelled to acknowledge the ignorance of the Spaniards in general, I have great pleasure in being able to state that during the latter years it has been becoming less and less, and that the rising generation is by no means so illiterate as the last, which was itself superior in acquirements to the preceding one. It is to be hoped that the progress in improvement will still continue, and that within a few years the blessings of education will be as generally diffused amongst the Spaniards as amongst the people of France and England. Government has already commenced the establishment of Normal Schools, and though the state of the country, convulsed with the horrors of civil war, precludes the possibility of devoting to them the care and attention which they deserve, I have no doubt that when it shall please the Lord to vouchsafe peace unto Spain they will receive all the requisite patronage and support, as their utility is already generally recognised. Before quitting Madrid I entered into negotiation with Mr. Charles Wood, a respectable Englishman established there, for the printing of 5000 copies of the New Testament in Spanish, which number, if on good paper and in handsome type, I have little doubt might be easily disposed of within a short time in the capital and in the principal provincial towns of Spain, particularly Cadiz and Seville, where the people are more enlightened than in other parts in most respects, and where many would be happy to obtain the sacred volume in a handsome yet cheap form, and some in any shape whatever--as there the Word of God is at least known by reputation, and no small curiosity has of late years been manifested concerning it, though unfortunately that curiosity has not hitherto been gratified, for reasons too well known to require recapitulation. In the rural districts the chances of the Scriptures are considerably less, for there, as far as I am aware, not only no curiosity has been excited respecting it, but it is not known by name, and when mentioned to the people, is considered to be nothing more or less than the mass-book of the Romish Church. On various occasions I have conversed with the peasantry of Estremadura, La Mancha, and Andalusia respecting the holy Book, and without one exception they were not only ignorant of its contents, but ignorant of its nature; some who could read, and pretended to be acquainted with it, said that it contained hymns to the Virgin, and was written by the Pope; yet the peasantry of these three provinces are by no means the least enlightened of Spain, but perhaps the reverse. In a word, great as the ignorance of the generality of the Spaniards upon most essential points is, they are principally ignorant of the one most essential of all, the religion of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. No time, however, ought to be lost in supplying those with the word who are capable of receiving it; though millions in Spain are undoubtedly beyond the reach of any efforts which the Bible Society can make to assist them, however much it may have at heart their eternal salvation, it is gratifying to have grounds for belief that thousands are able and willing to profit by the exertions which may be made to serve them. Though the days of the general orange-gathering are not arrived, when the tree requires but a slight shaking to scatter its ripe and glorious treasures on the head of the gardener, still goodly and golden fruit is to be gathered on the most favoured and sunny branches; the quantity is small in comparison with what remains green and acid, but there is enough to repay the labour of him who is willing to ascend to cull it; the time of the grand and general harvesting is approaching, perhaps it will please the Almighty to hasten it; and it may even now be nearer than the most sanguine of us dares to hope. G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Nov. 30th, 1836) LISBON, _Novr._ 15_th_, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--On taking leave of you I promised to write from Cadiz, and I still hope to perform my promise; but as I am apprehensive that several days will elapse before I shall reach that place I avail myself of the present opportunity of informing you that I am alive and well, lest you should become uneasy at not hearing from me at the time you expected. It is owing to the mercy of God that, instead of being able to pen these lines, I am not at the present moment floundering in the brine, a prey to the fishes and monsters of the ocean. We had a most unpleasant passage to Falmouth. The ship was crowded with passengers, most of whom were poor consumptive individuals and other invalids, fleeing from the cold blasts of England's winter to the sunny shores of Portugal and Madeira. In a more uncomfortable vessel, especially steam-ship, it has never been my fate to make a voyage; the berths were small and insupportably close, and of the wretched holes mine was amongst the worst, the rest having been for the most part bespoken before I arrived on board, so that to avoid the suffocation which seemed to threaten me I lay upon the floor of one of the cabins, and continued to do so until my arrival here. We remained at Falmouth twenty-four hours, taking in coals and repairing the engine, which had sustained considerable damage. On Monday the 7th inst. we again started and made for the Bay of Biscay; the sea was high and the wind strong and contrary, nevertheless on the morning of the fourth day we were in sight of the rocky coast to the north of Cape Finisterre. I must here observe that this was the first voyage that the captain who commanded the vessel had ever made on board of her, and that he knew little or nothing about the coast towards which we were bearing; he was a person picked up in a hurry, the former captain having resigned his command on the ground that the ship was not sea-worthy, and that the engines were frequently unserviceable. I was not acquainted with these circumstances at the time, or perhaps I should have felt more alarmed than I did when I saw the vessel approaching nearer and nearer to the shore, till at last we were only a few hundred yards distant. As it was, however, I felt very much surprised, for having passed it twice before, both times in steam-vessels, and having seen with what care the captains endeavoured to maintain a wide offing, I could not conceive the reason of our being now so near the dangerous region. The wind was blowing hard towards the shore, if that can be called a shore which consists of steep abrupt precipices, on which the surf was breaking with the noise of thunder, tossing up clouds of spray and foam to the height of a cathedral. We coasted slowly along, rounding several tall forelands, some of them piled up by the hand of nature in the most fantastic shapes, until about the fall of night. Cape Finisterre was not far ahead, a bluff brown granite mountain, whose frowning head may be seen far away by those who travel the ocean. The stream which poured round its breast was terrific, and though our engines plied with all their force, we made little or no way. By about eight o'clock at night, the wind had increased to a hurricane, the thunder rolled frightfully, and the only light which we had to guide us on our way was the red forked lightning which burst at times from the bosom of the big black clouds which lowered over our heads. We were exerting ourselves to the utmost to weather the cape, which we could descry by the lightning on our lee, its brow being frequently brilliantly lighted up by the flashes which quivered around it, when suddenly, with a great crash, the engine broke, and the paddles on which depended our lives ceased to play. I will not attempt to depict the scene of horror and confusion which ensued: it may be imagined, but never described. The captain, to give him his due, displayed the utmost coolness and intrepidity, and he and the whole crew made the greatest exertions to repair the engine, and when they found their labour in vain, endeavoured by hoisting the sails and by practising all possible manoeuvres to preserve the ship from impending destruction. But all was of no use; we were hard on a lee shore, to which the howling tempest was impelling us. About this time I was standing near the helm, and I asked the steersman if there was any hope of saving the vessel or our lives; he replied, 'Sir, it is a bad affair; no boat could for a minute live in this sea, and in less than an hour the ship will have her broadside on Finisterre, where the strongest man-of-war ever built must go to shivers instantly. None of us will see the morning.' The captain likewise informed the other passengers in the cabin to the same effect, telling them to prepare themselves, and having done so he ordered the door to be fastened, and none to be permitted to come on deck. I, however, kept my station, though almost drowned with water, immense waves continually breaking over our windward side and flooding the ship; the water-casks broke from their lashings, and one of them struck me down, and crushed the foot of the unfortunate man at the helm, whose place was instantly taken by the captain. We were now close on the rocks, when a horrid convulsion of the elements took place; the lightning enveloped us as with a mantle, the thunders were louder than the roar of a million cannon, the dregs of the ocean seemed to be cast up, and in the midst of all this turmoil the wind, without the slightest intimation _veered right about_, and pushed us from the horrible coast faster than it had previously drawn us towards it. The oldest sailors on board acknowledged that they had never witnessed so providential an escape. I said from the bottom of my heart, 'Our Father: hallowed be Thy name.' The next day we were near foundering, for the sea was exceedingly high, and our vessel, which was not intended for sailing, laboured terribly, and leaked much. The pumps were continually working. She likewise took fire, but the flames were extinguished. In the evening the steam-engine was partially repaired, and we reached Lisbon on the 13th. Most of my clothes and other things are spoiled, for the hold was overflowed with the water from the boiler and the leak. The vessel will be ready for sea in about a week, when I shall depart for Cadiz; but most of the passengers who intended going farther than Lisbon have abandoned her, as they say she is doomed. But I have more trust in the Lord that governeth the winds, and in whose hands the seas are as a drop. He who preserved us at Finisterre can preserve elsewhere, and if it be His will that we perish, the firm ground is not more secure than the heaving sea. I have seen our excellent friend Mr. Wilby, and delivered to him the parcel, with which I was entrusted. He has been doing everything in his power to further the sale of the sacred volume in Portuguese; indeed his zeal and devotedness are quite admirable, and the Society can never appreciate his efforts too highly. But since I was last at Lisbon the distracted state of the country has been a great obstacle to him; people's minds are so engrossed with politics that they find no time to think of their souls. Before this reaches you, you will doubtless have heard of the late affair at Belem, where poor Freire (I knew him well) one of the ex-Ministers lost his life, and which nearly ended in an affray between the English forces and the native. The opinions of the Portuguese seem to be decidedly democratic, and I have little doubt that were the English squadron withdrawn the unfortunate young Queen would lose her crown within a month, and be compelled with her no less unfortunate young husband to seek a refuge in another country. I repeat that I hope to write to you from Cadiz; I shall probably be soon in the allotted field of my labours, distracted, miserable Spain. The news from thence is at present particularly dismal; the ferocious Gomez, after having made an excursion into Estremadura, which he ravaged like a pestilence, has returned to Andalusia, the whole of which immense province seems to be prone at his feet. I shall probably find Seville occupied by his hordes, but I fear them not, and trust that the Lord will open the path for me to Madrid. One thing I am resolved upon: either to be the instrument of doing something for Spain, or never to appear again in my native land. G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Dec. 28th, 1836) SEVILLE, _Dec._ 5_th_, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I arrived safely at Cadiz on the 21st ult.; the steam-engine had been partially repaired at Lisbon, and our passage was speedy and prosperous. I was happy to have reached the shores of Spain, being eager to enter upon my allotted task. Cadiz is a small but beautiful city, built upon a tongue of land and surrounded on all points but one by the sea, which dashes up against its walls: the houses are lofty, and of a dazzling whiteness; the streets are straight and narrow. On my arrival I found great confusion reigning: numerous bands of the factious were reported to be hovering in the neighbourhood, an attack was not deemed improbable, and the place had just been declared in a state of siege. I took up my abode at the French Hotel, in the Calle de la Niveria, and was allotted a species of cock-loft or garret to sleep in, for the house was filled with guests, being a place of much resort on account of the excellent _table d'hote_ which is kept there. I dressed myself and walked about the town. I entered several coffee houses: the din of tongues in all was deafening; in one no less than six orators were haranguing at the same time on the state of the country, and the probability of an intervention on the part of England and France. As I was listening to one of them he suddenly called upon me for my opinion, as I was a foreigner, and seemingly just arrived. I replied that I could not venture to guess what steps the two Governments would pursue under the present circumstances, but thought that it would be as well if the Spaniards would exert themselves more, and call less on Jupiter. As I did not wish to engage in any political conversation I instantly quitted the house, and sought those parts of the town where the lower classes principally reside. I entered into discourse with several individuals, but found them very ignorant; none could write or read, and their ideas respecting religion were anything but satisfactory, most professing a perfect indifference. I afterwards went into a bookseller's shop, and made enquiries respecting the demand for literature, which he informed me was small. I produced our 24mo edition of the New Testament in Spanish, and asked the bookseller whether he thought a book of that description would sell in Cadiz. He said it was exceedingly beautiful, both in type and paper, but it was a work not sought after, and very little known. I did not pursue my enquiries in other shops, for I reflected that I was not very likely to receive a very favourable opinion from booksellers respecting a publication in which they had no interest. I had, moreover, but two or three copies of the New Testament with me, and could not have supplied them had they given me an order. That night I became very unwell, and was apprehending that I had been seized with the cholera, as the symptoms of my complaint were very similar to those which accompany that disorder. I was for some time in most acute pain, and terribly sick; I drank oil mixed with brandy, and in some degree recovered, and for the two succeeding days was very feeble, and able to undertake nothing. This attack was the cause of my not writing to you from Cadiz as I had fully intended. Early on the 24th I embarked for Seville in the small Spanish steamer the _Betis_. The morning was wet, and the aspect of nature was enveloped in a dense mist, which prevented my observing surrounding objects. After proceeding about six leagues, we reached the north-eastern extremity of the bay of Cadiz, and passed by Saint Lucar, an ancient town close by where the Guadalquivir disembogues itself. The mist suddenly disappeared, and the sun of Spain burst forth in full brilliancy, enlivening all around, and particularly myself, who had till then been lying on the deck in a dull melancholy stupor. We entered the mouth of the 'Great River,' for that is the English translation of _Qued al Kiber_, as the Moors designated the ancient Betis. We came to anchor for a few minutes at a little village called Bonanca, at the extremity of the first reach of the river, where we received several passengers, and again proceeded. There is not much in the appearance of the Guadalquivir to interest the traveller: the banks are low and destitute of trees, the adjacent country is flat, and only in the distance is seen a range of tall blue sierras. The water is turbid and muddy, and in colour closely resembling the contents of a duck-pool; the average width of the stream is from 150 to 200 yards. But it is impossible to move along this river without remembering that it has borne the Roman, the Vandal, and the Arab, and has been the witness of deeds which have resounded through the world, and been the themes of immortal song. I repeated Latin verses and fragments of old Spanish ballads, till we reached Seville at about nine o'clock of a lovely moonlight night. Before entering upon more important matter I will say a few words respecting Seville and its curiosities. It contains 90,000 inhabitants, and is situated on the left bank of the Guadalquivir, about eighteen leagues from its mouth. It is surrounded with high Moorish walls, in a good state of preservation, and built of such durable materials that it is probable they will for many centuries bid defiance to the encroachment of time. The most remarkable edifices are the cathedral and Alcazar or palace of the Moorish kings. The tower of the former, called La Giralda, belongs to the period of the Moors, and formed part of the Grand Mosque of Seville. It is 220 ells in height, and is ascended not by stairs or ladders, but by a vaulted pathway, in the manner of an inclined plane; this path is by no means steep, so that a cavalier might ride up to the top, a feat which Ferdinand the Seventh is said to have accomplished. The view from the summit is very extensive, and on a fine clear day the ridge called the Sierra de Ronda may be discovered though the distance is upward of twenty-two leagues. The cathedral itself is a noble Gothic structure, reputed the finest of the kind in Spain. In the chapels allotted to the various saints are some of the most magnificent paintings which Spanish art has produced. Here are to be seen the far-famed 'Angel of the Guard,' by Murillo, his 'Saint Anthony at Devotion,' the celestial spirits hovering around him, and Saint Thomas of Villa Nueva bestowing Charity'; there are also some pictures by Soberan [? Zurbaran] of almost inestimable value. Indeed, the cathedral at Seville is at the present time far more rich in splendid paintings than at any former period, possessing many very recently removed from some of the suppressed convents, particularly from the Capuchin and Franciscan. No one should visit Seville without paying particular attention to the Alcazar. It is perhaps the most perfect specimen of Moorish architecture which is at present to be found in Europe. It contains many splendid halls, particularly that of the Ambassadors, so called, which is in every respect more magnificent than the one of the same name within the Alhambra of Granada. This palace was a favourite residence of Peter the Cruel, who carefully repaired it, without altering its Moorish character and appearance. It probably remains in much the same state as at the time of his death. On the right side of the river is a large suburb called Triana, communicating with Seville by means of a bridge of boats; for there is no permanent bridge across the Guadalquivir owing to the violent inundations to which it is subject. This suburb is inhabited by the dregs of the populace, and abounds with Gitanos or Gypsies. About a league and a half to the north-west stands the village of Santo Ponce; at the foot and on the side of some elevated ground higher up are to be seen vestiges of ruined walls and edifices which once formed part of Italica, the birth-place of Silius Italicus and Trajan, from which latter personage Triana derives its name. One fine morning I walked thither, and having ascended the hill I directed my course northward. I soon reached what had once been bagnios, and a little farther on, in a kind of valley between two gentle acclivities, the amphitheatre. This latter object is by far the most considerable relic of ancient Italica; it is oval in its form, with two gateways, fronting the east and west. On all sides are to be seen the time-worn broken granite benches, from whence myriads of human beings once gazed down on the area below, where the gladiator shouted, and the lion and leopard yelled. All around beneath these flights of benches are vaulted excavations, from whence the combatants, part human, part bestial, darted forth by their several doors. I spent several hours in this singular place, forcing my way through the wild fennel and brushwood into the caverns, now the haunts of adders and other reptiles, whose hissings I heard. Having sated my curiosity, I left the ruins, and returning by another way reached a place where lay the carcase of a horse half-devoured. Upon it with lustrous eyes stood an enormous vulture, who, as I approached, slowly soared aloft till he alighted on the eastern gate of the amphitheatre, from whence he uttered a hoarse cry, as if in anger that I had disturbed him from his feast of carrion. And now for another subject. You are doubtless anxious to know what are my projects, and why I am not by this time further advanced on my way to Madrid; know then that the way to Madrid is beset with more perils than harassed Christian in his route to the Eternal Kingdom. Almost all communication is at an end between this place and the capital, the diligences and waggons have ceased running, even the bold _arrieros_ or muleteers are at a stand-still; and the reason is that the rural portion of Spain, especially this part, is in a state of complete disorganisation and of blackest horror. The three fiends, famine, plunder, and murder, are playing their ghastly revels unchecked; bands of miscreants captained by such--what shall I call them?--as Orejita and Palillos, are prowling about in every direction, and woe to those whom they meet. A few days since they intercepted an unfortunate courier, and after scooping out his eyes put him to death with most painful tortures, and mangled his body in a way not to be mentioned. Moreover, the peasantry, who have been repeatedly plundered by these fellows, and who have had their horses and cattle taken from them by the Carlists, being reduced with their families to nakedness and the extreme of hunger, seize in rage and desperation upon every booty which comes within their reach, a circumstance which can awaken but little surprise. This terrible state of things, staring me in the face on my arrival at Seville, made me pause. I thought that the tempest might in some degree subside, but hitherto I have been disappointed. My mind is at present made up. I shall depart for Madrid in two or three days, at all risks. The distance is 300 miles. I shall hire, in the first place, horses, and a guide, as far as Cordova (twenty-six leagues). I shall have to pay a great price, it is true, but I have money, praised be God, who inspired me with the idea of putting fifty sovereigns in my pocket when I left London. I should otherwise be helpless. From Cordova I must endeavour to obtain horses to Val de Penas (twenty leagues), which is half way to Madrid. Were I at Val de Penas, I should feel comparatively at ease; for from thence I know the road, having traversed it in my ways from Madrid to Grenada; it moreover runs through La Mancha, which, though infested with banditti, is plain open ground, and if I could obtain no guide or horses, or had been plundered of my money, I might hope to make my way on foot. But I am ignorant of the country between Seville and Cordova, and from Cordova to Val de Penas. The route is through the dismal and savage mountains of the Sierra Morena, where I should inevitably be bewildered, and perhaps, if not murdered, fall a prey to the wolves. Were the whole way known to me, I would leave my baggage here and dressed as a beggar or Gypsy set out on foot; strange as this plan may sound in English ears, it would be the safest course I could pursue. Should I perish in this journey, keep the affair secret as long as possible from my dear mother, and when it should be necessary to reveal it to her, do me the favour to go to Norwich on purpose; should I reach Madrid, you will hear from me in about five weeks, from the time you receive this. It would be of no utility to write to you from Cordova; the letter would never reach you, I hope this will. Gomez had not hitherto paid a visit to Seville; when I arrived here, he was said to be in the neighbourhood of Ronda. The city was under watch and ward, several gates had been blocked up with masonry, trenches dug, and redoubts erected, but I am convinced that the place would not have held out six hours against a resolute assault. Gomez has proved himself to be a most extraordinary man, and with his small army of Aragonese and Basques has within the last four months made the tour of Spain; he has very frequently been hemmed in with forces three times the number of his own, in places whence escape seemed impossible, but he has always baffled his enemies, whom he seems to laugh at. The most absurd accounts of victories gained over him are continually issuing from the press at Seville; the other day it was stated that his army had been utterly defeated, himself killed, and that 1200 prisoners were on their way to Seville. I saw these prisoners; instead of 1200 desperadoes, they consisted of about twenty poor lame ragged wretches, many of them boys from fourteen to sixteen years of age; they were evidently camp-followers, who, unable to keep up with the army, had been picked up straggling in the plains and amongst the hills. It now appears that no battle had occurred, and that the death of Gomez was a fiction. The grand defect of Gomez is not knowing how to take advantage of circumstances; after his defeat of Lopez he might have marched to Madrid and proclaimed Don Carlos there, and after sacking Cordova, he might have captured Seville. There are several booksellers' shops in Seville, in two of which I found copies of the New Testament (our own 12mo edition of 1826); they had been obtained from Gibraltar about two years since, during which time six copies had been sold in one shop and four in the other. I have become acquainted with an elderly person, a Genoese by birth, who, should we succeed in bringing out an edition of the sacred volume at Madrid, may be of service to us, as a colporteur in this place and the neighbourhood, where he is well known. He has assured me of his willingness to undertake the task, and, if required, to visit Cordova, Grenada, or any part of Andalusia, town or country; he has been accustomed to bookselling, and at one time he also brought some of our Testaments from Gibraltar, all of which were however taken from him by the Custom House officers with the exception of one copy, which he afterwards disposed of to a lady for 30 _reals_ (6s. 6d.). Should the Bible Society be desirous to circulate the book in the rural districts of Spain, they must be prepared to make considerable sacrifices. In some of the towns, especially the sea-ports, it is probable that many copies may be disposed of, at a fair price; but can it be expected that amongst myriads, who are in want of the common necessaries of life, who are without food, fuel or clothing, and on whose wretched heads the horrors which civil war--and such a civil war--have principally fallen, [men] can have money for books? I am willing to visit every part of Spain, and to risk my life a thousand times in laying God's Word before the people, but I can promise no more. I have no extraordinary powers, indeed scarcely those allotted to the average of humanity; God, it is true, can operate wonders by any instrument, but we must bide His will. I have had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of Mr. Wetherell, an English gentleman, who has for many years been established in a very important branch of business at Seville. He takes a warm interest in my mission, and has frequently informed me that nothing will afford him greater pleasure than to further the cause at this place and in the neighbourhood; as he employs a vast number of individuals, I have little doubt that he has the power, as he certainly has the will. He is a virtuoso and possesses a singular collection of the ancient idols of Mexico, which bear a surprising resemblance to those used by the followers of the Buddhist superstition. In return for a translation of an Arabic inscription which I made for him, he presented me with a copy of the Cabalistic book Zohar, in the Rabbinical language and character, which on the destruction of the Inquisition at Seville (1820) he obtained from the library of that horrible tribunal. Pray remember me to Mr. Jowett and Mr. Browne and my other friends. May the Lord bless you, my dear Sir. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jany. 6, 1837) MADRID, _December_ 26_th_, 1836. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I am just arrived at Madrid in safety. It has pleased the Lord to protect me through the perils of a most dismal journey. I reached Cordova in three days, attended by the old Italian whom I mentioned in my last letter, for I could procure no other guide. From Cordova I have ridden to Madrid in the company of a _contrabandista_, or smuggler, whose horses I insured, and to whom I am to give a gratuity of 42 dollars. We passed through the horrible pass of Despena Perros in the Sierra Morena. Providence here manifested itself; the day before, the banditti of the pass committed a dreadful robbery and murder by which they sacked 40,000 _reals_; they were probably content with their booty and did not interrupt me and my guide. We entered La Mancha, where I expected to fall into the hands of Palillos and Orejita. Providence again showed itself. It had been delicious weather; suddenly the Lord breathed forth a frozen blast, the severity of which was almost intolerable; no human being but ourselves ventured forth; we traversed snow-covered plains and passed through villages and towns without seeing an individual; the robbers kept close in their caves and hovels, but the cold nearly killed me. We reached Aranjuez late on Christmas day, and I got into the house of an Englishman, where I swallowed nearly two bottles of brandy; it affected me no more than warm water. I am now at my journey's end, and shall presently fall to work, for I must lose no time, but profit by the present opportunity. All is quiet in Madrid and in the neighbourhood; Gomez has returned to Biscay. If my letter be somewhat incoherent, mind it not. I have just alighted, and the cold has still the mastery of me; I shall send a journal in a few days which will be more circumstantial. Write to my mother and say I am in safety. I shall write myself to-morrow, I can no more now. GEORGE BORROW. To J. Tarn, Esq. (_Endorsed_: recd. Jany. 9, 1837) No. 16 PISO 3RO CALLE SAN IAGO, MADRID, _Dec._ 31_st_, 1836. MY DEAR SIR,--I forward the bill of my expenses from the moment of my quitting London up to the time of my arrival at Madrid. When it is considered that I have been nearly two months on this most perilous journey, it will probably not be deemed extravagant; should that however be the case, I shall be very willing to defray from my salary any deduction which may be made. I beg leave to call your attention particularly to the expense of horse-hire. I paid an ounce of gold for two miserable animals from Seville to Cordova, I had to maintain them by the way, to pay their expenses back, and to provide a guide. Neither of the horses was worth what I paid for their hire; it is true their master risked their being captured by the bands of robbers from whom I providentially escaped. It will in future be much cheaper to purchase horses. You will oblige me by informing me how my account with you stands, for it seems I was indebted to you on departing. I have seen Mr. O'Shea and Mr. Wood; with the assistance of the former gentleman I hope to obtain the paper for the work at a considerable less price than that stated in Mr. W.'s estimate, as Mr. O'Shea is connected with the paper-mills of Catalonia. I shall write to Mr. Brandram in a few days and in the meanwhile remain, etc., G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jany. 24, 1837) _Jany._ 14, 1837, MADRID. CALLE SAN IAGO No. 16, PISO 3RO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Immediately on my arrival at Madrid, which occurred on the 26th of last month, I despatched letters to yourself and Mr. Tarn, in that to Mr. T. was enclosed an account of my expenses, both of which letters I hope have arrived in safety. I now take up the pen to acquaint you with what I have done since my arrival, and what I, with the Lord's assistance, purpose doing. My first care was to wait on my excellent friend, Mr. Villiers, who received me with his usual kindness. I asked him if it were his opinion that I might venture to commence printing the Scriptures without an application to the present Government, as the law is doubtful on the point. His reply was satisfactory: 'You obtained the permission of the Government of Isturitz,' said he, 'which was a much less liberal one than the present; I am a witness to the promise made to you by the former Ministers, which I consider sufficient; you had best commence and complete the work as soon as possible, without any fresh application, and should any one attempt to interrupt you, you have only to come to me, whom you may command at any time.'--I went away with a light heart. I next visited Mr. O'Shea, who was very glad to see me again, and assured me that he took the greatest interest in my undertaking, and should be happy to further it to the utmost of his power. I knew that he had been connected with the paper-manufactories of the south, and a thought struck me. You will remember that I brought over specimens of paper from thirty to eighty _reals_ per ream, and that I was authorised to purchase 600 {197} reams of paper at 60 _reals_ per ream. I asked Mr. O'Shea if he did not think that, through his connections, he could procure me such paper as I wanted at a much cheaper rate than it was possible for me to obtain it; he said he would make enquiries. I returned in a few days: he had performed more than I expected, and he showed me paper at 45 _reals_, better than what I could have purchased at 70, likewise some very good at 37. I hesitated for some time between these two specimens; I at length, however, determined to purchase that at 45 _reals_. I am therefore able to communicate that in paper alone 9000 _reals_ will have been saved to the funds of the Society, and at the same time a superior article have been procured. I found that during my absence from Madrid Mr. Wood had quitted Mr. Borrego, and had accepted a situation in another printing establishment; but as Mr. Borrego is in possession of the only English press at Madrid, is moreover an intimate friend of Mr. O'Shea, and above all enjoys the good opinion of Mr. Villiers who interests himself in his welfare, I am determined to entrust the printing to him. Mr. Borrego has agreed to make a reduction of 10 _reals_ per sheet in his estimate, which I consider very liberal conduct, as the former charge, considering the rate of printing at Madrid, was by no means high. We have resolved to print the work precisely the same in shape and size as the copy entrusted to my charge, except that we shall substitute single for double columns. I shall look over each sheet of the work myself, but in order to bring out as correct an edition as possible I have engaged the literary assistance of Dr. Usoz, the gentleman who some time since addressed a letter to the Society, in which he expressed a wish to become a member. He is one of the best Castilian scholars in Madrid, and, as he feels zeal in the cause, will, I have no doubt, prove eminently useful. Any remuneration for his labour he will leave to the consideration of the Bible Society and myself. We shall commence printing within a few days, and I expect to have the work ready within ten weeks. Now permit me to propose a very important question to you. What is to be done with the volumes when the work shall have passed through the press? As I am sure you will feel at a loss to give a satisfactory answer, allow me to propose the only plan which appears feasible. Believe me when I say that it is not the result of a few moments' cogitation. I have mused on it much and often. I mused on it when off Cape Finisterre in the tempest, in the cut-throat passes of the Morena, and on the plains of La Mancha, as I jogged along a little way ahead of the smuggler. It is this. As soon as the work is printed and bound, I will ride forth from Madrid into the wildest parts of Spain, where the Word is most wanted, and where it seems next to an impossibility to introduce it. I will go through the whole of the Asturias and Galicia, and along the entire line of the Pyrenees, not forgetting to visit every part of Biscay. To accomplish this I must have horses and a man to take care of them. To purchase horses will be much more economical than to hire them, as the hire of an animal for a journey of only thirty leagues generally amounts to nearly its full value; the purchase of three horses will not amount to more than 36 pounds, and a servant may be obtained for 9d. per day and his board. I will take with me 1200 copies, which I will engage to dispose of, for little or much, to the wild people of the wild regions which I intend to visit. As for the rest of the edition it must be disposed of, if possible, in a different way--I may say the usual way; part must be entrusted to booksellers, part to colporteurs, and a depot must be established at Madrid. Such work is every person's work, and to any one may be confided the execution of it; it is a mere affair of trade. What I wish to be employed in is what, I am well aware, no other individual will undertake to do: namely, to scatter the Word upon the mountains, amongst the valleys and the inmost recesses of the worst and most dangerous parts of Spain, where the people are more fierce, fanatic and, in a word, Carlist,--parts where bookshops are unknown, and where none of those means can be resorted to for the spread of the Bible which can be used in the more civilised portions of the kingdom. This is the plan which I most humbly offer to the consideration of the Committee and yourself. I shall not feel at all surprised should it be disapproved of altogether; but I wish it to be understood that in that event I could do nothing further than see the work through the press, as I am confident that whatever ardour and zeal I at present feel in the cause would desert me immediately, and that I should neither be able nor willing to execute anything which might be suggested. I wish to engage in nothing which would not allow me to depend entirely on myself. It would be heart-breaking to me to remain at Madrid, expending the Society's money, with almost the certainty of being informed eventually by the booksellers and their correspondents that the work has no sale. In a word, to make sure that some copies find their way among the people I must be permitted to carry them to the people myself; and what people have more need of Christian instruction than the inhabitants of the districts alluded to? Ere the return of the _contrabandista_ to Cordova, I purchased one of the horses which had brought us to Madrid. It is an exceedingly strong, useful animal, and as I had seen what it is capable of performing, I gave him the price which he demanded (about 11 pounds, 17s.). It will go twelve leagues a day with ease, and carry three hundred-weight on its back. I am looking out for another, but shall of course make no further purchase until I hear from you. I confess I would sooner provide myself with mules, but they are very expensive creatures. In the first place, the original cost of a tolerable one amounts to 30 pounds; and they, moreover, consume a vast quantity of fodder, at least two pecks of barley in the twenty-four hours with straw in proportion, and if they are stinted in their food they are of no manner of service; the attendance which they require is likewise very irksome, as they must be fed once every four hours night and day; they are, however, noble animals, and are much in vogue amongst the principal nobility. Hoping to hear from you soon, I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Mar. 6, 1837) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANT. IAGO, _Feby._ 27, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have received your letter of the 27th ult. containing the resolution of the Committee, and also yours of the [17th] ult. with my account. I was exceedingly grieved at learning that poor Mr. Tarn has been removed, for he was a most worthy person, and the Bible Society will experience a severe loss in his death; but I hope and trust that eventually some one will be found worthy to succeed him. He is doubtless at present in the other world receiving the reward of his faith in this; let us pray that we may be counted worthy to join him there! By the time these lines reach you the four Gospels will have passed through the press; for the work is going on well and prosperously, and I have little doubt that within five weeks it will be completed. I have already entered into arrangements respecting the binding with Mr. Borrego, who is about to unite bookbinding with printing; the terms are very reasonable, considering the current prices of the country, as I am to pay but three _reals_ per volume for a calf binding similar to that of the copy which was entrusted to me. I have reckoned that the expense of each book, printing, paper, and binding included, will but barely amount to 15 _reals_; and cheaper than this it is utterly impossible to bring out a work of the size of the New Testament, handsomely and creditably in Spain. Within a few days I shall despatch letters circular to all the principal booksellers in Spain, specifying the nature, size and quality of the work, and inviting them to subscribe at 15 _reals_ per copy, the prime cost; for if anything will tempt them to a speculation of the kind, it will be the hope and prospect of making a very handsome profit. Yet they are so short-sighted and, like all their countrymen, so utterly unacquainted with the rudiments of business, that it is by no means improbable that they, one and all, take no notice of this proposal, which is however the only plan which at present appears available for promoting the _general_ circulation of the Scriptures. Dr. Usoz, the gentleman who is at present assisting me in the editing of the work in question, is very anxious to become a member and a correspondent of the Bible Society. His letter on that subject I translated and transmitted previous to my last visit to England, but he has never received an answer. I beg leave to say that I am extremely desirous that his request be granted, and that he be written to without delay; and I must moreover beg to be furnished with a written or printed authority to establish a branch Bible Society in Madrid, and to nominate Dr. Usoz as secretary. That part of my last letter, where I stated my wish of making a tour through the Asturias, Galicia, and the Biscays, as soon as the work should be completed, does not seem to have been clearly understood. I did not intend to devote myself entirely to _the wild people_, but to visit the villages and towns as well as the remote and secluded glens. I intended to take letters of introduction to some of the most respectable people of Oviedo, of Corunna, of Lugo, of Vigo, Pontevedro, Barbastro, Bilboa, etc., and to establish depots of Bibles in those towns; but in my way I intended to visit the secret and secluded spots amongst the rugged hills and mountains, and to talk to the people, after my manner, of Christ and to explain to them the nature of His book, and to place that book in the hands of those whom I should deem capable of deriving benefit from it. True it is that such a journey would be attended with considerable danger, and very possibly the fate of St. Stephen might befall the adventurer; but does the man deserve the name of a follower of Christ who would shrink from danger of any kind in the cause of Him whom he calls his Master? 'He who loses his life for My sake, shall save it,' are words which the Lord Himself uttered, and words surely fraught with consolation to every one engaged in propagating His Gospel in savage and barbarian lands. About a fortnight since I purchased another horse, for these animals are at present exceedingly cheap. A royal requisition is about to be issued for 5000, and the consequence is that an immense number are for sale; for by virtue of this requisition the horses of any person not a foreigner can be seized for the benefit of the service. It is probable that when the number is made up the price of horses will be treble what it is at present, which consideration induced me to purchase this animal before I exactly want him. He is a black Andalusian stallion of great size and strength, and capable of performing a journey of 100 leagues in a week's time, but he is unbroke, savage and furious. However, a cargo of Bibles which I hope shortly to put on his back will, I have no doubt, thoroughly tame him, especially when labouring up the flinty hills of the north of Spain. I wished to purchase a mule, according to my instructions, but though I offered 30 pounds for a sorry one, I could not obtain her; whereas the cost of both the horses, tall, powerful, stately animals, scarcely amounted to that sum. I will now say a few words respecting the state of Spain, though what I communicate will probably startle you, as in England you are quite in the dark respecting what is going on here. At the moment I am writing, Cabrera, the tiger-friar, is within nine leagues of Madrid with an army nearly ten thousand strong; he has beaten the Queen's troops in several engagements, and has ravaged La Mancha with fire and sword, burning several towns; bands of affrighted fugitives are arriving every hour bringing tidings of woe and disaster, and I am but surprised that the enemy does not appear, and by taking Madrid, which is at his mercy, put an end to the war at once. But the truth is, the Carlist generals do not wish the war to cease; for as long as the country is involved in bloodshed and anarchy, they can plunder and exercise that lawless authority so dear to men of fierce and brutal passions. Cabrera is a wretch whose sole enjoyment consists in inflicting pain and torture and causing woe and misery to his fellow creatures; he is one of the instruments of the anger of the Almighty, a scourge in the hand of Providence to chastise a land whose wickedness had become intolerable. For the elect's sake, and there are a few even in Spain, may it please the Lord to shorten the affliction of these days, or all flesh must succumb. I remain, dear Sir, most truly yours, G. B. _P.S._--Pray let me hear from you shortly, and remember me particularly to Mr. Jowett and Mr. Browne. _P.S._ 2.--I have already paid, in part, for the printing and paper, as you will have concluded by my draft. The Gospel of Saint Luke, in the Rommany language, is nearly ready for the press. It is my intention to subjoin a vocabulary of all the words used, with an explanation in the Spanish language. Before I left England I was authorised to look out for a person competent to translate the Scriptures in Basque (Spanish). I am acquainted with a gentleman who is well versed in that dialect, of which I myself have some knowledge. Perhaps it would not be unwise to engage him to translate St. Luke as a trial of his powers. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Mar. 25, 1837) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANT IAGO PISO 3RO. [_March_ 16th, 1837]. REVD. SIR,--I write a few lines for the purpose of informing you that the New Testament in Castilian will be ready in a few days, probably before you receive this epistle, should it reach you, which I have some doubts of from the terrible and distracted state of Spain at the present time. The work has been printed on the best paper, and no pains have been spared, at least on my part, to render it as correct as possible, having read every proof-sheet three times. I must here take the liberty of observing that the work executed in London, and of which a copy was delivered to me to print from, abounds in errors of every kind and reflects little credit on the person who edited it; no systematic order is observed either in the orthography or the use of accents or capitals, and whole sentences frequently appear in a mangled and mutilated state which renders them unintelligible. On my final settlement with Mr. Borrego I shall send a regular account of my disbursements; he has already received two-thirds of his money, as you will have conjectured from the bills I have drawn. I wish very much that the Committee would vote a letter of thanks to Mr. Henry O'Shea for the interest which he has taken in this affair and the assistance which he has rendered. I shall write again in a few days. I am afraid that you did not receive my last letter. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most faithfully yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Decr. 1, 1837) MADRID, _April_ 27, 1837. MY DEAR SIR,--Please to let the bearer have the under-mentioned Bibles; they are for Dr. Usoz, from whom I have received their value. Entire Bible in German. Entire Bible in Modern Greek. Do. do. in Portuguese. If possible, I should wish to have the New Testament in Persian, for my own private use. Most sincerely yours, GEORGE BORROW. The Basque translation of St. Luke is completed and in my possession; the whole expense attending it amounts to 8 pounds and a few odd shillings. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 13, 1837) [MADRID, 29 _April_, 1837]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Do me the favour after reading the enclosed letter, and making what use of it you please, to seal it, pay the postage, and despatch it to Russia. It contains all I have at present to say, and is as much intended for yourself, as for the person to whom it is directed. I leave Madrid in about three days, and it is my intention to write frequently whilst upon my journey; but should few letters reach you, be not surprised, but attribute it to the state of the country, which is terrible indeed. I am first going to Salamanca, by the pass of the Guadarama; from thence to Burgos; then to the Asturias, Galicia, and Biscay, and along the whole chain of the Pyrenees. Some hundreds of our books have been placed in the hands of a bookseller at Madrid, and I have ordered them to be advertised, once a week, in the principal journals. Dr. Usoz and another friend will do what they can in my absence. To-morrow I send the bill of my expenses; it would have been despatched sooner, but I could not obtain my account from Mr. O'Shea. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most faithfully yours, G. BORROW. _P.S._--My best remembrances to Mr. Jowett, Mr. Browne, and all my friends. To Mr. John Hasfeldt MADRID, 29 _April_, 1837. I received your letter of last January a few weeks since, and I sincerely hope that mine of February may have reached your hands. The principal reason of my taking up the pen at present is the long and adventurous journey which I am about to engage in, and which I am afraid will preclude the possibility of my writing to you for some months. In a few days I quit Madrid, it being my intention to visit the mountainous districts of Spain, particularly Galicia and the Basque Provinces, for the purpose of disposing of part of the edition of the New Testament in Spanish, lately completed at Madrid, under my superintendence. It was my intention to have set out sooner, but the state of the weather has been such that I thought it more prudent to defer my departure; during the last two months violent and bitter winds have blown without ceasing, before whose baneful influence animal and vegetable nature seems to have quailed. I was myself, during a fortnight, prostrated, body and limb, by a violent attack of _la grippe_, or, as it is styled in English, the 'influenza.' I am, however, by the blessing of the Almighty, perfectly recovered and enjoying excellent spirits, but multitudes less favoured have perished, especially the poor. I expect to be absent on my journey about five months, when, if I am spared, not having fallen a prey to sickness, Carlists, banditti, or wild beasts, I shall return to Madrid for the purpose of carrying through the press my own translation of the Gospel of St. Luke in the language of the Spanish Gypsies, and also the same Gospel in Cantabrian or Basque, executed by the domestic physician of the Marquis of Salvatierra. What I am destined to do subsequently I know not; but I should wish to visit China by a land journey, either through Russia, or by Constantinople [and] Armenia as far as the Indian Gulf; as it is my opinion that, with God's permission, I might sow some seed by the way which might in time yield a good harvest. Speaking of these matters reminds me that in your next letter (written in your usual choice Danish) you might send me some useful information respecting what might be done in Russia. Do you think permission might be obtained to print the New Testament in Russ, and that the Russian Hierarchy would be inclined to offer any serious opposition? I wish you would speak to Gretsch on the subject, to whom you will, as usual, present my kindest remembrances. I believe you are acquainted with Mrs. Biller, but if not, you would confer a great favour upon me by calling on her, and requesting her opinion, as she is better acquainted than perhaps any person in Russia with the course to be pursued if the attempt were to be hazarded. Perhaps at the same time you will enquire of her as to what has become of my translation into Russ of the second and third Homilies which I left with her, and whether license to print has been obtained. If not, I should wish that energetic steps be taken to that effect, and as you are an energetic person, and she may possibly have too many important affairs upon her hands, I pray you to take the matter up, but at all events to follow her advice; pray remember me to her likewise. The translation was corrected by that unfortunate man Nicanoff, who, though he lived and died a drunkard, was an excellent Russian scholar; therefore I think that no objection can reasonably be made in respect to style, though indeed the original is very plain and homely, being adapted to the most common understanding. I offer no apology for giving you all this trouble, as I am fully aware that you are at all times eagerly ready to perform anything which I may consider as a service rendered to myself. Spain at present, I am sorry to say, is in a more distracted and convulsed situation than at any former period, and the prospect is gloomy in the extreme. The Queen's troops have sustained of late grievous defeats in the Basque provinces and Valencia, and a Carlist expedition of 18,000 men, whose object is to ravage Castile and to carry the war to the gates of Madrid, is shortly expected to pass the Ebro. From what I have seen and heard of the demoralised state of the Cristinos forces, I believe they will meet with no effectual resistance, and that Cristina and her daughter will be compelled to flee from the capital to Cadiz, or to some strong frontier town. Nevertheless, such is the nature of the Spanish people, that it is impossible to say whether the liberal cause (as it is called) be desperate or not, as neither one party nor the other knows how to improve an advantage. Twice might Don Carlos have marched to Madrid and seized the crown; and more than once his army has been at the mercy of the Cristinos; yet still is the affair undecided, and will perhaps continue so for years. The country is, as you may well conceive, in a most distracted state; robbery and murder are practised with impunity, and the roads are in such an insecure state that almost all communication has ceased between one town and another; yet I am going forth without the slightest fear, trusting in God; for if He is with me, who shall stand against me? I have a servant, a person who has been a soldier for fifteen years, who will go with me for the purpose of attending to the horses and otherwise assisting me in my labours. His conduct on the journey is the only thing to which I look forward with uneasiness; for though he has some good points, yet in many respects a more atrocious fellow never existed. He is inordinately given to drink, and of so quarrelsome a disposition that he is almost constantly involved in some broil. Like most of his countrymen, he carries an exceedingly long knife, which he frequently unsheaths and brandishes in the faces of those who are unfortunate enough to awaken his choler. It is only a few days since that I rescued the maid-servant of the house from his grasp, whom otherwise he would undoubtedly have killed, and all because she too much burnt a red herring which he had given her to cook. You perhaps wonder that I retain a person of this description, but, bad as he is, he is the best servant I can obtain; he is very honest, a virtue which is rarely to be found in a Spanish servant, and I have no fear of his running away with the horses during the journey, after having perhaps knocked me on the head in some lone _posada_. He is moreover acquainted with every road, cross-road, river, and mountain in Spain, and is therefore a very suitable squire for an errant knight, like myself. On my arrival in Biscay I shall perhaps engage one of the uncorrupted Basque peasants, who has never left his native mountains and is utterly ignorant of the Spanish language, for I am told that they are exceedingly faithful and laborious. The best servant I ever had was the Tartar Mahmoud at St. Petersburg, and I have frequently repented that I did not bring him with me on my leaving Russia; but I was not then aware that I was about to visit this unfortunate country, where goodness of every description is so difficult to find. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 23, 1837) MADRID, _May_ 10_th_, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I herewith send the long promised account of my private expenses, which I hope will be found correct. I start to-morrow for Salamanca, at which place I should now be, but for the misconduct of my servant, whom I have been compelled to turn away. I have experienced great difficulty in obtaining another; my present one is a Greek, who formerly waited on Mr. O'Shea; I hope he will turn out well. Mr. O'Shea has given me a general letter of credit to his correspondents in various parts of Spain. You will receive my draft in a few days. I shall write from Salamanca, and various other places, detailing all my proceedings and adventures. I hope you received my last letter. I remain, etc., GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 21, 1837) SALAMANCA, June 7, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I arrived at Salamanca about a fortnight since, in safety and in tolerable good health. I shall defer for a few days communicating the particulars of my journey, though they are not destitute of interest, having at present information to afford which I consider of more importance, and which I hope will afford the same satisfaction to yourself and our friends at home which I myself experience in communicating them. Some days previous to my departure from Madrid I was very much indisposed. Owing to the state of the weather--for violent and biting winds had long prevailed--I had been attacked with a severe cold which terminated in a shrieking disagreeable cough, which the many remedies which I successively tried were unable to subdue. I had made preparation for departing on a particular day, but owing to the state of my health I was apprehensive that I should be compelled to postpone my journey for a time. The last day of my stay in Madrid, finding myself scarcely able to stand, I was fain to submit to a somewhat desperate experiment, and by the advice of the barber-surgeon who visited me, I determined to be bled. Late on the night of that same day he eased me of sixteen ounces of blood, and having received his fee, left me, wishing me a pleasant journey, and assuring me upon his reputation that by noon the next day I should be perfectly recovered. A few minutes after his departure, whilst I was sitting alone, meditating on the journey which I was about to undertake, and on the rickety state of my health, I heard a loud knock at the street-door of the house, on the third floor of which I was lodged, not very comfortably. In a minute or two Mr. Southern of the British Embassy entered my apartment. After a little conversation he informed me that Mr. Villiers had desired him to wait upon me, to communicate a resolution which he, Mr. Villiers, had come to. Being apprehensive that alone and unassisted I should experience considerable difficulty in propagating the Gospel of God to any considerable extent in Spain, he was bent upon exerting to the utmost his own credit and influence to further my views, which he himself considered, if carried into proper effect, extremely well calculated to operate beneficially on the political and moral state of the country. To this end it was his intention to purchase a very considerable number of copies of the New Testament, and to despatch them forthwith to the various British consuls established in different parts of Spain, with strict and positive orders to employ all the means, which their official situation should afford them, to circulate the books in question and to assure their being noticed. They were moreover to be charged to afford myself, whenever I should appear in their respective districts, all the protection, encouragement, and assistance I should stand in need of, as a friend of Mr. Villiers, and a person in the success of whose enterprise he himself took the warmest interest. I could scarcely believe my ears on receiving this information; for though I had long been aware that Mr. Villiers was at all times willing to assist me, he having frequently given me sufficient proof, I could never expect that he would come forward in so noble, and to say the least of it, considering his high diplomatic situation, so bold and decided a manner. I believe that this is the first instance of a British Ambassador having made the cause of the Bible Society a national one, or indeed to favour it directly or indirectly. What renders the case of Mr. Villiers more remarkable is that on my first arrival at Madrid I found him by no means well disposed towards the Society. The Holy Spirit has probably illumined his mind on this point. Honour be to him: I hope that by his means our institution will shortly possess many agents in Spain with far more power and opportunity than I myself can ever expect to possess, who will scatter abroad the seed of the Gospel, and make of a barren and thirsty wilderness a green and smiling corn-field. The next day verified the prediction of the barber. I had to a considerable degree lost my cough and fever, though, owing to the great loss of blood, I was very feeble and weak. Precisely at twelve o'clock myself and man rode forth from the gate of Saint Vincent, directing our course to the lofty mountains which separate Old from New Castile. That night we rested at Guadarama, a large village at their foot, distant from Madrid about twenty-five miles. The journey to Salamanca occupied four days, and I disposed of five Testaments by the way. Since my arrival at Salamanca I have been taking measures that the Word of God may become generally known in this place, so celebrated in many respects. The principal bookseller of the town, Blanco, a man of great wealth and respectability, has consented to become our agent here, and I have deposited in his shop a certain number of New Testaments. He is the proprietor of a small printing press, where the official bulletin of the place is published. For this bulletin I have prepared an advertisement of the work, in which amongst other things I have said that the New Testament is the only guide to salvation. I have also spoken of the Bible Society, and the great pecuniary sacrifices which it is making with the view of proclaiming Christ crucified, and of making His doctrine known. This step will perhaps be considered by some as too bold, but I am not aware that I can take any more calculated to arouse the attention of the people--a considerable point. I have also ordered numbers of the same advertisement to be struck off in the shape of bills which I am causing to be stuck up in various parts of the town. I have great hope that by means of these a considerable number of New Testaments will be sold. I shall repeat this experiment in Valladolid, Leon, St. Jago, and all the principal towns which it is my intention to visit in my wanderings, and I shall likewise distribute them as I ride along. The children of Spain will thus be brought to know that such a work as the New Testament is in existence, a fact of which not five in one hundred are at present aware, notwithstanding their so frequently repeated boasts of their Catholicity and Christianity. I carry with me the Gospel of St. Luke in the Cantabrian or Basque language. It is my intention to print this little book, either at San Sebastian or Pamplona; as it would be unwise not to avail myself of so favourable an opportunity of circulating it as my visit to the provinces where the language is spoken will afford me. I have examined it with much attention, and find it a very faithful version. The only objection which can be brought against it is that Spanish words are frequently used to express ideas for which there are equivalents in Basque; but this language, as spoken at present in Spain, is very corrupt, and a work written entirely in the Basque of Larramendi's Dictionary would be intelligible to very few. I have read passages from it to the men of Guipuscoa, who assured me that they had no difficulty in understanding it, and that it was written in the colloquial style of their province. G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 25, 1837) ASTORGA, 5_th_ _July_, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I avail myself of the present opportunity of giving an account of what has befallen me since I last wrote to you from Salamanca, which I shortly after quitted. By that time my advertisements had been affixed in all parts of the city, and several New Testaments had been sold; I myself had the pleasure of seeing three despatched in less than a quarter of an hour that I remained in the shop. From Salamanca I proceeded to Valladolid, distant about twenty-five leagues, where I employed the same means which I had adopted at Salamanca for the promulgation of God's Word. I must here observe that Valladolid is a place where literature of every description is at the lowest ebb, and bookselling there is merely carried on in connexion with other business, it being in itself quite insufficient to afford a livelihood to those who pursue it. Nevertheless during the five days that I continued there my labours were so far favoured that twenty copies were disposed of, and a fair prospect opened that many more would be demanded. Before leaving I gave orders that the advertisements should be renewed every week, as evil-disposed, persons probably of the Carlist or Papist party, had defaced or torn down a great number of those which had been put up. From pursuing this course I expect that much and manifold good will accrue, as the people of these parts will have continual opportunities of acquainting themselves that a book which contains the _living word_ is in existence and within their reach, which may induce them to secure it and consult it even unto salvation. Quitting Valladolid, I directed my route to Leon by the Palencia road; the greatest part of the way was barren and uninteresting to a high degree, consisting of wide dusty plains scantily sown with barley, but unrelieved with trees or waters. The people are ignorant and brutal, though they boast themselves to be Old Castilians, which is however not the fact, as these desolate and benighted regions belong to what was once the kingdom of Leon. Their inhospitality is so great that I have been refused a glass of water in their villages, though I asked it in the name of God; though I have subsequently obtained it by paying for it, for their hearts can always be opened by the key of interest, though inaccessible to every noble and generous sentiment. I suffered dreadfully during this journey, as did likewise my man and horses, for the heat was the fiercest which I have ever known, and resembled the breath of the simoom or the air from an oven's mouth. Leon is beautifully situated in a smiling blooming country abounding in grass and trees, and watered by many streams which have their source in a mighty chain of mountains in the neighbourhood, which traverse a great part of Spain and are connected with the Pyrenees; but unfortunately it is exceedingly unhealthy, for the heats of the summer-time raise noxious exhalations from the waters, which generate all kinds of disorders, especially fevers and tertian agues. It is the Feversham of Spain. _Nomen cui infausta Fata dedere febris_ [sic]. I had scarcely been at Leon three days when I was seized with a fever, against which I thought the strength even of my constitution would have yielded; for it wore me almost to a skeleton, and when it departed, at the end of about a week, left me in such a deplorable state of weakness that I was scarcely able to make the slightest exertion. I had however previously persuaded a bookseller to undertake the charge of vending the Testaments, and had published my advertisements as usual, though without very fervent hope of success, as Leon is a place where the inhabitants, with very few exceptions, are furious Carlists and ignorant and blinded followers of the old Papal Church. It is, moreover, a Bishop's see, which was once enjoyed by the prime councillor of Don Carlos, whose fierce and bigoted spirit still seems to pervade the place. Scarcely had the advertisements appeared when the clergy were in motion; they went from house to house, banning and cursing and denouncing misery on whomsoever should either purchase or read 'the accursed books' which had been sent into the country by heretics for the purpose of perverting the innocent minds of the population. They did more: they commenced a process against the bookseller in the ecclesiastical court. Fortunately this court is not at present in the possession of much authority, and the bookseller, who is a bold and determined man, set them at defiance, and went so far as to affix an advertisement to the gate of the very cathedral. Notwithstanding the cry raised against the work several copies were sold at Leon, two were purchased by ex-friars, and the same number by parochial priests from neighbouring villages. I believe the whole number disposed of during my stay amounted to fifteen, so that my visit to this dark corner has not been altogether in vain, as the seed of the Gospel has been sown, though sparingly. But the palpableness of the darkness which envelops Leon is truly lamentable, and the ignorance of the people is so great that printed charms and incantations against Satan and his host and against every kind of misfortune are publicly sold in the shops and are in great demand; such are the results of Popery, a delusion which more than any other has tended to debase and brutalise the human mind. I had scarcely risen from the bed where the fever had cast me, when I found that my servant had become alarmed; he informed me that he had seen several soldiers in the uniform of Don Carlos knocking at the door of the _posada_, and that they had been making enquiries concerning me. It was indeed a singular fact connected with Leon that upwards of fifty of these fellows, who had on various accounts left the ranks of the pretender, were walking about the streets dressed in his livery, and with all the confidence which the certainty of the protection of the local authorities could afford them, should any one be disposed to interrupt them. He moreover informed me that the person in whose house we were living was a notorious _alcahuete_, or spy to the robbers in the neighbourhood, and that unless we took our departure speedily and unexpectedly, we should to a certainty be plundered on the road. I did not pay much attention to these hints, but my desire to quit Leon was great, as I was convinced that as long as I continued there I should be unable to regain my health and vigour. Accordingly, at three o'clock in the morning of the fourth (yesterday) we departed, taking the route for Lugo, a principal town in the province of Galicia. We had scarcely proceeded half a league when we were overtaken by a thunderstorm of tremendous violence. We were at that time in the midst of a kind of wood which extends to some distance in that direction. The trees were bowed to the ground or torn up by their roots by the wind, whilst the ground was plowed up by the lightning which burst all around and nearly blinded us. The horse which I rode upon, which was a spirited Andalusian stallion, became furious and bounded into the air as if possessed; owing to my state of weakness I had the greatest difficulty in maintaining my seat and in avoiding a fall which might have been fatal. A tremendous discharge of rain followed the storm, which swelled the brooks into streams and flooded the surrounding country, causing great damage amongst the corn. After riding about five leagues we began to enter the mountainous district which surrounds Astorga; the road was flinty and very trying to the poor horses, who suffered much, whilst the heat was suffocating. It was with the utmost difficulty that we reached Astorga, covered with mud and dust and our tongues cleaving to the roofs of our mouths from thirst. We were compelled to take up our abode in a wretched hovel, full of pigs, vermin, and misery, and from this place I write, for this morning I felt myself unable to proceed on my journey, being exhausted with illness, fatigue and want of food, for scarcely anything is to be obtained. But I return God thanks and glory for being permitted to undergo these crosses and troubles for His Word's sake. I would not exchange my present situation, unenviable as some may think it, for a throne. Pray excuse the style and writing of this letter, both are inevitably bad. I hope in a few days to have reached Lugo, where I shall be more at my ease. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. 12th August 1837) CORUNNA, 20_th_ _July_ [1837]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--My last letter was dated from Astorga, and I stated that I was suffering from the relics of the fever which had assailed me at Leon; in a day or two, however, I was sufficiently recovered to mount my horse and proceed on my journey to Lugo. I shall send a regular account of this journey next post, from which those at home, interested in Bible proceedings in Spain, may gather some idea of this very strange country and people. I arrived safely at Lugo, but much fatigued, for the way thither lay through the wildest mountains and wildernesses. The Lord deigned to favour my humble efforts at Lugo; I brought thither thirty Testaments, all of which were disposed of in one day, the Bishop of the place himself purchasing two copies, whilst several priests and friars, instead of following the example of their brethren at Leon by persecuting the work, spoke well of it, and recommended its perusal. I was much grieved that my stock of these holy books was exhausted, for there was a great demand for them; and had I been able to supply them, quadruple the quantity might have been sold [during] the four days that I remained at Lugo. Midway between Lugo and Corunna I was near falling into the hands of robbers. Two fellows suddenly confronted me with presented carbines, which they probably intended to discharge into my body, but they took fright at the noise of my servant's horse, who was following a little way behind. This affair occurred at the bridge Castellanos, a spot notorious for robbery and murder, and well adapted for both, for it stands at the bottom of a deep dell surrounded by wild desolate hills. Only a quarter of an hour previous, I had passed three ghastly heads, stuck on poles standing by the wayside; they were those of a captain of banditti [and two of his men], who had been seized and executed about two months before. Their principal haunt was the vicinity of the bridge I have already spoken of, and it was their practice to cast the bodies of the murdered into the deep black water which runs rapidly beneath. These three beads will always live in my remembrance, particularly that of the captain, which stood on a higher pole than the other two; the long hair was waving in the wind, and the blackened distorted features were grinning in the sun. The fellows whom I met were themselves of his band. I have a depot of five hundred Testaments at Corunna, from which it is my intention to supply the principal towns of Galicia. I have as usual published my advertisements, and the work enjoys a tolerable sale--seven or eight copies per day on the average. Perhaps some will say that these are small matters and not worthy of being mentioned; but let these bethink them that till within a few months the very existence of the Gospel was almost unknown in Spain, and that it must necessarily be a difficult task to induce a people like the Spaniards, who read very little and who in general consider money expended in books of any kind as cast away, to purchase a work like the New Testament, offering them little prospect of amusement, and which, though the basis of all true religion, they have never been told is useful as a guide to salvation. Let us hope that the present is the dawning of better and more enlightened times, and though little has been accomplished, still it is more than nothing that Testaments are being sold in unhappy benighted Spain, from Madrid to the northernmost part of Galicia, a distance of nearly four hundred miles. In about a fortnight I shall depart for Santiago, where I intend to pass several days; then retracing my steps to Corunna I shall visit Ferrol, whence I shall perhaps shape my course for Oviedo in the Asturias, either along the seashore or by the mountain route, in which latter case I should have to revisit Lugo. Every part of Galicia abounds with robbers and factious, so that almost all travelling is at an end, and the road to Santiago is so bad that no one is permitted to travel it unless in company with the weekly post, which goes attended by a strong military escort. This gives me some uneasiness, as the stallion I ride is so vicious and furious that it is dangerous to bring him in contact with other horses whom, with the exception of his companion, he invariably attacks, getting me into all manner of scrapes. An old Castilian peasant, whose pony he had maltreated, once said to me, 'Sir Cavalier, if you have any love for yourself, get rid of that beast, who is capable of proving the ruin of a kingdom.' But he is a gallant creature who seldom tires, and he has borne me too far to permit me to think of parting with him. Since my arrival at Corunna I have received advice from my agent at Valladolid that the forty copies which I deposited in his hands have been sold, and that he was anxious for a fresh supply. I have accordingly ordered fifty more to be sent him from Madrid. Since my departure from the capital I have myself disposed of sixty-five, without including those sold at Lugo and other places by means of the advertisements, on which I principally rely, as they speak at all times whether I am present or absent. I wish it to be distinctly understood that throughout my journey I have given away none of the books, having invariably received money for them, viz., from 10 to 12 _reals_. The enemies of the Bible Society have stated in several publications that it has no vent for the Bibles and Testaments which it publishes in many foreign languages but by sending them to the various countries, and there distributing them gratis or selling them by auction, when they are bought for waste paper (see in particular Wiseman's _Letters_). My conduct in this point has been principally influenced by a desire to give, in the case of Spain at least, the direct lie to this assertion, and this conduct I shall pursue until I receive direct orders to abandon it. I will now conclude by repeating that in a few days you will receive my journal, which will prove more interesting than the above hasty scrawl. I remain, etc., G. BORROW. To the Rev. Andrew Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 23, 1837) _Journey from Astorga to Lugo_ Before proceeding to narrate what befell me in this journey, it will perhaps not be amiss to say a few words concerning Astorga and its vicinity. It is a walled town containing about five or six thousand inhabitants, with a cathedral and college, which last is, however, at present deserted. It is situated on the confines, and may be called the capital, of a tract of land called the country of the Maragatos, which occupies about three square leagues, and has for its north-western boundary a mountain called Telleno, the loftiest of a chain of hills which have their origin near the mouth of the river Minho, and are connected with the immense range which constitutes the frontier of the Asturias and Guipuscoa. The land is ungrateful and barren, and niggardly repays the toil of the cultivator, being for the most part rocky, with a slight sprinkling of a red bricky earth. The Maragatos are perhaps the most singular caste to be found amongst the chequered population of Spain. They have their own peculiar customs and dress, and never intermarry with the Spaniards. Their name is a clue to their origin, as it signifies 'Moorish Goths,' and at this present day their garb differs but little from that of the Moors of Barbary, as it consists of a long tight jacket, secured at the waist by a broad girdle; loose short trowsers which terminate at the knee, and boots and gaiters. Their heads are shaven, a slight fringe of hair being only left at the lower part. If they wore the turban, or barret, they could scarcely be distinguished from the Moors in dress, but in lieu thereof they wear the sombrero or broad slouching hat of Spain. There can be little doubt that they are a remnant of those Goths who sided with the Moors on their invasion of Spain, and who adopted their religion, customs, and manner of dress, which, with the exception of the first, are still to a considerable degree retained. It is, however, evident that their blood has at no time mingled with that of the wild children of the desert, for scarcely amongst the hills of Norway would you find figures and faces more essentially Gothic than those of the Maragatos. They are strong, athletic men, but loutish and heavy, and their features, though for the most part well-formed, are vacant and devoid of expression. They are slow and plain in speech, and those eloquent and imaginative sallies so common in the conversation of other Spaniards seldom or never escape them; they have, moreover, a coarse, thick pronunciation, and when you hear them speak, you almost imagine that it is some German or English peasant attempting to express himself in the language of the Peninsula. They are constitutionally phlegmatic, and it is very difficult to arouse their anger; but they are dangerous and desperate when once incensed, and a person who knew them well told me that he would rather face ten Valencians, people infamous for their ferocity and blood-thirstiness, than confront one angry Maragato, sluggish and stupid though he be on other occasions. The men scarcely ever occupy themselves in husbandry, which they abandon to the females, who plough the flinty fields and gather in the scanty harvests. Their husbands and sons are far differently employed, for they are a nation of _arrieros_ or carriers, and almost esteem it a disgrace to follow any other profession. On every road of Spain, particularly those north of the mountains which divide the two Castiles, may be seen gangs of fives and sixes of these people lolling or sleeping beneath the broiling sun on their gigantic and heavily laden mutes and mules, the boast of Spain, but dearly purchased by the debasement and degeneration of a once noble breed of horses. In a word, almost the entire commerce of nearly one half of Spain passes through the hands of the Maragatos, whose fidelity to their trust is such that no one accustomed to employ them would hesitate to entrust them with the transport of a ton of treasure from the sea of Biscay to Madrid, knowing well that it would not be their fault were it not delivered safe and undiminished even of a grain, and that bold must be the thieves who would seek to wrest it from the far-feared Maragatos, who would cling to it whilst they could stand, and would cover it with their bodies when they fell in the act of loading or discharging their long carbines. But they are far from being disinterested, and if they are the most trustworthy of all the _arrieros_ of Spain, they in general demand for the transport of articles a sum at least double of what others of the trade would esteem a reasonable recompense. By this means they accumulate large sums of money, notwithstanding that they indulge themselves in a far superior fare to that which contents in general the parsimonious Spaniard--another argument in favour of their pure Gothic descent; for the Maragatos, like true men of the north, delight in swilling liquors and battening upon gross and luscious meats, which help to swell out their tall and goodly figures. Many of them have died possessed of considerable riches, part of which they have not unfrequently bequeathed to the erection or embellishment of religious houses. On the east end of the cathedral of Astorga, which towers over the lofty and precipitous wall, a colossal figure of lead may be seen on the roof. It is the statue of a Maragato carrier, who endowed the cathedral with a large sum. He is in his national dress, but his head is averted from the land of his fathers, and whilst he waves in his hand a species of flag, he seems to be summoning his race from their unfruitful region to other climes where a richer field is open to their industry and enterprise. I spoke to several of these men respecting the all-important subject of religion; but 'I found their hearts blunted, and with their ears they heard heavily, and their eyes were closed.' There was one in particular to whom I showed the New Testament and addressed for a considerable time. He listened, or seemed to listen, patiently, taking occasional copious draughts from an immense jug of whitish wine which stood between his knees. After I had concluded, he said: 'To-morrow I set out for Lugo, whither I am told yourself are going. If you wish to send your chest, I have no objection to take it at so much (naming an extravagant price). As for what you have told me, I understand little of it and believe not a word of it; but in respect to the books which you have shown me, I will take three or four. I shall not read them, it is true, but I have no doubt that I can sell them at a higher price than you demand.' So much for the Maragatos. It was four o'clock of a beautiful morning that we sallied from Astorga, or rather from the suburbs in which we had been lodged; we directed our course to the north in the direction of Galicia. Leaving the mountain Telleno on our left, we passed along the eastern skirts of the land of the Maragatos over broken uneven ground, enlivened here and there by small green valleys and runs of water. Several of the Maragato women mounted on donkeys passed us on their way to Astorga whither they were carrying vegetables; we saw others in the fields handling their rude ploughs drawn by lean oxen; we likewise passed through a small village in which we however saw no living soul. Near this village we entered the high road which leads direct from Madrid to Corunna, and at last having travelled near four leagues we came to a species of pass formed on our left by a huge lumpish hill (one of those which descend from the great mountain Telleno), and on our right by one of considerably less altitude. In the middle of this pass which was of considerable breadth, a noble view opened itself to us. Before us, at the distance of about a league and a half, rose the mighty frontier chain of which I have spoken before; its blue sides and broken and picturesque peaks still wearing a thin veil of the morning mist, which the fierce rays of the sun were fast dispelling. It seemed an enormous barrier threatening to oppose our further progress, and it reminded me of the fables respecting the children of Magog, who are said to reside in remotest Tartary behind a gigantic wall of rocks which can only be passed by a gate of steel a thousand cubits in height. We shortly after arrived at Manzanal, a village consisting of wretched huts, and exhibiting every sign of poverty and misery. It was now time to refresh ourselves and horses, and we accordingly put up at a kind of _venta_, the last habitation in the village, where, though we found barley for the animals, we had much difficulty in procuring anything for ourselves. I was at last fortunate enough to obtain a large jug of milk, for there were plenty of cows in the neighbourhood feeding in a picturesque valley which we had passed by, in which there was abundance of grass and trees and a run of water broken by tiny cascades. The jug might contain about half a gallon, but I emptied it in a few minutes, for the thirst of fever was still burning within me though I was destitute of appetite. The _venta_ had something the appearance of a German baiting house. It consisted of an immense stable, from which was partitioned a kind of kitchen and a place where the family slept. The master, a robust young man, lolled on a large solid stone bench which stood within the door. He was very inquisitive respecting news, but I could afford him none; whereupon he became communicative, and gave me the history of his life, the sum of which was that he had been a courier in the Basque provinces, but about a year since had been despatched to this village where he kept the post-house. He was an enthusiastic liberal, and spoke in bitter terms of the surrounding population, who, he said, were all Carlists and friends of the friars. I paid little attention to his discourse, for I was looking at a Maragato lad of about fourteen who served in the house as a kind of ostler. I asked the master if we were still in the land of the Maragatos, but he told me that we had left it behind nearly a league, and that the lad was an orphan, and was serving until he could rake up a sufficient capital to become an _arriero_. I addressed several questions to the boy, but the urchin looked sullenly in my face, and either answered by monosyllables or was doggedly silent. I asked him if he could read: 'Yes,' said he, 'as much as that black brute of yours who is tearing down the manger.' Quitting Manzanal, we continued our course, the ground gradually descending; we soon arrived at a place where the road took a turn to the west, though previously it had tended due north. We now found that we had to descend the steep sides of a deep and narrow valley which wound amongst mountains, not those of the chain which we had seen before us and which we had left at our right, but those of the Telleno range, just before they unite with that chain. Arrived at the brink of the valley we turned into a foot-path, to avoid making a considerable circuit, for we saw the road on the other side of the valley opposite to us about a furlong [distant], and the path appeared to lead direct towards it. We had not gone far before we met two Galicians on their way to cut the harvests of Castile. One of them shouted, 'Cavalier, turn back: in a moment you will be amongst precipices where your horses will break their necks, for we ourselves could scarcely climb them on foot.' The other cried, 'Cavalier, proceed, but be careful, and your horses, if sure-footed, will run no great danger; my comrade is a fool.' A violent dispute instantly ensued between the two mountaineers, each supporting his opinion with loud oaths and curses; but without stopping to see the result I passed on. But the path was now filled with stones and huge slaty rocks, on which my horse slid, frequently on his haunches. I likewise heard the sound of water in a deep gorge, which I had hitherto not perceived, and I soon saw that it would be worse than madness to proceed. I turned my horse and was hastening to regain the path which I had left, when Antonio, my faithful Greek, pointed out to me a meadow, by which he said we might regain the high road much lower down than if we returned on our steps. The meadow was brilliant with short green grass, and in the middle there was a small rivulet of water. I spurred my horse on, expecting to be in the high road in a moment; the horse, however, snorted and stared wildly, and was evidently unwilling to cross the seemingly inviting spot. I thought that the scent of a wolf or some other wild animal might have disturbed him, but was soon undeceived by his sinking up to the knees in a bog. The animal uttered a shrill sharp neigh, and exhibited every sign of the greatest terror, making at the same time great efforts to extricate himself, and plunging forward, but every moment sinking deeper. At last he arrived where a small vein of rock showed itself, on this he placed his fore feet, and with one tremendous exertion freed himself from the deceitful soil, springing over the rivulet and alighting on comparatively firm ground, where he stood panting, his heaving sides covered with a foamy sweat. Antonio, who had been a terrified observer of the whole scene, afraid to venture forward, returned by the path by which we came and shortly afterwards rejoined me. This adventure brought to my recollection the meadow with its foot-path, which tempted Christian from the straight road to heaven, and finally conducted him to the dominions of the Giant Despair. _No hay atajo_ _Sin trabajo_. 'There is no short cut Without some deep rut.' says the Spanish proverb. We now began to descend the valley by a broad and excellent _carretera_, or carriage road, which was cut out of the steep side of the mountain on our right. On our left was the gorge, down which tumbled the run of water which I have before mentioned. The road was tortuous, and at every turn the scene became more picturesque. The gorge gradually widened, and the brook at its bottom, fed by a multitude of springs, [grew] more considerable; but it was soon far beneath us, pursuing its headlong course till it reached level ground, where it flowed in the midst of a beautiful but confined prairie. There was something silvan and savage in the mountains on the further side, clad from foot to pinnacle with trees, so closely growing that the eye was unable to obtain a glimpse of the hill-sides which were uneven with ravines and gulleys, the haunts of the wolf, the wild boar and the _corso_ or mountain-stag; the last of which, as I was informed by a peasant who was driving a car of oxen, frequently descended to feed in the prairie and were shot for the sake of their skins, for the flesh being strong and disagreeable is held at no account. But notwithstanding the wildness of these regions, the handiworks of man were visible. The sides of the gorge though precipitous were yellow with little fields of barley, and we saw a hamlet and church down in the prairie below, whilst merry songs ascended to our ears from where the mowers were toiling with their scythes, cutting the luxuriant and abundant grass. I could scarcely believe that I was in Spain, in general so brown, so arid and cheerless, and I almost fancied myself in Greece, in that land of ancient glory, whose mountain and forest scenery Theocritus has so well described. At the bottom of the valley we entered a small village washed by the brook, which had now swelled almost to a stream. A more romantic situation I had never witnessed. It was surrounded and almost overhung by huge mountains, and embowered in trees of various kinds; waters sounded, nightingales sang, and the cuckoo's full note boomed from the distant branches, but the village was miserable. The huts were built of slate-stones, of which the neighbouring hills seemed to be principally composed, and roofed with the same, but not in the neat tidy manner of English houses, for the slates were of all sizes, and seemed to be flung on in confusion. We were spent with heat and thirst, and sitting down on a stone bench I entreated a woman to give us a little water. The woman said she would, but added that she expected to be paid for it. My Greek on hearing this burst into horrid execrations, and speaking Greek, Turkish and Spanish invoked the vengeance of the _Panhagia_ on the heartless woman, saying 'If I were to offer a Mahometan gold for a draught of water, he would dash it in my face; and you are a Catholic with the stream running at your door.' I told him to be silent, and giving the woman two _cuartos_ repeated my request; whereupon she took a pitcher, and, going to the stream, filled it with water. It tasted muddy and disagreeable, but it drowned the fever which was devouring me. We again mounted and proceeded on our way, which for a considerable distance lay along the margin of the stream, which now fell in small cataracts, now brawled over stones, and at other times ran dark and silent through deep pools overhung with tall willows--pools which seemed to abound with the finny tribe, for huge trout frequently sprang from the water catching the brilliant fly which skimmed along its deceitful surface. How delightful! The sun was rolling high in the firmament, casting from its girdle of fire the most glorious rays, so that the atmosphere was flickering with their splendour; but their fierceness was either warded off by the shadow of the trees or rendered innocuous either by the refreshing coolness which rose from the waters or by the gentle breezes which murmured at intervals over the meadows 'fanning the cheek or raising the hair' of the wanderer. The hills gradually receded, till at last we entered a plain where tall grass was undulating, and mighty chestnut-trees in full blossom spread their giant and umbrageous boughs. Beneath many stood cars, the tired oxen prostrate on the ground, the cross-bar of the pole which they support pressing heavily on their heads, whilst their drivers were either employed in cooking or were enjoying a delicious _siesta_ in the grass and shade. I went up to one of the largest of these groups and demanded of the individuals whether they were in need of the Testament of Jesus Christ. They stared at one another and then at me, till at last a young man who was dandling a long gun in his hands as he reclined demanded of me what it was, at the same time enquiring whether I was a Catalan, 'for you speak hoarse,' said he, 'and are tall and fair like that family.' I sat down amongst them and said I was no Catalan, but I came from a spot in the western sea many leagues distant to sell that book at half the price it cost, and that their souls' welfare depended upon their being acquainted with it. I then explained to them the nature of the New Testament and read to them the Parable of the Sower. They stared at each other again, but said that they were poor and could not buy books. I rose, mounted, and was going away, saying to them: 'Peace bide with you.' Whereupon the young man with the gun rose, and saying; '_Caspita_! this is odd,' snatched the book from my hand, and gave me the price I had demanded. Perhaps the whole world might be searched in vain for a spot whose natural charms could rival those of this plain or valley of Bembibre, with its wall of mighty mountains, its spreading chestnut-trees, and its groves of oaks and willows which clothe the banks of its stream, a tributary to the Minho. True it is that when I passed through it the candle of heaven was blazing in full splendour, and everything lighted by its rays looked gay, glad and blessed. Whether it would have filled me with the same feelings of admiration if viewed beneath another sky I will not pretend to determine, but it certainly possessed advantages which at no time could fail to delight; for it exhibited all the peaceful beauties of an English landscape blended with something wild and grand, and I thought within myself that he must be a restless dissatisfied man who born amongst those scenes would wish to quit them. At the time I would have desired no better fate than that of a shepherd on the prairies or a hunter on the hills of Bembibre. Three hours passed away, and we were in another situation. We had halted and refreshed ourselves and horses at Bembibre, a village of mud and slate, and which possessed little to attract attention. We were now ascending, for the road was over one of the extreme ledges of those frontier hills which I have before so often mentioned; but the aspect of heaven had blackened, clouds were rolling rapidly from the west over the mountains, and a cold wind was moaning dismally. 'There is a storm travelling through the air,' said a peasant, whom we overtook mounted on a wretched mule, 'and the Asturians had better be on the look-out, for it is speeding in their direction.' He had scarce spoken when a light so vivid and dazzling that it seemed the whole lustre of the fiery element was concentrated therein broke around us, filling the whole atmosphere, and covering rock, tree and mountain with a glare indescribable. The mule of the peasant tumbled prostrate, while the horse I rode reared himself perpendicularly, and turning round dashed down the hill at headlong speed which for some time it was impossible to check. The lightning was followed by a peal almost as terrible, but distant, for it sounded hollow and deep; the hills, however, caught up its voice, seemingly pitching it along their summits, till it was lost in interminable space. Other flashes and peals succeeded, but slight in comparison, and a few drops of rain; the body of the tempest seemed to be over another region. 'A hundred families are weeping where that bolt fell,' said the peasant, when I rejoined him, 'for its blaze has blinded my mule at six leagues' distance.' He was leading the animal by the bridle, as its sight was evidently affected. 'Were the friars still in their nest above there,' he continued, 'I should say that this was their doing, for they are the cause of all the miseries of the land.' I raised my eyes in the direction in which he pointed. Half-way up the mountain over whose foot we were wending jutted forth a black, frightful crag, which at an immense altitude overhung the road and seemed to threaten destruction. It resembled one of those ledges of the rocky mountains in the picture of the deluge, up to which the terrified fugitives have scrambled from the eager pursuit of the savage and tremendous billow, down on which they are gazing in horror, whilst above them rise still higher and giddier heights to which they seem unable to climb. Built on the very rim of this crag stood an edifice, seemingly devoted to the purposes of religion, as I could discern the spire of a church rearing itself high over wall and roof. 'That is the house of "The Virgin of the Rocks,"' said the peasant, 'and it was lately full of friars, but they have been driven out, and the only inmates now are owls and ravens.' I replied that their life in such a bleak exposed abode could not have been very enviable, as in winter they must have incurred great risk of perishing with cold. 'By no means,' said he; 'they had the best of wood for their _braseros_ and chimneys, and the best of wine to warm them at their meals, which were not the most sparing; moreover they had another convent down in the vale yonder, to which they could retire at their pleasure.' I asked him the reason of his antipathy to the friars, to which he replied that he had been their vassal, and that they had deprived him every year of the flower of what he possessed. Discoursing in this manner we reached a village just below the convent, where he left me, having first pointed out to me a house of stone with an image over the door, which he said once also belonged to the _canalla_ (rabble) above. The sun was setting fast, and, eager to reach Villafranca, where I had determined on resting and which was still distant three leagues and a half, I made no halt at this place. The road was now down a rapid and crooked descent which terminated in a valley, at the bottom of which was a long and narrow bridge. Beneath it rolled a river descending from a wide pass between two mountains, for the chain was here cleft probably by some convulsion of nature. I looked up the pass and on the hills on both sides. Far above on my right, but standing out bold and clear, and catching the last rays of the sun, was 'the Convent of the Precipices'; whilst directly over against it, on the further side of the valley, rose the perpendicular side of the rival hill which, to a considerable extent intercepting the light, flung its black shadow over the upper end of the pass, involving it in mysterious darkness. Emerging from the centre of this gloom with thundering sound dashed a river, white with foam and bearing along with it huge stones and branches of trees, for it was the wild Sil, probably at that [time] swollen by the recent rains, which I now saw hurrying to the ocean from its cradle in the heart of the Asturian hills. Its fury, its roar, and the savage grandeur of the surrounding scenery which was worthy of the pencil of Salvator recalled to my mind the powerful lines of Stolberg addressed to a mountain torrent-- 'The pine-trees are shaken, they yield to thy shocks, And, crashing, they tumble in wild disarray; The rocks fly before thee--thou seizest the rocks And whirlst them, like pebbles, contemptuous away.' Hours again passed away. It was now night, and we were in the midst of woodlands, feeling our way, for the darkness was so great that I could scarcely see the length of a yard before my horse's head. The animal seemed uneasy, and would frequently stop short, prick up his ears, and utter a low mournful whine. Flashes of sheet-lightning frequently illumed the black sky and flung a momentary glare over our path. No sound interrupted the stillness of the night save the slow tramp of the horses' hoofs, and occasionally the croaking of frogs from some pool or morass. I now bethought me that I was in Spain, the chosen land of the two fiends, assassination and plunder, and how easily two tired unarmed wanderers might become their victims. We at last cleared the woodlands, and after proceeding a short distance the horse gave a joyous neigh and broke into a smart trot. A barking of dogs speedily reached my ears, and we seemed to be approaching some town or village. In effect we were close to Cacabelos, a town about five miles distant from Villafranca. It was now near eleven at night, and I reflected that it would be far more expedient to tarry in this place till the morning than to attempt at present to reach Villafranca, exposing ourselves to all the horrors of darkness in a lonely and unknown road. My mind was soon made up on this point--but I determined without my hosts, for at the first _posada_ which I attempted to enter I was told that we could not be accommodated, and particularly our horses, as the stable was full of water. At the second (there were but two), I was answered from the window by a gruff voice nearly in the words of Scripture: 'Trouble me not, the gate is already locked, and my servants are also with me in bed; I cannot arise to let you in.' Indeed we had no particular desire to enter, as it appeared a wretched hovel; though the poor horses pawed piteously against the door, and seemed to crave admittance. We had now no choice but to resume our doleful way to Villafranca, which we were told was a short league distant, though it proved a league and a half. We however found it no easy matter to quit the town, for we were bewildered amongst its labyrinths and could not find the outlet. A lad about eighteen was, however, persuaded by the promise of a _peseta_ to guide us, whereupon he led us by many turnings to a bridge which he told us to cross and to follow the road, which was that of Villafranca; he then, having received his fee, hastened from us. We followed his directions, not, however, without a suspicion that he might be deceiving us. The night had settled darker down upon us, so that it was impossible to distinguish any object, however nigh. The lightning had become more faint and rare. We heard the rustling of trees and occasionally the barking of dogs, which last sound, however, soon ceased, and we were in the midst of night and silence. My horse, either from weariness or the badness of the road, frequently stumbled; whereupon I dismounted, and leading him by the bridle, soon left my companion far in the rear. I had proceeded in this manner a considerable way when a circumstance occurred of a character well suited to the time and place. I was again amidst trees and bushes, when the horse, stopping short, nearly pulled me back. I know not how it was, but fear suddenly came over me, which, though in darkness and in solitude, I had not felt before. I was about to urge the animal forward, when I heard a noise at my right hand, and listened attentively. It seemed to be that of a person or persons forcing their way through branches and brushwood. It soon ceased, and I heard feet on the road. It was the short, staggering kind of tread of people carrying a very heavy substance, nearly too much for their strength, and I thought I [heard] the hurried breathing of men over-fatigued. There was a short pause in the middle of the road; then the stamping recommenced until it reached the other side, when I again heard a similar rustling amidst branches; it continued for some time, and died gradually away. I continued my road, musing on what had just occurred and forming conjectures as to the cause. The lightning resumed its flashing, and I saw that I was approaching tall black mountains--But I will omit further particulars of this midnight journey. '_Quien vive_,' roared a voice about an hour from this time, for I had at last groped my way to Villafranca. It proceeded from the sentry at the suburb, one of those singular half soldiers, half _guerillas_, called Miguelets, who are in general employed by the Spanish Government to clear the roads of robbers. I gave the usual answer '_Espana_,' and went up to the place where he stood. After a little conversation, I sat down on a stone, awaiting the arrival of Antonio, who was long in making his appearance. On his arrival I asked him if any one had passed him on the road, but he replied that he had seen nothing. The night, or rather morning, was still very dark, though a small corner of the moon was occasionally visible. On our enquiring the way to the gate, the Miguelet directed us down a street to the left, which we followed. The street was steep, we could see no gate, and our progress was soon stopped by houses and wall. We knocked at the gates of two or three of these houses (in the upper stories of which lights were burning) for the purpose of being set right, but we were either disregarded or not heard. A horrid squalling of cats from the tops of the houses and dark corners saluted our ears, and I thought of the night-arrival of Don Quixote and his squire at Tobosa, and their vain search amongst the deserted streets for the palace of Dulcinea. At length we saw light and heard voices in a cottage at the further side of a kind of ditch. Leading the horses over, we called at the door, which was opened by an aged man, who appeared by his dress to be a baker, as indeed he proved, which accounted for his being up at so late an hour. On begging him to show us the way into the town, he led us up a very narrow alley at the end of his cottage, saying that he would likewise conduct us to the _posada_. The alley led directly to what appeared to be the market-place, at a corner house of which our guide stopped and knocked. After a long pause an upper window was opened, and a female voice demanded who we were. The old man replied that two travellers had arrived who were in need of lodging. 'I cannot be disturbed at this time of night,' said the woman, 'they will be wanting supper, and there is nothing in the house; they must go elsewhere.' She was going to shut the window, but I cried that we wanted no supper, but merely a resting-place for ourselves and horses, that we had come that day from Astorga, and were dying with fatigue. 'Who is that speaking?' cried the woman. 'Surely that is the voice of Gil, the German clock-maker from Pontevedra. Welcome, old companion, you are come at the right time, for my own is out of order. I am sorry I kept you waiting, but I will admit you in a moment.' The window was slammed to; presently light shone through the crevices if the door, a key turned in the lock, and we were admitted. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 11, 1837) SAINT JAMES (SANTIAGO) OF COMPOSTELLA, 19_th_ _Aug._ [1837]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I left Corunna about ten days since for this town, travelling with the courier or weekly post, who was escorted by a strong party of soldiers in consequence of the distracted state of the country. Nothing particular worth relating occurred during the journey, which occupied a day and a half, though the distance is barely ten leagues. Santiago, or Saint James, is, as you are aware, the capital of Galicia, and the residence of the Metropolitan. It is, or was, the most celebrated resort for pilgrims in the whole world, with the exception of Jerusalem, as it is said to contain the bones of Saint James the Elder, the Child of the Thunder, who according to the legend of the Roman Church first preached the Gospel in Spain. The cathedral, though built at various periods and by no means uniform, is a majestic, venerable edifice, in every respect calculated to excite awe and admiration; indeed it is almost impossible to walk its long dusky aisles and hear the solemn music and the noble chanting and inhale the incense of the mighty censers, which are at times swung so high by machinery that they smite the vaulted roof, whilst gigantic tapers glitter here and there amongst the gloom from the shrine of many a saint, before which the worshippers are kneeling, breathing forth their prayers and petitions for help, love, and mercy, and entertain a doubt that we are treading the floor of a house where God delighteth to dwell. Yet the Lord is distant from that house. He heareth not, He seeth not: or, if He hear and see, it is with anger. What availeth that solemn music, that noble chanting, that incense of sweet savour? What availeth kneeling before that grand altar of silver, surmounted by that figure with its silver hat and breastplate, the emblem of one who, although an Apostle and Confessor, was at best an unprofitable servant? What availeth hoping for remission of sin by trusting in the merits of him who possessed none, or by paying homage to others who were born and nurtured in sin, and who alone by the exercise of a lively faith granted from above could hope to preserve themselves from the wrath of the Almighty? Yet such acts and formalities constitute what is termed religion at Compostella, where, perhaps, God and His will are less known and respected than at Pekin or amid the wildernesses where graze the coursers of the Mongol and the Mandchou. Perhaps there is no part of Spain where the Romish religion is so cherished as throughout Galicia. In no part of Spain are the precepts and ordinances of that Church, especially fasting and confession, so strictly observed, and its ministers regarded with so much respect and deference. The natural conclusion therefore would be that, if the religion of Rome be the same as that founded by Christ, the example of the Saviour is more closely followed, and the savage and furious passions more bridled, bloodshed and rapine less frequent, unchastity and intemperance less apparent, and the minds of the people more enlightened and free from the mists of superstition in Galicia than in other provinces. What is the fact? Almost every road is teeming with banditti, who under the name of Carlists plunder friend and foe, and to robbery join cruelty so atrociously horrible that indignation at the crime is frequently lost in wonder; for the Galician robbers are seldom satisfied with booty, and unlike their brethren in other parts generally mutilate or assassinate those who are so unfortunate as to fall in their hands; prostitution is carried on to an enormous extent, and although loathsome concustant [sic] diseases stare the stranger in the face in the street, in the market-place, in the church, and at the fountain; 'Drunken as a Galician' is a proverb; and superstitions forgotten, abandoned in the rest of Spain, are clung to here with surprising pertinacity, the clergy exerting themselves to uphold them by carrying on a very extensive sale in charms, verifying the old saying, 'Witches are found where friars abound.' An unhappy man, whilst collecting vipers amongst the hills, which he was in the practice of selling to the apothecaries, was lately met near Orense by some of these monsters. Having plundered and stripped him, they tied his hands behind him and thrust his head into the sack, which contained several of these horrible reptiles alive! They then fastened the sack at the mouth round his neck, and having feasted their ears for a time with his cries, they abandoned him to his fate. The poor wretch, stung by the vipers in the face and eyes, presently became mad and ran through several villages, till he fell dead. I am now in the heart of this strange country and people. It has pleased the Lord to bless my humble endeavours more than I had reason to expect; since my arrival Santiago between thirty and forty copies of the New Testament have been despatched. The bookseller of the place, Rey Romero, a venerable man of seventy, very wealthy and respected, has taken up the cause with an enthusiasm which doubtless emanates from on high, losing no opportunity of recommending the work to those who enter his shop, which is very splendid and commodious. In many instances, when the peasants of the neighbourhood have come with the intention of purchasing some of the foolish popular story-books of Spain, he has persuaded them in lieu thereof to carry home Testaments, assuring them that it was not only a better and more instructive, but even a far more entertaining book than those they came in quest of. He has taken a great fancy to me, and comes to visit me every evening, when he accompanies me in my walks about the town and environs. Every one who is aware how rare it is to meet with friendship and cordiality in Spain will easily conceive my joy at finding such a coadjutor, and I have no doubt that when I am absent he will exert himself as much, and I hope as effectually, as now that I am present. I leave Saint James to-morrow for Pontevedra and Vigo, carrying with me some Testaments which I hope to dispose of, notwithstanding there are no booksellers in those places. I shall then return to Corunna, either by Compostella or by some other route. I trust the Lord will preserve me in this journey as He has done in others. From Corunna I propose to travel through the mountains to Oviedo in the Asturias, provided that town be not speedily in the hands of the factious. By the time these lines reach you, you will doubtless have heard of the irruption of a part of the Pretender's hordes into Old Castile; they have carried everything before them, and have sacked and taken possession of the city of Segovia, distant only one day's march from Madrid. From the aspect of things I should say that the miseries of this land, far from having reached their climax, are but commencing. Yet let no one mourn for Egypt: she is but paying the price of her sorceries and superstitions. (UNSIGNED.) _P.S._--At San Sebastian I shall need Davison's Turkish Grammar, which you have in the Library. It will be of assistance to me in editing the Basque St. Luke; the two languages are surprisingly connected. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 9, 1837) CORUNNA, _Sep._ 15, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--About ten days have elapsed since my return to Corunna. I stated in my last letter, from Compostella, that it was my intention to visit Pontevedra and Vigo, which I carried into effect. In the first of these places I left, as I passed through, eight copies of the New Testament in the hands of Senor Garcia, the public notary; three days subsequent, on my return, I found that he had disposed of them, and I have since sent him a fresh supply. He is a very zealous and exceeding intelligent person, and I have no doubt will prove a highly useful agent in Pontevedra and its beautiful neighbourhood, which is the garden of Galicia. In Vigo I disposed of four Testaments, but was not so fortunate as to find any person willing or calculated to undertake the charge accepted by my friend in the former town. Having reached Padron, in my journey back, I sent my servant and horses forward to Saint James, and guided by a peasant, proceeded across the country to Cape Finisterre, on whose rocky sides I so narrowly escaped being shipwrecked last year. The distance was fifteen leagues, and the route lay over wild mountains and valleys, where we suffered much from fatigue and the heat of the sun. Arrived at Finisterre we were seized as Carlist spies by the fishermen of the place, who determined at first on shooting us, but at last contented themselves with conducting us prisoners to Corcubion, where the _Alcalde_ of the district, after having examined me and perused my passport, ordered me to be set at liberty, and treated me with all manner of civility. By this journey I accomplished what has long been one of the ardent wishes of my heart. I have carried the Gospel to the extreme point of the old world, having left a Testament in the hands of Antonio de Trava, an ancient mariner of Finisterre, who took my part in a very friendly manner, and probably saved me from experiencing much violence at the hands of his companions. Finisterre is a place of wonders, which I hope at some future time to have the pleasure of narrating; but at present I must speak of other matters. About one hundred Testaments have been disposed of at Saint James of Compostella, and there is at present a steady regular demand for them there which inspires my heart with gratitude to the Almighty. Shortly previous to my journey to Saint James, I despatched fifty copies to Lugo, where the Lord vouchsafed me good success on a former occasion; this second supply being almost exhausted, I have sent more. Only fifty-eight copies have hitherto been sold at Corunna, for its inhabitants are far too much engrossed by party politics to entertain much relish for heavenly manna. I pray every night and morning that their eyes may be opened to their eternal welfare. Having now arranged matters in Galicia, as well as circumstances will permit, I am about to quit this province, directing my course to Oviedo in the Asturias. The way is long, and is infested by robbers and factious; yet I go forth without much fear, hoping that the Lord will prove my shield and guard as on other occasions. From Oviedo I proceed to Santander, and from thence to the Basque provinces. Santander, being a large and flourishing town, affords me a tolerable prospect of success, and I have accordingly directed my agent at Madrid to despatch thither forthwith 150 Testaments. The intermediate country is, however, in a most distracted state, a great part of it being in the hands of the Carlists; it is therefore probable that the books may never reach me, in which event I shall have to apply to England. To the Basque provinces I hope to carry Saint Luke in a Biscayan version, which I shall print at Santander should an opportunity present itself. No time must be lost in accomplishing all that is possible in Spain, which in the course of a few months may be entirely in the hands of the Pretender. I received the lines which you directed to the care of the British consul at Corunna, and was thankful for them. Pray present my kind remembrances to Mrs. Brandram and family, to Mr. Jowett, and Mr. and Mrs. Browne. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 17, 1837) OVIEDO, ASTURIAS, 29 _Septr._ 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--A day or two after the date of my last letter I quitted Corunna and passed over the bay to Ferrol, where I left twenty Testaments in the hands of a person who has just established a small book-shop in that place. My servant Antonio went round by land with my horse, the only one which I now possess, I having disposed {251} of the largest of the two at Corunna, as I thought he was unable to support the fatigue of a journey to Oviedo. At Ferrol I hired a horse and guide as far as Ribadeo, a distance of twenty leagues, and somewhat less than half the way to Oviedo. This journey was a terrible one; during the greatest part of it we had to toil up and down mountain gorges and ravines, to force our way through bushes and thickets, and to wade rivulets and torrents swollen by the rain, which descended continually; our guide proved perfectly ignorant of the country, and we had to bribe various peasants to accompany us, though we incurred great risk by so doing of being conducted to some den of thieves, and stripped and murdered. At Ribadeo we procured a fresh horse and guide, and continued our way to Oviedo, encountering still greater difficulties, the ground being still more rugged and broken than that which we had previously passed over. My own horse rolled down a precipice, and was much maimed, whilst that of the guide was so worn out by the time he reached Gijon, four leagues from Oviedo, that he foundered. As for Antonio and myself, we arrived barefooted and bleeding, for I need scarcely say that during all this journey, which amounted at least to 130 miles, we went on foot, the poor horses being scarcely able to carry our books and baggage. I am now by the blessing of the Almighty in the city of Oviedo, the capital of the Asturias, although at an unpropitious season, for the bray of war is at the gate, and there is the cry of the captains and the shouting. Castile is at the present time in the hands of the Carlists, who have captured and plundered Valladolid, in much the same manner as they did Segovia. They are every day expected to march on this place, in which case they will probably experience an obstinate resistance, very excellent redoubts having been erected, and several of the convents strongly fortified, especially that of Santa Clara de la Vega. All minds here are at present in a state of feverish anxiety and suspense, more especially as no intelligence at present arrives from Madrid, which by the last accounts was beleaguered by the bands of Cabrera, Palillos, and Orejita.--But I am interrupted, and I lay down my pen. A strange adventure has just occurred to me. I am in the ancient town of Oviedo, in a very large, scantily furnished and remote room of an ancient _posada_, formerly a palace of the Counts of Santa Cruz. It is past ten at night and the rain is descending in torrents. I ceased writing on hearing numerous footsteps ascending the creaking stairs which lead to my apartment--the door was flung open, and in walked nine men of tall stature, marshalled by a little hunch-backed personage. They were all muffled in the long cloaks of Spain, but I instantly knew by their demeanour that they were _caballeros_, or gentlemen. They placed themselves in a rank before the table where I was sitting; suddenly and simultaneously they all flung back their cloaks, and I perceived that every one bore a book in his hand, a book which I knew full well. After a pause, which I was unable to break, for I sat lost in astonishment and almost conceived myself to be visited by apparitions, the hunch-back advancing somewhat before the rest said in soft silvery tones: '_Senor_ Cavalier, was it you who brought this book to the Asturias?' I now supposed that they were the civil authorities of the place come to take me into custody, and rising from my seat I exclaimed, 'It certainly was I, and it is my glory to have done so. The book is the New Testament of God; I wish it was in my power to bring a million.' 'I heartily wish so too,' said the little personage with a sigh. 'Be under no apprehension, Sir Cavalier; these gentlemen are my friends. We have just purchased these books in the shop where you have placed them for sale, and have taken the liberty of calling upon you in order to return you our thanks for the treasure you have brought us. I hope you can furnish us with the Old Testament also.' I replied that I was sorry to inform him that at present it was entirely out of my power to comply with his wish, as I had no Old Testaments in my possession, but did not despair of procuring some speedily, from England. He then asked me a great many questions concerning my Biblical travels in Spain, and my success, and the views entertained by the Society in respect to Spain, adding that he hoped I should pay particular attention to the Asturias, which he assured me was the best ground in the Peninsula for our labour. After about half-an-hour's conversation, he suddenly said in the English language, 'Good night, sir,' wrapped his cloak around him, and walked out as he had come. His companions, who had hitherto not uttered a word, all repeated, 'Good night, sir,' and adjusting their cloaks followed him. In order to explain this strange scene I must inform you that this morning I visited the petty bookseller of the place, Longoria, and having arranged preliminaries with him I sent him in the evening a package of forty Testaments, all I possess, with some advertisements. At the time he assured me that, though he was willing to undertake the sale, there was nevertheless not a prospect of success, as a whole month had elapsed since he had sold a book of any description, on account of the uncertainty of the times and the poverty which pervaded the land. I therefore sat down to write this letter much dispirited; this incident has, however, admonished me not to be cast down when things look gloomiest, as the hand of the Lord is generally then most busy: that men may learn to perceive that whatever good is accomplished is not theirs but His. I shall quit Oviedo in a few days, but whither I shall now direct my course I have not determined. It would be easy for me to reach Santander, which is but thirty leagues [distant] and the road tolerably free from accidents; but the state of affairs at Madrid gives me considerable uneasiness, for I remember that Madrid is the depot of our books, and I am apprehensive that in the revolutions and disturbances which at present seem to threaten it, our whole stock may perish. True it is that in order to reach Madrid I should have to pass through the midst of the Carlist hordes, who would perhaps slay or make me prisoner; but I am at present so much accustomed to perilous adventure, and have hitherto experienced so many fortunate escapes, that the dangers which infest the route would not deter me a moment from venturing. But there is no certain intelligence, and Madrid may be in safety or on the brink of falling; perhaps a few hours will inform us, when I shall at once decide. My next letter will therefore be either from Santander or the capital of Spain. Oviedo is picturesquely situated between two mountains, Morcin and Naranco; the former is very high and ragged, and during the greatest part of the year is covered with snow; the sides of the latter are cultivated and planted with vines. The town itself possesses nothing very remarkable with the exception of the cathedral, the tower of which is very high, and is perhaps the purest specimen of Gothic architecture at present in existence. The interior of the edifice is neat and appropriate but simple and unadorned, for I observed but one picture, the Conversion of St. Paul. One of the chapels is a cemetery, in which rest the bones of eleven Gothic kings, whose souls I trust in Christ have been accepted. I will now conclude in the words of Heber: 'From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand-- Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down the yellow sand-- From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain.' Most truly yours, G. B. _P.S._--Morning [Sept.] 30th, twenty Testaments have been sold. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Nov. 13, 1837) MADRID, _Novr._ 1, 1837. CALLE SANTIAGO, No. 16 PISO 3RO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--In my last letter, from Oviedo in the Asturias, I stated that my next would be dated either from Santander or the capital of Spain. I arrived yesterday at Madrid, but I previously visited Santander, which I reached with my usual good fortune, without accident, after a fatiguing journey of six days. When there, I found to my great sorrow that the two hundred Testaments which I had ordered to be sent from Madrid were not come; and I supposed that they had either been seized on the way by the Carlists or that my letter had miscarried. {256} I then thought of applying to England for a supply, but I abandoned the idea for two reasons; first, that I should have to remain idly loitering at Santander for at least a month before I could receive them--a place where every article is so dear that my expenses with the strictest economy would have amounted to nearly two pounds _per diem_; secondly, that I was very unwell, and unable to procure medical advice at Santander: for, to tell the truth, ever since I left Corunna I have been afflicted with a terrible dysentery, and latterly with an ophthalmia, the result of the other malady. I therefore determined on returning to Madrid. To effect this, however, seemed almost impossible. Parties of the army of Don Carlos, which in a partial degree had been routed in Castile, were hovering about the country through which I should have to pass, more especially that part called 'The Mountains,' so that all communication had ceased between Santander and the southern districts. Nevertheless I determined to trust, as usual, in the Almighty and to venture. I purchased, therefore, a small horse and sallied forth with Antonio, notwithstanding I was so unwell as to be scarcely able to support myself. I wished to have written to you from Santander, but I was exceedingly dispirited and could not collect my thoughts. Before departing, I of course entered into conference with the booksellers as to what they should do in the event of my finding an opportunity of sending them a stock of Testaments from Madrid, and having arranged things to my satisfaction I committed myself to Providence. I will not dwell long on this journey of three hundred miles. We were in the midst of the fire, yet, strange to say, escaped without a hair being singed; robberies, murders, and all kinds of atrocity were perpetrated before, behind, and on both sides of us, but not so much as a dog barked at _us_, though in one instance a plan had been laid to intercept us. About four leagues from Santander, whilst we were baiting our horses at a village hostelry, I saw a fellow run off after having held a whispering conversation with a boy who was dealing out barley to us. I instantly enquired of the latter what the man had said to him, but only obtained an evasive answer. It appeared afterwards that the conversation was about ourselves. Two or three leagues further on there was an inn and village, where we had proposed staying, and indeed had expressed our intention of doing so; but on arriving there, finding that the sun was still far from its bourn, I determined to proceed further, expecting to find a resting-place at the distance of a league; though I was mistaken, finding none until we reached Montaneda, nine leagues and a half from Santander, where was stationed a small detachment of soldiers. At the dead of night we were aroused from our sleep by a cry that the 'factious' were not far off. A messenger had arrived from the _Alcalde_ of the village where we had previously intended staying, who stated that a party of Carlists had just surprised that place, and were searching for an English spy whom they supposed to be at the inn. The officer commanding the soldiers, upon hearing this, not deeming his own situation a safe one, instantly drew off his men, falling back on a stronger party stationed in a fortified village near at hand; as for ourselves we saddled our horses and continued our way in the dark. Had the Carlists succeeded in apprehending me, I should instantly have been shot, and my body cast on the rocks to feed the vultures and wolves. But 'it was not so written'--said my man, who is a Greek and a fatalist. The next night we had another singular escape; we had arrived near the entrance of a horrible pass, called _El puerto de la puente de las tablas_, or the pass of the bridge of planks, which wound through a black and frightful mountain, on the further side of which was the town of Onas, where we meant to tarry for the night. The sun had set about a quarter of an hour. Suddenly a man with his face covered with blood rushed out of the pass. Turn back, sir,' he said, 'in the name of God; there are murderers in that pass; they have just robbed me of my mule and all I possess, and I have hardly escaped with life from their hands.' I scarcely can say why, but I made him no answer, and proceeded; indeed I was so weary and unwell that I cared not what became of me. We entered--the rocks rose perpendicularly right and left, entirely intercepting the scanty twilight, so that the darkness of the grave, or rather the blackness of the valley of the shadow of death, reigned around us, and we knew not where we went, but trusted solely to the instinct of the horses, who moved on with their heads close to the ground. The only sound which we heard was the splash of a stream which tumbled down the pass. I expected every moment to feel a knife at my throat, but--_it was not so written_. We threaded the pass without meeting a human being, and within three quarters of an hour after the time we entered it, we found ourselves within the _posada_ of the town of Onas, which was filled with troops and armed peasants expecting an attack from the grand Carlist army, which was near at hand. Well! we reached Burgos in safety, we reached Valladolid in safety, we passed the Guadarama in safety, and now we are safely housed in Madrid. People say we have been very lucky; Antonio says, 'It was so written'; but I say, 'Glory be to the Lord for His mercies vouchsafed.' I did not find matters in a very prosperous state in Madrid. Few copies of the New Testament have been sold; yet what else could be rationally expected in these latter times? Don Carlos with a large army has been at the gates; plunder and massacre were expected, and people have been too much occupied in planning to secure their lives and property to have much time to devote to reading of any description. I have had an interview with Dr. Usoz, and have just received a most interesting letter from him, replete with patriotism and piety; amongst other things he says, 'only circumstances and the public poverty are the cause of the works not having met with sale at Madrid.' Of this letter I shall send a translation. It contains some remarks respecting Father Scio's version, which I consider to be of high importance, and humbly recommend to the attention of the Committee. But I am at present in Madrid, and am thus enabled to superintend in person the measures calculated to secure the sale of the work. I shall forthwith cause a thousand advertisements to be printed and affixed from time to time in every part of the city. I shall likewise employ colporteurs to vend them in the streets, and shall perhaps establish a stall or small shop, where Testaments and Testaments alone will be sold.--No exertion of which I am capable will be spared, and if 'the Word of the Lord' become not speedily better known at Madrid, it will be because the Lord in His inscrutable wisdom does not so will it. Whilst in the northern provinces I ordered a hundred copies to be despatched from Madrid to each of the three great towns, Valencia, Seville, and Cadiz, with advertisements; I am glad to be able to state that advice has been received that the books have reached their destination. At the commencement of the coming year it is my intention to visit those parts; for no work seems to prosper in Spain which is not closely attended to by the master. Whilst at Valladolid I ordered all the copies which remained unsold of the second supply to be sent to Burgos, and I am now going to despatch a third fifty to the former town, and a still larger quantity to Oviedo, those which I carried thither having been all sold during my short stay. In a few days it is my intention to commit to the press Luke in Basque and in Rommany, the latter of which versions I propose to carry with me to Andalusia and Valencia, the two provinces which most abound with the Rommany-Chai, of whom, by the way, I found no trace in Old Castile, Galicia, or the Asturias. As for the Basque version, it is probable that even in Madrid it will not be without demand, as many Biscayans residing there will doubtless be eager to read the Gospel when placed within their reach in their native tongue. I will now conclude by begging pardon for all errors of commission and omission. I am a frail foolish vessel, and have accomplished but a slight portion of what I proposed in my vanity. Yet something, though but little, has been effected by this journey, which I have just brought to a conclusion. The New Testament of Christ is enjoying a quiet sale in the principal towns of the north of Spain, and I have secured the _friendly interest_ and co-operation of the booksellers of those parts, particularly him, the most considerable of them all, Rey Romero of Compostella. I have, moreover, by private sale disposed of one hundred and sixteen Testaments to individuals entirely of the lower classes, namely, muleteers, carmen, _contrabandistas_, etc. My accounts will follow in a few days. Now may the Lord bless you, and dispose you to pray for myself and all in this land of misery and sorrow. G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Dec. 2, 1837) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE ST. IAGO PISO 3RO. _Novr._ 20, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--On the other side you have an account of the money which I expended during my journey, and also of what I have laid out in the Society's service since my return. In respect to my expenses, I wish to state that most articles are very dear in Spain, especially in the parts where I have travelled, and that I have been subjected to many expenses which I have not specified in the account, for example the gate-dues for the books, in every town where I have introduced them--the printing of advertisements--and particularly farriers' bills, as the poor horses were continually ailing from over-work, bad provender and falls received amongst the mountains. In the account of Testaments sold you will observe that I make no mention of by far the greater number, namely those disposed of at Lugo, Saint James, etc., etc., as I have not yet received the money from the booksellers. About a week since I received advice from Leon that the forty copies which I had left there had been all sold, and that the money was in readiness; I have despatched a fresh supply of fifty to that important town, where last summer I nearly lost my life in a burning fever. I am expecting every day a fresh order from Salamanca, and hope that, as the circle widens in the lake into which a stripling has cast a pebble, so will the circle of our usefulness continue widening until it has embraced the whole vast region of Spain. I have delayed writing for nearly a fortnight, as during that period I have been looking out for a suitable shop in which to commence operations in Madrid. I have just found one quite to my mind, situated in the _Calle del Principe_, one of the principal streets. The rent, it is true, is rather high (eight _reals_ per diem); but a good situation, as you are well aware, must be paid for. I came to the resolution of establishing a shop from finding that the Madrid booksellers entrusted with the Testaments gave themselves no manner of trouble to secure the sale, and even withheld advertisements from the public with which they were supplied. But now everything will be on another footing, and I have sanguine hopes of selling all that remain of the edition within a short time. A violent and furious letter against the Bible Society and its proceedings has lately appeared in a public print; it is prefixed to a Pastoral of the Spiritual Governor [_i.e._ Bishop] of Valencia, in which he forbids the sale of the London Bible in that see. About a week since I inserted in the _Espanol_ an answer to that letter, which answer has been read and praised. I send you herewith an English translation of it. You will doubtless deem it too warm and fiery, but tameness and gentleness are of little avail when surrounded by the vassal slaves of bloody Rome. It has answered one purpose--it has silenced our antagonist, who, it seems, is an unprincipled benefice-hunting curate. As you read Spanish, I have copied his own words respecting the omission of the Apocrypha; nevertheless, lest you should find some difficulty in understanding it, I subjoin here the English. 'If the works of Luther were to be given to the world curtailed of their _principal chapters_, and his maxims and precepts to a certain degree transformed, what would his followers and disciples do? Would they not rise with one accord in numerous bands, and, in order to sustain the honour of their preceptor, would they not recur to the original writings and produce in his support his manuscripts? Would they not resort to all kinds of argument to prove the spuriousness of that edition, and employ declamation and reasoning in order to blacken the illicit and fraudulent means which the Catholics were employing?' etc., etc., etc. I deemed it my duty, as Agent of the Bible Society in Spain, not to permit so brutal an attack upon it to pass unanswered. Indeed I was called upon by my friends to reply, and though I am adverse to all theological and political disputes, I feared to refuse, lest the motives of my silence should be misconstrued. But now I must be permitted to say (between ourselves) that it was a very unadvised act to send such a Bible as the London one over to Spain, a Bible which does the editor no credit and the Society less; and it was a still more unadvised act to advertise in the prints of Valencia that it would be given _gratis_ to the poor. Mr. Villiers, whom I consulted, made use of these words: 'How is it possible for you (meaning myself) to sell books at Madrid and other places, when it becomes known that those very same books are being given away at Valencia? Moreover, giving away Bibles to the multitude will seem to imply that there is some plot or conspiracy in the wind, and the Government, with some shadow of reason, may be called upon to interfere, and the proceedings of the Society may be brought to a sudden stop in Spain.' I hope you will excuse these hints; they are well meant, and in uttering them I have, as you know, the prosperity of our hallowed cause solely at heart. G. B. (I am still very unwell.) To the Editors of El Espanol GENTLEMEN,--My attention has this moment been directed by a friend to a letter which appeared in your journal of the 5th instant, signed Jose Francisco Garcia and prefixed to a circular of the Governor of the See of Valencia, the object of which is to forbid the purchasing or reading of the Castilian version of the Bible by Father Felipe Scio, as edited in London by the British and Foreign Bible Society, and which the Agent of the Society at Valencia has announced for sale. Did the principles of the Bible Society permit them to rejoice at the misfortunes of their fellow-creatures, even of their enemies, the style and tone which the writer of this epistle has, unfortunately for himself and his cause, adopted, would afford them plenteous matter for congratulation. He calls himself an ecclesiastic and talks about 'the sacred duty of his august ministry,' and for the purpose, I suppose, of showing how strictly he fulfils the precepts of his mild Master and Redeemer, he styles the Society in question 'an infernal Society,' and speaks of 'its accursed fecundity.' Goodly words! Charitable words! May I be permitted to enquire in what part of the sacred writings he found them recommended? Perhaps in the following text of the Vulgate:-- 'Vae vobis Scribae et Pharisaei hypocritae, qui decimatis mentham, et anethum, et cyminum, et reliquistis quae graviora sunt legis, _judicium_, _et misericordiam_, et fidem. Haec oportuit facere, et illa non omittere.' Matt. cap. xxiii. vers. 23. Ay de vosotros, Escribas y Phariseos hipocritas, que diezmais la yerba buena, y el eneldo, y el comino, y habeis dexado las cosas, que son mas importantes de la Ley, _la justicia_, _y la misericordia_, y la fe! Esto era menester hacer, y no dexar lo otro. The British and Foreign Bible Society is an infernal society and consequently its members, one and all, are children of the devil. Now, what is required to constitute a child of the devil, according to the opinion of the Founder of Christianity--of Jesus--the Living Word--the Eternal God? Let me quote _His_ own words, according to the Vulgate, the book of the Church of Rome: 'Vos ex patre diabolo estis: et desideria patris vestri vultis facere. Ille homicida erat ab initio, et in veritate non stetit, quia non est veritas in eo: cum loquitur mendacium, ex propriis loquitur, quia mendax est et pater ejus.' Joan. cap. viii. vers. 44. 'Vosotros sois hijos del diablo, y quereis cumplir los deseos de vuestro padre: el fue homicida desde el principio, y no permanecio en la verdad; porque no hay verdad en el: quando habla mentira, de suyo habla; porque es mentiroso, y padre de la mentira.' By this it should appear that the infernal Bible Society by the propagation of the Scriptures merely fulfils the desire of its father the devil, and disseminates that which is his. Being a child of the devil it cannot propagate truth; it propagates the Gospel, and nothing else--_ergo_, the Gospel is a lie and the father of it the devil. But the Bible Society is accused, not only in the circular, but in the epistle which introduces it to the _Espanol_, of vending a mutilated and curtailed version of the holy books. It is accused of omitting six of the books which are generally bound up with what is denominated the Bible; viz., Tobias, Judith, Baruch, Sabiduria, Eclesiastico, y 1o y 2o de los Machabeos. The _Christian ecclesiastic_, the author of the epistle, in indignation at this omission becomes suddenly argumentative, and puts a case to the heretics, which he deems in point; 'Si vieran la luz publica las obras de Lutero mutiladas en sus _principales capitulos_, y transformadas en cierto modo sus maximas y preceptos; que diligencias no practicarian sus secuaces y discipulos? Se levantarian a una en tropas numerosas para sostener el honor de su preceptor, y con el fin de dejar en su justo lugar a su amado maestre, recurririan a sus escritos originales, manifestarian en su apoyo los manuscritos, apelarian a todo linage de argumentos para acreditar la ilegitimidad de aquella edicion, y emplearian sus declamaciones y raciocinios para ascar los medios rateres e ilicitos de que se valia el catolicismo.' Hear it in Gath! hear it in Gilead! hear it on the hills of Israel! yea let the furthest corners of the earth hear it! The _principal chapters_ of the Bible are not those of the New Testament, which contains the will and words of the Saviour, by whom we are to be judged--not those of Isaiah, who foretold so beautifully and distinctly the coming of that Saviour to the world--not those of Moses, who wrote of things in their earliest date, and so nobly depicted the progress of the creation,--but those of the books of Tobit, Baruch, etc., books which the Roman Church itself has called apocryphal, and the greater part of which exhibit an internal character of spuriousness which precludes the possibility of their being the offspring of inspired minds, though they contain some things useful and instructive, such as may be found in the writings of the early doctors, who however never claimed nor were deemed to possess the gift of inspiration from on high. Let me here ask: what is to be discovered in the chapters of Tobit, etc., of first rate importance to the Christian in his worldly pilgrimage, or which serves to corroborate and illustrate other parts of Scripture? Above all, is Christ crucified spoken of or hinted at, as in the authenticated writings of the Prophets? If not, what is their value in comparison with that of other books of Scripture, even could their authenticity be proved? Now to that point. This Christian ecclesiastic calls with a loud voice upon his brethren to prove by pamphlets and writing the divinity of the books of Tobit, Judith, etc. Yea, let them accomplish that--let them bring sufficient evidence that these apocryphal writings were held in veneration by the Jews, that they enjoyed a place in the sanctuary along with the inspired writings, let them show that they were penned by Prophets, above all _let them produce the originals_--and the Bible Society will immediately admit them into its editions. Why not? I am not aware that one point of doctrine, either Protestant or Roman, depends upon their reception or rejection. In conclusion. What struck me most on the perusal of this singular epistle, all the main points of which I believe I have tolerably well answered, and without much trouble, was the ignorance more than childish, the extraordinary, unaccountable ignorance, which the author displays on the subject on which he has written, and all which relates to it, notwithstanding that subject is a religious one, and he, an ecclesiastic as he gives the world to know, standing forward as champion of the Church of Rome. He is evidently as well acquainted with Scripture and the works of the Fathers as with the Talmud and Zend-avesta, and with the ideas and dogmas of those whom he calls heretics, as with the religious opinions of the Mongols and the followers of the Lama of the Himalayan hills. The miserable attack which, in his rancorous feebleness, he has just committed on the Bible Society will redound merely to his own shame and ridicule, and the disgrace of the sect to which he belongs. What could persuade him to speak of the Vulgate? What could induce him to grasp that two-edged sword? Does it not cut off his own hands? Does the Vulgate allude to the Bible Society, or to him and his fellows, when it cries:-- Vae vobis legisperitis, quia tulistis clavem scientiae, ipsi non introistis: et eos, qui introibant, prohibuistis.--Lucae, cap. xi. vers. 52. 'Ay de vosotros, Doctores de la Ley que os alzasteis con la llave de la ciencia! vosotros no entrasteis, y habeis prohibido a los que entraban.' And again:-- Qui ex Deo est, verba Dei audit. Propterea vos non auditis, quia ex Deo non estis.--Joan. cap. viii. vers. 47. 'El que es de Dios, oye las palabras de Dios. Por eso vosotros no las ois, porque no sois de Dios.' What could induce him to speak of Luther and his works? What does he, what do his abettors, know of Luther and his writings, or of the ideas which the heretics entertain respecting either? I will instruct them. Luther was a bold inquiring man, with some learning; he read the Scriptures in the original tongues, and found that their contents were in entire variance with the doctrines of the Church of the Seven Hills; he told the world so, as other men had done, with feebler voices, before, and the best part of the world believed--not him--but the Scripture, for he gave it to them in a shape which they could understand. The heretics look not for salvation by the merits either of Luther or Calvin, for merits they had none--being merely the instruments which Providence selected to commence a great work which He has hitherto not thought proper to perfect. The heretics look for salvation to Christ and hope to be forgiven by lively faith in Him and by virtue of His blood-shedding. They trust not in Peter nor in Paul--both men and sinners--in Luther nor in Calvin--greater sinners still--but in Christ alone. They trust not in stick nor stone, in picture nor in image, in splinter of cross nor bone of saint, but in Christ alone--not in His mother or His brother--He Himself has said: 'those that do the will of my Father that is in heaven, they are my mother, they are my brethren.' Quae est mater mea, et qui sunt fratres mei? . . . Quicumque fecerit voluntatem Patris mei, qui in coelis est, ipse meus frater et soror et mater est.--Matt. cap. xii. vers. 48-50. Christ alone is the foundation and cope-stone of the true Church. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Dec. 8, 1837) 28_th_ _Novr._ 1837, MADRID, No. 16 CALLE ST. IAGO, PISO 3RO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have just received your letter [of Nov. 15th], for which I thank you heartily. I write these lines in a great hurry, as no time must be lost. The shop opened yesterday, and several Testaments have been sold, but three parts of the customers departed on finding that only the New Testament was to be obtained; and I may here state that if the books which I carried to the provinces had been Bibles, I could have sold ten times the amount of what I did. I must therefore be furnished with Bibles instanter. Send me therefore the London edition, bad as it is, say 500 copies. I believe you have a friend at Cadiz, the consul, who would have sufficient influence to secure their admission into Spain. But the most advisable way would be to pack them in two chests, placing at the top Bibles in English and other languages, for there is a demand, viz.: 100 English, 100 French, 50 German, 50 Hebrew, 50 Greek, 10 Modern Greek, 10 Persian, 20 Arabic. _Pray do not fail_. Direct the books thus:-- DESPACHO DE LA SOCIEDAD BIBLICA, No. 25 CALLE DEL PRINCIPE, MADRID. I start to-morrow for Toledo with 100 Testaments, for I must spare no exertion in such a cause. I go as usual on horseback. I am in a great hurry and can write no more. Yours most truly, (Send, with the books, a Modern Greek grammar and dictionary. You must likewise renew my credit on Messrs. O'Shea & Compy.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jany. 8, 1838) MADRID, CALLE SANTIAGO No. 16, _Dec._ 25, 1837. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 5th instant, and also my friend Mr. Jackson's of the 8th. I should have replied ere this, had not my time been entirely occupied since my return from Toledo. The versions of St. Luke in Gitano and Basque have been committed to the press; and as the compositors are entirely ignorant of these languages a most strict surveillance is required, which I hope will be admitted as an excuse for having so long delayed to answer. I expect that within a fortnight my task will be completed. You are aware that I have established in Madrid a shop, or _despacho_, as it is here called, for the sale of Testaments, and you are doubtless anxious to receive information as to its success. It succeeds well, nay, I may say very well, when all circumstances are taken into consideration; for it ought to be known that I have ventured upon this step in the very place which of all in Spain, affords the least chance of a successful issue, yet at the same time in the place where such a step was most needed, provided it be the imperative duty of Christians to make the Word of their Master known in the dark portions of the earth. It was a step fraught with difficulties of every kind. Madrid, it is true, is the capital of Spain; yet let no one for a moment suppose that being so it is consequently the largest, richest and most enlightened town in the Peninsula. In the first place, it is inferior in population to Valencia and Barcelona; in the second, misery and distress reign here to an extent unknown elsewhere; and so far from its being peculiarly enlightened, I believe that of all places in the Peninsula it is the least so. It is the centre of old, gloomy, bigoted Spain, and if there be one inveterate disgusting prejudice more prevalent and more cherished in one spot than another, it is here, in this heart of old, popish, anti-christian Spain, always difficult of access, but now peculiarly so, as it is scarcely possible to travel a league from its gates without being stript naked and murdered. Yet in this singular capital, in the midst of furious priests and Carlists, I have ventured upon establishing a shop which bears on its front in large letters: 'Despatch of the British and Foreign Bible Society.' To call the attention of the people to this establishment, I printed three thousand advertisements on paper, yellow, blue, and crimson, with which I almost covered the sides of the streets, and besides this inserted notices in all the journals and periodicals, employing also a man after the London fashion to parade the streets with a placard, to the astonishment of the populace. The consequence has been that at present every person in Madrid, man, woman, and child, is aware of the existence of the establishment. You must feel convinced that such exertions would in London or in Paris have insured the sale of the whole edition of the New Testament within a few days. But hitherto I have had to contend with ignorance--and such ignorance, with bigotry--and such bigotry, and with great and terrible distress. So that since the opening of the establishment, which I hope the Lord will deign to bless, I have contrived to sell, and I may say that every copy sold has cost me an exertion, and no slight one, between 70 and 80 New Testaments {274} and 10 Bibles. You will doubtless wonder where I obtained the latter: in the shop of a bookseller who dared not sell them himself, but who had brought them secretly from Gibraltar. Of these Bibles there were two of the large edition, printed by William Clowes, 1828 (I would give my right hand for a thousand of them); these I sold (on the bookseller's account) for 70 _reals_ or 17 shillings each, and the others, which were of the very common edition, for 7 shillings, which is, however, far too dear. My own Testament I sell for 10 _reals_, which every person allows to be unaccountably cheap, but I deem it best to be moderate, on account of the distress of the times. Permit me here to observe that this Testament has been allowed by people who have perused it, and with no friendly feeling, to be one of the most correct works that have ever issued from the press in Spain, and to be an exceedingly favourable specimen of typography and paper: and lucky it is for me that it is impossible to say anything against the edition. {275a} You will easily suppose that such an establishment in Madrid has caused a great sensation. The priests and bigots are teeming with malice and fury, which hitherto they have thought proper to exhibit only in words, as they know that all I do here is favoured by Mr. Villiers; {275b} but there is no attempt, however atrocious, which may not be expected from such people, and were it right and seemly for _me_, the most insignificant of worms, to make such a comparison, I would say that, like Paul at Ephesus, I am fighting with wild beasts. I receive daily a great many applications for copies gratis, as it is here the generally received opinion that the Bible Society invariably gives away its publications; and I must confess that this opinion, however it may have originated, is very prejudicial to the sale of the Testament. 'Wait a while,' say many, 'and these books may be had for nothing. Friends of ours who have been in England have had them pressed upon them, and _cart-loads_ have been given away in Cadiz and other places.' Such a conversation was related to me yesterday, by my excellent friend and coadjutor Doctor Usoz, who had just heard it in a coffee-house. Of this gentleman I cannot speak in too high terms of admiration; he is one of the most learned men in Spain, and is become in every point a Christian, according to the standard of the New Testament. My projects are these. As soon as ever my Gospels are ready, I mount the saddle once more, entrusting the _despacho_ and shopman to the care of Dr. Usoz. My course will be directed to Andalusia, a rich and tolerably enlightened province. Hitherto I have only had to deal with poverty, ignorance, and bigotry; but I hope with God's assistance to accomplish much at Seville and Cadiz. It is true that to arrive there I shall have to pass through La Mancha and the Morena district, which are entirely in the hands of the swarms of banditti whose general is Palillos (he has upwards of 9000 under his command), or through Estremadura, occupied at present by the hordes of Jara and Orejita. But I fear nothing, and trust that One above will preserve me. In the meantime let me beg and pray that you will send Bibles, Bibles, Bibles of all sizes and prices, and in all languages to Madrid. You cannot conceive how helpless and forlorn I feel, 400 miles from the sea-coast, on being begged to supply what I possess not. I received an order the other day for 20 Hebrew Bibles. I replied with tears in my eyes, 'I have nothing but the New Testament in Spanish.' You wish to know my reasons for censuring the London edition of the Spanish Bible. I will state them in a few words: the utmost confusion reigns throughout, both as to accentuation and punctuation; words are frequently omitted or misspelt, and occasionally a short sentence is left out. All this is very annoying, but I was perhaps wrong in sending home 'so unmitigated a censure.' It may possibly occur that a Spanish edition, unless superintended by very zealous and careful people, may turn out yet more incorrect. Therefore I should not be sorry to see any number arrive at Madrid. In reply to your observation that I am in a mistake in supposing that Bibles have been given away to any extent in the south of Spain, permit me to observe, and always with the greatest humility, that I never ventured to form any supposition respecting the matter. But the Vicar General of Valencia gave as a reason for publishing the circular in which he forbids the Bible, an advertisement inserted in the Commercial Diary of Valencia, to the effect, that a person was commissioned in that city to sell at cheap prices, and even to give away gratis to those who might not have money at their disposal, copies of the Spanish Bible printed in London; and on this passage his commentator observes, 'Fine generosity! Charity worthy of applause and gratitude!' The friend who brought me the newspaper stated at the time that the advertisement was calculated to do harm. It is certainly liable to much misconstruction. And now, my dear Sir, having detailed my whereabouts, permit me to subscribe myself, Yours most truly, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jan. 26, 1838) MADRID, _January_ 15, 1838. No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--The priests have at length 'swooped upon me,' and I have received a peremptory order from the Political Governor of Madrid to sell no more New Testaments. I have been apprehensive of something similar for some little time, on account of the late change of Ministry, the present head of the Cabinet, Ofalia, being one of the most furious bigots in Spain. I have just paid a visit to Sir George Villiers, who has promised to do all in his power to cause the veto to be annulled. But I must here state that he has not at present much influence, he having opposed with all his power the accession of Ofalia to the premiership, to which station the latter has been exalted for the mere purpose of serving as an instrument of the priestly party. I therefore do not place much reliance in Sir George Villiers' power of assisting me; but I have still great confidence in myself, through the Almighty in whose cause I am engaged. Matters were going on very well before this check. The demand, even for Testaments, was becoming considerable, so much so that the clergy were alarmed, and the consequence has been this step. But they had previously recourse to another well worthy of them; they attempted to act upon my fears. One of the ruffians of Madrid, called _Manolos_, came up to me one night in a dark street, and told me that unless I discontinued selling 'my Jewish books' I should have a knife '_nailed in my heart_'; but I told him to go home, say his prayers, and tell his employers that I pitied them, whereupon he turned away with an oath. A few days after, I received an order to send two copies of the Testament to the office of the Political Governor, with which, after consulting with Sir George Villiers, I complied, and in less than twenty-four hours, namely, on the evening of last Saturday, an _alguacil_ arrived at the shop with the notice prohibiting the further sale of the New Testament, permission to print which I had obtained from the Ministry of Isturitz after so much trouble and anxiety. One circumstance rejoices me. They have not shut up my little _despacho_, and as soon as ever the Bibles arrive (and I have advice from Barcelona of their being on the way) I shall advertise them, for I have received no prohibition respecting the sale of any work but the New Testament. Moreover, within a few days the Gospel of Saint Luke in Rommany will be ready for delivery, so that I hope to carry on matters in a small way till better times arrive. I have been advised to erase from the shop windows the words 'Despatch of the British and Foreign Bible Society,' but I intend to do no such thing; those words have tended very much to call attention, which was my grand object. Had I attempted to conduct things in an underhand manner, I should at the present moment scarcely have sold 30 copies instead of nearly 300, which in Madrid are more than equivalent to 3,000 sold on the littoral. People who know me not, nor are acquainted with my situation, may be disposed to call me rash; but I am far from being so, as I never adopt a venturous course when any other is open to me. But I am not a person to be terrified by any danger, when I see that braving it is the only way to achieve an object. The booksellers refused to sell my work; I was compelled to establish a shop of my own. Every shop in Madrid has a name. What name should I give mine but the true one? I was not ashamed of my cause nor my colours. I hoisted them, and have fought beneath them not without success. The Levitical party in Madrid have, in the meantime, spared no effort to vilify me. They have started a publication called 'The friend of the Christian religion,' in which has appeared a furious attack upon me, which I have however treated with the contempt it deserves. But not satisfied with this, they have endeavoured to incite the ignorant populace against me, by telling them that I am a sorcerer and a companion of Gypsies and witches, and I have been called so in the streets. That I am an associate of Gypsies and fortune-tellers I do not deny, and why should I be ashamed of their company when my Master mingled with publicans and thieves? Many of the poor Gypsy race come frequently to visit me, receive instruction, and hear parts of the Gospel read to them in their own language, and when they are hungry and faint I give them to eat and drink. This may be deemed sorcery in Spain, but I am not without hope that it will be otherwise estimated in England; and were I to perish to-morrow I think there are some who would be disposed to say that I have lived not altogether in vain (always as an instrument of the 'Most Highest'), having been permitted to turn one of the most valuable books of God into the speech of the most oppressed and miserable of His creatures. No more at present, but I hope to write again within a few days. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Mar. 27, 1838) MADRID, CALLE SANTIAGO, No. 16. 17 _March_, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--As I entertain little doubt that yourself and my other good friends are anxious to obtain information respecting the course of matters in Madrid, I write the present letter, although I could have wished to tarry a little longer, in the hope of being able to afford more satisfactory intelligence. In the first place, allow me to state that about six weeks since I despatched to England a copy of Saint Luke in Rommany, by the courier of the Embassy, which I hope you received, and that it afforded you satisfaction. I may also add that yesterday the printing of the Basque translation of the same Gospel was brought to a happy conclusion, to my very great satisfaction, as it has caused me much trouble and anxiety, the press having been brought to a stop three times from the necessity of casting fresh type, the usual Spanish founts being insufficient to print a sheet in this singular language, owing to all its words being contained within the compass of six or seven letters, the demand for which is in consequence tremendous. With the Rommany I had no difficulty whatever. Within a week or two it is my intention to publish both Gospels simultaneously. With this preamble, I will now proceed to other matters. During the last two months I have been almost incessantly engaged in negotiations with the Ministry of Count Ofalia, for the purpose of obtaining permission to sell the New Testament in Madrid and the nullification of the prohibition. I have experienced, as might be expected, great opposition, which I have not yet surmounted; but I am by no means dispirited, as these obstacles are merely temporary. I have had to contend against six Bishops at present resident in Madrid, and amongst them him of Toledo, the Primate of Spain, who have denounced the Bible, the Bible Society, and myself. Nevertheless, notwithstanding their powerful and united efforts, they have been unable to effect their principal object, namely, my expulsion from Madrid and Spain. The Count Ofalia is a very good and excellent man, though weak and superstitious to an exceeding degree; and notwithstanding he has permitted himself to be made the instrument, to a certain extent, of these people, he will not consent to be pushed to such a length. Throughout this business, as far as it has proceeded, I cannot find words sufficiently strong, to do justice to the zeal and interest which Sir George Villiers has displayed in the cause of the Testament. He has had six interviews with Ofalia on the subject, and in these he has expressed to him his sense of the injustice and tyranny which have been practised in this instance towards his countryman, as he does me the honour of calling me. Ofalia has been much moved by these remonstrances, and on several occasions has promised to do all in his power to oblige Sir George; but then the Bishops, and particularly his confessor, whom he consults every night, again beset him, and playing upon his religious fears, prevent him from acting a just, honest, and honourable part. At the desire of Sir George Villiers, I drew up, a little time since, a brief account of the Bible Society and an exposition of its views, especially in respect to Spain, which he himself presented with his own hand to the Count. Of this memorial I send you a translation, and I think that you will do me the justice to say that, if I have not flattered and cajoled, I have expressed myself honestly and frankly, as a Christian ought. Ofalia on reading it, said, 'What a pity that this is a mixed society, and that all its members are not Catholics.' A few days subsequently, to my great astonishment, he sent a message to me by a friend, requesting that I would send him a copy of my Gypsy Gospel. I may as well here state that the fame of this work, although unpublished, has spread like wildfire through Madrid, and every person is passionately eager to possess a copy; indeed, several grandees of Spain have sent messages with similar requests, all of which I have, however, denied. I instantly resolved to take advantage of this overture on the part of Count Ofalia, and to call on him myself. I therefore caused a copy of the Gospel to be handsomely bound, and proceeding to the palace, was instantly admitted to him. He is a dusky, diminutive person, between fifty and sixty years of age, with false hair and teeth, but exceedingly gentlemanly manners. He received me with great affability, and thanked me for my present; but on my proceeding to speak of the New Testament, he told me that the subject was surrounded with difficulties, and that the whole body of the clergy had taken up the matter against me; but he conjured me to be patient and peaceable, and he would endeavour to devise some plan to satisfy me. Amongst other things, he said that the Bishops hated a sectarian more than an atheist; whereupon I replied, that, like the Pharisees of old, they cared more for the gold of the Temple than the Temple itself. Throughout the whole of our interview he evidently laboured under great fear, and was continually looking behind and around him, seemingly in dread of being overheard, which brought to my mind an expression of Sir George Villiers, that if there be any truth in metempsychosis, the _anima_ of Count Ofalia must have originally belonged to a mouse. We parted in kindness, and I went away wondering by what strange chance this poor man had become Prime Minister of a country like Spain. I have now given a plain narrative of what I have been about up to the present moment, by which you will see that I have accomplished all that lay within the circumscribed sphere of my ability, and have brought every engine into play which it was in my power to command. Let it always be borne in mind that it was no fault of mine that, immediately after my arrival in Madrid from my journey, a retrograde Ministry came into power, the head of which is a weak, timid, priest-ridden man. Sir George has several times told me, that had the Ministry of Calatrava and Mendizabal remained in place, he himself would have answered that I should have received no interruption in my labours, and that he will almost say the same in respect to any future Ministry; and it is impossible that the present can long maintain its ground, as it is disliked by the Court and despised by the people. I therefore write at present for instructions. Shall I wait a little time longer in Madrid; or shall I proceed at once on a journey to Andalusia and other places? I am in strength, health and spirits, thanks be to the Lord! and am at all times ready to devote myself, body and mind, to His cause. Therefore I pray that my friends at home will point out the course which they think I ought to pursue under these circumstances. In a few days I shall send my account to Mr. Hitchin. I have hitherto delayed, not having yet settled for the printing of the Basque St. Luke. I received your kind letter of the 8th ultimo. I remain, my dear Sir, most truly yours, G. B. _P.S._--I have received the 500 Bibles in sheets from Barcelona. Translation of a Memorial to his Excellence the Count D'Ofalia (_Endorsed_: Memorial of Mr. G. Borrow to Count Ofalia, Madrid, recd. March 28,1838.) To His Excellence The Count D'Ofalia SIR,--I have the honour to inform you that, being a member and Agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society, I some months since printed, with permission, at Madrid, an edition of the New Testament of Jesus Christ in the Castilian language according to the authorised version of Father Felipe Scio, Confessor of the late King Ferdinand of happy memory. That to effect the sale of the said work, in which the Society had subjected itself to an expense of more than 100,000 _reals_, I subsequently established a Despatch at Madrid, where the work was publicly sold at a moderate price until the 12th of January last, when the person intrusted with the management of the said Despatch received a notice from Don Francisco Gamboa, Civil Governor of Madrid, forbidding the further sale of the New Testament until fresh information. As very erroneous ideas are generally entertained in Spain concerning the constitution of the Bible Society and the views in which its proceedings originate, I will endeavour in a few words to afford some correcting information respecting both. I beg to state that the Bible Society is composed of Christians attached to many and various sects and forms of worship--for example, members of the Roman, Greek, Anglican, Calvinistic, and Lutheran Churches, and of all ranks and grades in society, who, though they may differ from each other in points of religious discipline, form and ceremony, agree in the one grand and principal point: that there is no salvation from the punishment due to original sin but through vivid faith in Christ, manifested and proved by good works, such being the amount of the doctrine found in those inspired writings known as the New Testament which contain the words of the Saviour whilst resident in flesh on earth, together with the revelations of the Holy Spirit to His disciples after He had ascended to the throne of His heavenly glory. Having said thus much respecting those who constitute the Bible Society and the religious feeling which unites them, I will now devote a few words to the explanation of their views, than which nothing can be more simple or easily defined. They have no other wish or intention in thus associating together than to assist, as humble instruments under Christ, in causing His doctrine to be propagated and known in all the regions of the vast world, the greatest part of which is still involved in heathenism and ignorance; and looking upon their earthly goods as of little or no value in comparison with such a glorious end, they expend them in printing editions of their Master's Word in all languages, and in transporting them to the remotest corners of the earth, that their benighted fellow-creatures may see the lamp of salvation, and enjoy the same spiritual advantages as themselves. Such is their wish, such their view, totally unallied with commerce or politics, hope of gain and lust of power. The mightiest of earthly monarchs, the late Alexander of Russia, was so convinced of the single-mindedness and integrity of the British and Foreign Bible Society, that he promoted their efforts within his own dominions to the utmost of his ability, and established at St. Petersburg a Bible Society of his own, whose publications have been a source of blessing not only to Russia, but to many other lands. After the above statement it is unnecessary for me to dilate on the intentions of the Society with respect to Spain, a country which perhaps most of any in the world is in need of the assistance of the Christian philanthropist, as it is overspread with the thickest gloom of heathenish ignorance, beneath which the fiends and demons of the abyss seem to be holding their ghastly revels; a country in which all sense of right and wrong is forgotten, and where every man's hand is turned against his fellow to destroy or injure him, where the name of Jesus is scarcely ever mentioned but in blasphemy, and His precepts [are] almost utterly unknown. In this unhappy country the few who are enlightened are too much occupied in the pursuit of lucre, ambition, or ungodly revenge to entertain a desire or thought of bettering the moral state of their countrymen. But it has pleased the Lord to raise up in foreign lands individuals differently situated and disposed, whose hearts bleed for their brethren in Spain. It is their belief that ignorance of God's Word is the sole cause of these horrors, and to dispel that ignorance they have printed the Gospel in Spain, which they dispose of at a price within the power of the poorest to command. Vain men would fain persuade themselves and others that the Society entertains other motives, by which uncharitableness they prove that they themselves are neither Christians, nor acquainted with the spirit of Christianity. But let the most fearful and dubious reassure themselves with the thought, that should the Bible Society foster the very worst intentions, it would baffle their power, if even assisted by Satanic agency, to render Spain worse than it at present is. I beseech you, Sir, to co-operate in a good cause, and not seek to retard its progress; for be assured that sooner or later it will triumph. I have the honour to remain, Sir, Your Excellence's obedient servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Apr. 9th, 1838) _March_ 30, 1838. MADRID, 16 CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Without waiting for an answer to my last, which I despatched some ten days since, I shall take the liberty of again troubling you with a short letter. My principal motive for so doing is a visit which I have just been favoured with from our friend Mr. Rule of Gibraltar, a gentleman who has much interested me, and of whose zeal, piety, and discretion I have formed the highest opinion. It seems that the little congregation at Cadiz has been broken up and dispersed by order of the Government, and in consequence he has travelled to Madrid to make intercession in its behalf. I am happy to say that Sir George Villiers has promised to befriend him to the utmost of his ability. Since his arrival here he has received intelligence which has filled him with much uneasiness, and he has entreated me to write home in conjunction with himself respecting the affair, with which indeed I am in some degree concerned. I, however, beg leave to state, that it is with the utmost reluctance I say a word upon the subject, being at all times unwilling to interfere in the slightest degree in the projects or movements of another party; but I feel that entire silence in this case would be wrong and unadvisable. I come now to the point. A friend of ours, who by your last favour I was informed was about to leave Spain for the benefit of his health, has, it appears, changed his mind, and is on his way to visit Andalusia and the principal towns, namely Cadiz, Malaga, and Seville. Now Mr. Rule is far better acquainted with him than I can pretend to be, and he has told me that knowing him perfectly well, he entertains great dread as to the effect which our friend's visit to those parts will have over the issue of the affair which has brought him, Mr. R., to Madrid. I must here observe that I had myself made preparations to visit Andalusia, having indeed been advised to do so by Sir George Villiers, who will afford me all the recommendations and assistance which I can possibly desire. I may add that some time since I despatched thither a considerable number of Testaments, which are now being sold at Seville, etc. I therefore humbly conceive that the arrival of another edition is likely to produce a clash highly detrimental to the interests of the Society, and to perplex the minds of the people of the west of Spain respecting its views. But I confess I am chiefly apprehensive of the reacting at Seville of the Valencian drama, which I have such unfortunate cause to rue, as I am the victim on whom an aggravated party have wreaked their vengeance, and for the very cogent reason that I was within their reach. I think, my dearest sir, you know sufficient of my disposition to be aware that I am one of the last people disposed to make complaint, whether with or without cause; but that passage in your affectionate and kind letter which implied, though in the gentlest terms, that I had been rash in my proceedings in Madrid, gave me a pang, more especially as I knew from undoubted sources that nothing which I had done, said, or written was the _original_ cause of the arbitrary step which had been adopted in respect to me. There is another matter which gives me much uneasiness and which I wish to confide to your bosom and yours alone, though you will, of course, communicate it to such friends as you may deem proper. I have received two letters from an ex-priest at Valencia of the name of Marin, to the first of which I have replied, though very cautiously. This very unfortunate individual, who it seems for some time past has felt the workings of the Spirit, was last year induced by certain promises, and hopes thrown out, to leave Valencia, where he enjoyed a benefice on which he supported himself and an aged mother, and to repair to Gibraltar for the purpose of receiving Christian instruction under Mr. Rule. After remaining some time at that place, where, Mr. R. informs me, his conduct was in most points exemplary, he returned to Valencia, where his apostasy, as the Papists termed it, having become known, his salary of six _pesetas_ daily was sequestrated, and himself and his parent in consequence deprived of their only means of subsistence. But this is not all. The aid and assistance which he had been led to expect from England were withheld in his great pinch and need, and the very persons who had taken advantage of the commotion within him to induce him to take what I must term a rash and hazardous expedition, were the first to forsake him, and Mr. Rule states that there is cogent reason for fearing that this unfortunate man and his aged parent are at present perishing with hunger in the barbarous streets of Valencia. I wish it to be known that the man himself in his letters told me nothing of the promises which had been held out to him, nor breathed a word of complaint, I being indebted to Mr. R. for my knowledge on this point, who has a very high opinion of his sincerity, although he has been termed an impostor, though the fact of his having lost his salary by the opinions which he has embraced ought to have precluded such an idea. Now the Lord forbid that this man and his mother perish, so that his death be laid by the enemy at the threshold of the humble but unworthy servants of Christ. I therefore this day have sent him a small sum on my own account to relieve the pinch of utter need, till more can be known of him. Pray excuse this letter written with a heart full of trouble and doubt. Dispose of me as you think proper, my dear sir, who am truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 1, 1838) MADRID, _April_ 19, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I enclose a letter from Mr. Rule, dated Valencia, 12th inst., which I have just received, and upon which I beg to make a few observations. In this very extraordinary espistle I am requested to take charge of an ex-priest of the name of Pascual Marin, on his arrival at Madrid, where it appears he is hastening, to furnish him with cash, make an estimate of his probable expenses, and moreover to write home to the Society, without delay, for the purpose of advising the Committee to join with the gentlemen of another religious institution in affording the said Marin the means for supporting himself in the Spanish capital, where it is the writer's opinion that he may be usefully employed in _distributing_ the Scriptures, and in preparing the way for a future mission. Well and good! But my friends at home, discreet as I know them to be, will doubtless be anxious to be informed by virtue of what correspondence or communication with me does Mr. Rule now write from Valencia, consigning to my hands this person, whom I have never seen, and whom I know not, although, as I have stated on a former occasion, I have received two letters from him, to one of which I returned a cautious and guarded answer. Mr. Rule suddenly arrived at Madrid, upon some business connected with the Society to which he belongs; he called upon me, and I, upon learning from him that he was a perfect stranger in Madrid, without friends or acquaintances, received him with the hospitality which the Scripture enjoins, and which I continued during his stay in the capital, a period of about ten days. In the course of our conversations he spoke to me of the peculiar hardships of the case of Pascual Marin of Valencia, who, as he informed me, had been induced, partly by conviction, and partly by persuasion, to secede from his own Church, but who not having received from England the assistance which he had been led to expect, was in danger of perishing, with his mother, in the streets of Valencia, he having lost the benefice which constituted their support. Whereupon through the medium of Mr. Rule I sent him 500 _reals_ on my own account, without, however, directly or indirectly pledging myself to do anything more in his behalf, or to attempt to engage the Bible Society to do so. Mr. Rule left Madrid for Valencia, and on his departure informed me that it was his firm intention to carry Marin with him to Gibraltar, to which resolution I, of course, made no objection, as I conceived that it was a matter with which I had little or no connection, and in which it would be advisable not to involve myself, more especially on account of the peculiar state of the affairs at Madrid with which the Society had done me the honour to entrust me. I was aware that in my situation peculiar caution in every step was necessary and indispensable, and after Mr. Rule's departure I harboured not the slightest surmise that my attentions to himself, or the slight conversation which I had held with him respecting Marin, could possibly tend to compromise me in any point. I was, however, mistaken. In the name of all that is singular, what does Mr. Rule mean, without the courtesy of asking my permission, by sending this man to me at Madrid? Assist in preparing the way for a mission! Very probably; but that mission will be my own, over the frontiers, under an escort of lancers. Assist in distributing the Scriptures! Probably again; but it will be to the wild winds of Madrid, when they are torn to pieces by the common hangman in the Plaza Mayor, and cast into the air. I must confess that I am vexed and grieved that as fast as I build up, some intemperate friend rushes forward, and by his perhaps well-meant zeal casts down and destroys what has cost me much labour. Things are beginning to assume a more favourable aspect. I have opened my shop once more, though not at present for the sale of Testaments. The priests are frantic, and through the medium of one or other of the Ministers, are continually giving me trouble; but Sir George Villiers has vowed to protect me, and has stated so publicly, and he is every day acquiring more and more influence here. He has gone so far as to state to Ofalia and Gamboa, that provided I be allowed to pursue my plans without interruption, he will be my bail (_fiador_) and answerable for everything I do, as he does me the honour to say that he knows me, and that he can confide in _my_ discretion. Therefore let me call upon my beloved and respected friends at home, as they love their Lord and the credit of His cause, to offer no encouragement to any disposed 'to run the muck' (it is Sir George's expression) against the religious or political _institutions_ of Spain, to keep clear of the _exaltado_ or republican party, and to eschew tracts, with political frontispieces, concerning any _uncertain_ future dispensation; but to confine themselves strictly and severely to the great work of propagating the Word which sooner or later is doomed to christianise the entire world. I hope I shall be excused the freedom of these observations, when it is reflected that I, being the Agent of the Bible Society, have to answer to those who protect me here for all that is done in any part of Spain under the sanction of the Society. Concerning Marin and what is to be done in his respect, I feel myself after much reflection and private prayer totally incompetent to offer a suggestion. He can be of no possible service to me in Madrid, but the contrary. One thing, however, is evident, that, thanks to particular individuals, we are to a certain extent compromised. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. Andrew Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 3rd, 1838) MADRID, _April_ 23, 1838, CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the 10th inst. and also my friend Mr. Jackson's of the 5th, containing the resolution of the Committee in my respect, which I shall of course attend to. My reason for troubling you with these lines is an apprehension that my late communication has not been understood by you; for there is something in the tone of your reply which has made me rather unhappy, though I can easily conjecture that at the time you wrote it you were labouring under a considerable pressure of business. Had you paid a little more attention to my letter, you would have perceived that it was written unwillingly on my part, but Mr. Rule thought his province had been invaded. As for myself I wish to say nothing, but it will be as well to remind you that all the difficulty and danger connected with what has been accomplished in Spain have fallen to my share, I having been labouring on the flinty rock and sierra, and not in smiling meadows refreshed by sea breezes. I hoped in Seville and other towns of Andalusia to have secured the sale of more Testaments than it is probable that I shall be able to do in Spain proper, where I was afraid that my efforts had not been appreciated; but if my good friend Mr. Graydon has preceded me to those regions let him remain there and let no one interrupt him. I hope in the Lord that he will be permitted to prosper. When you write to him, present my cordial regards, and assure him that at all times I shall be happy to hear from him. I hope nothing in my last letter, in which I forwarded Mr. R's communication, will be taken in bad part. I repeat that I was grieved to have Marin saddled upon me, in a place where I am surrounded by spies and persecuted by many and vindictive enemies. The idea, however, of his having gone back to Rome is preposterous, the Bishop of Jaen having assured Mr. R. that he had turned a deaf ear to all the promises which had been made to him, with the view of inducing him to recant. He has not yet made his appearance. I remain, my dear Sir, yours, GEORGE BORROW. _P.S._--You have never had the urbanity to acknowledge the receipt of my Gypsy Gospel. In the Spanish newspapers it has been called a great accession to the literature of Spain. To Mr. William Hitchin (_Endorsed_: recd. May 8, 1838) MADRID, _April_ 26, 1838. I take the liberty of herewith sending you my accompt. It is still an imperfect one, the printing of the Basque Gospel not being charged for, which I have not defrayed, together with some other items, for which I am indebted to my printer, who, having lately fought a duel, is laid up with his wounds, and cannot for the present transact business. I have charged here, as you will observe, for the translation of the Basque St. Luke, an item, which I sent in, in a former accompt, but which appears to have been overlooked in your favour of Decr. 28, 1837. Independent of the Despatch, I have charged for the hire of a room as a general depot for the Scriptures. I am afraid to place my whole stock in the shop, owing to the continual persecution to which I am subjected, notwithstanding I enjoy powerful protection. Only last week a band of _alguazils_ rushed into the premises and seized 25 copies of the Gospel of St. Luke in Rommany which I had advertised. To the present accompt of the money which I have disbursed, you will please to add the previous one of Novr. 1837, which I sent in, which will enable you to see how I stand. I hope the Financial Committee and yourself will excuse any inaccuracies, supposing I have fallen into any, respecting money drawn, as I am much busied in negociations, and have lately been so harassed by vexatious proceedings, that I believe my mind has somewhat suffered. However, glory to God, the Society's shop is open _at Madrid_, though we are not allowed to advertise and though it be but a small taper burning amongst Egyptian darkness. I hope it will serve as a watch-light and beacon to some. I remain, etc., GEORGE BORROW. _P.S._--The reprint of 1.5 sheet was owing to want of care on my part, in the translation. I therefore wish that the amount be struck out from my disbursements. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 22, 1838) PRISON OF MADRID, _May_ [11], 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write, as you see, from the prison of Madrid, in which I have been confined for the last ten days; for it has pleased God to confer upon me the highest of mortal honours, the privilege of bearing chains for His sake. I shall not at present detail the circumstances which occasioned my arrest, as doubtless the English newspapers will afford you all the particulars, nor shall I dwell upon the situation in which I find myself, but be content with observing that the violence, the preconcerted violence and atrocity, which have been practised towards me, will prove the means of accomplishing not what my enemies hoped and wished, the destruction and disgrace of the Bible-cause in Spain, but its triumph, its pure and sublime triumph. Satan has, as usual, foiled himself, and his poisoned shafts have recoiled, and pierced his own bosom. You will have heard how gallantly Sir George Villiers has taken my part, and how he has made a national question of the persecution of which I have been the object, and which lately reached its climax. It will be necessary to tell you here that I have always communicated to him the steps which I intended to take in order to promote the circulation of the Bible, and they have uniformly met with his approbation; therefore you will easily conceive that in what I have done there has been no rashness nor anything which savoured of the arts of the charlatan: I have too much respect for the Gospel and my own character to have recourse to them. I will now state a fact which speaks volumes as to the state of affairs at Madrid. My arch-enemy the Archbishop of Toledo, the Primate of Spain, wishes to give me the kiss of brotherly peace. He has caused a message to be conveyed to me in my dungeon, assuring me that he has had no share in causing my imprisonment, which he says was the work of the Civil Governor, who was incited to that step by the Jesuits. He adds that he is determined to seek out my persecutors amongst the clergy and to have them punished, and that when I leave prison he shall be happy to co-operate with me in the dissemination of the Gospel!!! I cannot write much now, for I am not well, having been bled and blistered. I must, however, devote a few lines to another subject, but not one of rejoicing or Christian exultation. Marin arrived just after my arrest, and visited me in prison, and there favoured me with a scene of despair, abject despair, which nearly turned my brain. I despised the creature, God forgive me, but I pitied him; for he was without money and expected every moment to be seized like myself and incarcerated, and he is by no means anxious to be invested with the honours of martyrdom. I have offered him some relief--what else could I do? He seems partly insane. I reap, as I expected, the full credit of his conversion. The Bishop of Cordova got up the other day in council, and said that I was a dangerous pestilent person, who under the pretence of selling the Scriptures went about making converts, and moreover employed subordinates, for the purpose of deluding weak and silly people into separation from the Mother Church. Of this man I have said in a letter to Mr. Rule, not yet sent: 'I hope that Marin's history will prove a warning to many of our friends, and tend to a certain extent to sober down the desire for doing what is called at home _smart things_, many of which terminate in a manner very different from the original expectations of the parties concerned. To do a great and a good thing requires a heart replete with the love of Christ and a head cooled by experience and knowledge of the world; both of which desiderata I consider incompatible with a wish to shine.' It is probable that I shall leave prison to-morrow. Pray write to my mother and beg her not to be alarmed. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Yours faithfully, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 23, 1838) MADRID, May 13 [1838]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Post is just about to start, but I am compelled to write a few words. The Bible cause has triumphed in Spain. Whatever I do in future connected with the Gospel is to have the sanction of the Government, who have expressed a desire to co-operate with the Bible Society towards the civilization of the country. I left prison yesterday, and this morning was sent for to the British Embassy, where Sir George entered into an infinity of details which I cannot state at present. Sir George has commanded me, however, to write to the following effect:-- Mr. Graydon must leave Spain, or the Bible Society must publicly disavow that his proceedings receive their encouragement, unless they wish to see the Sacred Book, which it is their object to distribute, brought into universal odium and contempt. He has lately been to Malaga, and has there played precisely the same part which he acted last year at Valencia, with the addition that in printed writings he has insulted the Spanish Government in the most inexcusable manner. A formal complaint of his conduct has been sent up from Malaga, and a copy of one of his writings. Sir George blushed when he saw it, and informed Count Ofalia that any steps which might be taken towards punishing the author would receive no impediment from him. I shall not make any observation on this matter further than stating that I have never had any other opinion of Mr. Graydon than that he is insane--insane as the person who for the sake of warming his own hands would set a street on fire. Sir George said to-day that he, Graydon, was the cause of my harmless shop being closed at Madrid and also of my imprisonment. The Society will of course communicate with Sir George on the subject: I wash my hands of it. I remain, dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. May 28, 1838) MADRID, May 17, 1838. Excuse the haste in which my last letter was written; it doubtless seemed somewhat incoherent, I will now endeavour to be more explicit. Moreover, since sending it, I have had an interview of nearly two hours with Count Ofalia, and have much that is new to communicate. But previously to stating what is likely to afford pleasure and satisfaction, I must proceed to disburden myself of what I heard with the greatest pain, and which I communicate with sorrow and reluctance. Sir George Villiers and Mr. Southern, first Secretary of Legation, were the persons who first informed me of what has taken place at Malaga. It appears that Mr. Graydon arrived there a short time before my imprisonment at Madrid; and instead of endeavouring to circulate the Scriptures in a quiet and reasonable manner, such as becomes a gentleman and a Christian, and such as had been recommended to me previous to my late long journey in the north of Spain and which I have always endeavoured to follow, he had recourse to means the most improper and disreputable, very similar to those which he is said to have followed in all the other towns which he has visited. In order to excite curiosity and cause a sensation, he published advertisements and handbills replete with the lowest abuse of the Spanish clergy and Government, and containing his own private opinions concerning religion. However, not contented with this, he had the cruelty--I will not call it baseness--to speak of _myself_, with, whom he asserted that he was co-operating in every point, and that all he was doing was under the sanction of the Bible Society. Intelligence of these proceedings was of course sent to Madrid, with one of the handbills, which I have not seen, but of which Mr. Southern, a literary and accomplished gentleman, has said that its abusive virulence is only to be equalled by its stupidity and folly. Sir George Villiers, though very unwell, was deeply engaged in my affair, and exchanging official notes with the Government. He had just informed Count Ofalia that unless full and summary satisfaction were afforded me, he should demand his passports, and write to the commanders of all the English ships of war engaged in furnishing assistance to Spain, commanding them to suspend operations forthwith. Suddenly Count Ofalia arrived at the Embassy, and flinging down on the table one of Graydon's handbills, exclaimed: 'Peruse that, and then tell me, as a Cavalier and a gentleman, and the Envoy of a powerful and enlightened nation, whether you can any longer uphold the cause of your friend in prison, and persist in saying that he has been cruelly and unjustly treated. You see that he is in the closest connexion with an individual whose conduct every civilised man must reprobate, it being a most flagrant breach of common decency and order.' This unexpected incident occurring at such a critical moment almost stunned Sir George; but, recovering himself, he denied in the most positive manner that I had any connexion with Graydon, and asserted that he did not believe the latter was an Agent of the Bible Society, and that at all events he was quite sure that he had acted in this case without its knowledge and concurrence, and that it would be willing to declare so in the clearest and most satisfactory manner. Count Ofalia, finding Sir George so positive, said that since I had such a voucher he could not reasonably doubt my innocence; and that with respect to the Society he supposed that it too well understood its own interest to trust its affairs to a person whose conduct was calculated to bring odium and misfortune on the fairest and most promising cause. But Sir George has subsequently assured me that, but for this unfortunate occurrence, he could have made much better terms for me with the Spanish Government than from that period he thought it politic to demand. I will now state one circumstance, and the Lord knows how true it is. It was my prayer night and morning in my dungeon that I might hear of no fresh outbreak of this man, whose character I was but too well acquainted with, as I think you will concede when you call to mind my letter written immediately after I had received intelligence that he was on the way to Andalusia. He has up to the present moment been the 'Evil Genius' of the Bible cause in Spain and of myself, and has so chosen his means and moments of operation that he has been almost invariably successful in shaking to the ground every feasible plan which my friends and myself have devised for the propagation of the Gospel in a _steady and permanent manner_. But I wish not to dwell upon this subject, and shall only observe that his insane career (for in charity I believe him to be insane) must be instantly brought to a termination. Sir George has already written him a letter, in which I believe he advises him to quit the country. Mr. Southern the other day made the following observation, which I shall ever remember:-- 'Sir George Villiers up to the present moment has been disposed to render you (meaning myself) every assistance, and especially the Bible Society, which he looks upon as the most philanthropic institution which the world has ever known. Take care, however, that he be not wearied and disgusted. He must not be involved in such affairs as this of Malaga, and it must not be expected that he is to put his lance in rest in defence of every person who visits Spain to insult the authorities, and who, after having received merited reproof and correction, writes home to his friends that he is a martyr in the holy cause of religion.' I may perhaps give offence by what, I have written. I shall be grieved if it prove so. But I have had no other resource, and I have stated the truth and what my conscience commanded me; and permit me here to observe, that if any one in the world has a right to be thus free it is myself, who have ventured and suffered much in Spain. Excuse me now for speaking one moment of myself. Notwithstanding I have travelled very extensively in this strange country, and have established many depots of Testaments most of which are flourishing (I have just received intelligence from my correspondent at Valladolid that forty copies have been sold at Burgos, the heart of Old Castile), not one word of complaint has been transmitted to the Government; and though I have suffered so much persecution in Madrid, I have been but paying (one of my sources of information is Count Ofalia himself) the account of others who seem to have been reckless as to how much woe and misery they might heap on my head, provided they could play the part with impunity which their own distempered desires dictated. Now to pleasanter subjects. Count Ofalia has given me very excellent advice, which it will be well if the Society permit me to follow. Amongst other things he said:--'Be very cautious for some time, and even suspend the sale of the Gospel in Madrid, and devote all your energies to make friends amongst the clergy, very many of whom are disposed to favour your enterprise. It would not be prudent at present for the Government to interfere with ecclesiastical matters, as the war is not yet terminated, but much can be done in a quiet way by yourself.' I must here state that there is a board of ecclesiastics at present sitting, occupied in examining the Spanish Bible as printed by the Society. It has been denounced by the Jesuits as not being a faithful edition of Father Scio's version, independent of the omission of the Apocrypha; but hitherto the opinion of the board has been decidedly in our favour, and the Bishop of Vich has, moreover, declared that it probably will be expedient to co-operate with the Society in printing cheap editions of the Scripture for the use of the people, as daily experience shows that the old system cannot be carried on and that the sacred writings must be thrown open. The chief difficulty to settle will be the Apocrypha; but I have authorised a friend to state that the Society is disposed to make every possible concession, and to go so far as to relinquish the Old Testament entirely and to content itself with circulating the New. Perhaps I went too far in this advance; but I believe a similar concession has been made in the case of Ireland, and I feared to lose all by aiming at too much. However flattering affairs may appear at present, I am well aware that a herculean labour is to be surmounted before matters can be placed on a safe footing in Spain. Prudence, coolness and firmness are at this moment particularly necessary; and let it never for a moment be supposed that religious instruction and the knowledge of genuine Christianity can be introduced into Spain by scurrilous handbills and the low arts of the mountebank. A split with Rome will very shortly ensue, by which I mean that no attention will be paid to Bulls, against which several of the principal ecclesiastics have spoken; with these puissant auxiliaries we must act in concert. Allow me in conclusion to state a beautiful piece of conduct of Sir George Villiers. I have commissioned one of the Bishops to request for me an interview with the Archbishop of Toledo. Sir George on hearing this said:--'Tell the Archbishop that I also am anxious for the favour of an interview, in order that I may assist in clearing up any doubt, which he may still entertain, respecting the intentions of the Bible Society; he has only to state the day, and I will wait upon him.' G. BORROW. _P.S._--I yesterday transmitted you a Spanish newspaper in which I have published an advertisement, disclaiming in the name of the Bible Society any writings which may have been circulated tending to lower the authorities, civil and ecclesiastic, in the eyes of the people, and denying that it is its intention or wish to make proselytes from the Catholic form of worship. I took this step by advice, I had likewise a particular reason of _my own_. Marin is still here looking out for some secular employ, but he is continually haunting me. He tells me that he is preparing an accounts of all his dealings with G [Graydon] and R [Rule], in which he details the promises made him to induce him to sign a document purporting to be a separation from the Roman Church. He says that he was abandoned because he refused to preach publicly against the Chapter of Valencia, which step would have insured him a dungeon. This may be true or false, but I have taken my precautions. Translation of the Advertisement (_Endorsed_: recd. May 28, 1838) A rumour having been spread that some individuals, calling themselves agents of the British and Foreign Bible Society, under the pretext of circulating copies of the Holy Scriptures, have traversed several towns on the eastern and western coasts of Spain, and have published writings in which the respect due to the ecclesiastical and civil authorities of Spain has not been observed, but on the contrary an intention has evidently been manifested in them to disparage them in the eyes of the population of those parts, I hasten to make the following public Declaration: That such individuals--if it be certain that there are such--have in this respect acted upon their own responsibility, without permission and even in direct opposition to the intentions of the Bible Society, inasmuch as on the principles of the New Testament similar attempts are to be reprobated and regarded with horror, being in direct opposition to the express commands of the Saviour and His Apostles, who in their addresses and writings have on various occasions exhorted the faithful to shew respect and obedience to their masters and superiors, even when they were heretics or idolaters. And as it has been stated that certain persons, under pretext of being agents of the British and Foreign Bible Society, have shown zeal in persuading, and have actually in some cases persuaded, various individuals to sign documents purporting to be declarations of separation from the Catholic Faith--I herewith publicly declare that the British and Foreign Bible Society has no connection with such persons; and should there be any such, it is not disposed either to confirm or to approve their proceedings, but on the contrary is desirous of stating in the most energetic and solemn manner that it disavows and rejects all connexion or intercourse with them. The British and Foreign Bible Society is composed of individuals belonging to all sects, in which those are divided who follow the faith of Jesus Christ, amongst whom are seen co-operating for one grand and holy object, followers of the Apostles, Romans, and members of the Greek and [of the] English Church, whose design is the propagation of the word of Christ in all countries, separating wholly from the forms of discipline of the Church, [which are] matters of secondary consideration, which for a long time have filled the world with bloodshed and calamity, and have tended to keep up in the hearts of Christians unhappy and malignant feuds. Far from being desirous of making proselytes among those professing the Catholic worship, the Bible Society is at all times disposed to hold out the hand of Christian fraternity to the clergy of Spain and to co-operate with those who believe, as the Catholic clergy assuredly do, 'that all shall be saved, who, believing in Jesus Christ, show it by their good works.' Madrid _May_ 12, 1838, Office of the Bible Society, Calle del Principe. (Signed) GEORGE BORROW, Sole authorised Agent of the British and Foreign Bible Society in Spain. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 2, 1838) MADRID, [_May_ 23rd, 1838]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have just had an interview with the Archbishop [of Toledo]. It was satisfactory to a degree I had not dared to hope for. In the name of the _Most Highest_ take steps for preventing that miserable creature Graydon from ruining us all. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 4, 1838) MADRID, _May_ 25, 1838, CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Events follow each other so quickly in this singular country, and my situation is so peculiar, and I am afraid so little understood at home, that I am obliged to take up the pen more frequently than I am inclined. Do not think me intrusive in again troubling you. I do it in the hope of preventing any alarm which an incorrect report of the following circumstance might cause you. Immediately on receiving intelligence of the scenes which had taken place at Malaga, the Spanish Government resolved to put an end to all Bible transactions in Spain, and forthwith gave orders for the seizure of all the Bibles and Testaments in the country wherever they might be deposited or exposed for sale. They notified the same to Sir George Villiers, expressly stating that the resolution was taken in consequence of the, '_Ocurrido en Malaga_.' I have now learnt that several of my depots have been seized in various parts of Spain, for example, at Salamanca, Seville, and of course at Malaga. This, however, gives me little uneasiness, for, with the blessing of God, I shall be able to repair all, always provided I am allowed to follow my own plans, and to avail myself of the advantages which have lately been opened especially to cultivate the kind feeling lately manifested towards me by the principal Spanish clergy. But now prompt measures must be taken on the part of the Bible Society. Knowing as I do the character of the unfortunate man who has lately caused so much havoc, I am apprehensive that he may be guilty of some fresh excess. From Mr. Rule's letter, which I forwarded to you, it appears that for some time it has been his intention to quit Spain, but not quietly, witness this last affair of Malaga. Now my fear is that on his return to Barcelona, on finding that the books and Bibles intrusted to his discretion have been seized, he will publish as a parting legacy some tirade against the Government and clergy. If he do, he will probably bring himself into trouble and at all events destruction on our cause; for the Government is quite despotic, as indeed is necessary at the present time, and the whole of Spain is under martial law. Therefore for his own sake, if not for the sake of the cause, let him instantly retire, abandoning the Bibles to their fate. They shall not be lost. I have had, as you are aware, an interview with the Archbishop of Toledo. I have not time to state particulars, but he said amongst other things, 'Be prudent, the Government are disposed to arrange matters amicably, and I am disposed to co-operate with them.' At parting he shook me most kindly by the hand, saying that he liked me. Sir George intends to visit him in a few days. He is an old, venerable-looking man, between seventy and eighty. When I saw him, he was dressed with the utmost simplicity, with the exception of a most splendid amethyst ring, the lustre of which was truly dazzling. My poor servant, a Basque from Hernani, is, I am afraid, dying of the jail-fever, which he caught in prison whilst attending me. He has communicated this horrible disorder to two other persons. Poor Marin is also very ill, but I believe with a broken heart; I administer to his needs as far as prudence will allow me, for I am grieved for him. I have not yet despatched my letter to Mr. Rule, as I wish not to offend him; but I cannot approve of his forcing Marin to come up to Madrid, contrary to his wishes. Zeal is a precious thing, when accompanied with one grain of common sense. In conclusion, I beg leave to say that Sir George Villiers has authorised me to state that provided the Bible Society entertain any doubts respecting my zeal in the Christian cause, or the correctness of my conduct during my sojourn in Spain, he hopes they will do him the satisfaction to communicate with him. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 23, 1838) _June_ 13, 1838, MADRID, No. 16 CALLE ST. IAGO, REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have received your letter of June 1st, but not that of the 30th May which you allude to in the same, therefore I am still in the dark upon many points. Another bitter cup has been filled for my swallowing. The Bible Society and myself have been accused of blasphemy, sedition, etc. A collection of tracts has been seized in Murcia, in which the Catholic religion and its dogmas are handled with the most abusive severity; these books have been sworn to as having been left _by the Committee of the Bible Society whilst in that town_, and Count Ofalia has been called upon to sign an order for my arrest and banishment from Spain. Sir George, however, advises me to remain quiet and not to be alarmed; as he will answer for my innocence. I am now compelled to ask a blunt question. Will the Bible Society look calmly on and see itself compromised and my life and liberty exposed to danger by the lunatic vagaries of that unfortunate Graydon, who, like a swine in a field newly sown, has of late been solely occupied in rooting up the precious seed and destroying every hope of a glorious harvest? The newspapers are teeming with articles against us, for we are no longer looked upon as a Society founded on the broad principles of Christianity, but as one instituted for the carrying into effect of sectarian purposes. In justice to me, it behoves the Society to communicate with Sir George Villiers, who has abstracts of all the letters which I have written to the Society, and who will vouch for their correctness. Do not be cast down; all will go well if the stumbling block be removed. I write in haste. G. BORROW. P.S.--What do you mean, my dear Sir, by the '_grano salis_'? To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. June 25, 1838) MADRID, _June_ 14, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Immediately after having despatched my letter of yesterday, I received through my friend, Mr. Wood, a communication from the Bishop of ---, the president of the body of ecclesiastics at present engaged in examining our Bible. He is of my opinion that the Committee of the Bible Society should in the present exigency draw up an exposition of their views respecting Spain, stating what they are prepared to do, and what they are not prepared to do--above all, whether in seeking to circulate the Gospel in this country they harbour any projects hostile to the Government and the established religion; moreover, whether the late distribution of tracts was done by their connivance or authority, and whether they are disposed to sanction in future the publication in Spain of such a class of writings. It of course does not become me to advise the Committee and yourself upon this point. I merely take the liberty of communicating the circumstance, and observing that the Prelate in question is a most learned and respectable man, and one of the warmest of our friends. I have not seen any of the tracts seized at Murcia, nor do I wish. If examined by the Council, I shall declare on oath that I am innocent and ignorant of the matter, and that I believe the Bible Society to be the same. Sir George assured me that one or two of them were outrages not only to common sense but decency. I forgot to tell you yesterday that my poor servant is dead. He died of the pestilential typhus caught in the prison; his body at the period of his death was a frightful mass of putridity, and was in consequence obliged to be instantly shovelled into the Campo Santo or common field of the dead near Madrid. May Christ be his stay at the Great Day; a more affectionate creature never breathed. Hear now what the _Madrid Gazette_ says of our Society, in an article in which it reproves in the strongest terms the conduct lately pursued by pseudo-agents, and gives me a rap on the knuckles for an anti-catholic expression or two in the advertisement in which I denounced them. The _Gazette_ is the official organ of the Government, and all it says is under authority:-- 'We will not conclude this article without bestowing the merited tribute of praise on the project truly magnificent of the Bible Society, considered not under the religious but the social aspect. Christianity has been, is, and will be the grand agent in the civilisation of the world; and the preaching of its doctrine, and the propagation of its maxims among the nations who know it not, is the most costly present which can be offered them, and the pledge of belonging one day to the civilised world; or if they already belong to it, of ameliorating their actual condition in society. 'Excellent moral results must also be produced among the poorer classes of the people in Christian countries by the distribution of copies of the sacred writings; and the Bible Society acts with the highest prudence, by accommodating itself to the civil and ecclesiastic laws of each country, and by adopting the editions there current. In Spain, where every translation of the Bible is forbidden, and in general every book of religion, without previous censure and license of the ecclesiastical authority, much good may arise from distributing either of the two translations, that of Father Scio or that of Amat; but precisely as they are, and without the suppression of the notes, which explain some difficult passages. If the great object be the propagation of the evangelic maxims, the notes are no obstacle, and by preserving them we fulfil our religious principle of not permitting to private reason the interpretation of the sacred Word.' Excuse me this long extract. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, G. BORROW. _P.S._--I should wish to make another Biblical tour this summer, until the storm be blown over. Should I undertake such an expedition, I should avoid the towns and devote myself entirely to the peasantry. I have sometimes thought of visiting the villages of the Alpujarra mountains in Andalusia, where the people live quite secluded from the world. What do you think of my project? To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. 27th June, 1838) MADRID, _June_ 16, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have received your communication of the 30th ult., containing the resolutions of the Committee, to which I shall of course attend. Of your letter in general, permit me to state that I reverence the spirit in which it is written, and am perfectly disposed to admit the correctness of the views which it exhibits. [Greek text]. But it appears to me that in one or two instances I have been misunderstood in the letters which I have addressed [to you] on the subject of Graydon. I bear this unfortunate gentleman no ill will, God forbid, and it will give me pain if he were reprimanded publicly or privately; moreover I can see no utility likely to accrue from such a proceeding. All that I have stated hitherto is the damage which he has done in Spain to the cause and myself, by the--what shall I call it?--imprudence of his conduct; and the idea which I have endeavoured to inculcate is the absolute necessity of his leaving Spain instantly. Take now in good part what I am about to say, and O! do not misunderstand me! I owe a great deal to the Bible Society, and the Bible Society owes nothing to me. I am well aware and am always disposed to admit that it can find thousands more zealous, more active, and in every respect more adapted to transact its affairs and watch over its interests. Yet with this consciousness of my own inutility I must be permitted to state that linked to a man like Graydon I can no longer consent to be, and that if the Society expect such a thing, I must take the liberty of retiring, perhaps to the wilds of Tartary or the Zigani camps of Siberia. My name at present is become public property--no very enviable distinction in these unhappy times, and neither wished nor sought by myself. I have of late been subjected to circumstances which have rendered me obnoxious to the hatred of those who never forgive, the bloody Church of Rome, which I have doubt will sooner or later find means to accomplish my ruin; for no one is better aware than myself of its fearful resources, whether in England or Spain, in Italy or in any other part. I should not be now in this situation, had I been permitted to act alone. How much more would have been accomplished, it does not become me to guess. I had as many or more difficulties to surmount in Russia than I originally had here, yet all that the Society expected or desired was effected without stir or noise, and that in the teeth of an imperial _Ukase_ which forbade the work which I was employed to superintend. Concerning my late affair, I must here state that I was sent to prison on a charge which was subsequently acknowledged not only to be false but ridiculous. I was accused of uttering words disrespectful towards the _Gefe Politico_ of Madrid; my accuser was an officer of the police who entered my apartment one morning before I was dressed, and commenced searching my papers and flinging my books into disorder. Happily, however, the people of the house who were listening at the door heard all that passed, and declared on oath that, so far from mentioning the _Gefe Politico_, I merely told the officer that he, the officer, was an insolent fellow and that I would cause him to be punished. He subsequently confessed that he was an instrument of the Vicar General and that he merely came to my apartment in order to obtain a pretence for making a complaint. He has been dismissed from his situation, and the Queen has expressed her sorrow at my imprisonment. If there be any doubt entertained on the matter, pray let Sir George Villiers be written to! I should be happy to hear what success attends our efforts in China. I hope a prudent conduct has been adopted; for think not that a strange and loud language will find favour in the eyes of the Chinese; and above all, I hope that we have not got into war with the Augustines and their followers, who, if properly managed, may be of incalculable service in propagating the Scriptures. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, truly yours, G. BORROW. _P.S._--The documents, or some of them, shall be sent as soon as possible. To the Rev. A. Brandram (Endorsed: recd. July 5, 1838) MADRID, _June_ 26, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I shall not be able to send the documents in question, as they are lodged in the archives, and are now become state-papers. Those that relate to the affair at Malaga I have not yet been able to obtain a perusal of; it will therefore perhaps suffice for the present to say that in one of them the Government was stigmatized as being '_voraz de pesetas_' (voracious of pesetas), and the Catholic religion termed '_un sistema del mas grosero fanatismo_' (a system of the grossest fanaticism). It was well for the writer of this trash that the Government were at the time alarmed at the step which they had taken in imprisoning myself, and did not wish to press the matter home: otherwise he could not have escaped so easily as he did. Yet what must we think of an Englishman, who, relying for protection on the fear and respect which the mighty country to which he belongs everywhere inspires, visits a Spanish town in a state of revolution--as Malaga was--and, for the bringing about a particular object, adds to the ferment by appealing to already excited passions? But I shall not dwell further on this subject. The Society are already aware of the results of the visit of our friend to Malaga, all their Bibles and Testaments having been seized throughout Spain, with the exception of my stock in Madrid (upwards of 3000)--Count Ofalia having in a communication to Sir George declared that he had full confidence in my honour and good faith, being well persuaded that I harboured no designs but those I professed. I send you on the other side some extracts from one of the tracts which purports to be 'A true history of the Virgin of Sorrows, to whom Don Carlos, the Rebel and Fanatic, has dedicated his cause, and the ignorance which he trumpets.' The one, however, which has given most offence is 'A Catechism on the Principal Controversies between Protestants and Catholics,' translated from the English. I now await your orders. I wish to know whether I am at liberty to pursue the course which may seem to me best under existing circumstances, and which at present appears to be to mount my horses which are neighing in the stable, and once more to betake myself to the plains and mountains of dusty Spain, and to dispose of my Testaments to the muleteers and peasants. By doing so I shall employ myself usefully, and at the same time avoid giving offence. Better days will soon arrive, which will enable me to return to Madrid and reopen my shop; till then, however, I should wish to pursue my labours in comparative obscurity. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. _P.S._--I am engaged in translating the Acts of the Apostles into Basque. _On the fly-leaf of this letter appear the following extracts_. Historia Verdadera de la Virjen Dolorosa a Quien el rebelde y fanatico D. Carlos Ha Dedicado su causa y la ignorancia que Pregona. EXTRACTOS P. 17. 'Echase de ver en todos estos epitetos grandiosos prodigados a Maria la obra del enemigo de Dios, el cual, ensencialmente idolatra, ha sabido introducir la idolatria bajo las apariencias del Cristianismo, y se esfuerza en desviar sobre una criatura, y hasta en la imagen de esta, la adoracion que se debe a Dios tan solo. Sin duda que con igual objeto se colocan por todas partes las estatuas de Maria, adornadas con una corona, y llevando en brazos un tierno infante, como para acostumbrar al pueblo al concepto entranable de [la superi] oridad de Maria sobre Jesus.' P. 30. 'Tal es nuestra conclusion. Reconociendo y sancionando este culto, la Iglesia de Roma se constituye iglesia _idolatra_, y todos sus miembros que no saben buscar la verdad detras del monstruos-o hacinamiento de impiedad con que la oculta, son supuestos por la misma condenados a la perdicion. El caudillo de esta Iglesia, que no se averguenza de prohibir y hacer que se prohiba, por donde quiera alcanza su ferula, la palabra de Dios, debiera saber cuando menos, se atesorase el espiritu de Cristo, que mejor empleara sus bulas barriendo la Iglesia Romana de todas sus iniquidades, que no promulgando tan injustas prohibiciones. Pero ya que, afferrandose contra mejora, esta iglesia proteje y consagra por todas partes un sinnumero de supersticiones y cultos erroneos, claro esta que con esto se alza y caracteriza como uno de los principales ajentes del Anticristo.' To Mr. W. Hitchin (_Endorsed_: recd. July 20, 1838) MADRID, _July_ 9, 1838. On the other side I beg leave to present my account. One or two items require some explanation. 1st, Mr. Borrego's bill of 3084 _reals_, of which 1760 are for the printing of the Basque Gospel, the remainder is for advertisements, boxes, package and freight of books to various parts of Spain, namely, to Valencia, Malaga, Santander, Corunna, etc. The original bill I shall forward as soon as it has been signed and vouched for by Messrs. O'Shea, who paid the money. 2nd, As to prison expenses, I must observe that the Government after placing me at liberty offered to indemnify me for all the expense I had incurred in prison, but I refused to accept their offer; should, however, the Committee think that I ought to have done so, they will deduct the amount. 3rd, 60 _reals_ for porterage; on receiving intelligence that my depots had been seized in various parts of the country, I thought it advisable to place my stock in Madrid in safety, and in consequence under cover of night removed it from the shop, and concealed it in portions in the houses of various friends. In conclusion, I must beg that you will collate my present account with my last, as I am apprehensive that I may have charged the same outlay twice; the copy of my last account was lost when my papers were seized. I make an excursion to-morrow to the rural districts of New Castile, which will probably occupy a fortnight. I have sent before me two hundred Testaments. I remain, etc., G. BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 28, 1838) VILLA SECA, DISTRICT OF TOLEDO, _July_ 14, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write these lines from Villa Seca, a village situated on the bank of the Tagus about nine leagues from Madrid. A few minutes before my departure I received your letter of the 29th June, in which you mention letters being on the way for me. I, however, could not wait for them for many reasons, principally because in that event I should have lost a considerable number of Testaments, which I had sent before me. I am moreover tolerably well acquainted with the contents [of] those communications from the one which I have already received. For some time past I have been determined at whatever risk to make an effort to circulate the Scriptures in the rural districts of New Castile, where I am grieved to say the most profound ignorance of true religion prevails. I have been induced to take up my quarters for the present in Villa Seca, from being well acquainted with a labourer of the place; moreover its situation is favourable to my views as there are many other villages in its vicinity. Poverty it is true abounds, but I am perfectly sure that our friends at home are disposed to make every reasonable sacrifice, and not for a moment to balance the dust of Mammon against the eternal welfare of their fellow-creatures. For the last two days I have been riding in various directions. It is a great blessing that heat agrees with me wonderfully, as we have no less than thirty-six degrees according to Reaumur; otherwise it would be impossible for me to accomplish anything, the atmosphere resembling the flickering glow about the mouth of an oven. I have already disposed of about thirty Testaments, of course at exceedingly low prices. To-day, however, I have commenced a new course, and have sent abroad various peasants with some parcels of Testaments; my host, whom it has pleased the Lord to render favourable to the cause, has himself taken the field, and has proceeded to the neighbouring village of Vargas mounted on his donkey. If success do not attend my efforts, the Lord knows that it will be no fault of mine. It will be the working of His own holy will. I had scarcely written the above lines when I heard the voice of the donkey in the court-yard, and going out I found my host returned. He had disposed of his whole cargo of twenty Testaments at the old Moorish village of Vargas, distant from hence about two leagues, and all in the space of about half an hour. Eight poor harvest-men, who were refreshing themselves at the door of the wine-house, purchased each a copy; whilst the village schoolmaster took all the rest for the little ones beneath his care, lamenting at the same time the great difficulty he had long experienced in obtaining religious books, owing to their scarcity and extravagant price. Many other persons were also anxious to procure Testaments, but my envoy (Juanito Lopez) was unable to supply them. At his departure they requested him to return within a few days. I will not conceal from you that I am playing a daring game, and it is very possible that when I least expect it I may be seized, tied to the tail of a mule, and dragged either to the prison of Toledo or Madrid. Yet such a prospect does not discourage me in the least, but rather urges me on to persevere; for I assure you--and in this assertion there lurks not the slightest desire to magnify myself and produce an effect--that I am eager to lay down my life in this cause, and whether a Carlist's bullet or the jail-fever bring my career to an end, I am perfectly indifferent. But I have other matters now to speak of. You hint that a desire is entertained at home to have a personal conference with me. In the name of the Highest I entreat you all to banish such a preposterous idea. A journey home (provided you intend that I should return to Spain) could lead to no result but expense and the loss of precious time. I have nothing to explain to you which you are not already perfectly well acquainted with by my late letters. I was fully aware at the time I was writing them that I should afford you little satisfaction, for the plain unvarnished truth is seldom agreeable. But I now repeat, and these are perhaps among the last words which I shall ever be permitted to pen, that I cannot approve, and I am sure no Christian can, of the system which has lately been pursued in the large sea-port cities of Spain, and which the Bible Society has been supposed to sanction, notwithstanding the most unreflecting person could easily foresee that such a line of conduct could produce nothing in the end but obloquy and misfortune. It was unkind and unjust to taunt me with having been unsuccessful in distributing the Scriptures. Allow me to state that no other person under the same circumstances would have distributed the tenth part. Yet had I been utterly unsuccessful, it would have been wrong to check me with being so, after all I have undergone--and with how little of that are you acquainted. You are perfectly correct in concluding that certain persons are laughing in their sleeve. But at what? At the success of their own machinations? Not at all! They are laughing at the inconceivable fatuity which induces those whom _they once dreaded_ to destroy themselves and their own labours. The stone with immense toil is rolled up to the brow of the mountain, when they see it recoil, not at the touch of Jupiter but at the impulse of the insane Sisyphus, who pulls it down on his own body. With common sense and prudence very much might have been accomplished in Spain, and still may. I am sorry to say that hitherto very little of [that] has been used. You are surprised that I should presume to hint that I have been linked to G. [Graydon], but at the same time admit that my identification with him by my enemies has been unavoidable. Now in the name of all that is reasonable, to what does such an admission amount but that I have been linked to this man, and it matters very little whether or not I have been brought into personal contact with him. But now farewell to him: and in taking leave of this subject, I will add that the unfortunate M. [Marin] is dying of a galloping consumption, brought on by distress of mind. All the medicine in the world would not accomplish his cure. With God's permission I will write again in a few days and till then, I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, most truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 30, 1838) VILLA SECA, NEW CASTILLE, 17 _July_ 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I addressed a letter to you on the 14th instant, which I hope you will receive in course of time, together with the present; in that letter I informed you where I was, stating my proceedings and intentions. It has pleased the Lord to permit me to be hitherto very successful in these regions, so much so that during less than a week I have disposed of the entire stock of Testaments which I brought with me, namely two hundred; only three or four remain, which are already bespoken. Last night I sent off a messenger to Madrid for a fresh supply, which I expect will arrive in a day or two. I must here observe that up to the present moment I have endeavoured as much as possible to avoid noise, and notoriety. Advertisements and handbills I have utterly eschewed. I brought none with me, and in these rural places, the name of a printing press is unknown; nor have I much endeavoured to work upon the mind of the simple peasantry around me by words. I merely tell them that I bring them the words and life of the Saviour and His saints at a price adapted to their humble means. Nevertheless the news of the arrival of the book of life is spreading like wild-fire through the villages of the Sagra of Toledo, and wherever my people and myself direct our course we find the inhabitants disposed to receive our merchandise; it is even called for where not exhibited. Last night as I was bathing myself and [my] horse in the Tagus, a knot of people gathered on the bank crying: 'Come out of the water, Englishman, and give us books; we have got our money in our hands.' The poor creatures then held out their hands filled with _cuartos_, a copper coin of the value of a farthing, but I had unfortunately no Testament to afford them. My servant, however, who was at a short distance, having exhibited one, it was instantly torn from his hands by the people, and a scuffle ensued to obtain possession of it. It has very frequently occurred that the poor labourers in the neighbourhood, being eager to obtain Testaments and having no money to offer us in exchange, have brought various other articles to our cottage as equivalents--for example, rabbits, fruit and barley; and I have made a point never to disappoint them, as such articles are of utility either for our own consumption or that of the horses. In Villa Seca there is a school in which fifty-seven children are taught the first rudiments of education. Yesterday morning the schoolmaster, a tall slim figure of about sixty, bearing on his head one of the peaked hats of Andalusia and wrapped notwithstanding the excessive heat of the weather in a long cloak, made his appearance, and having seated himself requested to be shown one of our books. Having delivered it to him, he remained examining it for nearly half an hour without uttering a word. At last he laid it down with a sigh and said that he should be very happy to purchase some of these books for his school, but from their appearance, especially from the quality of the paper and binding, he was apprehensive that to pay for them would exceed the means of the parents of his pupils, as they were almost destitute of money, being poor labourers. He then commenced blaming the Government, which, he said, established schools without affording the necessary books, adding that in his school there were but two books for the use of all his pupils, and these he confessed contained but little good. I asked him what he considered the Testaments were worth. He said, '_Senor Cavalier_, to speak frankly I have in other times paid twelve _reals_ for books inferior to yours in every respect, but I assure you that my poor pupils would be utterly unable to pay the half of that price.' I replied, 'I will sell you as many as you please for three _reals_ each; I am acquainted with the poverty of the land, and my friends and myself in affording the people the means of spiritual instruction have no wish to curtail their scanty bread.' He replied: '_Benedito seo Dios_' ('blessed be God'), and could scarcely believe his ears. He instantly purchased a dozen, expending therein, as he said, all the money he possessed with the exception of a few _cuartos_. The introduction of the reading of the Word of God into the country schools of Spain is therefore now begun, and I humbly hope that it will prove one of those events which the Bible Society after the lapse of years will have most reason to remember with joy and gratitude to the Almighty. An old peasant is at present reading in the portico. Eighty-four years have passed over his head, and he is almost entirely deaf; nevertheless he is reading aloud the second [chapter] of Matthew. Three days since he bespoke a Testament, but not being able to raise the money he has not redeemed it until the present moment; he has just brought thirty farthings. As I survey the silvery hair which overshadows his sun-burnt countenance, the words of the song occur to me: 'Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace, according to Thy word: for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation.' I will now conclude these anecdotes with one not divested of singularity. Over a branch of the Tagus by the bridge Azeca there is a large water-mill. I have formed an acquaintance with the tenant of this mill, who is known in the neighbourhood by the name of Don Antero. Two days ago, taking me into a retired place, he asked me to my great astonishment if I would sell him a thousand Testaments at the price at which I was disposing of them to the peasantry, saying that if I would consent he would pay me immediately; in fact he put his hand into his pocket, and pulled it out filled with gold ounces. I asked him what was the reason for his wish to make so considerable a purchase. Whereupon he informed me that he had a relation in Toledo whom he wished to establish, and that he was of opinion that he could do no better than take a shop there and furnish it with Testaments. I told him that he must think of nothing of the kind, as probably the books would be seized on the first attempt to introduce them into Toledo, as the priests and canons were much averse to their distribution. He was, however, not disconcerted, and said his relation could travel, as I myself was doing, to dispose of them to the peasants with profit to himself. I confess I was disposed at first to accept his offer, but at length declined it, as I did not wish to expose a poor man to the risk of losing money, goods, and perhaps liberty and life. I was likewise averse to the books being offered to the peasantry at an advanced price, being aware that they could not afford it; and the books, by such an attempt would lose a considerable part of that _prestijio_ (I know no English word to express my meaning) which they now enjoy. Their cheapness strikes the minds of the people with wonder, and they consider it almost as much in the light of a miracle as the Jews [did the] manna which dropped from heaven at the time they were famishing, or the spring which suddenly gushed from the flinty rock to assuage their thirst in the wilderness. The following is a list of the villages of the Sagra; or champaign country of Toledo, already supplied with Testaments. It will perhaps be expedient to print this list in the 'Extracts.' Vargas Mocejon Villa Seca Cobeja Villaluenga Yuncler. In about a week I shall depart from hence and proceed to another district, as it would not be prudent to make a long sojourn in any particular district under existing circumstances. It is my intention to cross the country to Aranjuez, and endeavour to supply with the Word the villages on the frontier of La Mancha. Write to me as soon as possible, always directing to my lodgings in Madrid. I wish to know the lowest price at which I am at liberty to dispose of Testaments, and conclude with hoping that what I have narrated will meet the approbation of you ALL. (UNSIGNED.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 2nd, 1838) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO, _July_ 23, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--As, I was about to leave Villa Seca for Aranjuez I received your letters of the 3rd and 7th inst., on the perusal of which I instantly returned to Madrid instead of pursuing my intended route. My answer will be very brief, as I am afraid of giving way to my feelings; I hope, however, that it will be to the purpose. It is broadly hinted in yours of the 7th that I have made false statements in asserting that the Government, in consequence of what has lately taken place, had come to a resolution of seizing the Bible depots in various parts of this country. In reply, I beg leave to inform you that by the first courier you will receive from the British Legation at Madrid the official notice from Count Ofalia to Sir George Villiers of the seizures already made, and the motives which induced the Government to have recourse to such a measure. The following seizures have already been made, though some have not as yet been officially announced: The Society's books at Oviedo, Pontevedra, Salamanca, Santiago, Seville, and Valladolid. It appears from your letters that the depots in the south of Spain have escaped. I am glad of it, although it be at my own expense. I see the hand of the Lord throughout the late transactions. He is chastening me. It is His pleasure that the guilty escape and the innocent be punished. The Government give orders to seize the Bible depots throughout the country on account of the late scenes at Malaga and Valencia. I have never been there, yet only _my_ depots are meddled with, as it appears! The Lord's will be done, blessed be the name of the Lord! I will write again to-morrow. I shall have then arranged my thoughts, and determined on the conduct which it becomes a Christian to pursue under these circumstances. Permit me in conclusion to ask you: Have you not to a certain extent been partial in this matter? Have you not, in the apprehension of being compelled to blame the conduct of one, who has caused me unutterable anxiety, misery, and persecution, and who has been the bane of the Bible cause in Spain, refused to receive the information which it was in your power to command? I called on the Committee and yourself, from the first, to apply to Sir George Villiers; no one is so well versed in what has lately been going on as himself. But no. It was God's will that I, who have risked all and lost almost all in the cause, be taunted, suspected, and the sweat of agony and tears which I have poured out be estimated at the value of the water of the ditch or the moisture which exudes from rotten dung. But I murmur not, and hope I shall at all times be willing to bow to the dispensations of the Almighty. Sir George Villiers has returned to England for a short period; you have therefore the opportunity of consulting him. I _will not_ leave Spain until the whole affair has been thoroughly sifted. I shall then perhaps appear and bid you an eternal farewell. Four hundred Testaments have been disposed of in the Sagra of Toledo. (UNSIGNED.) _P.S._--I am just returned from the Embassy, where I have had a long interview with that admirable person, Lord Wm. Hervey. He has requested me to write him a letter on the point in question, which with the official documents he intends to send to the Secretary of State in order to be laid before the Bible Society. He has put into my hands the last communication from Ofalia. It relates to the seizure of _my_ depots at Malaga, Pontevedra, etc. I have not opened it, but send it for your perusal. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 14th, 1838) No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO, MADRID, _August_ 3, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Since writing to you last I have been at some distance from Madrid. Indeed my affairs at the time were in such a condition and so much depended upon my personal superintendence, that I was obliged to depart almost immediately after dispatching my answers to your two last. I am now returned principally on account of a rather unfortunate accident which occurred on the frontier of La Mancha, the particulars of which I shall give you presently. I shall, however, only tarry sufficient time to rest the horses and again go forth, for I am but too well aware that no time must now be lost, my enemies being numerous and watchful. On leaving Madrid I proceeded in the direction of Aranjuez, selling from twenty to forty copies in every village that lay in the way or near it; my intention was to penetrate deep into La Mancha, and in that view I had forwarded a large supply of books to Aranjuez. Having arrived there I made a sojourn of three days, during which time, myself, [my] servant and Juan Lopez, of whom I have previously spoken to you, visited every house in the town. We found a vast deal of poverty and ignorance amongst the inhabitants, and experienced some opposition; nevertheless it pleased the Almighty to permit us to dispose of about eighty Testaments, which were purchased entirely by the very poor people, those in easier circumstances paying no attention to the Word of God, but rather turning it to scoff and ridicule. One circumstance was very gratifying and cheering to me, namely, the ocular proof which I possessed that the books which I disposed of were read, and with attention, by those to whom I disposed of them, and that many others participated in their benefit. In the streets of Aranjuez and beneath the mighty cedars and gigantic elms and plantains which compose its noble woods, I have frequently seen groups assembled, listening to individuals who, with the New Testament in their hands, were reading aloud the comfortable words of salvation. It is probable that had I remained a longer period in Aranjuez I might have sold many more of our divine books, but I was eager to gain La Mancha and its sandy plains, and to conceal myself for a season amongst its solitary villages; for I was apprehensive that a storm was gathering around me. But when once through Ocana, the frontier town, I knew well that I should have nothing to fear from the Spanish authorities as their power ceased there, the rest of La Mancha being almost entirely in the hands of the Carlists, and overrun by small parties of banditti, from whom however I trusted that the Lord would preserve me. I therefore departed for Ocana, situate about three leagues from Aranjuez. I started with my servant about six in the evening, having early in the morning sent forward Lopez with between two and three hundred Testaments. We left the high road and proceeded by a shorter way, through wild hills and over very broken and precipitous ground. Being well-mounted we found ourselves just after sunset opposite Ocana, which stands on a steep hill. A deep valley lay between us and the town; we descended and came to a small bridge which traverses a rivulet at the bottom of the valley, at a very small distance from a kind of suburb; we crossed the bridge, and were passing by a deserted house on our left hand when a man appeared from under the porch. What I am about to state will seem incomprehensible to you, but a singular history and a singular people are connected with it. The man placed himself before my horse so as to bar the way, and said _Schophon_, which in the Hebrew tongue signifies a rabbit. I knew this word to be one of the Jewish countersigns, and asked the man if he had anything to communicate. He said: 'You must not enter the town, for a net is prepared for you. The _Corregidor_ of Toledo, on whom may all evil light, in order to give pleasure to the priests of Maria, in whose face I spit, has ordered all the _Alcaldes_ of these parts and the _Escribanos_ and the _Corchetes_ to lay hands on you wherever they may find you, and to send you and your books and all that pertains to you to Toledo. Your servant was seized this morning in the town above as he was selling the writings in the streets, and they are now awaiting your arrival in the _posada_; but I knew you from the accounts of my brethren, and have been waiting here four hours to give you warning, in order that your horse may turn his tail to your enemies and neigh in derision of them. Fear nothing for your servant, for he is known to the _Alcalde_ and will be set at liberty, but do you flee, and may God attend you.' Having said this, he hurried towards the town. I hesitated not a moment to take his advice, knowing full well that, as my books had been taken possession of, I could do no more in that direction. We turned back, in the direction of Aranjuez, the horses notwithstanding the nature of the ground galloping at full speed, and like the true Moorish breed bearing their tails erect and stiff; but our adventures were not over. About mid-way, and about half a league from the small village of Antigola, we saw close to us on our left hand three men on a low bank. As far as the darkness would permit us to distinguish they were naked, but each bore in his hand a long gun; these were _rateros_, or the common assassins and robbers of the roads. We halted, and cried out 'Who goes there?' They, replied, 'What's that to you? Pass by.' Their drift was to fire at us from a position from which it would be impossible to miss. We shouted: 'If you do not instantly pass to the right side of the road, we will tread you down beneath the horses' hoofs.' They hesitated, and then obeyed, for all Spanish assassins are dastards, and the least show of resolution daunts them. As we galloped past, one cried with an obscene oath, '_Tiraremos_' ('fire') but another said, '_No_! _hay peligro_' ['there's danger']. We reached Aranjuez, where early next morning Lopez rejoined us, and we returned to Madrid. I am sorry to state that two hundred Testaments were seized at Ocana, where they were sealed and despatched to Toledo. Lopez informed me that in two hours he could have sold them all, the demand was so great; as it was, twenty-seven were sold in less than ten minutes. He is just departed on another expedition, and I am about to follow, for with God's leave I will fight it out to the last. I enclose you a list of all the towns and villages hitherto visited. I have nothing more to say for the present, but that you may make what use you please of this letter. Such is my life in Spain. (UNSIGNED.) _Pueblos_. Villa Seca. Azana. Mocejon. Ylleicas. Magan. Forrejon. Oliar. Parla. Vargas. Pinto. Villaluenga. Baldemoro. Yuncler. Zetafe. Alameda. Leganez. Anober. Aranjuez. Cobena. Ocana. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 12, 1838) [LABAJOS, PROVINCE OF SEGOVIA, _Aug._ 23_rd_, 1838.] REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Lord William Hervey was perfectly satisfied with my conduct in the affair stated on the other side, and so was Count Ofalia, who expressed his regret that circumstances had compelled her Majesty's Government to take those steps against the circulation of the Scriptures with which you are already acquainted. G. B. Copy of Letter to the Right Hon. Lord William Hervey LABAJOS, PROVINCE OF SEGOVIA, _August_ 23rd, 1838. MY LORD,--I beg leave to call your attention to the following facts. On the 21st instant I received information that a person in my employ of the name of Juan Lopez had been thrown into the prison of Villallos, in the province of Avila, by order of the _Cura_ of that place. The crime with which he was charged was selling the New Testament. At the time I alluded to, I was at Labajos, in the province of Segovia, and the division of the factious chieftain Balmaseda was in the immediate neighbourhood. On the 22nd, I mounted my horse and rode to Villallos, a distance of three leagues. On my arrival there, I found that Lopez had been removed from the prison to a private house. An order had arrived from the _Corregidor_ of Avila, commanding that the person of Lopez should be placed in full and perfect liberty and that the books which had been found in his possession should be alone detained. Nevertheless, in direct opposition to this order, a copy of which I herewith transmit, the _Alcalde_ of Villallos, at the instigation of the _Cura_, refused to permit the said Lopez to quit the place, either to proceed to Avila or in any other direction. It had been hinted to Lopez that, as the factious were expected, it was intended on their arrival to denounce him to them as a liberal, and to cause him to be sacrificed. Taking these circumstances into consideration, I deemed it my duty, as a Christian and a gentleman, to rescue my unfortunate servant from such lawless bands, and in consequence defying opposition I bore him off, though perfectly unarmed, through a crowd of at least one hundred peasants. On leaving the place I shouted '_Viva Isabela Segunda_.' As it is my belief that the _Cura_ of Villallos is a person capable of any infamy, I beg leave humbly to entreat your Lordship to cause a copy of the above narration to be forwarded to the Spanish Government. I have the honour to remain, my Lord, your Lordship's most obedient and most humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. G. Browne (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 6th, 1838) MADRID, _Aug._ 29, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I am this moment arrived at Madrid from my expedition in Old Castile, and I have received your kind lines appended to my friend Mr. Brandram's communication. I will set out for England as soon as possible; but I must be allowed time. I am almost dead with fatigue, suffering and anxiety; and it is necessary that I should place the Society's property in safe and sure custody. It has pleased the Lord to assist me visibly in my last journey. In the midst of a thousand perils I have disposed of nine hundred Testaments amongst the peasantry on the north side of the precipitous hills of the Guadarama range, and all in the space of three weeks. In a day or two I shall write to Mr. Brandram with particulars. Pray excuse these hasty lines; present my kindest remembrances to Mrs. Browne, and believe me, Revd. and dear Sir, Gratefully and truly yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 10, 1838) MADRID, _Sept._ 1, 1838. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--From my letter to the Revd. Geo. Browne of the 28 ult. you are already doubtless aware of my arrival at Madrid from my expedition in Old Castile. I now proceed to detail to you a few occurrences, premising that my notices will necessarily be brief, as I am considerably indisposed, and am moreover much occupied in making preparations for my departure for England, and in arranging the affairs of the Society in Spain in as satisfactory a manner as circumstances will permit. I set out for my journey on the 4th of last month on horseback and accompanied by my servant. The first day brought us to La Granja, a distance of twelve leagues from Madrid, where I expected to find Lopez and another man whom I had sent before. Nothing particular occurred during this day's journey, except that notwithstanding my haste I sold some Testaments in the villages near the roadside and that it pleased God to permit us to traverse the pass of Pena Cerrada without coming in contact with the banditti that haunt the gloomy pine forests which embower it and extend for leagues in every direction. Arrived at La Granja, I could hear nothing of Lopez nor of the other individual, and in consequence after a stay of a day which was necessary to refresh the horses, I departed for Segovia. I did not attempt to distribute the Word at La Granja, being well aware that orders had been transmitted to the authorities of the place to seize all copies of the sacred writings which might be offered for sale. I may say the same with respect to Segovia, where still none of my people made their appearance. At Segovia I received from a friend a chest containing two hundred Testaments, and almost immediately after, by the greatest chance in the world, I heard from a peasant that there were men in the neighbourhood of Abades selling books. Abades is about three leagues distant from Segovia, and upon receiving this intelligence I instantly departed for the former place, with three _burricos_ [asses] laden with Testaments. I reached Abades at nightfall, and found Lopez in the house of the surgeon of the place, where I also took up my residence. He had already disposed of a considerable number of Testaments in the neighbourhood, and had that day commenced selling at Abades itself. He had, however, been interrupted by two of three _Curas_ of the village, who with horrid curses denounced the work, threatening eternal condemnation to Lopez for selling it and to any person who should purchase it; whereupon Lopez, terrified, forebore until I should arrive. The third _Cura_, however, exerted himself to the utmost to persuade the people to provide themselves with Testaments, telling them that his brethren were hypocrites and false guides, who by keeping them in ignorance of the word and will of Christ were leading them to the abyss. Upon receiving this information, I instantly sallied forth to the marketplace, and that same night succeeded in disposing of upwards of thirty Testaments. The next morning the house was entered by the two factious _Curas_; but upon my rising to confront them they retreated, and I heard no more of them, except that they publicly cursed me in the church more than once, an event which as no ill resulted from it gave me little concern. I will not detail the events of the next week; suffice it to say that arranging my forces in the most advantageous way I succeeded by God's assistance in disposing of in that period from five to six hundred Testaments amongst the villages from one to seven leagues distance from Abades. At the expiration of that period I received information from Segovia, in which province Abades is situated, to the effect that my proceedings were known in Segovia, and that an order was about to be sent to the _Alcalde_ of Abades to seize all books in my possession. Whereupon, notwithstanding that it was late in the evening, I decamped with all my people and upwards of three hundred Testaments, having a few hours previously received a fresh supply from Madrid. That night we passed in the fields and next morning proceeded to Labajos, a village on the high road from Madrid to Valladolid. In this place we offered no books for sale, but contented ourselves with supplying the neighbouring villages with the Word of God; we likewise sold it in the highways. We had not been at Labajos a week, during which time we were remarkably successful, when the Carlist chieftain Balmaseda at the head of his wild cavalry made his desperate inroad into the southern part of Old Castile, dashing down like an avalanche from the pine woods of Soria. I was present at all the horrors which ensued--the sack of Arrevalo--and the forcible entry into Martin Munoz and San Cyrian. Amidst these terrible scenes, we continued our labours undaunted, with the exception of my servant, who seized with uncontrollable fear ran away to Madrid. I now lost Lopez for three or four days, and suffered dreadful anxiety on his account, apprehending that he had been shot by the Carlists. At last I heard that he was in prison at Villallos, at the distance of three leagues. The steps which I took to rescue him you will find detailed in the communication which I deemed it my duty to transmit to Lord Wm. Hervey at Madrid, a copy of which, together with the letter of Lopez which informed me of his situation, I transmit herewith. After the rescue of Lopez, I thought it advisable to return to Madrid, more especially as my stock of Testaments was exhausted, we having in the course of little more than a fortnight disposed of nearly nine hundred Testaments--not in populous and wealthy towns but in highways and villages, not to the spurious Spaniards of Madrid and the coasts, but to the sun-blackened peasantry of Old Castile, the genuine descendants of those terrible men who subjugated Mexico and Peru. My men returned by Pena Cerrada, whilst I, encumbered by two horses, crossed the Guadarama. I nearly perished there, having lost my way in the darkness and tumbled down a precipice. But I am now in Madrid and, if not well, trusting in the Lord and defying Satan. I shall probably be in England within three weeks. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Sept. 28, 1838) MADRID, 19 _Sepr._ 1838, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write this to inform you that for the last ten days I have been confined to my bed by a fever. I am now better, and hope in a few days to be able to proceed to Saragossa, which is the only road open. I bore up against my illness as long as I could, but it became too powerful for me. By good fortune I obtained a decent physician, a Dr. Hacayo, who had studied medicine in England, and aided by him and the strength of my constitution I got the better of my attack, which however was a dreadfully severe one. I hope my next letter will be from Bordeaux. I cannot write more at present, for I am very feeble. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, truly yours, G. BORROW. Account of Proceedings in the Peninsula GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRITISH AND FOREIGN BIBLE SOCIETY-- I beg leave to call your attention to the following statements. They relate to my proceedings during the period which embraces my second sojourn in Spain--to my labours in a literary point of view--to my travels in a very remarkable country, the motive in which they originated and the result to which they led--to my success in the distribution of the Scripture, and to the opposition and encouragement which I have experienced. As my chief objects are brevity and distinctness I shall at once enter upon my subject, abstaining from reflections of every kind, which in most cases only tend to embarrass, being anxious to communicate facts alone, with most of which, it is true, you are already tolerably well acquainted, but upon all and every of which I am eager to be carefully and categorically questioned. It is neither my wish nor my interest to conceal one particular of what I have been doing. And with these few prefatory observations I commence. In the first place, my literary labours. Having on my former visit to Spain obtained from the then Prime Minister Isturitz and his Cabinet permission and encouragement for the undertaking, I published on my return an edition of the New Testament at Madrid, a copy of which I now present to you for the first time. This work, executed at the office of Borrego, the most fashionable printer at Madrid, who had been recommended to me by Isturitz himself and most particularly by my excellent friend Mr. O'Shea, is a publication which I conceive no member of the Committee will consider as calculated to cast discredit on the Bible Society, it being printed on excellent English paper and well bound, but principally and above all from the fact of its exhibiting scarcely one typographical error, every proof having been read thrice by myself and once or more times by the first scholar in Spain. I subsequently published the Gospel of Saint Luke in the Rommany and Biscayan languages. With respect to the first, I beg leave to observe that no work printed in Spain ever caused so great and so general a sensation, not so much amongst the Gypsies, that peculiar people, for whom it was intended, as amongst the Spaniards themselves, who, though they look upon the Roma with some degree of contempt as a low and thievish race of outcasts, nevertheless take a strange interest in all that concerns them, it having been from time immemorial their practice, more especially of the dissolute young nobility, to cultivate the acquaintance of the Gitanos as they are popularly called, probably attracted by the wild wit of the latter and the lascivious dances of the females. The apparition therefore of the Gospel of Saint Luke at Madrid in the peculiar jargon of these people was hailed as a strange novelty and almost as a wonder, and I believe was particularly instrumental in bruiting the name of the Bible Society far and wide through Spain, and in creating a feeling far from inimical towards it and its proceedings. I will here take the liberty to relate an anecdote illustrative of the estimation in which this little work was held at Madrid. The Committee are already aware that a seizure was made of many copies of Saint Luke in the Rommany and Biscayan languages, in the establishment at which they were exposed for sale, which copies were deposited in the office of the Civil Governor. Shortly before my departure a royal edict was published, authorising all the public libraries to provide themselves with copies of the said works on account of their philological merit; whereupon, on application being made to the office, it was discovered that the copies of the Gospel in Basque were safe and forthcoming, whilst every one of the sequestered copies of the Gitano Gospel had been plundered by hands unknown. The consequence was that I was myself applied to by then agents of the public libraries of Valencia and other places, who paid me the price of the copies which they received, assuring me at the same time that they were authorised to purchase them at whatever price which might be demanded. Respecting the Gospel in Basque I have less to say. It was originally translated into the dialect of Guipuscoa by Dr. Oteiza, and subsequently received corrections and alterations from myself. It can scarcely be said to have been published, it having been prohibited and copies of it seized on the second day of its appearance. But it is in my power to state that it is anxiously expected in the Basque provinces, where books in the aboriginal tongue are both scarce and dear, and that several applications have been made at San Sebastian and in other towns where Basque is the predominating language. I now proceed to the subject of my travels in Spain. Before undertaking them I was little acquainted with the genius of the Spanish people in general, having resided almost entirely in Madrid, and I was fully convinced that it was not from the inhabitants of one city that an accurate judgment could be formed of a population of nine millions, thinly scattered over a vast country so divided and intersected by mountain barriers as is the Peninsula. With this population under all its various circumstances and under all its various phases, the result of descent from a variety of foreign nations, I was anxious to make myself acquainted; for I reflected that he who builds a city on ground which he has not fully examined will perhaps discover when too late that his foundation is in a swamp, and that the whole of his labour is momentarily in danger of being swallowed up. I therefore went forth not so much for the purpose of distributing the Scriptures as to make myself acquainted with the prefatory steps requisite to be taken in order to secure my grand object. Before departing from Madrid I consulted with the many friends, some of them highly distinguished, which I had the honour to possess in that capital. Their unanimous advice, whether Catholics or Protestants, was that for the present I should proceed with the utmost caution, but without concealing the object of my mission which I considered to be the simple propagation of the Scripture--that I should avoid with diligence the giving offence to the prejudices of the people, especially in the rural districts, and endeavour everywhere to keep on good terms with the clergy, at least one-third of whom are known to be anxious for the dissemination of the Word of God though at the same time unwilling to separate themselves from the discipline and ceremonials of Rome. I bore this advice in mind, which indeed perfectly tallied with my own ideas, and throughout the two thousand miles of my peregrination during the summer of last year, I performed much if not all of what I proposed, and am not aware that in one single instance my proceedings were such as could possibly merit reproof. I established depots in all the principal towns of the north of Spain, and in all gave notice to the public of the arrival of the New Testament in a mild yet expressive advertisement which I here exhibit, and which I beg leave to state is the only advertisement which I ever made use of. The consequence was that the work enjoyed a reasonable sale, and I experienced no opposition--except in the case of Leon, a town remarkable for its ultra-Carlism--but on the contrary much encouragement especially on the part of the ecclesiastics. I visited Salamanca and Valladolid the chief seats of Castilian learning, I visited Saint James of Compostella, the temple of the great image of the Patron of Spain, and in none of these cities was a single voice raised against the Bible Society or its Agent. But I did not confine myself to the towns, but visited the small and large villages, and by this means became acquainted with both citizens and rustics; amongst the former I found little desire for sober serious reading, but on the contrary a rage for stimulant narratives, and amongst too many a lust for the deistical writings of the French, especially for those of Talleyrand, which have been translated into Spanish and published by the press of Barcelona, and for which I was frequently pestered. I several times enquired of the book-sellers of the various towns which I visited as to the means to be used towards introducing the Scripture amongst the villagers; but to this question they invariably replied that, unless the villagers came to the towns and purchased the work, they saw no means of making it known amongst them, unless I made friends in the villages in whose hands I could deposit copies for sale, though in such a case the difficulty of recovering the money would be immense. I therefore at last resolved to make an experiment, the result of which fully corresponded with an opinion which I had for some time formed--namely, that in the villages, sequestered and apart amongst the mountains and in the sandy plains of Spain, I might at any time be sure of a glorious harvest, far more rich than that which it was possible for me to expect in towns and cities, unless I had recourse to means unwarranted, nay forbidden, by the Book which I distributed, and which means had been proscribed by the Society itself on my departure for Spain. But now to proceed at once to the experiment, which I made at different periods and in different provinces. I twice sallied forth one morning alone and on horseback, and proceeded to a distant village, bearing behind me a satchel of books. On my arrival, which took place just after the _siesta_ or afternoon's sleep had concluded, I proceeded in both instances to the market-place, where I spread a horse-cloth on the ground, on which I deposited my books. I then commenced crying with a loud voice: 'Peasants, peasants, I bring you the Word of God at a cheap price. I know you have but little money, but I bring it to you at whatever you can command, at four or three _reals_ according to your means.' I thus went on till a crowd gathered round me, who examined the book with attention, many of them reading it aloud. But I had not long to tarry; in both instances I disposed of my cargo almost instantaneously, and then mounted my horse without a question having been asked me, and returned to my temporary residence lighter than I left it. This occurred in Castile and Galicia, near the towns of Santiago and Valladolid. The above are incidents which I have hitherto kept within the privacy of my own bosom and which I have confided to none; they were but experiments, which at that time I had no wish to repeat, nor to be requested so to do. I was perfectly aware that such a line of conduct, if followed before the proper time, would give offence to the clergy, not only to the Carlist but the liberal clergy, and likewise to the Government; and it formed no part of my plan to be on ill terms with either. For I remembered that I was a stranger and a labourer on sufferance in Christ's cause in a half-barbaric land, on which the light of freedom and true religion was just beginning to dawn, and I was unwilling by over-precipitance and for the sake of a mere temporary triumph to forego the solid and lasting advantages which I foresaw, and had been told that patience and prudence would assure. I resolved to use the knowledge which I had obtained by these experiments only as a last resource, provided any accident which it was impossible for me then to foresee should overturn all the plans which my friends and myself had been forming for the quiet and peaceful introduction of the Scriptures amongst the Spaniards with the consent or at least with the connivance of the Government and clergy, knowing well that a great part of the latter were by no means disposed to offer any serious opposition to such a measure, they having sense and talent enough to perceive that the old system can no longer be upheld of which the essential part is, as is well known, to keep the people in ignorance of the great sterling truths of Christianity. I now come to the most distressing part of my narrative and likewise to the most miserable of my own life. I returned to Madrid from my long, fatiguing and most perilous journey, in which I must be permitted to say that independent of a thousand miraculous escapes from the factious and the banditti I had been twice arrested as a spy, namely, once at Vigo and subsequently at Cape Finisterre, in which latter instance I narrowly escaped with life, the ignorant fishermen having determined upon shooting me and my guide. Upon finding the booksellers of Madrid, with the exception of Razola, a man of no importance, averse to undertake the sale of the New Testament I determined upon establishing a shop of my own, a step to which I was advised by many sincere friends of the Cause and of myself. Having accomplished this, I advertised the work incessantly, not only in the public prints but by placards posted in all the streets of the city; but I wish it to be distinctly understood that the advertisement which I used was the same quiet innocent advertisement, a copy of which you possess, and of which I have availed myself in the provinces, an advertisement which had never given offence nor was calculated to give offence if squandered about the streets by millions. I make this statement in self-justification, I having, in consequence of a letter in which I made some observations respecting advertisements and handbills, received a paragraph in a communication from home, in which I was checked with having made a plentiful use of advertisements and handbills myself. It would have been as well if my respected and revered friend the writer had made himself acquainted with the character of my advertisements before he made that observation. There is no harm in an advertisement, if truth, decency and the fear of God are observed; and I believe my own will be scarcely found deficient in any of these three requisites. It is not the use of a serviceable instrument, but its abuse that merits reproof, and I cannot conceive that advertising was abused by me when I informed the people of Madrid, that the New Testament was to be purchased at a cheap price in the _Calle del Principe_. I had scarcely opened my establishment at Madrid when I began to hear rumours of certain transactions at Valencia, said to be encouraged by the British and Foreign Bible Society. As these transactions, as they were reported, were in the highest degree absurd and improper, and as I was convinced that the Bible Society would sanction nothing of the kind, I placed little or no credit in them, and put them down to the account of Jesuitical malignity. In less than a fortnight appeared in the newspapers what I conceived to be a gross and uncalled-for attack upon the Bible Society, appended to a pastoral of the Bishop of Valencia, in which he forbade the sale of the Bible throughout his diocese. The Committee are acquainted with my answer to that epistle; they are well aware with what zeal and fervour I spoke against the spirit of Popery, and defended the Society and their cause as far as my feeble talents would permit. Yet I here confess that the said answer was penned, if not in perfect ignorance of what had been transacted in Valencia, at least in almost utter disbelief; for had it been my fortune at the time to have been as well informed as I have subsequently been, so far from publishing the answer in question I would at once have publicly disclaimed, as I afterwards did, any participation or sympathy in transactions which were not only calculated to bring the Bible cause into odium, but the Bible Society into difficulties, into discredit, and worst of all, into contempt. A helpless widow was insulted, her liberty of conscience invaded, and her only son incited to rebellion against her. A lunatic was employed as the _repartidor_ or distributor of the blessed Bible, who having his head crammed with what he understood not, ran through the streets of Valencia crying aloud that Christ was nigh at hand and would appear in a short time; whilst advertisements to much the same effect were busily circulated in which the name, the noble name, of the Bible Society was prostituted; whilst the Bible exposed for sale in an apartment of a public house served for little more than a decoy to the idle and curious, who were there treated with incoherent railings against the Church of Rome and Babylon, in a dialect which it was well for the deliverer that only a few of the audience understood. But I fly from these details, and will now repeat the consequences of the above proceedings to myself; for I, I, and only I, as every respectable person in Madrid can vouch, have paid the penalty for them all, though as innocent as the babe who has not yet seen the light. I had much difficulty at Madrid, principally on account of the state of political matters which absorbed the minds of all, in bringing the New Testament into notice. However by dint of perseverance I contrived to direct the public curiosity towards it, indeed I was beginning to average a sale of twenty copies daily, when the shop was suddenly closed by order of the Government in consequence of the complaints from Valencia, myself being supposed to be the instigator and director of the scenes in that place already narrated. For the next four months I carried on negotiations with the Government through the medium of Sir George Villiers, who from my first arrival in the Peninsula, had most generously befriended me. But in his endeavours to forward my views he found exceeding difficulties. The clergy were by this time, both Carlist and liberal, thoroughly incensed against me, and indeed with much apparent reason; the former denounced me to the populace as a sorcerer and a heretic, and the latter spoke of me as an accomplished hypocrite. I was at last flung into prison--into the pestilential _Carcel de la Corte_, where my faithful servant Francisco caught the gaol-fever, of which he subsequently died. But in this instance my enemies committed a very imprudent act, an act which had very nearly produced the result for which I had been so long unsuccessfully negotiating. My protector, Sir George Villiers, informed the Spanish Prime Minister, Ofalia, that unless full satisfaction was offered me, he should deem it his duty to cease any further transactions with the Spanish Government, and to order all the British land and sea-forces, co-operating with those of the Queen to terminate the rebellion, to desist from further operations. I was about to obtain all I wished, when at the critical moment the news of the scenes at Malaga arrived at Madrid, and Sir George had little more to say than that Satan seemed to mingle in this game. Nevertheless I left prison, with the understanding that the Government would connive at the circulation of the Scriptures in a quiet manner, not calculated to produce disturbances nor to give scandal to the clergy. But speedily followed the affair of the sectarian tracts of Carthagena, which tracts were sworn to as having been left there by agents of the Bible Society; and I instantly knew that I had nothing more to expect from the Government. But some time previous I had formed an unalterable resolution that, come what might, I would no longer bear the odium of actions, which in whatever motive they originated had already subjected me to unheard-of persecution, loathsome imprisonment, loss of friends, and to the grief of seeing prudent and long-brooded plans baffled and brought to nought, and the Society to which I belonged subjected to opprobrium as I believed undeserved; and I therefore published in the journals of Madrid an advertisement, in which I disowned, in my own name and that of the Society, any sympathy with the actor or actors in those transactions, which had given so much cause of offence to the authorities, civil and ecclesiastic, of Spain. My principal reason for taking this step originated from my having become personally acquainted with the ex-priest Pascual Marin, who arrived at Madrid the very day in which I was committed to prison. His narrative served to confirm all the rumours which I had previously heard. The Committee are fully aware with what unwillingness I formed the acquaintance of that man, who was sent up to me in order that I might provide for him, without my consent being obtained or even demanded; but I now rejoice in the circumstance, without which I might still have been playing the odious, disgraceful, and heart-breaking part which I had supported so long. But by the decided step which I now took, the burden of obloquy fell at once from my shoulders, as the bundle of sin from the back of Christian, and rolling into a deep pit was seen no more. That advertisement gave infinite satisfaction to the liberal clergy. I was complimented for it by the Primate of Spain, who said I had redeemed my credit and that of the Society; and it is with some feeling of pride that I state that it choked and prevented the publication of a series of terrible essays against the Bible Society, which were intended for the official Gazette, and which were written by the Licentiate Albert Lister, the editor of that journal, the friend of Blanco White, and the most talented man in Spain. These essays still exist in the editorial drawer, and were communicated to me by the head manager of the royal printing office, my respected friend and countryman Mr. Charles Wood, whose evidence in this matter and in many others I can command at pleasure. In lieu of which essays came out a mild and conciliatory article by the same writer, which, taking into consideration the country in which it was written and its peculiar circumstances, was an encouragement to the Bible Society to proceed, although with secrecy and caution. Yet this article, sadly misunderstood in England, gave rise to communications from home highly mortifying to myself and ruinous to the Bible cause. In the meantime my depots had been seized in various parts of Spain, depots the greatest part of which I had established with immense difficulty and peril, some of them being in the remote and almost inaccessible province of Galicia, at the distance of almost four hundred miles from Madrid. I now deemed that the time was at hand to avail myself of my resource, and to sell at all risks the Testament amongst the peasantry of Spain, by whom I knew that it would be received with transport and with gratitude. I determined to commence with the Sagra of Toledo, where resided an honest labourer of my acquaintance; my foot was in the stirrup when I received a letter from home, which I can only consider as having originated with the Enemy of mankind for the purpose of perplexing my already harassed and agitated mind. In this letter I was told, amongst other matter which I need not repeat, to prepare to quit Spain. But by the shaft I knew the quiver from which it came, and, merely exclaiming, 'Satan, I defy thee,' I hurried to Sagra, and disposed of amongst the peasantry in one fortnight four hundred copies of the New Testament. But it is hard to wrestle with the great Enemy; another shaft arrived in the shape of a letter, which compelled me to return to Madrid, whilst the cause of God was beckoning me to Aranjuez and La Mancha, to which places I indeed hurried as soon as I had arranged matters at Madrid. Without losing time or being dispirited by the events of the last journey, I repaired to Old Castile; here my success was almost miraculous, nine hundred copies of the Holy Book being sold in less than three weeks, but not in peace and tranquillity, as the province became suddenly a scene of horrors which I shall not attempt to describe. It was not the war of men, or even of cannibals, which I witnessed; it seemed a contest of fiends from the infernal pit. But God guided me safe and unharmed through this 'valley of the shadow,' and permitted me to regain Madrid; where, upon finding myself formally recalled, I deposited the Society's property in as safe a place as I could find, and was about to return home when a fever which had been long lurking in my blood at last prostrated me, confining me to my bed for many days, at the expiration of which, though very unfit for travel, I departed for England, where at last by God's will I am arrived in safety. Before concluding, I have a communication to make, the importance of which few, I believe, will be tempted to deny. I have at various times stated that the Bible Cause had many and powerful friends in Spain, though my statements up to the present moment seem to have been hailed with little attention. I remember in one particular letter recommending prudence, patience, and co-operation with the liberal clergy, who were sincerely disposed to help us on, provided that by intemperateness of conduct we gave them no reasonable ground for offence. There is now a society formed at Madrid, determined upon making the Word of God, without note or comment, known amongst the children of Spain. The laws concerning the publishing the Scripture have been diligently and minutely examined, and it has been discovered that by none of the laws of Spain, ancient or modern, whether made by Cortes or by kings, is the publication of the Scripture, in the whole or in parts, with or without comment, forbidden--but merely and solely by particular Bulls of various Bishops of Rome, which Bulls though respected by many of the Spaniards form no part of the law of Spain. Provided resistance be offered to the undertaking either by the Government or any portion of the ecclesiastics, it has been determined to bring the matter before the Cortes, from whom a favourable decision may be expected with certainty. An individual has been selected as the ostensible manager of this great and glorious undertaking, this individual is Mr. C. Wood, whom I have already had occasion to mention, though it is in my power to state that but for the manner in which the name of the Bible Society has on various occasions been brought before the public, and almost invariably to its disadvantage, myself its well-known Agent, would have been the person selected. If it be here asked who are the respectable and influential persons who are at the head of this undertaking and who patronise it, I reply the Archbishop of Toledo, the Primate of Spain, and the Bishops of Vich and Jaen. Now merely one word in conclusion. I have related facts, and to attempt to contravene them would be as futile as to endeavour to breast the billows of the Atlantic. For the fact that I have throughout my residence in Spain conducted myself as becomes a gentleman, a Christian and an Agent of a Christian Society, I can at all times command the evidence of Sir George Villiers. For the fact that no act of mine has given offence to the Spanish Government, or was calculated to do so, I can, if required, produce a communication from Count Ofalia, who has in writing expressed to Sir George Villiers his full reliance in my prudence and good faith. For the fact that the establishment at Madrid was closed, not in consequence of my own imprudence, but on account of certain proceedings at Valencia, I can receive, if I need it, a testimonial from Count Ofalia. For the fact that proceedings of a highly objectionable nature were transacted in the south of Spain, I have the affidavit of the unhappy ex-priest Pascual Marin, who can likewise afford, when called upon, information on various points. For the fact that my depots in various provinces of Spain were seized in consequence of doings with which I had no connexion, I can cite official correspondence. For the fact that my advertisement, in which I disowned in the name of the Society and in my own any sympathy with the scenes alluded to, was productive of infinite benefit to the Cause, I can at any time produce incontestable evidence. And lastly, for my zeal in the Bible Cause, whilst employed in the Peninsula, I can have the evidence not only of some of the most illustrious characters resident in Madrid, but likewise that of the greatest part of Spain, throughout which I believe my name is better known than in my native village in East Anglia. Mr. G. Borrow's Report on Past and Future Operations in Spain (_Endorsed_: recd. Nov. 28, 1838) LONDON, _Novr._ 1838. Having been requested to commit to paper my opinion respecting the mode most advisable to be adopted for the propagation of the Word of God in Spain, provided the Committee of the Bible Society should consider it their duty to resume operations in that country, I shall as briefly as possible communicate the results of an experience which three years' residence has enabled me to acquire. The Committee are already aware that I have traversed the greatest part of Spain in all directions, and have lived for a considerable time in Madrid and other large towns. I have therefore had opportunities of forming a tolerably accurate idea as to the mode of thinking upon religious subjects of the Spaniards, whether of town or country, and of their character in general. I need not enter into a repetition of my labours during my last sojourn in Spain. It is well known that, after printing the New Testament at Madrid, I endeavoured to distribute it in the principal towns, and also in the rural districts. Particular circumstances prevented my experiencing in the former the success which I had hoped for, and with some reason, at the commencement of my Biblical labours; and indeed I did not find the minds of the inhabitants of the great cities which I visited so well disposed as I could have wished, for receiving and relishing the important but simple truths of the Bible. I cannot say that a spirit of fanatic bigotry was observable amongst them, except in a very few instances, but rather of lamentable indifference; their minds being either too much engrossed by the politics of the period to receive the doctrine of the Bible, or averse to it owing to the poison of infidelity imbibed from the deistical writings of the French. My success among the peasants was however very different, nearly two thousand copies having been disposed of in an extraordinarily short space of time, and under much disadvantage owing to the peculiarly unhappy situation of those parts which it was my fortune to visit. I will now, without further preamble, state the line of conduct which I should wish to see pursued in Spain under existing circumstances. As the minds of the inhabitants of the cities, from the causes above stated, do not appear to be exactly prepared for the reception of the Scripture, it seems most expedient for some time to come to offer it principally to the peasantry, by the greater part of whom there is so much ground for believing that it will be received with gratitude and joy. True it is that the Spanish peasantry are in general not so well educated as their brethren of the cities, their opportunities of acquiring a knowledge of letters having always been inferior; nevertheless it would be difficult to enter a cottage of which at least one of the inmates could not read, more or less. They are moreover a serious people, and any book upon religious subjects is far more certain of captivating their attention than one of a lighter character, and, above all, their minds have hitherto never been tainted by those unhappy notions of infidelity too prevalent amongst the other class. There is one feature which I wish to mention here, which is indeed common to the Spanish people in general but more particularly to the peasantry, namely, that whenever a book is purchased, whether good or bad, the purchaser entertains a firm intention of reading it, which he almost invariably puts into execution. I do not make this observation merely upon hearsay--though I have frequently heard it from quarters which I am bound to respect--many examples tending to substantiate the fact having come under my own knowledge. It is at least a great consolation to the distributor of the Word of God in Spain, that the seed which he casts around him is in general received by the earth beneath the surface, from which he is induced to trust that it will some day spring up and produce good fruit. I now beg leave to repeat from a previous communication the manner in which I made my first attempt to distribute the Scriptures amongst the peasantry. I must here remind the Committee that until [I] myself solved the problem of the possibility, no idea had been entertained of introducing the Bible in the rural districts of countries exclusively Papist. This remark, which I make with the utmost humility, merely springs from an idea that a similar attempt, if made with boldness and decision, might prove equally successful in Italy, Mexico, and many other countries, even pagan, which have not yet been penetrated, particularly China and Grand Tartary, on the shores of which the Bible labours under great disadvantage and odium from being put into the hands of the natives by people seemingly in connection with those for whom it is impossible they can entertain much respect, as they are well known to contribute largely towards the corruption of the public morals. But I now return to my subject, and proceed at once to the experiment which I made at different periods and in different provinces. I twice sallied forth alone and on horseback, and bent my course to a distant village. On my arrival, which took place just after the _siesta_ or afternoon's nap had concluded, I proceeded in both instances to the market-place, where I spread a horse-cloth on the ground, upon which I deposited my books. I then commenced crying with a loud voice: 'Peasants, peasants, I bring you the Word of God at a cheap price. I know you have but little money, but I bring it you at whatever you can command, at four or three _reals_, according to your means.' I thus went on till a crowd gathered round me, who examined the books with attention, many of them reading aloud, but I had not long to wait. In both instances my cargo was disposed of almost instantaneously, and I mounted my horse without a question being asked me, and returned to my temporary abode lighter than I came. These instances occurred in Castile and Galicia, near the towns of Santiago and Valladolid. It is the firm conviction of the writer from subsequent experience that every village in Spain will purchase Testaments, from twenty to sixty, according to its circumstances. During the last two months of his sojourn in Spain he visited about forty villages, and in only two instances was his sale less than thirty copies in each. The two villages which he alludes to were Mocejon in the Sagra of Toledo, and Torre Lodones about four leagues from Madrid in the road which leads to the Guadarama hills. The last village is indeed a mere wretched assemblage of huts, the inhabitants of which labour under the most squalid poverty, owing to the extreme niggardness of the neighbouring soil, which consists almost entirely of rock from which scarcely anything can be gathered, so that the people are proverbially thieves. Only three copies of the sacred volume were purchased in this unhappy place, and only nine in the comparatively rich village of Mocejon--which, it is true, was visited on the day of a festival, when the inhabitants were too much occupied with dancing and other amusements to entertain any serious thoughts. There are at the present moment about two thousand copies of the New Testament in Madrid. It appears to the writer that it would be most expedient to distribute one-half of these books in La Mancha, commencing from the town of Ocana, and concluding with Argamasilla at the other end of the province; the remaining thousand might be devoted to the many villages on the road towards Arragon, especially to those of Alcarria where the people are honest, mild and serious. The writer would by no means advise for the present an attempt to distribute the entire Bible amongst the peasantry, as he is of opinion that the New Testament is much better adapted to their understandings and circumstances. If it be objected to the plan which he has presumed to suggest that it is impossible to convey to the rural districts of Spain the book of life without much difficulty and danger, he begs leave to observe that it does not become a real Christian to be daunted by either when it pleases his Maker to select him as an instrument; and that moreover if it be not written that a man is to perish by wild beast or reptiles, he is as safe in the den even of the cockatrice as in the most retired chamber of the king's palace; and that if on the contrary he be doomed to perish by them, his destiny will overtake him notwithstanding all the precautions which he, like a blind worm, may essay for his security. In conclusion the writer begs leave to remind the Committee that a society of liberal Spanish ecclesiastics is being formed for printing and circulating the Scripture without note or comment. He does not advise the entering into an intimate alliance and co-operation with this society, but he ventures to hope that if it continue to progress, there will be found Christian hearts in England to wish it success and Christian hands to afford it some occasional assistance. If the work of the Lord be done, it matters little whether Apollos or Paul be the labourers. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 4, 1839) SEVILLE, _Jany._ 12, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I reached Cadiz in safety, after crossing the Bay of Biscay in rather boisterous weather. I have been in Seville about a week, part of which time I have been rather indisposed with an old complaint; this night at ten o'clock I leave, with the letter-courier, for Madrid, whither I hope to arrive in something less than four days. I should have started before now, had an opportunity presented itself. I have been much occupied since coming here in writing to my friends in Spain apprising them of my arrival, amongst others to Sir George Villiers. I have of course visited the Sevillian bookseller, my correspondent here. He informed me that seventy-six copies of the hundred Testaments entrusted to his care were placed in embargo by the Government last summer. They are at present in the possession of the Ecclesiastical Governor. I visited him also the other day, to make enquiries concerning our property. He lives in a large house in the _Pajaria_, or straw-market. He is a very old man, between seventy and eighty, and like almost all those who wear the sacerdotal habit in this city is a fierce persecuting Papist. I believe he scarcely believed his ears when his two grand-nephews, beautiful black-haired boys, who were playing in the courtyard, ran to inform him that an Englishman was waiting to speak with him, as it is probable that I was the first heretic who ever ventured into his habitation. I found him in a vaulted room seated on a lofty chair, with two sinister-looking secretaries, also in sacerdotal habits, employed in writing at a table before him. He brought powerfully to my recollection the grim old inquisitor who persuaded Philip the Second to slay his own son as an enemy to the Church. He arose as I entered, and gazed upon me with a countenance dark with suspicion and dissatisfaction. He at last condescended to point me to a sofa, and I proceeded to state to him my business. He became much agitated when I mentioned the Testaments to him; but I no sooner spoke of the Bible Society and told him who I was, than he could contain himself no longer, and with a stammering tongue and with eyes flashing fire like hot coals, he proceeded to rail against the Society and myself, saying that the aims of the first were atrocious and that as to myself, he was surprised that being once lodged in the prison of Madrid I had ever been permitted to quit it; adding that it was disgraceful in the Government to allow a person of my character to roam about an innocent and peaceful country, corrupting the minds of the ignorant and unsuspicious. Far from allowing myself to be disconcerted by his rude behaviour, I replied to him with all possible politeness, and assured him that in this instance he had no reason to alarm himself, as that my sole motive in claiming the books in question was to avail myself of an opportunity, which at present presented itself of sending them out of the country, which indeed I had been commanded to do by an official notice. But nothing would soothe him, and he informed me that he should not deliver up the books on any condition, save by a positive order of the Government. As the matter was by no means an affair of consequence I thought it wise not to persist, and also prudent to take my leave before he requested me. I was followed even down into the street by his niece and grand-nephews, who during the whole of the conversation had listened at the door of the apartment and heard every word. I have at present little more to say, having detailed everything worth mentioning which has occurred since [my] landing in the Peninsula for the third time. As soon as I reach Madrid I shall proceed to make preparations for a fresh expedition, but in what direction I have scarcely determined. Please therefore to pray that I may be enlightened, and that the angel of the Lord may smooth my path before me. Greet all my friends in my name; I hope speedily to be able to write to each, and in the meantime remain, Revd. and dear Sir, yours ever, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feb. 4, 1839) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO, 25 _January_, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--My last letter was from Seville, in which I gave you an account of my proceedings in that place, at the same time stating that I was about to repair to Madrid with the courier. After travelling four days and nights we arrived, without having experienced the slightest accident; though it is but just to observe, and always with gratitude to the Almighty, that the next courier was stopped. A singular accident befell me immediately after my arrival. On entering the arch of the _posada_, called La Reyna, where I intended to put up, I found myself encircled in a person's arms, and on turning round in amazement beheld my Greek servant Antonio; he was haggard and ill-dressed, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. As soon as we were alone he informed me that since my departure he had undergone great misery and destitution, having during the whole period been unable to obtain a master in need of his services, so that he was brought nearly to the verge of desperation; but that on the night immediately preceding my arrival he had a dream in which he saw me, mounted on a black horse, ride up to the gate of the _posada_, and that on that account he had been waiting there during the greatest part of the day. I do not pretend to offer any opinion concerning this narrative, which is beyond the reach of my philosophy, and shall content myself with observing that only two individuals in Madrid, one of them Lord Clarendon (late Sir George Villiers), were aware of my arrival in Spain. I was very glad to receive him again into my service, as notwithstanding his faults, and he has many, he has in many instances proved of no slight assistance to me in my wanderings and Biblical labours, as indeed I have informed you on previous occasions. I was soon settled in my former lodgings, when one of my first cares was to pay a visit to Lord Clarendon. I need not dilate on the particulars of our interview; suffice it to say, that he received me with more than usual kindness, and assured me that I might invariably rely upon him, if I should ever chance to be in need of his assistance and protection. I told him that it was not our intention to take any steps towards preventing the civil or ecclesiastical authorities of Toledo from destroying the Testaments seized at Ocana; and he smiled when I added that the only wish we ventured to express concerning the matter was that, in the event of these books, which contain the Word of God, being committed to the flames, the said authorities, civil or ecclesiastic, would commit the act with all the publicity possible. My preparations for taking the field are now nearly completed, and within forty hours I hope to commence operations. My first attempt will be made in a large village [at] about a league's distance; and if it please the Lord to permit me to succeed there, it is my intention to proceed to all those villages or hamlets in the vicinity of Madrid hitherto not supplied. I then wend towards the east, to a distance of about thirty leagues. I have been very passionate in prayer during the last two or three days; and I entertain some hope that the Lord has condescended to answer me, as I appear to see my way with considerable clearness. It may, of course, prove a delusion, and the prospects which seem to present themselves may be mere palaces of clouds which a breath of wind is sufficient to tumble into ruin; therefore bearing this possibility in mind it behoves me to beg that I may be always enabled to bow meekly to the dispensations of the Almighty, whether they be of favour or severity. Two days ago I received my largest and most useful horse from the Sagra of Toledo and likewise a note from Lopez; he is unable to come himself at present to assist me, but he sent a countryman who, he is of opinion, will be of equal utility, at least for a time. I yesterday despatched him to the low parts of Madrid, or as they are styled, _Los Barrios bajos_; he succeeded in disposing of twelve Testaments, amongst the very poor people, in a few hours. My other horse is at Salamanca, in Old Castile; but he suffered so much during my late expeditions, that it will hardly answer my purpose to send for him. In passing through La Mancha we stayed for four hours at Manzanares, a large village which I hope to visit again shortly. I was standing in the market-place conversing with a curate, when a frightful ragged object presented itself; it was a girl about eighteen or nineteen, perfectly blind, a white film being spread over her huge staring eyes; her countenance was as yellow as that of a mulatto. I thought at first that she was a Gypsy, and addressing myself to her, enquired in Gitano if she were of that race. She understood me; but shaking her head replied, that she was something better than a Gitana, and could speak something better than that jargon of witches, whereupon she commenced asking me several questions in exceeding good Latin. I was of course very much surprised, but summoning all my Latinity, I called her Manchegan prophetess, and expressing my admiration at her learning begged to be informed by what means she became possessed of it. I must here observe that a crowd instantly gathered around us who, though they understood not one word of our discourse, at every sentence of the girl shouted applause, proud in possession of a prophetess who could answer the Englishman. She informed me that she was born blind, and that a Jesuit priest had taken compassion on her when she was a child, and had taught her the 'holy language,' in order that the attention and hearts of Christians might be more easily turned towards her. I soon discovered that he had taught her something more than Latin, for upon telling her that I was an Englishman, she said that she had always loved Britain which was once the nursery of saints and sages--for example, Bede and Alcuin, Colombus [_sic_] and Thomas of Canterbury; but she added, those times had gone by since the re-appearance of Semiramis (Elizabeth). Her Latin was truly excellent; and when I, like a genuine Goth, spoke of Anglia and Terra Vandalica (Andalusia), she corrected me by saying that in her language those places were called Britannia, and Terra Betica. When we had finished our discourse, a gathering was made for the prophetess, the very poorest contributing something. What wonderful people are the Jesuits! When shall we hear of an English rector instructing a beggar girl in the language of Cicero? Ever yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Feby. 25, 1839) MADRID, 16 CALLE SANTIAGO, 15 _Febry._ 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--In my last communication I stated that I had got everything in readiness to commence operations in the neighbourhood of Madrid, and indeed since that period I have entered upon my labours in reality, though unforeseen circumstances produced an unavoidable delay of several days. It is with feelings of gratitude to the Almighty that I now state that considerable success has attended my feeble efforts in the good cause. All the villages within the distance of four leagues to the east of Madrid have been visited, and Testaments to the number of nearly two hundred have been disposed of. It will be here necessary for me to inform you that these villages, for the most part, are very small; some of them consisting of not more than a dozen houses, or I should rather say miserable cabins. I left my servant Antonio to superintend matters in Madrid, and proceeded with Vitoriano, the peasant from Villa Seca, in the direction which I have already mentioned. We however soon parted company, and pursued different routes. The first village at which I made an attempt was Cobenna, about three leagues from Madrid. I was dressed in the fashion of the peasants of the neighbourhood of Segovia in Old Castile, namely, I had on my head a species of leather helmet, or _montera_, with a jacket and trowsers of the same material. I had the appearance of a person between sixty and seventy years of age, and drove before me a _burrico_, with a sack of Testaments lying across its back. On nearing the village I met a genteel-looking young woman leading a little boy by the hand. As I was about to pass her with the customary salutation of '_Vaya usted con Dios_,' she stopped, and after looking at me for a moment she said; 'Uncle (_Tio_), what is that you have on your _burrico_? Is it soap?' I replied, 'Yes; it is soap to wash souls clean.' She demanded what I meant; whereupon I told her that I carried cheap and godly books for sale. On her requesting to see one, I produced a copy from my pocket, and handed it to her. She instantly commenced reading it with a loud voice, and continued so for at least ten minutes, occasionally exclaiming, '_Que lectura tan bonita_, _que lectura tan linda_!' ('What beautiful, what charming reading!') At last, on my informing her that I was in a hurry and could not wait any longer, she said, 'True, true,' and asked me the price of the book. I told her 'But three _reals_'; whereupon she said that though what I asked was very little, it was more than she could afford to give, as there was little or no money in those parts. I said I was sorry for it, but that I could not dispose of the book for less than I had demanded, and accordingly resuming it, wished her farewell and left her. I had not, however, proceeded thirty yards, when the boy came running behind me, shouting out of breath: 'Stop, uncle! the book, the book.' Upon overtaking me he delivered me the three _reals_ in copper, and seizing the Testament, ran back to her, who I suppose was his sister, flourishing the book over his head with great glee. On arriving at the village I directed my steps to a house around the door of which I saw several persons gathered, chiefly women. On my displaying my books their curiosity was instantly aroused, and every person had speedily one in his hand, many reading aloud. However, after waiting nearly an hour I had disposed of but one copy, all complaining bitterly of the distress of the times and the almost total want of money, though at the same time they acknowledged that the books were wonderfully cheap and appeared to be very good and Christian-like. I was about to gather up my merchandise and depart, when on a sudden the curate of the place made his appearance. After having examined the books for some time with considerable attention, he asked me the price of a copy, and upon my informing him that it was three _reals_, he replied that the binding was worth more, and that he was much afraid that I had stolen the books, and that it was perhaps his duty to send me to prison as a suspicious character. He added however that the books were good books, however they might be obtained, and concluded by purchasing and paying for two copies. The poor people no sooner heard their curate recommend the volumes, than all were eager to secure one, and hurried here and there for the purpose of procuring money, so that between twenty and thirty copies were sold almost in an instant. This adventure not only affords an instance of the power still possessed by the Spanish clergy over the minds of the people, but likewise that such influence is not always exerted in a manner favourable to the maintenance of ignorance and superstition. In another village on my showing a Testament to a woman, she said that she had a child at school for whom she should like to purchase one, but that she must first know whether the book was calculated to be of service to him. She then went away, and presently returned with the schoolmaster, followed by all the children under his care. She then, showing the schoolmaster a book, enquired if it would answer for her son. The schoolmaster called her a simpleton for asking such a question, and said that he knew the book well, and there was not its equal in the world. (_No hay otro en el mundo_.) He instantly purchased five copies for his pupils, regretting that he had no more money, 'For in that case,' said he, 'I would buy the whole cargo.' Upon hearing this, the woman purchased four copies: namely, one for her son, another for her husband who was dead, a third for herself, and a fourth for her brother, whom, she said, she was expecting home that night from Madrid. In this manner we proceeded, not however with uniform success. In some villages the people were so poor and needy that they had literally no money; even in these, however, we managed to dispose of a few copies in exchange for barley or refreshments. (Is this right?) On entering one very small hamlet, Vitoriano was stopped by the curate, who on learning what he carried told him that unless he instantly departed, he would cause him to be imprisoned, and write to Madrid in order to give information of what was going on. The excursion lasted about eight days. Immediately after my return, I despatched Vitoriano to Caramanchel, a village at the distance of half a league from Madrid, the only one towards the west which had not been visited last year. He stayed there about an hour and disposed of twelve copies, and then returned, as he is exceedingly timid and was afraid of being met by the thieves who swarm on that road in the evening. In a few days I depart for Guadalajara and the villages of Alcarria. (UNSIGNED.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Mar. 15, 1839) NAVAL CARNERO, NEW CASTILE, _March_ 4, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have to acknowledge the receipt of your kind letter of the 6th ult., which I hope to be able to answer in all points on another occasion. I am now in a small town on the road to Talavera, to which place it is possible that I may proceed. I take up the pen in order to give you a brief account of what has taken place since I last wrote. I have that to communicate which I am confident will cause yourself and the remainder of my dear friends in Earl Street to smile; while at the same time it will not fail to prove interesting, as affording an example of the feeling prevalent in some of the lone and solitary villages of Spain with respect to innovation and all that savours thereof, and the strange acts which are sometimes committed by the rural authorities and the priests, without the slightest fear of being called to account; for as they live quite apart {392} from the rest of the world, they know no people greater than themselves, and scarcely dream of a higher power than their own. In my latest communication I stated that I was about to make an excursion to Gaudalajara and the villages of Alcarria; indeed I merely awaited the return of Vitoriano to sally forth: I having despatched him in that direction with a few Testaments as a kind of explorer, in order that from his report as to the disposition manifested by the people for purchasing, I might form a tolerably accurate opinion as to the number of copies which it might be necessary to carry with me. However I heard nothing of him for a fortnight, at the end of which period a letter was brought to me by a peasant, dated from the prison of Fuente La Higuera, a village eight leagues from Madrid, in the _campina_, or champaign of Alcala. This letter, written by Vitoriano, gave me to understand, that he had been already eight days imprisoned, and that unless I could find some means to extricate him there was every probability of his remaining in durance until he should perish with hunger, which he had no doubt would occur as soon as his money was exhausted and he was unable to purchase the necessaries of life at a great price. From what I afterwards learned it appeared that after passing the town of Alcala he had commenced distributing, and with considerable success. His entire stock consisted of sixty-one Testaments, twenty-five of which he sold without the least difficulty or interruption in the single village of Arganza, the poor labourers showering blessings on his head for providing them with such good books at an easy price. Not more than eighteen remained when he turned off the high road towards Fuente La Higuera. This place was already tolerably well known to him, he having visited it of old when he travelled the country in the capacity of a vendor of _cacharros_ or earthen pans. He subsequently stated that he felt some misgiving whilst on the way, as the village had invariably enjoyed a bad reputation. On his arrival, after having put up his _caballejo_, or little pony, at a _posada_, he proceeded to the _Alcalde_ for the purpose of demanding permission to sell books, which that dignitary immediately granted. He now entered a house and sold a copy, and likewise in a second. Emboldened by success he entered a third, which it appeared belonged to the barber-surgeon of the village. This personage, having just completed his dinner, was seated in an arm-chair within his doorway when Vitoriano made his appearance. He was a man of about thirty-five, of a savage, truculent countenance. On Vitoriano's offering him a Testament he took it into his hand to examine it; but no sooner did his eyes glance over the title-page than he burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming: 'Ha, ha, Don Jorge Borrow, the English heretic, we have encountered you at last. Glory to the Virgin and the Saints! We have long been expecting you here, and at length you have arrived.' He then enquired the price of the book, and on being told three _reals_, he flung down two, and rushed out of the house with the Testament in his hand. Vitoriano now became alarmed, and determined upon leaving the place as soon as possible. He therefore hurried back to the _posada_, and having paid for the barley which his pony had consumed, went into the stable, and placing the pack-saddle on the animal's back was about to lead it forth when the _Alcalde_ of the village, the surgeon, and twelve other men, some of whom were armed with muskets, suddenly presented themselves. They instantly made Vitoriano prisoner, and, after seizing the books and laying an embargo on the pony, proceeded amidst much abuse to drag their captive to what they denominated their prison, a low damp apartment with a little grated window, where they locked him up and left him. At the expiration of three quarters of an hour they again appeared, and conducted him to the house of the curate, where they sat down in conclave, the curate who was a man stone-blind being president, whilst the sacristan officiated as secretary. The surgeon having stated his accusation against the prisoner, namely, that he had detected him in the fact of selling a version of the Scriptures in the vulgar tongue, the curate proceeded to examine Vitoriano, asking him his name and place of residence--to which he replied that his name was Vitoriano Lopez, and that he was a native of Villa Seca in the Sagra of Toledo. The curate then demanded what religion he professed, and whether he was a Mahometan or freemason, and received for answer that he was a Roman Catholic. I must here state that Vitoriano, though sufficiently shrewd in his way, is a poor old labourer of sixty-four, and until that moment had never heard of Mahometans or freemasons. The curate becoming now incensed, called him a _tunante_ or scoundrel, and added, 'You have sold your soul to a heretic; we have long been aware of your proceedings, and those of your master. You are the same Lopez, whom he last year rescued from the prison of Villallos, in the province of Avila. I sincerely hope that he will attempt to do the same thing here.' 'Yes, yes,' shouted the rest of the conclave, 'let him but venture here, and we will shed his heart's blood on our stones.' In this manner they went on for nearly half-an-hour; at last they broke up the meeting and conducted Vitoriano once more to his prison. During his confinement he lived tolerably well, being in possession of money; his meals were sent him twice a day from the _posada_, where his pony remained in embargo. Once or twice he asked permission of the _Alcalde_, who visited him every night and morning with his armed guard, to purchase pen and paper, in order that he might write to Madrid; but this favour was peremptorily refused him, and all the inhabitants of the village were forbidden under terrible penalties to afford him the means of writing, or to convey any message from him beyond the precincts of the place, and two boys were stationed before the window of his cell for the purpose of watching everything which might be conveyed to him. It happened one day that Vitoriano, being in need of a pillow for his head, sent word to the people of the _posada_ to send him his _alforjas_ or saddle-bags, which they did. In these bags there chanced to be a kind of rope or, as it is called in Spanish, _soga_, with which he was in the habit of fastening his satchel to the pony's back. The urchins seeing an end of this rope hanging from the _alforjas_ instantly ran to the _Alcalde_ to give him information. Late at evening the _Alcalde_ again visited the prisoner, at the head of his twelve men as usual. '_Buenas noches_,' said the _Alcalde_. '_Buenas noches tenga usted_,' replied Vitoriano. 'For what purpose did you send for the _soga_ this afternoon?' demanded the functionary. 'I sent for no _soga_,' said the prisoner, 'I sent for my _alforjas_ to serve as a pillow, and it was sent in them by chance.' 'Thou art a false malicious knave,' retorted the _Alcalde_, 'you intend to hang yourself, and by so doing ruin us all, as your death would be laid to our door. Give me the _soga_.' No greater insult can be offered to a Spaniard, than to tax him with an intention of committing suicide. Poor Vitoriano flew into a violent rage, and after calling the _Alcalde_ several uncivil names, he pulled the _soga_ from his bags, and flinging it at his head, told him to take it home and use it for his own neck. At length the people of the _posada_ took pity on the prisoner, perceiving that he was very harshly treated for no crime at all. They therefore determined to afford him an opportunity of informing his friends of his situation, and accordingly sent him a pen and inkhorn, concealed in a loaf of bread, and a piece of writing-paper, pretending that the latter was intended for cigars. So Vitoriano wrote the letter; but now ensued the difficulty of sending it to its destination, as no person in the village dare have carried it for any reward. The good people, however, persuaded a disbanded soldier from another village, who chanced to be at Fuente La Higuera in quest of work, to charge himself with it, promising that I would pay him well for his trouble. The man, watching his opportunity, received the letter from Vitoriano at the window; and it was he who, after travelling on foot all night, delivered it to me in safety at Madrid. I was now relieved from my anxiety, and had no fears for the result. I instantly went to a friend who is in possession of large estates about Guadalajara, in which province Fuente La Higuera is situated, who furnished me with letters to the Civil Governor of Guadalajara and all the principal authorities, and at Antonio's request, I despatched him upon the errand of the prisoner's liberation. He first directed his course to Fuente La Higuera, where entering the _Alcalde's_ house he boldly told him what he had come about. The _Alcalde_, expecting that I was at hand with an army of Englishmen for the purpose of rescuing the prisoner, became greatly alarmed, and instantly despatched his wife to summon his twelve men. However, on Antonio's assuring him that there was no intention of having recourse to violence, he became more tranquil. In a little time Antonio was summoned before the conclave and its blind sacerdotal president. They at first attempted to frighten him, by assuming a loud bullying tone and talking of the necessity of killing all strangers, and especially the detested Don Jorge and his dependents. Antonio, however, who is not a person apt to allow himself to be easily terrified, scoffed at their threats, and showing them his letters to the authorities of Guadalajara said that he should proceed there on the morrow and denounce their lawless conduct; adding that he was a Turkish subject, and that should they dare to offer him the slightest incivility he would write to the Sublime Porte, in comparison with whom the best kings in the world were but worms, and who would not fail to avenge the wrongs of any of his children, however distant, in a manner too terrible to be mentioned. He then returned to his _posada_. The conclave now proceeded to deliberate among themselves, and at last determined to despatch their prisoner on the morrow to Guadalajara, and deliver him into the hands of the Civil Governor. Nevertheless, in order to keep up a semblance of authority, they that night placed two men armed at the door of the _posada_ where Antonio was lodged, as if he himself were a prisoner; these men as often as the clock struck the hours, shouted, '_Ave Maria_! Death to the heretics!' Early in the morning the _Alcalde_ presented himself at the _posada_, but before entering he made an oration at the door to the people in the street saying amongst other things: 'Brethren, these are the fellows who have come to rob us of our religion.' He then went into Antonio's apartment, and after saluting him with great politeness said that as a royal or high mass was about to be celebrated that morning, he had come to invite him to go to church with him; whereupon Antonio, though by no means a mass-goer, rose and accompanied him, and remained two hours, as he told me, on his knees on the cold stones to his great discomfort, the eyes of the whole congregation being fixed upon him during the time. After mass and breakfast, he departed for Guadalajara, Vitoriano having been already despatched there under a guard. On his arrival he presented his letters to the individuals for whom they were intended. The Civil Governor was convulsed with merriment on hearing Antonio's account of the adventure. Vitoriano was set at liberty and the books were placed in embargo at Guadalajara: the Governor stating, however, that though it was his duty to detain them at present, they should be sent to me whenever I chose to claim them. He moreover said that he would do his best to cause the authorities of Fuente La Higuera to be severely punished, as in the whole affair they had acted in a most cruel, tyrannical manner, for which they had no authority. Thus terminated this affair, one of those little accidents which chequer missionary life in Spain. Vitoriano is now with me at Naval Carnero, as he begged me almost on his knees to be permitted to attend me and to be employed as before. At his imprisonment he smiles. Antonio and myself have lately been very successful at Madrid, having sold considerably upwards of a hundred Testaments and several Bibles. It is with deep gratitude I state that the poor of Madrid receive the Scripture with gladness: to the rich I offer it not, their hearts are hard. I am writing a journal of the present expedition. GEORGE BORROW. To Mr. W. Hitchin (_Endorsed_: recd. March 21, 1839) MADRID, _March_ 9, 1839. On the other side I send you my account, which I hope you will find correct. In order to prevent confusion, I have charged my expenses from the period of my leaving London until my arrival at Cadiz in the Spanish, instead of the English currency. Respecting the item of Vitoriano, it will be as well to observe that, when employed in journeying, I allow him six _reals_ per diem and his diet, and two when in Madrid. I do not know that there is anything else to which I need direct your attention, except that I have not noted my quarter's salary because ignorant of the rate of exchange. If you please, you can credit me to the amount. I did not go further than Naval Carnero on the way to Talavera, on account of an accident which occurred, the clergy having raised the country against me. Glory to God, they are becoming thoroughly alarmed, and with much reason. I have disposed of all the Bibles bound already, and have been compelled on account of the demand to order the rest of the sheets to be got in readiness. We shall be compelled to evacuate our storehouse and to seek another, as the rats are doing prodigious havoc to the stores. Pray, remember me to all friends, and believe me, etc., GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Apr. 8, 1839) 20 _March_ 1839, MADRID, CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Having much to communicate, and of no slight importance, I shall offer no apology for now addressing you. My last letter was from Naval Carnero, in which I informed you of various circumstances, connected with the distribution of the blessed Gospel, which had recently occurred. I likewise stated that it was very probable that I should proceed to Talavera, for the purpose of seeing what might be done in that neighbourhood. The day, however, subsequent to dispatching my letter ushered in events which compelled me to alter my resolution; twenty Testaments were seized in a village in the neighbourhood of Naval Carnero, and I learned that our proceedings, on the other side of Madrid, had caused alarm amongst the heads of the clergy, who made a formal complaint to the Government--who immediately sent orders to all the _Alcaldes_ of the villages, great and small, in New Castile to seize the New Testament wherever it might be exposed for sale, but at the same time to be particularly careful not to detain or maltreat the person or persons who might be attempting to vend it. An exact description of myself accompanied these orders, and the authorities, both civil and military, were exhorted to be on their guard against me, and my arts and machinations; for, as the document stated, I was to-day in one place and to-morrow at twenty leagues distance. On receiving this intelligence, I instantly resolved to change for a time my strategic system, and not to persist in a course which would expose the sacred volume to seizure at every step which I might take to circulate it. I therefore galloped back to Madrid, leaving Vitoriano to follow. It will be as well to observe here, that we sold twenty and odd Testaments in villages adjacent to Naval Carnero, before the orders had arrived. Arrived at Madrid, I lost not a moment in putting into execution the plan which I had formed. Having an extensive acquaintance amongst the lower orders, I instantly selected eight of the most intelligent to co-operate with me, amongst whom were five women. All these I supplied with Testaments, and then sent them forth to all the parishes in Madrid. I will at once state the result which, I confess, has more than answered my expectations. Since my return from Naval Carnero nearly six hundred copies of the life and words of Him of Nazareth have been sold in the streets and alleys of Madrid, a fact which I hope I may be permitted to mention with gladness and with decent triumph in the Lord. There is a place in Madrid called the Puerta del Sol, which is a central spot, surrounded with shops, into which the four principal streets disembogue, if I may be allowed the expression. These streets are the Calle Alcala, the Calle Montera, the Calle Mayor, and that of Carreta. The wealthiest of all these is the Calle Montera, where reside the principal merchants and shop-keepers of Madrid; it is in fact the street of commerce, and is in many respects similar to the Zacatin of Granada. Every house in this street is supplied with its Testament, and the same may be said with respect to the Puerta del Sol; nay, in some instances every individual in the house, man and child, man-servant and maid-servant, is furnished with a copy, which we have invariably sold, and never given. My Greek Antonio has made wonderful exertions in this quarter, and it is but justice to say that but for his instrumentality, on many occasions, I might be by no means able to give so favourable an account of the spread of the Bible in Spain, as I now conscientiously can. There was a time when, as you are well aware, I was in the habit of saying, 'Dark Madrid,' an expression which I thank God I may now drop; for can that city justly be called 'dark' in which thirteen hundred Testaments, at least, are in circulation and in daily use? It appears to me that a glorious reform is commencing in Spain; indeed matters have lately come to my knowledge, which had they been prophesied only a year ago by the Spirit of truth itself, I should have experienced much difficulty in believing. You will be surprised when I tell you that in two churches of Madrid, the New Testament is regularly expounded every Sunday evening, by the respective curates, to about twenty children who attend, and who are provided with copies of the Society's edition of Madrid, 1837. The churches which I allude to are those of San Gines and Santa Cruz. Now I humbly conceive that this fact alone is more than equivalent to all the expense which the Society has incurred, in the efforts which it has hitherto made to introduce the Gospel into Spain; but be this as it may, I am certain, if I may judge by my own feelings, that it has amply recompensed me for all the anxiety and unhappiness which I underwent last year. Whenever I am now called upon to discontinue my labours in the Peninsula, I shall comply without the slightest murmur or remonstrance, my heart being filled with gratitude to the Lord for having been permitted, useless vessel as I am, to see at least some of the seed springing up which during two years I have been casting on the stony ground of the interior of Spain. There is at present a great demand for Bibles; since the time of writing last we have sold upwards of one hundred copies. Indeed the demand is far greater than I can answer, as the books are disposed of faster than they can be bound by the man whom I employ for that purpose, and in whose secrecy and honour I have perfect confidence. Eight-and-twenty copies are at present bespoken and paid for. Many of these Bibles have found their way into the best houses in Madrid. The Marquis of Santa Coloma has a large family, but every individual of it, old or young, is now in possession of a Bible and likewise of a Testament, which, strange to say, were recommended by the chaplain of the house. One of my most zealous agents in the propagation of the Bible is an ecclesiastic. He never walks out without carrying one beneath his gown, which he offers to the first person he meets whom he thinks likely to purchase. Another excellent assistant is an elderly gentleman of Navarre, enormously rich, who is continually purchasing copies on his own account, which he, as I am told, sends into his native province, for distribution amongst his friends and the poor. I have at present sold as many Testaments as I think Madrid will bear, for a time. I have therefore called in the greatest part of my people, and content myself with the sale of twelve or fourteen a week, for I am afraid to over-stock the market, and to bring the book into contempt by making it too common. The greatest part of those which still remain (about one thousand) I reserve for Seville, Granada, and some of the other inland cities of Andalusia, specially Jaen, the bishop of which is very favourable to us and our cause. I have likewise my eye on Ceuta, its garrison, its convicts, and singular inhabitants, half Spaniards, half Moors. To Andalusia I shall probably proceed in about three weeks. I beg leave to call your attention to the work I sent you, and the ferocious attack which it contains against the Bible Society, and especially to the letter of the curate, which I sincerely wish you would insert in your Extracts. This publication was established and is supported by money sent by the Cardinals of Rome, and is principally directed against us. Its abuse, however, is our praise; and the world may form some judgment of what we are accomplishing in Spain by attending to some of the remarks and observations which appear in this work, and which are in all points worthy of Rome and its clan. My respects to Mr. Josiah Forster, who I hope will have received the biography of Ripoll, the Quaker, executed at Valencia in 1826. What news from China? (UNSIGNED.) To the Rev. Joseph Jowett (_Endorsed_: recd. April 22, 1839) _April_ 10, 1839, MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--In a few days I shall leave Madrid for Seville; and being anxious to write a few lines before my departure in order that yourself and others friends may be acquainted with the exact state of affairs in Spain, I embrace the present opportunity. In the first place however I beg leave to apologise for not having ere this performed my promise of writing. Many causes unnecessary to recapitulate prevented me; but I steadfastly hope that already with your usual considerate goodness you have imputed my tardiness to anything but neglect. A convoy starts for Andalusia on the 13th, and I intend to avail myself of it so far as to send therewith my servant Antonio with the horses and the Testaments which I destine for circulation in that province. I shall myself follow with the courier. True it is that I had determined to proceed by Estremadura, but circumstances have occurred which have induced me to alter my resolution. The roads in Spain are in a worse state than ever; and in Estremadura particularly, which for some time past has enjoyed a tolerable state of tranquillity, a band of Carlist robbers have lately made their appearance, who murder, make prisoner, or put at ransom every person who has the misfortune to fall into their hands. I therefore deem it wise to avoid, if possible, the alternative of being shot or having to pay one thousand pounds for being set at liberty, which has already befallen several individuals. It is moreover wicked to tempt Providence systematically. I have already thrust myself into more danger than was perhaps strictly necessary, and as I have been permitted hitherto to escape, it is better to be content with what it has pleased the Lord to do for me up to the present moment, than to run the risk of offending Him by a blind confidence in His forbearance, which may be over-taxed. As it is, however, at all times best to be frank, I am willing to confess that I am what the world calls exceedingly superstitious; perhaps the real cause of my change of resolution was a dream, in which I imagined myself on a desolate road in the hands of several robbers, who were hacking me with their long ugly knives. We have been very successful of late, having, since my last letter to Mr. Brandram, sold no less than two hundred Bibles, so that not more than one hundred and fifty remain of the five hundred which were sent to me from Barcelona in sheets. I have discontinued selling Testaments in Madrid, as it appears to me that we shall have barely sufficient, unless something unforeseen occurs, for Andalusia and one or two other points which I wish to visit. When I recollect the difficulties which have encompassed our path, I can sometimes hardly credit all that the Almighty has permitted us to accomplish within the last year: a large edition of the New Testament almost entirely disposed of in the very centre of old, gloomy, fanatic Spain, in spite of the opposition and the furious cry of the sanguinary priesthood and the edicts of a tyrannical, deceitful Government; moreover a spirit of religious enquiry excited, which I have fervent hope will sooner or later lead to blessed and most important results. Till of late the name most abhorred and dreaded in these parts of Spain was that of Martin Luther, who was in general considered as a species of demon, a cousin-german to Belial and Beelzebub, who under the disguise of a man wrote and preached blasphemy against the Highest. Yet now, strange to say, this once abominated personage is spoken of with no slight degree of respect. People, with Bibles in their hands, not unfrequently visit me, enquiring with much earnestness and with no slight degree of simplicity for the writings of the great Doctor Martin, whom indeed some suppose to be still alive. It will be as well here to observe that of all the names connected with the Reformation, that of Luther is the only one known in Spain, and let me add that no controversial writings but his are likely to be esteemed as possessing the slightest weight or authority, however great their intrinsic merit may be. The printing, therefore, of tracts in the Spanish language, of the description hitherto adopted, appears to be pregnant with no good or benefit whatever. Of what might be the result of well-executed translations of judicious selections from the works of Luther, it is not my business to offer an opinion. Before commencing this journey to Andalusia I must take the liberty of making one humble request to my friends of the Bible Society, which is to be patient. It may not be in my power to send them for a long time any flattering accounts of operations commenced there. I shall be surrounded with enemies, bitter, malignant, and powerful, against whose efforts it is very possible that I may not be able to stand my ground; or the books which I carry with me may be seized and sequestrated, in spite of all the plans which I have devised for their safety. The great failing of Protestants, in general, is a tendency to spring suddenly to the pinnacle of exultation, and as suddenly to fall to the lowest bathos of dejection, forgetting that the brightest day as well as the most gloomy night must necessarily have a termination. How far more wise are the members of that object of my undying detestation, the Church of Rome; from mixing with whom I have acquired one principal point of wisdom, which may be termed, _Ever to expect evil_, _and ever to hope for good_; by attending to which maxim we find that Church ever regaining the ground which it has lost. Yesterday seeming a lifeless stick, as in the case of England, to-day it is a magnificent tree, glorious with leaves and fruit. Excuse these observations which, I assure you, are well meant. No one acquainted with me will lay undue partiality to the Roman Church to my charge, yet there are some points about it which I highly admire; and you know well enough that it is lawful to receive instruction from an enemy. I have been lately going through Morrison's Chinese Matthew. I confess that I am the merest tyro in the language, nevertheless I am compelled to state that upon the whole I do not like the translation. It appears to me that in various instances the characters are not grammatically placed; I mean, not as they are placed in the writings if the best Chinese authors to express the same ideas. Moreover he has translated the sacred Name by the character which the Chinese are in the habit of bestowing on the spirits whose idols they worship, and which is by no means applicable to the one great God, whom the missionaries of the Greek and Roman Churches for want of an equivalent in Chinese have always styled, and with justice [three Chinese characters] (_tien tsz hwang_), or King of Heaven. The Holy Ghost, he renders by _tching fung_, or Holy Wind, which is a Hebraism, and which can scarcely be understood by the Chinese. In Lipoftsoff's Mandchou version it is happily translated by the Holy Spirit. You will recollect that on my second return to Spain you requested me to look into Morrison's Testament, on which account I shall offer no excuse for these trifling remarks. Do me the favour, my dear Sir, to inform Mr. Hitchin that within a day or two I shall send him another account of money received and disbursed. I hope you forwarded the packet containing the life of Ripoll to Mr. Forster.--Having now said my say for the present, I have the honour to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram. (_Endorsed_: recd. May 21, 1839) SEVILLE, SPAIN, _May_ 2, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have been in Seville one week. Perhaps on learning this you will be disposed to demand the reason of my not having written previously to this, knowing, as I do, the anxiety of my friends to know the fate of their adventurer in his wanderings in wild Spain; but believe me that I had several reasons for deferring, the principal being an unconquerable aversion to writing blank letters. At present I have something to communicate besides my arrival, indeed one or two odd things. The courier and myself came all the way without the slightest accident, my usual wonderful good fortune accompanying us. I may well call it wonderful. I was not aware when I resolved to venture with the mail that I was running into the den of the lion, the whole of La Mancha with the exception of a few fortified places being once more in the hands of Pollillos and his banditti, who whenever it pleases them, stop the courier, burn the vehicle and letters, murder the paltry escort which attends, and carry away any chance passenger to the mountains, where an enormous ransom is demanded, which if not paid, brings on the dilemma of four shots through the head, as the Spaniards say. The upper part of Andalusia is becoming rapidly nearly as bad as La Mancha. The last time the courier had passed, he was attacked at the defile of La Rumblar by six mounted robbers; he was guarded by an escort of as many soldiers; but the former suddenly galloped from behind a solitary _venta_ and dashed the soldiers to the ground, who were taken quite by surprise, the hoofs of the robbers' horses making no noise on account of the great quantity of mud. The soldiers were instantly disarmed and bound to olive-trees, with the exception of two who escaped amongst the rocks; they were then mocked and tormented by the robbers, or rather fiends, for nearly half an hour, when they were shot, the head of the corporal who commanded being blown to fragments with a blunderbuss. The robbers then burnt the coach, which they accomplished by igniting the letters by means of the tow with which they light their cigars. The life of the courier was saved by one of them who had formerly been his postillion; he was, however, robbed and stripped. As we passed by the scene of the butchery the poor fellow burst into tears, and, though a Spaniard, cursed Spain and the Spaniards, saying that he shortly intended to pass over to Morocco to confess Mahomet and to learn the Law of the Moors, for that any country and religion was better than his own. He pointed to the tree where the corporal had been tied; though much rain had fallen since, the ground around was still saturated with blood, and a dog was gnawing a piece of the unfortunate wretch's skull. A friar travelled with us the whole way from Madrid to Seville; he was _of the Missionaries_, and was going to the Philippine Islands to conquer (_para conquistar_), for such was his word, by which I suppose he meant preaching to the Indians. During the whole journey he exhibited every symptom of the most abject fear, which operated upon him so that he became deadly sick, so that we were obliged to stop twice in the road and lay him amongst the green corn. He said that if he fell into the hands of the factious he was a lost priest, for that they would first make him say mass and then blow him up with gunpowder. He had been a professor of philosophy, as he told me, in one of the convents (I think it was San Tomas) of Madrid, before their suppression, but appeared to be grossly ignorant of the Scripture, which he confounded with the works of Virgil. We stopped at Manzanares as usual; it was Sunday morning and the market was crowded with people. I was recognised in a moment, and twenty pairs of legs instantly hurried away in quest of the prophetess, who presently made her appearance in the house to which we had retired to breakfast. After many greetings on both sides, she proceeded in her admirable Latin to give me an account of all that had occurred in the village since I had last been there, and of the atrocities of the factious in the neighbourhood. I asked her to breakfast and introduced her to the friar whom she addressed in this manner; _Anne Domine Reverendissime facis adhuc sacrificium_? But the friar did not understand her, and waxing angry anathematized her for a witch and bade her begone. She was however not to be disconcerted, and commenced singing in extemporary Castilian verse the praises of friars and religious houses in general. On departing I gave her a _peseta_, upon which she burst into tears and entreated that I would write to her if I reached Seville in safety. We did arrive at Seville in safety, and I took leave of the friar telling him that I hoped to meet him again at Philippi. I must now be brief. In a few days Antonio arrived with the horses. Difficulties now began to show themselves. All the Testaments were stopped at the custom house, they were contained in two large chests: but I now know Spain and the Spaniards. For a few dollars I procured a _fiador_ or person who engaged _that the chests_ should be carried down the river and embarked at San Lucar for a foreign land. Yesterday I hired a boat and sent them down, but on the way I landed in a secure place all the Testaments which I intend for this part of the country. The chests therefore, with the copies required for Tangiers and England, with the hundred Gospels in Gitano and Basque for the Library of the Bible Society, are at present at San Lucar in the custom house, from which I expect to receive to-morrow the receipt which the authorities here demand, and which will be necessary for the security of my voucher. Indeed the whole affair, though attended with considerable trouble and expense to me, was a mere formality, as I was given to understand. I was myself treated with the greatest politeness, and was told that my intentions were known and honoured. Late last night Antonio and myself returned from an excursion on foot, bringing beneath our cloaks, as if they were smuggled goods, a considerable number of Testaments; our path lay along the banks of the Guadalquivir, the rain poured and the river roared, and by the time we reached Seville we were wet through and covered with mud from head to foot. To-day I am laid up, being so _stiff_ and sore that I can hardly move; but anything for the Gospel's sake. It is my opinion, and I am not one of those who hazard an opinion rashly, that much may be accomplished in this place, which, though by no means the most populous and wealthy, is the most interesting town in all Spain, and stands beneath the most glorious heaven, and amidst the most delightful environs; but to effect anything, patience must be exhibited and prudence employed, and much of both. Consider my situation here. I am in a city by nature very Levitical, as it contains within it the most magnificent and splendidly endowed cathedral of any in Spain. I am surrounded by priests and friars, who know and hate me, and who, if I commit the slightest act of indiscretion, will halloo their myrmidons against me. The press is closed to me, the libraries are barred against me, I have no one to assist me but my hired servant, no pious English families to comfort or encourage me, the British subjects here being ranker papists and a hundred times more bigoted than the Spanish themselves, the consul a _renegade Quaker_. Yet notwithstanding, with God's assistance I will do much, though silently, burrowing like the mole in darkness beneath the ground. Those who have triumphed in Madrid, and in the two Castiles where the difficulties were seven times greater, are not to be dismayed by priestly frowns at Seville. All I dread is the imprudence of very excellent people, whose aim is good, but who are doing exactly what is calculated to further the views of the enemy. I wish they could be brought to see the absolute necessity of changing their system. I suppose you heard of the affair of Cadiz. I have of late written several letters home, which I wish may have been received as they contain information which I think will be considered of importance; nevertheless as the road to France has for some time past been in the hands of the Carlists, it is very possible that they may have miscarried. I shall therefore take the liberty of telling you that about a thousand Testaments have been sold, and all the Bibles, to the amount of 463, since my return to the Peninsula. I shall be happy to receive a letter from you as soon as possible: you can direct either to my lodgings at Madrid, or to Posada de la Reyna, Calle Gimios, Sevilla. Pray excuse this letter, it is badly written, with a bad pen and with bad ink. I am moreover sick and in pain. Present my respects to Mr. Jowett, Mr. Browne, and all friends, not forgetting Dr. Steinkopff, to whom I shortly hope to write. (UNSIGNED.) To the Rev. G. Browne (_Endorsed_: recd. July 1, 1839) SEVILLE, PLAZUELA DE LA PILA SECA, No. 7, _June_ 12, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I received in due course of time your exceedingly kind letter of the 16th April, and am very grateful for the various intelligence which you were pleased to communicate. I should have replied ere this; but I am one of those, as I believe you are aware, who are averse to writing, especially from a considerable distance, unless they possess matter of sufficient consequence to fill creditably the pages of an epistle. I could wish that at the present moment I had more to write upon, and more interesting details to send you than these which follow. For two or three weeks after my arrival at Seville I was unable to accomplish anything, on account of the seizure of the books, with which you are doubtless acquainted. I however by the assistance of the Almighty, for which I prayed, was enabled, though not without considerable trouble, to overcome that difficulty, and to obtain all the Testaments of which I was in need, to the number of two hundred and upwards. But still I commenced not operations; indeed I was quite at a loss, being in a strange place and under very peculiar circumstances, to imagine the best course to pursue. I therefore waited with perfect patience until it should please Providence to assist me, and true it is that help came in rather a remarkable manner. I was standing in the courtyard of the Reyna _posada_, where for the time I had taken up my abode, when a man singularly dressed and gigantically tall entered. My curiosity being excited, I enquired of the master of the house who he was, when he informed me that he was a foreigner who had resided a considerable time in Seville, and he believed a Greek. Upon hearing this I instantly went up to the stranger, and accosted him in the Greek language in which, though I speak it very ill, I can make myself understood. He replied in the same idiom, and, flattered by the interest which I a foreigner expressed for his nation, was not slow in communicating to me his history. He told me, that his name was Dionysius; that he was a native of Cephalonia, and had been educated for the Church, which however not suiting his temper, he had abandoned in order to follow the profession of the sea, for which he had an early inclination; that after many adventures and changes of fortune he found himself one morning on the coast of Spain--a shipwrecked mariner; and that, ashamed to return to his own country in poverty and distress, he had remained in the Peninsula, residing chiefly at Seville, where he now carried on a small trade in books. He said that he was of the Greek religion, to which he professed strong attachment, and soon discovering that I was a Protestant, spoke with unbounded abhorrence of the Papal system, nay of its followers in general, whom he called Latins, and whom he charged with the ruin of his own country, inasmuch as they sold it to the Turk. It instantly struck me that this individual would be an excellent assistant in the work which had brought me to Seville, namely the propagation of the eternal Gospel; and accordingly after some more conversation, in which he exhibited considerable learning, I explained myself to him. He entered into my views with considerable eagerness; and hitherto I have had no reason to repent my confidence, he having disposed of a considerable number of New Testaments, and even contrived to send a certain number of copies to two small towns, at some distance from Seville. On account of the extreme dearness of every article at the _posada_, where moreover I had a suspicion that I was watched, I removed with my servant and horses to an empty house in a solitary part of the town, where I still am, and where I purpose to remain during my stay in Andalusia. Here I live in the greatest privacy, admitting no person but two or three in whom I have the greatest confidence, who entertain the same views as myself and who assist me in the circulation of the Gospel. One of these is a very remarkable person: an aged professor of music, by birth an old Castilian, and one of the very few who retain traces of the ancient Spanish character, which with all its faults, its stiffness, its formality, and its pride, I believe (always setting the character of the Christian aside) to be the most estimable and trustworthy in the world. This venerable individual has just brought me the price of six Testaments and a Gypsy Gospel, which he has this day sold under the heat of an Andalusian sun. What was his motive? A Christian one, truly. He says that his unfortunate countrymen, who are at present robbing and murdering each other, may probably be rendered better by the reading of the Gospel, but cannot be injured: adding, that many a man has been reformed by the Scripture but that no one ever yet became a thief or assassin from its perusal. I have not yet addressed myself much to the lower orders in these parts. Indeed the quantity of books, at my disposal, at present remaining unsold in Spain is so small, that I am almost tempted to be niggard of them, lest in an unprovided hour an extraordinary call should be made. However, before leaving Seville, it will be well to pay some attention to the poor. I have an agent awaiting my orders, another Greek, introduced to me by Dionysius; he is a labouring brick-layer, a native of the Morea, and has been upwards of thirty-five years in this country, so that he has almost entirely lost his native language; nevertheless his attachment to his own country is so strong, that he considers whatever is not Greek to be utterly barbarous and bad. Though entirely destitute of education he has, by his strength of character and by a kind of rude eloquence which he possesses, obtained such a mastery over the minds of the labouring classes of Seville that to everything he asserts they assent, however his assertions may shock their prejudices and Spanish pride; so that notwithstanding he is a foreigner he may at any time become the _Masaniello_ of Seville. I am happy to be able to add that he is an honest, industrious man notwithstanding his eccentricities, so that should I employ him, which I have not yet resolved upon, I may entertain perfect confidence that his actions will be no disparagement to the book he vends. We are continually pressed for Bibles, which of course we cannot supply; Testaments are held in comparatively little esteem. Allow me to make here a remark which it is true I ought to have made three years ago; but we live and learn. It is unwise to print Testaments, and Testaments alone for Catholic countries. The reason is plain. The Catholic, unused to Scripture reading, finds a thousand things which he cannot possibly understand in the New Testament, the foundation of which is the Old. 'Search the Scriptures, for they bear witness to Me,' may well be applied to this point. It may be replied that New Testaments separate are in great demand and of infinite utility in England. But England, thanks be to the Lord, is not Spain; and though an English labourer may read a Testament and derive from it the most blessed fruit, it does not follow that a Spanish peasant will enjoy similar success, as he will find many dark things with which the other is well acquainted and competent to understand, being versed in the Bible history from his childhood. I confess however that in the campaign of last summer we could not have accomplished with Bibles what Providence permitted us to do with Testaments, the former being far too bulky for rural journeys. In conclusion, I am glad to be able to say that one of my principal reasons for leaving Madrid was an inability to answer the pressing demands for Bibles which came pouring upon me every instant, and to which every person in the house where I lived can bear witness. Let the Revd. Doctor Wiseman get over this fact, who in his unchristian and unfounded attack on the Bible Society has stated that it cannot dispose of its books at any price, nor indeed get rid of them gratis! Dear Mrs. Browne shall have her letter. G. B. _P.S._ I have just received Mr. Brandram's epistle. Present to him my best thanks for it, and above all for the remarks, which I will remember. Pray let him send me the Pamphlet of the T. S. I wish to see their observations on the Vulgate. Likewise the other papers. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. July 15, 1839) SEVILLE, PLAZUELA DE LA PILA SECA, No. 7, 28 _June_ 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I received your letter of the 22nd May, and likewise Mr. Jackson's of the 5th June, containing the conclusion of the [Annual] Report, which you were so kind as to send me. I wish in the first place to say a few words, which some passages in your communication suggest. Think not I pray you that any observation of yours respecting style, or any peculiarities of expression which I am in the habit of exhibiting in my correspondence, can possibly awaken in me any feeling but that of gratitude, knowing so well as I do the person who offers them, and the motives by which he is influenced. I have reflected on those passages which you were pleased to point out as objectionable, and have nothing to reply further than that I have erred, that I am sorry, and will endeavour to mend, and that moreover I have already prayed for assistance so to do. Allow me however to offer a word not in excuse but in explanation of the expression 'wonderful good fortune' which appeared in a former letter of mine. It is clearly objectionable, and, as you very properly observe, savours of pagan times. But I am sorry to say that I am much in the habit of repeating other people's sayings without weighing their propriety. The saying was not mine: but I heard it in conversation and thoughtlessly repeated it. A few miles from Seville I was telling the courier of the many perilous journeys which I had accomplished in Spain in safety, and for which I thanked the Lord. His reply was: '_La mucha suerte de Usted tambien nos ha acompanado en este viage_.' Your reply to the Trinitarian Society, for I suppose that it was written by you, afforded me the highest satisfaction. I admired its tone and spirit, and said at the time that a more convincing piece of reasoning had never been penned on any subject. The case of Luther and the early Reformers, who were converted from the errors of Popery by the perusal of the Vulgate, the book of the Popish Church, is certainly exceedingly strong; as it at once does away with any argument which may be raised against the propriety of circulating versions made from it. Perhaps it would have been as well to add that the Lollards' Bible, the book which converted England, was a literal translation from the Vulgate and not from the original tongues, which, as is well knows, Wickliffe did not understand. Those who decry the Vulgate should please to remember that, though adopted by the Popish Church, its foundation was laid before Popery existed, and that before criticising a book it is desirable to have read it. There are faults in the Vulgate, indeed far too many; but I believe them to be more the result of infirmity than malice, all the heavy and strong texts most dangerous to the Papal system appearing in it uncurtailed and unmodified. No people dread the Vulgate more than the Papists themselves, which they know to be _a terrible two-edged sword which will cut off their hands if they handle it_. I now beg leave to send you an extract of a letter which I received yesterday morning from Madrid. It is from my landlady, who is my agent there, and I consider it to be my duty to communicate it to the Society, as I consider that it speaks volumes as to the state of affairs in the capital and the spirit of enquiry abroad; at the same time I presume not to offer any comment upon it. The rest of the letter treats of indifferent matters. 'The binder has brought me eight Bibles, which he has contrived to make up out of _the sheets gnawn by the rats_, and which would have been necessary even had they amounted to eight thousand (_y era necesario se puvieran vuelto_ 8000), {422a} because the people are innumerable who come to seek more. Don Santiago has been here with some friends, who insisted upon having a part of them. The Aragonese gentleman has likewise been, he who came before your departure and bespoke twenty-four. He now wants twenty-five. I begged them to take Testaments, but they would not.' {422b} We go on selling Testaments at Seville in a quiet satisfactory manner. We have just commenced offering the book to the poor. That most remarkable individual, Johannes Chrysostom, the Greek bricklayer, being the agent whom we employ. I confess that we might sell more than we at present do, were we to press the matter; but we are cautious, and moreover our stock of Testaments is waning apace. Two or three ladies of my acquaintance occasionally dispose of some amongst their friends, but they say that they experience some difficulty, the cry for Bibles being great. Dionysius also tells me that for every Testament which he sells he could dispose of with ease fifty Bibles. Within a few weeks I propose to cross the water to Ceuta and Tangiers with part of the books at present in embargo at San Lucar. I shall take the liberty of giving you a full and minute description of the state of those places, the first of which has, I believe, never been visited by any one bearing the Gospel. When I consider the immensity of what remains to be done, even in this inconsiderable portion of the globe, before wretched mortals can be brought to any sense of their lost and fallen state, I invariably lose all hope of anything efficient being accomplished by human means, unless it shall please the Almighty to make of straws and rushes weapons capable of cleaving the adamantine armour of superstition and unbelief. It is eight o'clock at night, and Johannes Chrysostom has I just arrived from his labour. I have not spoken to him; but I hear him below in the courtyard detailing to Antonio the progress he has made in the last two days. He speaks barbarous Greek, plentifully interlarded with Spanish words; but I gather from his discourse that he has already sold twelve Testaments among his fellow-labourers. I hear copper coin falling on the stones and Antonio, who is not of a very Christian temper, reproving him for not having brought the proceeds of the sale in silver. He now asks for fifteen [Testaments] more, as he says the demand is becoming great, and that he shall have no difficulty in disposing of them in the course of the morrow whilst pursuing his occupations. Antonio goes to fetch them, and he now stands alone by the little marble fountain, singing a wild song, which I believe to be a hymn of his beloved Greek Church. Behold one of the helpers which the Lord has sent me in my Gospel labours on the shores of the Guadalquivir. Should you wish to transmit to me any part of the Report, I should conceive that you had best direct it to the care of Mr. Brackenbury at Cadiz, on whom I propose to call on my way to Ceuta, etc. As for Cadiz itself, I have no intention of attempting to do any thing there, at least for the present. After a great deal of gloomy and unsettled weather the genuine Andalusian summer has come upon us at last. The brilliancy of the sun and the azure of the heavens are perfectly indescribable. The people here complain sadly of the heat, but as for myself, I luxuriate in it, like the butterflies which hover about the _macetas_, or flowerpots, in the court. Hoping that you will present my remembrances to Mrs. Brandram, and likewise to all other dear friends, I remain Revd. and dear Sir, yours truly, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Aug. 5, 1839) SEVILLE, No. 7 PLAZUELA DE LA PILA SECA, 18_th_ _July_ 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--As I am about to leave Seville in a few days for San Lucar, Tangiers, and Ceuta, I wish before setting out to send a word or two in order that you may be acquainted with the state of matters up to the present moment. Our work is concluded here for the season, and for the very efficient reason that I have no more Testaments to sell, somewhat more than two hundred having been circulated since my arrival. A poor Genoese, the waiter at a Swiss ordinary, has just been with me requesting a dozen, which he says have been bespoken by people who frequent the house, but I have been obliged to send him away, it not being in my power to supply him. About ten days since I was visited by various _alguacils_, headed by the _Alcalde del Barrio_, or headborough, who made a small seizure of Testaments and Gypsy Gospels which happened to be lying about. This visit was far from being disagreeable to me, as I considered it to be a very satisfactory proof of the effect of our exertions in Seville. I cannot help here relating to you an anecdote. A day or two subsequent, having occasion to call at the house of the headborough to complain of an act of dishonesty which had been committed by my porters, I found him lying on his bed, for it was the hour of the _siesta_, reading intently one of the very Testaments which he had taken away--all of which, if he had obeyed his orders, he would have deposited in the office of the Civil Governor. So intently indeed was he engaged in his reading that he did not at first observe my entrance; when he did, however, he sprang up in great confusion, and locked the book up in his cabinet; whereupon I smiled and told him to be under no alarm, as I was glad to see him so usefully employed. Recovering himself he said that he had read the book nearly through, and that he had found no harm in it, but on the contrary everything to praise, adding that he believed that the clergy must be possessed with devils (_endemoniados_) to persecute it in the manner which they did. It was Sunday when the seizure was made, and I happened to be reading the Liturgy. One of the _alguacils_ when going away made an observation respecting the very different manner in which the Protestants and Catholics keep the Sabbath, the former being in their houses reading good books, and the latter abroad in the bull ring, seeing the wild bulls tearing out the gory bowels of the poor horses. The bull amphitheatre at Seville is, as you perhaps may have heard, the finest in all Spain, and is invariably on a Sunday, the only day in which it is open, filled with applauding multitudes. I am happy to be able to say that the soil of Spain is now tolerably well broken up, and to a certain degree prepared for the labours of any future missionaries bearing the blessed Bible, who may visit this interesting part of the world. We have had considerable difficulty hitherto in circulating Testaments, and we have merely been enabled to scatter about the thousands, which are now being read, by very extraordinary exertions. Nevertheless when I take a large view of the subject I feel inclined to believe that we were right in commencing our labours in the interior of Spain by printing an edition of the New Testament at Madrid. I much doubt whether the astonishing demand for the Bible, which almost compelled me to leave the capital, and which now shows itself at Seville and other places, for example, Burgos, Valladolid, and Saint James of Galicia, to the great mortification of the Popish clergy, would have arisen but for the appearance of the New Testament which awaked in people's minds the desire of possessing the entire Scripture. With great humility, however, I feel disposed to advise that provided at any future time the Society should think itself called upon to recommence its exertions here in the cause of a crucified Saviour, it employ, as its mighty instrument the Bible, the entire blessed Bible; having nevertheless always ready for distribution a certain quantity of Testaments, the wishes of weak human beings being influenced by such strange causes that it is probable that were it known at Madrid, or in other places, that there was a dearth of Testaments, the demand for the same would instantly become greater than for the entire Bible. A few days since I received a communication from my correspondent at Saint James at Galicia, old Rey Romero, whom I have mentioned on a former occasion when residing there. The good old man has sent me in his account, by which it appears that 115 copies of the New Testament were sold at Saint James between the months of August 1837 and May 1838, at which time the further sale of the work was forbidden, and 35 copies, which remained unsold, placed in embargo. The balance of the account in our favour is 950 _reals_ after deducting all expenses. I shall preserve this letter with care, as I attach some importance to it. Who has not heard of Saint James of Compostella, the temple of the great image of the patron of Spain, and the most favourite resort in the world of benighted Popish pilgrims? Nevertheless 115 copies of the pure unadulterated Word of God were purchased there in a few months at the high price of ten _reals_ each. I humbly beg leave to refer you to my account of that remarkable place, and to hope that in the statement of proceedings in Spain it will not be forgotten. 64 copies, it appears, were also sold in the small town of Lugo, also in Galicia, and 56 at Leon, the capital of the ancient kingdom of the same name, and which perhaps may be considered as the least enlightened and most fanatic place in all Spain. By advice from Madrid from Mrs. Maria Diaz, whom I charged with the care of the property of the Bible Society in that place, it appears that there remain unsold:-- Of Testaments, 962 Of Gospels in the Gypsy tongue, 286 Of ditto in Basque, 394 The quantity of Testaments would not have been so large had I not recovered before leaving Madrid upwards of two hundred, which had been placed in embargo at Santander and subsequently removed to the capital. On a rough account, therefore, I should say that about three thousand have been sold during the last twelve months in the interior of Spain, for which I give praise to God with the humility and gratitude due. Of those which remain I should wish to be permitted on my return from my present expedition to circulate some in La Mancha, especially at Manzanares and Valdepenas. The state of that province is truly horrible; it appears peopled partly with spectres and partly with demons. There is famine, and such famine; there is assassination, and such unnatural assassination. There you see soldiers and robbers, ghastly lepers and horrible and uncouth maimed and blind, exhibiting their terrible nakedness in the sun. I was prevented last year in carrying the Gospel amongst them. May I be more successful this. I now beg leave to conclude my tedious letter with requesting that you will be kind enough to send the enclosed communication to my friend in Russia. I hope you will pardon the trouble I am giving you, but I have no other resource, as there is no direct mode of communication between Russia and Spain. Present my kind remembrances to dear Mr. Jowett and other friends, and believe me to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Ever truly yours, G. B. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 7, 1839) TANGIERS, _September_ 4, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I have now been nearly one month in this place, and should certainly have written to you before had I possessed any secure means of despatching a letter; but there is no mail from Tangiers to any part of the world, so that when writing one is obliged to have recourse to the disagreeable necessity of confiding letters to individuals who chance to be going to Gibraltar to be put into the post there, who not unfrequently lose or forget them. One which I wrote for Spain has already miscarried, which circumstance makes me cautious. I will now relate the leading events which have occurred to me since my departure from Seville, observing however that I have kept a regular journal, which on the first opportunity I shall transmit for the satisfaction of my friends at home. You are already aware that I had determined to carry the Scripture in Spanish to the Christian families established on the sea-coast of Barbary, and more especially Tangiers, the Spanish language being in general use among them, whether Spaniards by birth or Genoese, French or English. To enable me to do this, having no copies of the sacred volume at Seville, I determined to avail myself of a certain number of Testaments in embargo at the custom-house of San Lucar a town at the mouth of the Guadalquivir, forming part of the stock seized by order of the Government and which I had been officially requested to remove from Spain. I started from Seville on the night of the 31st of July in one of the steamers which ply upon the Guadalquivir, arriving at San Lucar early in the morning. I shall now make an extract from my journal, relative to the Testaments. 'It will be as well here to curtail what relates to these books, otherwise the narrative might be considerably embarrassed. They consisted of a chest of Testaments in Spanish, and a small box of Saint Luke's Gospel in the Gitano or language of the Spanish Gypsies. I obtained them from the custom-house of San Lucar with a pass for that of Cadiz. At Cadiz I was occupied two days, and also a person whom I employed, in going through all the required formalities and in procuring the necessary papers. The expense was great, as money was demanded at every step I took, though I was simply complying with the orders of the Spanish Government in removing prohibited books from Spain. The farce did not end till after my arrival at Gibraltar, where I paid the Spanish consul a dollar for certifying on the back of the pass that the books had arrived, which pass I was obliged to send back to Cadiz. It is true that he never saw the books nor enquired about them; but he received the money, for which alone he seemed to be anxious. 'Whilst at the custom-house of San Lucar, I was asked one or two questions respecting the books contained in the chests; this afforded me some opportunity of speaking of the New Testament and the Bible Society. What I said excited attention, and presently all the officers and dependents of the house, great and small, were gathered around me, from the governor to the porter. As it was necessary to open the boxes to inspect their contents, we all proceeded to the courtyard where, holding a Testament in my hand, I recommenced my discourse. I scarcely know what I said, for I was much agitated and hurried away by my feelings, when I bethought me of the manner in which the Word of God was persecuted in the unhappy kingdom of Spain. My words however evidently made impression, and to my astonishment every person present pressed me for a copy. I sold several within the walls of the custom-house. The object, however, of most attention was the Gypsy Gospel, which was minutely examined amidst smiles and exclamations of surprise, some individual every now and then crying '_Cosas de los Ingleses_.' A bystander asked me whether I could speak the Gitano language. I replied that I could not only speak it but write it, and instantly made a speech of about five minutes in the Gypsy tongue, which I had no sooner concluded than all clapped their hands, and simultaneously shouted, '_Cosas de los Ingleses_! _Cosas de los Ingleses_!' I disposed of several Gypsy Gospels likewise, and having now settled the business which brought me to the custom-house, I saluted my new friends and departed with my books. 'I strolled from the inn to view the town. It was past noon, and the heat was exceedingly fierce . . . I became tired of gazing, and was retracing my steps, when I was accosted by two Gypsies, men who by some means had heard of my arrival. We exchanged some words in Gitano, but they appeared to be very ignorant of the language, and utterly unable to maintain a conversation in it. They were clamorous for a _gabicote_, or book, in Gypsy. I refused it them, saying that they could turn it to no profitable account; and learning that they could read, promised them each a Testament in Spanish. This offer, however, they refused with disdain, saying that they cared for nothing written in the language of the _Busne_ or Gentiles. They then persisted in their demand, to which I at last yielded, being unable to resist their importunity; whereupon they accompanied me to the inn, and received what they so ardently desired.' I arrived at Cadiz on the second day of August, when I waited upon Mr. Brackenbury, the British consul-general. His house, which is the corner one at the entrance of the _Alameda_ or public walk, enjoys a noble prospect of the bay, and is very large and magnificent. I had of course long been acquainted with Mr. B. by reputation. I knew that for many years he had filled with advantage to his native country and with honour to himself the distinguished and highly responsible situation which he holds in Spain. I knew likewise that he was a good and pious Christian, and moreover the firm and enlightened friend of the Bible Society. Of all this I was aware; but I had never enjoyed the advantage of being personally acquainted with him. I saw him now indeed for the first time. I was much struck with his appearance; there is much dignity in his countenance, which is, however, softened by an expression of good humour truly captivating and engaging. His manner is frank and affable in the extreme. I am not going to enter into minute details of our interview, which was a very interesting one to myself. He knew already the leading parts of my history since my arrival in Spain, and made several comments thereon which displayed his intimate knowledge of the situation of Spain, as regards ecclesiastical matters, and the state of opinion respecting religious innovation. I was flattered to find that his ideas in many points accorded with my own, and we were both decidedly of opinion that, notwithstanding the great persecution and outcry which had lately been raised against the Gospel, the battle was by no means lost in Spain, and that we might yet hope to see the holy cause triumph. During my stay at Cadiz I experienced every kind of hospitality from Mr. B. and his charming family. Upon my departure he supplied me with a letter of introduction to Mr. Hay, the British consul at Tangiers, which I have since learned was most flattering to myself and worded in the most energetic manner. I quitted Cadiz on the morning of Sunday, the 4th August, in the steamer _Balear_, arriving at Gibraltar on the evening of the same day. Nothing particular occurred to me during my stay at Gibraltar, where I engaged my passage on board a small trading vessel for Tangiers. We were detained by various causes until Thursday the 8th, when we sailed about noon, and assisted by a strong and favourable wind we reached the harbour of Tangiers before sunset. I was not permitted to go on shore that night, my passport and bill of health having first to be examined by the authorities. Early however on the following morning, Mr. Hay, who had received Mr. Brackenbury's letters of introduction, sent a Moorish soldier and his own servant to conduct me to his house, where he received me in the kindest manner. He had already procured me a comfortable lodging in the house of a Christian woman where I have remained ever since my arrival at Tangiers, constantly receiving every species of attention and civility from Mr. Hay. Tangiers stands on the side of a rather steep hill which rises above the sea. It is a walled town, and towards the water is defended with batteries mounted with heavy cannon. The streets are very numerous and intersect each other in all directions; they are narrow and precipitous, and the houses low, small and mean. The principal mosque, or _jamma_ [_djmah_] is rather a handsome edifice, and its tower, or _sumah_, which is built of bricks of various colours, presents a picturesque appearance when viewed from the sea: of its interior I can of course say little, as any Christian who should venture to intrude would be instantly cast forth and probably killed by the populace. About half way up the hill within the town there is a small market-place called in the language of the country _soc_. It is surrounded with little shops or booths, in which all kinds of dry fruits, such as dates, raisins, almonds, and walnuts are exposed for sale, and also honey, soap, sugar, and such other articles of grocery. These little shops are not in general kept by Moors, but by people from the country of Suz, who speak a different language from the Moors, and are of a different race, being a branch of the Berber stem; they are the grocers of Barbary and are, in comparison with the Moors, an honest, peaceable, and industrious people. The castle of the Governor stands at the northern extremity of Tangiers, on the top of a high eminence which towers above the town; its outer walls embrace a very large portion of ground, which is principally occupied by large edifices in the greatest dilapidation and decay. The castle itself when I visited it was undergoing repair, during the absence of the pasha who has since returned. All its inlets and outlets and also the greatest part of the apartments were choked up with ruins, rubbish, and mortar. The courtyard however is very fine, and is adorned with a fountain distilling limpid water, which is a rare spectacle in Tangiers where water is not in abundance. At each end of this court there is a hall of audience, highly magnificent in its way, with a roof of rich fretted work in the old Moorish taste, such as I have seen in the Alhambra of Granada, and in that truly fairy palace the Alcazar of Seville. Tangiers contains a population of about twenty thousand souls, of which at least one-third are Jews: the Christian portion does not amount to about two hundred and fifty individuals, including the various consuls and their families. These latter gentlemen enjoy considerable authority in the town, so much so that in all disputes between Moors and Christians they alone are the judges, and their decision is law; they are a very respectable body, being without one exception exceedingly well-bred gentlemanly individuals, and several of them, particularly Mr Hay, the British consul-general, possessed of high literary attainments. They enjoy very large salaries from their respective governments, varying from ten to sixteen thousand dollars per annum, so that, as all the necessaries and indeed many of the luxuries of life may be obtained at a very cheap price at Tangiers, they live in a state of magnificence more akin to that of petty kings than consuls in general. The most perfect harmony exists amongst them, and if, at any time, any little dispute occur between two or three of them, the rest instantly interfere and arrange matters; and they are invariably united to a man against the slightest infringement of their privileges and immunities on the part of the Moorish Government, and a slight or injury to one is instantly resented by all. The duties of the greatest part of them are far from being onerous, more especially as each is provided with a vice-consul, who is also an exceedingly well-bred and very well-paid gentleman. They pass the greatest part of their time in cultivating their delicious gardens, which, surrounded by hedges of _ksob_, which is a species of gigantic reed, cover the hills in the vicinity of Tangiers. Their houses, which are palace-looking buildings in the European taste and which contrast strangely with the mean huts of the Moors, are all surmounted by a flag-staff, which on gala days displays the banner of its respective nation. It is curious then to gaze from the castle hill on the town below; twelve banners are streaming in the wind of the Levant, which blows here almost incessantly. One is the bloody flag of the Moor, the natural master of the soil; but the eleven are of foreigners and Nazarenes, and are emblems of distant and different people. There floats the meteor banner of England beside the dirty rags of Spain and Portugal. There the pride of Naples, of Sardinia, and Sweden. There the angry tricolor; and not far from it the most beautiful of all, the Dannebrog of Denmark, a white cross gleaming consolingly amidst blood and fire, as when first seen by Waldemar; neighbour to it the Austrian; there the Orange; and yonder, far remote from all, like the country, the stripes and stars of the United States. Tangiers, with a Moorish and Jewish population, is not the city either of the Moor or the Jew: it is that of the consuls. Were it possible for any unprejudiced and rational being to doubt for a moment that the religion of Mahomet is a false one and uncalculated to promote the moral and political improvement of mankind, a slight glance at this Mahometan country would be sufficient to undeceive him. The Moors are the most fanatic of all Mahometans, and consider the Turks, Persians, and other followers of the Desert-Prophet, as seceders from the severe precepts of their religion. What is their state? They are governed in their towns and provinces by arbitrary despots called Pashas, who are accountable to no person but the Emperor, whose authority they frequently set at nought, and who is himself a despot of the most terrible description. Their lives, properties, and families are perfectly at the disposal of these men, who decapitate, imprison, plunder, and violate as their inclination tempts them. In this country it is every person's interest, however wealthy, to exhibit an appearance of abject poverty; as the suspicion of wealth instantly produces from the Sultan or Pasha a demand for some large sum, which must be forthwith paid or decapitation or torture are the severe alternatives. Here justice is indeed an empty name, the most atrocious criminals escaping unpunished if able to offer a bribe sufficient to tempt the cupidity of those whose duty it is to administer it. Here money is sought after with insatiable avidity by great and small, for its own sake, and not for what it will produce. It is piled up in the treasury or is buried underground, according to the situation in life of its possessors. In this land there is neither public peace or individual security; no one travels a league but at the extreme danger of his life, and war is continually raging not against foreign enemies but amongst the people themselves. The Sultan collects armies and marches against this or that province, which is sure to be in a state of rebellion; if successful, a thousand heads are borne before him on his return in ghastly triumph on the lances of his warriors; and if vanquished, his own not unfrequently blackens in the sun above the gate of some town or village. Here truth and good faith are utterly unknown, friendship exists not, nor kindly social intercourse; here pleasure is sought in the practice of abominations or in the chewing of noxious and intoxicating drugs; here men make a pomp and a parade of their infamy; and the cavalcade which escorts with jealous eye the wives and concubines of the potentate on a march or journey is also charged with the care of his _zammins_, the unfortunate youths who administer to his fouler passions. Such is the moral, and the political state of Morocco! Such are the fruits of a religion which is not that of the Bible. The state of the Jews in this country is in every respect pitiable. It is one of great thraldom, yet is nevertheless far superior to what it was previous to the accession of the present monarch Muley Abd al Rahman to the throne; before that period they enjoyed scarcely any of the rights of human beings, and were plundered, beaten, and maimed by the Moslems at pleasure. As the Moors of Barbary are the most fanatic amongst the Mahometans, so are the Barbary Jews the most superstitious of their race, observing in the strictest manner the precepts of the Talmud and the sages. A great many singular ceremonies and usages are to be found amongst them which are not observed by the Hebrews in any other part of the world, more especially at their wedding festivals which are carried on during a period of eleven days, during which the house which is open to all comers exhibits a continual scene of dancing, feasting, and revelry of every description. There is much at these marriages which has served to remind me of those of the Gitanos of Spain at which I have been frequently present, especially the riot and waste practised; for like the Gitano, the Barbary Jew frequently spends during the days of his wedding not only all that he is possessed of, but becomes an embarrassed man for the rest of his life by the sums which he is compelled to borrow in order not to incur the opprobrium of appearing mean on so solemn an occasion. The books current among them are the Bible with the commentaries of the rabbins, parts of the Mischna, and the prayers for all the year; likewise, but more rare, the Zohar, which all speak of with unbounded veneration, though few pretend to understand it. I have not unfrequently seen at their synagogues the Bible Society's edition of the Psalms, and they appeared to prize it highly. A market is held on every Thursday and Sunday morning beyond the walls of Tangiers in a place called the _Soc de Barra_ or outward market-place. Thither repair the Moors from the country, bringing with them corn, fruit and other articles, the productions of their fields and gardens for the consumption of the town. It is my delight to visit this spot which is on the side of a hill, and sitting down on a stone to gaze. What a singular scene presents itself to the view: a wild confusion of men and horses, of donkeys and camels, of countenances of all hues, swarthy and black, livid and pale, of turbans of all dyes, white, green and red, of Jewish skull-caps with here and there an Andalusian hat, of haiks and gaberdines, of arrogant Moors, indifferent Europeans and cringing Hebrews, the latter walking barefooted in the place where the corn is sold, which the Moor says is sacred and unfit to be pressed by the sandals of the dog-Jew. What a hubbub of sounds: the unearthly cry of the enormous camels and the neighing, braying, and bleating of other quadrupeds, mingled with the discordant jabber of various and strange tongues. I have been in many singular places in the course of my existence, but certainly in none more so than the _Soc de Barra_ of Tangiers. There is much Spanish spoken in this place, especially amongst the Jews; it is also generally understood by the Europeans. The prevalent language however is the Arabic, or rather a dialect of it called by some Mograbbin. I was glad to find that I could make myself very well understood with the Arabic of the East, notwithstanding that it differs in many points from the Mograbbin, or language of the West. One thing has particularly struck me; namely that the wild people, who arrive from the far interior and who perhaps have never before seen a European, invariably understand me best, and frequently in conversation designate objects with the same words as myself, which however are not intelligible to the Moors of the coast. I am by this time exceedingly well known at Tangiers, indeed I take the best means of being so by entering into discourse with every person. I believe I am liked by the Moors and am certainly treated with much respect by the Jews amongst whom a report prevails that I am a Polish rabbi. Shortly after my arrival I was visited by the most wealthy Jewish merchant of Tangiers, who pressed me in the strongest manner to take up my abode at his house, assuring me [that I should live] at free cost, and be provided with all the comforts and luxuries which could be procured. I will now proceed to relate what has been accomplished in the cause of the Gospel since my arrival at Tangiers. I will endeavour to be as concise as possible, reserving some particulars until a future occasion. For the first fortnight I accomplished nothing, and indeed attempted nothing in the way of distribution, being occupied in making myself acquainted with the place and studying the character of its inhabitants. I occasionally spoke to the Christians, who are principally Genoese and Spanish sailors and their families, on the subject of religion, but with the greatest caution, being unwilling to alarm the two or three friars who reside in what is called the Spanish convent, who are the only officiating Christian priests of the place, and who might have warned their flock against the heretic intruder. I found, as I had anticipated, great ignorance among these poor people respecting the most important points of the religion which they profess, and the Gospel of God they had never seen nor heard of. At the end of the above-mentioned period I employed a Jewish youth to carry the Testament to their houses and to offer it to them for sale. It is with humble gratitude to the Lord that I am able to state that considerable success crowned our efforts. The blessed Book is now in the hands of most of the Christians of Tangiers, from the lowest to the highest, from the fisherman to the consul. One dozen and a half were carried to Tetuan on speculation, a town about six leagues from hence; they will be offered to the Christians who reside there. Other two dozen are on their way to distant Mogadore. One individual, a tavern-keeper, has purchased Testaments to the number of thirty, which he says he has no doubt he can dispose of to the foreign sailors, who stop occasionally at his house. You will be surprised to hear that several amongst the Jews have purchased copies of the New Testament, with the intention as they state of improving themselves in Spanish, but I believe from curiosity. Whatever their motive be, let them but once read this holy Book and I have no fear of their remaining enemies of the Lamb whom their fathers crucified. I regret that only few can read the Spanish language, their law forbidding them to read or write any characters but the Hebrew. Had I the New Testament to offer them in the latter tongue, I believe that I could dispose of thousands of copies in Barbary. My work being completed here for the present, I now hasten back to Seville; pray write to me speedily directing to the usual place. I remain, Revd and dear Sir, Truly yours, G. BORROW. To the Rev. G. Browne (_Endorsed_: recd. Oct. 7, 1839) CADIZ, _Sepr._ 21 [1839]. REVD. AND DEAR SIR AND EXCELLENT FRIEND,--I arrived at Cadiz this morning by a small coasting-vessel, after undergoing a quarantine of four days at Tarifa. On calling at Mr. Brackenbury's I received your kind communication of the 29th July, acquainting me with the resolution of the Committee. Had I been aware of that resolution before my departure for Tangiers, I certainly should not have gone. My expedition, however, was the result of much reflection. I wished to carry the Gospel to the Christians of the Barbary shore who were much in want of it; and I had one hundred and thirty Testaments at San Lucar which I could only make available by exportation. The success which it has pleased the Lord to yield me in my humble efforts at distribution in Barbary will, I believe, prove the best criterion as to the fitness of the enterprise. I stated in my last communication to Mr. Brandram the plan which I conceived to be the best for circulating that portion of the edition of the New Testament which remains unsold at Madrid, and I scarcely needed a stimulant in the execution of my duty. At present however I know not what to do; I am sorrowful, disappointed, and unstrung. I wish to return to England as soon as possible; but I have books and papers at Madrid which are of much importance to me and which I cannot abandon. This perhaps alone prevents me embarking in the next packet. I have moreover brought with me from Tangiers the Jewish youth who so powerfully assisted me in that place in the work of distribution. I had hoped to have made him of service in Spain; he is virtuous and clever. My servant Antonio I was compelled to send back to Madrid ere my departure from Seville on account of his many irregularities. I am almost tempted to ask whether some strange, some unaccountable delusion does not exist. What should induce me to stay in Spain, as you appear to suppose I intend? I may, however, have misunderstood you. I wish to receive a fresh communication as soon as possible either from yourself or Mr. Brandram; in the meantime I shall go to Seville, to which place and to the usual number pray direct. I enclose the last letter which I received from the firm of O'Shea, from which it will appear that I received [word missing] thirty of the fifty pounds drawn for: the residue covers the expenses at Madrid, of which I defray one-half, the books being deposited at my lodgings. I shall shortly send in my account for the last four months. Pray present my kind remembrances to Mrs. B. and believe me to remain, Revd. and dear Sir, Ever truly yours, G. B. _P.S._--Best regards also to Messrs. Brandram and Jowett. I have this moment received a letter from Seville, which was awaiting my arrival at the post office. The British consul states that the Bibles in embargo there are at the disposal of the Society; this is the work of my friend Mr. Southern at Madrid, for had he not exerted his powerful interest in the matter they were lost, and could not even have been exported. To whom shall I send them? To Gibraltar, or to England? To the Rev. A. Brandram (Private) (_Endorsed_: recd. Octr. 14, 1839) SEVILLE, PLAZUELA DE LA PILA SECA No. 7, 29_th_ _Sepr._ 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I beg leave to return you my best thanks for your kind communication of the 27th Aug. which I found awaiting me on my return from Tangiers, and for which I was already to a certain degree prepared by my dear friend Mr. Browne's letter directed to the care of Mr. Brackenbury at Cadiz. I shall act up as soon as possible to the Committee's request, that I take immediate measures for selling the remainder of our Bible stock in Spain, or leaving it in safe custody. I will now tell you in a few words the steps which it appears to me most advisable to take in the present emergency. I shall mount my horses and depart for La Mancha; where I shall take up my abode for a few weeks in a town with which you are already acquainted and where I believe I have friends, and to which place I shall order a chest of Testaments to be despatched from Madrid, on the receipt of which I shall endeavour with the assistance of Hayim Ben Attar to put as many copies as possible into circulation. I have always wished to do something in La Mancha, which is in every respect the worst part of Spain. I distinctly see that it must be now or never. God has granted me success in many difficult enterprises: perhaps it will please Him to favour me in this. I shall then move upon Madrid, and arrange matters in that capital. If I may be permitted here to offer my advice, I would strongly recommend that four hundred copies of the New Testament be left there in deposit, with those of Saint Luke in Gypsy and Basque which remain unsold. Of the former Gospel, indeed, there are not many, nearly one hundred copies having been circulated amongst the Rommanees of Andalusia during my present visit. I then purpose to make for France, passing through Saragossa, in which place, which is large and populous, I hope to accomplish some good in the Lord's cause. This is the outline of my plan, which I shall attempt to put into execution without delay; though if any one could propose a wiser, and better adapted to the present circumstances, I shall at once relinquish it. I have just received a communication from Mr. Brackenbury, in which he has done me the honour to furnish me with a copy of a letter which he has addressed to yourself and in which he has spoken of me. The principal consolation of a person in misfortune is the being able to say, 'In whatever I have done, I have had the glory of God at heart'; and certainly next to this consolation is the knowledge that his deeds and actions meet the approbation of the good, the wise, and the distinguished. I wish not to recapitulate what I have done, but I beg to be permitted to say that wherever I have been I have endeavoured to elicit the kindly feelings of my fellow-creatures, not for my own benefit but for the advancement of the true doctrine. I found Mr. B. during my last visit in a state of considerable agitation. He showed me a letter from Lord. P [Palmerston], a circular as it appeared, in which the British consuls and their assistants in Spain are strictly forbidden to afford the slightest countenance to religious agents. What was the cause of this last blow? Mr. B. says it was an ill-advised application made to his Lordship to interfere with the Spanish Government in behalf of a certain individual whose line of conduct needs no comment. There are people in Spain who remember the time when those very consuls received from a British Ambassador at Madrid instructions of an exactly contrary character; but when dead flies fall into the ointment of the apothecary, they cause it to send forth an unpleasant savour. I am very glad that I went to Tangiers, for many reasons. In the first place, I was permitted to circulate many copies of God's Word both amongst the Jews and the Christians, by the latter of whom it was particularly wanted, their ignorance of the most vital points of religion being truly horrible. In the second place, I acquired a vast stock of information concerning Africa and the state of its interior. One of my principal associates was a black slave, whose country was only three days' journey from Timbuctoo, which place he had frequently visited. The Soosi men also told me many of the secrets of the land of wonders from which they come, and the rabbis from Fez and Morocco were no less communicative. Moreover I consider it a great advantage to have obtained the friendship of Mr. Hay, who is a true British gentleman. I found him at first reserved and distant, and I thought averse to countenance the object of my mission. In a few days, however, his manner changed surprisingly, and at my departure he begged me to communicate to the Bible Society that at all times and seasons he should be happy to receive its commands, and to render all the assistance in Fez and Morocco which his official situation would permit him, should the views of the Society at any future time be directed to those regions. Permit me, my dear Sir, to correct in your letter something which savours of inaccuracy. You hint at the issues of the Scriptures in Spain having been small. Now during the last year I have issued three thousand Testaments and five hundred Bibles, which is certainly no small circulation of the Word of God in such a country. But pray inform me why the circulation has not been ten times greater? Surely you are aware that among the many peculiarities of my situation was this distressing one, namely, that I was scarcely ever able to supply the people with the books that they were in want of. They clamoured for Bibles, and I had nothing but Testaments to offer them. Had I been possessed of twenty thousand Bibles in the spring of the present year, I could have disposed of them all without leaving Madrid; and they would have found their way through all Spain. I beseech you always to bear this fact in mind in your reports to the public, otherwise that public will remain strangely in the dark respecting the spirit of enquiry which is abroad in Spain. You are quite right in supposing that I entertain a favourable opinion of Mr. Wood. I know him to be a good husband and father, and a man who fears the Lord: he is likewise possessed of considerable ability; but I am entirely unacquainted with any plan which he may have formed respecting printing the Scriptures in Spain, or any memorial which he may have sent in to the Bible Society on the subject, so that of course I cannot be expected to express an opinion. It is my intention in a few days to depart from hence on my expedition, so that should you be desirous of writing to me, you had perhaps best address to Madrid. When the Bible Society has no further occasion for my poor labours, I hope it will do me justice to the world. I have been its faithful and zealous servant. I shall on a future occasion take the liberty of addressing you as a friend respecting my prospects. I have the materials of a curious book of travels in Spain; I have enough metrical translations from all languages, especially the Celtic and Sclavonic, to fill a dozen volumes; and I have formed a vocabulary of the Spanish Gypsy tongue, and also a collection of the songs and poetry of the Gitanos with introductory essays. Perhaps some of these literary labours might be turned to account. I wish to obtain honourably and respectably the means of visiting China, or particular parts of Africa. I call this letter private, but communicate such parts of it as you think proper. (UNSIGNED.) To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Dec. 19, 1839) PRISON OF SEVILLE, Novr. 25, 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I write these lines as you see from the common prison of Seville, to which I was led yesterday, or rather dragged, neither for murder nor robbery nor debt but simply for having endeavoured to obtain a passport for Cordova, to which place I was going with my Jewish servant, Hayim Ben Attar. It is necessary for me here to give you some information respecting my proceedings since I last wrote. I wished to distribute some more Testaments in Seville before I left the country, and accordingly procured a considerable number from Madrid. Everything was accomplished with the utmost secrecy, and the blessed books obtained considerable circulation. I likewise sent agents into the country, and went myself in my accustomed manner. All went well, the entire stock which had reached me was circulated, and I rested from my labours for a little time; for indeed I had need of quiet, being indisposed. Some English people now came to Seville and distributed tracts in a very unguarded manner, knowing nothing of the country or the inhabitants. They were even so unwise as _to give tracts instead of money on visiting public buildings_, _etc._ These persons came to me, and requested my co-operation and advice, and likewise introductions to people spiritually disposed amongst the Spaniards, to all which requests I returned a decided negative. But I foresaw all. In a day or two I was summoned before the _Gefe Politico_ or, as he was once called, _Corregidor_ of Seville, who I must say treated me with the utmost politeness, and indeed respect; but at the same time he informed me that he had (to use his own expression) terrible orders from Madrid concerning me, if I should be discovered in the act of distributing the Scriptures or any writings of a religious tendency. He then taxed me with having circulated both lately, especially tracts: whereupon I told him that I had never distributed a tract since I had been in Spain, nor had any intention of doing so. We had much conversation and parted in kindness. I went away for a few days, though without intending to do anything, and wrote to the firm of O'Shea for money, of which I stood in need and which I received. I now determined to make for La Mancha and to put my plan into execution, which I should have done sooner had the roads been a little more secure. Yesterday I sent my passport to be signed by the _Alcalde del Barrio_. This fellow is the greatest ruffian in Seville, and I have on various occasions been insulted by him; he pretends to be a liberal, but is of no principle at all, and as I reside within his district he has been employed by the Canons of the cathedral to vex and harass me on every possible occasion. (By the way, the hatred which these last people nourish against me amounts almost to frenzy, and scarcely a day passes by in which they do not send in false accusations against me to the _Gefe Politico_; they have even gone so far as to induce people to perjure themselves by swearing that I have sold or given them books, people whom I have never seen nor heard of; and the same system was carried on whilst I was in Africa, for they are so foolishly suspicious that they could not be persuaded that I was out of Seville.) The above-mentioned _Alcalde_ refused to sign the passport, though he was bound to do so, it being quite in form, and insulted the messenger: whereupon I sent the latter back with money to pay any fees lawful or unlawful which might be demanded, as I wished to avoid noise and the necessity of applying to the consul, Mr. Williams. But the fellow became only more outrageous. I then went myself to demand an explanation and was called all the vilest names contained in the Spanish _Germania_ (Billingsgate), whereupon I told him that if he proceeded in this manner I would make a complaint to the authorities through the consul. He then said that if I did not instantly depart he would drag me off to prison, and cause me to be knocked down if I made the slightest resistance. I dared him repeatedly to do both, and said that he was a disgrace to the Government which employed him and to human nature. He called me a heretic. We were now in the street and a mob was collected, whereupon I cried '_Viva Inglaterra_, _y viva La Constitucion_.' The populace seemed disposed to side with me, notwithstanding the exhortations of the monster to them that they would knock down _the foreigner_, for he himself quailed before me as I looked him in the eyes defying him. He at last ran to a neighbouring guard-house, and requested the assistance of the Nationals in conducting me to prison. I followed him and delivered myself up at the first summons, and walked to the prison without uttering a word: not so the ruffian, who continued his abuse until we arrived at the gate. I was asked my name by the authorities of the prison, which I refused to give unless in the presence of the consul, and indeed to answer any questions. I was then ordered to the _patio_ or courtyard, where are kept the lowest thieves and assassins of Seville, who having no money cannot pay for better accommodation, and by whom I should have been stripped naked in a moment as a matter of course, as they are all in a state of raging hunger and utter destitution. I asked for a private cell, which I was told I might have if I could pay for it. I stated my willingness to pay anything which might be demanded, and was conducted to an upper ward, consisting of several cells and a corridor. Here I found six or seven prisoners who received me very civilly, and instantly procured me paper and ink for the purpose of writing to the consul. In less than an hour Mr. Williams arrived and I told him my story, at which he wondered, as he well might, and presently departed in order to demand redress of the authorities. The next morning I was informed that the ruffian the _Alcalde_ had upon his own authority entered my house and searched for prohibited books, hoping, if he found any, to justify to a certain degree his conduct to me. He found none, and is now quite in my power, without a shadow of excuse--he having entered by force the house of a foreigner, without authority, and not in the presence of the consul of the nation. I have now been here four-and-twenty hours, and am assured that my liberation will have been effectuated before another day shall have passed over. My fellow-prisoners have treated me with unbounded kindness and hospitality, and I have never found myself amongst more quiet and well-behaved men. Yet--what is their history? The handsome black-haired man who is now looking over my shoulder is the celebrated thief Palacio, the most expert housebreaker and dexterous swindler in Spain--in a word, the modern Guzman Dalfarache. The brawny man who sits by the _brasero_ of charcoal is Salvador, the highwayman of Ronda, who has committed a hundred murders. A fashionably dressed man, short and slight in person, is walking about the room: he wears immense whiskers and mustachios; he is one of that most singular race the Jews of Spain; he is imprisoned for counterfeiting money. He is an atheist, but like a true Jew the name which he most hates is that of Christ. Yet he is so quiet and civil, and they are all so quiet and civil, and it is that which most horrifies me, for quietness and civility in them seem so unnatural. Novr. 26th. Since writing the above, I have been set at liberty. I am going to Madrid in a few hours to demand redress, and to make preparations for leaving Spain as soon as possible. There is nothing more to be done here for the present in the cause of the Gospel. I received your letter, which I read with great pleasure. You are quite right in most of your observations, and especially in one. That circular _was_ uncalled for. Ever yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jan. 3, 1840.) _Decr._ 24, 1839, MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO. REV. AND DEAR SIR,--The last letter which I wrote to you was from Seville, and in that I gave you an account of what I had been doing for some time previous and likewise of my imprisonment. I have now been in Madrid nearly three weeks, and immediately after my arrival I demanded redress of the Spanish Government for the various outrages which I have recently been subjected to at Seville. Mr. Aston, the British Minister, not having yet arrived at Madrid, I presented my complaint through Mr. Jerningham the first secretary of Legation, who has superseded Mr. Southern, the latter gentleman having been appointed to Lisbon. Mr. Southern introduced me to Mr. Jerningham, who received me with great kindness and took up my cause very warmly. Whether I shall be able to obtain justice I know not, for I have against me the Canons of Seville; and all the arts of villainy which they are so accustomed to practise will of course be used against me for the purpose of screening the ruffian who is their instrument. An instance which I am about to give will speak volumes as to this person's character. When I was in prison, he forced his way into my house and searched it for Testaments, but found none. When he was questioned by the vice-consul as to the authority by which he made this search, he pulled out a paper purporting to be the deposition of an old woman to the effect that I had sold her a Testament some ten days before. This document was a forgery. I had never seen the female in question, and during the whole time that I have been in Andalusia I have never sold a book of any description to any such person. I have been, my dear Sir, fighting with wild beasts during the greatest part of the time which has elapsed since I had last the pleasure of seeing you. None but myself can have an idea of what I have undergone and the difficulties which I have had to encounter; but I wish not to dilate on that subject. Thanks be to the Most High that my labours are now brought to a conclusion. The Madrid edition of the New Testament has been distributed, with the exception of a few hundred copies, which I have no wish should be sold at present, for reasons stated on a prior occasion, and which I shall endeavour to leave in safe custody. The fate of this edition has been a singular one, by far the greatest part having been dispersed among the peasantry of Spain and the remainder amongst the very poor of the towns, the artisans of Madrid and Seville, the water-carriers and porters. You will rarely find a copy of this work in the houses of the wealthy and respectable, but you will frequently light upon it in the huts of the labourers, in the garrets or cellars of the penniless, and even in the hulks and convict-garrisons (_presidios_). I myself saw it in the prison of Seville. As for the few copies of the entire Bible which I had at my disposal, they have been distributed amongst the upper classes, chiefly amongst the mercantile body, the members of which upon the whole are by far the most intellectual and best educated of the subjects of the Spanish monarchy. I have thus cast my books upon the waters. It is for the Lord on high to determine the quantity of good which they are to operate. I have a humble hope however that they will be permitted to do some. If the eyes of only a few of these unhappy people amongst whom I am still sojourning be through them opened to one of the damning errors of popery, I shall esteem myself amply remunerated for all the pain, the anxiety, and I may almost say misery (for the flesh is weak) which I have experienced in the work, even for that--to me, the most heart-breaking of everything--the strange, the disadvantageous light in which, I am aware, I must frequently have appeared to those I most respect and love. My situation throughout has been a most peculiar one, rocks and quicksands have surrounded me on every side, and frequently I have been compelled to give offence to my friends in order not to afford a triumph to the enemies of God and His cause. In your last kind communication, I think, you said that neither our excellent friend Mr. B. [Brackenbury] nor myself appeared properly to appreciate the worth of two other of our friends who had been labouring in Spain. Permit me here to observe that we both appreciate their sterling worth of character and piety; they are both very extraordinary individuals, one particularly so, and the zeal which both have displayed in a holy cause is quite above praise. But it is necessary in order to accomplish much good in a country situated as this is at present, that the greatest prudence and foresight go hand in hand with zeal and piety. A corrupt Government, influenced by an atrocious priesthood, has for the last three years been on the look-out to take advantage of every rash movement of the helpers in God's cause in Spain. It ought always to be borne in mind that though nominally a constitutional country, Spain is governed by despotism the more infamous and dangerous as it decks itself in the garb of liberty. Whenever a native becomes obnoxious to the Government, he is instantly seized and imprisoned, though perhaps guilty of no crime which can be punished by law; foreigners have by law particular privileges, but these privileges are every day violated, and redress is seldom or never obtained; which proves that the law is a dead letter. I know perfectly well that it is no infraction of the _law_ to print or sell the Holy Scriptures, either with or without comment, in Spain. What then? Is there not such a thing as _A Royal Ordinance_ to the effect that the Scriptures be seized wherever they are found? True it is that ordinance is an unlawful one: but what matters that, provided it be put into execution by the authorities civil and military? Too many Englishmen who visit Spain imagine that they carry their own highly favoured country at their back, a country in which the law rules supreme; but let them once be brought into collision with the Government, and they will soon learn how little it avails them to have right on their side whilst brute force is always at the call of their adversaries. I have informed Mr. Jerningham that for some time past I have relinquished distributing the Scriptures in Spain--which is the truth. I therefore claim the privileges of a British subject and the protection of my Government. I shall return to England as soon as I can obtain some redress for this affair. It is then my intention to attempt to obtain an interview with some of the members of the House of Lords. I have important disclosures to make respecting the system of persecution which still exists in this country with respect to Protestants, who are not only debarred the exercise of their religion but to whom the common privilege of burial is denied: so much for the tolerance of Popery. Yet there are journals of talent and learning in England who, observing that British Protestants, alarmed at the progress which the Papal doctrine is making in the British islands, are concerting measures for their own defence, accuse them of raising once more the _senseless bray against Popery_; as if every unprejudiced person was not aware that Popery is an unrelenting fiend which never spares when it has the power to crush--and that power I am afraid it will soon possess in Britain, unless the poor down-trodden Protestants stand back to back and combat the monster to the death. This is no vain alarm, I assure you; therefore I beg that you will not smile. Few people know more of the secrets of Popery than myself, or the stand which she intends to take when time and place serve. Therefore in conclusion let me entreat those of our friends who may hear these lines read to be on their guard, to drop all petty dissensions, and to comport themselves like brothers. Protestants must no longer be disunited. I will write again in a day or two. May the Lord be with you, Revd. and dear Sir. GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jan. 7, 1840) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE, SANTIAGO, 28_th_ _Dec._ 1839. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--I lose not a moment in writing to you in consequence of an article in one of the London papers (the _Courier_, I believe) which has just been shown me. It relates to my late imprisonment at Seville, and contains part of a letter which I showed to a friend and which indeed was a copy of that which I sent to yourself. With respect to the letter I have little to observe, save that I showed it to various individuals (who took copies) in order that an incorrect account of the affair might not get abroad; but I beg leave solemnly to assure you that I disavow and give no countenance to any remarks or observations respecting it which may find their way into print. I am not ashamed of the _Methodists of Cadiz_; their conduct in many respects does them honour, nor do I accuse any one of fanaticism amongst our dear and worthy friends; but I cannot answer for the tittle-tattle of Madrid. Far be it from me to reflect upon any one: I am but too well aware of my own multitudinous imperfections and follies. I am going instantly to write to Mr. Rule, and I would also to our other friend did I but know his address. Should you have an opportunity of communicating with him, pray, pray say something on the subject, and present to him my kind love. I hope sincerely no further notice will be taken of this affair in the newspapers, but to attempt to correct their errors would merely make bad worse. Pray excuse my agitation, but I write in haste. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, yours sincerely, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. Jan. 13, 1840) MADRID, No. 16 CALLE SANTIAGO, 2 _January_ 1840. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--To-morrow I depart in order to return to Seville. I have laid a full account of the late outrageous assault before the British Embassy, and a strong representation has been made to the Spanish Government. I have now nothing further to detain me in the Spanish capital, and I hope that within a very short time I shall be able to bid adieu to the shores of Spain, which I shall quit with as little regret as the tired labourer at nightfall quits the filthy ditch in which he has been toiling during the whole of a dreary day. I should feel much obliged if you would write me a line or two, directed to my usual address, No. 7 Plazuela de la Pila Seca, Sevilla, with any little information respecting matters of serious import, as I am almost entirely unacquainted with what has been going on during the last six months, the public journals containing little which has any interest for me. Is it possible that the British Government is going to bombard the coast of China because the Emperor of that country is not disposed to countenance opium smuggling? I have frequently difficulty in believing my eyes when I read of the proceedings of Christians and people high in authority, whom it is of course my wish and duty to respect. Is it wonderful that the Chinese cling to Buddh and refuse to confess the Son of the Eternal, when they see the professors of the Christian religion commit such acts of cruel violence and flagrant injustice? I have drawn for twenty pounds, which will liquidate the expenses of the journey from Seville and back again. I shall require no more until my departure for England. In the meanwhile I am preparing my accounts and various other papers. Pray present my best remembrances to all my friends. If there be anything which I can perform for any of them before I leave Spain, let them but inform me and it shall be done. I remain, Revd. and dear Sir, ever yours, GEORGE BORROW. To the Rev. A. Brandram (_Endorsed_: recd. March 31st, 1840) SEVILLE, _March_ 18, 1840. REVD. AND DEAR SIR,--Last night I received a letter from my worthy friend Mr. Brackenbury, in which he informed me that he had received a communication from Mr. Jackson stating that since my departure from Madrid the Society had heard nothing from me and that it was anxious on my account. This intelligence astonished me; as towards the end of January and beginning of February I wrote two letters, one to yourself and the other to Mr. Hitchin. From yourself I had expected an answer, and your silence made me very, very unhappy. For upwards of five months I have not heard a word from England, though during that period I have written twelve letters, of which seven were to the Bible Society. I did not return to England immediately after my departure from Madrid, for several reasons. First, there was my affair with the _Alcalde_ still pending; second, I wished to get my papers into some order; third, I wished to effect a little more in the cause, though not in the way of distribution as I had no books; moreover the house in which I resided was paid for, and I was unwilling altogether to lose the money; I likewise dreaded an English winter, for I have lately been subjected to attacks, whether of gout or rheumatism I know not, which I believe were brought on by sitting, standing and sleeping in damp places during my wanderings in Spain. The _Alcalde_ has lately been turned out of his situation, but I believe more on account of his being a Carlist than for his behaviour to me; that however, is of little consequence, as I have long forgotten the affair. I have again been in trouble; and the Government and clergy seem determined on persecuting me until I leave Spain. I embark on the third of next month, and you will probably see me by the sixteenth. I wish very much to spend the remaining years of my life in the northern parts of China, as I think I have a call to those regions, and shall endeavour by every honourable means to effect my purpose. I have a work nearly in readiness for publication, and two others in a state of forwardness. The title of the first I take the liberty of sending you on the other side. I hope yet to die in the cause of my Redeemer. I have at present nothing further to say of importance. I therefore remain, as usual, Revd. and dear Sir, most sincerely yours, G. B. _P.S._--What an admirable man and Christian is Mr. Brackenbury! The title George Borrow wrote on the fly-leaf was... THE ZIN-CALI OR AN ACCOUNT OF THE GYPSIES OF SPAIN WITH AN ORIGINAL COLLECTION OF THEIR SONGS WITH ENGLISH TRANSLATIONS AND A COPIOUS VOCABULARY OF THEIR LANGUAGE EXPLAINED IN SPANISH AND ENGLISH BY G. B. IN TWO VOLUMES. Footnotes: {137} Friday, or the day of Crucifixion. {153} Almost all other articles in Madrid are proportionably dear. {154} Amat's Bible sells for 4 dollars. {197} The Spanish sheet is but one-fourth the size of the English. {251} This animal cost the Society about two thousand _reals_ at Madrid; I, however, sold him for three thousand at Corunna, notwithstanding that he had suffered much from the hard labour which he had been subjected to in our wanderings in Galicia, and likewise from bad provender. {256} I have since discovered that they were only despatched the day before my arrival at Madrid. {274} I think the sale is becoming brisker; this very day we have sold eight. {275a} I wish much that I had the Old Testament apart, precisely in the same form. {275b} Mr. Villiers has hitherto taken but 50 copies, which he has distributed amongst his friends; his situation has been such lately, that more could not be reasonably expected from him. Even his is not a bed of roses. {392} [Greek text] as Antonio says. {422a} I send the original phrase which is remarkable, and in remarkable Spanish. {422b} They were supplied six months ago. 
12515	----	SELECTED ENGLISH LETTERS (XV-XIX CENTURIES) ARRANGED BY M. DUCKITT & H. WRAGG 1913. PREFACE This anthology has been compiled with rather mixed motives. First, 'all for our delight'--a rule that editors sometimes observe, and occasionally acknowledge; then, with the desire to interest as large a section of the public as may be. Here is a medley of gay, grave, frivolous, homely, religious, sociable, refined, philosophic, and feminine,--something for every mood, and for the proper study of mankind. We do not hope to satisfy all critics, but we do not anticipate that we shall please none. Our difficulty has been that of choice. Many pleasant companions we have had to pass by; to strike from our list many excellent letters. Those that remain are intended to present as complete a portrait of the writer as space permits. Occasionally it was some feature of the age, some nicety of manners, some contrast in point of view, that obtained inclusion. Into such an anthology the ordinary reader prefers to dip at random, looking for old friends or new faces, and has his reward. But if he is resolute to read letters in chronological order, he will also, we hope, find in our selection some trace of the development of the Epistolary art, as, rising through earlier naiveties and formalities to the grace and _bel air_ of the great Augustans, it slides into the freer, if less dignified, utterance of an age which, startled by cries of 'Equality' at its birth, has concerned itself less with form than with individuality and sincerity of expression. Three letters are included of which the originals were penned in Latin. In a few cases the spelling and punctuation have been modernized. Our best thanks are due to Mr. J.C. Smith, whose kind criticism and inspiring suggestions have been of inestimable service to us in the preparation of this work. M.D. H.W. CONTENTS SIR THOMAS MORE, 1478-1535-- To Margaret Roper. 'Wyth a cole' from prison. MARGARET ROPER, 1505-1544-- To Sir Thomas More. Reply to the above. ROGER ASCHAM, 1515-1568-- To Lady Jane Grey. A most accomplished maiden. To Lady Clarke. An offer of assistance. FRANCIS BACON, 1561-1626-- To Sir Thomas Bodley. With a copy of his book. SIR THOMAS BROWNE, 1605-1682-- To his son Thomas. Fatherly commendations. To his son Edward. Centenarians. JOHN MILTON, 1608-1674-- To a Cambridge friend. The choice of a profession. To Leonard Philaras. The blind poet. JOHN EVELYN, 1620-1706-- To Samuel Pepys. In retirement at Wotton. To the same. An old man's occupations. DAME DOROTHY BROWNE, 1621-1685-- To her daughter in London. Three interesting postscripts. GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY, 1628-1698-- To Samuel Pepys. Honourable acquittal. DOROTHY OSBORNE, 1628-1698-- To Sir William Temple. Passing the time. To the same. Another pretender. To the same. A disappointing preacher. To the same. The ideal husband. To the same. The growth of friendship. To the same. Wilful woman. KATHARINE PHILIPS, 1631-1664-- To the Honourable Berenice. Yielding to opinion. JOHN LOCKE, 1632-1704-- To William Molyneux. A philosopher's confidences. To Dr. Molyneux. True friendship. SAMUEL PEPYS, 1633-1703-- To George, Lord Berkeley. An explanation. To Mrs. Steward. A wedding in the City. To John Evelyn. Reply to an old friend. JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667-1745-- To Stella. The Dean at home. To Lord Treasurer Oxford. The Dean makes his bow. To Dr. Sheridan. News from the country. To Alexander Pope. Mostly about _Gulliver_. To John Gay. Enquiries into Mr. Gay's pursuits. JOSEPH ADDISON, 1672-1719-- To Alexander Pope. Translation of Homer. To Mr. Secretary Craggs. A bequest. SIR RICHARD STEELE, 1672-1729-- To Mary Scurlock. An explicit declaration. To the same. A pleasing transport. To the same. A lover betrays himself. To his wife. He proposes an outing. To the same. His greatest affliction. To the same. Four characteristic notes. To the same. The natural slave of beauty. JOHN GAY, 1685-1732-- To Jonathan Swift. Concerning _Gulliver_. ALEXANDER POPE, 1688-1744-- To William Wycherley. Dryden and his critics. To Joseph Addison. A few thoughts from a rambling head. To Jonathan Swift. Friends to posterity. To the same. A farming friend, and _The Dunciad_. To the same. An invitation to England. SAMUEL RICHARDSON, 1689-1761-- To Miss Mulso. A discussion on love. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU, 1689-1762-- To the Countess of Mar. The Viennese court. To Miss Sarah Chiswell. Ingrafting for small-pox. To the Countess of Bristol. The Grand Signior a slave. To the Countess of Mar. The Grand Vizier's lady. To the Countess of Bute. Her grand-daughter's education. To the same. Fielding and Steele. PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD, 1694-1773-- To his son. Dancing. To the same. A good enunciation. To the same. Keeping accounts. To the same. A father's example. To the same. Public speaking. To the same. The new Earl of Chatham. SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1784-- To Bonnet Langton. Postponement of a visit. To Miss Porter. A mother's death. To Joseph Baretti. A letter of counsel. To Mrs. Thrale. Travel in Scotland. To the Earl of Chesterfield. Patronage. To James Boswell. A silent friend. To Mrs. Thrale. A great man's fortitude. LAURENCE STERNE, 1713-1768-- To Miss Lumley. The disconsolate lover. To David Garrick. Le Chevalier Shandy. To Mr. Foley. An adventure on the road. THOMAS GRAY, 1716-1771-- To Richard West. Scenery at Tivoli. To the same. A poet's melancholy. To Horace Walpole. The fate of Selima. To the same. Publication of the _Elegy_. To the same. At Burnham. To the Rev. William Mason. The Laureateship. To Dr. Wharton. A holiday in Kent. HORACE WALPOLE, 1717-1797-- To Richard West. Floods in the Arno. To Richard Bentley. Pictures, and Garrick. To Lord Lyttelton. Gray's Odes. To George Montagu. At Lady Suffolk's. To Lady Hervey. A quiet life. To the Rev. William Cole. Gray's death. To the Rev. William Mason. The quarrel with Gray. To the Countess of Upper-Ossory. Fashionable intelligence. To the Rev. William Cole. Antiquaries and authors. To the Miss Berrys. Their first meeting. OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 1728-1774-- To his mother. At Cork. To Robert Bryanton. In Scotland. To his uncle Contarine. In Holland. To his brother Henry. Family matters. WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800-- To the Rev. John Newton. Escapade of Puss. To the Rev. William Unwin. A laugh that hurts nobody. To the Rev. John Newton. Village politicians. To the same. Village justice. To the same. A candidate's visit. To Lady Hesketh. An acquaintance reopened. To the same. The kindliness of thanks. To the same. Arrival of the desk. To the same. Anticipations of a visit. To the same. Commissions and thanks. To Mrs. Bodham. His mother's portrait. EDMUND BURKE, 1729-1797-- To Matthew Smith. First impressions of London. To James Barry. A friend's infirmities. To Lord Auckland. An old stag at bay. To Mary Leadbeater. His last letter. EDWARD GIBBON, 1737-1794-- To Mrs. Porten. His daily life. To Lord Sheffield. A great work. FRANCES D'ARBLAY, 1752-1840-- To Susan Burney. An excited Unknown. To Samuel Crisp. Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson. To Mrs. Lock. A royal commission. GEORGE CRABBE, 1754-1832-- To Mary Leadbeater. The only survivors. To the same. Comparisons. WILLIAM BLAKE, 1757-1827-- To John Flaxman. Friends 'from eternity'. To Thomas Butts. Trouble in the path. To the same. The wonderful poem. To the same. The poet and William Hayley. MARY LEADBEATER, 1758-1826-- To Edmund Burke. Reply to his last letter. To George Crabbe. She writes to remind him. ROBERT BURNS, 1759-1796-- To Miss Chalmers. Marriage with Jean. To Mr. R. Ainslie. A gauger. To Francis Grose. Witch tales. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, 1770-1850-- To Sir George Beaumont. A brother's character. To Walter Scott. Dryden. To Lady Beaumont. The destiny of his poems. To Sir George Beaumont. The language of poetry. SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771-1832-- To his mother. Marriage with Miss Carpenter. To Miss Seward. _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_. To Lady Louisa Stuart. An amiable blue-stocking. To Robert Southey. Congratulations. To J.B.S. Morritt. A small anonymous sort of a novel. To the same. Acceptance of a baronetcy. To Lord Montagu. Prince Leopold's visit. To Daniel Terry. Progress at Abbotsford. To J.B.S. Morritt. A brave face to the world. To Maria Edgeworth. Time's revenges. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 1772-1834-- To Charles Lamb. A sympathetic reply. To Joseph Cottle. Literary adventurers. To Josiah Wade. A public example. To Thomas Allsop. Himself and his detractors. To the same. The Great Work described. To the same. Reminiscences. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843-- To Joseph Cottle. Question of copyrights. To John May. Waterloo. To Henry Taylor. Anastasius Hope. To Edward Moxon. Recollections of the Lambs. CHARLES LAMB, 1775-1834-- To Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Temporary frenzy. To the same. A friend in need. To the same. The tragedy. To William Wordsworth. The delights of London. To Thomas Manning. At the Lakes. To the same. Dissuasion from Tartary. To Mrs. Wordsworth. Friends' importunities. To Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The famous pigling. To Bernard Barton. A blessing in disguise. To the same. A cold. WILLIAM HAZLITT, 1778-1830-- To Miss Sarah Stoddart. A love-letter. To his son. Marriage, and the choice of a profession. To Charles Cowden Clarke. The _Life of Napoleon_. LEIGH HUNT, 1784-1859-- To Joseph Severn. A belated letter. To Percy Bysshe Shelley. Outpourings of gratitude. To Horace Smith. Shelley's death. To Mrs. Procter. Accepting an invitation. To a friend. Offence and punishment. GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON, 1788-1824-- To Mr. Hodgson. Travel in Portugal. To Thomas Moore. Announces his engagement. To John Murray. No bid for sweet voices. To the same. The cemetery at Bologna. To the same. In rebellious mood. To Percy Bysshe Shelley. A trio of poets. To Lady Byron. A plain statement of facts. To Mr. Barff. Sympathy with the Greeks. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792-1822-- To T.J. Hogg. His first marriage. To William Godwin. An introduction. To Thomas Hookham. A subscription for Hunt. To Mr. Ollier. An article by Southey. To Mrs. Hunt. Keats and some others. To Leigh Hunt. A literary collaboration. JOHN KEATS, 1795-1821-- To John Hamilton Reynolds. Burns's cottage. To Richard Woodhouse. The poetic character. To Percy Bysshe Shelley. Returning advice. To Charles Brown. A despairing cry. THOMAS HOOD, 1799-1845-- To Charles Dickens. _American Notes_. To the _Manchester Athenaeum_. The uses of literature. To Dr. Moir. A humourist to the last. To Sir Robert Peel. A farewell letter. ROBERT BROWNING, 1812-1889, and ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 1806-1861-- To Leigh Hunt. A joint epistle. CHARLOTTE BRONTË, 1816-1855-- To a friend. Trials of a governess. To William Wordsworth. Thanks for advice. To a friend. At school abroad. To a friend. Curates to tea. To George Henry Lewes. Herself and Miss Austen. To the same. The argument continued. To a friend. Illness and death of Emily Brontë. To Mr. G. Smith. Thackeray and _Esmond_ To the same. _Esmond_ again. SELECTED ENGLISH LETTERS SIR THOMAS MORE 1478-1535 To MARGARET ROPER _'Wyth a cole' from prison_ [1535.] Myne owne good doughter, our lorde be thanked I am in good helthe of bodye, and in good quiet of minde: and of worldly thynges I no more desyer then I have. I beseche hym make you all mery in the hope of heaven. And such thynges as I somewhat longed to talke with you all, concerning the worlde to come, our Lord put theim into your myndes, as I trust he dothe, and better to, by his holy spirite: who blesse you and preserve you all. Written wyth a cole by your tender loving father, who in his pore prayers forgetteth none of you all, nor your babes, nor your nurses, nor your good husbandes, nor your good husbandes shrewde wyves, nor your fathers shrewde wyfe neither, nor our other frendes. And thus fare ye hartely well for lack of paper. THOMAS MORE, knight. Our Lorde kepe me continuallye true, faithfull and playne, to the contrarye whereof I beseche hym hartelye never to suffer me live. For as for longe life (as I have often tolde the Megge) I neyther looke for, nor long for, but am well content to goe, yf God call me hence to morowe. And I thanke our lorde, I knowe no person living, that I woulde had one philippe for my sake: of whiche minde I am more gladde then of all the worlde. Recommend me to your shrewde wil, and mine other sonnes, and to John Harris my frende, and your selfe knoweth to whome els, and to my shrewde wife above all, and God preserve you all and make and kepe you his servantes all. MARGARET ROPER 1505-1544 TO SIR THOMAS MORE _Reply to the above_ [1534.] Myne owne moste entierelye beloved father, I thynke my self never hable to geve you sufficiente thankes, for the inestimable coumforte my poore hearte received in the readyng of youre moste lovynge and godlye letter, representing to me, the cleare shynyng bryghtenesse of youre soule, the pure temple of the holy spirite of God, which I doubte not shall perpetuallye reste in you and you in hym. Father, if all the worlde hadde bene geven to me, as I be saved it hadde bene a small pleasure, in comparison of the pleasure I conceived of the treasure of youre letter, whiche thoughe it were written with a cole, is woorthye in myne opinion to be wrytten in letters of golde. Father, what moved them to shytte you uppe againe, we can nothynge heare. But surelye I coniecture that when they considered that you wer of so temperate mind, that you were contented to abyde there all your lyfe with suche libertie, they thought it wer never possible to enclyne you to theyr will, excepte it were by restrayning you from the church, and the companye of my good mother youre deare wyfe and us youre chyldren and bedesfolke. But father this chaunce was not straunge to you. For I shal not forgeat howe you tolde us when we were with you in the gardeyne, that these thinges wer like ynoughe to chaunce you shortlye after. Father I have manye tymes rehearsed to myne owne coumfort and dyvers others, your fashyon and wordes ye hadde to us when we were laste with you: for which I trust by the grace of god to be the better while I live, and when I am departed oute of this frayle life, which I praye God I maye passe and ende in his true obedient service, after the wholesome counsayle and fruitful exaumple of living I have had (good father) of you, whom I pray god geve me grace to folowe: which I shal the better thorow the assistaunce of your devoute prayers, the speciall staye of my frayltie. Father I am sory I have no lenger laysure at this time to talke with you, the chief comfort of my life, I trust to have occasion to write again shortly. I trust I have your daily prayer and blessing. Your most loving obedient daughter and bedeswoma Margaret Roper, which daily and howrely is boude to pray for you, for whom she prayeth in this wise, that our lord of his infinite mercye geve you of hys hevenly comfort, and so to assist you with hys speciall grace, that ye never in any thing declyne from hys blessed will, but live and dye his true obedient servaunt. Amen. ROGER ASCHAM 1515-1568 To Lady Jane Grey _A most accomplished maiden_ Augsberg, 18 _Jan_. 1551. Most Illustrious Lady, In this long travel of mine, I have passed over wide tracts of country, and seen the largest cities, I have studied the customs, institutes, laws, and religion of many men and diverse nations, with as much diligence as I was able: but in all this variety of subjects, nothing has caused in me so much wonder as my having fallen upon you last summer, a maiden of noble birth, and that too in the absence of your tutor, in the hall of your most noble family, and at a time when others, both men and women, give themselves up to hunting and pleasures, you, a divine maiden, reading carefully in Greek the _Phaedo_ of the divine Plato; and happier in being so occupied than because you derive your birth, both on your father's side, and on your mother's, from kings and queens! Go on then, most accomplished maiden, to bring honour on your country, happiness on your parents, glory to yourself, credit to your tutor, congratulation to all your friends, and the greatest admiration to all strangers! O happy Elmar in having such a pupil, and happier still you, in having such a tutor ... I ask two things of you, my dear Elmar, for I suppose you will read this letter, that you will persuade the Lady Jane to write me a letter in Greek as soon as possible; for she promised she would do so ... I have also lately written to John Sturm, and told him that she had promised. Take care that I get a letter soon from her as well as from you. It is a long way for letters to come, but John Hales will be a most convenient letter-carrier and bring them safely.... To LADY CLARKE _An offer of assistance_ [London], 15 _Jan_. 1554. Your remarkable love of virtue and zeal for learning, most illustrious lady, joined with such talents and perseverance, are worthy of great praise in themselves, and greater still because you are a woman, but greatest of all because you are a lady of the court; where there are many other occupations for ladies, besides learning, and many other pleasures besides the practice of the virtues. This double praise is further enhanced by the two patterns that you have proposed to yourself to follow, the one furnished you by the court, the other by your family. I mean our illustrious queen Mary, and your noble grandfather, Thomas More--a man whose virtues go to raise England above all other nations.... I am led to write thus not altogether by my admiration of you, but partly by my own wish and more from the nature of my own office. It was I who was invited some years ago from the University of Cambridge by your mother, Margaret Roper--a lady worthy of her great father, and of you her daughter--to the house of your kinsman, Lord Giles Alington, to teach you and her other children the Greek and Latin tongues; but at that time no offers could induce me to leave the University. It is sweet to me to bear in mind this request of your mother's, and I now not only remind you thereof, but would offer you, now that I am at court, if not to fulfil her wishes, yet to do my best to fulfil them, were it not that you have so much learning in yourself, and also the aid of those two learned men, Cole and Christopherson, so that you need no help from me, unless in their absence you make use of my assistance, and if you like, abuse it. I write thus not because of any talents I possess (for I know they are very small) but because of my will (which I know is very great), and because of the opportunity long wished for and now granted me. For by favour of that great bishop the Lord Stephen of Winchester, I have been fetched away from the University to serve our illustrious queen at court, and that too in such a post, that I can there follow the same mode of life for the discharge of my duties as I did at the University for study. My office is to write Latin letters for the queen, and I hope I shall fulfil that office, if not with ability, yet faithfully, diligently, and unblameably ... Farewell, most accomplished lady! SIR FRANCIS BACON 1561-1626 To Sir Thomas Bodley _With a copy of his book_ [_Nov_. 1605.] SIR, I think no man may more truly say with the Psalm _Multum incola fuit anima mea_, than myself. For I do confess, since I was of any understanding, my mind hath in effect been absent from that I have done; and in absence are many errors which I do willingly acknowledge; and amongst the rest this great one that led the rest; that knowing myself by inward calling to be fitter to hold a book than to play a part, I have led my life in civil causes; for which I was not very fit by nature, and more unfit by the preoccupation of my mind. Therefore calling myself home, I have now for a time enjoyed myself; whereof likewise I desire to make the world partaker. My labours (if I may so term that which was the comfort of my other labours) I have dedicated to the King; desirous, if there be any good in them, it may be as the fat of a sacrifice, incensed to his honour: and the second copy I have sent unto you, not only in good affection, but in a kind of congruity, in regard of your great and rare desert of learning. For books are the shrines where the saint is, or is believed to be; and you having built an Ark to save learning from deluge, deserve propriety in any new instrument or engine, whereby learning should be improved or advanced. SIR THOMAS BROWNE 1605-1682 To HIS SON THOMAS _Fatherly commendations_ [c. 1667.] I Receaved yours, and would not deferre to send vnto you before you sayled, which I hope will come vnto you; for in this wind, neither can Reare-admirall Kempthorne come to you, nor you beginne your voyage. I am glad you like Lucan so well. I wish more military men could read him; in this passage you mention, there are noble straynes; and such as may well affect generous minds. Butt I hope you are more taken with the verses then the subject, and rather embrace the expression then the example. And this I the rather hint unto you, because the like, though in another waye, is sometimes practised in the king's shipps, when, in desperate cases, they blowe up the same. For though I know you are sober and considerative, yet knowing you also to be of great resolution; and having also heard from ocular testimonies with what vndaunted and persevering courage you have demeaned yourself in great difficulties; and knowing your captaine to bee a stout and resolute man; and with all the cordiall friendshippe that is between you; I cannot omitt my earnest prayers vnto God to deliver you from such a temptation. Hee that goes to warre must patiently submitt vnto the various accidents thereof. To bee made prisoner by an vnequall and overruling power, after a due resistance, is no disparagement; butt upon a carelesse surprizall or faynt opposition; and you have so good a memorie that you cannot forgett many examples thereof, even of the worthiest commanders in your beloved Plutark. God hath given you a stout, butt a generous and mercifull heart withall; and in all your life you could never behold any person in miserie butt with compassion and relief; which hath been notable in you from a child: so have you layd up a good foundation for God's mercy; and, if such a disaster should happen, Hee will, without doubt, mercifully remember you. How euer, let God that brought you in the world in his owne good time, lead you through it; and in his owne season bring you out of it; and without such wayes as are displeasing vnto him. When you are at Cales, see if you can get a box of the Jesuits' powder at easier rate, and bring it in the bark, not in powder. I am glad you haue receaued the bill of exchange for Cales; if you should find occasion to make vse thereof. Enquire farther at Tangier of the minerall water you told mee, which was neere the towne, and whereof many made use. Take notice of such plants as you meet with, either upon the Spanish or African coast; and if you knowe them not, putt some leaves into a booke, though carelessely, and not with that neatenesse as in your booke at Norwich. Enquire after any one who hath been at Fez; and learne what you can of the present state of that place, which hath been so famous in the description of Leo and others. The mercifull providence of God go with you. _Impellant animae lintea Thraciae_. TO HIS SON EDWARD _Centenarians_ 15 _Dec_. [1679.] DEARE SONNE, Some thinck that great age superannuates persons from the vse of physicall meanes, or that at a hundred yeares of age 'tis either a folly or a shame to vse meanes to liue longer, and yet I haue knowne many send to mee for their seuerall troubles at a hundred yeares of age, and this day a poore woeman being a hundred and three yeares and a weeke old sent to mee to giue her some ease of the colick. The _macrobii_ and long liuers which I haue knowne heere haue been of the meaner and poorer sort of people. Tho. Parrot was butt a meane or rather poore man. Your brother Thomas gaue two pence a weeke to John More, a scauenger, who dyed in the hundred and second yeare of his life; and 'twas taken the more notice of that the father of Sir John Shawe, who marryed my Lady Killmorey, and liueth in London, I say that his father, who had been a vintner, liued a hundred and two yeares, or neere it, and dyed about a yeere agoe. God send us to number our dayes and fitt ourselves for a better world. JOHN MILTON 1608-1674 TO A CAMBRIDGE FRIEND _The choice of a profession_ [1631-2.] SIR, Besides that in sundry other respects I must acknowledge me to profit by you whenever we meet, you are often to me, and were yesterday especially, as a good watchman to admonish that the hours of the night pass on (for so I call my life, as yet obscure and unserviceable to mankind), and that the day with me is at hand, wherein Christ commands all to labour, while there is light. Which because I am persuaded you do to no other purpose than out of a true desire that God should be honoured in every one, I therefore think myself bound, though unasked, to give you account, as oft as occasion is, of this my tardy moving, according to the precept of my conscience, which I firmly trust is not without God. Yet now I will not strain for any set apology, but only refer myself to what my mind shall have at any time to declare herself at her best ease. But if you think, as you said, that too much love of learning is in fault, and that I have given up myself to dream away my years in the arms of studious retirement, like Endymion with the moon, as the tale of Latmus goes; yet consider that if it were no more but the mere love of learning--whether it proceed from a principle bad, good, or natural--it could not have held out thus long against so strong opposition on the other side of every kind. For, if it be bad, why should not all the fond hopes that forward youth and vanity are fledge with, together with gain, pride, and ambition, call me forward more powerfully than a poor, regardless, and unprofitable sin of curiosity should be able to withhold me; whereby a man cuts himself off from all action, and becomes the most helpless, pusillanimous, and unweaponed creature in the world, the most unfit and unable to do that which all mortals most aspire to--either to be useful to his friends or to offend his enemies? Or, if it be to be thought a natural proneness, there is against that a much more potent inclination inbred, which about this time of a man's life solicits most--the desire of house and family of his own; to which nothing is esteemed more helpful than the early entering into credible employment, and nothing more hindering than this affected solitariness. And though this were enough, yet there is to this another act, if not of pure, yet of refined nature, no less available to dissuade prolonged obscurity--a desire of honour and repute and immortal fame, seated in the breast of every true scholar; which all make haste to by the readiest ways of publishing and divulging conceived merits--as well those that shall, as those that never shall, obtain it. Nature, therefore, would presently work the more prevalent way, if there were nothing but this inferior bent of herself to restrain her. Lastly, the love of learning, as it is the pursuit of something good, it would sooner follow the more excellent and supreme good known and presented, and so be quickly diverted from the empty and fantastic chase of shadows and notions, to the solid good flowing from due and timely obedience to that command in the Gospel set out by the terrible seasing of him that hid the talent. It is more probable, therefore, that not the endless delight of speculation, but this very consideration of that great commandment, does not press forward, as soon as many do, to undergo, but keeps off, with a sacred reverence and religious advisement how _best_ to undergo--not taking thought of being _late_, so it give advantage to be more _fit_; for those that were latest lost nothing, when the master of the vineyard came to give each one his hire. And here I am come to a stream-head, copious enough to disburden itself, like Nilus, at seven mouths into an ocean. But then I should also run into a reciprocal contradiction of ebbing and flowing at once, and do that which I excuse myself for not doing--'preach and not preach.' Yet, that you may see that I am something suspicious of myself, and do take notice of a certain belatedness in me, I am the bolder to send you some of my nightward thoughts some while since, because they come in not altogether unfitly, made up in a Petrarchian stanza, which I told you of: How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stol'n on his wing my three-and-twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth That I to manhood am arrived so near; And inward ripeness doth much less appear That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th. Yet be it less, or more, or soon, or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven. All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great taskmaster's eye. By this I believe you may well repent of having made mention at all of this matter; for, if I have not all this while won you to this, I have certainly wearied you of it. This, therefore, alone may be a sufficient reason for me to keep me as I am, lest having thus tired you singly, I should deal worse with, a whole congregation, and spoil all the patience of a parish; for I myself do not only see my own tediousness, but now grow offended with it, that has hindered me thus long from coming to the last and best _period_ of my letter, and that which must now chiefly work my pardon, that I am your true and unfeigned _friend_. TO LEONARD PHILARAS, THE ATHENIAN _The blind poet_[1] Westminster, 28 _Sept_. 1654. I have always been devotedly attached to the literature of Greece, and particularly to that of your Athens; and have never ceased to cherish the persuasion that that city would one day make me ample recompense for the warmth of my regard. The ancient genius of your renowned country has favoured the completion of my prophecy in presenting me with your friendship and esteem. Though I was known to you only by my writings, and we were removed to such a distance from each other, you most courteously addressed me by letter; and when you unexpectedly came to London, and saw me who could no longer see, my affliction, which causes none to regard me with greater admiration, and perhaps many even with feelings of contempt, excited your tenderest sympathy and concern. You would not suffer me to abandon the hope of recovering my sight; and informed me you had an intimate friend at Paris, Dr. Thevenot, who was particularly celebrated in disorders of the eyes, whom you would consult about mine, if I would enable you to lay before him the causes and the symptoms of the complaint. I will do what you desire, lest I should seem to reject that aid which perhaps may be offered me by Heaven. It is now, I think, about ten years since I perceived my vision to grow weak and dull; and at the same time I was troubled with pain in my kidneys and bowels, accompanied with flatulency. In the morning, if I began to read, as was my custom, my eyes instantly ached intensely, but were refreshed after a little corporeal exercise. The candle which I looked at, seemed as it were encircled with a rainbow. Not long after the sight in the left part of the left eye (which I lost some years before the other) became quite obscured, and prevented me from discerning any object on that side. The sight in my other eye has now been gradually and sensibly vanishing away for about three years; some months before it had entirely perished, though I stood motionless, everything which I looked at seemed in motion to and fro. A stiff cloudy vapour seemed to have settled on my forehead and temples, which usually occasions a sort of somnolent pressure upon my eyes, and particularly from dinner till the evening. So that I often recollect what is said of the poet Phineas in the _Argonautics_: A stupor deep his cloudy temples bound, And when he walked he seemed as whirling round, Or in a feeble trance he speechless lay. I ought not to omit that while I had any sight left, as soon as I lay down on my bed and turned on either side, a flood of light used to gush from my closed eyelids. Then, as my sight became daily more impaired, the colours became more faint and were emitted with a certain inward crackling sound; but at present, every species of illumination being, as it were, extinguished, there is diffused around me nothing but darkness, or darkness mingled and streaked with an ashy brown. Yet the darkness in which I am perpetually immersed seems always, both by night and day, to approach nearer to white than black; and when the eye is rolling in its socket, it admits a little particle of light, as through a chink. And though your physician may kindle a small ray of hope, yet I make up my mind to the malady as quite incurable; and I often reflect, that as the wise man admonishes, days of darkness are destined to each of us, the darkness which I experience, less oppressive than that of the tomb, is, owing to the singular goodness of the Deity, passed amid the pursuits of literature and the cheering salutations of friendship. But if, as is written, 'Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth from the mouth of God,' why may not any one acquiesce in the privation of his sight, when God has so amply furnished his mind and his conscience with eyes? While He so tenderly provides for me, while He so graciously leads me by the hand, and conducts me on the way, I will, since it is His pleasure, rather rejoice than repine at being blind. And, my dear Philaras, whatever may be the event, I wish you adieu with no less courage and composure than if I had the eyes of a lynx. [Footnote 1: From the Latin.] JOHN EVELYN 1620-1706 To SAMUEL PEPYS _In retirement at Wotton_ Wotton, 2 _Aug_. 1692. I have been philosophizing and world-despising in the solitudes of this place, whither I am retired to pass and mourn the absence of my worthiest friend. Here is wood and water, meadows and mountains, the Dryads and Hamadryads; but here's no Mr. Pepys, no Dr. Gale. Nothing of all the cheer in the parlour that I taste; all's insipid, and all will be so to me, till I see and enjoy you again. I long to know what you do, and what you think, because I am certain you do both what is worthy the knowing and imitation. On Monday next will Mr. Bentley resume his lecture, I think, at Bow Church: I fear I shall hardly get through this wilderness by that time. Pray give him your wonted confidence if you can, and tell him how unhappily I am entangled. I hope, however, to get home within this fortnight, and about the end of October to my hyemation in Dover Street. My son is gone with the Lord Lieutenant, and our new relation, Sir Cyril Wych, into Ireland: I look they should return wondrous statesmen, or else they had as well have stayed at home. I am here with Boccalini, and Erasmus's _Praise of Folly_, and look down upon the world with wondrous contempt, when I consider for what we keep such a mighty bustle. _O fortunate_ Mr. Pepys! who knows, possesses, and enjoys all that's worth the seeking after. Let me live among your inclinations, and I shall be happy. To THE SAME _An old man's occupations_ Wotton, 22 _July_, 1700. I could no longer suffer this old servant of mine to pass and repass so near Clapham without a particular account of your health and all your happy family. You will now inquire what I do here? Why, as the patriarchs of old, I pass the days in the fields, among horses and oxen, sheep, cows, bulls, and sows, _et cetera pecora campi_. We have, thank God! finished our hay harvest prosperously. I am looking after my hinds, providing carriage and tackle against reaping time and sowing. What shall I say more? _Venio ad voluptates agricolarum_, which Cicero, you know, reckons amongst the most becoming diversions of old age; and so I render it. This without: now within doors, never was any matron more busy than my wife, disposing of our plain country furniture for a naked old extravagant house, suitable to our employments. She has a dairy, and distaffs, for _lac, linum, et lanam_, and is become a very Sabine. But can you thus hold out? Will my friend say; is philosophy, Gresham College, and the example of Mr. Pepys, and agreeable conversation of York Buildings, quite forgotten and abandoned? No, no! _Naturam expellas furca tamen usque recurret_. Know I have been ranging of no fewer than thirty large cases of books, destined for a competent standing library, during four or five days wholly destitute of my young coadjutor, who, upon some pretence of being much engaged in the mathematics, and desiring he may continue his course at Oxford till the beginning of August, I have wholly left it to him. You will now suspect something by this disordered hand; truly I was too happy in these little domestic affairs, when, on the sudden, as I was about my books in the library, I found myself sorely attacked with a shivering, followed by a feverish indisposition, and a strangury, so as to have kept, not my chamber only, but my bed, till very lately, and with just so much strength as to scribble these lines to you. For the rest, I give God thanks for this gracious warning, my great age calling upon me _sarcinam componere_ every day expecting it, who have still enjoyed a wonderful course of bodily health for forty years.... DAME DOROTHY BROWNE 1621-1685 TO HER DAUGHTER IN LONDON _Three interesting postscripts_ [Norfolk, 28 _June, c_. 1679.] DEARE DAUGHTER, I have received all the things, to the great content of the owners, who returne you many thankes. Thay ar indeed very well chose things of all sorts: and I give you many thanks for the troble you have had with them: I sent you Tomey's scurt and long slevs of his ould cott; I hope you have them. On Mr. Felden it seemes took it last Wadinsday, and sayd hee would deliver it him selfe. Wee dayly wish for the new cloths; all our linen being worne out but shefts, and Tomey would give all his stock to see his briches. I bless God wee ar all well as I hope you ar. Tomey presents his dutty, your sisters all love and services. [4 _July_.] GOOD DAUGHTER, I must troble you once more abought my cosen Tenoson. She would macke a manto gown of the grene and whight silke you sent down for a peticot, but she wants two yards, and as much slit grene sarsinat as will line it in sight. I pray send nurs to gett it and lett mee know what it com to, and I will send you the mony. I sayes my Cossen Cradock might send it me by the choch for she would have it as sonne as possible. I bless God wee ar all in helth, and Tomey much longing for his briches. [5 _July_.] Tomey have received his cloues, and is much delighted, and sends you and his mother and grandmother dutty and thanckes, and meanes to war them carfully. GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY 1628-1698 To SAMUEL PEPYS[1] _Honourable Acquittal_ Berkeley House, 23 _Feb_. 1677-8. GOOD MR. PEPYS, Though I thank you for the favour of your letter, yet I confess myself both much surprised and troubled to receive a letter from you upon such an occasion: so is my wife, who professes herself wholly innocent of any crime of charging you in thought, word, or deed, and hopes you will do her that right to believe so of her. My daughter Berkeley says she expressed some trouble that the friend she recommended had not success, and that she was told the Commissioners of the Navy did report they had given the same recommendations of the person she proposed, as they did of him that was accepted, for the lieutenant's place; which my daughter, supposing to be true, wondered the more he lost the preferment: but, by the copies enclosed in your's, it appears her Ladyship was very much misinformed. As for Mrs. Henrietta, she is extremely troubled in saying any thing that gave you offence; and though she did not in the least intend it, yet she begs your pardon. And now, my good friend, though I am not under any accusation, and therefore need not say any thing to vindicate myself, yet give me leave, upon this occasion, to assure you, that there is no person has a better opinion of you than myself, nor is more sensible of your particular civilities to me; which I should be very glad to make a return of when in my power to serve you: and give me leave to add further, without flattery to you, and with great sincerity, that I believe our gracious master, His Majesty, is so fortunate in employing you in his service, that, if he should lose you, it would be very difficult for His Majesty to find a successor so well qualified in all respects for his service, if we consider both your integrity, vast abilities, industry, and zealous affections for his service; and, if His Majesty were asked the question, I will hold ten to one His Majesty declares himself of my opinion; so will I believe all that know you, more especially our fellow-traders that are so conversant with you and obliged by you. This is asserted as a great truth by, Sir, your very affectionate and hearty friend and Servant. [Footnote 1: Cf. Letter on p. 45.] DOROTHY OSBORNE 1628-1698 To SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE _Passing the time_ [No date; c. 1653.] I have been reckoning up how many faults you lay to my charge in your last letter, and I find I am severe, unjust, unmerciful, and unkind! O me! how should one do to mend all those! 'Tis work for an age, and I fear that I shall be so old before I am good, that 'twill not be considerable to any body but myself whether I am so or not.... You ask me how I pass my time here. I can give you a perfect account, not only of what I do for the present, but what I am likely to do this seven years if I stay here so long. I rise in the morning reasonably early, and before I am ready I go round the house till I am weary of that, and then into the garden till it grows too hot for me. I then think of making me ready; and when that's done I go into my father's chamber; from thence to dinner, where my cousin Molle and I sit in great state in a room and at a table that would hold a great many more. After dinner we sit and talk till Mr. P. comes in question, and then I am gone. The heat of the day is spent in reading or working; and about six or seven o'clock I walk out into a common that lies hard by the house, where a great many young wenches keep sheep and cows, and sit in the shade singing of ballads; I go to them, and compare their voices and beauty to some ancient shepherdesses that I have read of, and find a vast difference there; but, trust me, I think these are as innocent as those could be. I talk to them, and find _they want nothing to make them the happiest people in the world but the knowledge that they are so_. Most commonly, while we are in the middle of our discourse, one looks about her, and spies her cows going into the corn, and then away they all run as if they had wings at their heels. I that am not so nimble stay behind, and when I see them driving home their cattle think it is time for me to return too. When I have supped I go into the garden, and so to the side of a small river that runs by it, where I sit down and wish you with me (you had best say this is not kind, neither). In earnest, it is a pleasant place, and would be more so to me if I had your company, as I sit there sometimes till I am lost with thinking; and were it not for some cruel thoughts of the crossness of my fortune, that will not let me sleep there, I should forget there were such a thing to be done as going to bed. Since I writ this, my company is increased by two, my brother Harry, and a fair niece, my brother Peyton's daughter. She is so much a woman that I am almost ashamed to say I am her aunt, and so pretty, that if I had any design to gain a servant I should not like her company; but I have none, and therefore I shall endeavour to keep her here as long as I can persuade her father to spare her, for she will easily consent to it, having so much of my humour (though it be the worst thing in her) as to like a melancholy place, and little company.... My father is reasonably well, but keeps his chamber still; but will hardly, I am afraid, ever be so perfectly recovered as to come abroad again. TO THE SAME _Another pretender_ [No date; c. 1653.] I could tell you such a story (it is too long to be written), as would make you see what I never discovered in my life before, that I am a valiant lady. In earnest, we have had such a skirmish and upon so foolish an occasion, as I cannot tell which is strangest. The Emperor and his proposals began it; I talked merrily on it till I saw my brother put on his sober face, and could hardly then believe he was in earnest. It seems he was; for when I had spoke freely my meaning it wrought so with him, as to fetch up all that lay upon his stomach: all the people that I had ever in my life refused were brought again upon the stage, like Richard the Third's ghosts, to reproach me withal, and all the kindness his discoveries could make I had for you was laid to my charge; my best qualities, if I have any that are good, served but for aggravations of my fault, and I was allowed to have wit, and understanding, and discretion, in all other things, that it might appear I had none in this. Well, 'twas a pretty lecture, and I grew warm with it after a while. In short, we came so near to an absolute falling out that 'twas time to give over, and we said so much then that we have hardly spoken a word together since. But 'tis wonderful to see what courtesies and legs pass between us, and as before we were thought the kindest brother and sister, we are certainly now the most complimental couple in England: it is a strange change, and I am very sorry for it, but I'll swear I know not how to help it.... TO THE SAME _A disappointing preacher_ [No date; c. 1653.] ... God forgive me, I was as near laughing yesterday where I should not: would you believe that I had the grace to go to hear a sermon upon a week-day? In earnest, 'tis true, and Mr. Marshall was the man that preached, but never any body was so defeated. He is so famed that I expected rare things from him, and seriously I listened to him at first with as much reverence and attention as if he had been St. Paul. And what do you think he told us? why, that if there were no kings, no queens, no lords, no ladies, no gentlemen or gentlewomen in the world, it would be no loss at all to God Almighty: this he said over some forty times, which made me remember it, whether I would or not. The rest was much at this rate, entertained with the prettiest odd phrases, that I had the most ado to look soberly enough for the place I was in that ever I had in my life. He does not preach so always, sure; if he does, I cannot believe his sermons will do much towards the bringing anybody to heaven more than by exercising their patience; yet I'll say that for him, he stood stoutly for tithes, though in my opinion few deserve them less than he, and it may be he would be better without them. Yet you say you are not convinced that to be miserable is the way to be good; to some natures I think it is not; but there are many of so careless and vain a temper that the least breath of good fortune swells them with so much pride, that if they were not put in mind sometimes by a sound cross or two that they are mortal, they would hardly think it possible; and though it is a sign of a servile nature, when fear produces more of reverence in us than love, yet there is more danger of forgetting one's self in a prosperous fortune than in the contrary; and affliction may be the surest though not the pleasantest guide to heaven. What think you, might I not preach with Mr. Marshall for a wager?... TO THE SAME _The ideal husband_ [No date; _c_. 1653.] There are a great many ingredients must go to the making me happy in a husband. My cousin F. says our humours must agree, and to do that he must have that kind of breeding that I have had, and used to that kind of company; that is, he must not be so much a country gentleman as to understand nothing but hawks and dogs, and be fonder of either than of his wife; nor of the next sort of them, whose time reaches no farther than to be justice of peace, and once in his life high sheriff, who reads no book but statutes, and studies nothing but how to make a speech interlarded with Latin, that may amaze his disagreeing poor neighbours, and fright them rather than persuade them into quietness. He must not be a thing that began the world in a free school, was sent from thence to the university, and is at his farthest when he reaches the inns of court; has no acquaintance but those of his form in those places; speaks the French he has picked out of old laws, and admires nothing but the stories he has heard of the revels that were kept there before his time. He must not be a town gallant neither, that lives in a tavern and an ordinary; that cannot imagine how an hour should be spent without company unless it be in sleeping; that makes court to all the women he sees, thinks they believe him, and laughs and is laughed at equally. Nor a travelled Monsieur, whose head is feathered inside and outside, that can talk of nothing but of dances and duels, and has courage enough to wear slashes, when every body else dies with cold to see him. He must not be a fool of no sort, nor peevish, nor ill-natured, nor proud, nor courteous; and to all this must be added, that he must love me, and I him, as much as we are capable of loving. Without all this his fortune, though never so great, would not satisfy me, and with it a very moderate one would keep me from ever repenting my disposal.... TO THE SAME _The growth of friendship_ [No date; c. 1653.] ... I must find you pleased and in good humour; merry as you were wont to be, when we first met, if you will not have me show that I am nothing akin to my cousin Osborne's lady. But what an age it is since we first met, and how great a change it has wrought in both of us! if there had been as great a one on my face, it would be either very handsome or very ugly. For God's sake, when we meet, let us design one day to remember old stories in, to ask one another by what degrees our friendship grew to this height 'tis at. In earnest, I am lost sometimes in thinking of it, and though I can never repent of the share you have in my heart, I know not whether I gave it you willingly or not at first. No; to speak ingenuously, I think you got an interest there a good while before I thought you had any, and it grew so insensibly and yet so fast, that all the traverses it has met with since have served rather to discover it to me than at all to hinder it. TO THE SAME. _Wilful woman_ [No date; c. 1653.] I was carried yesterday abroad to a dinner that was designed for mirth, but it seems one ill-humoured person in the company is enough to put all the rest out of tune, for I never saw people perform what they intended worse, and could not forbear telling them so; but to excuse themselves and silence my reproaches they all agreed to say that I spoiled their jollity by wearing the most unseasonable looks that could be put on for such an occasion. I told them I knew no remedy but leaving me behind them; that my looks were suitable to my fortune though not to a feast. Fie, I am got into my complaining humour that tires myself as well as every body else, and which (as you observe) helps not at all; would it would leave me and that I should not always have occasion for it, but that's in nobody's power, and my Lady Talmash, that says she can do whatever she will, cannot believe whatsoever she pleases. 'Tis not unpleasant, methinks, to hear her talk how at such a time she was sick, and the physicians told her she would have the small-pox and showed her where they were coming out upon her, but she bethought herself that it was not at all convenient for her to have them at that time; some business she had that required her going abroad, and so she resolved she would not be sick nor was not. Twenty such stories as these she tells, and then falls into discourses of the strength of reason and power of philosophy till she confounds herself and all that hear her. You have no such ladies in Ireland.... My poor Lady Vavasor is carried to the Tower, and her situation could not excuse her, because she was acquainted by somebody that there was a plot against the Protector, and did not discover it. She has told now all that was told her, but vows she will never say from whence she had it; we shall see whether her resolutions are as unalterable as those of my Lady Talmash. I wonder how she behaved herself when she was married; I never yet saw anybody that did not look simply and out of countenance, nor ever knew a wedding well designed but one, and that was of two persons who had time enough I confess to contrive it, and nobody to please in it but themselves. He came down into the country where she was upon a visit, and one morning married her; as soon as they came out of the church, they took coach and came for the town, dined at an Inn by the way, and at night came into lodgings that were provided for them, where nobody knew them, and where they passed for married people of seven years' standing. The truth is I could not endure to be Mrs. Bride in a public wedding, to be made the happiest person on earth; do not take it ill, for I would endure it if I could, rather than fail, but in earnest I do not think it were possible for me; you cannot apprehend the formalities of a treaty more than I do, nor so much the success of it. Yet in earnest your father will not find my brother Peyton wanting in civility (though he is not a man of much compliment unless it be in his letters to me), nor an unreasonable person in any thing so he will allow him, out of his kindness to his wife, to set a higher value upon his sister than she deserves. I know not how he may be prejudiced upon the business, but he is not deaf to reason when it is civilly delivered, and is as easily gained with compliance and good usage as any body I know, but no other way; when he is roughly used he is like me ten times the worse for it. I make it a case of conscience to discover my faults to you as fast as I know them, that you may consider what you have to do: my aunt told me no longer ago than yesterday, that I was the most wilful woman that ever she knew, and had an obstinacy of spirit nothing could overcome. Take heed, you see I give you fair warning. I have missed a letter this Monday, what is the reason? By the next I shall be gone into Kent, and my other journey is laid aside, which I am not displeased at, because it would have broken our intercourse very much. Here are some verses of Cowley's; pray tell me how you like them. It is only a piece taken out of a new thing of his. The whole is very long, and is a description of, or rather a paraphrase upon, the friendships of David and Jonathan. 'Tis I think the best I have seen of his, and I like the subject because it is that I would be perfect in. Adieu! KATHARINE PHILIPS 1631-1664 ORINDA TO THE HONOURABLE BERENICE _Yielding to opinion_ Priory of Cardigan, _25 June_ Your Ladyship's last favour from Coll. P----'s was truly obliging, and carried so much of the same great soul of yours, which loves to diffuse itself in expressions of friendship to me, that it merits a great deal more acknowledgement than I am able to pay at my best condition, and am less now when my head aches, and will give me no leave to enlarge, though I have so much subject and reason; but really if my heart ached too, I could be sensible of a very great kindness and condescension in thinking me worthy of your concern, though I visibly perceive most of my letters have lost their way to your Ladyship. I beseech you be pleased first to believe I have written every post; but, secondly, since I came, and then to enquire for them, that they may be commended into your hands, where alone they can hope for a favourable residence; I am very much a sharer by sympathy, in your Ladyship's satisfaction in the converse you had in the country, and find that to that ingenious company Fortune hath been just, there being no person fitter to receive all the admiration of persons best capable to pay them, than the great _Berenice_.... And now (madam) why was that a cruel question, When will you come to _Wales_? 'Tis cruel to me, I confess, that it is yet in question, but I humbly beg your Ladyship to unriddle that part of your letter, for I cannot understand why you, madam, who have no persons alive to whom your birth hath submitted you, and have already by your life secured to yourself the best opinion the world can give you, should create an awe upon your own actions, from imaginary inconveniences: Happiness, I confess, is two-faced, and one is opinion; but that opinion is certainly _our own_; for it were equally ridiculous and impossible to shape our _actions_ by others' _opinions_. I have had so much (and some sad) reason to discuss this principle, that I can speak with some confidence, That _none will ever be happy, who make their happiness to consist in, or be governed by the votes of other persons._ I deny not but the approbation of wise and good persons is a very necessary satisfaction; but to forbear innocent contentments, only because it's possible some fancies may be so capricious as to dispute whether I should have taken them, is, in my belief, neither better nor worse than to fast always, because there are some so superstitious in the world, that will abstain from meat, upon some score or other, upon every day in the year, that is, some upon some days, and others upon others, and some upon all. You know, madam, there is nothing so various as _vulgar opinion_, nothing so untrue to itself. Who shall then please since none can fix it? 'Tis heresy (this of submitting to every blast of popular extravagancy) which I have combated in persons very dear to me; _Dear madam_, let them not have your authority for a relapse, when I had almost committed them; but consider it without a bias, and give sentence as you see cause; and in that interim put me not off (_Dear madam_) with those chimeras, but tell me plainly what inconvenience is it to come? If it be one in earnest, I will submit, but otherwise, I am so much my own friend, and my friend's friend, as not to be satisfied with your Ladyship's taking measure of your actions by others' opinion, when I know too that the severest could find nothing in this journey that they could condemn, but your excess of charity to me, and that censure you have already supported with patience, and (notwithstanding my own consciousness of no ways deserving your sufferance upon that score) I cannot beg you to recover the reputation of your judgement in that particular, since it must be my ruin. I should now say very much for your most obliging commands to me, to write, and should beg frequent letters from your Ladyship with all possible importunity, and should by command from my _Lucasia_ excuse her last rudeness (as she calls it) in giving you account of her honour for you under her own hand, but I must beg your pardon now, and out-believing all, I can say upon every one of these accounts, for really, madam, you cannot tell how to imagine any person more to any one, than I am, _Madam, Your Ladyship's most faithful servant, and passionate friend_, ORINDA JOHN LOCKE 1632-1704 TO WILLIAM MOLYNEUX _A philosopher's confidences_ Oates, 26 _April_, 1695. SIR, You look with the eyes, and speak the language of friendship, when you make my life of much more concern to the world than your own. I take it, as it is, for an effect of your kindness, and so shall not accuse you of compliment; the mistakes and over-valuings of good-will being always sincere, even when they exceed what common truth allows. This on my side I must beg you to believe, that my life would be much more pleasant and useful to me, if you were within my reach, that I might sometimes enjoy your conversation, and, upon twenty occasions, lay my thoughts before you, and have the advantage of your judgement. I cannot complain that I have not my share of friends of all ranks, and such, whose interest, assistance, affection, and opinions too, in fit cases, I can rely on. But methinks, for all this, there is one place vacant, that I know nobody that would so well fill as yourself; I want one near me to talk freely with, _de quolibet ente_; to propose to the extravagancies that rise in my mind; one with whom I would debate several doubts and questions, to see what was in them. Meditating by one's self, is like digging in the mine; it often, perhaps, brings up maiden earth, which never came near the light before; but whether it contains any metal in it, is never so well tried as in conversation with a knowing judicious friend who carries about with him the true touchstone, which is love of truth in a clear-thinking head. Men of parts and judgement the world usually gets hold of, and by a great mistake (that their abilities of mind are lost, if not employed in the pursuit of wealth or power) engages them in the ways of fortune and interest, which usually leave but little freedom or leisure of thought for pure disinterested truth. And such who give themselves up frankly, and in earnest to the full latitude of real knowledge, are not everywhere to be met with. Wonder not, therefore, that I wish so much for you in my neighbourhood; I should be too happy in a friend of your make, were you within my reach. But yet I cannot but wish that some business would once bring you within distance; and it is a pain to me to think of leaving the world without the happiness of seeing you. I do not wonder that a kinsman of yours should magnify civilities that scarce deserve the name; I know not wherein they consisted, but in being glad to see one that was in any way related to you, and was himself a very ingenious man; either of those was a title to more than I did, or could show him. I am sorry I have not yet had an opportunity to wait on him in London; and I fear he should be gone before I am able to get thither. This long winter, and cold spring, has hung very heavy upon my lungs, and they are not yet in a case to be ventured in London air, which must be my excuse for not waiting upon him and Dr. Ashe yet. The third edition of my essay has already, or will be speedily, in the press. But what perhaps will seem stranger, and possibly please you better, an abridgement is now making (if it be not already done) by one of the university of Oxford, for the use of young scholars, in the place of the ordinary system of logic. From the acquaintance I had of the temper of that place I did not expect to have it get much footing there. But so it is, I some time since received a very civil letter from one, wholly a stranger to me there, concerning such a design; and by another from him since, I conclude it near done. He seems to be an ingenious man, and he writes sensibly about it, but I can say nothing of it till I see it; and he, of his own accord, has offered that it shall be wholly submitted to my opinion, and disposal of it. And thus, sir, possibly that which you once proposed may be attained to, and I was pleased with the gentleman's design for your sake. You are a strange man, you oblige me very much by the care you take to have it well translated, and you thank me for complying with your offer. In my last, as I remember, I told you the reason why it was so long before I writ, was an expectation of an answer from London, concerning something I had to communicate to you: it was in short this; I was willing to know what my bookseller would give for a good latin copy; he told me, at last, twenty pounds. His delay was, because he would first have known what the translator demanded. But I forced him to make his proposal, and so I send it to you, to make what use of it you please. He since writ me word, that a friend of his at Oxford would, in some time, be at leisure to do it, and would undertake it. I bid him excuse himself to him, for that it was in hands I approved of, and some part of it now actually done. For I hope the essay (he was to show you the next week after you writ to me last) pleased you. Think it not a compliment, that I desire you to make what alterations you think fit. One thing particularly you will oblige me and the world in, and that is, in paring off some of the superfluous repetitions, which I left in for the sake of illiterate men, and the softer sex, not used to abstract notions and reasonings. But much of this reasoning will be out of doors in a latin translation. I refer all to your judgement, and so am secure it will be done as is best. What I shall add concerning enthusiasm, I guess, will very much agree with your thoughts, since yours jump so right with mine, about the place where it is to come in, I having designed it for chap. 18, lib. iv, as a false principle of reasoning often made use of. But, to give an historical account of the various ravings men have embraced for religion, would, I fear, be besides my purpose, and be enough to make an huge volume. My opinion of P. Malebranche agrees perfectly with yours. What I have writ concerning 'seeing all things in God', would make a little treatise of itself. But I have not quite gone through it, for fear I should by somebody or other be tempted to print it. For I love not controversies, and have a personal kindness for the author. When I have the happiness to see you, we will consider it together, and you shall dispose of it. I think I shall make some other additions to be put into your latin translation, and particularly concerning the 'connection of ideas', which has not, that I know, been hitherto considered, and has, I guess, a greater influence upon our minds than is usually taken notice of. Thus, you see, I make you the confident of my reveries; you would be troubled with a great many more of them, were you nearer. TO DR. MOLYNEUX _True friendship_ Oates, 27 _Oct._ 1698. SIR, Death has, with a violent hand, hastily snatched from you a dear brother. I doubt not but, on this occasion, you need all the consolation can be given to one unexpectedly bereft of so worthy and near a relation. Whatever inclination I may have to alleviate your sorrow, I bear too great a share in the loss, and am too sensibly touched with it myself, to be in a condition to discourse with you on this subject, or do any thing but mingle my tears with yours. I have lost, in your brother, not only an ingenious and learned acquaintance, all that the world esteemed; but an intimate and sincere friend, whom I truly loved, and by whom I was truly loved: and what a loss that is, those only can be sensible who know how valuable, and how scarce, a true friend is, and how far to be preferred to all other sorts of treasure. He has left a son, who I know was dear to him, and deserved to be so as much as was possible, for one of his age. I cannot think myself wholly incapacitated from paying some of the affection and service that was due from me to my dear friend, as long as he has a child, or a brother, in the world. If, therefore, there be any thing, at this distance, wherein I, in my little sphere, may be able to serve your nephew or you, I beg you, by the memory of our deceased friend, to let me know it, that you may see that one who loved him so well, cannot but be tenderly concerned for his son, nor be otherwise than I am, Sir, etc. SAMUEL PEPYS 1633-1703 TO GEORGE, LORD BERKELEY _An explanation_ Derby House, 22 _Feb._ 1677-8 MY LORD, I am greatly owing to your Lordship for your last favour at St. John's, and did, till now, reckon myself under no less a debt to my Ladies for the honour at the same time done me, in their commands touching Mr. Bonithan. But, my Lord, I have lately had the misfortune of being undeceived in the latter, by coming to know the severity with which some of my Ladies are pleased to discourse of me in relation thereto. I assure your Lordship, I was so big with the satisfaction of having an opportunity given me by my Ladies at once of obliging them, paying a small respect to you, and doing a good office to a deserving gentleman, that I did not let one day pass before I had bespoke and obtained His Majesty's and Royal Highness's promise of favour in Mr. Bonithan's behalf: and was so far afterwards from failing him in my further assistances with Captain Trevanion and others, that I took early care to secure him a lieutenancy, by a commission actually signed for him by the King, in the ship _Stavereene_, relying upon the character Captain Trevanion had given me of his capacity to abide the examination, established by the King, upon the promotion of lieutenants; which was not only the most I should have done in the case of a brother, but more than ever I did in any man's case before, or, for his sake, do think I shall ever do again. True it is, my Lord, that when, upon his examination by the officers of the Navy, he was found not so fully qualified for the office of lieutenant as was requisite, I did with all respect, and to his seeming satisfaction, advise him to pass a little longer time in the condition he was then in, under a stricter application of himself to the practice of navigation. And, in pursuance of my duty to the King, I did acquaint him also with Mr. Bonithan's present unreadiness; and had, therefore, a command given me for conferring the commission prepared for him upon another, who, upon examination, at the same time with Mr. Bonithan, was found better qualified for it. As to what I understand my Ladies are pleased to entertain themselves and others with, to my reproach, as if money had been wanting in the case, it is a reproach lost upon me, my Lord, who am known to be so far from needing any purgation in the point of selling places, as never to have taken so much as my fee for a commission or warrant to any one officer in the Navy, within the whole time, now near twenty years, that I have had the honour of serving His Majesty therein--a self-denial at this day so little in fashion, and yet so chargeable to maintain, that I take no pride, and as little pleasure, in the mentioning it, further than it happily falls in here to my defence against the mistake the Ladies seem disposed to arraign me by on this occasion. Besides that, in the particular case of this gentleman, Lieut. Beele, who enjoys the commission designed for Mr. Bonithan, he is one whose face I never saw either before or since the time of his receiving it, nor know one friend he has in the world to whom he owes this benefit, other than the King's justice and his own modest merit: which, having said, it remains only that I assure your Lordship what I have so said, is not calculated with any regard to, much less any repining at, the usage the Ladies are pleased to show me in this affair, for 'tis fit I bear it, but to acquit myself to your Lordship in my demeanour towards them, as becomes their and, my Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient Servant. TO MRS. STEWARD _A wedding in the city_ 20 _Sept._ 1695. MADAM, You are very good, and pray continue so, by as many kind messages as you can, and notices of your health, such as the bearer brings you back my thanks for, and a thousand services. Here's a sad town, and God knows when it will be a better, our losses at sea making a very melancholy exchange at both ends of it; the gentlewomen of this, to say nothing of the other, sitting with their arms across, without a yard of muslin in their shops to sell, while the ladies, they tell me, walk pensively by, without a shilling, I mean a good one, in their pockets to buy. One thing there is indeed, that comes in my way as a Governor, to hear of, which carries a little mirth with it, and indeed is very odd. Two wealthy citizens that are lately dead, and left their estates, one to a Blue Coat boy, and the other to a Blue Coat girl, in Christ's Hospital. The extraordinariness of which has led some of the magistrates to carry it on to a match, which is ended in a public wedding; he in his habit of blue satin, led by two of the girls, and she in blue, with an apron green and petticoat yellow, all of sarsnet, led by two of the boys of the house, through Cheapside to Guildhall Chapel, where they were married by the Dean of St. Paul's, she given by my Lord Mayor. The wedding dinner, it seems, was kept in the Hospital Hall, but the great day will be tomorrow, St Matthew's; when, so much I am sure of, my Lord Mayor will be there, and myself also have had a ticket of invitation thither, and if I can, will be there too, but, for other particulars, I must refer you to my next, and so, Dear madam, Adieu. Bow Bells are just now ringing, ding dong, but whether for this, I cannot presently tell; but it is likely enough, for I have known them ring upon much foolisher occasions, and lately too. TO JOHN EVELYN _Reply to an old friend_ Clapham, 7 _Aug._ 1700. I have no herds to mind, nor will my Doctor allow me any books here. What then, will you say, too, are you doing? Why, truly, nothing that will bear naming, and yet I am not, I think, idle; for who can, that has so much of past and to come to think on, as I have? And thinking, I take it, is working, though many forms beneath what my Lady and you are doing. But pray remember what o'clock it is with you and me; and be not now, by overstirring, too bold with your present complaint, any more than I dare be with mine, which, too, has been no less kind in giving me my warning, than the other to you, and to neither of us, I hope, and, through God's mercy, dare say, either unlooked for or unwelcome. I wish, nevertheless, that I were able to administer any thing towards the lengthening that precious rest of life which God has thus long blessed you, and, in you, mankind, with; but I have always been too little regardful of my own health, to be a prescriber to others. I cannot give myself the scope I otherwise should in talking now to you at this distance, on account of the care extraordinary I am now under from Mrs. Skinner's being suddenly fallen very ill; but ere long I may possibly venture at entertaining you with something from my young man in exchange--I don't say in payment, for the pleasure you gratify me with from yours, whom I pray God to bless with continuing but what he is! and I'll ask no more for him. JONATHAN SWIFT 1667-1745 TO STELLA _The Dean at home_ London, 16 _Jan._ 1710-11. O faith, young women, I have sent my letter N. 13, without one crumb of an answer to any of MD's; there is for you now; and yet Presto ben't angry faith, not a bit, only he will begin to be in pain next Irish post, except he sees MD's little handwriting in the glass frame at the bar of St. James's Coffee-house, where Presto would never go but for that purpose. Presto's at home, God help him, every night from six till bed time, and has as little enjoyment or pleasure in life at present as anybody in the world, although in full favour with all the ministry. As hope saved, nothing gives Presto any sort of dream of happiness, but a letter now and then from his own dearest MD. I love the expectation of it, and when it does not come, I comfort myself, that I have it yet to be happy with. Yes faith, and when I write to MD, I am happy too; it is just as if methinks you were here, and I prating to you, and telling you where I have been: Well, says you, Presto, come, where have you been to-day? come, let's hear now. And so then I answer; Ford and I were visiting Mr. Lewis, and Mr. Prior, and Prior has given me a fine Plautus, and then Ford would have had me dine at his lodgings, and so I would not; and so I dined with him at an eating-house; which I have not done five times since I came here; and so I came home, after visiting Sir Andrew Fountaine's mother and sister, and Sir Andrew Fountaine is mending, though slowly. 17. I was making, this morning, some general visits, and at twelve I called at the coffee-house for a letter from MD; so the man said he had given it to Patrick; then I went to the Court of requests and treasury to find Mr. Harley, and after some time spent in mutual reproaches, I promised to dine with him; I stayed there till seven, then called at Sterne's and Leigh's to talk about your box, and to have it sent by Smyth; Sterne says he has been making inquiries, and will set things right as soon as possible. I suppose it lies at Chester, at least I hope so, and only wants a lift over to you.... Well, so I came home to read my letter from Stella, but the dog Patrick was abroad; at last he came, and I got my letter; I found another hand had superscribed it; when I opened it, I found it written all in French, and subscribed Bernage: faith, I was ready to fling it at Patrick's head. Bernage tells me, he had been to desire your recommendation to me to make him a captain; and your cautious answer, 'That he had as much power with me as you,' was a notable one; if you were here, I would present you to the ministry as a person of ability. Bernage should let me know where to write to him; this is the second letter I have had without any direction; however, I beg I may not have a third, but that you will ask him, and send me how I shall direct to him. In the meantime, tell him, that if regiments are to be raised here, as he says, I will speak to George Granville, secretary at war, to make him a captain; and use what other interest I conveniently can. I think that is enough, and so tell him, and do not trouble me with his letters when I expect them from MD; do you hear, young women, write to Presto. 18. I was this morning with Mr. Secretary St. John, and we were to dine at Mr. Harley's alone, about some business of importance; but there were two or three gentlemen there. Mr. Secretary and I went together from his office to Mr. Harley's, and thought to have been very wise; but the deuce a bit: the company stayed, and more came, and Harley went away at seven, and the secretary and I stayed with the rest of the company till eleven; I would then have had him come away, but he was in for it; and though he swore he would come away at that flask, there I left him. I wonder at the civility of these people; when he saw I would drink no more, he would always pass the bottle by me, and yet I could not keep the toad from drinking himself, nor he would not let me go neither, nor Masham, who was with us. When I got home, I found a parcel directed to me, and opening it, I found a pamphlet written entirely against myself, not by name, but against something I writ: it is pretty civil, and affects to be so, and I think I will take no notice of it; it is against something written very lately; and indeed I know not what to say, nor do I care; and so you are a saucy rogue for losing your money to-day at Stoyte's; to let that bungler beat you, my Stella, are not you ashamed? well, I forgive you this once, never do so again; no, noooo. Kiss and be friends, sirrah.--Come, let me go sleep, I go earlier to bed than formerly; and have not been out so late these two months; but the secretary was in a drinking humour. So good night, myownlittledearsaucyinsolentrogues. 19. Then you read that long word in the last line, no faith have not you. Well, when will this letter come from our MD? to-morrow or next day without fail; yes faith, and so it is coming. This was an insipid snowy day, and I dined gravely with Mrs. Vanhomrigh, and came home, and am now got to bed a little after ten; I remember old Culpepper's maxim: Would you have a settled head, You must early go to bed: I tell you, and I tell it again, You must be in bed at ten. 20. And so I went to-day with my new wig, o hoao, to visit Lady Worsley, whom I had not seen before, although she was near a month in town. Then I walked in the Park to find Mr. Ford, whom I had promised to meet, and coming down the Mall, who should come towards me but Patrick, and gives me five letters out of his pocket. I read the superscription of the first, Pshoh, said I; of the second, pshoh again; of the third, pshah, pshah, pshah; of the fourth, a gad, a gad, a gad, I am in a rage; of the fifth and last, O hoooa; ay marry this is something, this is our MD, so truly we opened it, I think immediately, and it began the most impudently in the world, thus; Dear Presto, we are even thus far. Now we are even, quoth Stephen, when he gave his wife six blows for one. I received your ninth four days after I had sent my thirteenth. But I'll reckon with you anon about that, young women. Why did not you recant at the end of your letter when you got your eleventh? tell me that, huzzies base, were we even then, were we, sirrah? but I will not answer your letter now, I will keep it for another time. We had a great deal of snow to-day, and it is terrible cold.... 21. _Morning_. It has snowed terribly all night, and is vengeance cold. I am not yet up, but cannot write long; my hands will freeze. Is there a good fire, Patrick? Yes, sir, then I will rise; come take away the candle. You must know I write on the dark side of my bedchamber, and am forced to have a candle till I rise, for the bed stands between me and the window, and I keep the curtains shut this cold weather. So pray let me rise, and, Patrick, here, take away the candle.--_At night._ We are now here in high frost and snow, the largest fire can hardly keep us warm. It is very ugly walking, a baker's boy broke his thigh yesterday. I walk slow, make short steps, and never tread on my heel. It is a good proverb the Devonshire people have: Walk fast in snow, In frost walk slow, And still as you go, Tread on your toe: When frost and snow are both together, Sit by the fire and spare shoe leather. 22. _Morning_. Starving, starving, uth, uth, uth, uth, uth.--Do not you remember I used to come into your chamber, and turn Stella out of her chair, and rake up the fire in a cold morning, and cry uth, uth, uth? O faith, I must rise, my hand is so cold I can write no more.... 26, 27, 28, 29, 30. I have been so lazy and negligent these last four days, that I could not write to MD. My head is not in order, and yet it is not absolutely ill, but giddyish, and makes me listless; I walk every day, and hope I shall grow better. I wish I were with MD; I long for spring and good weather, and then I will come over. My riding in Ireland keeps me well. I am very temperate, and eat of the easiest meats as I am directed, and hope the malignity will go off; but one fit shakes me a long time. I dined to-day with Lord Mountjoy, yesterday at Mr. Stone's in the city, on Sunday at Vanhomrigh's, Saturday with Ford, and Friday I think at Vanhomrigh's, and that's all the journal I can send MD; for I was so lazy while I was well that I could not write. I thought to have sent this to-night, but it is ten, and I'll go to bed, and write on the other side to Parsivol to-morrow, and send it on Thursday; and so good night my dears, and love Presto, and be healthy, and Presto will be so too. To LORD TREASURER OXFORD _The Dean makes his bow_ 1 _July_, 1714. MY LORD, When I was with you, I have said more than once, that I would never allow quality or station made any real difference between men. Being now absent and forgotten, I have changed my mind: you have a thousand people who can pretend they love you, with as much appearance of sincerity as I, so that, according to common justice, I can have but a thousandth part in return of what I give. And this difference is wholly owing to your station. And the misfortune is still the greater, because I always loved you just so much the worse for your station: for, in your public capacity, you have often angered me to the heart, but, as a private man, never once. So that, if I only look toward myself, I could wish you a private man to-morrow: for I have nothing to ask; at least nothing that you will give, which is the same thing: and then you would see whether I should not with much more willingness attend you in a retirement, whenever you please to give me leave, than ever I did at London or Windsor. From these sentiments I will never write to you, if I can help it, otherwise than as to a private person, or allow myself to have been obliged to you in any other capacity. The memory of one great instance of your candour and justice, I will carry to my grave; that having been in a manner domestic with you for almost four years, it was never in the power of any public or concealed enemy to make you think ill of me, though malice and envy were often employed to that end. If I live, posterity shall know that, and more; which, though you, and somebody that shall be nameless, seem to value less than I could wish, is all the return I can make you. Will you give me leave to say how I would desire to stand in your memory? As one, who was truly sensible of the honour you did him, though he was too proud to be vain upon it; as one, who was neither assuming, officious, nor teasing; who never wilfully misrepresented persons or facts to you, nor consulted his passions when he gave a character; and lastly, as one, whose indiscretions proceeded altogether from a weak head, and not an ill heart. I will add one thing more, which is the highest compliment I can make, that I never was afraid of offending you, nor am now in any pain for the manner I write to you in. I have said enough; and, like one at your levee, having made my bow, I shrink back into the crowd. TO DR. SHERIDAN _News from the country_ 25 _Jan._ 1724-5. I have a packet of letters, which I intended to send by Molly, who has been stopped three days by the bad weather; but now I will send them by the post to-morrow to Kells, and enclosed to Mr. Tickell there is one to you, and one to James Stopford. I can do no work this terrible weather; which has put us all seventy times out of patience. I have been deaf nine days, and am now pretty well recovered again. Pray desire Mr. Stanton and Worral to continue giving themselves some trouble with Mr. Pratt; but let it succeed or not, I hope I shall be easy. Mrs. Johnson swears it will rain till Michaelmas. She is so pleased with her pick-axe, that she wears it fastened to her girdle on her left side, in balance with her watch. The lake is strangely overflown, and we are desperate about turf, being forced to buy it three miles off: and Mrs. Johnson (God help her!) gives you many a curse. Your mason is come, but cannot yet work upon your garden. Neither can I agree with him about the great wall. For the rest, _vide_ the letter you will have on Monday, if Mr. Tickell uses you well. The news of this country is, that the maid you sent down, John Farelly's sister, is married; but the portion and settlement are yet a secret. The cows here never give milk on midsummer eve. You would wonder what carking and caring there is among us for small beer and lean mutton, and starved lamb, and stopping gaps, and driving cattle from the corn. In that we are all-to-be-Dingleyed. The ladies' room smokes; the rain drops from the skies into the kitchen; our servants eat and drink like the devil, and pray for rain, which entertains them at cards and sleep; which are much lighter than spades, sledges, and crows. Their maxim is, Eat like a Turk, Sleep like a dormouse; Be last at work, At victuals foremost. Which is all at present; hoping you and your good family are well, as we are all at this present writing &c. Robin has just carried out a load of bread and cold meat for breakfast; this is their way; but now a cloud hangs over them, for fear it should hold up, and the clouds blow off. I write on till Molly comes in for the letter. O, what a draggletail will she be before she gets to Dublin! I wish she may not happen to fall upon her back by the way. I affirm against Aristotle, that cold and rain congregate homogenes, for they gather together you and your crew, at whist, punch, and claret. Happy weather for Mrs. Maul, Betty, and Stopford, and all true lovers of cards and laziness. THE BLESSINGS OF A COUNTRY LIFE. Far from our debtors, No Dublin letters, Not seen by our betters. THE PLAGUES OF A COUNTRY LIFE. A companion with news, A great want of shoes; Eat lean meat, or choose; A church without pews. Our horses astray, No straw, oats, or hay; December in May, Our boys run away, All servants at play. Molly sends for the letter. TO ALEXANDER POPE _Mostly about Gulliver_ Dublin, 17 _Nov._ 1726. I am just come from answering a letter of Mrs. Howard's, writ in such mystical terms, that I should never have found out the meaning, if a book had not been sent me called _Gulliver's Travels_, of which you say so much in yours. I read the book over, and in the second volume observed several passages which appear to be patched and altered, and the style of a different sort, unless I am mistaken. Dr. Arbuthnot likes the projectors least; others, you tell me, the flying island; some think it wrong to be so hard upon whole bodies or corporations, yet the general opinion is, that reflections on particular persons are most to be blamed; so that in these cases, I think the best method is to let censure and opinion take their course. A bishop here said, that book was full of improbable lies, and for his part, he hardly believed a word of it; and so much for Gulliver. Going to England is a very good thing, if it were not attended with an ugly circumstance of returning to Ireland. It is a shame you do not persuade your ministers to keep me on that side, if it were but by a court expedient of keeping me in prison for a plotter; but at the same time I must tell you, that such journeys very much shorten my life, for a month here is very much longer than six at Twickenham. How comes friend Gay to be so tedious? Another man can publish fifty thousand lies sooner than he can publish fifty fables.... Let me add, that if I were Gulliver's friend, I would desire all my acquaintance to give out that his copy was basely mangled and abused, and added to, and blotted out by the printer; for so to me it seems in the second volume particularly. Adieu. TO JOHN GAY _Enquiries into Mr. Gay's pursuits_ Dublin, 4 _May_, 1732. I am now as lame as when you writ your letter, and almost as lame as your letter itself, for want of that limb from my lady duchess, which you promised, and without which I wonder how it could limp hither. I am not in a condition to make a true step even on Amesbury Downs, and I declare that a corporeal false step is worse than a political one: nay, worse than a thousand political ones, for which I appeal to courts and ministers, who hobble on and prosper without the sense of feeling. To talk of riding and walking is insulting me, for I can as soon fly as do either. It is your pride or laziness, more than chair-hire, that makes the town expensive. No honour is lost by walking in the dark; and in the day you may beckon a blackguard boy under a gate, near your visiting place, (experto crede,) save elevenpence, and get half-a-crown's worth of health. The worst of my present misfortune is, that I eat and drink, and can digest neither for want of exercise; and, to increase my misery, the knaves are sure to find me at home, and make huge void spaces in my cellars. I congratulate with you for losing your great acquaintance; in such a case, philosophy teaches that we must submit, and be content with good ones. I like Lord Cornbury's refusing his pension, but I demur at his being elected for Oxford; which, I conceive, is wholly changed; and entirely devoted to new principles; so it appeared to me the two last times I was there. I find by the whole cast of your letter, that you are as giddy and as volatile as ever: just the reverse of Mr. Pope, who has always loved a domestic life from his youth. I was going to wish you had some little place that you could call your own, but, I profess I do not know you well enough to contrive any one system of life that would please you. You pretend to preach up riding and walking to the duchess, yet from my knowledge of you after twenty years, you always joined a violent desire of perpetually shifting places and company, with a rooted laziness, and an utter impatience of fatigue. A coach and six horses is the utmost exercise you can bear; and this only when you can fill it with such company as is best suited to your taste, and how glad would you be if it could waft you in the air to avoid jolting; while I, who am so much later in life, can, or at least could, ride five hundred miles on a trotting horse. You mortally hate writing, only because it is the thing you chiefly ought to do; as well to keep up the vogue you have in the world, as to make you easy in your fortune. You are merciful to everything but money, your best friend, whom you treat with inhumanity. Be assured I will hire people to watch all your motions, and to return me a faithful account. Tell me, have you cured your absence of mind? can you attend to trifles? can you at Amesbury write domestic libels to divert the family and neighbouring squires for five miles round? or venture so far on horseback, without apprehending a stumble at every step? can you set the footmen a-laughing as they wait at dinner? and do the duchess's women admire your wit? in what esteem are you with the vicar of the parish? can you play with him at backgammon? have the farmers found out that you cannot distinguish rye from barley, or an oak from a crab-tree? You are sensible that I know the full extent of your country skill is in fishing for roaches or gudgeons at the highest. I love to do you good offices with your friends, and therefore desire you will show this letter to the duchess, to improve her grace's good opinion of your qualifications, and convince her how useful you are likely to be in the family. Her grace shall have the honour of my correspondence again when she goes to Amesbury. Hear a piece of Irish news; I buried the famous General Meredyth's father last night in my cathedral, he was ninety-six years old; so that Mrs. Pope may live seven years longer. You saw Mr. Pope in health, pray is he generally more healthy than when I was among you? I would know how your own health is, and how much wine you drink in a day? My stint in company is a pint at noon, and half as much at night; but I often dine at home like a hermit, and then I drink little or none at all. Yet I differ from you, for I would have society, if I could get what I like, people of middle understanding, and middle rank. Adieu. JOSEPH ADDISON 1672-1719 TO ALEXANDER POPE _Translation of Homer_ 26 _Oct._ 1713. I was extremely glad to receive a letter from you, but more so upon reading the contents of it. The work you mention will, I dare say, very sufficiently recommend itself when your name appears with the proposals: and if you think I can any way contribute to the forwarding of them, you cannot lay a greater obligation upon me, than by employing me in such an office. As I have an ambition of having it known that you are my friend, I shall be very proud of showing it by this or any other instance. I question not but your translation will enrich our tongue, and do honour to our country; for I conclude of it already from those performances with which you have obliged the public. I would only have you consider how it may most turn to your advantage. Excuse my impertinence in this particular, which proceeds from my zeal for your ease and happiness. The work would cost you a great deal of time, and, unless you undertake it, will, I am afraid, never be executed by any other; at least I know none of this age that is equal to it besides yourself. I am at present wholly immersed in country business, and begin to take a delight in it. I wish I might hope to see you here some time, and will not despair of it, when you engage in a work that will require solitude and retirement. TO MR. SECRETARY CRAGGS _A bequest_ _June_ 1719. DEAR SIR, I cannot wish that any of my writings should last longer than the memory of our friendship, and therefore I thus publicly bequeath them to you, in return for the many valuable instances of your affection. That they may come to you with as little disadvantage as possible, I have left the care of them to one, whom, by the experience of some years, I know well-qualified to answer my intentions. He has already the honour and happiness of being under your protection; and as he will very much stand in need of it, I cannot wish him better than that he may continue to deserve the favour and countenance of such a patron. I have no time to lay out in forming such compliments as would but ill suit that familiarity between us which was once my greatest pleasure, and will be my greatest honour hereafter. Instead of them, accept of my hearty wishes that the great reputation you have acquired so early, may increase more and more, and that you may long serve your country with those excellent talents and unblemished integrity, which have so powerfully recommended you to the most gracious and amiable monarch that ever filled a throne. May the frankness and generosity of your spirit continue to soften and subdue your enemies, and gain you many friends, if possible, as sincere as yourself. When you have found such, they cannot wish you more true happiness than I, who am with the greatest zeal, dear sir, Your most entirely affectionate friend and faithful obedient servant. SIR RICHARD STEELE 1672-1729 TO MARY SCURLOCK _An explicit declaration_ 11 _Aug._ 1707. Madam,--I writ you on Saturday, by Mrs. Warren, and give you this trouble to urge the same request I made then; which was, that I may be admitted to wait upon you. I should be very far from desiring this if it were a transgression of the most severe rules to allow it. I know you are very much above the little arts which are frequent in your sex, of giving unnecessary torment to their admirers; I therefore hope you will do so much justice to the generous passion I have for you, as to let me have an opportunity of acquainting you upon what motives I pretend to your good opinion. I shall not trouble you with my sentiments till I know how they will be received; and as I know no reason why the difference of sex should make our language to each other differ from the ordinary rules of right reason, I shall affect plainness and sincerity in my discourse to you, as much as other lovers do perplexity and rapture. Instead of saying 'I shall die for you', I profess I should be glad to lead my life with you. You are as beautiful, as witty, as prudent, and as good-humoured as any woman breathing; but, I must confess to you, I regard all these excellences as you will please to direct them for my happiness or misery. With me, madam, the only lasting motive to love, is the hope of its becoming mutual. I beg of you to let Mrs. Warren send me word when I may attend you. I promise you, I will talk of nothing but indifferent things; though, at the same time, I know not how I shall approach you in the tender moment of first seeing you after this declaration which has been made by, madam, Your most obedient and most faithful humble servant. TO THE SAME _A pleasing transport_ Smith Street, Westminster, 1707. Madam,--I lay down last night with your image in my thoughts, and have awakened this morning in the same contemplation. The pleasing transport with which I am delighted has a sweetness in it attended with a train of ten thousand soft desires, anxieties, and cares. The day arises on my hopes with new brightness; youth, beauty, and innocence are the charming objects that steal me from myself, and give me joys above the reach of ambition, pride, or glory. Believe me, fair one, to throw myself at your feet is giving myself the highest bliss I know on earth. Oh, hasten, ye minutes! bring on the happy morning wherein to be ever hers will make me look down on thrones! Dear Molly, I am tenderly, passionately, faithfully thine. TO THE SAME _A lover betrays himself_ St. James's Coffee House, 1 _Sept._ 1707 Madam,--It is the hardest thing in the world to be in love, and yet to attend to business. As for me, all who speak to me find me out, and I must lock myself up, or other people will do it for me. A gentleman asked me this morning, 'What news from Lisbon?' and I answered, 'She's exquisitely handsome.' Another desired to know when I had been last at Hampton Court. I replied, 'It will be on Tuesday come se'nnight.' Pr'ythee allow me at least to kiss your hand before that day, that my mind may be in some composure. O love! A thousand torments dwell about thee! Yet who would live to live without thee? Methinks I could write a volume to you; but all the language on earth would fail in saying how much, and with what disinterested passion, I am ever yours. TO HIS WIFE _He proposes an outing_ Lord Sunderland's Office, 19 May, 1708. Eleven o'clock. Dear Prue,--I desire you to get the coach and yourself ready as soon as you can conveniently, and call for me here, from whence we will go and spend some time together in the fresh air in free conference. Let my best periwig be put in the coach-box, and my new shoes, for it is a great comfort to be well dressed in agreeable company. You are vital life to your obliged, affectionate husband, and humble servant. TO THE SAME _His greatest affliction_ 12 _Aug._ 1708. Madam,--I have your letter, wherein you let me know that the little dispute we have had is far from being a trouble to you; nevertheless I assure you, any disturbance between us is the greatest affliction to me imaginable. You talk of the judgement of the world; I shall never govern my actions by it, but by the rules of morality and right reason. I love you better than the light of my eyes or the life-blood in my heart; but you are also to understand that neither my sight shall be so far enchanted, nor my affection so much master of me, as to make me forget our common interest. To attend my business as I ought, and improve my fortune, it is necessary that my time and my will should be under no direction but my own.... I write all this rather to explain my own thoughts to you, than to answer your letter distinctly. I enclose it to you, that upon second thoughts, you may see the disrespectful manner in which you treat Your affectionate, faithful husband. TO THE SAME _Four characteristic notes_ I From the Press, one in the morning, 30 _Sept._ 1710. Dear Prue,--I am very sleepy and tired, but could not think of closing my eyes till I had told you I am, dearest creature, Your most affectionate and faithful husband. II Bloomsbury Square, 24 _Dec._ 1713. Dear Prue,--I dine with Lord Halifax and shall be at home half hour after six. For thee I die, for thee I languish. III 16 _Feb._ 1716-17. Dear Prue,--Sober or not, I am ever yours. IV Thursday, 3 in the afternoon, 2 _May_, 1717. I had a very painful night last night; but, after a little chocolate an hour or two ago, and a chicken for dinner, am much more at ease. TO THE SAME _The natural slave of beauty_. 20 _June_, 1717. Dear Prue,--I have yours of the 14th, and am infinitely obliged to you for the length of it. I do not know another whom I could commend for that circumstance; but where we entirely love, the continuance of anything they do to please us is a pleasure. As for your relations, once for all, pray take it for granted, that my regard and conduct towards all and singular of them shall be as you direct. I hope, by the grace of God, to continue what you wish me, every way, an honest man. My wife and my children are the objects that have wholly taken up my heart; and as I am not invited or encouraged in anything which regards the public, I am easy under that neglect or envy of my past actions, and cheerfully contract that diffusive spirit within the interests of my own family. You are the head of us; and I stoop to a female reign as being naturally made the slave of beauty. But to prepare for our manner of living when we are again together, give me leave to say, while I am here at leisure, and come to lie at Chelsea, what I think may contribute to our better way of living. I very much approve Mrs. Evans and her husband; and if you take my advice, I would have them a being in our house, and Mrs. Clark the care and inspection of the nursery. I would have you entirely at leisure to pass your time with me in diversions, in books, in entertainments, and no manner of business intrude upon us but at stated times. For, though you are made to be the delight of my eyes, and food of all my senses and faculties, yet a turn of care and housewifery, and I know not what prepossession against conversation-pleasures, robs me of the witty and the handsome woman to a degree not to be expressed. I will work my brains and fingers to procure us plenty of all things, and demand nothing of you but to take delight in agreeable dresses, cheerful discourses, and gay sights, attended by me. This may be done by putting the kitchen and the nursery in the hands I propose; and I shall have nothing to do but to pass as much time at home as I possibly can, in the best company in the world. We cannot tell here what to think of the trial of my Lord Oxford; if the ministry are in earnest in that, and I should see it will be extended to a length of time, I will leave them to themselves, and wait upon you. Miss Moll grows a mighty beauty, and she shall be very prettily dressed, as likewise shall Betty and Eugene: and if I throw away a little money in adorning my brats, I hope you will forgive me: they are, I thank God, all very well; and the charming form of their mother has tempered the likeness they bear to their rough sire, who is, with the greatest fondness, Your most obliged and obedient husband. JOHN GAY 1685-1732 TO JONATHAN SWIFT _Concerning Gulliver_ 17 _Nov._ 1726. About ten days ago a book was published here of the travels of one Gulliver, which has been the conversation of the whole town ever since: the whole impression sold in a week: and nothing is more diverting than to hear the different opinions people give of it, though all agree in liking it extremely. It is generally said that you are the author; but I am told the bookseller declares, he knows not from what hand it came. From the highest to the lowest it is universally read, from the cabinet-council to the nursery. The politicians to a man agree, that it is free from particular reflections, but that the satire on general societies of men is too severe. Not but we now and then meet with people of greater perspicuity, who are in search for particular applications in every leaf; and it is highly probable we shall have keys published to give light into Gulliver's design. Lord ---- is the person who least approves it, blaming it as a design of evil consequence to depreciate human nature, at which it cannot be wondered that he takes most offence, being himself the most accomplished of his species, and so losing more than any other of that praise which is due both to the dignity and virtue of a man. Your friend, my Lord Harcourt, commends it very much, though he thinks in some places the matter too far carried. The Duchess Dowager of Marlborough is in raptures at it; she says she can dream of nothing else since she read it: she declares that she has now found out that her whole life has been lost in caressing the worst part of mankind, and treating the best as her foes: and that if she knew Gulliver, though he had been the worst enemy she ever had, she should give up her present acquaintance for his friendship. You may see by this, that you are not much injured by being supposed the author of this piece. If you are, you have disobliged us, and two or three of your best friends, in not giving us the least hint of it while you were with us; and in particular Dr. Arbuthnot, who says it is ten thousand pities he had not known it, he could have added such abundance of things upon every subject. Among lady critics, some have found out that Mr. Gulliver had a particular malice to maids of honour. Those of them who frequent the church, say his design is impious, and that it is depreciating the works of the Creator. Notwithstanding, I am told the princess has read it with great pleasure. As to other critics, they think the flying island is the least entertaining; and so great an opinion the town have of the impossibility of Gulliver's writing at all below himself, it is agreed that part was not writ by the same hand, though this has its defenders too. It has passed lords and commons, _nemine contradicente_; and the whole town, men, women, and children, are quite full of it. Perhaps I may all this time be talking to you of a book you have never seen, and which has not yet reached Ireland; if it has not, I believe what we have said will be sufficient to recommend it to your reading, and that you will order me to send it to you. But it will be much better to come over yourself, and read it here, where you will have the pleasure of variety of commentators, to explain the difficult passages to you. We all rejoice that you have fixed the precise time of your coming to be _cum hirundine prima_; which we modern naturalists pronounce, ought to be reckoned, contrary to Pliny, in this northern latitude of fifty-two degrees, from the end of February, Styl. Greg., at furthest. But to us, your friends, the coming of such a black swallow as you will make a summer in the worst of seasons. We are no less glad at your mention of Twickenham and Dawley; and in town you know, you have a lodging at court. The princess is clothed in Irish silk; pray give our service to the weavers. We are strangely surprised to hear that the bells in Ireland ring without your money. I hope you do not write the thing that is not. We are afraid that B---- hath been guilty of that crime, that you (like a houyhnhnm) have treated him as a yahoo, and discarded him your service. I fear you do not understand these modish terms, which every creature now understands but yourself. You tell us your wine is bad, and that the clergy do not frequent your house, which we look upon to be tautology. The best advice we can give you is, to make them a present of your wine, and come away to better. You fancy we envy you, but you are mistaken; we envy those you are with, for we cannot envy the man we love. Adieu. ALEXANDER POPE 1688-1744 TO WILLIAM WYCHERLEY _Dryden and his critics_ Binfield in Windsor Forest, 26 _Dec_. 1704. It was certainly a great satisfaction to me to see and converse with a man, whom in his writings I had so long known with pleasure; but it was a high addition to it, to hear you, at our very first meeting, doing justice to your dead friend Mr. Dryden. I was not so happy as to know him: _Virgilium tantum vidi_. Had I been born early enough I must have known and loved him: for I have been assured, not only by yourself, but by Mr. Congreve and Sir William Trumbul, that his personal qualities were as amiable as his poetical, notwithstanding the many libellous misrepresentations of them, against which the former of these gentlemen has told me he will one day vindicate him. I suppose those injuries were begun by the violence of party, but it is no doubt they were continued by envy at his success and fame. And those scribblers who attacked him in his latter times, were only like gnats in a summer's evening, which are never very troublesome but in the finest and most glorious season; for his fire, like the sun's, shined clearest towards its setting. You must not therefore imagine, that when you told me my own performances were above those critics, I was so vain as to believe it; and yet I may not be so humble as to think myself quite below their notice. For critics, as they are birds of prey, have ever a natural inclination to carrion: and though such poor writers as I are but beggars, no beggar is so poor but he can keep a cur, and no author is so beggarly but he can keep a critic. I am far from thinking the attacks of such people any honour or dishonour even to me, much less to Mr. Dryden. I agree with you that whatever lesser wits have arisen since his death are but like stars appearing when the sun is set, that twinkle only in his absence, and with the rays they have borrowed from him. Our wit (as you call it) is but reflection or imitation, therefore scarce to be called ours. True wit, I believe, may be defined a justness of thought, and a facility of expression.... However, this is far from a complete definition; pray help me to a better, as I doubt not you can. TO JOSEPH ADDISON _A few thoughts from a rambling head_ 14 _Dec_. 1713. I have been lying in wait for my own imagination, this week and more, and watching what thoughts came up in the whirl of the fancy, that were worth communicating to you in a letter. But I am at length convinced that my rambling head can produce nothing of that sort; so I must e'en be content with telling you the old story, that I love you heartily. I have often found by experience, that nature and truth, though never so low or vulgar, are yet pleasing when openly and artlessly represented: it would be diverting to me to read the very letters of an infant, could it write its innocent inconsistencies and tautologies just as it thought them. This makes me hope a letter from me will not be unwelcome to you, when I am conscious I write with more unreservedness than ever man wrote, or perhaps talked, to another. I trust your good nature with the whole range of my follies, and really love you so well, that I would rather you should pardon me than esteem me; since one is an act of goodness and benevolence, the other a kind of constrained deference. You cannot wonder my thoughts are scarce consistent, when I tell you how they are distracted. Every hour of my life my mind is strangely divided; this minute perhaps I am above the stars, with a thousand systems round about me, looking forward into a vast abyss, and losing my whole comprehension in the boundless space of creation, in dialogues with Whiston and the astronomers; the next moment I am below all trifles, grovelling with T---- in the very centre of nonsense: now I am recreated with the brisk sallies and quick turns of wit, which Mr. Steele, in his liveliest and freest humours, darts about him; and now levelling my application to the insignificant observations and quirks of grammar of C---- and D----. Good God! what an incongruous animal is man! how unsettled in his best part, his soul; and how changing and variable in his frame of body! the constancy of the one shook by every notion, the temperament of the other affected by every blast of wind! What is he, altogether, but a mighty inconsistency; sickness and pain is the lot of one half of him, doubt and fear the portion of the other! What a bustle we make about passing our time when all our space is but a point! what aims and ambitions are crowded into this little instant of our life, which (as Shakespeare finely worded it) is rounded with a sleep! Our whole extent of being is no more, in the eye of Him who gave it, than a scarce perceptible moment of duration. Those animals whose circle of living is limited to three or four hours, as the naturalists tell us, are yet as long-lived, and possess as wide a field of action as man, if we consider him with a view to all space and all eternity. Who knows what plots, what achievements a mite may perform in his kingdom of a grain of dust, within his life of some minutes; and of how much less consideration than even this, is the life of man in the sight of God, who is for ever and ever? Who that thinks in this train, but must see the world, and its contemptible grandeurs, lessen before him at every thought? It is enough to make one remain stupefied in a poise of inaction, void of all desires, of all designs, of all friendships. But we must return (through our very condition of being) to our narrow selves, and those things that affect ourselves: our passions, our interests flow in upon us and unphilosophize us into mere mortals. For my part, I never return so much into myself, as when I think of you, whose friendship is one of the best comforts I have for the insignificancy of myself. TO JONATHAN SWIFT _Friends to posterity_ 23 _March_, 1727-8. I send you a very odd thing, a paper printed in Boston, in New England, wherein you will find a real person, a member of their parliament, of the name of Jonathan Gulliver. If the fame of that traveller has travelled thither, it has travelled very quick, to have folks christened already by the name of the supposed author. But if you object that no child so lately christened could be arrived at years of maturity to be elected into parliament, I reply (to solve the riddle) that the person is an Anabaptist, and not christened till full age, which sets all right. However it be, the accident is very singular that these two names should be united. Mr. Gay's opera has been acted near forty days running, and will certainly continue the whole season. So he has more than a fence about his thousand pounds; he will soon be thinking of a fence about his two thousand. Shall no one of us live as we would wish each other to live? Shall he have no annuity, you no settlement on this side, and I no prospect of getting to you on the other? This world is made for Caesar,--as Cato said, for ambitious, false, or flattering people to domineer in; nay, they would not, by their good will, leave us our very books, thoughts, or words in quiet. I despise the world yet, I assure you, more than either Gay or you, and the court more than all the rest of the world. As for those scribblers for whom you apprehend I would suppress my _Dulness_ (which, by the way, for the future you are to call by a more pompous name, the _Dunciad_), how much that nest of hornets are my regard will easily appear to you when you read the _Treatise of the Bathos_. At all adventures, yours and mine shall stand linked as friends to posterity, both in verse and prose, and (as Tully calls it) _in consuetudine studiorum_. Would to God our persons could but as well and as surely be inseparable! I find my other ties dropping from me; some worn off, some torn off, some relaxing daily: my greatest, both by duty, gratitude, and humanity, time is shaking every moment, and it now hangs but by a thread! I am many years the older for living so much with one so old; much the more helpless for having been so long helped and tendered by her; much the more considerate and tender, for a daily commerce with one who required me justly to be both to her; and consequently the more melancholy and thoughtful; and the less fit for others, who want only in a companion or a friend to be amused or entertained. My constitution too has had its share of decay as well as my spirits, and I am as much in the decline at forty as you at sixty. I believe we should be fit to live together could I get a little more health, which might make me not quite insupportable. Your deafness would agree with my dulness; you would not want me to speak when you could not hear. But God forbid you should be as destitute of the social comforts of life as I must when I lose my mother; or that ever you should lose your more useful acquaintance so utterly, as to turn your thoughts to such a broken reed as I am, who could so ill supply your wants. I am extremely troubled at the return of your deafness; you cannot be too particular in the accounts of your health to me; everything you do or say in this kind obliges me, nay, delights me, to see the justice you do me in thinking me concerned in all your concerns; so that though the pleasantest thing you can tell me be that you are better or easier; next to that it pleases me that you make me the person you would complain to. As the obtaining the love of valuable men is the happiest end I know of this life, so the next felicity is to get rid of fools and scoundrels; which I cannot but own to you was one part of my design in falling upon these authors, whose incapacity is not greater than their insincerity, and of whom I have always found (if I may quote myself), That each bad author is as bad a friend. This poem will rid me of these insects. Cedite, Romani scriptores, cedite, Graii; _Nescio quid_ maius nascitur Iliade. I mean than _my Iliad_; and I call it _Nescio quid_, which is a degree of modesty; but however, if it silence these fellows, it must be something greater than any _Iliad_ in Christendom. Adieu. TO THE SAME _A farming friend, and the Dunciad_ Dawley, 28 _June_, 1728. I now hold the pen for my Lord Bolingbroke, who is reading your letter between two haycocks, but his attention is somewhat diverted by casting his eyes on the clouds, not in admiration of what you say, but for fear of a shower. He is pleased with your placing him in the triumvirate between yourself and me: though he says, that he doubts he shall fare like Lepidus, while one of us runs away with all the power, like Augustus, and another with all the pleasures, like Anthony. It is upon a foresight of this that he has fitted up his farm, and you will agree that his scheme of retreat at least is not founded upon weak appearances. Upon his return from the Bath, all peccant humours, he finds, are purged out of him; and his great temperance and economy are so signal, that the first is fit for my constitution, and the latter would enable you to lay up so much money as to buy a bishopric in England. As to the return of his health and vigour, were you here, you might inquire of his haymakers; but as to his temperance, I can answer that (for one whole day) we have had nothing for dinner but mutton broth, beans, and bacon, and a barn-door fowl. Now his lordship is run after his cart, I have a moment left to myself to tell you, that I overheard him yesterday agree with a painter for £200, to paint his country hall with trophies of rakes, spades, prongs, &c., and other ornaments, merely to countenance his calling this place a farm--now turn over a new leaf. He bids me assure you, he should be sorry not to have more schemes of kindness for his friends than of ambition for himself; there, though his schemes may be weak, the motives at least are strong; and he says farther, if you could bear as great a fall and decrease of your revenues, as he knows by experience he can, you would not live in Ireland an hour. The _Dunciad_ is going to be printed in all pomp, with the inscription, which makes me proudest. It will be attended with _proeme, prolegomena, testimonia scriptorum, index authorum_, and notes _variorum_. As to the latter, I desire you to read over the text, and make a few in any way you like best; whether dry raillery, upon the style and way of commenting of trivial critics; or humourous, upon the authors in the poem; or historical, of persons, places, times; or explanatory, or collecting the parallel passages of the ancients. Adieu. I am pretty well, my mother not ill, Dr. Arbuthnot vexed with his fever by intervals; I am afraid he declines, and we shall lose a worthy man: I am troubled about him very much. TO THE SAME _An invitation to England_ 23 _March_, 1736-7. Though you were never to write to me, yet what you desired in your last, that I would write often to you, would be a very easy task: for every day I talk with you, and of you, in my heart; and I need only set down what that is thinking of. The nearer I find myself verging to that period of life which is to be labour and sorrow, the more I prop myself upon those few supports that are left me. People in this state are like props indeed; they cannot stand alone, but two or more of them can stand, leaning and bearing upon one another. I wish you and I might pass this part of life together. My only necessary care is at an end. I am now my own master too much; my house is too large; my gardens furnish too much wood and provision for my use. My servants are sensible and tender of me; they have intermarried, and are become rather low friends than servants; and to all those that I see here with pleasure, they take a pleasure in being useful. I conclude this is your case too in your domestic life, and I sometimes think of your old housekeeper as my nurse, though I tremble at the sea, which only divides us. As your fears are not so great as mine, and I firmly hope your strength still much greater, is it utterly impossible it might once more be some pleasure to you to see England? My sole motive in proposing France to meet in, was the narrowness of the passage by sea from hence, the physicians having told me the weakness of my breast, &c., is such, as a sea-sickness might endanger my life. Though one or two of our friends are gone since you saw your native country, there remain a few more who will last so till death; and who I cannot but hope have an attractive power to draw you back to a country which cannot quite be sunk or enslaved, while such spirits remain. And let me tell you, there are a few more of the same spirit, who would awaken all your old ideas, and revive your hopes of her future recovery and virtue. These look up to you with reverence, and would be animated by the sight of him at whose soul they have taken fire in his writings, and derived from thence as much love of their species as is consistent with a contempt for the knaves in it. I could never be weary, except at the eyes, of writing to you; but my real reason (and a strong one it is) for doing it so seldom, is fear; fear of a very great and experienced evil, that of my letters being kept by the partiality of friends, and passing into the hands and malice of enemies, who publish them with all their imperfections on their head, so that I write not on the common terms of honest men. Would to God you would come over with Lord Orrery, whose care of you in the voyage I could so certainly depend on; and bring with you your old housekeeper and two or three servants. I have room for all, a heart for all, and (think what you will) a fortune for all. We could, were we together, contrive to make our last days easy, and leave some sort of monument, what friends two wits could be in spite of all the fools in the world. Adieu. SAMUEL RICHARDSON 1689-1761 TO MISS MULSO _A discussion on love_ 3 _Sept_. 1751. In another place, you are offended with the word gratitude; as if your idea of love excluded gratitude. And further on, you are offended that I call this same passion 'a little selfish passion'. And you say that you have known few girls, and still fewer men, whom you have thought 'capable of being in love'. 'By this', proceed you, 'you will see that my ideas of the word love are different from yours, when you call it a little selfish passion.' Now, madam, if that passion is not little and selfish that makes two vehement souls prefer the gratification of each other, often to a sense of duty, and always to the whole world without them, be pleased to tell me what is? And pray be so good as to define to me what the noble passion is, of which so few people of either sex are capable. Give me your ideas of it. I put not this question as a puzzler, a bamboozler, but purely for information; and that I may make my Sir Charles susceptible of the generous (may I say generous?) flame, and yet know what he is about, yet be a reasonable man. Harriet's passion is founded in gratitude for relief given her in a great exigence. But the man who rescued her is not, it seems, to have such a word as gratitude in his head, in return for her love. I repeat, that I will please you if I can; please you, Miss Mulso, I here mean (before I meant not you particularly, my dear, but your sex), in Sir Charles's character; and I sincerely declare, that I would rather form his character to your liking, than to the liking of three parts out of four of the persons I am acquainted with. You are one of my best girls, and best judges. Of whom have I the opinion that I have of Miss Mulso on these nice subjects?--I ask therefore repeatedly for your definition of the passion which you dignify by the word noble; and from which you exclude everything mean, little, or selfish. And you really think it marvellous that a young woman should find a man of exalted merit to be in love with? Why, truly, I am half of your mind; for how should people find what, in general, they do not seek? Yet what good creatures are many girls! They will be in love for all that. Why, yes, to be sure, they would be glad of a Sir Charles Grandison, and prefer him even to a Lovelace, were he capable of being terribly in love. And yet, I know one excellent girl who is afraid 'that ladies in general will think him too wise'.--Dear, dear girls, help me to a few monkey-tricks to throw into his character, in order to shield him from contempt for his wisdom. 'It is one of my maxims,' you say, 'that people even of bad hearts will admire and love people of good ones.' Very true!--and yet admiration and love, in the sense before us, do not always shake hands, except at parting, and with an intention never to meet again. I have known women who professed to admire good men, but have chosen to marry men--not so good, when lovers of both sorts have tendered themselves to their acceptance. There is something very pretty in the sound of the word wild, added to the word fellow; and good sense is a very grateful victim to be sacrificed on the altar of love. Fervour and extravagance in expressions will please. How shall a woman, who, moreover, loves to be admired, know a man's heart, but from his lips?--Let him find flattery, and she will find credulity. Sweet souls! can they be always contradicting? You believe it is not in human nature, however depraved, to prefer evil to good in another, whatever people may do in themselves. Why, no one would really think so, did not experience convince us that many, very many young women, in the article of marriage, though not before thought to be very depraved, are taken by this green sickness of the soul, and prefer dirt and rubbish to wholesome diet. The result of the matter is this, with very many young women: they will admire a good man, but they will marry a bad one. Are not rakes pretty fellows? But one thing let me add, to comfort you in relation to Harriet's difficulties: I intend to make her shine by her cordial approbation, as she goes along, of every good action of her beloved. She is humbled by her love (suspense in love is a mortifier) to think herself inferior to his sisters; but I intend to raise her above them, even in her own just opinion; and when she shines out the girl worthy of a man, not exalt, but reward her, and at the same time make him think himself highly rewarded by the love of so frank and so right an heart. There now!--Will that do, my Miss Mulso? I laid indeed a heavy hand on the good Clarissa. But I had begun with her, with a view to the future saint in her character; and could she, but by sufferings, shine as she does? Do you, my dear child, look upon me as your paternal friend. LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU 1689-1762 TO THE COUNTESS OF MAR _The Viennese court_ Vienna, 14 _Sept_. o.s. [1716]. Though I have so lately troubled you, my dear sister, with a long letter, yet I will keep my promise in giving you an account of my first going to court. In order to that ceremony, I was squeezed up in a gown, and adorned with a gorget and the other implements thereunto belonging: a dress very inconvenient, but which certainly shews the neck and shape to great advantage. I cannot forbear in this place giving you some description of the fashions here, which are more monstrous and contrary to all common sense and reason, than 'tis possible for you to imagine. They build certain fabrics of gauze on their heads about a yard high, consisting of three or four stories, fortified with numberless yards of heavy ribbon. The foundation of this structure is a thing they call a _Bourle_, which is exactly of the same shape and kind, but about four times as big, as those rolls our prudent milk-maids make use of to fix their pails upon. This machine they cover with their own hair, which they mix with a great deal of false, it being a particular beauty to have their heads too large to go into a moderate tub. Their hair is prodigiously powdered, to conceal the mixture, and set out with three or four rows of bodkins (wonderfully large, that stick two or three inches from their hair), made of diamonds, pearls, red, green, and yellow stones, that it certainly requires as much art and experience to carry the load upright, as to dance upon May-day with the garland. Their whalebone petticoats outdo ours by several yards circumference, and cover some acres of ground. You may easily suppose how much this extraordinary dress sets off and improves the natural ugliness with which God Almighty has been pleased to endow them all generally. Even the lovely empress herself is obliged to comply, in some degree, with these absurd fashions, which they would not quit for all the world. I had a private audience (according to ceremony) of half an hour, and then all the other ladies were permitted to come make their court. I was perfectly charmed with the empress: I cannot, however, tell you that her features are regular; her eyes are not large, but have a lively look, full of sweetness; her complexion the finest I ever saw; her nose and forehead well-made, but her mouth has ten thousand charms that touch the soul. When she smiles, 'tis with a beauty and sweetness that force adoration. She has a vast quantity of fine fair hair; but then her person!--one must speak of it poetically to do it rigid justice; all that the poets have said of the mien of Juno, the air of Venus, comes not up to the truth. The Graces move with her; the famous statue of Medicis was not formed with more delicate proportion; nothing can be added to the beauty of her neck and hands. Till I saw them, I did not believe there were any in nature so perfect, and I was almost sorry that my rank here did not permit me to kiss them; but they are kissed sufficiently; for every body that waits on her pays that homage at their entrance, and when they take leave. When the ladies were come in, she sat down to Quinze. I could not play at a game I had never seen before, and she ordered me a seat at her right hand, and had the goodness to talk to me very much, with that grace so natural to her. I expected every moment when the men were to come in to pay their court; but this drawing-room is very different from that of England; no man enters it but the old grand-master, who comes in to advertize the empress of the approach of the emperor. His imperial majesty did me the honour of speaking to me in a very obliging manner; but he never speaks to any of the other ladies; and the whole passes with a gravity and air of ceremony that has something very formal in it. The empress Amelia, dowager of the late emperor Joseph, came this evening to wait on the reigning empress, followed by the two archduchesses her daughters, who are very agreeable young princesses. Their imperial majesties rise and go to meet her at the door of the room, after which she is seated in an armed chair, next the empress, and in the same manner at supper, and there the men had the permission of paying their Court. The archduchesses sit on chairs with backs without arms. The table is entirely served, and all the dishes set on by the empress's maids of honour, which are twelve young ladies of the first quality. They have no salary, but their chambers at court, where they live in a sort of confinement, not being suffered to go to the assemblies or public places in town, except in compliment to the wedding of a sister maid, whom the empress always presents with her picture set in diamonds. The three first of them are called _Ladies of the Key_, and wear gold keys by their sides; but what I find most pleasant, is the custom which obliges them, as long as they live, after they have left the empress's service, to make her some present every year on the day of her feast. Her majesty is served by no married women but the _grande maîtresse_, who is generally a widow of the first quality, always very old, and is at the same time groom of the stole, and mother of the maids. The dresses are not at all in the figure they pretend to in England, being looked upon no otherwise than as downright chambermaids. I had audience next day of the empress mother, a princess of great virtue and goodness, but who piques herself so much on a violent devotion; she is perpetually performing extraordinary acts of penance, without having ever done anything to deserve them. She has the same number of maids of honour, whom she suffers to go in colours; but she herself never quits her mourning; and sure nothing can be more dismal than the mourning here, even for a brother. There is not the least bit of linen to be seen; all black crape instead of it. The neck, ears, and side of the face covered with a plaited piece of the same stuff, and the face that peeps out in the midst of it, looks as if it were pilloried. The widows wear, over and above, a crape forehead cloth; and in this solemn weed go to all the public places of diversion without scruple. The next day I was to wait on the empress Amelia, who is now at her palace of retirement half a mile from the town. I had there the pleasure of seeing a diversion wholly new to me, but which is the common amusement of this court. The empress herself was seated on a little throne at the end of a fine alley in the garden, and on each side of her were ranged two parties of her ladies of honour with other young ladies of quality, headed by the two young archduchesses, all dressed in their hair full of jewels, with fine light guns in their hands; and at proper distances were placed three oval pictures, which were the marks to be shot at. The first was that of a CUPID, filling a bumper of Burgundy, and this motto, '_Tis easy to be valiant here_. The second a FORTUNE, holding a garland in her hand, the motto, _For her whom Fortune favours_. The third was a SWORD, with a laurel wreath on the point, the motto, _Here is no shame to the vanquished_. Near the empress was a gilded trophy wreathed with flowers, and made of little crooks, on which were hung rich Turkish handkerchiefs, tippets, ribbons, laces, etc., for the small prizes. The empress gave the first with her own hand, which was a fine ruby ring set round with diamonds, in a gold snuff-box. There was for the second, a little Cupid set with brilliants; and besides these, a set of fine china for a tea-table enchased in gold, japan trunks, fans, and many gallantries of the same nature. All the men of quality at Vienna were spectators; but only the ladies had permission to shoot, and the Archduchess Amelia carried off the first prize. I was very well pleased with having seen this entertainment, and I do not know but it might make as good a figure as the prize-shooting in the _Eneid_, if I could write as well as Virgil. This is the favourite pleasure of the emperor, and there is rarely a week without some feast of this kind, which makes the young ladies skilful enough to defend a fort, and they laughed very much to see me afraid to handle a gun. My dear sister, you will easily pardon an abrupt conclusion. I believe, by this time, you are ready to fear I would never conclude at all. To MRS. SARAH CHISWELL _Ingrafting for small-pox_ Adrianople, 1 _April_, O.S. [1717]. In my opinion, dear S., I ought rather to quarrel with you for not answering my Nimeguen letter of August till December, than to excuse my not writing again till now. I am sure there is on my side a very good excuse for silence, having gone such tiresome land-journeys, though I don't find the conclusion of them so bad as you seem to imagine. I am very easy here, and not in the solitude you fancy me. The great number of Greek, French, English, and Italians, that are under our protection, make their court to me from morning till night; and, I'll assure you, are many of them very fine ladies; for there is no possibility for a Christian to live easily under this government but by the protection of an embassador--and the richer they are, the greater their danger. Those dreadful stories you have heard of the plague have very little foundation in truth. I own I have much ado to reconcile myself to the sound of a word which has always given me such terrible ideas, though I am convinced there is little more in it than a fever. As a proof we passed through two or three towns most violently infected. In the very next house where we lay (in one of them) two persons died of it. Luckily for me, I knew nothing of the matter; and I was made believe, that our second cook who fell ill here, had only a great cold. However, we left our doctor to take care of him, and yesterday they both arrived here in good health; and now I am let into the secret that he has had the _plague_. There are many that escape it; neither is the air ever infected. I am persuaded that it would be as easy to root it out here as out of Italy and France; but it does so little mischief, they are not very solicitous about it, and are content to suffer this distemper instead of our variety, which they are utterly unacquainted with. _A propos_ of distempers: I am going to tell you a thing that I am sure will make you wish yourself here. The small-pox, so fatal and so general among us, is here entirely harmless by the invention of _ingrafting_, which is the term they give it. There is a set of old women who make it their business to perform the operation every autumn, in the month of September, when the great heat is abated. People send to one another to know if any of their family has a mind to have the small-pox: they make parties for this purpose, and when they are met (commonly fifteen or sixteen together) the old woman comes with a nut-shell full of the matter of the best sort of small-pox, and asks what veins you please to have opened. She immediately rips open that you offer to her with a large needle (which gives you no more pain than a common scratch), and puts into the vein as much venom as can lie upon the head of her needle, and after that binds up the little wound with a hollow bit of shell; and in this manner opens four or five veins. The Grecians have commonly the superstition of opening one in the middle of the forehead, in each arm, and on the breast, to mark the sign of the cross; but this has a very ill effect, all these wounds leaving little scars, and is not done by those that are not superstitious, who choose to have them in the legs, or that part of the arm that is concealed. The children or young patients play together all the rest of the day, and are in perfect health to the eighth. Then the fever begins to seize them, and they keep their beds two days, very seldom three. They have very rarely above twenty or thirty in their faces, which never mark; and in eight days' time they are as well as before their illness. Where they are wounded, there remain running sores during the distemper, which I don't doubt is a great relief to it. Every year thousands undergo this operation; and the French embassador says pleasantly, that they take the small-pox here by way of diversion, as they take the waters in other countries. There is no example of any one that has died in it; and you may believe I am very well satisfied of the safety of the experiment, since I intend to try it on my dear little son. I am patriot enough to take pains to bring this useful invention into fashion in England; and I should not fail to write to some of our doctors very particularly about it, if I knew any one of them that I thought had virtue enough to destroy such a considerable branch of their revenue for the good of mankind. But that distemper is too beneficial to them not to expose to all their resentment the hardy wight that should undertake to put an end to it. Perhaps, if I live to return, I may, however, have courage to war with them. Upon this occasion admire the heroism in the heart of your friend. TO THE COUNTESS OF BRISTOL _The Grand Signior a slave_ Adrianople, 1 _April_, o.s. 1717. As I never can forget the smallest of your ladyship's commands, my first business here has been to inquire after the stuffs you ordered me to look for, without being able to find what you would like. The difference of the dress here and at London is so great, the same sort of things are not proper for _caftans_ and _manteaus_. However, I will not give over my search, but renew it again at Constantinople, though I have reason to believe there is nothing finer than what is to be found here, being the present residence of the court. The Grand Signior's eldest daughter was married some few days before I came; and upon that occasion the Turkish ladies display all their magnificence. The bride was conducted to her husband's house in very great splendour. She is widow of the late Vizier, who was killed at Peterwaradin, though that ought rather to be called a contract than a marriage, not having ever lived with him: however, the greatest part of his wealth is hers. He had the permission of visiting her in the seraglio; and, being one of the handsomest men in the empire, had very much engaged her affections.--When she saw this second husband, who is at least fifty, she could not forbear bursting into tears. He is a man of merit, and the declared favourite of the Sultan (which they call _mosáyp_); but that is not enough to make him pleasing in the eyes of a girl of thirteen. The government here is entirely in the hands of the army: and the Grand Signior, with all his absolute power, as much a slave as any of his subjects, and trembles at a janissary's frown. Here is, indeed, a much greater appearance of subjection than among us: a minister of state is not spoken to, but upon the knee; should a reflection on his conduct be dropped in a coffee-house (for they have spies everywhere), the house would be razed to the ground, and perhaps the whole company put to the torture. No huzzaing mobs, senseless pamphlets, and tavern disputes about politics: A consequential ill that freedom draws; A bad effect,--but from a noble cause. None of our harmless calling names! but when a minister here displeases the people, in three hours' time he is dragged even from his master's arms. They cut off his hands, head, and feet, and throw them before the palace gate, with all the respect in the world; while that Sultan (to whom they all profess an unlimited adoration) sits trembling in his apartment, and dare neither defend nor revenge his favourite. This is the blessed condition of the most absolute monarch upon earth, who owns no _law_ but his _will_. I cannot help wishing, in the loyalty of my heart, that the parliament would send hither a ship-load of your passive-obedient men, that they might see arbitrary government in its clearest strongest light, where it is hard to judge whether the prince, people, or ministers, are most miserable. I could make many reflections on this subject; but I know, madam, your own good sense has already furnished you with better than I am capable of. I went yesterday with the French embassadors to see the Grand Signior in his passage to the mosque. He was preceded by a numerous guard of janissaries, with vast white feathers on their heads, _spahis_ and _bostangees_ (these are foot and horse guards), and the royal gardeners, which are a very considerable body of men, dressed in different habits of fine lively colours, that, at a distance, they appeared like a parterre of tulips. After them the aga of the janissaries, in a robe of purple velvet, lined with silver tissue, his horse led by two slaves richly dressed. Next him the _Kyzlár-aga_ (your ladyship knows this is the chief guardian of the seraglio ladies) in a deep yellow cloth (which suited very well to his black face) lined with sables, and last his Sublimity himself, in green lined with the fur of a black Muscovite fox, which is supposed worth a thousand pounds sterling, mounted on a fine horse, with furniture embroidered with jewels. Six more horses richly furnished were led after him; and two of his principal courtiers bore, one his gold, and the other his silver coffee-pot, on a staff; another carried a silver stool on his head for him to sit on. It would be too tedious to tell your ladyship the various dresses and turbans by which their rank is distinguished; but they were all extremely rich and gay, to the number of some thousands; that, perhaps, there cannot be seen a more beautiful procession. The Sultan appeared to us a handsome man of about forty, with a very graceful air, but something severe in his countenance, his eyes very full and black. He happened to stop under the window where we stood, and (I suppose being told who we were) looked upon us very attentively, that we had full leisure to consider him, and the French embassadress agreed with me as to his good mien: I see that lady very often; she is young, and her conversation would be a great relief to me, if I could persuade her to live without those forms and ceremonies that make life formal and tiresome. But she is so delighted with her guards, her four-and-twenty footmen, gentlemen ushers, etc., that she would rather die than make me a visit without them: not to reckon a coachful of attending damsels yclep'd maids of honour. What vexes me is, that as long as she will visit with a troublesome equipage, I am obliged to do the same: however, our mutual interest makes us much together. I went with her the other day all round the town, in an open gilt chariot, with our joint train of attendants, preceded by our guards, who might have summoned the people to see what they had never seen, nor ever would see again--two young Christian embassadresses never yet having been in this country at the same time, nor I believe ever will again. Your ladyship may easily imagine that we drew a vast crowd of spectators, but all silent as death. If any of them had taken the liberties of our mob upon any strange sight, our janissaries had made no scruple of falling on them with their scimitars, without danger for so doing, being above law. Yet these people have some good qualities; they are very zealous and faithful where they serve, and look upon it as their business to fight for you upon all occasions. Of this I had a very pleasant instance in a village on this side Philipopolis, where we were met by our domestic guard. I happened to bespeak pigeons for my supper, upon which one of my janissaries went immediately to the Cadi (the chief civil officer of the town), and ordered him to send in some dozens. The poor man answered that he had already sent about, but could get none. My janissary, in the height of his zeal for my service, immediately locked him up prisoner in his room, telling him he deserved death for his impudence, in offering to excuse his not obeying my command; but, out of respect to me, he would not punish him but by my order, and accordingly, came very gravely to me, to ask what should be done to him; adding, by way of compliment, that if I pleased he would bring me his head. This may give you some idea of the unlimited power of these fellows, who are all sworn brothers, and bound to revenge the injuries done to one another, whether at Cairo, Aleppo, or any part of the world; and this inviolable league makes them so powerful, that the greatest man at court never speaks to them but in a flattering tone; and in Asia, any man that is rich is forced to enrol himself a janissary, to secure his estate. But I have already said enough; and I dare swear, dear madam, that, by this time, 'tis a very comfortable reflection to you that there is no possibility of your receiving such a tedious letter but once in six months; 'tis that consideration has given me the assurance to entertain you so long, and will, I hope, plead the excuse of, dear madam, &c. To THE COUNTESS OF MAR _The Grand Vizier's lady_ Adrianople, 18 _April_, O.S. [1717]. I wrote to you, dear sister, and to all my other English correspondents, by the last ship, and only Heaven can tell when I shall have another opportunity of sending to you; but I cannot forbear writing, though perhaps my letter may lie upon my hands this two months. To confess the truth, my head is so full of my entertainment yesterday, that 'tis absolutely necessary for my own repose to give it some vent. Without farther preface, I will then begin my story. I was invited to dine with the Grand Vizier's lady, and it was with a great deal of pleasure I prepared myself for an entertainment which was never given before to any Christian. I thought I should very little satisfy her curiosity (which I did not doubt was a considerable motive to the invitation) by going in a dress she was used to see, and therefore dressed myself in the court habit of Vienna, which is much more magnificent than ours. However, I chose to go _incognita_, to avoid any disputes about ceremony, and went in a Turkish coach, only attended by my woman that held up my train, and the Greek lady who was my interpretress. I was met at the court door by her black eunuch, who helped me out of the coach with great respect, and conducted me through several rooms, where her she-slaves, finely dressed, were ranged on each side. In the innermost I found the lady sitting on her sofa, in a sable vest. She advanced to meet me, and presented me half a dozen of her friends with great civility. She seemed a very good woman, near fifty years old. I was surprised to observe so little magnificence in her house, the furniture being all very moderate; and except the habits and number of her slaves, nothing about her that appeared expensive. She guessed at my thoughts, and told me that she was no longer of an age to spend either her time or money in superfluities; that her whole expense was in charity, and her whole employment praying to God. There was no affectation in this speech; both she and her husband are entirely given up to devotion. He never looks upon any other woman; and, what is much more extraordinary, touches no bribes, notwithstanding the example of all his predecessors. He is so scrupulous on this point, he would not accept Mr. Wortley's present, till he had been assured over and over that it was a settled perquisite of his place at the entrance of every ambassador. She entertained me with all kind of civility till dinner came in, which was served, one dish at a time, to a vast number, all finely dressed after their manner, which I do not think so bad as you have perhaps heard it represented. I am a very good judge of their eating, having lived three weeks in the house of an _effendi_ at Belgrade, who gave us very magnificent dinners, dressed by his own cooks, which the first week pleased me extremely; but I own I then began to grow weary of it, and desired our own cook might add a dish or two after our manner. But I attribute this to custom. I am very much inclined to believe an Indian, that had never tasted of either, would prefer their cookery to ours. Their sauces are very high, all the roast very much done. They use a great deal of rich spice. The soup is served for the last dish; and they have at least as great variety of ragouts as we have. I was very sorry I could not eat of as many as the good lady would have had me, who was very earnest in serving me of everything. The treat concluded with coffee and perfumes, which is a high mark of respect; two slaves kneeling censed my hair, clothes, and handkerchief. After this ceremony, she commanded her slaves to play and dance, which they did with their guitars in their hands; and she excused to me their want of skill, saying she took no care to accomplish them in that art. I returned her thanks, and soon after took my leave. I was conducted back in the same manner I entered; and would have gone straight to my own house; but the Greek lady with me earnestly solicited me to visit the _Kiyàya's_ lady, saying, he was the second officer in the empire, and ought indeed to be looked upon as the first, the Grand Vizier having only the name, while he exercised the authority. I had found so little diversion in this harem, that I had no mind to go into another. But her importunity prevailed with me, and I am extreme glad that I was so complaisant. All things here were with quite another air than at the Grand Vizier's; and the very house confessed the difference between an old devotee and a young beauty. It was nicely clean and magnificent. I was met at the door by two black eunuchs, who led me through a long gallery between two ranks of beautiful young girls, with their hair finely plaited, almost hanging to their feet, all dressed in fine light damasks, brocaded with silver. I was sorry that decency did not permit me to stop to consider them nearer. But that thought was lost upon my entrance into a large room, or rather pavilion, built round with gilded sashes, which were most of them thrown up, and the trees planted near them gave an agreeable shade, which hindered the sun from being troublesome. The jessamines and honeysuckles that twisted round their trunks, shedding a soft perfume, increased by a white marble fountain playing sweet water in the lower part of the room, which fell into three or four basins with a pleasing sound. The roof was painted with all sort of flowers, falling out of gilded baskets, that seemed tumbling down. On a sofa, raised three steps, and covered with fine Persian carpets, sat the _Kiyàya's_ lady, leaning on cushions of white satin, embroidered; and at her feet sat two young girls, the eldest about twelve years old, lovely as angels, dressed perfectly rich, and almost covered with jewels. But they were hardly seen near the fair Fatima (for that is her name), so much her beauty effaced every thing I have seen, all that has been called lovely either in England or Germany, and must own that I never saw any thing so gloriously beautiful, nor can I recollect a face that would have been taken notice of near hers. She stood up to receive me, saluting me after their fashion, putting her hand upon her heart with a sweetness full of majesty, that no court breeding could ever give. She ordered cushions to be given to me, and took care to place me in the corner, which is the place of honour. I confess, though the Greek lady had before given me a great opinion of her beauty, I was so struck with admiration, that I could not for some time speak to her, being wholly taken up in gazing. That surprising harmony of features! that charming result of the whole! that exact proportion of body! that lovely bloom of complexion unsullied by art! the unutterable enchantment of her smile!--But her eyes!--large and black, with all the soft languishment of the blue! every turn of her face discovering some new charm. After my first surprise was over, I endeavoured, by nicely examining her face, to find out some imperfection, without any fruit of my search, but being clearly convinced of the error of that vulgar notion, that a face perfectly regular would not be agreeable: nature having done for her with more success, what Apelles is said to have essayed, by a collection of the most exact features, to form a perfect face, and to that, a behaviour, so full of grace and sweetness, such easy motions, with an air so majestic, yet free from stiffness or affectation, that I am persuaded, could she be suddenly transported upon the most polite throne of Europe, nobody would think her other than born and bred to be a queen, though educated in a country we call barbarous. To say all in a word, our most celebrated English beauties would vanish near her. She was dressed in a _caftán_ of gold brocade, flowered with silver, very well fitted to her shape, and shewing to advantage the beauty of her bosom, only shaded by the thin guaze of her shift. Her drawers were pale pink, green and silver, her slippers white, finely embroidered; her lovely arms adorned with bracelets of diamonds, and her broad girdle set round with diamonds; upon her head a rich Turkish handkerchief of pink and silver, her own fine black hair hanging a great length in various tresses, and on one side of her head some bodkins of jewels. I am afraid you will accuse me of extravagance in this description. I think I have read somewhere that women always speak in rapture when they speak of beauty, but I cannot imagine why they should not be allowed to do so. I rather think it virtue to be able to admire without any mixture of desire or envy. The gravest writers have spoken with great warmth of some celebrated pictures and statues. The workmanship of Heaven certainly excels all our weak imitations, and, I think, has a much better claim to our praise. For me, I am not ashamed to own I took more pleasure in looking on the beauteous Fatima, than the finest piece of sculpture could have given me. She told me the two girls at her feet were her daughters, though she appeared too young to be their mother. Her fair maids were ranged below the sofa, to the number of twenty, and put me in mind of the pictures of the ancient nymphs. I did not think all nature could have furnished such a scene of beauty. She made them a sign to play and dance. Four of them immediately began to play some soft airs on instruments between a lute and a guitar, which they accompanied with their voices, while the others danced by turns. This dance was very different from what I had seen before. Nothing could be more artful.... The tunes so soft!--the motions so languishing!--accompanied with pauses and dying eyes! half-falling back, and then recovering themselves in so artful a manner.... I suppose you may have read that the Turks have no music but what is shocking to the ears; but this account is from those who never heard any, but what is played in the streets, and is just as reasonable as if a foreigner should take his ideas of the English music from the bladder and string, and marrowbone and cleavers. I can assure you that the music is extremely pathetic; 'tis true I am inclined to prefer the Italian, but perhaps I am partial. I am acquainted with a Greek lady who sings better than Mrs. Robinson, and is very well skilled in both, who gives the preference to the Turkish. 'Tis certain they have very fine natural voices; these were very agreeable. When the dance was over, four fair slaves came into the room with silver censers in their hands, and perfumed the room with amber, aloes-wood, and other scents. After this they served me coffee upon their knees in the finest japan china, with _soucoupes_ of silver, gilt. The lovely Fatima entertained me all this while in the most polite agreeable manner, calling me often _Guzél sultanum_, or the beautiful sultana, and desiring my friendship with the best grace in the world, lamenting that she could not entertain me in my own language. When I took my leave, two maids brought in a fine silver basket of embroidered handkerchiefs; she begged I would wear the richest for her sake, and gave the others to my woman and interpretress. I returned through the same ceremonies as before, and could not help fancying I had been some time in Mahomet's paradise, so much I was charmed with what I had seen. I know not how the relation of it appears to you. I wish it may give you part of my pleasure; for I would have my dear sister share in all the diversions of, &c. To THE COUNTESS OF BUTE _Her grand-daughter's education_ 28 _Jan_. N.S. [1753]. Dear child, You have given me a great deal of satisfaction by your account of your eldest daughter. I am particularly pleased to hear she is a good arithmetician; it is the best proof of understanding: the knowledge of numbers is one of the chief distinctions between us and the brutes. If there is anything in blood, you may reasonably expect your children should be endowed with an uncommon share of good sense. Mr. Wortley's family and mine have both produced some of the greatest men that have been born in England: I mean Admiral Sandwich, and my grandfather, who was distinguished by the name of Wise William. I have heard Lord Bute's father mentioned as an extraordinary genius, though he had not many opportunities of showing it; and his uncle, the present Duke of Argyll, has one of the best heads I ever knew. I will therefore speak to you as supposing Lady Mary not only capable, but desirous of learning: in that case by all means let her be indulged in it. You will tell me I did not make it a part of your education: your prospect was very different from hers. As you had no defect either in mind or person to hinder, and much in your circumstances to attract the highest offers, it seemed your business to learn how to live in the world, as it is hers to know how to be easy out of it. It is the common error of builders and parents to follow some plan they think beautiful (and perhaps is so), without considering that nothing is beautiful that is displaced. Hence we see so many edifices raised that the raisers can never inhabit, being too large for their fortunes. Vistas are laid open over barren heaths, and apartments contrived for a coolness very agreeable in Italy, but killing in the north of Britain: thus every woman endeavours to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she will never appear, and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet. To render this amusement extensive, she should be permitted to learn the languages. I have heard it lamented that boys lose so many years in mere learning of words: this is no objection to a girl, whose time is not so precious: she cannot advance herself in any profession, and has therefore more hours to spare; and as you say her memory is good, she will be very agreeably employed this way. There are two cautions to be given on this subject: first, not to think herself learned when she can read Latin, or even Greek. Languages are more properly to be called vehicles of learning than learning itself, as may be observed in many schoolmasters, who, though perhaps critics in grammar, are the most ignorant fellows upon earth. True knowledge consists in knowing things, not words. I would wish her no further a linguist than to enable her to read books in their originals, that are often corrupted, and always injured, by translations. Two hours' application every morning will bring this about much sooner than you can imagine, and she will have leisure enough besides to run over the English poetry, which is a more important part of a woman's education than it is generally supposed. Many a young damsel has been ruined by a fine copy of verses, which she would have laughed at if she had known it had been stolen from Mr. Waller. I remember, when I was a girl, I saved one of my companions from destruction, who communicated to me an epistle she was quite charmed with. As she had a natural good taste, she observed the lines were not so smooth as Prior's or Pope's, but had more thought and spirit than any of theirs. She was wonderfully delighted with such a demonstration of her lover's sense and passion, and not a little pleased with her own charms, that had force enough to inspire such elegancies. In the midst of this triumph I showed her that they were taken from Randolph's poems, and the unfortunate transcriber was dismissed with the scorn he deserved. To say truth, the poor plagiary was very unlucky to fall into my hands; that author being no longer in fashion, would have escaped any one of less universal reading than myself. You should encourage your daughter to talk over with you what she reads; and, as you are very capable of distinguishing, take care she does not mistake pert folly for wit and humour, or rhyme for poetry, which are the common errors of young people, and have a train of ill consequences. The second caution to be given her (and which is most absolutely necessary) is to conceal whatever learning she attains, with as much solicitude as she would hide crookedness or lameness; the parade of it can only serve to draw on her the envy, and consequently the most inveterate hatred, of all he and she fools, which will certainly be at least three parts in four of all her acquaintance. The use of knowledge in our sex, besides the amusement of solitude, is to moderate the passions, and learn to be contented with a small expense, which are the certain effects of a studious life; and it may be preferable even to that fame which men have engrossed to themselves, and will not suffer us to share. You will tell me I have not observed this rule myself; but you are mistaken: it is only inevitable accident that has given me any reputation that way. I have always carefully avoided it, and ever thought it a misfortune. The explanation of this paragraph would occasion a long digression, which I will not trouble you with, it being my present design only to say what I think useful for the instruction of my granddaughter, which I have much at heart. If she has the same inclination (I should say passion) for learning that I was born with, history, geography, and philosophy will furnish her with materials to pass away cheerfully a longer life than is allotted to mortals. I believe there are few heads capable of making Sir I. Newton's calculations, but the result of them is not difficult to be understood by a moderate capacity. Do not fear this should make her affect the character of Lady----, or Lady----, or Mrs.----: those women are ridiculous, not because they have learning, but because they have it not. One thinks herself a complete historian, after reading Echard's Roman History; another a profound philosopher, having got by heart some of Pope's unintelligible essays; and a third an able divine, on the strength of Whitefield's sermons: thus you hear them screaming politics and controversy. It is a saying of Thucydides, ignorance is bold, and knowledge reserved. Indeed, it is impossible to be far advanced in it without being more humbled by a conviction of human ignorance than elated by learning. At the same time I recommend books, I neither exclude work nor drawing. I think it as scandalous for a woman not to know how to use a needle, as for a man not to know how to use a sword. I was once extremely fond of my pencil, and it was a great mortification to me when my father turned off my master, having made a considerable progress for a short time I learnt. My over-eagerness in the pursuit of it had brought a weakness on my eyes, that made it necessary to leave it off; and all the advantage I got was the improvement of my hand. I see, by hers, that practice will make her a ready writer: she may attain it by serving you for a secretary, when your health or affairs make it troublesome to you to write yourself; and custom will make it an agreeable amusement to her. She cannot have too many for that station of life which will probably be her fate. The ultimate end of your education was to make you a good wife (and I have the comfort to hear that you are one): hers ought to be, to make her happy in a virgin state. I will not say it is happier; but it is undoubtedly safer than any marriage. In a lottery, where there are (at the lowest computation) ten thousand blanks to a prize, it is the most prudent choice not to venture. I have always been so thoroughly persuaded of this truth, that, notwithstanding the flattering views I had for you (as I never intended you a sacrifice to my vanity), I thought I owed you the justice to lay before you all the hazards attending matrimony: you may recollect I did so in the strongest manner. Perhaps you may have more success in the instructing your daughter: she has so much company at home, she will not need seeking it abroad, and will more readily take the notions you think fit to give her. As you were alone in my family, it would have been thought a great cruelty to suffer you no companions of your own age, especially having so many near relations, and I do not wonder their opinions influenced yours. I was not sorry to see you not determined on a single life, knowing it was not your father's intention, and contented myself with endeavouring to make your home so easy that you might not be in haste to leave it. I am afraid you will think this a very long and insignificant letter. I hope the kindness of the design will excuse it, being willing to give you every proof in my power that I am, Your most affectionate mother. TO THE SAME _Fielding and other authors_ Lovere, 22 _Sept_. [1755]. MY DEAR CHILD, I received, two days ago, the box of books you were so kind to send; but I can scarce say whether my pleasure or disappointment was greatest. I was much pleased to see before me a fund of amusement, but heartily vexed to find your letter consisting only of three lines and a half. Why will you not employ Lady Mary as secretary, if it is troublesome to you to write? I have told you over and over, you may at the same time oblige your mother and improve your daughter, both which I should think very agreeable to yourself. You can never want something to say. The history of your nursery, if you had no other subject to write on, would be very acceptable to me. I am such a stranger to everything in England, I should be glad to hear more particulars relating to the families I am acquainted with: if Miss Liddel marries the Lord Euston I knew, or his nephew, who has succeeded him; if Lord Berkeley has left children; and several trifles of that sort, that would be a satisfaction to my curiosity. I am sorry for H. Fielding's death, not only as I shall read no more of his writings, but I believe he lost more than others, as no man enjoyed life more than he did, though few had less reason to do so, the highest of his preferment being raking in the lowest sinks of vice and misery. I should think it a nobler and less nauseous employment to be one of the staff officers that conduct the nocturnal weddings. His happy constitution (even when he had, with great pains, half demolished it) made him forget everything when he was before a venison pasty, or over a flask of champagne; and I am persuaded he has known more happy moments than any prince upon earth. His natural spirits gave him rapture with his cook-maid, and cheerfulness when he was starving in a garret. There was a great similitude between his character and that of Sir Richard Steele. He had the advantage both in learning, and, in my opinion, genius: they both agreed in wanting money in spite of all their friends, and would have wanted it, if their hereditary lands had been as extensive as their imagination; yet each one of them so formed for happiness, it is a pity he was not immortal.... This Richardson is a strange fellow. I heartily despise him, and eagerly read him, nay, sob over his works in a most scandalous manner. The first two tomes of _Clarissa_ touched me, as being very resembling to my maiden days; and I find in the pictures of Sir Thomas Grandison and his lady, what I have heard of my mother, and seen of my father.... PHILIP DORMER STANHOPE, EARL OF CHESTERFIELD 1694-1773 TO HIS SON _Dancing_ Dublin Castle, 29 _Nov_. 1745. DEAR BOY, I have received your last Saturday's performance, with which I am very well satisfied. I know or have heard of no Mr. St. Maurice here; and young Pain, whom I have made an ensign, was here upon the spot, as were every one of those I have named in these new levies. Now that the Christmas breaking-up draws near, I have ordered Mr. Desnoyers to go to you, during that time, to teach you to dance. I desire that you will particularly attend to the graceful motion of your arms; which with the manner of putting on your hat, and giving your hand, is all that a gentleman need attend to. Dancing is in itself a very trifling, silly thing; but it is one of those established follies to which people of sense are sometimes obliged to conform; and then they should be able to do it well. And though I would not have you a dancer, yet when you do dance, I would have you dance well; as I would have you do everything you do, well. There is no one thing so trifling, but which (if it is to be done at all) ought to be done well; and I have often told you that I wish you even played at pitch, and cricket, better than any boy at Westminster. For instance, dress is a very foolish thing; and yet it is a very foolish thing for a man not to be well dressed, according to his rank and way of life; and it is so far from being a disparagement to any man's understanding, that it is rather a proof of it, to be as well dressed as those whom he lives with: the difference in this case between a man of sense and a fop is, that the fop values himself upon his dress; and the man of sense laughs at it, at the same time that he knows he must not neglect it. There are a thousand foolish customs of this kind, which not being criminal, must be complied with, and even cheerfully, by men of sense. Diogenes the cynic was a wise man for despising them; but a fool for showing it. Be wiser than other people if you can; but do not tell them so. It is a very fortunate thing for Sir Charles Hotham, to have fallen into the hands of one of your age, experience, and knowledge of the world: I am persuaded you will take infinite care of him. Goodnight. TO THE SAME _A good enunciation_ London, 21 _June_, O.S. 1748. DEAR BOY, Your very bad enunciation runs so much in my head, and gives me such real concern, that it will be the object of this, and I believe of many more letters. I congratulate both you and myself that I was informed of it (as I hope) in time to prevent it; and shall ever think myself, as hereafter you will, I am sure, think yourself, infinitely obliged to Sir Charles Williams, for informing me of it. Good God! if this ungraceful and disagreeable manner of speaking had, either by your negligence or mine, become habitual to you, as in a couple of years more it would have been, what a figure would you have made in company, or in a public assembly! Who would have liked you in the one, or have attended to you in the other? Read what Cicero and Quintilian say of enunciation, and see what a stress they lay on the gracefulness of it; nay, Cicero goes farther, and even maintains that a good figure is necessary for an orator, and particularly that he must not be _vastus_; that is, overgrown and clumsy. He shows by it that he knew mankind well, and knew the powers of an agreeable figure and a graceful manner. Men, as well as women, are much oftener led by their hearts, than by their understandings. The way to the heart is through the senses; please their eyes and their ears, and the work is half done. I have frequently known a man's fortune decided for ever by his first address. If it is pleasing, people are hurried involuntarily into persuasion that he has a merit, which possibly he has not; as, on the other hand, if it is ungraceful, they are immediately prejudiced against him, and unwilling to allow him the merit which it may be he has. Nor is this sentiment so unjust and unreasonable as at first sight it may seem; for if a man has parts, he must know of what infinite consequence it is to him to have a graceful manner of speaking, and a genteel and pleasing address: he will cultivate and improve them to the utmost. Your figure is a good one; you have no natural defects in the organs of speech; your address may be engaging, and your manner of speaking graceful, if you will; so that, if they are not so, neither I nor the world can ascribe it to anything but your want of parts. What is the constant and just observation as to all the actors upon the stage? Is it not, that those who have the best sense always speak the best, though they may not happen to have the best voices? They will speak plainly, distinctly, and with the proper emphasis, be their voices ever so bad. Had Roscius spoken quick, thick, and ungracefully, I will answer for it, that Cicero would not have thought him worth the oration which he made in his favour. Words were given us to communicate our ideas by, and there must be something inconceivably absurd in uttering them in such a manner, as that either people cannot understand them, or will not desire to understand them. I tell you truly and sincerely, that I shall judge of your parts by your speaking gracefully or ungracefully. If you have parts, you will never be at rest till you have brought yourself to a habit of speaking most gracefully: for I aver, that it is in your power. You will desire Mr. Harte, that you may read aloud to him every day, and that he will interrupt and correct you every time that you read too fast, do not observe the proper stops, or lay a wrong emphasis. You will take care to open your teeth when you speak; to articulate very distinctly; and to beg of Mr. Harte, Mr. Eliot, or whomever you speak to, to remind and stop you, if ever you fall into the rapid and unintelligible mutter. You will even read aloud to yourself, and tune your utterance to your own ear, and read at first much slower than you need to do, in order to correct yourself of that shameful trick of speaking faster than you ought. In short, if you think right, you will make it your business, your study, and your pleasure to speak well. Therefore, what I have said in this and in my last, is more than sufficient, if you have sense; and ten times more would not be sufficient if you have not: so here I rest it. TO THE SAME _Keeping accounts_ London, 10 _Jan._ O.S. 1749. DEAR BOY, I have received your letter of the 31st December, N.S. Your thanks for my present, as you call it, exceed the value of the present; but the use which you assure me that you will make of it, is the thanks which I desire to receive. Due attention to the inside of books, and due contempt for the outside, is the proper relation between a man of sense and his books. Now that you are going a little more into the world, I will take this occasion to explain my intentions as to your future expenses, that you may know what you have to expect from me, and make your plan accordingly. I shall neither deny nor grudge you any money that may be necessary for either your improvement or pleasures; I mean the pleasures of a rational being. Under the head of improvement I mean the best books, and the best masters, cost what they will; I also mean all the expense of lodgings, coach, dress, servants, &c., which, according to the several places where you may be, shall be respectively necessary to enable you to keep the best company. Under the head of rational pleasures I comprehend, first, proper charities to real and compassionate objects of it; secondly, proper presents to those to whom you are obliged, or whom you desire to oblige; thirdly, a conformity of expense to that of the company which you keep; as in public spectacles, your share of little entertainments, a few pistoles at games of mere commerce, and other incidental calls of good company. The only two articles which I will never supply are, the profusion of low riot, and the idle lavishness of negligence and laziness. A fool squanders away, without credit or advantage to himself, more than a man of sense spends with both. The latter employs his money as he does his time, and never spends a shilling of the one, nor a minute of the other, but in something that is either useful or rationally pleasing to himself or others. The former buys whatever he does not want, and does not pay for what he does want. He cannot withstand the charms of a toy-shop; snuff-boxes, watches, heads of canes, etc., are his destruction. His servants and tradesmen conspire with his own indolence to cheat him, and in a very little time he is astonished, in the midst of all the ridiculous superfluities, to find himself in want of all the real comforts and necessaries of life. Without care and method the largest fortune will not, and with them almost the smallest will, supply all necessary expenses. As far as you can possibly, pay ready money for everything you buy, and avoid bills. Pay that money too yourself, and not through the hands of any servant, who always either stipulates poundage, or requires a present for his good word, as they call it. Where you must have bills, (as for meat and drink, clothes, etc.) pay them regularly every month, and with your own hand. Never, from a mistaken economy, buy a thing you do not want, because it is cheap; or from a silly pride, because it is dear. Keep an account in a book, of all that you receive, and of all that you pay; for no man, who knows what he receives and what he pays, ever runs out. I do not mean that you should keep an account of the shillings and half-crowns which you may spend in chair-hire, operas, etc. They are unworthy of the time, and of the ink that they would consume; leave such _minutiae_ to dull, penny-wise fellows; but remember in economy, as well as in every other part of life, to have the proper attention to proper objects, and the proper contempt for little ones. A strong mind sees things in their true proportion; a weak one views them through a magnifying medium, which, like the microscope, makes an elephant of a flea; magnifies all little objects, but cannot receive great ones. I have known many a man pass for a miser, by saving a penny, and wrangling for two-pence, who was undoing himself at the same time, by living above his income, and not attending to essential articles, which were above his _portée_. The sure characteristic of a sound and strong mind is, to find in everything those certain bounds, _quos ultra citrave nequit consistere rectum_. These boundaries are marked out by a very fine line, which only good sense and attention can discover; it is much too fine for vulgar eyes. In manners, this line is good-breeding; beyond it, is troublesome ceremony; short of it, is unbecoming negligence and inattention. In morals, it divides ostentatious puritanism from criminal relaxation; in religion, superstition from impiety; and, in short, every virtue from its kindred vice or weakness. I think you have sense enough to discover the line; keep it always in your eye, and learn to walk upon it; rest upon Mr. Harte, and he will poise you, till you are able to go alone. By the way, there are fewer people who walk well upon that line, than upon the slack-rope; and, therefore, a good performer shines so much the more.... Remember to take the best dancing-master at Berlin, more to teach you to sit, stand, and walk gracefully, than to dance finely. The graces, the graces; remember the graces! Adieu. TO THE SAME _A father's example_ London, 7 _Feb_. o.s. 1749. DEAR BOY, You are now come to an age capable of reflection; and I hope you will do, what however few people at your age do, exert it, for your own sake, in the search of truth and sound knowledge. I will confess (for I am not unwilling to discover my secrets to you) that it is not many years since I have presumed to reflect for myself. Till sixteen or seventeen I had no reflection, and for many years after that I made no use of what I had. I adopted the notions of the books I read, or the company I kept, without examining whether they were just or not; and I rather chose to run the risk of easy error, than to take the time and trouble of investigating truth. Thus, partly from laziness, partly from dissipation, and partly from the _mauvaise honte_ of rejecting fashionable notions, I was (as I since found) hurried away by prejudices, instead of being guided by reason; and quietly cherished error, instead of seeking for truth. But since I have taken the trouble of reasoning for myself, and have had the courage to own that I do so, you cannot imagine how much my notions of things are altered, and in how different a light I now see them, from that in which I formerly viewed them through the deceitful medium of prejudice or authority. Nay, I may possibly still retain many errors, which, from long habit, have perhaps grown into real opinions; for it is very difficult to distinguish habits, early acquired and long entertained, from the result of our reason and reflection. My first prejudice (for I do not mention the prejudices of boys and women, such as hobgoblins, ghosts, dreams, spilling salt, &c.) was my classical enthusiasm, which I received from the books I read, and the masters who explained them to me. I was convinced there had been no common sense nor common honesty in the world for these last fifteen hundred years; but that they were totally extinguished with the ancient Greek and Roman governments. Homer and Virgil could have no faults, because they were ancient; Milton and Tasso could have no merit, because they were modern. And I could almost have said, with regard to the ancients, what Cicero, very absurdly and unbecomingly for a philosopher, says with regard to Plato, _Cum quo errare malim quam cum aliis recte sentire_. Whereas now, without any extraordinary effort of genius, I have discovered that nature was the same three thousand years ago as it is at present; that men were but men then as well as now; that modes and customs vary often, but that human nature is always the same. And I can no more suppose, that men were better, braver, or wiser, fifteen hundred or three thousand years ago, than I can suppose that the animals or vegetables were better then than they are now. I dare assert too, in defiance of the favourers of the ancients, that Homer's hero Achilles was both a brute and a scoundrel, and consequently an improper character for the hero of an epic poem; he had so little regard for his country, that he would not act in defence of it, because he had quarrelled with Agamemnon about a--; and then afterwards, animated by private resentment only, he went about killing people basely, I will call it, because he knew himself invulnerable; and yet, invulnerable as he was, he wore the strongest armour in the world; which I humbly apprehend to be a blunder; for a horseshoe clapped to his vulnerable heel would have been sufficient. On the other hand, with submission to the favourers of the moderns, I assert with Mr. Dryden, that the Devil is in truth the hero of Milton's poem: his plan, which he lays, pursues, and at last executes, being the subject of the poem. From all which considerations I impartially conclude that the ancients had their excellencies and their defects, their virtues and their vices, just like the moderns: pedantry and affectation of learning clearly decide in favour of the former; vanity and ignorance, as peremptorily, in favour of the latter. Religious prejudices kept pace with my classical ones; and there was a time when I thought it impossible for the honestest man in the world to be saved, out of the pale of the Church of England: not considering that matters of opinion do not depend upon the will; and that it is as natural, and as allowable, that another man should differ in opinion from me, as that I should differ from him; and that, if we are both sincere, we are both blameless, and should consequently have mutual indulgences for each other. The next prejudices I adopted were those of the _beau monde_, in which, as I was determined to shine, I took what are commonly called the genteel vices to be necessary. I had heard them reckoned so, and without further inquiry, I believed it; or at least should have been ashamed to have denied it, for fear of exposing myself to the ridicule of those whom I considered as the models of fine gentlemen. But now I am neither ashamed nor afraid to assert, that those genteel vices, as they are falsely called, are only so many blemishes in the character of even a man of the world, and what is called a fine gentleman, and degrade him in the opinion of those very people, to whom he hopes to recommend himself by them. Nay, this prejudice often extends so far, that I have known people pretend to vices they had not, instead of carefully concealing those they had. Use and assert your own reason; reflect, examine, and analyze everything, in order to form a sound and mature judgement; let no [Greek: outos epha] impose upon your understanding, mislead your actions, or dictate your conversation. Be early what, if you are not, you will when too late wish you had been. Consult your reason betimes: I do not say, that it will always prove an unerring guide; for human reason is not infallible; but it will prove the least erring guide that you can follow. Books and conversation may assist it; but adopt neither, blindly and implicitly: try both by that best rule which God has given to direct us, reason. Of all the troubles, do not decline, as many people do, that of thinking. TO THE SAME _Public speaking_ London, 9 _Dec_. o.s. 1749. DEAR BOY, It is now above forty years since I have never spoken nor written one single word, without giving myself at least one moment's time to consider, whether it was a good one or a bad one, and whether I could not find out a better in its place. An unharmonious and rugged period, at this time, shocks my ears; and I, like all the rest of the world, will willingly exchange and give up some degree of rough sense, for a good degree of pleasing sound. I will freely and truly own to you, without either vanity or false modesty, that whatever reputation I have acquired as a speaker, is more owing to my constant attention to my diction than to my matter, which was necessarily just the same as other people's. When you come into parliament, your reputation as a speaker will depend much more upon your words, and your periods than upon the subject. The same matter occurs equally to everybody of common sense, upon the same question: the dressing it well, is what excites the attention and admiration of the audience. It is in parliament that I have set my heart upon your making a figure; it is there that I want to have you justly proud of yourself, and to make me justly proud of you. This means that you must be a good speaker there; I use the word _must_, because I know you may if you will. The vulgar, who are always mistaken, look upon a speaker and a comet with the same astonishment and admiration, taking them both for preternatural phenomena. This error discourages many young men from attempting that character; and good speakers are willing to have their talent considered as something very extraordinary, if not a peculiar gift of God to his elect. But, let you and I analyze and simplify this good speaker; let us strip him of those adventitious plumes with which his own pride and the ignorance of others have decked him; and we shall find the true definition of him to be no more than this: a man of good common sense, who reasons justly, and expresses himself elegantly, on that subject upon which he speaks. There is, surely, no witchcraft in this. A man of sense, without a superior and astonishing degree of parts, will not talk nonsense upon any subject; nor will he, if he has the least taste or application, talk inelegantly. What then does all this mighty art and mystery of speaking in parliament amount to? Why, no more than this, that the man who speaks in the House of Commons, speaks in that house, and to four hundred people, that opinion upon a given subject which he would make no difficulty of speaking in any house in England, round the fire, or at table, to any fourteen people whatsoever; better judges, perhaps, and severer critics of what he says, than any fourteen gentlemen of the House of Commons. I have spoken frequently in parliament, and not always without some applause; and therefore I can assure you, from my experience, that there is very little in it. The elegancy of the style and the turn of the periods make the chief impression upon the hearers. Give them but one or two round and harmonious periods in a speech, which they will retain and repeat, and they will go home as well satisfied as people do from an opera, humming all the way one or two favourite tunes that have struck their ears, and were easily caught. Most people have ears, but few have judgement; tickle those ears, and, depend upon it, you will catch their judgements, such as they are. Cicero, conscious that he was at the top of his profession (for in his time eloquence was a profession), in order to set himself off, defines, in his treatise _de Oratore_, an orator to be such a man as never was, or never will be; and, by this fallacious argument, says that he must know every art and science whatsoever, or how shall he speak upon them? But with submission to so great an authority, my definition of an orator is extremely different from, and I believe much truer than, his. I call that man an orator who reasons justly, and expresses himself elegantly, upon whatever subjects he treats. Problems in geometry, equations in algebra, processes in chemistry, and experiments in anatomy, are never, that I have heard of, the objects of eloquence; and therefore I humbly conceive that a man may be a very fine speaker, and yet know nothing of geometry, algebra, chemistry, or anatomy. The subjects of all parliamentary debates are subjects of common sense singly. Thus I write whatever occurs to me, that I think may contribute either to form or inform you. May my labour not be in vain! and it will not, if you will but have half the concern for yourself that I have for you. Adieu. TO THE SAME _The new Earl of Chatham_ Blackheath, 1 _Aug._ 1766. MY DEAR FRIEND, The curtain was at last drawn up, the day before yesterday, and discovered the new actors together with some of the old ones. I do not name them to you, because to-morrow's Gazette will do it full as well as I could. Mr. Pitt, who had _carte blanche_ given him, named every one of them: but what would you think he named himself for? Lord Privy Seal; and (what will astonish you, as it does every mortal here) Earl of Chatham. The joke here is, that he has had _a fall upstairs_, and has done himself so much hurt, that he will never be able to stand upon his legs again. Everybody is puzzled how to account for this step; though it would not be the first time that great abilities have been duped by low cunning. But be it what it will, he is now certainly only Earl of Chatham; and no longer Mr. Pitt, in any respect whatever. Such an event, I believe, was never read nor heard of. To withdraw, in the fullness of his power, and in the utmost gratification of his ambition, from the House of Commons, (which procured him his power, and which could alone ensure it to him) and to go into that hospital of incurables, the House of Lords, is a measure so unaccountable, that nothing but proof positive could have made me believe it: but true it is. Hans Stanley is to go ambassador to Russia; and my nephew, Ellis, to Spain, decorated with the red ribband. Lord Shelburne is your secretary of state, which I suppose he has notified to you this post by a circular letter. Charles Townshend has now the sole management of the House of Commons; but how long he will be content to be only Lord Chatham's viceregent there, is a question which I will not pretend to decide. There is one very bad sign for Lord Chatham in his new dignity; which is, that all his enemies, without exception, rejoice at it; and all his friends are stupefied and dumb-founded. If I mistake not much, he will in the course of a year enjoy perfect _otium cum dignitate_. Enough of politics. Is the fair, or at least the fat Miss C---- with you still? It must be confessed that she knows the art of courts, to be so received at Dresden and so connived at in Leicester-fields. There never was so wet a summer as this has been, in the memory of man; we have not had one single day, since March, without some rain; but most days a great deal. I hope that does not affect your health, as great cold does; for with all these inundations it has not been cold. God bless you! SAMUEL JOHNSON 1709-1784 To BENNET LANGTON _Postponement of a visit_ 6 _May_, 1755. SIR, It has been long observed, that men do not suspect faults which they do not commit; your own elegance of manners, and punctuality of complaisance, did not suffer you to impute to me that negligence of which I was guilty, and [for] which I have not since atoned. I received both your letters, and received them with pleasure proportioned to the esteem which so short an acquaintance strongly impressed, and which I hope to confirm by nearer knowledge, though I am afraid that gratification will be for a time withheld. I have, indeed, published my book, of which I beg to know your father's judgment, and yours; and I have now stayed long enough to watch its progress in the world. It has, you see, no patrons, and I think has yet had no opponents, except the critics of the coffee-house, whose outcries are soon dispersed into the air, and are thought on no more. From this, therefore, I am at liberty, and think of taking the opportunity of this interval to make an excursion, and why not then into Lincolnshire? or, to mention a stronger attraction, why not to dear Mr. Langton? I will give the true reason, which I know you will approve:--I have a mother more than eighty years old, who has counted the days to the publication of my book, in hopes of seeing me; and to her, if I can disengage myself here, I resolve to go. As I know, dear sir, that to delay my visit for a reason like this will not deprive me of your esteem, I beg it may not lessen your kindness. I have very seldom received an offer of friendship which I so earnestly desire to cultivate and mature. I shall rejoice to hear from you, till I can see you, and will see you as soon as I can; for when the duty that calls me to Lichfield is discharged, my inclination will carry me to Langton. I shall delight to hear the ocean roar, or see the stars twinkle, in the company of men to whom Nature does not spread her volumes or utter her voice in vain. Do not, dear sir, make the slowness of this letter a precedent for delay, or imagine that I approved the incivility that I have committed; for I have known you enough to love you, and sincerely to wish a further knowledge; and I assure you once more, that to live in a house that contains such a father and such a son, will be accounted a very uncommon degree of pleasure by, dear sir, your most obliged and most humble servant. TO MISS PORTER _A mother's death_ 23 _Jan._ 1759. You will conceive my sorrow for the loss of my mother, of the best mother. If she were to live again, surely I should behave better to her. But she is happy, and what is past is nothing to her; and for me, since I cannot repair my faults to her, I hope repentance will efface them. I return you and all those that have been good to her my sincerest thanks, and pray God to repay you all with infinite advantage. Write to me and comfort me, dear child. I shall be glad likewise, if Kitty will write to me. I shall send a bill of twenty pounds in a few days, which I thought to have brought to my mother; but God suffered it not. I have not power or composure to say much more. God bless you, and bless us all. To JOSEPH BARETTI _A letter of counsel_ 21 _Dec._ 1762. SIR, You are not to suppose, with all your conviction of my idleness, that I have passed all this time without writing to my Baretti. I gave a letter to Mr. Beauclerk, who, in my opinion, and in his own, was hastening to Naples for the recovery of his health; but he has stopped at Paris, and I know not when he will proceed. Langton is with him. I will not trouble you with speculations about peace and war. The good or ill success of battles and embassies extends itself to a very small part of domestic life: we all have good and evil, which we feel more sensibly than our petty part of public miscarriage or prosperity. I am sorry for your disappointment, with which you seem more touched than I should expect a man of your resolution and experience to have been, did I not know that general truths are seldom applied to particular occasions; so that the fallacy of our self-love extends itself as wide as our interest and affections. Every man believes that mistresses are unfaithful, and patrons capricious; but he excepts his own mistress and his own patron. We have all learned that greatness is negligent and contemptuous, and that in courts, life is often languished away in ungratified expectation; but he that approaches greatness, or glitters in a court, imagines that destiny has at last exempted him from the common lot. Do not let such evils overwhelm you as thousands have suffered and thousands have surmounted; but turn your thoughts with vigour to some other plan of life, and keep always in your mind that, with due submission to Providence, a man of genius has been seldom ruined but by himself. Your patron's weakness or insensibility will finally do you little hurt, if he is not assisted by your own passions. Of your love I know not the propriety, nor can estimate the power; but in love, as in every other passion, of which hope is the essence, we ought always to remember the uncertainty of events. There is indeed nothing that so much seduces reason from her vigilance, as the thought of passing life with an amiable woman; and if all would happen that a lover fancies, I know not what other terrestrial happiness would deserve pursuit. But love and marriage are different states. Those who are to suffer the evils together, and to suffer often for the sakes of one another, soon lose that tenderness of look and that benevolence of mind which arose from the participation of unmingled pleasure and successive amusement. A woman we are sure will not be always fair, we are not sure she will always be virtuous; and man cannot retain through life that respect and assiduity by which he pleases for a day or for a month. I do not however pretend to have discovered that life has anything more to be desired than a prudent and virtuous marriage; therefore know not what counsel to give you. If you can quit your imagination of love and greatness, and leave your hopes of preferment and bridal raptures to try once more the fortune of literature and industry, the way through France is now open. We flatter ourselves that we shall cultivate with great diligence the arts of peace; and every man will be welcome among us who can teach us anything we do not know. For your part, you will find all your old friends willing to receive you.... To MRS. THRALE _Travel in Scotland_ Skye, 21 _Sept._ 1773. DEAREST MADAM, I am so vexed at the necessity of sending yesterday so short a letter, that I purpose to get a long letter beforehand by writing something every day, which I may the more easily do, as a cold makes me now too deaf to take the usual pleasure in conversation. Lady Macleod is very good to me, and the place at which we now are, is equal in strength of situation, in the wildness of the adjacent country, and in the plenty and elegance of the domestic entertainment, to a castle in Gothic romances. The sea with a little island is before us; cascades play within view. Close to the house is the formidable skeleton of an old castle probably Danish, and the whole mass of building stands upon a protuberance of rock, inaccessible till of late but by a pair of stairs on the sea side, and secure in ancient times against any enemy that was likely to invade the kingdom of Skye. Macleod has offered me an island; if it were not too far off I should hardly refuse it: my island would be pleasanter than Brighthelmstone, if you and my master could come to it; but I cannot think it pleasant to live quite alone. Oblitusque meorum, obliviscendus et illis. That I should be elated by the dominion of an island to forgetfulness of my friends at Streatham I cannot believe, and I hope never to deserve that they should be willing to forget me. It has happened that I have been often recognised in my journey where I did not expect it. At Aberdeen I found one of my acquaintance professor of physic; turning aside to dine with a country gentleman, I was owned at table by one who had seen me at a philosophical lecture; at Macdonald's I was claimed by a naturalist, who wanders about the islands to pick up curiosities; and I had once in London attracted the notice of Lady Macleod. I will now go on with my account. The Highland girl made tea, and looked and talked not inelegantly; her father was by no means an ignorant or a weak man; there were books in the cottage, among which were some volumes of Prideaux's _Connection_: this man's conversation we were glad of while we stayed. He had been _out_, as they call it, in forty-five, and still retained his old opinions. He was going to America, because his rent was raised beyond what he thought himself able to pay. At night our beds were made, but we had some difficulty in persuading ourselves to lie down in them, though we had put on our own sheets; at last we ventured, and I slept very soundly in the vale of Glen Morrison, amidst the rocks and mountains. Next morning our landlord liked us so well, that he walked some miles with us for our company, through a country so wild and barren that the proprietor does not, with all his pressure upon his tenants, raise more than four hundred pounds a year for near one hundred square miles or sixty thousand acres. He let us know that he had forty head of black cattle, an hundred goats, and an hundred sheep, upon a farm that he remembered let at five pounds a year, but for which he now paid twenty. He told us some stories of their march into England. At last he left us, and we went forward, winding among mountains, sometimes green and sometimes naked, commonly so steep as not easily to be climbed by the greatest vigour and activity: our way was often crossed by little rivulets, and we were entertained with small streams trickling from the rocks, which after heavy rains must be tremendous torrents. About noon we came to a small glen, so they call a valley, which compared with other places appeared rich and fertile; here our guides desired us to stop, that the horses might graze, for the journey was very laborious, and no more grass would be found. We made no difficulty of compliance, and I sat down to take notes on a green bank, with a small stream running at my feet, in the midst of savage solitude, with mountains before me, and on either hand covered with heath. I looked around me, and wondered that I was not more affected, but the mind is not at all times equally ready to be put in motion; if my mistress and master and Queeny had been there we should have produced some reflections among us, either poetical or philosophical, for though _solitude be the nurse of woe_, conversation is often the parent of remarks and discoveries. In about an hour we remounted, and pursued our journey. The lake by which we had travelled for some time ended in a river, which we passed by a bridge, and came to another glen, with a collection of huts, called Auknashealds; the huts were generally built of clods of earth, held together by the intertexture of vegetable fibres, of which earth there are great levels in Scotland which they call mosses. Moss in Scotland is bog in Ireland, and moss-trooper is bog-trotter: there was, however, one hut built of loose stones, piled up with great thickness into a strong though not solid wall. From this house we obtained some great pails of milk, and having brought bread with us, were very liberally regaled. The inhabitants, a very coarse tribe, ignorant of any language but Erse, gathered so fast about us, that if we had not had Highlanders with us, they might have caused more alarm than pleasure; they are called the Clan of Macrae. We had been told that nothing gratified the Highlanders so much as snuff and tobacco, and had accordingly stored ourselves with both at Fort Augustus. Boswell opened his treasure, and gave them each a piece of tobacco roll. We had more bread than we could eat for the present, and were more liberal than provident. Boswell cut it in slices, and gave them an opportunity of tasting wheaten bread for the first time. I then got some halfpence for a shilling, and made up the deficiencies of Boswell's distribution, who had given some money among the children. We then directed that the mistress of the stone house should be asked what we must pay her: she, who perhaps had never before sold anything but cattle, knew not, I believe, well what to ask, and referred herself to us: we obliged her to make some demand, and one of the Highlanders settled the account with her at a shilling. One of the men advised her, with the cunning that clowns never can be without, to ask more; but she said that a shilling was enough. We gave her half a crown, and she offered part of it again. The Macraes were so well pleased with our behaviour, that they declared it the best day they had seen since the time of the old Laird of Macleod, who, I suppose, like us, stopped in their valley, as he was travelling to Skye.... I cannot forbear to interrupt my narrative. Boswell, with some of his troublesome kindness, has informed this family and reminded me that the 18th of September is my birthday. The return of my birthday, if I remember it, fills me with thoughts which it seems to be the general care of humanity to escape. I can now look back upon three score and four years, in which little has been done, and little has been enjoyed; a life diversified by misery, spent part in the sluggishness of penury, and part under the violence of pain, in gloomy discontent or importunate distress. But perhaps I am better than I should have been if I had been less afflicted. With this I will try to be content. In proportion as there is less pleasure in retrospective considerations, the mind is more disposed to wander forward into futurity; but at sixty-four what promises, however liberal, of imaginary good can futurity venture to make? Yet something will be always promised and some promises will always be credited. I am hoping and I am praying that I may live better in the time to come, whether long or short, than I have yet lived, and in the solace of that hope endeavour to repose. Dear Queeny's day is next, I hope she at sixty-four will have less to regret.... You will now expect that I should give you some account of the Isle of Skye, of which, though I have been twelve days upon it, I have little to say. It is an island perhaps fifty miles long, so much indented by inlets of the sea that there is no part of it removed from the water more than six miles. No part that I have seen is plain; you are always climbing or descending, and every step is upon rock or mire. A walk upon ploughed ground in England is a dance upon carpets compared to the toilsome drudgery of wandering in Skye. There is neither town nor village in the island, nor have I seen any house but Macleod's, that is not much below your habitation at Brighthelmstone. In the mountains there are stags and roebucks, but no hares, and few rabbits; nor have I seen anything that interested me as a zoologist, except an otter, bigger than I thought an otter could have been. You perhaps are imagining that I am withdrawn from the gay and the busy world into regions of peace and pastoral felicity, and am enjoying the relics of the golden age; that I am surveying nature's magnificence from a mountain, or remarking her minuter beauties on the flowery bank of a winding rivulet; that I am invigorating myself in the sunshine, or delighting my imagination with being hidden from the invasion of human evils and human passions in the darkness of a thicket; that I am busy in gathering shells and pebbles on the shore, or contemplative on a rock, from which I look upon the water, and consider how many waves are rolling between me and Streatham. The use of travelling is to regulate imagination by reality, and instead of thinking how things may be, to see them as they are. Here are mountains which I should once have climbed, but to climb steps is now very laborious, and to descend them dangerous; and I am now content with knowing, that by scrambling up a rock, I shall only see other rocks, and a wider circuit of barren desolation. Of streams, we have here a sufficient number, but they murmur not upon pebbles, but upon rocks. Of flowers, if Chloris herself were here, I could present her only with the bloom of heath. Of lawns and thickets, he must read that would know them, for here is little sun and no shade. On the sea I look from my window, but am not much tempted to the shore; for since I came to this island, almost every breath of air has been a storm, and what is worse, a storm with all its severity, but without its magnificence, for the sea is here so broken into channels that there is not a sufficient volume of water either for lofty surges or a loud roar.... TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD _Patronage_ 7 _Feb_. 1775. MY LORD, I have been lately informed, by the proprietor of _The World_, that two papers, in which my _Dictionary_ is recommended to the public, are by your lordship. To be so distinguished is an honour, which, being very little accustomed to favours from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in what terms to acknowledge. When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that I might boast myself _le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre_;--that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world contending; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, that neither pride nor modesty would suffer me to continue it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and uncourtly scholar can possess. I had done all I could; and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it ever so little. Seven years, my lord, have now passed, since I waited in your outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door; during which time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties, of which it is useless to complain, and have brought it at last to the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word of encouragement, or one smile of favour. Such treatment I did not expect, for I never had a patron before. The shepherd in _Virgil_ grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground, encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and cannot enjoy it; till I am solitary, and cannot impart it; till I am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical asperity, not to confess obligations, where no benefit has been received, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as owing that to a patron, which Providence has enabled me to do for myself. Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to any favourer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I shall conclude it, if less be possible, with less; for I have been long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted myself with so much exultation. My Lord, Your Lordship's most humble, most obedient servant. To JAMES BOSWELL _A silent friend_ 13 _July_, 1779. DEAR SIR, What can possibly have happened that keeps us two such strangers to each other? I expected to have heard from you when you came home; I expected afterwards. I went into the country and returned, and yet there is no letter from Mr. Boswell. No ill, I hope, has happened; and if ill should happen, why should it be concealed from him who loves you? Is it a fit of humour, that has disposed you to try who can hold out longest without writing? If it be, you have the victory. But I am afraid of something bad; set me free from my suspicions. My thoughts are at present employed in guessing the reason of your silence; you must not expect that I should tell you anything, if I had anything to tell. Write, pray write to me, and let me know what is or what has been the cause of this long interruption. To MRS. THRALE _A great man's fortitude_ 19 _June_, 1783. ON Monday the 16th, I sat for my picture and walked a considerable way with little inconvenience. In the afternoon and evening I felt myself light and easy, and began to plan schemes of life. Thus I went to bed, and in a short time waked and sat up, as has been long my custom, when I felt a confusion and indistinctness in my head, which lasted, I suppose, about half a minute. I was alarmed, and prayed God, that however he might afflict my body, he would spare my understanding. This prayer, that I might try the integrity of my faculties, I made in Latin verse. The lines were not very good, but I knew them not to be very good: I made them easily, and concluded myself to be unimpaired in my faculties. Soon after I perceived that I had suffered a paralytic stroke, and that my speech was taken from me. I had no pain, and so little dejection in this dreadful state, that I wondered at my own apathy, and considered that perhaps death itself, when it should come, would excite less horror than seems now to attend it. In order to rouse the vocal organs, I took two drams. Wine has been celebrated for the production of eloquence. I put myself into violent motion, and I think repeated it; but all was vain. I then went to bed, and strange as it may seem, I slept. When I saw light, it was time to contrive what I should do. Though God stopped my speech, he left me my hands; I enjoyed a mercy which was not granted to my dear friend Lawrence, who now perhaps overlooks me as I am writing, and rejoices that I have what he wanted. My first note was necessarily to my servant, who came in talking, and could not immediately comprehend why he should read what I put into his hands. I then wrote a card to Mr. Allen, that I might have a discreet friend at hand, to act as occasion should require. In penning this note I had some difficulty; my hand, I knew not how nor why, made wrong letters. I then wrote to Dr. Taylor to come to me, and bring Dr. Heberden: and I sent to Dr. Brocklesby, who is my neighbour. My physicians are very friendly, and give me great hopes; but you may imagine my situation. I have so far recovered my vocal powers, as to repeat the Lord's Prayer with no very imperfect articulation. My memory, I hope, yet remains as it was! but such an attack produces solicitude for the safety of every faculty. LAURENCE STERNE 1713-1768 To Miss LUMLEY _The disconsolate lover_ [1740-1] You bid me tell you, my dear L., how I bore your departure for S----, and whether the valley, where D'Estella stands, retains still its looks, or if I think the roses or jessamines smell as sweet as when you left it. Alas! everything has now lost its relish and look! The hour you left D'Estella I took to my bed. I was worn out with fevers of all kinds, but most by that fever of the heart with which thou knowest well I have been wasting these two years--and shall continue wasting till you quit S----. The good Miss S----, from the forebodings of the best of hearts, thinking I was ill, insisted upon my going to her. What can be the cause, my dear L., that I never have been able to see the face of this mutual friend, but I feel myself rent to pieces? She made me stay an hour with her, and in that short space I burst into tears a dozen different times, and in such affectionate gusts of passion, that she was constrained to leave the room, and sympathize in her dressing-room. I have been weeping for you both, said she, in a tone of the sweetest pity--for poor L.'s heart, I have long known it--her anguish is as sharp as yours--her heart as tender--her constancy as great--her virtues as heroic--Heaven brought you not together to be tormented. I could only answer her with a kind look, and a heavy sigh, and returned home to your lodgings (which I have hired till your return) to resign myself to misery. Fanny had prepared me a supper--she is all attention to me--but I sat over it with tears; a bitter sauce, my L., but I could eat it with no other; for the moment she began to spread my little table, my heart fainted within me. One solitary plate, one knife, one fork, one glass! I gave a thousand pensive, penetrating looks at the chair thou hadst so often graced, in those quiet and sentimental repasts, then laid down my knife and fork, and took out my handkerchief, and clapped it across my face, and wept like a child. I could do so this very moment, my L.; for, as I take up my pen, my poor pulse quickens, my pale face glows, and tears are trickling down upon the paper, as I trace the word L----. O thou! blessed in thyself, and in thy virtues, blessed to all that know thee--to me most so, because more do I know of thee than all thy sex. This is the philtre, my L., by which thou hast charmed me, and by which thou wilt hold me thine, while virtue and faith hold this world together. This, my friend, is the plain and simple magic, by which I told Miss ---- I have won a place in that heart of thine, on which I depend so satisfied, that time, or distance, or change of everything which might alarm the hearts of little men, create no uneasy suspense in mine. Wast thou to stay in S---- these seven years, thy friend, though he would grieve, scorns to doubt, or to be doubted--'tis the only exception where security is not the parent of danger. I told you poor Fanny was all attention to me since your departure--contrives every day bringing in the name of L. She told me last night (upon giving me some hartshorn), she had observed my illness began the very day of your departure for S----; that I had never held up my head, had seldom, or scarce ever, smiled, had fled from all society; that she verily believed I was broken-hearted, for she had never entered the room, or passed by the door, but she heard me sigh heavily; that I neither eat, or slept, or took pleasure in anything as before. Judge then, my L., can the valley look so well, or the roses and jessamines smell so sweet as heretofore? Ah me! but adieu--the vesper bell calls me from thee to my GOD. To DAVID GARRICK _Le chevalier Shandy_ Paris, 19 _March_, 1762. DEAR GARRICK, This will be put into your hands by Dr. Shippen, a physician, who has been here some time with Miss Poyntz, and is at this moment setting out for your metropolis; so I snatch the opportunity of writing to you and my kind friend Mrs. Garrick. I see nothing like her here, and yet I have been introduced to one half of their best Goddesses, and in a month more shall be admitted to the shrines of the other half; but I neither worship or fall (much) on my knees before them; but, on the contrary, have converted many unto Shandeism; for be it known, I Shandy it away fifty times more than I was ever wont, talk more nonsense than ever you heard me talk in your days--and to all sorts of people. _Qui le diable est cet homme-là_--said Choiseul t'other day--_ce chevalier Shandy_? You'll think me as vain as a devil, was I to tell you the rest of the dialogue; whether the bearer knows it or no, I know not. 'Twill serve up after supper, in Southampton-street, amongst other small dishes, after the fatigues of Richard III. O God! they have nothing here, which gives the nerves so smart a blow, as those great characters in the hands of Garrick! but I forgot I am writing to the man himself. The devil take (as he will) these transports of enthusiasm! Apropos, the whole city of Paris is _bewitched_ with the comic opera, and if it was not for the affair of the Jesuits, which takes up one half of our talk, the comic opera would have it all. It is a tragical nuisance in all companies as it is, and was it not for some sudden starts and dashes of Shandeism, which now and then either break the thread, or entangle it so, that the devil himself would be puzzled in winding it off, I should die a martyr--this by the way I never will. I send you over some of these comic operas by the bearer, with the _Sallon_, a satire. The French comedy, I seldom visit it--they act scarce in anything but tragedies--and the Clairon is great, and Mile. Dumesnil, in some places, still greater than her; yet I cannot bear preaching--I fancy I got a surfeit of it in my younger days. There is a tragedy to be damned to-night--peace be with it, and the gentle brain which made it! I have ten thousand things to tell you I cannot write, I do a thousand things which cut no figure, _but in the doing_--and as in London, I have the honour of having done and said a thousand things I never did or dreamed of--and yet I dream abundantly. If the devil stood behind me in the shape of a courier, I could not write faster than I do, having five letters more to dispatch by the same gentleman; he is going into another section of the globe, and when he has seen you, will depart in peace. The Duke of Orleans has suffered my portrait to be added to the number of some odd men in his collection; and a gentleman who lives with him has taken it most expressively, at full length: I purpose to obtain an etching of it, and to send it you. Your prayer for me of _rosy health_ is heard. If I stay here for three or four months, I shall return more than reinstated. My love to Mrs. Garrick. To MR. FOLEY AT PARIS _An adventure on the road_ Toulouse, 14 _Aug_. 1762. MY DEAR FOLEY, After many turnings (_alias_ digressions), to say nothing of downright overthrows, stops, and delays, we have arrived in three weeks at Toulouse, and are now settled in our houses with servants, &c., about us, and look as composed as if we had been here seven years. In our journey we suffered so much from the heats, it gives me pain to remember it; I never saw a cloud from Paris to Nismes half as broad as a twenty-four sols piece. Good God! we were toasted, roasted, grilled, stewed and carbonaded on one side or other all the way; and being all done enough (_assez cuits_) in the day, we were eat up at night by bugs, and other unswept-out vermin, the legal inhabitants (if length of possession gives right) of every inn we lay at. Can you conceive a worse accident than that in such a journey, in the hottest day and hour of it, four miles from either tree or shrub which could cast a shade of the size of one of Eve's fig leaves, that we should break a hind wheel into ten thousand pieces, and be obliged in consequence to sit five hours on a gravelly road, without one drop of water, or possibility of getting any? To mend the matter, my two postillions were two dough-hearted fools, and fell a-crying. Nothing was to be done! By heaven, quoth I, pulling off my coat and waistcoat, something shall be done, for I'll thrash you both within an inch of your lives, and then make you take each of you a horse, and ride like two devils to the next post for a cart to carry my baggage, and a wheel to carry ourselves. Our luggage weighed ten quintals. It was the fair of Baucaire, all the world was going, or returning; we were asked by every soul who passed by us, if we were going to the fair of Baucaire. No wonder, quoth I, we have goods enough! _vous avez raison, mes amis_.... THOMAS GRAY 1716-1771 To RICHARD WEST _Scenery at Tivoli_ Tivoli, 20 _May_, 1740. This day being in the palace of his Highness the Duke of Modena, he laid his most serene commands upon me to write to Mr. West, and said he thought it for his glory, that I should draw up an inventory of all his most serene possessions for the said West's perusal. Imprimis, a house, being in circumference a quarter of a mile, two feet and an inch; the said house containing the following particulars, to wit, a great room. Item, another great room; item, a bigger room; item, another room; item, a vast room; item, a sixth of the same; a seventh ditto; an eighth as before; a ninth as above said; a tenth (see No. 1); item, ten more such, besides twenty besides, which, not to be too particular, we shall pass over. The said rooms contain nine chairs, two tables, five stools and a cricket. From whence we shall proceed to the garden, containing two millions of superfine laurel hedges, a clump of cypress trees, and half the river Teverone.--Finis. Dame Nature desired me to put in a list of her little goods and chattels, and, as they were small, to be very minute about them. She has built here three or four little mountains, and laid them out in an irregular semi-circle; from certain others behind, at a greater distance, she has drawn a canal, into which she has put a little river of hers, called Anio; she has cut a huge cleft between the two innermost of her four hills, and there she has left it to its own disposal; which she has no sooner done, but, like a heedless chit, it tumbles headlong down a declivity fifty feet perpendicular, breaks itself all to shatters, and is converted into a shower of rain, where the sun forms many a bow, red, green, blue, and yellow. To get out of our metaphors without any further trouble, it is the most noble sight in the world. The weight of that quantity of waters, and the force they fall with, have worn the rocks they throw themselves among into a thousand irregular craggs, and to a vast depth. In this channel it goes boiling along with a mighty noise till it comes to another steep, where you see it a second time come roaring down (but first you must walk two miles farther) a greater height than before, but not with that quantity of waters; for by this time it has divided itself, being crossed and opposed by the rocks, into four several streams, each of which, in emulation of the great one, will tumble down too; and it does tumble down, but not from an equally elevated place; so that you have at one view all these cascades intermixed with groves of olive and little woods, the mountains rising behind them, and on the top of one (that which forms the extremity of one of the half-circle's horns) is seated the town itself. At the very extremity of that extremity, on the brink of the precipice, stands the Sybil's temple, the remains of a little rotunda, surrounded with its portico, above half of whose beautiful Corinthian pillars are still standing and entire; all this on one hand. On the other, the open Campagna of Rome, here and there a little castle on a hillock, and the city itself at the very brink of the horizon, indistinctly seen (being eighteen miles off) except the dome of St. Peter's; which, if you look out of your window, wherever you are, I suppose, you can see. I did not tell you that a little below the first fall, on the side of the rock, and hanging over that torrent, are little ruins which they show you for Horace's house, a curious situation to observe the Praeceps Anio et Tiburni lucus, et uda Mobilibus pomaria rivis. Maecenas did not care for such a noise, it seems, and built him a house (which they also carry one to see) so situated that it sees nothing at all of the matter, and for anything he knew there might be no such river in the world. Horace had another house on the other side of the Teverone, opposite to Maecenas's; and they told us there was a bridge of communication, by which _andava il detto Signor per trastullarsi coll' istesso Orazio_. In coming hither we crossed the Aquae Albulae, a vile little brook that stinks like a fury, and they say it has stunk so these thousand years. I forgot the Piscina of Quintilius Varus, where he used to keep certain little fishes. This is very entire, and there is a piece of the aqueduct that supplied it too; in the garden below is old Rome, built in little, just as it was, they say. There are seven temples in it, and no houses at all; they say there were none. TO THE SAME _A poet's melancholy_ London, 27 _May_, 1742. Mine, you are to know is a white Melancholy, or rather Leucocholy for the most part; which, though it seldom laughs or dances, nor ever amounts to what one called Joy or Pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and _ça ne laisse que de s'amuser._ The only fault is its insipidity; which is apt now and then to give a sort of Ennui, which makes one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and then felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of faith, _Credo quia impossibile est_; for it believes, nay, is sure of everything that is unlikely, so it be but frightful; and on the other hand excludes and shuts its eyes to the most possible hopes, and everything that is pleasurable; from this the Lord deliver us! for none but he and sunshiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of weather I am going into the country for a few weeks, but shall be never the nearer any society; so, if you have any charity, you will continue to write. My life is like Harry the Fourth's supper of Hens, 'Poulets à la broche, Poulets en Ragoût, Poulets en Hâchis, Poulets en Fricassées '. Reading here, Reading there; nothing but books with different sauces. Do not let me lose my desert then; for though that be Reading too, yet it has a very different flavour. The May seems to be come since your invitation; and I propose to bask in her beams and dress me in her roses. Et caput in verna semper habere rosa. I shall see Mr. ---- and his Wife, nay, and his Child, too, for he has got a Boy. Is it not odd to consider one's Cotemporaries in the grave light of Husband and Father? There is my lords Sandwich and Halifax, they are Statesmen: Do not you remember them dirty boys playing at cricket? As for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the wiser than I was then: no, not for having been beyond sea. Pray, how are you?... To HORACE WALPOLE _The fate of Selima_ Cambridge, 1 _March_, 1747. As one ought to be particularly careful to avoid blunders in a compliment of condolence, it would be a sensible satisfaction to me (before I testify my sorrow, and the sincere part I take in your misfortune) to know for certain, who it is that I lament. I knew Zara and Selima (Selima, was it? or Fatima?) or rather I knew both of them together; for I cannot justly say which was which. Then as to your handsome Cat, the name you distinguished her by, I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's handsome cat is always the cat one likes best; or if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill-bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the survivor; Oh no! I would rather seem to mistake, and to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I do not begin to cry: Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris. Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives time to rejoice with you on your new honours. This is only a beginning; I reckon next week we shall hear you are a free-Mason, or a Gormorgon at least. Heigh ho! I feel (as you to be sure have done long since) that I have very little to say, at least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it; I do not mean you, but your Cat, feuë Mademoiselle Selime, whom I am about to immortalize for one week or fortnight, as follows. ... There's a poem for you, it is rather too long for an Epitaph. TO THE SAME _Publication of the Elegy_ Cambridge, 11 _Feb_. 1751. As you have brought me into a little sort of distress, you must assist me, I believe, to get out of it as well as I can. Yesterday I had the misfortune of receiving a letter from certain gentlemen (as their bookseller expresses it), who have taken the _Magazine of Magazines_ into their hands. They tell me that an _ingenious_ poem, called _Reflections in a Country Churchyard_, has been communicated to them, which they are printing forthwith; that they are informed that the _excellent_ author of it is I by name, and that they beg not only his _indulgence_, but the _honour_ of his correspondence, &c. As I am not at all disposed to be either so indulgent, or so correspondent, as they desire, I have but one bad way left to escape the honour they would inflict upon me; and, therefore, am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character; he must correct the press himself, and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them; and the title must be,--_Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard_. If he would add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better. If you behold the _Magazine of Magazines_ in the light that I do, you will not refuse to give yourself this trouble on my account, which you have taken of your own accord before now. If Dodsley do not do this immediately, he may as well let it alone. TO THE SAME _At Burnham_ [Burnham,] _Sept_. 1737. I was hindered in my last, and so could not give you all the trouble I would have done. The description of a road, which your coach wheels have so often honoured, it would be needless to give you; suffice it that I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination; his dogs take up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and though the gout forbids him galloping after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all this is, that I have at the distance of half a mile, through a green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices; mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover Cliff; but just such hills as people who love their necks as well as I do may venture to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as if they were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other very reverend vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds. _And as they bow their hoary tops relate, In murm'ring sounds, the dark decrees of fate; While visions, as poetic eyes avow, Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough._ At the foot of one of these squats ME I (_ilpenseroso_), and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timorous hare and sportive squirrel gambol round me like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve; but I think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this situation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too, that is talk to you, but I do not remember that I ever heard you answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is entirely your own fault.... To THE REV. WILLIAM MASON _The Laureateship_ 19 _Dec_. 1757. DEAR MASON, Though I very well know the bland emollient saponaceous qualities both of sack and silver, yet if any great man would say to me, 'I make you Rat-catcher to his Majesty, with a salary of £300 a-year and two butts of the best Malaga; and though it has been usual to catch a mouse or two, for form's sake, in public once a year, yet to you, sir, we shall not stand on these things,' I cannot say I should jump at it; nay, if they would drop the very name of the office, and call me Sinecure to the King's Majesty, I should feel a little awkward, and think everybody I saw smelt a rat about me; but I do not pretend to blame any one else that has not the same sensations; for my part, I would rather be serjeant trumpeter or pinmaker to the palace. Nevertheless I interest myself a little in the history of it, and rather wish somebody may accept it who will retrieve the credit of the thing, if it be retrieveable, or ever had any credit. Rowe was, I think, the last man of character that had it. As to Settle, whom you mention, he belonged to my lord mayor, not to the King. Eusden was a person of great hopes in his youth, though at last he turned out a drunken person. Dryden was as disgraceful to the office from his character, as the poorest scribbler could have been from his verses. The office itself has always humbled the professor hitherto (even in an age when kings were somebody), if he were a poor writer by making him more conspicuous, and if he were a good one by setting him at war with the little fry of his own profession, for there are poets little enough to envy even a poet laureate. To DR. WHARTON _A holiday in Kent_ Pembroke College, 26 _Aug_. 1766. DEAR DOCTOR, Whatever my pen may do, I am sure my thoughts expatiate nowhere oftener, or with more pleasure, than to Old Park. I hope you have made my peace with Miss Deborah. It is certain, whether her name were in my letter or not, she was as present to my memory as the rest of the little family; and I desire you would present her with two kisses in my name, and one a piece to all the others; for I shall take the liberty to kiss them all (great and small) as you are to be my proxy. In spite of the rain, which I think continued with very short intervals till the beginning of this month, and quite effaced the summer from the year, I made a shift to pass May and June, not disagreeably, in Kent. I was surprised at the beauty of the road to Canterbury, which (I know not why) had not struck me in the same manner before. The whole country is a rich and well cultivated garden; orchards, cherry grounds, hop grounds, intermixed with corn and frequent villages, gentle risings covered with wood, and everywhere the Thames and Medway breaking in upon the landscape, with all their navigation. It was indeed owing to the bad weather that the whole scene was dressed in that tender emerald green, which one usually sees only for a fortnight in the opening of Spring; and this continued till I left the country. My residence was eight miles east of Canterbury, in a little quiet valley on the skirts of Barham Down; in these parts the whole soil is chalk, and whenever it holds up, in half an hour it is dry enough to walk out. I took the opportunity of three or four days fine weather to go into the Isle of Thanet, saw Margate (which is Bartholomew Fair by the seaside), Ramsgate, and other places there; and so came by Sandwich, Deal, Dover, Folkestone, and Hythe, back again. The coast is not like Hartlepool, there are no rocks, but only chalky cliffs, of no great height, till you come to Dover. There indeed they are noble and picturesque, and the opposite coasts of France begin to bound your view, which was left before to range unlimited by anything but the horizon; yet it is by no means a _shipless_ sea, but everywhere peopled with white sails and vessels of all sizes in motion; and take notice (except in the Isle, which is all corn fields, and has very little enclosure), there are in all places hedgerows and tall trees, even within a few yards of the beach, particularly Hythe stands on an eminence covered with wood. I shall confess we had fires of a night (aye and a day too) several times even in June: but don't go too far and take advantage of this, for it was the most untoward year that ever I remember. Your friend Rousseau (I doubt) grows tired of Mr. Davenport and Derbyshire; he has picked a quarrel with David Hume, and writes him letters of fourteen pages folio, upbraiding him with all his _noirceurs_; take one only as a specimen. He says, that at Calais they chanced to sleep in the same room together, and that he overheard David talking in his sleep, and saying, '_Ah! je le tiens, ce Jean-Jacques là_.' In short (I fear), for want of persecution and admiration (for these are his real complaints), he will go back to the Continent. What shall I say to you about the ministry? I am as angry as a common council man of London about my Lord Chatham; but a little more patient, and will hold my tongue till the end of the year. In the meantime I do mutter in secret, and to you, that to quit the House of Commons, his natural strength, to sap his own popularity and grandeur (which no one but himself could have done) by assuming a foolish title; and to hope that he could win by it, and attach to him a court that hate him, and will dismiss him as soon as ever they dare, was the weakest thing that ever was done by so great a man. Had it not been for this, I should have rejoiced at the breach between him and Lord Temple, and at the union between him and the Duke of Grafton and Mr. Conway: but patience! we shall see! Stonehewer perhaps is in the country (for he hoped for a month's leave of absence), and if you see him you will learn more than I can tell you. HORACE WALPOLE 1717-1797 To RICHARD WEST _Floods in the Arno_ From Florence, _Nov_. 1740. Child, I am going to let you see your shocking proceedings with us. On my conscience, I believe 'tis three months since you wrote to either Gray or me. If you had been ill, Ashton would have said so; and if you had been dead, the gazettes would have said it. If you had been angry,--but that's impossible; how can one quarrel with folks three thousand miles off? We are neither divines nor commentators, and consequently have not hated you on paper. 'Tis to show that my charity for you cannot be interrupted at this distance that I write to you, though I have nothing to say, for 'tis a bad time for small news; and when emperors and czarinas are dying all up and down Europe, one can't pretend to tell you of anything that happens within our sphere. Not but that we have our accidents too. If you have had a great wind in England, we have had a great water at Florence. We have been trying to set out every day, and pop upon you[1] ... It is fortunate that we stayed, for I don't know what had become of us! Yesterday, with violent rains, there came flouncing down from the mountains such a flood that it floated the whole city. The jewellers on the Old Bridge removed their commodities, and in two hours after the bridge was cracked. The torrent broke down the quays and drowned several coach-horses, which are kept here in stables under ground. We were moated into our house all day, which is near the Arno, and had the miserable spectacles of the ruins that were washed along with the hurricane. There was a cart with two oxen not quite dead, and four men in it drowned: but what was ridiculous, there came tiding along a fat hay-cock, with a hen and her eggs, and a cat. The torrent is considerably abated; but we expect terrible news from the country, especially from Pisa, which stands so much lower, and nearer the sea. There is a stone here, which, when the water overflows, Pisa is entirely flooded. The water rose two ells yesterday above that stone. Judge! For this last month we have passed our time but dully, all diversions silenced on the Emperor's death, and everybody out of town. I have seen nothing but cards and dull pairs of cicisbeos. I have literally seen so much of love and pharaoh since being here, that I believe I shall never love either again so long as I live. Then I am got into a horrid lazy way of a morning. I don't believe I should know seven o'clock in the morning again if I was to see it. But I am returning to England, and shall grow very solemn and wise! Are you wise? Dear West, have pity on one who has done nothing of gravity for these two years, and do laugh sometimes. We do nothing else, and have contracted such formidable ideas of the good people of England that we are already nourishing great black eyebrows and great black beards, and teasing our countenances into wrinkles. [Footnote 1: MS. torn here.] To RICHARD BENTLEY _Pictures and Garrick_ Strawberry Hill, 15 _Aug_. 1755. MY DEAR SIR, Though I wrote to you so lately, and have certainly nothing new to tell you, I can't help scribbling a line to you to-night, as I am going to Mr. Rigby's for a week or ten days, and must thank you first for the three pictures. One of them charms me, the Mount Orgueil, which is absolutely fine; the sea, and shadow upon it, are masterly. The other two I don't, at least won't, take for finished. If you please, Elizabeth Castle shall be Mr. Müntz's performance: indeed I see nothing of you in it. I do reconnoitre you in the Hercules and Nessus; but in both, your colours are dirty, carelessly dirty: in your distant hills you are improved, and not hard. The figures are too large--I don't mean in the Elizabeth Castle, for there they are neat; but the centaur, though he dies as well as Garrick can, is outrageous. Hercules and Deianira are by no means so: he is sentimental, and she most improperly sorrowful. However, I am pleased enough to beg you would continue. As soon as Mr. Müntz returns from the Vine, you shall have a good supply of colours. In the meantime why give up the good old trade of drawing? Have you no Indian ink, no soot-water, no snuff, no coat of onion, no juice of anything? If you love me, draw: you would if you knew the real pleasure you can give me. I have been studying all your drawings; and next to architecture and trees, I determine that you succeed in nothing better than animals. Now (as the newspapers say) the late ingenious Mr. Seymour is dead, I would recommend horses and greyhounds to you. I should think you capable of a landscape or two with delicious bits of architecture. I have known you execute the light of a torch or lanthorn so well, that if it was called Schalken, a housekeeper at Hampton Court or Windsor, or a Catherine at Strawberry Hill, would show it, and say it cost ten thousand pounds. Nay, if I could believe that you would ever execute any more designs I proposed to you, I would give you a hint for a picture that struck me t'other day in Péréfixe's _Life of Henry IV_. He says, the king was often seen lying upon a common straw-bed among the soldiers, with a piece of brown bread in one hand, and a bit of charcoal in t'other, to draw an encampment, or town that he was besieging. If this is not character and a picture, I don't know what is. I dined to-day at Garrick's: there were the Duke of Grafton, Lord and Lady Rochford, Lady Holderness, the crooked Mostyn, and Dabreu the Spanish minister; two regents, of which one is lord chamberlain, the other groom of the stole; and the wife of a secretary of state. This is being _sur un assez bon ton_ for a player! Don't you want to ask me how I like him? Do want, and I will tell you.--I like her exceedingly; her behaviour is all sense, and all sweetness too. I don't know how, he does not improve so fast upon me: there is a great deal of parts, and vivacity, and variety, but there is a great deal too of mimicry and burlesque. I am very ungrateful, for he flatters me abundantly; but unluckily I know it. I was accustomed to it enough when my father was first minister: on his fall I lost it all at once: and since that, I have lived with Mr. Chute, who is all vehemence; with Mr. Fox, who is all disputation; with Sir Charles Williams, who has no time from flattering himself; with Gray, who does not hate to find fault with me; with Mr. Conway, who is all sincerity; and with you and Mr. Rigby, who have always laughed at me in a good-natured way. I don't know how, but I think I like all this as well--I beg his pardon, Mr. Raftor does flatter me; but I should be a cormorant for praise, if I could swallow it whole as he gives it me. Sir William Yonge, who has been extinct so long, is at last dead; and the war, which began with such a flirt of vivacity, is I think gone to sleep. General Braddock has not yet sent over to claim the surname of Americanus. But why should I take pains to show you in how many ways I know nothing?--Why; I can tell it you in one word--why, Mr. Cambridge knows nothing!--I wish you good-night! To GEORGE, LORD LYTTELTON _Gray's Odes_ Strawberry Hill, 25 _Aug_. 1757. MY LORD, It is a satisfaction one can't often receive, to show a thing of great merit to a man of great taste. Your Lordship's approbation is conclusive, and it stamps a disgrace on the age, who have not given themselves the trouble to see any beauties in these _Odes_ of Mr. Gray. They have cast their eyes over them, found them obscure, and looked no further, yet perhaps no compositions ever had more sublime beauties than are in each. I agree with your Lordship in preferring the last upon the whole; the three first stanzas and half, down to _agonizing King_, are in my opinion equal to anything in any language I understand. Yet the three last of the first Ode please me very near as much. The description of Shakespeare is worthy Shakespeare: the account of Milton's blindness, though perhaps not strictly defensible, is very majestic. The character of Dryden's poetry is as animated as what it paints. I can even like the epithet _Orient_; as the last is the empire of fancy and poesy, I would allow its livery to be erected into a colour. I think _blue-eyed Pleasures_ is allowable: when Homer gave eyes of what hue he pleased to his Queen-Goddesses, sure Mr. Gray may tinge those of their handmaids. In answer to your Lordship's objection to _many-twinkling_, in that beautiful epode, I will quote authority to which you will yield. As Greek as the expression is, it struck Mrs. Garrick, and she says, on that whole picture, that Mr. Gray is the only poet who ever understood dancing. These faults I think I can defend, and can excuse others; even the great obscurity of the latter, for I do not see it in the first; the subject of it has been taken for music,--it is the Power and Progress of Harmonious Poetry. I think his objection to prefixing a title to it was wrong--that Mr. Cooke published an ode with such a title. If the Louis the Great, whom Voltaire has discovered in Hungary, had not disappeared from history himself, would not Louis Quatorze have annihilated him? I was aware that the second would have darknesses, and prevailed for the insertion of what notes there are, and would have had more. Mr. Gray said, whatever wanted explanation did not deserve it, but that sentence was never so far from being an axiom as in the present case. Not to mention how he had shackled himself with strophe, antistrophe, and epode (yet acquitting himself nobly), the nature of prophecy forbade him naming his kings. To me they are apparent enough--yet I am far from thinking either piece perfect, though with what faults they have, I hold them in the first rank of genius and poetry. The second strophe of the first Ode is inexcusable, nor do I wonder your Lordship blames it; even when one does understand it, perhaps the last line is too turgid. I am not fond of the antistrophe that follows. In the second Ode he made some corrections for the worse. _Brave Urion_ was originally _stern_: brave is insipid and commonplace. In the third antistrophe, _leave me unblessed, unpitied_, stood at first, _leave your despairing Caradoc_. But the capital faults in my opinion are these--what punishment was it to Edward I to hear that his grandson would conquer France? or is so common an event as Edward III being deserted on his death-bed, worthy of being made part of a curse that was to avenge a nation? I can't cast my eye here, without crying out on those beautiful lines that follow, _Fair smiles the morn_? Though the images are extremely complicated, what painting in the whirlwind, likened to a lion lying in ambush for his evening prey, _in grim repose_. Thirst and hunger mocking Richard II appear to me too ludicrously like the devils in _The Tempest_, that whisk away the banquet from the shipwrecked Dukes. From thence to the conclusion of Queen Elizabeth's portrait, which he has faithfully copied from Speed, in the passage where she humbled the Polish Ambassador, I admire. I can even allow that image of Rapture hovering like an ancient grotesque, though it strictly has little meaning: but there I take my leave--the last stanza has no beauties for me. I even think its obscurity fortunate, for the allusions to Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, are not only weak, but the two last returning again, after appearing so gloriously in the first Ode, and with so much fainter colours, enervate the whole conclusion. Your Lordship sees that I am no enthusiast to Mr. Gray: his great lustre has not dazzled me, as his obscurity seems to have blinded his contemporaries. Indeed, I do not think that they ever admired him, except in his Churchyard, though the Eton Ode was far its superior, and is certainly not obscure. The Eton Ode is perfect: those of more masterly execution have defects, yet not to admire them is total want of taste. I have an aversion to tame poetry; at best, perhaps the art is the sublimest of the _difficiles nugae_; to measure or rhyme prose is trifling without being difficult. To GEORGE MONTAGU _At Lady Suffolk's_ Arlington Street, 11 _Jan_. 1764. It is an age, I own, since I wrote to you; but except politics, what was there to send you? and for politics, the present are too contemptible to be recorded by anybody but journalists, gazetteers, and such historians! The ordinary of Newgate, or Mr.----, who write for their monthly half-crown, and who are indifferent whether Lord Bute, Lord Melcombe, or Maclean is their hero, may swear they find diamonds on dunghills; but you will excuse _me_, if I let our correspondence lie dormant rather than deal in such trash. I am forced to send Lord Hertford and Sir Horace Mann such garbage, because they are out of England, and the sea softens and makes palatable any potion, as it does claret; but unless I can divert _you_, I had rather wait till we can laugh together; the best employment for friends, who do not mean to pick one another's pockets, nor make a property of either's frankness. Instead of politics, therefore, I shall amuse you to-day with a fairy tale. I was desired to be at my Lady Suffolk's on New Year's morn, where I found Lady Temple and others. On the toilet Miss Hotham spied a small round box. She seized it with all the eagerness and curiosity of eleven years. In it was wrapped up a heart-diamond ring, and a paper in which, in a hand as small as Buckinger's, who used to write the Lord's Prayer in the compass of a silver penny, were the following lines: Sent by a sylph, unheard, unseen, A new-year's gift from Mab our queen: But tell it not, for if you do, You will be pinch'd all black and blue. Consider well, what a disgrace, To show abroad your mottled face: Then seal your lips, put on the ring, And sometimes think of Ob. the King. You will easily guess that Lady Temple was the poetess, and that we were delighted with the genteelness of the thought and execution. The child, you may imagine, was less transported with the poetry than the present. Her attention, however, was hurried backwards and forwards from the ring to a new coat, that she had been trying on when sent for down; impatient to revisit her coat, and to show the ring to her maid, she whisked upstairs; when she came down again, she found a letter sealed, and lying on the floor--new exclamations! Lady Suffolk bade her open it: here it is: Your tongue, too nimble for your sense, Is guilty of a high offence; Hath introduced unkind debate, And topsy-turvy turn'd our state. In gallantry I sent the ring, The token of a love-sick king: Under fair Mab's auspicious name From me the trifling present came. You blabb'd the news in Suffolk's ear; The tattling zephyrs brought it here, As Mab was indolently laid Under a poppy's spreading shade. The jealous queen started in rage; She kick'd her crown, and beat her page: 'Bring me my magic wand ', she cries; 'Under that primrose, there it lies; I'll change the silly, saucy chit, Into a flea, a louse, a nit, A worm, a grasshopper, a rat, An owl, a monkey, hedgehog, bat. But hold, why not by fairy art Transform the wretch, into--? Ixion once a cloud embraced, By Jove and jealousy well placed; What sport to see proud Oberon stare And flirt it with a--!' Then thrice she stamped the trembling ground, And thrice she waved her wand around; When I, endow'd with greater skill, And less inclined to do you ill, Mutter'd some words, withheld her arm, And kindly stopp'd the unfinish'd charm. But though not changed to owl or bat, Or something more indelicate; Yet, as your tongue has run too fast, Your boasted beauty must not last. No more shall frolic Cupid lie In ambuscade in either eye, From thence to aim his keenest dart To captivate each youthful heart: No more shall envious misses pine At charms now flown, that once were thine: No more, since you so ill behave, Shall injured Oberon be your slave. There is one word which I could wish had not been there, though it is prettily excused afterwards. The next day my Lady Suffolk desired I would write her a patent for appointing Lady Temple poet laureate to the fairies. I was excessively out of order with a pain in my stomach, which I had had for ten days, and was fitter to write verses like a poet laureate, than for making one; however, I was going home to dinner alone, and at six I sent her some lines, which you ought to have seen how sick I was, to excuse; but first, I must tell you my tale methodically. The next morning by nine o'clock Miss Hotham (she must forgive me twenty years hence for saying she was eleven, for I recollect she is but ten) arrived at Lady Temple's, her face and neck all spotted with saffron, and limping. 'Oh, madam!' said she, 'I am undone for ever if you do not assist me!' 'Lord, child,' cried my Lady Temple, 'what is the matter?' thinking she had hurt herself, or lost the ring, and that she was stolen out before her aunt was up. 'Oh, madam,' said the girl, 'nobody but you can assist me!' My Lady Temple protests the child acted her part so well as to deceive her. 'What can I do for you?' 'Dear madam, take this load from my back; nobody but you can.' Lady Temple turned her round, and upon her back was tied a child's waggon. In it were three tiny purses of blue velvet; in one of them a silver cup, in another a crown of laurel, and in the third four new silver pennies, with the patent, signed at top, 'Oberon Imperator'; and two sheets of warrants strung together with blue silk according to form; and at top an office seal of wax and a chaplet of cut paper on it. The warrants were these: From the Royal Mews: A waggon with the draught horses, delivered by command without fee. From the Lord Chamberlain's Office: A warrant with the royal sign manual, delivered by command without fee, being first entered in the office books. From the Lord Steward's Office: A butt of sack, delivered without fee or gratuity, with an order for returning the cask for the use of the office, by command. From the Great Wardrobe: Three velvet bags, delivered without fee, by command. From the Treasurer of the Household's Office: A year's salary paid free from land-tax, poundage, or any other deduction whatever, by command. From the Jewel Office: A silver butt, a silver cup, a wreath of bays, by command without fee. Then came the Patent: By these presents be it known, To all who bend before our throne, Fays and fairies, elves and sprites, Beauteous dames and gallant knights, That we, Oberon the grand, Emperor of fairy-land, King of moonshine, prince of dreams, Lord of Aganippe's streams, Baron of the dimpled isles That lie in pretty maidens' smiles, Arch-treasurer of all the graces Dispersed through fifty lovely faces, Sovereign of the slipper's order, With all the rites thereon that border, Defender of the sylphic faith, Declare--and thus your monarch saith: Whereas there is a noble dame, Whom mortals Countess Temple name, To whom ourself did erst impart The choicest secrets of our art, Taught her to tune the harmonious line To our own melody divine, Taught her the graceful negligence, Which, scorning art and veiling sense, Achieves that conquest o'er the heart Sense seldom gains, and never art; This lady, 'tis our royal will, Our laureate's vacant seat should fill: A chaplet of immortal bays Shall crown her brow and guard her lays; Of nectar sack an acorn cup Be at her board each year filled up; And as each quarter feast comes round A silver penny shall be found Within the compass of her shoe-- And so we bid you all adieu! Given at our palace of Cowslip Castle, the shortest night of the year. OBERON. And underneath, HOTHAMINA. How shall I tell you the greatest curiosity of the story? The whole plan and execution of the second act was laid and adjusted by my Lady Suffolk herself and Will. Chetwynd, Master of the Mint, Lord Bolingbroke's Oroonoho-Chetwynd; he fourscore, she past seventy-six; and what is more, much worse than I was, for, added to her deafness, she has been confined these three weeks with the gout in her eyes, and was actually then in misery, and had been without sleep. What spirits, and cleverness, and imagination, at that age, and under those afflicting circumstances! You reconnoitre her old court knowledge, how charmingly she has applied it! Do you wonder I pass so many hours and evenings with her? Alas! I had like to have lost her this morning! They had poulticed her feet to draw the gout downwards, and began to succeed yesterday, but to-day it flew up into her head, and she was almost in convulsions with the agony, and screamed dreadfully; proof enough how ill she was, for her patience and good breeding make her for ever sink and conceal what she feels. This evening the gout has been driven back to her foot, and I trust she is out of danger. Her loss would be irreparable to me at Twickenham, where she is by far the most rational and agreeable company I have.... To LADY HERVEY _A quiet life_ Strawberry Hill, 11 _June_, 1765. I am almost as much ashamed, Madam, to plead the true cause of my faults towards your ladyship, as to have been guilty of any neglect. It is scandalous, at my age, to have been carried backwards and forwards to balls and suppers and parties by very young people, as I was all last week. My resolutions of growing old and staid are admirable: I wake with a sober plan, and intend to pass the day with my friends--then comes the Duke of Richmond, and hurries me down to Whitehall to dinner--then the Duchess of Grafton sends for me to too in Upper Grosvenor Street--before I can get thither, I am begged to step to Kensington, to give Mrs. Anne Pitt my opinion about a bow-window--after the loo, I am to march back to Whitehall to supper--and after that, am to walk with Miss Pelham on the terrace till two in the morning, because it is moonlight and her chair is not come. All this does not help my morning laziness; and by the time I have breakfasted, fed my birds and my squirrels, and dressed, there is an auction ready. In short, Madam, this was my life last week, and is I think every week, with the addition of forty episodes.--Yet, ridiculous as it is, I send it to your ladyship, because I had rather you should laugh at me than be angry. I cannot offend you in intention, but I fear my sins of omission are equal to a good many Christian's. Pray forgive me. I really will begin to be between forty and fifty by the time I am fourscore: and I truly believe I shall bring my resolutions within compass; for I have not chalked out any particular business that will take me above forty years more; so that, if I do not get acquainted with the grandchildren of all the present age, I shall lead a quiet sober life yet before I die.... To THE REV. WILLIAM COLE _Gray's death_ Paris, 12 _Aug_. 1771. DEAR SIR, I am excessively shocked at reading in the papers that Mr. Gray is dead! I wish to God you may be able to tell me it is not true! Yet in this painful uncertainty I must rest some days! None of my acquaintance are in London. I do not know to whom to apply but to you. Alas! I fear in vain! Too many circumstances speak it true! the detail is exact;--a second paper arrived by the same post, and does not contradict it--and what is worse, I saw him but four or five days before I came hither; he had been to Kensington for the air, complained of gout flying about him, of sensations of it in his stomach, and indeed, thought him changed, and that he looked ill--still I had not the least idea of his being in danger.--I started up from my chair, when I read the paragraph--a cannon-ball could not have surprised me more! The shock but ceased, to give way to my concern; and my hopes are too ill founded to mitigate it. If nobody has the charity to write to me, my anxiety must continue till the end of the month, for I shall set out on my return on the 26th; and unless you receive this time enough for your answer to leave London on the 20th, in the evening, I cannot meet it, till I find it in Arlington Street, whither I beg you to direct it. If the event is but too true, pray add to this melancholy service, that of telling me any circumstances you know of his death. Our long, very long friendship, and his genius, must endear to me everything that relates to him. What writings has he left? Who are his executors? I should earnestly wish, if he has destined anything to the public, to print it at my press--it would do me honour, and would give me an opportunity of expressing what I feel for him. Methinks, as we grow old, our only business here is to adorn the graves of our friends, or to dig our own. To THE REV. WILLIAM MASON _The quarrel with Gray_ 2 _March_, 1773. What shall I say? How shall I thank you for the kind manner in which you submit your papers to my correction? But if you are friendly, I must be just. I am so far from being dissatisfied, that I must beg to shorten your pen, and in that respect only would I wish, with regard to myself, to alter your text. I am conscious that in the beginning of the differences between Gray and me, the fault was mine. I was young, too fond of my own diversions; nay, I do not doubt, too much intoxicated by indulgence, vanity, and the insolence of my situation, as a prime minister's son, not to have been inattentive to the feelings of one, I blush to say it, that I knew was obliged to me; of one, whom presumption and folly made me deem not very superior in parts, though I have since felt my infinite inferiority to him. I treated him insolently. He loved me, and I did not think he did. I reproached him with the difference between us, when he acted from the conviction of knowing that he was my superior. I often disregarded his wish of seeing places, which I would not quit my own amusements to visit, though I offered to send him thither without me. Forgive me, if I say that his temper was not conciliating, at the same time that I will confess to you that he acted a most friendly part, had I had the sense to take advantage of it. He freely told me my faults. I declared I did not wish to hear them, nor would correct them. You will not wonder, that with the dignity of his spirit, and the obstinate carelessness of mine, the breach must have widened till we became incompatible. After this confession, I fear you will think I fall short in the words I wish to have substituted for some of yours. If you think them inadequate to the state of the case, as I own they are, preserve this letter, and let some future Sir John Dalrymple produce it to load my memory; but I own I do not desire that any ambiguity should aid his invention to forge an account for me. If you have no objection, I would propose your narrative should run thus ... and contain no more, till a proper time shall come for publishing the truth, as I have stated it to you. While I am living, it is not pleasant to see my private disagreements discussed in magazines and newspapers. To THE COUNTESS OF UPPER OSSORY _Fashionable intelligence_ Strawberry Hill, 27 _March_, 1773. What play makes you laugh very much, and yet is a very wretched comedy? Dr. Goldsmith's _She Stoops to Conquer_. Stoops indeed!--so she does, that is the Muse; she is draggled up to the knees, and has trudged, I believe, from Southwark fair. The whole view of the piece is low humour, and no humour is in it. All the merit is in the situations, which are comic; the heroine has no more modesty than Lady Bridget, and the author's wit is as much _manqué_ as the lady's; but some of the characters are well acted, and Woodward speaks a poor prologue, written by Garrick, admirably. You perceive, Madam, that I have boldly sallied to a play; but the heat of the house and of this sultry March half killed me, yet I limp about as if I was young and pleased. From the play I travelled to Upper Grosvenor Street, to Lady Edgecumbe's, supped at Lady Hertford's. That Maccaroni rake, Lady Powis, who is just come to her estate and spending it, calling in with news of a fire in the Strand at past one in the morning, Lady Hertford, Lady Powis, Mrs. Howe, and I, set out to see it, and were within an inch of seeing the Adelphi buildings burnt to the ground. I was to have gone to the Oratorio next night for Miss Linley's sake, but, being engaged to the French ambassador's ball afterwards, I thought I was not quite Hercules enough for so many labours, and declined the former. The house was all arbours and bowers, but rather more approaching to Calcutta, where so many English were stewed to death; for as the Queen would not dis-Maid of Honour herself of Miss Vernon till after the Oratorio, the ball-room was not opened till she arrived, and we were penned together in the little hall till we could not breathe. The quadrilles were very pretty: Mrs. Darner, Lady Sefton, Lady Melbourne, and the Princess Czartoriski in blue satin, with blond and _collets montés à la reine Elizabeth_; Lord Robert Spencer, Mr. Fitzpatrick, Lord Carlisle, and I forget whom, in like dresses with red sashes, _derouge_, black hats with diamond loops and a few feathers before, began; then the Henri Quatres and Quatresses, who were Lady Craven, Miss Minching, the two Misses Vernons, Mr. Storer, Mr. Hanger, the Duc de Lauzun, and George Damer, all in white, the men with black hats and white feathers napping behind, danced another quadrille, and then both quadrilles joined; after which Mrs. Hobart, all in gauze and spangles, like a spangle-pudding, a Miss I forget, Lord Edward Bentinck, and a Mr. Corbet, danced a _pas-de-quatre_, in which Mrs. Hobart indeed performed admirably. The fine Mrs. Matthews in white, trimmed down all the neck and petticoat with scarlet cock's feathers, appeared like a new macaw brought from Otaheite; but of all the pretty creatures next to the Carrara (who was not there) was Mrs. Bunbury; so that with her I was in love till one o'clock, and then came home to bed. The Duchess of Queensberry had a round gown of rose-colour, with a man's cape, which, with the stomacher and sleeves, was all trimmed with mother-of-pearl earrings. This Pindaric gown was a sudden thought to surprise the Duke, with whom she had dined in another dress. Did you ever see so good a joke?... Lord Chesterfield was dead before my last letter that foretold his death set out. Alas! I shall have no more of his lively sayings, Madam, to send you. Oh yes! I have his last: being told of the quarrel in Spitalfields, and even that Mrs. F[itzroy] struck Miss P[oole], he said, I always thought Mrs. F. a _striking_ beauty.' Thus, having given away all his wit to the last farthing, he has left nothing but some poor witticisms in his will, tying up his heir by forfeitures and jokes from going to Newmarket. I wrote this letter at Strawberry, and find nothing new in town to add but a cold north-east that has brought back all our fires and furs. Pray tell me a little of your Ladyship's futurity, and whether you will deign to pass through London. TO THE REV. WILLIAM COLE _Antiquaries and authors_ Arlington Street, 27 _April_, 1773. ... Mr. Gough wants to be introduced to me! Indeed! I would see him;... but he is so dull that he would only be troublesome--and besides, you know I shun authors, and would never have been one myself, if it obliged me to keep such bad company. They are always in earnest, and think their profession serious, and will dwell upon trifles, and reverence learning. I laugh at all these things, and write only to laugh at them, and divert myself. None of us are authors of any consequence; and it is the most ridiculous of all vanities to be vain of being _mediocre_. A page in a great author humbles me to the dust; and the conversation of those that are not superior to myself, reminds me of what will be thought of myself. I blush to flatter them, or to be flattered by them, and should dread letters being published some time or other, in which they would relate our interviews, and we should appear like those puny conceited witlings in Shenstone's and Hughes's _Correspondence_, who give themselves airs from being in possession of the soil of Parnassus for the time being; as peers are proud, because they enjoy the estates of great men who went before them. Mr. Gough is very welcome to see Strawberry Hill; or I would help him to any scraps in my possession, that would assist his publications; though he is one of those industrious who are only re-burying the dead--but I cannot be acquainted with him. It is contrary to my system and my humour; and besides, I know nothing of barrows, and Danish intrenchments, and Saxon barbarisms, and Phoenician characters--in short, I know nothing of those ages that knew nothing--how then should I be of use to modern litterati? All the Scotch metaphysicians have sent me their works. I did not read one of them, because I do not understand what is not understood by those that write about it; and I did not get acquainted with one of the writers. I should like to be acquainted with Mr. Anstey, even though he wrote Lord Buckhorse, or with the author of the _Heroic Epistle_--I have no thirst to know the rest of my contemporaries, from the absurd bombast of Dr. Johnson down to the silly Dr. Goldsmith; though the latter changeling has had bright gleams of parts, and though the former had sense, till he changed it for words, and sold it for a pension. Don't think me scornful. Recollect that I have seen Pope, and lived with Gray. Adieu! TO THE MISS BERRYS _Their first meeting_ Tuesday night, 8 o'clock, 17 _Sept._ 1793. My beloved spouses, Whom I love better than Solomon loved his one spouse--or his one thousand. I lament that the summer is over; not because of its iniquity, but because you two made it so delightful to me, that six weeks of gout could not sour it. Pray take care of yourselves--not for your own sakes, but for mine; for, as I have just had my quota of gout, I may, possibly, expect to see another summer; and, as you allow that I do know my own, and when I wish for anything and have it, am entirely satisfied, you may depend upon it that I shall be as happy with a third summer, if I reach it, as I have been with the two last. Consider, that I have been threescore years and ten looking for a society that I perfectly like; and at last there dropped out of the clouds into Lady Herries's room two young gentlewomen, who I so little thought were sent thither on purpose for me, that when I was told they were the charming Miss Berrys, I would not even go to the side of the chamber where they sat. But, as Fortune never throws anything at one's head without hitting one, I soon found out that the charming Berrys were precisely _ce qu'il me fallait_; and that though young enough to be my great-grand-daughters, lovely enough to turn the heads of all our youths, and sensible enough, if said youths have any brains, to set all their heads to rights again. Yes, sweet damsels, I have found that you can bear to pass half your time with an antediluvian, without discovering any _ennui_ or disgust; though his greatest merit towards you is, that he is not one of those old fools who fancy they are in love in their dotage. I have no such vagary; though I am not sorry that some folks think I am so absurd, since it frets their selfishness. OLIVER GOLDSMITH 1728-1774 TO HIS MOTHER _At Cork_ [c. 1751.] My dear mother, If you will sit down and calmly listen to what I say, you shall be fully resolved in every one of those many questions you have asked me. I went to Cork and converted my horse, which you prize so much higher than Fiddleback, into cash, took my passage in a ship bound for America, and, at the same time, paid the captain for my freight and all the other expenses of my voyage. But it so happened that the wind did not answer for three weeks; and you know, mother, that I could not command the elements. My misfortune was, that, when the wind served, I happened to be with a party in the country, and my friend the captain never inquired after me, but set sail with as much indifference as if I had been on board. The remainder of my time I employed in the city and its environs, viewing everything curious; and you know no one can starve while he has money in his pocket. Reduced, however, to my last two guineas, I began to think of my dear mother and friends whom I had left behind me, and so bought that generous beast Fiddleback, and made adieu to Cork with only five shillings in my pocket. This, to be sure, was but a scanty allowance for man and horse towards a journey of above a hundred miles; but I did not despair, for I knew I must find friends on the road. I recollected particularly an old and faithful acquaintance I made at college, who had often and earnestly pressed me to spend a summer with him, and he lived but eight miles from Cork. This circumstance of vicinity he would expatiate on to me with peculiar emphasis. 'We shall,' says he, 'enjoy the delights of both city and country, and you shall command my stable and my purse.' However, upon the way, I met a poor woman all in tears, who told me her husband had been arrested for a debt he was not able to pay, and that his eight children must now starve, bereaved as they were of his industry, which had been their only support. I thought myself at home, being not far from my good friend's house, and therefore parted with a moiety of all my store; and pray, mother, ought I not to have given her the other half-crown, for what she got would be of little use to her? However, I soon arrived at the mansion of my affectionate friend, guarded by the vigilance of a huge mastiff, who flew at me, and would have torn me to pieces but for the assistance of a woman, whose countenance was not less grim than that of the dog; yet she with great humanity relieved me from the jaws of this Cerberus, and was prevailed on to carry up my name to her master. Without suffering me to wait long, my old friend, who was then recovering from a severe fit of sickness, came down in his nightcap, nightgown, and slippers, and embraced me with the most cordial welcome, showed me in, and after giving me a history of his indisposition, assured me that he considered himself peculiarly fortunate in having under his roof the man he most loved on earth, and whose stay with him must, above all things, contribute to his perfect recovery. I now repented sorely I had not given the poor woman the other half-crown, as I thought all my bills of humanity would be punctually answered by this worthy man. I revealed to him my whole soul; I opened to him all my distresses; and freely owned that I had but one half-crown in my pocket; but that now, like a ship after weathering out the storm, I considered myself secure in a safe and hospitable harbour. He made no answer, but walked about the room, rubbing his hands as one in deep study. This I imputed to the sympathetic feelings of a tender heart, which increased my esteem for him, and as that increased, I gave the most favourable interpretation to his silence. I construed it into delicacy of sentiment, as if he dreaded to wound my pride by expressing his commiseration in words, leaving his generous conduct to speak for itself. It now approached six o'clock in the evening; and as I had eaten no breakfast, and as my spirits were raised, my appetite for dinner grew uncommonly keen. At length the old woman came into the room with two plates, one spoon, and a dirty cloth which she laid upon the table. This appearance, without increasing my spirits, did not diminish my appetite. My protectress soon returned with a small bowl of sago, a small porringer of sour milk, a loaf of stale brown bread, and the heel of an old cheese all over crawling with mites. My friend apologized that his illness obliged him to live on slops, and that better fare was not in the house; observing, at the same time, that a milk diet was certainly the most healthful; and at eight o'clock he again recommended a regular life, declaring that for his part he would lie down with the lamb and rise with the lark. My hunger was at this time so exceedingly sharp that I wished for another slice of the loaf, but was obliged to go to bed without even that refreshment. This lenten entertainment I had received made me resolve to depart as soon as possible; accordingly, next morning, when I spoke of going, he did not oppose my resolution; he rather commended my design, adding some very sage counsel upon the occasion. 'To be sure,' said he, 'the longer you stay away from your mother, the more you will grieve her and your other friends; and possibly they are already afflicted at hearing of this foolish expedition you have made.' Notwithstanding all this, and without any hope of softening such a sordid heart, I again renewed the tale of my distress, and asking 'how he thought I could travel above a hundred miles upon one half-crown?' I begged to borrow a single guinea, which I assured him should be repaid with thanks. 'And you know, sir,' said I, 'it is no more than I have often done for you.' To which he firmly answered, 'Why, look you, Mr. Goldsmith, that is neither here nor there. I have paid you all you ever lent me, and this sickness of mine has left me bare of cash. But I have bethought myself of a conveyance for you; sell your horse, and I will furnish you with a much better one to ride on.' I readily grasped at his proposal, and begged to see the nag; on which he led me to his bedchamber, and from under the bed he pulled out a stout oak stick. 'Here he is,' said he; 'take this in your hand, and it will carry you to your mother's with more safety than such a horse as you ride.' I was in doubt, when I got it into my hand, whether I should not in the first place apply it to his pate; but a rap at the street-door made the wretch fly to it, and when I returned to the parlour, he introduced me, as if nothing of the kind had happened, to the gentleman who entered, as Mr. Goldsmith, his most ingenious and worthy friend, of whom he had so often heard him speak with rapture. I could scarcely compose myself; and must have betrayed indignation in my mien to the stranger, who was a counsellor-at-law in the neighbourhood, a man of engaging aspect and polite address. After spending an hour, he asked my friend and me to dine with him at his house. This I declined at first, as I wished to have no further communication with my hospitable friend; but at the solicitation of both I at last consented, determined as I was by two motives; one, that I was prejudiced in favour of the looks and manner of the counsellor; and the other, that I stood in need of a comfortable dinner. And there, indeed, I found everything that I could wish, abundance without profusion, and elegance without affectation. In the evening, when my old friend, who had eaten very plentifully at his neighbour's table, but talked again of lying down with the lamb, made a motion to me for retiring, our generous host requested I should take a bed with him, upon which I plainly told my old friend that he might go home and take care of the horse he had given me, but that I should never re-enter his doors. He went away with a laugh, leaving me to add this to the other little things the counsellor already knew of his plausible neighbour. And now, my dear mother, I found sufficient to reconcile me to all my follies; for here I spent three whole days. The counsellor had two sweet girls to his daughters, who played enchantingly on the harpsichord; and yet it was but a melancholy pleasure I felt the first time I heard them: for that being the first time also that either of them had touched the instrument since their mother's death, I saw the tears in silence trickle down their father's cheeks. I every day endeavoured to go away, but every day was pressed and obliged to stay. On my going, the counsellor offered me his purse, with a horse and servant to convey me home; but the latter I declined, and only took a guinea to bear my necessary expenses on the road. TO ROBERT BRYANTON _In Scotland_ Edinburgh, 26 _Sept._ 1753 MY DEAR BOB, How many good excuses (and you know I was ever good at an excuse) might I call up to vindicate my past shameful silence! I might tell how I wrote a long letter on my first coming hither, and seem vastly angry at my not receiving an answer; I might allege that business (with business you know I was always pestered) had never given me time to finger a pen--but I suppress those and twenty more equally plausible, and as easily invented, since they might be attended with a slight inconvenience of being known to be lies. Let me then speak truth. An hereditary indolence (I have it from the mother's side) has hitherto prevented my writing to you, and still prevents my writing at least twenty-five letters more, due to my friends in Ireland. No turnspit dog gets up into his wheel with more reluctance than I sit down to write; yet no dog ever loved the roast meat he turns better than I do him I now address. Yet what shall I say now I'm entered? Shall I tire you with a description of this unfruitful country; where I must lead you over their hills all brown with heath, or their valleys scarce able to feed a rabbit? Man alone seems to be the only creature who has arrived to the natural size in this poor soil. Every part of the country presents the same dismal landscape. No grove, nor brook, lend their music to cheer the stranger, or make the inhabitants forget their poverty. Yet with all these disadvantages, enough to call him down to humility, the Scotchman is one of the proudest things alive. The poor have pride ever ready to relieve them. If mankind should happen to despise them, they are masters of their own admiration; and _that_ they can plentifully bestow upon themselves. From their pride and poverty, as I take it, results one advantage this country enjoys; namely, the gentlemen here are much better bred than amongst us. No such characters here as our fox-hunters; and they have expressed great surprise when I informed them that some men in Ireland of one thousand pounds a-year spend their whole lives in running after a hare, and drinking to be drunk; and truly, if such a being, equipped in his hunting dress, came among a circle of Scotch gentry, they would behold him with the same astonishment that a countryman would King George on horseback. The men here have generally high cheek-bones, and are lean and swarthy, fond of action, dancing in particular. Though now I mention dancing, let me say something of their balls, which are very frequent here. When a stranger enters the dancing-hall, he sees one end of the room taken up with the ladies, who sit dismally in a group by themselves; on the other end stand their pensive partners that are to be; but no more intercourse between the sexes than there is between two countries at war. The ladies indeed may ogle, and the gentlemen sigh; but an embargo is laid on any closer commerce. At length, to interrupt hostilities, the lady directress, or intendant, or what you will, pitches on a gentleman and lady to walk a minuet; which they perform with a formality that approaches to despondence. After five or six couple have thus walked the gauntlet, all stand up to country dances; each gentleman furnished with a partner from the aforesaid lady directress; so they dance much and say nothing, and thus concludes our assembly. I told a Scotch gentleman that such profound silence resembled the ancient procession of the Roman matrons in honour of Ceres; and the Scotch gentleman told me (and, faith, I believe he was right) that I was a very great pedant for my pains. Now I am come to the ladies; and to show that I love Scotland, and everything that belongs to so charming a country, I insist on it, and will give him leave to break my head that denies it--that the Scotch ladies are ten thousand times handsomer and finer than the Irish. To be sure, now, I see your sisters Betty and Peggy vastly surprised at my partiality, but tell them flatly, I don't value them, or their fine skins, or eyes, or good sense, or--, a potato; for I say it, and will maintain it, and as a convincing proof (I'm in a very great passion) of what I assert, the Scotch ladies say it themselves. But to be less serious; where will you find a language so pretty become a pretty mouth as the broad Scotch? and the women here speak it in its highest purity; for instance, teach one of their young ladies to pronounce 'Whoar wull I gong?' with a becoming wideness of mouth, and I'll lay my life they will wound every hearer. We have no such character here as a coquet, but alas! how many envious prudes! Some days ago I walked into my Lord Kilcoubry's (don't be surprised, my lord is but a glover), when the Duchess of Hamilton (that fair who sacrificed her beauty to ambition, and her inward peace to a title and gilt equipage) passed by in her chariot; her battered husband, or more properly the guardian of her charms, sat by her side. Straight envy began, in the shape of no less than three ladies who sat with me, to find faults in her faultless form.--'For my part,' says the first, 'I think what I always thought, that the Duchess has too much red in her complexion.' 'Madam, I'm of your opinion,' says the second; 'I think her face has a palish cast too much on the delicate order.' 'And let me tell you,' adds the third lady, whose mouth was puckered up to the size of an issue, 'that the Duchess has fine lips, but she wants a mouth.'--At this every lady drew up her lips as if going to pronounce the letter P. But how ill, my Bob, does it become me to ridicule women with whom I have scarce any correspondence! There are, 'tis certain, handsome women here; and 'tis as certain there are handsome men to keep them company. An ugly and a poor man is society for himself; and such society the world lets me enjoy in great abundance. Fortune has given you circumstances, and nature a person to look charming in the eyes of the fair world. Nor do I envy my dear Bob such blessings, while I may sit down and laugh at the world and at myself, the most ridiculous object in it. But I begin to grow splenetic, and perhaps the fit may continue till I receive an answer to this. I know you can't send news from Ballymahon, but such as it is, send it all; everything you write will be agreeable and entertaining to me. Has George Conway put up a sign yet; or John Finecly left off drinking drams; or Tom Allen got a new wig? But I leave to your own choice what to write. While Oliver Goldsmith lives, know you have a friend. PS.--Give my sincere respects (not compliments, do you mind) to your agreeable family, and give my service to my mother, if you see her; for, as you express it in Ireland, I have a sneaking kindness for her still. Direct to me,--Student in Physic, in Edinburgh. TO HIS UNCLE CONTARINE _In Holland_, Leyden, _April_ or _May, 1754_. DEAR SIR, I suppose by this time I am accused of either neglect or ingratitude, and my silence imputed to my usual slowness of writing. But believe me, Sir, when I say, that till now I had not an opportunity of sitting down with that ease of mind which writing required. You may see by the top of the letter that I am at Leyden; but of my journey hither you must be informed. Some time after the receipt of your last, I embarked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship called the _St. Andrews_, Capt. John Wall, master. The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as another inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable passengers were to be my company. Well, we were but two days at sea when a storm drove us into a city of England called Newcastle-upon-Tyne. We all went ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on the following evening as we were all very merry, the room door bursts open, enters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers with their bayonets screwed, and puts us all under the King's arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured all I could to prove my innocence; however, I remained in prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got off even then. Dear Sir, keep this all a secret, or at least say it was for debt; for if it were once known at the University, I should hardly get a degree. But hear how Providence interposed in my favour; the ship was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every one of the crew were drowned. It happened the last great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for Holland. I embarked, and in nine days, thank my God, I arrived safe at Rotterdam; whence I travelled by land to Leyden; and whence I now write. You may expect some account of this country, and though I am not well qualified for such an undertaking, yet shall I endeavour to satisfy some part of your expectations. Nothing surprised me more than the books every day published, descriptive of the manners of this country. Any young man who takes it into his head to publish his travels, visits the countries he intends to describe; passes through them with as much inattention as his _valet de chambre_; and consequently not having a fund himself to fill a volume, he applies to those who wrote before him, and gives us the manners of a country, not as he must have seen them, but such as they might have been fifty years before. The modern Dutchman is quite a different creature from him of former times; he in everything imitates a Frenchman but in his easy disengaged air, which is the result of keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly ceremonious, and is perhaps exactly what a Frenchman might have been in the reign of Louis XIV. Such are the better-bred. But the downright Hollander is one of the oddest figures in nature. Upon a head of lank hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hat laced with black ribbon: no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pairs of breeches; so that his hips reach almost up to his armpits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to see company, or make love. But what a pleasing creature is the object of his appetite? Why, she wears a large fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace: for every pair of breeches he carries, she puts on two petticoats. A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phlegmatic admirer but his tobacco. You must know, Sir, every woman carries in her hand a stove with coals in it, which, when she sits, she snugs under her petticoats; and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. I take it that this continual smoking is what gives the man the ruddy healthful complexion he generally wears, by draining his superfluous moisture, while the woman, deprived of this amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint the complexion, and give that paleness of visage which low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. A Dutch woman and Scotch will well bear an opposition. The one is pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy: the one walks as if she were straddling after a go-cart, and the other takes too masculine a stride. I shall not endeavour to deprive either country of its share of beauty; but must say, that of all objects on this earth, an English farmer's daughter is most charming. Every woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher class of women want many of the requisites to make them even tolerable. Their pleasures here are very dull, though very various. You may smoke, you may doze; you may go to the Italian comedy, as good an amusement as either of the former. This entertainment always brings in Harlequin, who is generally a magician, and in consequence of his diabolical art performs a thousand tricks on the rest of the persons of the drama, who are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of laughter at this humour, when with his sword he touches the glass from which another was drinking. 'Twas not his face they laughed at, for that was masked. They must have seen something vastly queer in the wooden sword, that neither I, nor you, Sir, were you there, could see. In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house is forsaken, and all people are on the ice; sleds, drawn by horses, and skating, are at that time the reigning amusements. They have boats here that slide on the ice, and are driven by the winds. When they spread all their sails, they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their motion is so rapid the eye can scarcely accompany them. Their ordinary manner of travelling is very cheap and very convenient: they sail in covered boats drawn by horses; and in these you are sure to meet people of all nations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, and the English play at cards. Any man who likes company may have them to his taste. For my part I generally detached myself from all society, and was wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. Nothing can equal its beauty; wherever I turn my eye, fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottos, vistas, presented themselves; but when you enter their towns you are charmed beyond description. No misery is to be seen here; every one is usefully employed. Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. There hills and rocks intercept every prospect; here 'tis all a continued plain. There you might see a well-dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close; and here a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a palace. The Scotch may be compared to a tulip planted in dung; but I never see a Dutchman in his own house, but I think of a magnificent Egyptian temple dedicated to an ox. Physic is by no means here taught so well as in Edinburgh; and in all Leyden there are but four British students, owing to all necessaries being so extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy (the chemical professor excepted), that we don't much care to come hither. I am not certain how long my stay here may be; however, I expect to have the happiness of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, next March. Direct to me, if I am honoured with a letter from you, to Madam Diallion's at Leyden. Thou best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve you, and those you love. TO HIS BROTHER HENRY _Family matters_ 1759. ... Imagine to yourself a pale, melancholy visage, with two great wrinkles between the eyebrows, with an eye disgustingly severe, and a big wig; and you may have a perfect picture of my present appearance. On the other hand, I conceive you as perfectly sleek and healthy, passing many a happy day among your own children, or those who knew you a child. Since I knew what it was to be a man, this is a pleasure I have not known. I have passed my days among a parcel of cool, designing beings, and have contracted all their suspicious manner in my own behaviour. I should actually be as unfit for the society of my friends at home, as I detest that which I am obliged to partake of here. I can now neither partake of the pleasure of a revel, nor contribute to raise its jollity. I can neither laugh nor drink; have contracted a hesitating, disagreeable manner of speaking, and a visage that looks ill-nature itself; in short, I have thought myself into a settled melancholy, and an utter disgust of all that life brings with it. Whence this romantic turn that all our family are possessed with? Whence this love for every place and every country but that in which we reside--for every occupation but our own? this desire of fortune, and yet this eagerness to dissipate? I perceive, my dear sir, that I am at intervals for indulging this splenetic manner, and following my own taste, regardless of yours. The reasons you have given me for breeding up your son as a scholar are judicious and convincing; I should, however, be glad to know for what particular profession he is designed. If he be assiduous and divested of strong passions (for passions in youth always lead to pleasure), he may do very well in your college; for it must be owned that the industrious poor have good encouragement there, perhaps better than in any other in Europe. But if he has ambition, strong passions, and an exquisite sensibility of contempt, do not send him there, unless you have no other trade for him except your own. It is impossible to conceive how much may be done by a proper education at home. A boy, for instance, who understands perfectly well Latin, French, Arithmetic, and the principles of the Civil Law, and can write a fine hand, has an education that may qualify him for any undertaking; and these parts of learning should be better inculcated, let him be designed for whatever calling he will. Above all things let him never touch a romance or novel; these paint beauty in colours more charming than nature, and describe happiness that man never tastes. How delusive, how destructive are those pictures of consummate bliss! They teach the youthful mind to sigh after beauty and happiness that never existed; to despise the little good which fortune has mixed in our cup, by expecting more than she ever gave; and, in general, take the word of a man who has seen the world and who has studied human nature more by experience than precept; take my word for it, that books teach us very little of the world. The greatest merit in a state of poverty would only serve to make the possessor ridiculous--may distress, but cannot relieve him. Frugality, and even avarice, in the lower orders of mankind, are true ambition. These afford the only ladder for the poor to rise to preferment. Teach then, my dear sir, to your son thrift and economy. Let his poor wandering uncle's example be placed before his eyes. I had learned from books to be disinterested and generous, before I was taught from experience the necessity of being prudent. I had contracted the habits and notions of a philosopher, while I was exposing myself to the insidious approaches of cunning: and often by being, even with my narrow finances, charitable to excess, I forgot the rules of justice, and placed myself in the very situation of the wretch who thanked me for my bounty. When I am in the remotest part of the world, tell him this, and perhaps he may improve from my example. But I find myself again falling into my gloomy habits of thinking. My mother, I am informed, is almost blind; even though I had the utmost inclination to return home, under such circumstances I could not, for to behold her in distress without a capacity of relieving her from it, would add much too to my splenetic habit. Your last letter was much too short; it should have answered some queries I had made in my former. Just sit down as I do, and write forward until you have filled all your paper. It requires no thought, at least from the ease with which my own sentiments rise when they are addressed to you. For, believe me, my head has no share in all I write; my heart dictates the whole. Pray give my love to Bob Bryanton, and entreat him from me not to drink. My dear sir, give me some account about poor Jenny. Yet her husband loves her: if so, she cannot be unhappy. I know not whether I should tell you--yet why should I conceal those trifles, or indeed anything from you? There is a book of mine will be published in a few days: the life of a very extraordinary man; no less than the great Voltaire. You know already by the title that it is no more than a catch-penny. However, I spent but four weeks on the whole performance, for which I received twenty pounds. When published, I shall take some method of conveying it to you, unless you may think it dear of the postage, which may amount to four or five shillings. However, I fear you will not find an equivalent of amusement. Your last letter, I repeat it, was too short; you should have given me your opinion of the design of the heroi-comical poem which I sent you. You remember I intended to introduce the hero of the poem as lying in a paltry ale-house. You may take the following specimen of the manner, which I flatter myself is quite original. The room in which he lies may be described somewhat this way: The window, patched with paper, lent a ray That feebly show'd the state in which he lay; The sandy floor that grits beneath the tread, The humid wall with paltry pictures spread; The game of goose was there exposed to view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew; The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place, And Prussia's monarch show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold: he views with keen desire A rusty grate, unconscious of a fire; An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored, And five crack'd teacups dress'd the chimney board. And now imagine after his soliloquy, the landlord to make his appearance in order to dun him for the reckoning: Not with that face, so servile and so gay, That welcomes every stranger that can pay: With sulky eye he smoked the patient man, Then pull'd his breeches tight, and thus began, &c. All this is taken, you see, from nature. It is a good remark of Montaigne's, that the wisest men often have friends with whom they do not care how much they play the fool. Take my present follies as instances of regard. Poetry is a much easier and more agreeable species of composition than prose; and, could a man live by it, it were not unpleasant employment to be a poet. I am resolved to leave no space, though I should fill it up only by telling you, what you very well know already, I mean that I am Your most affectionate friend and brother. WILLIAM COWPER 1731-1800 TO THE REV. JOHN NEWTON _Escapade of Puss_ 21 Aug. 1780. The following occurrence ought not to be passed over in silence, in a place where so few notable ones are to be met with. Last Wednesday night, while we were at supper, between the hours of eight and nine, I heard an unusual noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I was just going to rise from table, when it ceased. In about five minutes, a voice on the outside of the parlour door inquired if one of my hares had got away. I immediately rushed into the next room, and found that my poor favourite Puss had made her escape. She had gnawed in sunder the strings of a lattice work, with which I thought I had sufficiently secured the window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind, because it admitted plenty of air. From thence I hastened to the kitchen, where I saw the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me, that having seen her, just after she had dropped into the street, he attempted to cover her with his hat, but she screamed out, and leaped directly over his head. I then desired him to pursue as fast as possible, and added Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler, and carrying less weight than Thomas; not expecting to see her again, but desirous to learn, if possible, what became of her. In something less than an hour, Richard returned, almost breathless, with the following account. That soon after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, and came in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women, children, and dogs; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, and presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race was at last disputed between himself and Puss;--she ran right through the town, and down the lane that leads to Dropshort; a little before she came to the house, he got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in Mr. Wagstaff's tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. Sturges's harvest men were at supper, and saw her from the opposite side of the way. There she encountered the tanpits full of water; and while she was struggling out of one pit, and plunging into another, and almost drowned, one of the men drew her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe we did not grudge a farthing of it. The poor creature received only a little hurt in one of her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as well as ever. I do not call this an answer to your letter, but such as it is I send it, presuming upon that interest which I know you take in my minutest concerns, which I cannot express better than in the words of Terence a little varied--_Nihil mei a te alienum putas._ TO THE REV. WILLIAM UNWIN _A laugh that hurts nobody_ _18 Nov. 1782._ MY DEAR WILLIAM, ... I little thought when I was writing the history of John Gilpin, that he would appear in print--I intended to laugh, and to make two or three others laugh, of whom you were one. But now all the world laughs, at least if they have the same relish for a tale ridiculous in itself, and quaintly told, as we have.--Well--they do not always laugh so innocently, or at so small an expense--for in a world like this, abounding with subjects for satire, and with satirical wits to mark them, a laugh that hurts nobody has at least the grace of novelty to recommend it. Swift's darling motto was, _Vive la bagatelle_--a good wish for a philosopher of his complexion, the greater part of whose wisdom, whencesoever it came, most certainly came not from above. _La bagatelle_ has no enemy in me, though it has neither so warm a friend, nor so able a one, as it had in him. If I trifle, and merely trifle, it is because I am reduced to it by necessity--a melancholy, that nothing else so effectually disperses, engages me sometimes in the arduous task of being merry by force. And, strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood, and, but for that saddest mood, perhaps had never been written at all. To say truth, it would be but a shocking vagary, should the mariners on board a ship buffeted by a terrible storm, employ themselves in fiddling and dancing; yet sometimes much such a part act I.... To THE REV. JOHN NEWTON _Village politicians_ _26 Jan. 1783._ MY DEAR FRIEND, It is reported among persons of the best intelligence at Olney--the barber, the schoolmaster, and the drummer of a corps quartered at this place,--that the belligerent powers are at last reconciled, the articles of the treaty adjusted, and that peace is at the door. I saw this morning, at nine o'clock, a group of about twelve figures very closely engaged in a conference, as I suppose, upon the same subject. The scene of consultation was a blacksmith's shed, very comfortably screened from the wind, and directly opposed to the morning sun. Some held their hands behind them, some had them folded across their bosom, and others had thrust them into their breeches pockets. Every man's posture bespoke a pacific turn of mind; but the distance being too great for their words to reach me, nothing transpired. I am willing, however, to hope that the secret will not be a secret long, and that you and I, equally interested in the event, though not, perhaps, equally well-informed, shall soon have an opportunity to rejoice in the completion of it. The powers of Europe have clashed with each other to a fine purpose; that the Americans, at length declared independent, may keep themselves so, if they can; and that what the parties, who have thought proper to dispute upon that point, have wrested from each other in the course of the conflict, may be, in the issue of it, restored to the proper owner. Nations may be guilty of a conduct that would render an individual infamous for ever; and yet carry their heads high, talk of their glory, and despise their neighbours. Your opinions and mine, I mean our political ones, are not exactly of a piece, yet I cannot think otherwise upon this subject than I have always done. England, more, perhaps, through the fault of her generals, than her councils, has in some instances acted with a spirit of cruel animosity she was never chargeable with till now. But this is the worst that can be said. On the other hand, the Americans, who, if they had contented themselves with a struggle for lawful liberty, would have deserved applause, seem to me to have incurred the guilt of parricide, by renouncing their parent, by making her ruin their favourite object, and by associating themselves with her worst enemy, for the accomplishment of their purpose. France, and of course Spain, have acted a treacherous, a thievish part. They have stolen America from England, and whether they are able to possess themselves of that jewel or not hereafter, it was doubtless what they intended. Holland appears to me in a meaner light than any of them. They quarrelled with a friend for an enemy's sake. The French led them by the nose, and the English have threshed them for suffering it. My views of the contest being, and having been always such, I have consequently brighter hopes for England than her situation some time since seemed to justify. She is the only injured party. America may, perhaps, call her the aggressor; but if she were so, America has not only repelled the injury, but done a greater. As to the rest, if perfidy, treachery, avarice, and ambition can prove their cause to have been a rotten one, those proofs are found upon them. I think, therefore, that whatever scourge may be prepared for England, on some future day, her ruin is not yet to be expected. Acknowledge, now, that I am worthy of a place under the shed I described, and that I should make no small figure among the _quidnuncs_ of Olney.... TO THE SAME _Village justice_ 17 _Nov_. 1783. MY DEAR FRIEND, ... The country around us is much alarmed with apprehensions of fire. Two have happened since that of Olney. One at Hitchin, where the damage is said to amount to eleven thousand pounds, and another, at a place not far from Hitchin, of which I have not learnt the name. Letters have been dropped at Bedford, threatening to burn the town; and the inhabitants have been so intimidated, as to have placed a guard in many parts of it, several nights past. Some madman or some devil has broke loose, who it is to be hoped will pay dear for these effusions of his malignity. Since our conflagration here, we have sent two women and a boy to the justice, for depredation; Sue Riviss, for stealing a piece of beef, which, in her excuse, she said she intended to take care of. This lady, whom you will remember, escaped for want of evidence; not that evidence was indeed wanting, but our men of Gotham judged it unnecessary to send it. With her went the woman I mentioned before, who, it seems, has made some sort of profession, but upon this occasion allowed herself a latitude of conduct rather inconsistent with it, having filled her apron with wearing apparel, which she likewise intended to take care of. She would have gone to the county gaol, had Billy Raban, the baker's son, who prosecuted, insisted on it, but he good-naturedly, though I think weakly, interposed in her favour, and begged her off. The young gentleman who accompanied these fair ones is the junior son of Molly Boswell. He had stolen some iron-work, the property of Griggs, the butcher. Being convicted, he was ordered to be whipt, which operation he underwent at the cart's tail, from the stone-house to the high arch, and back again. He seemed to show great fortitude, but it was all an imposition upon the public. The beadle, who performed, had filled his left hand with red ochre, through which, after every stroke, he drew the lash of his whip, leaving the appearance of a wound upon the skin, but in reality not hurting him at all. This being perceived by Mr. Constable Hinschcomb, who followed the beadle, he applied his cane, without any such management or precaution, to the shoulders of the too merciful executioner. The scene immediately became more interesting. The beadle could by no means be prevailed upon to strike hard, which provoked the constable to still harder; and this double flogging continued, till a lass of Silverend, pitying the pitiful beadle thus suffering under the hands of the pitiless constable, joined the procession, and placing herself immediately behind the latter, seized him by his capillary club, and pulling him backwards by the same, slapt his face with a most Amazonian fury. This concatenation of events has taken up more of my paper than I intended it should, but I could not forbear to inform you how the beadle thrashed the thief, the constable the beadle, and the lady the constable, and how the thief was the only one who suffered nothing. Mr. Teedon has been here, and is gone again. He came to thank me for an old pair of breeches. In answer to our inquiries after his health, he replied that he had a slow fever, which made him take all possible care not to inflame his blood. I admitted his prudence, but in his particular instance could not very clearly discern the need of it. Pump water will not heat him much; and, to speak a little in his own style, more inebriating fluids are to him, I fancy, not very attainable. He brought us news, the truth of which, however, I do not vouch for, that the town of Bedford was actually on fire yesterday, and the flames not extinguished when the bearer of the tidings left it. Swift observes, when he is giving his reasons why the preacher is elevated always above his hearers, that let the crowd be as great as it will below, there is always room enough overhead. If the French philosophers can carry their art of flying to the perfection they desire, the observation may be reversed, the crowd will be overhead, and they will have most room who stay below. I can assure you, however, upon my own experience, that this way of travelling is very delightful. I dreamt, a night or two since, that I drove myself through the upper regions in a balloon and pair, with the greatest ease and security. Having finished the tour I intended, I made a short turn, and, with one flourish of my whip, descended; my horses prancing and curvetting with an infinite share of spirit, but without the least danger, either to me or my vehicle. The time, we may suppose, is at hand, and seems to be prognosticated by my dream, when these airy excursions will be universal, when judges will fly the circuit, and bishops their visitations; and when the tour of Europe will be performed with much greater speed, and with equal advantage, by all who travel merely for the sake of having it to say that they have made it. I beg that you will accept for yourself and yours our unfeigned love, and remember me affectionately to Mr. Bacon, when you see him. TO THE SAME _A candidate's visit_ 29 _March_, 1784. MY DEAR FRIEND, It being his majesty's pleasure that I should yet have another opportunity to write before he dissolves the parliament, I avail myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when it was not expected. As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water finds its way into creeks and holes of rocks, which in its calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect of these turbulent times is felt even at Orchard-side, where in general we live as undisturbed by the political element, as shrimps or cockles that have been accidentally deposited in some hollow beyond the water mark, by the usual dashing of the waves. We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies and myself, very composedly, and without the least apprehension of any such intrusion in our snug parlour, one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman winding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a mob appeared before the window; a smart rap was heard at the door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid announced Mr. Grenville. Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that the candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, was refused admittance at the grand entry, and referred to the back door, as the only possible way of approach. Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than be absolutely excluded. In a minute, the yard, the kitchen, and the parlour, were filled. Mr. Grenville, advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As soon as he and as many more as could find chairs, were seated, he began to open the intent of his visit. I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me credit. I assured him I had no influence, which he was not equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, because Mr. Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself to me at this moment, informed me that I had a great deal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm my first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly at a loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenville squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and withdrew. He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind-hearted gentlemen. He has a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not being sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and difficult purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he wore suspended by a riband from his buttonhole. The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked, Puss scampered, the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers, withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the adventure, and in a short time settled into our former tranquillity, never probably to be thus interrupted more. I thought myself, however, happy in being able to affirm truly that I had not that influence for which he sued; and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present views of the dispute between the Crown and the Commons, I must have refused him, for he is on the side of the former. It is comfortable to be of no consequence in a world where one cannot exercise any without disobliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be much at his service, and if he be equally successful throughout the country, he will undoubtedly gain his election. Mr. Ashburner perhaps was a little mortified, because it was evident that I owed the honour of this visit to his misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought proper to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I should not I suppose have been bound to produce them.... To LADY HESKETH _An acquaintance reopened_ Olney, 9 _Nov_. 1785. MY DEAREST COUSIN, Whose last most affectionate letter has run in my head ever since I received it, and which I now sit down to answer two days sooner than the post will serve me; I thank you for it, and with a warmth for which I am sure you will give me credit, though I do not spend many words in describing it. I do not seek _new_ friends, not being altogether sure that I should find them, but have unspeakable pleasure in being still beloved by an old one. I hope that now our correspondence has suffered its last interruption, and that we shall go down together to the grave, chatting and chirping as merrily as such a scene of things as this will permit. I am happy that my poems have pleased you. My volume has afforded me no such pleasure at any time, either while I was writing it, or since its publication, as I have derived from yours and my uncle's opinion of it. I make certain allowances for partiality, and for that peculiar quickness of taste, with which you both relish what you like, and after all drawbacks upon those accounts duly made, find myself rich in the measure of your approbation that still remains. But above all, I honour _John Gilpin_, since it was he who first encouraged you to write. I made him on purpose to laugh at, and he served his purpose well; but I am now in debt to him for a more valuable acquisition than all the laughter in the world amounts to, the recovery of my intercourse with you, which is to me inestimable. My benevolent and generous Cousin, when I was once asked if I wanted anything, and given delicately to understand that the inquirer was ready to supply all my occasions, I thankfully and civilly, but positively, declined the favour. I neither suffer, nor have suffered, any such inconveniences as I had not much rather endure than come under obligations of that sort to a person comparatively with yourself a stranger to me. But to you I answer otherwise. I know you thoroughly, and the liberality of your disposition, and have that consummate confidence in the sincerity of your wish to serve me, that delivers me from all awkward constraint, and from all fear of trespassing by acceptance. To you, therefore, I reply, yes. Whensoever, and whatsoever, and in what manner-soever you please; and add moreover, that my affection for the giver is such as will increase to me tenfold the satisfaction that I shall have in receiving. It is necessary, however, that I should let you a little into the state of my finances, that you may not suppose them more narrowly circumscribed than they are. Since Mrs. Unwin and I have lived at Olney, we have had but one purse, although during the whole of that time, till lately, her income was nearly double mine. Her revenues indeed are now in some measure reduced, and do not much exceed my own; the worst consequence of this is, that we are forced to deny ourselves some things which hitherto we have been better able to afford, but they are such things as neither life, nor the well-being of life, depend upon. My own income has been better than it is, but when it was best, it would not have enabled me to live as my connexions demanded that I should, had it not been combined with a better than itself, at least at this end of the kingdom. Of this I had full proof during three months that I spent in lodgings at Huntingdon, in which time by the help of good management, and a clear notion of economical matters, I contrived to spend the income of a twelvemonth. Now, my beloved Cousin, you are in possession of the whole case as it stands. Strain no points to your own inconvenience or hurt, for there is no need of it, but indulge yourself in communicating (no matter what) that you can spare without missing it, since by so doing you will be sure to add to the comforts of my life one of the sweetest that I can enjoy--a token and proof of your affection. I cannot believe but that I should know you, notwithstanding all that time may have done: there is not a feature of your face, could I meet it upon the road, by itself, that I should not instantly recollect. I should say that is my Cousin's nose, or those are her lips and her chin, and no woman upon earth can claim them but herself. As for me, I am a very smart youth of my years; I am not indeed grown grey so much as I am grown bald. No matter: there was more hair in the world than ever had the honour to belong to me; accordingly having found just enough to curl a little at my ears, and to intermix with a little of my own that still hangs behind, I appear, if you see me in an afternoon, to have a very decent head-dress, not easily distinguished from my natural growth, which being worn with a small bag, and a black riband about my neck, continues to me the charms of my youth, even on the verge of age. Away with the fear of writing too often! PS. That the view I give you of myself may be complete, I add the two following items--That I am in debt to nobody, and that I grow fat. TO THE SAME _The kindliness of thanks_ 30 _Nov_. 1785. My dearest cousin, Your kindness reduces me to a necessity (a pleasant one, indeed), of writing all my letters in the same terms: always thanks, thanks at the beginning, and thanks at the end. It is however, I say, a pleasant employment when those thanks are indeed the language of the heart: and I can truly add, that there is no person on earth whom I thank with so much affection as yourself. You insisted that I should give you my genuine opinion of the wine. By the way, it arrived without the least damage or fracture, and I finished the first bottle of it this very day. It is excellent, and though the wine which I had been used to drink was not bad, far preferable to that. The bottles will be in town on Saturday. I am enamoured of the desk and its contents before I see them. They will be most entirely welcome. A few years since I made Mrs. Unwin a present of a snuff-box--a silver one; the purchase was made in London by a friend; it is of a size and form that make it more fit for masculine than feminine use. She therefore with pleasure accepts the box which you have sent--I should say with the greatest pleasure. And I, discarding the leathern trunk that I have used so long, shall succeed to the possession of hers. She says, Tell Lady Hesketh that I truly love and honour her. Now, my Cousin, you may depend upon it, as a most certain truth, that these words from her lips are not an empty sound. I never in my life heard her profess a regard for any one that she felt not. She is not addicted to the use of such language upon ordinary occasions; but when she speaks it, speaks from the heart. She has baited me this many a day, even as a bear is baited, to send for Dr. Kerr. But, as I hinted to you upon a former occasion, I am as mulish as most men are, and have hitherto most ungallantly refused; but what is to be done now?--If it were uncivil not to comply with the solicitations of one lady, to be unmoved by the solicitations of two would prove me to be a bear indeed. I will, therefore, summon him to consideration of said stomach, and its ailments, without delay, and you shall know the result.--I have read Goldsmith's _Traveller_ and his _Deserted Village_, and am highly pleased with them both, as well for the manner in which they are executed, as for their tendency, and the lessons that they inculcate. Mrs. Unwin said to me a few nights since, after supper, 'I have two fine fowls in feeding, and just fit for use; I wonder whether I should send them to Lady Hesketh?' I replied, Yes, by all means! and I will tell you a story that will at once convince you of the propriety of doing so. My brother was curate on a time to Mr. Fawkes, of Orpington, in Kent: it was when I lived in the Temple. One morning, as I was reading by the fireside, I heard a prodigious lumbering at the door. I opened it, and beheld a most rural figure, with very dirty boots, and a great coat as dirty. Supposing that my great fame as a barrister had drawn upon me a client from some remote region, I desired him to walk in. He did so, and introduced himself to my acquaintance by telling me that he was the farmer with whom my brother lodged at Orpington. After this preliminary information he unbuttoned his great coat, and I observed a quantity of long feathers projected from an inside pocket. He thrust in his hand, and with great difficulty extricated a great fat capon. He then proceeded to lighten the other side of him, by dragging out just such another, and begged my acceptance of both. I sent them to a tavern, where they were dressed, and I with two or three friends, whom I invited to the feast, found them incomparably better than any fowls we had ever tasted from the London co-ops. Now, said I to Mrs. Unwin, it is likely that the fowls at Olney may be as good as the fowls at Orpington, therefore send them; for it is not possible to make so good a use of them in any other way ... Adieu, my faithful, kind, and consolatory friend! TO THE SAME _Arrival of the desk_ 7 _Dec_. 1785. My dear cousin, At this time last night I was writing to you, and now I am writing to you again ... My dear, you say not a word about the desk in your last, which I received this morning. I infer from your silence that you supposed it either at Olney or on its way thither, and that you expected nothing so much as that my next would inform you of its safe arrival;--therefore, where can it possibly be? I am not absolutely in despair about it, for the reasons that I mentioned last night; but to say the truth, I stand tottering upon the verge of it. I write, and have written these many years, upon a book of maps, which I now begin to find too low and too flat, though till I expected a better desk, I found no fault with _them_. See and observe how true it is, that by increasing the number of our conveniences, we multiply our wants exactly in the same proportion! neither can I at all doubt that if you were to tell me that all the men in London of any fashion at all, wore black velvet shoes with white roses, and should also tell me that you would send me such, I should dance with impatience till they arrived. Not because I care one farthing of what materials my shoes are made, but because any shoes of your sending would interest me from head to foot. _Thursday Evening_. Oh that this letter had wings, that it might fly to tell you that my desk, the most elegant, the compactest, the most commodious desk in the world, and of all the desks that ever were or ever shall be, the desk that I love the most, is safe arrived. Nay, my dear, it was actually at Sherrington, when the wagoner's wife (for the man himself was not at home) croaked out her abominable _No_! yet she examined the bill of lading, but either did it so carelessly, or as poor Dick Madan used to say, with such an _ignorant eye_, that my name escaped her. My precious Cousin, you have bestowed too much upon me. I have nothing to render you in return, but the affectionate feelings of a heart most truly sensible of your kindness. How pleasant it is to write upon such a green bank! I am sorry that I have so nearly reached the end of my paper. I have now however only room to say that Mrs. Unwin is delighted with her box, and bids me do more than thank you for it. What can I do more at this distance but say that she loves you heartily, and that so do I? The pocket-book is also the completest that I ever saw, and the watch-chain the most brilliant. Adieu for a little while. Now for Homer. N.B.--I generally write the day before the post sets out, which is the thing that puzzles you. I do it that I may secure time for the purpose, and may not be hurried. On this very day twenty-two years ago I left London. TO THE SAME _Anticipations of a visit_ Olney, 9 _Feb_. 1786. MY DEAREST COUSIN, I have been impatient to tell you that I am impatient to see you again. Mrs. Unwin partakes with me in all my feelings upon this subject, and longs also to see you. I should have told you so by the last post, but have been so completely occupied by this tormenting specimen, that it was impossible to do it. I sent the General a letter on Monday that should distress and alarm him; I sent him another yesterday, that will, I hope, quiet him again. Johnson has apologized very civilly for the multitude of his friend's strictures; and his friend has promised to confine himself in future to a comparison of me with the original, so that, I doubt not, we shall jog on merrily together. And now, my dear, let me tell you once more, that your kindness in promising us a visit has charmed us both! I shall see you again. I shall hear your voice. We shall take walks together. I will show you my prospects, the hovel, the alcove, the Ouse and its banks, everything that I have described. I anticipate the pleasure of those days not very far distant, and feel a part of it at this moment. Talk not of an inn! Mention it not for your life! We have never had so many visitors, but we could easily accommodate them all, though we have received Unwin, and his wife, and his sister, and his son all at once. My dear, I will not let you come till the end of May, or beginning of June, because before that time my greenhouse will not be ready to receive us, and it is the only pleasant room belonging to us. When the plants go out, we go in. I line it with mats, and spread the floor with mats; and there you shall sit with a bed of mignonette at your side, and a hedge of honeysuckles, roses, and jasmine; and I will make you a bouquet of myrtle every day. Sooner than the time I mention the country will not be in complete beauty. And I will tell you what you shall find at your first entrance. Imprimis, as soon as you have entered the vestibule, if you cast a look on either side of you, you shall see on the right hand a box of my making. It is the box in which have been lodged all my hares, and in which lodges Puss at present; but he, poor fellow, is worn out with age, and promises to die before you can see him. On the right hand stands a cupboard, the work of the same author; it was once a dove-cage, but I transformed it. Opposite to you stands a table, which I also made; but a merciless servant having scrubbed it until it became paralytic, it serves no purpose now but of ornament; and all my clean shoes stand under it. On the left hand, at the farther end of this superb vestibule, you will find the door of the parlour, into which I will conduct you, and where I will introduce you to Mrs. Unwin, unless we should meet her before, and where we will be as happy as the day is long. Order yourself, my Cousin, to the Swan at Newport, and there you shall find me ready to conduct you to Olney. My dear, I have told Homer what you say about casks and urns, and have asked him whether he is sure that it is a cask in which Jupiter keeps his wine. He swears that it is a cask, and that it will never be anything better than a cask to eternity. So if the god is content with it, we must even wonder at his taste, and be so too. Adieu! my dearest, dearest Cousin. TO THE SAME _Commissions and thanks_ The Lodge, 24 _Dec_. 1786. You must by no means, my dearest Coz, pursue the plan that has suggested itself to you on the supposed loss of your letter. In the first place I choose that my Sundays, like the Sundays of other people, shall be distinguished by something that shall make me look forward to them with agreeable expectation, and for that reason desire that they may always bring me a letter from you. In the next place, if I know when to _expect_ a letter, I know likewise when to _inquire after_ a letter, if it happens not to come; a circumstance of some importance, considering how excessively careless they are at the Swan, where letters are sometimes overlooked, and do not arrive at their destination, if no inquiry be made, till some days have passed since their arrival at Olney. It has happened frequently to me to receive a letter long after all the rest have been delivered, and the Padre assured me that Mr. Throckmorton has sent notes three several times to Mrs. Marriot, complaining of this neglect. For these reasons, my dear, thou must write still on Saturdays, and as often on other days as thou pleasest. The screens came safe, and one of them is at this moment interposed between me and the fire, much to the comfort of my peepers. The other of them being fitted up with a screw that was useless, I have consigned it to proper hands, that it may be made as serviceable as its brother. They are very neat, and I account them a great acquisition. Our carpenter assures me that the lameness of the chairs was not owing to any injury received in their journey, but that the maker never properly finished them. They were not high when they came, and in order to reduce them to a level, we have lowered them an inch. Thou knowest, child, that the short foot could not be lengthened, for which reason we shortened the long ones. The box containing the plate and the brooms reached us yesterday, and nothing had suffered the least damage by the way. Everything is smart, everything is elegant, and we admire them all. The short candlesticks are short enough. I am now writing with those upon the table; Mrs. U. is reading opposite, and they suit us both exactly. With the money that you have in hand, you may purchase, my dear, at your most convenient time, a tea-urn; that which we have at present having never been handsome, and being now old and patched. A parson once, as he walked across the parlour, pushed it down with his belly, and it never perfectly recovered itself. We want likewise a tea-waiter, meaning, if you please, such a one as you may remember to have seen at the Hall, a wooden one. To which you may add, from the same fund, three or four yards of yard-wide muslin, wherewithal to make neckcloths for my worship. If after all these disbursements anything should be left at the bottom of the purse, we shall be obliged to you if you will expend it in the purchase of silk pocket-handkerchiefs. There, my precious--I think I have charged thee with commissions in plenty. You neither must nor shall deny us the pleasure of sending to you such small matters as we do. As to the partridges, you may recollect possibly, when I remind you of it, that I never eat them; they refuse to pass my stomach; and Mrs. Unwin rejoiced in receiving them only because she could pack them away to you--therefore never lay us under any embargoes of this kind, for I tell you beforehand, that we are both incorrigible. My beloved Cousin, the first thing that I open my eyes upon in a morning, is it not the bed in which you have laid me? Did you not, in our old dismal parlour at Olney, give me the tea on which I breakfast?--the chocolate that I drank at noon, and the table at which I dine?--the everything, in short, that I possess in the shape of convenience, is it not all from you? and is it possible, think you, that we should either of us overlook an opportunity of making such a tiny acknowledgement of your kindness? Assure yourself that never, while my name is Giles Gingerbread, will I dishonour my glorious ancestry, and my illustrious appellation, by so unworthy a conduct. I love you at my heart, and so does Mrs. U., and we must say thank you, and send you a peppercorn when we can. So thank you, my dear, for the brawn and the chine, and for all the good things that you announce, and at present I will, for your sake, say no more of thanksgiving. TO MRS. BODHAM _His mother's portrait_ Weston, 27 _Feb._ 1790. MY DEAREST ROSE, Whom I thought withered, and fallen from the stalk, but whom I still find alive: nothing could give me greater pleasure than to know it, and to hear it from yourself. I loved you dearly when you were a child, and love you not a jot the less for having ceased to be so. Every creature that bears any affinity to my mother is dear to me, and you, the daughter of her brother, are but one remove distant from her: I love you, therefore, and love you much, both for her sake, and for your own. The world could not have furnished you with a present so acceptable to me, as the picture which you have so kindly sent me. I received it the night before last, and viewed it with a trepidation of nerves and spirits somewhat akin to what I should have felt, had the dear original presented herself to my embraces. I kissed it, and hung it where it is the last object that I see at night, and, of course, the first on which I open my eyes in the morning. She died when I completed my sixth year; yet I remember her well, and am an ocular witness of the great fidelity of the copy. I remember, too, a multitude of the maternal tendernesses which I received from her, and which have endeared her memory to me beyond expression. There is in me, I believe, more of the Donne than of the Cowper; and though I love all of both names, and have a thousand reasons to love those of my own name, yet I feel the bond of nature draw me vehemently to your side. I was thought in the days of my childhood much to resemble my mother; and in my natural temper, of which at the age of fifty-eight I must be supposed to be a competent judge, can trace both her, and my late uncle, your father. Somewhat of his irritability; and a little, I would hope, both of his and of her--I know not what to call it, without seeming to praise myself, which is not my intention, but speaking to _you_, I will even speak out, and say _good nature_. Add to all this, I deal much in poetry, as did our venerable ancestor, the Dean of St. Paul's, and I think I shall have proved myself a Donne at all points. The truth is, that whatever I am, I love you all. EDMUND BURKE 1729-1797 TO MATTHEW SMITH _First impressions of London_ [1750.] You'll expect some short account of my journey to this great city. To tell you the truth, I made very few remarks as I rolled along, for my mind was occupied with many thoughts, and my eyes often filled with tears, when I reflected on all the dear friends I left behind; yet the prospects could not fail to attract the attention of the most indifferent: country seats sprinkled round on every side, some in the modern taste, some in the style of old De Coverley Hall, all smiling on the neat but humble cottage; every village as neat and compact as a bee-hive, resounding with the busy hum of industry; and inns like palaces. What a contrast to our poor country, where you'll scarce find a cottage ornamented with a chimney! But what pleased me most of all was the progress of agriculture, my favourite study, and my favourite pursuit, if Providence had blessed me with a few paternal acres. A description of London and its natives would fill a volume. The buildings are very fine: it may be called the sink of vice: but its hospitals and charitable institutions, whose turrets pierce the skies like so many electrical conductors, avert the wrath of Heaven. The inhabitants may be divided into two classes, the _undoers_ and the _undone_; generally so, I say, for I am persuaded there are many men of honesty and women of virtue in every street. An Englishman is cold and distant at first; he is very cautious even in forming an acquaintance; he must know you well before he enters into friendship with you; but if he does, he is not the first to dissolve that sacred bond: in short, a real Englishman is one that performs more than he promises; in company he is rather silent, extremely prudent in his expressions, even in politics, his favourite topic. The women are not quite so reserved; they consult their glasses to the best advantage; and as nature is very liberal in her gifts to their persons, and even minds, it is not easy for a young man to escape their glances, or to shut his ears to their softly flowing accents. As to the state of learning in this city, you know I have not been long enough in it to form a proper judgement of that subject. I don't think, however, there is as much respect paid to a man of letters on this side of the water as you imagine. I don't find that genius, the 'rath primrose, which forsaken dies', is patronized by any of the nobility, so that writers of the first talents are left to the capricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement, literature is cultivated in a high degree. Poetry raises her enchanting voice to Heaven. History arrests the wings of Time in his flight to the gulf of oblivion. Philosophy, the queen of arts, and the daughter of Heaven, is daily extending her intellectual empire. Fancy sports on airy wing like a meteor on the bosom of a summer cloud; and even Metaphysics spins her cobwebs, and catches some flies. The House of Commons not unfrequently exhibits explosions of eloquence that rise superior to those of Greece and Rome, even in their proudest days. Yet, after all, a man will make more by the figures of arithmetic than the figures of rhetoric, unless he can get into the trade wind, and then he may sail secure over Pactolean sands. As to the stage, it is sunk, in my opinion, into the lowest degree; I mean with regard to the trash that is exhibited on it; but I don't attribute this to the taste of the audience, for when Shakespeare warbles his 'native woodnotes', the boxes, pit, and gallery, are crowded--and the gods are true to every word, if properly winged to the heart. Soon after my arrival in town I visited Westminster Abbey: the moment I entered I felt a kind of awe pervade my mind which I cannot describe; the very silence seemed sacred. Henry VII's chapel is a very fine piece of Gothic architecture, particularly the roof; but I am told that it is exceeded by a chapel in the University of Cambridge. Mrs. Nightingale's monument has not been praised beyond its merit. The attitude and expression of the husband in endeavouring to shield his wife from the dart of death, is natural and affecting. But I always thought that the image of death would be much better represented with an extinguished torch inverted, than with a dart. Some would imagine that all these monuments were so many monuments of folly;--I don't think so; what useful lessons of morality and sound philosophy do they not exhibit! When the high-born beauty surveys her face in the polished Parian, though dumb the marble, yet it tells her that it was placed to guard the remains of as fine a form, and as fair a face as her own. They show besides how anxious we are to extend our loves and friendships beyond the grave, and to snatch as much as we can from oblivion--such is our natural love of immortality; but it is here that letters obtain the noblest triumphs; it is here that the swarthy daughters of Cadmus may hang their trophies on high; for when all the pride of the chisel and the pomp of heraldry yield to the silent touches of time, a single line, a half-worn-out inscription, remain faithful to their trust. Blest be the man that first introduced these strangers into our islands, and may they never want protection or merit! I have not the least doubt that the finest poem in the English language, I mean Milton's _Il Penseroso_, was composed in the long-resounding aisle of a mouldering cloister or ivy'd abbey. Yet after all do you know that I would rather sleep in the southern corner of a little country churchyard, than in the tomb of the Capulets. I should like, however, that my dust should mingle with kindred dust. The good old expression 'family burying-ground' has something pleasing in it, at least to me. To JAMES BARRY _A friend's infirmities_ Gregories, 16 _Sept_. 1769. MY DEAR BARRY, I am most exceedingly obliged to your friendship and partiality, which attributed a silence very blameable on our parts to a favourable cause: let me add in some measure to its true cause, a great deal of occupation of various sorts, and some of them disagreeable enough. As to any reports concerning your conduct and behaviour, you may be very sure they could have no kind of influence here; for none of us are of such a make as to trust to any one's report for the character of a person whom we ourselves know. Until very lately, I had never heard anything of your proceedings from others; and when I did, it was much less than I had known from yourself, that you had been upon ill terms with the artists and virtuosi in Rome, without much mention of cause or consequence. If you have improved these unfortunate quarrels to your advancement in your art, you have turned a very disagreeable circumstance to a very capital advantage. However you may have succeeded in this uncommon attempt, permit me to suggest to you, with that friendly liberty which you have always had the goodness to bear from me, that you cannot possibly have always the same success, either with regard to your fortune or your reputation. Depend upon it, that you will find the same competitions, the same jealousies, the same arts and cabals, the emulations of interest and of fame, and the same agitations and passions here that you have experienced in Italy; and if they have the same effect on your temper, they will have just the same effects upon your interest; and be your merit what it will, you will never be employed to paint a picture. It will be the same at London as at Rome, and the same in Paris as in London, for the world is pretty nearly alike in all its parts; nay, though it would perhaps be a little inconvenient to me, I had a thousand times rather you should fix your residence in Rome than here, as I should not then have the mortification of seeing with my own eyes a genius of the first rank lost to the world, himself, and his friends; as I certainly must, if you do not assume a manner of acting and thinking here, totally different from what your letters from Rome have described to me. That you have had just subjects of indignation always, and of anger often, I do no ways doubt; who can live in the world without some trial of his patience? But believe me, my dear Barry, that the arms with which the ill dispositions of the world are to be combated, and the qualities by which it is to be reconciled to us, and we reconciled to it, are moderation, gentleness, a little indulgence to others, and a great deal of mistrust of ourselves; which are not qualities of a mean spirit, as some may possibly think them; but virtues of a great and noble kind, and such as dignify our nature as much as they contribute to our repose and fortune; for nothing can be so unworthy of a well-composed soul, as to pass away life in bickerings and litigations, in snarling and scuffling with every one about us. Again and again, my dear Barry, we must be at peace with our species; if not for their sakes yet very much for our own. Think what my feelings must be, from my unfeigned regard, and from my wishes that your talents might be of use, when I see what the inevitable consequences must be, of your persevering in what has hitherto been your course, ever since I knew you, and which you will permit me to trace out for you beforehand. You will come here; you will observe what the artists are doing; and you will sometimes speak a disapprobation in plain words, and sometimes by a no less expressive silence. By degrees you will produce some of your own works. They will be variously criticized; you will defend them; you will abuse those that have attacked you; expostulations, discussions, letters, possibly challenges, will go forward; you will shun your brethren, they will shun you. In the meantime, gentlemen will avoid your friendship, for fear of being engaged in your quarrels; you will fall into distresses which will only aggravate your disposition for further quarrels; you will be obliged for maintenance to do anything for anybody; your very talents will depart for want of hope and encouragement; and you will go out of the world fretted, disappointed, and ruined. Nothing but my real regard for you could induce me to set these considerations in this light before you. Remember, we are born to serve and to adorn our country, and not to contend with our fellow-citizens, and that in particular your business is to paint and not to dispute.... If you think this a proper time to leave Rome (a matter which I leave entirely to yourself), I am quite of opinion you ought to go to Venice. Further, I think it right to see Florence and Bologna; and that you cannot do better than to take that route to Venice. In short, do everything that may contribute to your improvement, and I shall rejoice to see you what Providence intended you, a very great man. This you were, in your _ideas_, before you quitted this; you best know how far you have studied, that is, practised the mechanic; despised nothing till you had tried it; practised dissections with your own hands, painted from nature as well as from the statues, and portrait as well as history, and this frequently. If you have done all this, as I trust you have, you want nothing but a little prudence, to fulfil all our wishes. This, let me tell you, is no small matter; for it is impossible for you to find any persons anywhere more truly interested for you; to these dispositions attribute everything which may be a little harsh in this letter. We are, thank God, all well, and all most truly and sincerely yours. I seldom write so long a letter. Take this as a sort of proof how much I am, dear Barry, Your faithful friend. To LORD AUCKLAND _An old stag at bay_ Beaconsfield, 30 _Oct_. 1795. My dear Lord, I am perfectly sensible of the very flattering honour you have done me in turning any part of your attention towards a dejected old man, buried in the anticipated grave of a feeble old age, forgetting and forgotten in an obscure and melancholy retreat. In this retreat I have nothing relative to this world to do but to study all the tranquillity that in the state of my mind I am capable of. To that end I find it but too necessary to call to my aid an oblivion of most of the circumstances pleasant and unpleasant of my life; to think as little, and indeed to know as little as I can of everything that is doing about me; and, above all, to divert my mind from all presagings and prognostications of what I must (if I let my speculations loose) consider as of absolute necessity to happen after my death, and possibly even before it. Your address to the public which you have been so good as to send to me, obliges me to break in upon that plan, and to look a little on what is behind, and very much on what is before me. It creates in my mind a variety of thoughts, and all of them unpleasant. It is true, my Lord, what you say, that through our public life, we have generally sailed on somewhat different tacks. We have so undoubtedly, and we should do so still, if I had continued longer to keep the sea. In that difference you rightly observe that I have always done justice to your skill and ability as a navigator, and to your good intentions towards the safety of the cargo and of the ship's company. I cannot say now that we are on different tacks. There would be no propriety in the metaphor. I can sail no longer. My vessel cannot be said to be even in port. She is wholly condemned and broken up. To have an idea of that vessel you must call to mind what you have often seen on the Kentish road. Those planks of tough and hardy oak that used for years to brave the buffets of the Bay of Biscay, are now turned with their warped grain and empty trunnion holes into very wretched pales for the enclosure of a wretched farmyard. The style of your pamphlet, and the eloquence and power of composition you display in it, are such as do great honour to your talents; and in conveying any other sentiments would give me very great pleasure. Perhaps I do not very perfectly comprehend your purpose, and the drift of your arguments. If I do not--pray do not attribute my mistake to want of candour, but to want of sagacity. I confess your address to the public, together with other accompanying circumstances, has filled me with a degree of grief and dismay which I cannot find words to express. If the plan of politics there recommended, pray excuse my freedom, should be adopted by the King's Councils and by the good people of this kingdom (as so recommended undoubtedly it will) nothing can be the consequence but utter and irretrievable ruin to the Ministry, to the Crown, to the succession, to the importance, to the independence, to the very existence of this country. This is my feeble perhaps, but clear, positive, decided, long and maturely reflected, and frequently declared opinion, from which all the events which have lately come to pass, so far from turning me, have tended to confirm beyond the power of alteration, even by your eloquence and authority. I find, my dear Lord, that you think some persons who are not satisfied with the securities of a Jacobin peace, to be persons of intemperate minds. I may be, and I fear I am with you in that description: but pray, my Lord, recollect that very few of the causes which make men intemperate, can operate upon me. Sanguine hopes, vehement desires, inordinate ambition, implacable animosity, party attachments, or party interests; all these with me have no existence. For myself or for a family (alas! I have none), I have nothing to hope or to fear in this world. I am attached by principle, inclination, and gratitude to the King, and to the present Ministry. Perhaps you may think that my animosity to Opposition is the cause of my dissent on seeing the politics of Mr. Fox (which while I was in the world I combated by every instrument which God had put into my hands, and in every situation in which I had taken part), so completely adopted in your Lordship's book: but it was with pain I broke with that great man for ever in that cause--and I assure you, it is not without pain that I differ with your Lordship on the same principles. But it is of no concern. I am far below the region of those great and tempestuous passions. I feel nothing of the intemperance of mind. It is rather sorrow and dejection than anger. Once more my best thanks for your very polite attention, and do me the favour to believe me with the most perfect sentiments of respect and regard, my dear Lord, Your Lordship's most obedient and humble servant. To MARY LEADBEATER _His last letter[1]_ Bath, 23 _May_, 1797. My dear Mrs. Leadbeater, I feel as I ought to do your constant hereditary kindness to me and mine. What you have heard of my illness is far from exaggerated. I am, thank God, alive, and that is all. Hastening to my dissolution, I have to bless Providence that I do not suffer a great deal of pain.... Mrs. Burke has a tolerable share of health--in every respect except much use of her limbs. She remembers your mother's most good-natured attentions, as I am sure I do with much gratitude. I have ever been an admirer of your talents and virtues, and shall ever wish most cordially for everything which can tend to your credit and satisfaction. I therefore congratulate you very heartily on the birth of your son; and pray remember me to the representative of your family, who I hope still keeps up the school of which I have so tender a remembrance; though after so long an absence, and so many unpleasant events of every kind that have distracted my thoughts, I hardly dare ask for any one, not knowing whether they are living or dead, lest I should be the means of awakening unpleasant recollections. Believe me to be, with the most respectful and affectionate regards, my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, Your faithful friend, and very humble servant. PS. Pray remember me to Mr. Leadbeater. I have been at Bath these four months to no purpose, and am therefore to be removed to my own house at Beaconsfield to-morrow, to be nearer to a habitation more permanent, humbly and fearfully hoping that my better part may find a better mansion. [Footnote 1: Cp. p. 281.] EDWARD GIBBON 1737-1794 To MRS. PORTEN _His daily life_ Lausanne, 27 _Dec._ 1783. ... In speaking of the happiness which I enjoy, you will agree with me in giving the preference to a sincere and sensible friend; and though you cannot discern the full extent of his merit, you will easily believe that Deyverdun is the man. Perhaps two persons so perfectly fitted to live together were never formed by nature and education. We have both read and seen a great variety of objects; the lights and shades of our different characters are happily blended, and a friendship of thirty years has taught us to enjoy our mutual advantages, and to support our unavoidable imperfections. In love and marriage, some harsh sounds will sometimes interrupt the harmony, and in the course of time, like our neighbours, we must expect some disagreeable moments; but confidence and freedom are the two pillars of our union, and I am much mistaken, if the building be not solid and comfortable.... In this season I rise (not at four in the morning) but a little before eight; at nine I am called from my study to breakfast, which I always perform alone, in the English style; and, with the aid of Caplin, I perceive no difference between Lausanne and Bentinck Street. Our mornings are usually passed in separate studies; we never approach each other's door without a previous message, or thrice knocking; and my apartment is already sacred and formidable to strangers. I dress at half-past one, and at two (an early hour, to which I am not perfectly reconciled) we sit down to dinner.... After dinner, and the departure of our company, one, two, or three friends, we read together some amusing book, or play at chess, or retire to our rooms, or make visits, or go to the coffee-house. Between six and seven the assemblies begin, and I am oppressed only with their number and variety. Whist, at shillings or half-crowns, is the game I generally play, and I play three rubbers with pleasure. Between nine and ten we withdraw to our bread and cheese, and friendly converse, which sends us to bed at eleven; but these sober hours are too often interrupted by private or numerous suppers, which I have not the courage to resist, though I practise a laudable abstinence at the best furnished tables. Such is the skeleton of my life.... TO LORD SHEFFIELD _A great work_ Lausanne, 20 _Jan._ 1787. ... As long as I do not inform you of my death, you have good grounds to believe me alive and well. You have a general, and will soon have a more particular idea of my system and arrangement here. One day glides away after another in tranquil uniformity. Every object must have sides and moments less luminous than others; but, upon the whole, the life and the place which I have chosen are most happily adapted to my character and circumstances: and I can now repeat, at the end of three years, what I soon and sincerely affirmed, that never in a single instant have I repented of my scheme of retirement to Lausanne.... And though I truly rejoice in my approaching visit to England, Mr. Pitt, were he your friend and mine, would not find it an easy task to prevent my return.... I am building a great book, which, besides the three stories already exposed to the public eye, will have three stories more before we reach the roof and battlements. You too have built or altered a great Gothic castle with baronial battlements. Did you finish it within the time you intended? As that time drew near, did you not find a thousand nameless and unexpected works that must be performed; each of them calling for a portion of time and labour? and had you not despised, nobly despised, the minute diligence of finishing, fitting up, and furnishing the apartments, you would have discovered a new train of indispensable business. Such, at least, has been my case. A long while ago when I contemplated the distant prospect of my work, I gave you and myself some hopes of landing in England last autumn; but, alas! when autumn grew near, hills began to rise on hills, Alps on Alps, and I found my journey far more tedious and toilsome than I had imagined. When I look back on the length of the undertaking, and the variety of materials, I cannot accuse, or suffer myself to be accused of idleness; yet it appeared that unless I doubled my diligence, another year, and perhaps more, would elapse before I could embark with my complete manuscript. Under these circumstances I took, and am still executing, a bold and meritorious resolution. The mornings in winter, and in a country of early dinners, are very concise; to them, my usual period of study, I now frequently add the evenings, renounce cards and society, refuse the most agreeable evenings, or perhaps make my appearance at a late supper. By this extraordinary industry, which I never practised before, and to which I hope never to be again reduced, I see the last part of my _History_ growing apace under my hands; all my materials are collected and arranged; I can exactly compute, by the square foot, or the square page, all that remains to be done; and after concluding text and notes, after a general review of my time and my ground, I now can decisively ascertain the final period of the _Decline and Fall_, and can boldly promise that I will dine with you at Sheffield Place in the month of August, or perhaps of July, in the present year; within less than a twelvemonth of the term which I had loosely and originally fixed; and perhaps it would not be easy to find a work of that size and importance in which the workman has so tolerably kept his word with himself and the public. But in this situation, oppressed with this particular object, and stealing every hour from my amusement, to the fatigue of the pen, and the eyes, you will conceive, or you might conceive, how little stomach I have for the epistolary style; and that instead of idle, though friendly, correspondence, I think it far more agreeable to employ my time in the effectual measures that may hasten and exhilarate our personal interview.... FRANCES D'ARBLAY 1752-1840 TO SUSAN BURNEY _An excited Unknown_ Chessington, 5 _July_, 1778. MY DEAREST SUSY, Don't you think there must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress? Your last communication very near did my business; for, meeting Mr. Crisp ere I had composed myself, I 'tipt him such a touch of the heroics' as he has not seen since the time when I was so much celebrated for dancing _Nancy Dawson_. I absolutely longed to treat him with one of Captain Mirvan's frolics, and to fling his wig out of the window. I restrained myself, however, from the apprehension that they would imagine I had a universal spite to that harmless piece of goods, which I have already been known to treat with no little indignity. He would fain have discovered the reason of my skittishness; but as I could not tell it him, I was obliged to assure him it would be lost time to inquire further into my flights, since 'true no meaning puzzles more than wit', and therefore, begging the favour of him to 'set me down an _ass_', I suddenly retreated. My dear, dear Dr. Johnson! what a charming man you are! Mrs. Cholmondeley, too, I am not merely prepared but determined to admire; for really she has shown so much penetration and sound sense of late, that I think she will bring about a union between Wit and Judgement, though their separation has been so long, and though their meetings have been so few. But, Mrs. Thrale! she--she is the goddess of my idolatry! What an _éloge_ is hers!--an _éloge_ that not only delights at first, but proves more and more flattering every time it is considered! I often think, when I am counting my laurels, what a pity it would have been had I popped off in my last illness, without knowing what a person of consequence I was!--and I sometimes think that, were I now to have a relapse, I could never go off with so much _éclat_! I am now at the summit of a high hill; my prospects on one side are bright, glowing, and invitingly beautiful; but when I turn round, I perceive, on the other side, sundry caverns, gulfs, pits, and precipices, that, to look at, make my head giddy and my heart sick. I see about me, indeed, many hills of far greater height and sublimity; but I have not the strength to attempt climbing them; if I move, it must be downwards. I have already, I fear, reached the pinnacle of my abilities, and therefore to stand still will be my best policy. But there is nothing under heaven so difficult to do. Creatures who are formed for motion _must_ move, however great their inducements to forbear. The wisest course I could take, would be to bid an eternal adieu to writing; then would the cry be, 'Tis pity she does not go on!--she might do something better by and by', &c, &c. _Evelina_, as a first and a youthful publication, has been received with the utmost favour and lenity; but would a future attempt be treated with the same mercy?--no, my dear Susy, quite the contrary; there would not, indeed, be the same plea to save it; it would no longer be a young lady's _first_ appearance in public; those who have met with less indulgence would all peck at any second work; and even those who most encouraged the first offspring might prove enemies to the second, by receiving it with expectations which it could not answer: and so, between either the friends or the foes of the eldest, the second would stand an equally bad chance, and a million of flaws which were overlooked in the former would be ridiculed as villainous and intolerable blunders in the latter. But, though my eyes ache as I strain them to look forward, the temptations before me are almost irresistible; and what you have transcribed from Mrs. Thrale may, perhaps, prove my destruction. So you wish to have some of the sayings of the folks here about _the book_? I am sure I owe you all the communications I can possibly give you; but I have nothing new to offer, for the same strain prevails here as in town; and no one will be so obliging to me as to put in a little abuse: so that I fear you will be satiated with the sameness of people's remarks. Yet, what can I do? if they _will_ be so disagreeable and tiresome as to be all of one mind, how is it to be helped? I can only advise you to follow my example, which is, to accommodate my philosophy to their insipidity; and in this I have so wonderfully succeeded, that I hear their commendations not merely with patience but even with a degree of pleasure! Such, my dear Susy, is the effect of true philosophy. You desire Kitty Cooke's remarks in particular. I have none to give you, for none can I get. To the serious part she indeed listens, and seems to think it may possibly be very fine; but she is quite lost when the Branghtons and Madame Duval are mentioned;--she hears their speeches very composedly, and as words of course; but when she hears them followed by loud bursts of laughter from Hetty, Mr. Crisp, Mrs. Gast, and Mr. Burney, she stares with the gravest amazement, and looks so aghast, and so distressed to know where the joke can be, that I never dare trust myself to look at her for more than an instant. Were she to speak her thoughts, I am sure she would ask why such common things, that pass every day, should be printed? And all the derision with which the party in general treat the Branghtons, I can see she feels herself, with a plentiful addition of astonishment, for the _author_! By the way, not a human being here has the most remote suspicion of the fact; I could not be more secure, were I literally unknown to them. And there is no end to the ridiculous speeches perpetually made to me, by all of them in turn, though quite by accident. 'An't you sorry this sweet book is done?' said Mrs. Gast. A silly little laugh was the answer. 'Ah,' said Patty, ''tis the sweetest book!--don't you think so, Miss Burney?' N.B.--Answer as above. 'Pray, Miss Fan,' says Mrs. Hamilton, 'who wrote it?' 'Really I never heard.' 'Cute enough that, Miss Sukey!' I desired Hetty to miss the verses; for I can't sit them: and I have been obliged to hide the first volume ever since, for fear of a discovery. But I don't know how it will end; for Mrs. Gast has declared she shall buy it, to take it to Burford with her. TO SAMUEL CRISP _Mrs. Thrale and Dr. Johnson_ Streatham, _March_ 1779. The kindness and honours I meet with from this charming family are greater than I can mention; sweet Mrs. Thrale hardly suffers me to leave her a moment; and Dr. Johnson is another Daddy Crisp to me, for he has a partial goodness to your Fannikin, that has made him sink the comparative shortness of our acquaintance, and treat and think of me as one who had long laid claim to him. If you knew these two you would love them, or I don't know you so well as I think I do. Dr. Johnson has more fun, and comical humour, and love of nonsense about him, than almost anybody I ever saw: I mean when with those he likes; for otherwise, he can be as severe and as bitter as report relates him. Mrs. Thrale has all that gaiety of disposition and lightness of heart, which commonly belong to fifteen. We are, therefore, merry enough, and I am frequently seized with the same tittering and ridiculous fits as those with which I have so often amazed and amused poor Kitty Cooke. One thing let me not omit of this charming woman, which I believe will weigh with you in her favour; her political doctrine is so exactly like yours, that it is never started but I exclaim, 'Dear ma'am, if my Daddy Crisp was here, I believe between you, you would croak me mad!' And this sympathy of horrible foresight not a little contributes to incline her to believe the other parts of speech with which I regale her concerning you. She wishes very much to know you, and I am sure you would hit it off comfortably; but I told her what a vile taste you had for shunning all new acquaintance, and shirking almost all your old ones. That I may never be among the latter, heartily hopes my dear daddy's ever affectionate and obliged, F.B. TO MRS. LOCK _A royal commission_ Kew, _April_ 1789. MY DEAREST FRIENDS, I have her Majesty's commands to inquire--whether you have any of a certain breed of poultry? N.B.--_What_ breed I do not remember. And to say she has just received a small group of the same herself. N.B.--The quantity I have forgotten. And to add, she is assured they are something very rare and scarce, and extraordinary and curious. N.B.--By _whom_ she was assured I have not heard. And to subjoin, that you must send word if you have any of the same sort. N.B.--How you are to find that out, I cannot tell. And to mention, as a corollary, that, if you have none of them, and should like to have some, she has a cock and a hen she can spare, and will appropriate them to Mr. Lock and my dearest Fredy. This conclusive stroke so pleased and exhilarated me, that forthwith I said you would both be enchanted, and so forgot all the preceding particulars. And I said, moreover, that I knew you would rear them, and cheer them, and fondle them like your children. So now--pray write a very _fair answer_ fairly, in fair hand, and to fair purpose. My Susanna is just now come--so all is fair with my dearest Mr. and Mrs. Lock's F.B. GEORGE CRABBE 1754-1832 TO MARY LEADBEATER[1] _The only survivors_ Trowbridge, 1st of 12th month, 1816. MARY LEADBEATER! Yes, indeed, I do well remember you! Not Leadbeater then, but a pretty demure lass, standing a timid auditor while her own verses were read by a kind friend, but a keen judge. And I have in my memory your father's person and countenance, and you may be sure that my vanity retained the compliment which he paid me in the moment when he permitted his judgement to slip behind his good humour and desire of giving pleasure. Yes, I remember all who were present, and, of all, are not you and I the only survivors? It was the day--was it not?--when I introduced my wife to my friend. And now both are gone! and your father, and Richard Burke, who was present (yet again I must ask,--was he not?)--and Mrs. Burke! All departed, and so, by and by, they will speak of us. But, in the meantime, it was good of you to write, oh, very, very good! But are you not your father's own daughter? Do you not flatter after his manner? How do you know the mischief that you may do in the mind of a vain man, who is but too susceptible of praise, even while he is conscious of so much to be placed against it? I am glad that you like my verses: it would have mortified me much if you had not, for you can judge as well as write.... Yours are really very admirable things; and the morality is as pure as the literary merit is conspicuous. I am not sure that I have read all that you have given us; but what I have read has really that rare and almost undefinable quality, genius; that is to say, it seizes on the mind and commands attention, and on the heart, and compels its feelings. How could you imagine that I could be otherwise than pleased--delighted rather--with your letter? And let me not omit the fact that I reply the instant I am at liberty, for I was enrobing myself for church. You are a child of simplicity, I know, and do not love robing; but you are a pupil of liberality, and look upon such things with a large mind, smiling in charity. Well! I was putting on the great black gown when my servant--(you see I can be pompous, to write of gowns and servants with such familiarity)--when he brought me a letter first directed, the words yet legible, to 'George Crabbe, at Belvoir Castle', and then by Lord Mendip to the 'Reverend' at Trowbridge; and at Trowbridge I hope again to receive these welcome evidences of your remembrance, directed in all their simplicity, and written, I trust, in all sincerity.... There was a Suffolk family of Alexanders, one of whom you probably mean; and as he knew very little of me, I see no reason why he should not give me a good character ... If it means, as it generally does, that I paid my debts, and was guilty of no glaring world-defying immorality--why yes!--I was so far a good character.... But your motive for writing to me was your desire of knowing whether my men and women were really existing creatures, or beings of my own imagination? Nay, Mary Leadbeater, yours was a better motive; you thought that you should give pleasure by writing, and--yet you will think me very vain--you felt some pleasure yourself in renewing the acquaintance that commenced under such auspices! Am I not right? My heart tells me that I am, and hopes that you will confirm it. Be assured that I feel a very cordial esteem for the friend of my friend,--the virtuous, the worthy character whom I am addressing. Yes, I will tell you readily about my creatures, whom I endeavoured to paint as nearly as I could, and dared; for in some cases I dared not. This you will readily admit; besides, charity bade me be cautious. Thus far you are correct; there is not one of whom I had not in my mind the original; but I was obliged in some cases to take them from their real situations, in one or two instances to change even the sex, and in many the circumstances. The nearest to real life was the proud ostentatious man in _The Borough_, who disguises an ordinary mind by doing great things; but the others approach to reality at greater or less distances. Indeed, I do not know that I could paint merely from my own fancy, and there is no cause why we should. Is there not diversity sufficient in society? And who can go, even but a little, into the assemblies of our fellow-wanderers from the way of perfect rectitude, and not find characters so varied and so pointed that he need not call upon his imagination? Will _you_ not write again? 'Write _to_ thee, or _for_ the public', wilt thou not ask? _To_ me and _for_ as many as love and can discern the union of strength and simplicity, purity and good sense. _Our_ feeling and _our_ hearts is the language you can adopt. Alas, _I_ cannot with propriety use it--_our_ I too could once say; but I am alone now; and since my removing into a busy town among the multitude, the loneliness is but more apparent and more melancholy. But this is only at certain times; and then I have, though at considerable distances, six female friends, unknown to each other, but all dear, very dear, to me. With men I do not much associate; not as deserting, and much less disliking, the male part of society, but as being unfit for it; not hardy nor grave, not knowing enough, nor sufficiently acquainted with the every-day concerns of men. But my beloved creatures have minds with which I can better assimilate ... Think of you I must; and of me, I must entreat that you would not be unmindful. [Footnote 1: Cp. letter, p. 283.] TO THE SAME _Comparisons_ Trowbridge, 7 _Sept._ 1818. A description of your village society would be very gratifying to me--how the manners differ from those in larger societies, or in those under different circumstances. I have observed an extraordinary difference in village manners in England, especially between those places otherwise nearly alike, when there was and when there was not a leading man, or a squire's family, or a manufactory near, or a populous, vitiated town, all these, and many other circumstances have great influence. _Your_ quiet village, with such influencing minds, I am disposed to think highly of. No one, perhaps, very rich--none miserably poor. No girls, from six years to sixteen, sent to a factory, where men, women, and children of all ages are continually with them breathing contagion. Not all, however: we are not so evil--there is a resisting power, and it is strong; but the thing itself, the congregation of so many minds, and the intercourse it occasions, will have its powerful and visible effect. But these you have not; yet, as you mention your schools of both kinds, you must be more populous and perhaps not so happy as I was giving myself to believe.... The world has not spoiled you, Mary, I do believe: now it has me. I have been absorbed in its mighty vortex, and gone into the midst of its greatness, and joined in its festivities and frivolities, and been intimate with its children. You may like me very well, my kind friend, while the purifying water, and your more effectual imagination, is between us; but come you to England, or let me be in Ireland, and place us where mind becomes acquainted with mind--and then! Ah, Mary Leadbeater! you would have done with your friendship with me! Child of simplicity and virtue, how can you let yourself be so deceived? Am I not a great fat rector, living upon a mighty income, while my poor curate starves with six hungry children upon the scraps that fall from the luxurious table? Do I not visit that horrible London, and enter into its abominable dissipations? Am not I this day going to dine on venison and drink claret? Have I not been at election dinners, and joined the Babel-confusion of a town hall? Child of simplicity! am I fit to be a friend to you, and to the peaceful, mild, pure, and gentle people about you? One thing is true--I wish I had the qualification. But I am of the world, Mary.... I return all your good wishes, think of you, and with much regard, more than, indeed, belongs to _a man of the world_! Still, let me be permitted to address thee.--O my dear Mrs. Leadbeater, this is so humble that I am afraid it is vain. Well! write soon, then, and believe me to be Most sincerely and affectionately yours. WILLIAM BLAKE 1757-1827 TO JOHN FLAXMAN _Friends 'from eternity'_ Felpham, 21 _Sept._ 1800. Sunday morning. DEAR SCULPTOR OF ETERNITY, We are safe arrived at our cottage, which is more beautiful than I thought it, and more convenient. It is a perfect model for cottages, and I think for palaces of magnificence, only enlarging not altering its proportions, and adding ornaments and not principles. Nothing can be more grand than its simplicity and usefulness. Simple without intricacy, it seems to be the spontaneous expression of humanity, congenial to the wants of man. No other formed house can ever please me so well, nor shall I ever be persuaded, I believe, that it can be improved either in beauty or use. Mr. Hayley received us with his usual brotherly affection. I have begun to work. Felpham is a sweet place for study, because it is more spiritual than London. Heaven opens here on all sides her golden gates: her windows are not obstructed by vapours; voices of celestial inhabitants are more distinctly heard, and their forms more distinctly seen; and my cottage is also a shadow of their houses. My wife and sister are both well, courting Neptune for an embrace. Our journey was very pleasant; and though we had a great deal of luggage, no grumbling. All was cheerfulness and good humour on the road, and yet we could not arrive at our cottage before half-past eleven at night, owing to the necessary shifting of our luggage from one chaise to another; for we had seven different chaises and as many different drivers. We set out between six and seven in the morning of Thursday, with sixteen heavy boxes and portfolios full of prints. And now begins a new life, because another covering of earth is shaken off. I am more famed in heaven for my works than I could well conceive. In my brain are studies and chambers filled with books and pictures of old, which I wrote and painted in ages of eternity before my mortal life; and those works are the delight and study of archangels. Why then should I be anxious about the riches or fame of mortality? The Lord our Father will do for us and with us according to His divine will, for our good. You, O dear Flaxman! are a sublime archangel,--my friend and companion from eternity. In the divine bosom is our dwelling-place. I look back into the regions of reminiscence, and behold our ancient days before this earth appeared in its vegetated mortality to my mortal vegetated eyes. I see our houses of eternity which can never be separated, though our mortal vehicles should stand at the remotest corners of heaven from each other. Farewell, my best friend! Remember me and my wife in love and friendship to our dear Mrs. Flaxman, whom we ardently desire to entertain beneath our thatched roof of rusted gold. TO THOMAS BUTTS _Trouble in the path_ Felpham, 10 _Jan._ 1802. Dear Sir, Your very kind and affectionate letter, and the many kind things you have said in it, called upon me for an immediate answer. But it found my wife and myself so ill, and my wife so very ill, that till now I have not been able to do this duty. The ague and rheumatism have been almost her constant enemies, which she has combated in vain almost ever since we have been here, and her sickness is always my sorrow, of course. But what you tell me about your sight afflicted me not a little, and that about your health, in another part of your letter, makes me entreat you to take due care of both. It is a part of our duty to God and man to take due care of His gifts; and though we ought not to think _more_ highly of ourselves, yet we ought to think _as_ highly of ourselves as immortals ought to think. When I came down here, I was more sanguine than I am at present; but it was because I was ignorant of many things which have since occurred, and chiefly the unhealthiness of the place. Yet I do not repent of coming on a thousand accounts; and Mr. Hayley, I doubt not, will do ultimately all that both he and I wish--that is, to lift me out of difficulty. But this is no easy matter to a man who, having spiritual enemies of such formidable magnitude, cannot expect to want natural hidden ones. Your approbation of my pictures is a multitude to me, and I doubt not that all your kind wishes in my behalf shall in due time be fulfilled. Your kind offer of pecuniary assistance I can only thank you for at present, because I have enough to serve my present purpose here. Our expenses are small, and our income, from our incessant labour, fully adequate to these at present. I am now engaged in engraving six small plates for a new edition of Mr. Hayley's _Triumphs of Temper_, from drawings by Maria Flaxman, sister to my friend the sculptor. And it seems that other things will follow in course, if I do but copy these well. But patience! If great things do not turn out, it is because such things depend on the spiritual and not on the natural world; and if it was fit for me, I doubt not that I should be employed in greater things; and when it is proper, my talents shall be properly exercised in public, as I hope they are now in private. For till then I leave no stone unturned, and no path unexplored that leads to improvement in my beloved arts. One thing of real consequence I have accomplished by coming into the country, which is to me consolation enough: namely, I have re-collected all my scattered thoughts on art, and resumed my primitive and original ways of execution in both painting and engraving, which in the confusion of London I had very much lost and obliterated from my mind. But whatever becomes of my labours, I would rather that they should be preserved in your greenhouse (not, as you mistakenly call it, dunghill) than in the cold gallery of fashion. The sun may yet shine, and then they will be brought into open air. But you have so generously and openly desired that I will divide my griefs with you that I cannot hide what it has now become my duty to explain. My unhappiness has arisen from a source which, if explored too narrowly, might hurt my pecuniary circumstances; as my dependence is on engraving at present, and particularly on the engravings I have in hand for Mr. Hayley, and I find on all hands great objections to my doing anything but the mere drudgery of business, and intimations that, if I do not confine myself to this, I shall not live. This has always pursued me. You will understand by this the source of all my uneasiness. This from Johnson and Fuseli brought me down here, and this from Mr. Hayley will bring me back again. For that I cannot live without doing my duty to lay up treasures in heaven is certain and determined, and to this I have long made up my mind. And why this should be made an objection to me, while drunkenness, lewdness, gluttony, and even idleness itself, does not hurt other men, let Satan himself explain. The thing I have most at heart--more than life, or all that seems to make life comfortable without--is the interest of true religion and science. And whenever anything appears to affect that interest (especially if I myself omit any duty to my station as a soldier of Christ), it gives me the greatest of torments. I am not ashamed, afraid, or averse to tell you what ought to be told--that I am under the direction of messengers from heaven, daily and nightly. But the nature of such things is not, as some suppose, without trouble or care. Temptations are on the right hand and on the left. Behind, the sea of time and space roars and follows swiftly. He who keeps not right onwards is lost; and if our footsteps slide in clay, how can we do otherwise than fear and tremble? But I should not have troubled you with this account of my spiritual state, unless it had been necessary in explaining the actual cause of my uneasiness, into which you are so kind as to inquire: for I never obtrude such things on others unless questioned, and then I never disguise the truth. But if we fear to do the dictates of our angels, and tremble at the tasks set before us; if we refuse to do spiritual acts because of natural fears or natural desires; who can describe the dismal torments of such a state!--I too well remember the threats I heard!--'If you, who are organized by Divine Providence for spiritual communion, refuse, and bury your talent in the earth, even though you should want natural bread,--sorrow and desperation pursue you through life, and after death shame and confusion of face to eternity. Every one in eternity will leave you, aghast at the man who was crowned with glory and honour by his brethren, and betrayed their cause to their enemies. You will be called the base Judas who betrayed his friend!'--Such words would make any stout man tremble, and how then could I be at ease? But I am now no longer in that state, and now go on again with my task, fearless though my path is difficult. I have no fear of stumbling while I keep it. My wife desires her kindest love to Mrs. Butts, and I have permitted her to send it to you also. We often wish that we could unite again in society, and hope that the time is not distant when we shall do so, being determined not to remain another winter here, but to return to London. I hear a Voice you cannot hear, that says I must not stay, I see a Hand you cannot see, that beckons me away. Naked we came here--naked of natural things--and naked we shall return: but while clothed with the Divine mercy, we are richly clothed in spiritual, and suffer all the rest gladly. Pray, give my love to Mrs. Butts and your family. PS. Your obliging proposal of exhibiting my two pictures likewise calls for my thanks; I will finish the others, and then we shall judge of the matter with certainty. To THE SAME _The wonderful poem_ (Felpham), 25 _April_, 1803. MY DEAR SIR, I write in haste, having received a pressing letter from my Brother. I intended to have sent the Picture of the _Riposo_, which is nearly finished much to my satisfaction, but not quite. You shall have it soon. I now send the four numbers for Mr. Birch with best respects to him. The reason the _Ballads_ have been suspended is the pressure of other business, but they will go on again soon. Accept of my thanks for your kind and heartening letter. You have faith in the endeavours of me, your weak brother and fellow-disciple; how great must be your faith in our Divine Master! You are to me a lesson of humility, while you exalt me by such distinguishing commendations. I know that you see certain merits in me, which, by God's grace, shall be made fully apparent and perfect in Eternity. In the meantime I must not bury the talents in the earth, but do my endeavour to live to the glory of our Lord and Saviour; and I am also grateful to the kind hand that endeavours to lift me out of despondency, even if it lifts me too high. And now, my dear Sir, congratulate me on my return to London with the full approbation of Mr. Hayley and with promise. But alas! now I may say to you--what perhaps I should not dare to say to anyone else--that I can alone carry on my visionary studies in London unannoyed, and that I may converse with my friends in Eternity, see visions, dream dreams, and prophesy and speak parables, unobserved, and at liberty from the doubts of other mortals: perhaps doubts proceeding from kindness; but doubts are always pernicious, especially when we doubt our friends. Christ is very decided on this point: 'He who is not with me is against me.' There is no medium or middle state; and if a man is the enemy of my spiritual life while he pretends to be the friend of my corporeal, he is a real enemy; but the man may be the friend of my spiritual life while he seems the enemy of my corporeal, though not vice versa. What is very pleasant, every one who hears of my going to London again applauds it as the only course for the interest of all concerned in my works; observing that I ought not to be away from the opportunities London affords of seeing fine pictures, and the various improvements in works of art going on in London. But none can know the spiritual acts of my three years' slumber on the banks of Ocean, unless he has seen them in the spirit, or unless he should read my long Poem descriptive of those acts; for I have in these years composed an immense number of verses on one grand theme, similar to Homer's _Iliad_ or Milton's _Paradise Lost_; the persons and machinery entirely new to the inhabitants of earth (some of the persons excepted). I have written this Poem from immediate dictation, twelve or sometimes twenty or thirty lines at a time, without premeditation, and even against my will. The time it has taken in writing was thus rendered nonexistent, and an immense Poem exists which seems to be the labour of a long life, all produced without labour or study. I mention this to show you what I think the grand reason of my being brought down here. I have a thousand and ten thousand things to say to you. My heart is full of futurity. I perceive that the sore travail which has been given me these three years leads to glory and honour. I rejoice and tremble: 'I am fearfully and wonderfully made.' I had been reading the CXXXIX Psalm a little before your letter arrived. I take your advice. I see the face of my Heavenly Father; He lays His hand upon my head, and gives a blessing to all my work. Why should I be troubled? Why should my heart and flesh cry out? I will go on in the strength of the Lord; through Hell will I sing forth His praises: that the dragons of the deep may praise Him, and that those who dwell in darkness, and in the sea coasts may be gathered into His Kingdom. Excuse my perhaps too great enthusiasm. Please to accept of and give our loves to Mrs. Butts and your amiable family, and believe me ever yours affectionately. TO THE SAME _The poet and William Hayley_ Felpham, 6 _July_, 1803. ... We look forward every day with pleasure toward our meeting again in London with those whom we have learned to value by absence no less perhaps than we did by presence; for recollection often surpasses everything. Indeed, the prospect of returning to our friends is supremely delightful. Then, I am determined that Mrs. Butts shall have a good likeness of you, if I have hands and eyes left; for I am become a likeness-taker, and succeed admirably well. But this is not to be achieved without the original sitting before you for every touch, all likenesses from memory being necessarily very, very defective; but Nature and Fancy are two things, and can never be joined, neither ought any one to attempt it, for it is idolatry, and destroys the Soul. I ought to tell you that Mr. H. is quite agreeable to our return, and that there is all the appearance in the world of our being fully employed in engraving for his projected works, particularly Cowper's _Milton_--a work now on foot by subscription, and I understand that the subscription goes on briskly. This work is to be a very elegant one, and to consist of all Milton's Poems with Cowper's Notes, and translations by Cowper from Milton's Latin and Italian poems. These works will be ornamented with engravings from designs by Romney, Flaxman, and your humble servant, and to be engraved also by the last-mentioned. The profits of the work are intended to be appropriated to erect a monument to the memory of Cowper in St. Paul's or Westminster Abbey. Such is the project; and Mr. Addington and Mr. Pitt are both among the subscribers, which are already numerous and of the first rank. The price of the work is six guineas. Thus I hope that all our three years' trouble ends in good-luck at last, and shall be forgot by my affections, and only remembered by my understanding, to be a memento in time to come, and to speak to future generations by a sublime allegory, which is now perfectly completed into a grand Poem. I may praise it, since I dare not pretend to be any other than the secretary; the authors are in Eternity. I consider it as the grandest Poem that this world contains. Allegory addressed to the intellectual powers, while it is altogether hidden from the corporeal understanding, is my definition of the most sublime Poetry. It is also somewhat in the same manner defined by Plato. This Poem shall, by Divine assistance, be progressively printed and ornamented with prints, and given to the public. But of this work I take care to say little to Mr. H., since he is as much averse to my Poetry as he is to a chapter in the Bible. He knows that I have writ it, for I have shown it to him, and he has read part by his own desire, and has looked with sufficient contempt to enhance my opinion of it. But I do not wish to imitate by seeming too obstinate in poetic pursuits. But if all the world should set their faces against this, I have orders to set my face like a flint (Ezek. iii. 8) against their faces, and my forehead against their foreheads. As to Mr. H., I feel myself at liberty to say as follows upon this ticklish subject. I regard fashion in Poetry as little as I do in Painting: so, if both Poets and Painters should alternately dislike (but I know the majority of them will not), I am not to regard it at all. But Mr. H. approves of my Designs as little as he does of my Poems, and I have been forced to insist on his leaving me, in both, to my own self-will; for I am determined to be no longer pestered with his genteel ignorance and polite disapprobation. I know myself both Poet and Painter, and it is not his affected contempt that can move to anything but a more assiduous pursuit of both arts. Indeed, by my late firmness, I have brought down his affected loftiness, and he begins to think I have some genius: as if genius and assurance were the same thing! But his imbecile attempts to depress me only deserve laughter. I say thus much to you, knowing that you will not make a bad use of it. But it is a fact too true that, if I had only depended on mortal things, both myself and my wife must have been lost. I shall leave every one in this country astonished at my patience and forbearance of injuries upon injuries; and I do assure you that, if I could have returned to London a month after my arrival here, I should have done so. But I was commanded by my spiritual friends to bear all and be silent, and to go through all without murmuring, and, in fine, to hope till my three years should be almost accomplished; at which time I was set at liberty to remonstrate against former conduct, and to demand justice and truth; which I have done in so effectual a manner that my antagonist is silenced completely, and I have compelled what should have been of freedom--my just right as an artist and as a man. And if any attempt should be made to refuse me this, I am inflexible, and will relinquish any engagement of designing at all, unless altogether left to my own judgement, as you, my dear friend, have always left me; for which I shall never cease to honour and respect you. When we meet, I will perfectly describe to you my conduct and the conduct of others towards me, and you will see that I have laboured hard indeed, and have been borne on angels' wings. Till we meet I beg of God our Saviour to be with you and me, and yours and mine. Pray give my and my wife's love to Mrs. Butts and family, and believe me to remain Yours in truth and sincerity. MARY LEADBEATER 1758-1826 TO EDMUND BURKE _Reply to his last letter_ 28 _May_, 1797. With a heart melted to overflowing, I cannot restrain the attempt to express my grateful sensations on receiving the greatest, and, alas! I fear, the last proof of that unvarying friendship with which our ever-loved, our ever-honoured friend has favoured us! I may transgress the bounds by intruding at this awful period; but I cannot help it. My affection and my sorrow will be excused, I believe, for thou hast ever looked kindly and partially upon me, and so has thy beloved wife, with whose feelings I sympathize, could that avail. This day's post brought me thy letter of the 23rd instant, dictated and signed by thee. Such attention, at such a time, and in such a situation! It was like Edmund Burke! It was like few others, but it is not bestowed upon hearts who do not feel it.--I look back on that friendship formed in the precious days of innocent childhood, between thee and my lamented parent.--I trace its progress, which is so imprinted on my mind, that I almost seem to myself to have been a witness to it.--I see it continue unabated, notwithstanding the different sphere of life in which you moved, to the period of it;--and may we not hope that there is an union of souls beyond the grave? The composure and fortitude displayed in thy letter, is the greatest consolation we could receive with the tidings it conveyed of thy health. Since thou dost not allow us to hope for its restoration, we will hope better things than is in the power of this world to bestow.--My mother appears to decline, and looks to the end of her race as near. All the other branches of this family, I believe, are well in health. My brother continues the school, which, I believe, was never in higher estimation than at present. My husband regrets very much that he never shared with us the pleasure of a personal acquaintance with thee. We all unite in cordial, unaffected love to thee. I thought I would say how we were, believing thou would be pleased to hear of our welfare, though how long that may be continued, seems doubtful.--The general fermentation throughout this nation, forebodes some sudden and dreadful eruption, and, however obscure or retired our situations may be, there is little prospect of escaping the calamity. This may cause us to admire, nay, adore the mercy, as well as wisdom of Him, who gives and takes life, in removing those so dear to us from the evil to come. My mother desires thou may accept as much love as she is capable of sending thee; her heart is full of it towards thee; and she bids me say, she hopes thou hast lived such a life, that thy end will be crowned with peace! So be it, with my whole heart! Thy affectionate and obliged friend. Our best wishes, and dear love to thy wife. Abraham Shackleton has the melancholy satisfaction of perusing dear Edmund Burke's account of his poor state of health. He hopes (trusts) that a quiet resting place is prepared for him. The memory of E. Burke's philanthropic virtues will out-live the period when his shining political talents will cease to act. New fashions of political sentiment will exist; but philanthropy,--_immortale manet!_ TO GEORGE CRABBE _She writes to remind him_ Ballitore, 7th of Eleventh-month, 1816. I believe it will surprise George Crabbe to receive a letter from an entire stranger, whom most probably he does not remember to have ever seen or heard of, but who cannot forget having met him at the house of Edmund Burke, Charles Street, James's Square, in the year 1784. I was brought thither by my father, Richard Shackleton, the friend from their childhood of Edmund Burke. My dear father told thee that Goldsmith's would now be the _deserted village_; perhaps thou dost not remember this compliment, but I remember the ingenuous modesty which disclaimed it. He admired '_The Village', 'The Library_,' and '_The Newspaper_' exceedingly, and the delight with which he read them to his family could not but be acceptable to the author, had he known the sound judgement and the exquisite taste which that excellent man possessed. But he saw no more of the productions of the Muse he admired; whose originality was not the least charm. He is dead--the friend whom he loved and honoured, and to whose character thou dost so much justice in the preface to '_The Parish_ _Register_', is also gone to the house appointed for all living. A splendid constellation of poets arose in the literary horizon; I looked around for Crabbe. Why does not he, who shines as brightly as any of these, add his lustre? I had not long thought thus when, in an Edinburgh Review, I met with reflections similar to my own, which introduced '_The Parish Register_'. Oh, it was like the voice of a long-lost friend, and glad was I to hear that voice again in '_The Borough_'!--still more in '_The Tales_,' which appear to me excelling all that preceded them! Every work is so much in unison with our own feelings, that a wish for information concerning them and their author is strongly excited. One of our friends, Dykes Alexander, who was in Ballitore in 1810, I think, said he was personally acquainted with thee, and spoke highly of thy character. I regretted I had not an opportunity of conversing with him on this subject, as perhaps he would have been able to decide arguments which have arisen; namely, whether we owe to truth or to fiction that 'ever new delight' which thy poetry affords us. The characters, however singular some of them may be, are never unnatural, and thy sentiments so true to domestic and social feelings, as well as to those of a higher nature, have the convincing power of reality over the mind, and _I_ maintain that all thy pictures _are drawn from life_. To inquire whether this be the case is the excuse which I make to myself for writing this letter. I wish the excuse may be accepted by thee, for I greatly fear I have taken an unwarrantable liberty in making the inquiry. Though advanced in life, yet from an education of peculiar simplicity, and from never having been long absent from my retired native village, I am too little acquainted with decorum. If I have now transgressed the rules it prescribes, I appeal to the candour and liberality of thy mind to forgive a fault caused by a strong enthusiasm. PS. Ballitore is the village in which Edmund Burke was educated by Abraham Shackleton, whose pupil he became in 1741, and from whose school he entered the college of Dublin in 1744. The school is still flourishing. ROBERT BURNS 1759-1796 TO MISS CHALMERS _Marriage with Jean_ Ellisland, near Dumfries, 16 _Sept_. 1788. Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady M'Kenzie recovering her health? for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not think you have forgot me, Madam; and for my part-- When thee, Jerusalem, I forget, Skill part from my right hand! 'My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea.' I do not make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows--rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or impression, except where they hit in hostile collision. I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather; and as you and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much _à l'égard de moi_, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness.--I can truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two, whose esteem flattered the nobler feelings of my soul--I will not say, more, but so much as Lady M'Kenzie and Miss Chalmers. When I think of you--hearts the best, minds the noblest, of human kind--unfortunate, even in the shades of life--when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of real life with you in eight days, than I can do with almost any body I meet with in eight years--when I think on the improbability of meeting you in this world again--I could sit down and cry like a child!--If ever you honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more desert.--I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, alas! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the noblest souls; and a late, important step in my life has kindly taken me out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however overlooked in fashionable license, or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but lighter and deeper shades of VILLAINY. Shortly after my last return to Ayrshire, I married 'my Jean'. This was not in consequence of the attachment of romance perhaps; but I had a long and much-loved fellow creature's happiness or misery in my determination, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform curse of boarding-school affectation; and I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the county. Mrs. Burns believes, as firmly as her creed, that I am _le plus bel esprit, et le plus honnête homme_ in the universe; although she scarcely ever in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament, and the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together on either prose or verse. I must except also from this last, a certain late publication of Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly; and all the ballads in the country, as she has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest 'wood-note wild' I ever heard.--I am the more particular in this lady's character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house; for this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every blast that blows, and every shower that falls; and I am only preserved from being chilled to death, by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect, but I believe, in time, it may be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid aside idle _éclat_, and bind every day after my reapers. To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in a losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my excise instructions, and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If I could set _all_ before your view, whatever disrespect you in common with the world, have for this business, I know you would approve of my idea. I will make no apology, dear Madam, for this egotistic detail: I know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of greatness! When fellow partakers of the same nature fear the same God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, the same detestation at every thing dishonest, and the same scorn at every thing unworthy--if they are not in the dependance of absolute beggary, in the name of common sense are they not EQUALS? And if the bias, the instinctive bias of their souls run the same way, why may they not be FRIENDS?... TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE _A gauger_ Ellisland, 1 _Nov_. 1789. MY DEAR FRIEND, I had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to find you, for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but deliver you from evil! I do not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents and purposes an officer of excise; there to flourish and bring forth fruits--worthy of repentance. I know not how the word exciseman, or still more opprobrious, gauger, will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day when my auditory nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject; but a wife and children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these kind of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a _poet_. For the ignominy of the profession, I have the encouragement which I once heard a recruiting sergeant give to a numerous, if not a respectable audience, in the streets of Kilmarnock.--'Gentlemen, for your further and better encouragement, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps under the crown, and consequently with us an honest fellow has the surest chance for preferment.' You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagreeable circumstances in my business; but I am tired with and disgusted at the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence in the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its inconveniences and ills; capricious foolish man mistakes these inconveniences and ills as if they were the peculiar property of his particular situation; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which has ruined, and daily does ruin many a fine fellow, as well as many a blockhead; and is, almost without exception, a constant source of disappointment and misery.... TO FRANCIS GROSE _Witch tales_ Dumfries, 1792. Among the many witch stories I have heard relating to Alloway Kirk, I distinctly remember only two or three. Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls of wind and bitter blasts of hail--in short, on such a night as the devil would choose to take the air in--a farmer, or farmer's servant, was plodding and plashing homeward, with his plough irons on his shoulder, having been getting some repairs on them at a neighbouring smithy. His way lay by the Kirk of Alloway, and being rather on the anxious look-out in approaching a place so well known to be a favourite haunt of the devil and the devil's friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by discovering through the horrors of the storm and stormy night a light, which, on his nearer approach, plainly showed itself to proceed from the haunted edifice. Whether he had been fortified from above, on his devout supplication, as is customary with people when they suspect the immediate presence of Satan; or whether, according to another custom, he had got courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not pretend to determine; but so it was that he ventured to go up to, nay, into, the very kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came off unpunished. The members of the infernal junto were all out on some midnight business or other, and he saw nothing but a kind of kettle or cauldron, depending from the roof over the fire, simmering some heads of unchristened children, limbs of executed malefactors, &c., for the business of the night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, with the honest ploughman; so, without ceremony, he unhooked the cauldron from off the fire, and pouring out the damnable ingredients, inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly home, where it remained long in the family, a living evidence of the truth of the story. Another story, which I can prove to be equally authentic, was as follows: On a market day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay by the very gate of Alloway Kirkyard, in order to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which is about two or three hundred yards further on than the said gate, had been detained by his business, till by the time he reached Alloway it was the wizard hour between night and morning. Though he was terrified with a blaze streaming from the kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact that to turn back on these occasions is running by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently advanced on his road. When he had reached the gate of the kirkyard he was surprised and entertained through the ribs and arches of an old Gothic window which still faces the highway, to see a dance of witches, merrily footing it round their old sooty blackguard master, who was keeping them all alive with the power of his bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to observe them a little, could plainly descry the faces of many old women of his acquaintance and neighbourhood. How the gentleman was dressed tradition does not say, but that the ladies were all in their smocks; and one of them, happening unluckily to have a smock which was considerably too short to answer all the purposes of that piece of dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involuntarily burst out with a loud laugh: 'Weel luppen, Maggy wi' the short sark!' and recollecting himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of his speed. I need not mention the universally known fact, that no diabolical power can pursue you beyond the middle of a running stream. Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river Doon was so near, for, notwithstanding the speed of his horse, which was a good one, against he reached the middle of the arch of the bridge, and consequently the middle of the stream, the pursuing vengeful hags were so close at his heels, that one of them actually sprang to seize him; but it was too late, nothing was on her side of the stream but the horse's tail, which immediately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was beyond her reach. However, the unsightly tailless condition of the vigorous steed was, to the last hour of the noble creature's life, an awful warning to the Carrick farmer not to stay too late in Ayr markets. The last relation I shall give you, though equally true, is not so well identified as the two former, with regard to the scene; but as the best authorities give it for Alloway, I shall relate it. On a summer's evening, about the time that nature puts on her sables to mourn the expiry of the cheerful day, a shepherd boy, belonging to a farmer in the immediate neighbourhood of Alloway Kirk, had just folded his charge and was returning home. As he passed the kirk, in the adjoining field, he fell in with a crew of men and women, who were busy pulling stems of the plant ragwort. He observed that as each person pulled a ragwort, he or she got astride of it, and called out, 'Up, horsie', on which the ragwort flew off, like Pegasus, through the air, with its rider. The foolish boy likewise pulled his ragwort and cried with the rest, 'Up, horsie', and, strange to tell, away he flew with the company. The first stage at which the cavalcade stopped was a merchant's wine-cellar in Bordeaux, where, without saying by your leave, they quaffed away at the best the cellar could afford, until the morning, foe to the imps and works of darkness, threatened to throw light on the matter, and frightened them from their carousals. The poor shepherd lad, being equally a stranger to the scene and the liquor, heedlessly got himself drunk; and when the rest took horse he fell asleep, and was found so next day by some of the people belonging to the merchant. Somebody that understood Scotch, asking him what he was, he said he was such-a-one's herd in Alloway, and by some means or other getting home again, he lived long to tell the world the wondrous tale. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 1770-1850 TO SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT _A brother's character_ Grasmere, 20 _Feb_. 1805. Having spoken of worldly affairs, let me again mention my beloved brother. It is now just five years since, after a separation of fourteen years (I may call it a separation, for we only saw him four or five times, and by glimpses), he came to visit his sister and me in this cottage, and passed eight blessed months with us. He was then waiting for the command of the ship to which he was appointed when he quitted us. As you will have seen, we had little to live upon, and he as little (Lord Lonsdale being then alive). But he encouraged me to persist, and to keep my eye steady on its object. He would work for me (that was his language), for me and his sister; and I was to endeavour to do something for the world. He went to sea, as commander, with this hope; his voyage was very unsuccessful, he having lost by it considerably. When he came home, we chanced to be in London, and saw him. 'Oh!' said he, 'I have thought of you, and nothing but you; if ever of myself, and my bad success, it was only on your account.' He went again to sea a second time, and also was unsuccessful; still with the same hopes on our account, though then not so necessary, Lord Lowther having paid the money. Lastly came the lamentable voyage, which he entered upon, full of expectation, and love to his sister and myself, and my wife, whom, indeed, he loved with all a brother's tenderness. This is the end of his part of the agreement--of his efforts for my welfare! God grant me life and strength to fulfil mine! I shall never forget him--never lose sight of him: there is a bond between us yet, the same as if he were living, nay, far more sacred, calling upon me to do my utmost, as he to the last did his utmost to live in honour and worthiness. Some of the newspapers carelessly asserted that he did not wish to survive his ship. This is false. He was heard by one of the surviving officers giving orders, with all possible calmness, a very little before the ship went down; and when he could remain at his post no longer, then, and not till then, he attempted to save himself. I knew this would be so, but it was satisfactory for me to have it confirmed by external evidence. Do not think our grief unreasonable. Of all human beings whom I ever knew, he was the man of the most rational desires, the most sedate habits, and the most perfect self-command. He was modest and gentle, and shy even to disease; but this was wearing off. In everything his judgements were sound and original; his taste in all the arts, music and poetry in particular (for these he, of course, had had the best opportunities of being familiar with), was exquisite; and his eye for the beauties of nature was as fine and delicate as ever poet or painter was gifted with, in some discriminations, owing to his education and way of life, far superior to any person's I ever knew. But, alas! what avails it? It was the will of God that he should be taken away.... I trust in God that I shall not want fortitude; but my loss is great and irreparable.... TO WALTER SCOTT _Dryden_ Patterdale, 7 _Nov_. 1805. MY DEAR SCOTT, I was much pleased to hear of your engagement with Dryden: not that he is, as a poet, any great favourite of mine: I admire his talents and genius highly, but his is not a poetical genius. The only qualities I can find in Dryden that are _essentially_ poetical, are a certain ardour and impetuosity of mind, with an excellent ear. It may seem strange that I do not add to this, great command of language: _that_ he certainly has, and of such language too, as it is most desirable that a poet should possess, or rather that he should not be without. But it is not language that is, in the highest sense of the word, poetical, being neither of the imagination nor of the passions; I mean the amiable, the ennobling, or the intense passions. I do not mean to say that there is nothing of this in Dryden, but as little, I think, as is possible, considering how much he has written. You will easily understand my meaning, when I refer to his versification of _Palamon and Arcite_, as contrasted with the language of Chaucer. Dryden had neither a tender heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity. Whenever his language is poetically impassioned, it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects, such as the follies, vices, and crimes of classes of men or of individuals, That his cannot be the language of imagination, must have necessarily followed from this,--that there is not a single image from nature in the whole body of his works; and in his translation from Virgil, wherever Virgil can be fairly said to have had his _eye_ upon his object, Dryden always spoils the passage. But too much of this; I am glad that you are to be his editor. His political and satirical pieces may be greatly benefited by illustration, and even absolutely require it. A correct text is the first object of an editor, then such notes as explain difficult or obscure passages; and lastly, which is much less important, notes pointing out authors to whom the poet has been indebted, not in the fiddling way of phrase here and phrase there, (which is detestable as a general practice), but where he has had essential obligations either as to matter or manner. If I can be of any use to you, do not fail to apply to me. One thing I may take the liberty to suggest, which is, when you come to the fables, might it not be advisable to print the whole of the Tales of Boccace in a smaller type in the original language? If this should look too much like swelling a book, I should certainly make such extracts as would show where Dryden has most strikingly improved upon, or fallen below, his original. I think his translations from Boccace are the best, at least the most poetical, of his poems. It is many years since I saw Boccace, but I remember that Sigismunda is not married by him to Guiscard (the names are different in Boccace in both tales, I believe--certainly in Theodore, &c.). I think Dryden has much injured the story by the marriage, and degraded Sigismunda's character by it. He has also, to the best of my remembrance, degraded her still more, by making her love absolute sensuality and appetite; Dryden had no other notion of the passion. With all these defects, and they are very gross ones, it is a noble poem. Guiscard's answer, when first reproached by Tancred, is noble in Boccace--nothing but this: _Amor può molto più che ne voi ne io possiamo_. This, Dryden has spoiled. He says first very well, 'the faults of love by love are justified,' and then come four lines of miserable rant, quite _à la Maximin_. TO LADY BEAUMONT _The destiny of his poems_ Coleorton, 21 _May_, 1807. MY DEAR LADY BEAUMONT, Though I am to see you so soon, I cannot but write a word or two, to thank you for the interest you take in my poems, as evinced by your solicitude about their immediate reception. I write partly to thank you for this, and to express the pleasure it has given me, and partly to remove any uneasiness from your mind which the disappointments you sometimes meet with, in this labour of love, may occasion. I see that you have many battles to fight for me--more than, in the ardour and confidence of your pure and elevated mind, you had ever thought of being summoned to; but be assured that this opposition is nothing more than what I distinctly foresaw that you and my other friends would have to encounter. I say this, not to give myself credit for an eye of prophecy, but to allay any vexatious thoughts on my account which this opposition may have produced in you. It is impossible that any expectations can be lower than mine concerning the immediate effect of this little work upon what is called the public. I do not here take into consideration the envy and malevolence, and all the bad passions which always stand in the way of a work of any merit from a living poet; but merely think of the pure, absolute, honest ignorance in which all worldlings of every rank and situation must be enveloped, with respect to the thoughts, feelings and images on which the life of my poems depends. The things which I have taken, whether from within or without, what have they to do with routs, dinners, morning calls, hurry from door to door, from street to street, on foot or in carriage; with Mr. Pitt or Mr. Fox, Mr. Paul or Sir Francis Burdett, the Westminster election or the borough of Honiton? In a word--for I cannot stop to make my way through the hurry of images that present themselves to me--what have they to do with the endless talking about things nobody cares anything for except as far as their own vanity is concerned, and this with persons they care nothing for but as their vanity or _selfishness_ is concerned?--what have they to do (to say all at once) with a life without love? In such a life there can be no thought; for we have no thought (save thoughts of pain) but as far as we have love and admiration. It is an awful truth, that there neither is, nor can be, any genuine enjoyment of poetry among nineteen out of twenty of those persons who live, or wish to live, in the broad light of the world--among those who either are, or are striving to make themselves, people of consideration in society. This is a truth, and an awful one, because to be incapable of a feeling of poetry, in my sense of the word, is to be without love of human nature and reverence for God. Upon this I shall insist elsewhere; at present let me confine myself to my object; which is to make you, my dear friend, as easy-hearted as myself with respect to these poems. Trouble not yourself upon their present reception; of what moment is that compared with what I trust is their destiny?--to console the afflicted; to add sunshine to daylight, by making the happy happier; to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, and feel, and therefore, to become more actively and securely virtuous; this is their office, which I trust they will faithfully perform, long after we (that is, all that is mortal of us) are mouldered in our graves. I am well aware how far it would seem to many I overrate my own exertions, when I speak in this way, in direct connexion with the volume I have just made public. I am not, however, afraid of such censure, insignificant as probably the majority of those poems would appear to very respectable persons. I do not mean London wits and witlings, for these have too many foul passions about them to be respectable, even if they had more intellect than the benign laws of Providence will allow to such a heartless existence as theirs is; but grave, kindly-natured, worthy persons, who would be pleased if they could. I hope that these volumes are not without some recommendations, even for readers of this class: but their imagination has slept; and the voice which is the voice of my poetry, without imagination, cannot be heard.... My letter (as this second sheet, which I am obliged to take, admonishes me) is growing to an enormous length; and yet, saving that I have expressed my calm confidence that these poems will live, I have said nothing which has a particular application to the object of it, which was to remove all disquiet from your mind on account of the condemnation they may at present incur from that portion of my contemporaries who are called the public. I am sure, my dear Lady Beaumont, if you attach any importance to it, it can only be from an apprehension that it may affect me, upon which I have already set you at ease; or from a fear that this present blame is ominous of their future or final destiny. If this be the case, your tenderness for me betrays you. Be assured that the decision of these persons has nothing to do with the question; they are altogether incompetent judges. These people, in the senseless hurry of their idle lives, do not _read_ books, they merely snatch a glance at them, that they may talk about them. And even if this were not so, never forget what, I believe, was observed to you by Coleridge, that every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great or original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished; he must teach the art by which he is to be seen; this, in a certain degree, even to all persons, however wise and pure may be their lives, and however unvitiated their taste. But for those who dip into books in order to give an opinion of them, or talk about them to take up an opinion--for this multitude of unhappy and misguided, and misguiding beings, an entire regeneration must be produced; and if this be possible, it must be a work of time. To conclude, my ears are stone-dead to this idle buzz, and my flesh as insensible as iron to these petty stings; and after what I have said, I am sure yours will be the same. I doubt not that you will share with me an invincible confidence that my writings (and among them these little poems) will co-operate with the benign tendencies in human nature and society, wherever found; and that they will in their degree be efficacious in making men wiser, better, and happier. Farewell. I will not apologize for this letter, though its length demands an apology.... TO SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT _The language of poetry_ [c. 1807.] MY DEAR SIR GEORGE, I am quite delighted to hear of your picture for _Peter Bell_; I was much pleased with the sketch, and I have no doubt that the picture will surpass it as far as a picture ought to do. I long much to see it. I should approve of any engraver approved by you. But remember that no poem of mine will ever be popular; and I am afraid that the sale of _Peter_ would not carry the expense of the engraving, and that the poem, in the estimation of the public, would be a weight upon the print. I say not this in modest disparagement of the poem, but in sorrow for the sickly taste of the public in verse. The _people_ would love the poem of _Peter Bell_, but the _public_ (a very different being) will never love it. Thanks for dear Lady B.'s transcript from your friend's letter; it is written with candour, but I must say a word or two not in praise of it. 'Instances of what I mean,' says your friend, 'are to be found in a poem on a Daisy' (by the by, it is on _the_ Daisy, a mighty difference!) 'and on _Daffodils reflected in the Water_'. Is this accurately transcribed by Lady Beaumont? If it be, what shall we think of criticism or judgement founded upon, and exemplified by, a poem which must have been so inattentively perused? My language is precise; and, therefore, it would be false modesty to charge myself with blame. Beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the _breeze_. The _waves beside_ them danced, but they Outdid the _sparkling waves_ in glee. Can expression be more distinct? And let me ask your friend how it is possible for flowers to be _reflected_ in water when there are _waves_? They may, indeed, in _still_ water; but the very object of my poem is the trouble or agitation, both of the flowers and the water. I must needs respect the understanding of every one honoured by your friendship; but sincerity compels me to say that my poems must be more nearly looked at, before they can give rise to any remarks of much value, even from the strongest minds. With respect to this individual poem, Lady B. will recollect how Mrs. Fermor expressed herself upon it. A letter also was sent to me, addressed to a friend of mine, and by him communicated to me, in which this identical poem was singled out for fervent approbation. What then shall we say? Why, let the poet first consult his own heart, as I have done, and leave the rest to posterity--to, I hope, an improving posterity. The fact is, the English _public_ are at this moment in the same state of mind with respect to my poems, if small things may be compared with great, as the French are in respect to Shakespeare, and not the French alone, but almost the whole Continent. In short, in your friend's letter, I am condemned for the very thing for which I ought to have been praised, viz., that I have not written down to the level of superficial observers and unthinking minds. Every great poet is a teacher: I wish either to be considered as a teacher, or as nothing.... SIR WALTER SCOTT 1771-1832 TO HIS MOTHER _Marriage with Miss Carpenter_ [1797.] MY DEAR MOTHER, I should very ill deserve the care and affection with which you have ever regarded me, were I to neglect my duty so far as to omit consulting my father and you in the most important step which I can possibly take in life, and upon the success of which my future happiness must depend. It is with pleasure I think that I can avail myself of your advice and instructions in an affair of so great importance as that which I have at present on my hands. You will probably guess from this preamble, that I am engaged in a matrimonial plan, which is really the case. Though my acquaintance with the young lady has not been of long standing, this circumstance is in some degree counterbalanced by the intimacy in which we have lived, and by the opportunities which that intimacy has afforded me of remarking her conduct and sentiments on many different occasions, some of which were rather of a delicate nature, so that in fact I have seen more of her during the few weeks we have been together, than I could have done after a much longer acquaintance, shackled by the common forms of ordinary life. You will not expect from me a description of her person,--for which I refer you to my brother, as also for a fuller account of all the circumstances attending the business than can be comprised in the compass of a letter. Without flying into raptures, for I must assure you that my judgement as well as my affections are consulted upon this occasion; without flying into raptures then, I may safely assure you, that her temper is sweet and cheerful, her understanding good, and what I know will give you pleasure, her principles of religion very serious. I have been very explicit with her upon the nature of my expectations, and she thinks she can accommodate herself to the situation which I should wish her to hold in society as my wife, which, you will easily comprehend, I mean should neither be extravagant nor degrading. Her fortune, though partly dependent upon her brother, who is high in office at Madras, is very considerable--at present £500 a-year. This, however, we must, in some degree, regard as precarious,--I mean to the full extent; and indeed when you know her you will not be surprised that I regard this circumstance chiefly because it removes those prudential considerations which would otherwise render our union impossible for the present. Betwixt her income and my own professional exertions, I have little doubt we will be enabled to hold the rank in society which my family and situation entitle me to fill. My dear Mother, I cannot express to you the anxiety I have that you will not think me flighty nor inconsiderate in this business. Believe me, that experience, in one instance--you cannot fail to know to what I allude--is too recent to permit my being so hasty in my conclusions as the warmth of my temper might have otherwise prompted. I am also most anxious that you should be prepared to show her kindness, which I know the goodness of your own heart will prompt, more especially when I tell you that she is an orphan, without relations, and almost without friends. Her guardian is, I should say _was_, for she is of age, Lord Downshire, to whom I must write for his consent, a piece of respect to which he is entitled for his care of her--and there the matter rests at present. I think I need not tell you that if I assume the new character which I threaten, I shall be happy to find that in that capacity, I may make myself more useful to my brothers, and especially to Anne, than I could in any other. On the other hand, I shall certainly expect that my friends will endeavour to show every attention in their power to a woman who forsakes for me, prospects much more splendid than what I can offer, and who comes into Scotland without a single friend but myself. I find I could write a great deal more upon this subject, but as it is late, and as I must write to my father, I shall restrain myself. I think (but you are the best judge) that in the circumstances in which I stand, you should write to her, Miss Carpenter, under cover to me at Carlisle. Write to me very fully upon this important subject--send me your opinion, your advice, and above all, your blessing; you will see the necessity of not delaying a minute in doing so, and in keeping this business _strictly private_, till you hear farther from me, since you are not ignorant that even at this advanced period, an objection on the part of Lord Downshire, or many other accidents, may intervene; in which case, I should little wish my disappointment to be public. TO MISS SEWARD _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_ Edinburgh, 21 _March_, 1805. MY DEAR MISS SEWARD, I am truly happy that you found any amusement in the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_. It has great faults, of which no one can be more sensible than I am myself. Above all, it is deficient in that sort of continuity which a story ought to have, and which, were it to write again, I would endeavour to give it. But I began and wandered forward, like one in a pleasant country, getting to the top of one hill to see a prospect, and to the bottom of another to enjoy a shade, and what wonder if my course has been devious and desultory, and many of my excursions altogether unprofitable to the advance of my journey. The Dwarf Page is also an excrescence, and I plead guilty to all the censures concerning him. The truth is, he has a history, and it is this: The story of Gilpin Horner was told by an old gentleman to Lady Dalkeith, and she, much diverted with his actually believing so grotesque a tale, insisted that I should make it into a Border ballad. I don't know if you ever saw my lovely chieftainess--if you have, you must be aware that it is _impossible_ for any one to refuse her request, as she has more of the angel in face and temper than any one alive; so that if she had asked me to write a ballad on a broomstick I must have attempted it. I began a few verses, to be called the Goblin Page; and they lay long by me, till the applause of some friends whose judgement I valued induced me to resume the poem; so on I wrote, knowing no more than the man in the moon how I was to end. At length the story appeared so uncouth, that I was fain to put it into the mouth of my old minstrel--lest the nature of it should be misunderstood, and I should be suspected of setting up a new school of poetry, instead of a feeble attempt to imitate the old. In the process of romance the page, intended to be a principal person in the work, contrived (from the baseness of his natural propensities, I suppose) to slink downstairs into the kitchen, and now he must e'en abide there. I mention these circumstances to you, and to any one whose applause I value, because I am unwilling you should suspect me of trifling with the public in _malice prepense_. As to the herd of critics, it is impossible for me to pay much attention to them; for, as they do not understand what I call poetry, we talk in a foreign language to each other. Indeed, many of these gentlemen appear to me to be a sort of tinkers, who, unable to _make_ pots and pans, set up for _menders_ of them, and, God knows, often make two holes in patching one. The sixth canto is altogether redundant; for the poem should certainly have closed with the union of the lovers, when the interest, if any, was at an end. But what could I do? I had my book and my page still on my hands, and must get rid of them at all events. Manage them as I would, their catastrophe must have been insufficient to occupy an entire canto; so I was fain to eke it out with the songs of the minstrels. I will now descend from the confessional, which I think I have occupied long enough for the patience of my fair confessor. I am happy you are disposed to give me absolution, notwithstanding all my sins. We have a new poet come forth amongst us--James Graham, author of a poem called _The Sabbath_, which I admire very much. If I can find an opportunity I will send you a copy. TO LADY LOUISA STUART _An amiable blue-stocking_ Edinburgh, 16 _June_, 1808. MY DEAR LADY LOUISA, Nothing will give us more pleasure than to have the honour of showing every attention in our power to Mr. and Mrs. Morritt, and I am particularly happy in a circumstance that at once promises me a great deal of pleasure in the acquaintance of your Ladyship's friends, and affords me the satisfaction of hearing from you again. Pray don't triumph over me too much in the case of Lydia. I stood a very respectable siege; but she caressed my wife, coaxed my children, and made, by dint of cake and pudding, some impression even upon the affections of my favourite dog: so, when all the outworks were carried, the mere fortress had no choice but to surrender on honourable terms. To the best of my thinking, notwithstanding the cerulean hue of her stockings, and a most plentiful stock of eccentric affectation, she is really at bottom a good-natured woman, with much liveliness and some talent. She is now set out to the Highlands, where she is likely to encounter many adventures. Mrs. Scott and I went as far as Loch Catrine with her, from which jaunt I have just returned. We had most heavenly weather, which was peculiarly favourable to my fair companions' zeal for sketching every object that fell in their way, from a castle to a pigeon-house. Did your Ladyship ever travel with a _drawing_ companion? Mine drew like cart-horses, as well in laborious zeal as in effect; for, after all, I could not help hinting that the cataracts delineated bore a singular resemblance to haycocks, and the rocks much correspondence to large old-fashioned cabinets with their folding-doors open. So much for Lydia, whom I left on her journey through the Highlands, but by what route she had not resolved. I gave her three plans, and think it likely she will adopt none of them: moreover, when the executive government of postilions, landlords, and Highland boatmen devolves upon her English servant instead of me, I am afraid the distresses of the errant damsels will fall a little beneath the dignity of romances. All this nonsense is _entre nous_, for Miss White has been actively zealous in getting me some Irish correspondence about Swift, and otherwise very obliging. It is not with my inclination that I fag for the booksellers; but what can I do? My poverty and not my will consents. The income of my office is only reversionary, and my private fortune much limited. My poetical success fairly destroyed my prospects of professional success, and obliged me to retire from the bar; for though I had a competent share of information and industry, who would trust their cause to the author of the _Lay of the Last Minstrel_? Now, although I do allow that an author should take care of his literary character, yet I think the least thing that his literary character can do in return is to take some care of the author, who is unfortunately, like Jeremy in _Love for Love_, furnished with a set of tastes and appetites which would do honour to the income of a Duke if he had it. Besides, I go to work with Swift _con amore_; for, like Dryden, he is an early favourite of mine. The _Marmion_ is nearly out, and I have made one or two alterations on the third edition, with which the press is now groaning. So soon as it is, it will make the number of copies published within the space of six months amount to eight thousand,--an immense number, surely, and enough to comfort the author's wounded feelings, had the claws of the reviewers been able to reach him through the _steel jack_ of true Border indifference. TO ROBERT SOUTHEY _Congratulations_ Edinburgh, 13 _Nov._ 1813. I do not delay, my dear Southey, to say my _gratulor_. Long may you live, as Paddy says, to rule over us, and to redeem the crown of Spenser and of Dryden to its pristine dignity. I am only discontented with the extent of your royal revenue, which I thought had been £400, or £300 at the very least. Is there no getting rid of that iniquitous modus, and requiring the _butt_ in kind? I would have you think of it: I know no man so well entitled to Xeres sack as yourself, though many bards would make a better figure at drinking it. I should think that in due time a memorial might get some relief in this part of the appointment--it should be at least £100 wet and £100 dry. When you have carried your point of discarding the ode, and my point of getting the sack, you will be exactly in the situation of Davy in the farce, who stipulates for more wages, less work, and the key of the ale-cellar. I was greatly delighted with the circumstances of your investiture. It reminded me of the porters at Calais with Dr. Smollett's baggage, six of them seizing upon one small portmanteau, and bearing it in triumph to his lodgings. You see what it is to laugh at the superstitions of a gentleman-usher, as I think you do somewhere. 'The whirligig of Time brings about his revenges.' Adieu, my dear Southey; my best wishes attend all that you do, and my best congratulations every good that attends you--yea even this, the very least of Providence's mercies, as a poor clergyman said when pronouncing grace over a herring. I should like to know how the prince received you; his address is said to be excellent, and his knowledge of literature far from despicable. What a change of fortune even since the short time when we met! The great work of retribution is now rolling onward to consummation, yet am I not fully satisfied--_pereat iste_--there will be no permanent peace in Europe till Buonaparte sleeps with the tyrants of old. TO J.B.S. MORRITT _A small anonymous sort of a novel_ Edinburgh, 9 _July_, 1814. MY DEAR MORRITT, I owe you many apologies for not sooner answering your very entertaining letter upon your Parisian journey. I heartily wish I had been of your party, for you have seen what I trust will not be seen again in a hurry; since, to enjoy the delight of a restoration, there is a necessity for a previous _bouleversement_ of everything that is valuable in morals and policy which seems to have been the case in France since 1790. The Duke of Buccleugh told me yesterday of a very good reply of Louis to some of his attendants, who proposed shutting the doors of his apartments to keep out the throng of people. 'Open the door,' he said, 'to John Bull; he has suffered a great deal in keeping the door open for me.' Now, to go from one important subject to another, I must account for my own laziness, which I do by referring you to a small anonymous sort of a novel, in three volumes, _Waverley_, which you will receive by the mail of this day. It was a very old attempt of mine to embody some traits of those characters and manners peculiar to Scotland, the last remnants of which vanished during my own youth, so that few or no traces now remain. I had written great part of the first volume, and sketched other passages, when I mislaid the MS., and only found it by the merest accident as I was rummaging the drawers of an old cabinet; and I took the fancy of finishing it, which I did so fast, that the last two volumes were written in three weeks. I had a great deal of fun in the accomplishment of this task, though I do not expect that it will be popular in the south, as much of the humour, if there be any, is local, and some of it even professional. You, however, who are an adopted Scotchman, will find some amusement in it. It has made a very strong impression here, and the good people of Edinburgh are busied in tracing the author, and in finding out originals for the portraits it contains. In the first case, they will probably find it difficult to convict the guilty author, although he is far from escaping suspicion. Jeffrey has offered to make oath that it is mine, and another great critic has tendered his affidavit _ex contrario_; so that these authorities have divided the Gude Town. However, the thing has succeeded very well, and is thought highly of. I don't know if it has got to London yet. I intend to maintain my _incognito_. Let me know your opinion about it.... 24 _July_. ... I had just proceeded thus far when your kind favour of the 21st reached Abbotsford. I am heartily glad you continued to like _Waverley_ to the end. The hero is a sneaking piece of imbecility; and if he had married Flora, she would have set him up upon the chimney-piece, as Count Borowlaski's wife used to do with him. I am a bad hand at depicting a hero properly so called, and have an unfortunate propensity for the dubious characters of borderers, buccaneers, Highland robbers, and all others of a Robin-Hood description. I do not know why it should be, as I am myself, like Hamlet, indifferent honest; but I suppose the blood of the old cattle-drivers of Teviotdale continues to stir in my veins. TO THE SAME _Acceptance of a baronetcy_ Edinburgh, 7 _Dec._, 1818. MY DEAR MORRITT, ... There is another thing I have to whisper in your faithful ear. Our fat friend being desirous to honour Literature in my unworthy person, has intimated to me, by his organ the Doctor, that, with consent ample and unanimous of all the potential voices of all his ministers, each more happy than another of course on so joyful an occasion, he proposes to dub me Baronet. It would be easy saying a parcel of fine things about my contempt of rank, and so forth; but although I would not have gone a step out of my way to have asked, or bought, or begged, or borrowed a distinction, which to me personally will rather be inconvenient than otherwise, yet, coming as it does directly from the source of feudal honours, and as an honour, I am really gratified with it;--especially as it is intimated, that it is his Royal Highness's pleasure to heat the oven for me expressly, without waiting till he has some new _batch_ of Baronets ready in dough. In plain English, I am to be gazetted _per se_. My poor friend Carpenter's bequest to my family has taken away a certain degree of _impecuniosity_, a necessity of saving cheese-parings and candle-ends, which always looks inconsistent with any little pretension to rank. But as things now stand, Advance banners in the name of God and St. Andrew. Remember, I anticipate the jest, 'I like not such grinning honours, as Sir Walter hath.' After all, if one must speak for themselves, I have my quarters and emblazonments, free of all stain but Border theft and High Treason, which I hope are gentleman-like crimes; and I hope Sir Walter Scott will not sound worse than Sir Humphry Davy, though my merits are as much under his, in point of utility, as can well be imagined. But a name is something, and mine is the better of the two. Set down this flourish to the account of national and provincial pride, for you must know we have more Messieurs de Sotenville in our Border counties than anywhere else in the Lowlands--I cannot say for the Highlands. TO LORD MONTAGU _Prince Leopold's visit_ Abbotsford, 3 _Oct._ 1819. MY DEAR LORD, I am honoured with your Buxton letter.... _Anent_ Prince Leopold, I only heard of his approach at eight o'clock in the morning, and he was to be at Selkirk by eleven. The magistrates sent to ask me to help them to receive him. It occurred to me he might be coming to Melrose to see the Abbey, in which case I could not avoid asking him to Abbotsford, as he must pass my very door. I mentioned this to Mrs. Scott, who was lying quietly in bed, and I wish you had heard the scream she gave on the occasion. 'What have we to offer him?'--'Wine and cake,' said I, thinking to make all things easy; but she ejaculated, in a tone of utter despair, 'Cake!! where am I to get cake?' However, being partly consoled with the recollection that his visit was a very improbable incident, and curiosity, as usual, proving too strong for alarm, she set out with me in order not to miss a peep of the great man. James Skene and his lady were with us, and we gave our carriages such additional dignity as a pair of leaders could add, and went to meet him in full puff. The Prince very civilly told me, that, though he could not see Melrose on this occasion, he wished to come to Abbotsford for an hour. New despair on the part of Mrs. Scott, who began to institute a domiciliary search for cold meat through the whole city of Selkirk, which produced _one shoulder of cold lamb_. In the meanwhile, his Royal Highness received the civic honours of the BIRSE[1] very graciously. I had hinted to Bailie Lang, that it ought only to be licked _symbolically_ on the present occasion; so he flourished it three times before his mouth, but without touching it with his lips, and the Prince followed his example as directed. Lang made an excellent speech, sensible, and feeling, and well delivered. The Prince seemed much surprised at this great propriety of expression and behaviour in a magistrate, whose people seemed such a rabble, and whose whole band of music consisted in a drum and fife. He noticed to Bailie Anderson, that Selkirk seemed very populous in proportion to its extent. 'On an occasion like this it seems so,' answered the Bailie, neatly enough I thought. I question if any magistrates in the kingdom, lord mayors and aldermen not excepted, could have behaved with more decent and quiet good-breeding. Prince Leopold repeatedly alluded to this during the time he was at Abbotsford. I do not know how Mrs. Scott ultimately managed; but with broiled salmon, and black-cock, and partridges, she gave him a very decent lunch; and I chanced to have some very fine old hock, which was mighty germain to the matter. The Prince seems melancholy, whether naturally or from habit, I do not pretend to say; but I do not remember thinking him so at Paris, where I saw him frequently, then a much poorer man than myself; yet he showed some humour, for alluding to the crowds that followed him everywhere, he mentioned some place where he had gone out to shoot, but was afraid to proceed for fear of 'bagging a boy'. He said he really thought of getting some shooting-place in Scotland, and promised me a longer visit on his return. If I had had a day's notice to have _warned the waters_, we could have met him with a very respectable number of the gentry; but there was no time for this, and probably he liked it better as it was. There was only young Clifton who could have come, and he was shy and cubbish, and would not, though requested by the Selkirk people. He was perhaps ashamed to march through Coventry with them. It hung often and sadly on my mind that _he_ was wanting who could and would have received him like a Prince indeed; and yet the meeting betwixt them, had they been fated to meet, would have been a very sad one. I think I have now given your lordship a very full, true, and particular account of our royal visit, unmatched even by that of King Charles at the Castle of Tillietudlem. That we did not speak of it for more than a week after it happened, and that that emphatic monosyllable, _The Prince_, is not heard amongst us more than ten times a-day, is, on the whole, to the credit of my family's understanding. The piper is the only one whose brain he seems to have endangered; for, as the Prince said he preferred him to any he had heard in the Highlands--(which, by the way, shows his Royal Highness knows nothing of the matter),--the fellow seems to have become incapable of his ordinary occupation as a forester, and has cut stick and stem without remorse to the tune of _Phail Phranse_, i.e. the Prince's welcome. [Footnote 1: Bundle of hog's bristles; symbol of the soutars.] To DANIEL TERRY _Progress at Abbotsford_ Abbotsford, 10 _Nov_. 1822. My dear Terry, I got all the plans safe, and they are delightful. The library ceiling will be superb, and we have plenty of ornaments for it without repeating one of those in the eating-room. The plan of shelves is also excellent, and will, I think, for a long time suffice my collection. The brasses for the shelves I like--but not the price: the notched ones, after all, do very well. I have had three grand hawls since I last wrote to you. The pulpit, repentance-stool, King's seat, and God knows how much of carved wainscot, from the kirk of Dunfermline, enough to coat the hall to the height of seven feet:--supposing it boarded above, for hanging guns, old portraits, intermixed with armour, &c.--it will be a superb entrance-gallery: this is hawl the first. Hawl second is twenty-four pieces of the most splendid Chinese paper, twelve feet high by four wide, a present from my cousin Hugh Scott, enough to finish the drawing-room and two bedrooms. Hawl third is a quantity of what is called Jamaica cedar-wood, enough for fitting up both the drawing-room and the library, including the presses, shelves, &c.: the wood is finely pencilled and most beautiful, something like the colour of gingerbread; it costs very little more than oak, works much easier, and is never touched by vermin of any kind. I sent Mr. Atkinson a specimen, but it was from the plain end of the plank; the interior is finely waved and variegated. Your kind and unremitting exertions in our favour will soon plenish the drawing-room. Thus we at present stand. We have a fine old English cabinet, with china, &c.-and two superb elbow-chairs, the gift of Constable, carved most magnificently, with groups of children, fruit, and flowers, in the Italian taste: they came from Rome, and are much admired. It seems to me that the mirror you mention, being framed in carved box, would answer admirably well with the chairs, which are of the same material. The mirror should, I presume, be placed over the drawing-room chimney-piece; and opposite to it I mean to put an antique table of mosaic marbles, to support Chantrey's bust. A good sofa would be desirable, and so would the tapestry screen, if really fresh and beautiful; but as much of our furniture will be a little antiquated, one would not run too much into that taste in so small an apartment. For the library I have the old oak chairs now in the little armoury, eight in number, and we might add one or two pair of the ebony chairs you mention. I should think this enough, for many seats in such a room must impede access to the books; and I don't mean the library to be on ordinary occasions a public room. Perhaps the tapestry-screen would suit better here than in the drawing-room. I have one library table here, and shall have another made for atlases and prints. For the hall I have four chairs of black oak. In other matters we can make it out well enough. In fact, it is my object rather to keep under my new accommodations at first, both to avoid immediate outlay, and that I may leave room for pretty things which may occur hereafter. I would to Heaven I could take a cruise with you through the brokers, which would be the pleasantest affair possible, only I am afraid I should make a losing voyage of it. Mr. Atkinson has missed a little my idea of the oratory, fitting it up entirely as a bookcase, whereas I should like to have had recesses for curiosities--for the Bruce's skull--for a crucifix, &c., &c.-in short, a little cabinet instead of a book-closet. Four sides of books would be perfectly sufficient; the other four, so far as not occupied by door or window, should be arranged tastefully for antiquities, &c., like the inside of an antique cabinet, with drawers, and shottles, and funny little arches. The oak screen dropped as from the clouds: it is most acceptable; I might have guessed there was only one kind friend so ready to supply hay to my hobby-horse. You have my views in these matters and your own taste; and I will send the _needful_ when you apprise me of the amount total. Where things are not quite satisfactory, it is better to wait a while on every account, for the amusement is over when one has room for nothing more. The house is completely roofed, &c., and looks worthy of Mrs. Terry's painting. I never saw anything handsomer than the grouping of towers, chimneys, &c. upon the roof, when seen at a proper distance. Once more, let me wish you joy of your professional success. I can judge, by a thousand minute items, of the advance you make with the public, just as I can of the gradual progress of my trees, because I am interested in both events. You may say, like Burke, you were not 'coaxed and dandled into eminence' but have fought your way gallantly, shown your passport at every barrier, and been always a step in advance, without a single retrograde movement. Every one wishes to advance rapidly, but when the desired position is gained, it is far more easily maintained by him whose ascent has been gradual, and whose favour is founded not on the unreasonable expectations entertained from one or two seasons, but from an habitual experience of the power of pleasing during several years. You say not a word of poor Wattles. I hope little Miss has not put his nose out of joint entirely. I have not been very well--a whoreson thickness of blood, and a depression of spirits arising from the loss of friends (to whom I am now to add poor Wedderburne), have annoyed me much; and _Peveril_ will, I fear, smell of the apoplexy. I propose a good rally, however, and hope it will be a powerful effect. My idea is, _entre nous_, a Scotch archer in the French King's guard, _tempore_ Louis XI, the most picturesque of all times. TO J.B.S. MORRITT _A brave face to the world_ Edinburgh, 6 _Feb._ 1826. MY DEAR MORRITT, It is very true I have been, and am in danger, of a pecuniary loss, and probably a very large one, which in the uncertainty I look at as to the full extent, being the manly way of calculating such matters, since one may be better, but can hardly be worse. I can't say I feel overjoyed at losing a large sum of hard-earned money in a most unexpected manner, for all men considered Constable's people secure as the Bank; yet, as I have obtained an arrangement of payment convenient for every body concerned, and easy for myself, I cannot say that I care much about the matter. Some economical restrictions I will make; and it happened oddly that they were such as Lady Scott and myself had almost determined upon without this compulsion. Abbotsford will henceforth be our only establishment; and during the time I must be in town, I will take my bed at the Albyn Club. We shall also break off the rather excessive hospitality to which we were exposed, and no longer stand host and hostess to all that do pilgrimage to Melrose. Then I give up an expensive farm, which I always hated, and turn all my odds and ends into cash. I do not reckon much on my literary exertions--I mean in proportion to former success--because popular taste may fluctuate. But with a moderate degree of the favour which I have always had, my time my own, and my mind unplagued about other things, I may boldly promise myself soon to get the better of this blow. In these circumstances, I should be unjust and ungrateful to ask or accept the pity of my friends. I for one, do not see there is much occasion for making moan about it. My womankind will be the greater sufferers,--yet even they look cheerily forward; and, for myself, the blowing off my hat in a stormy day has given me more uneasiness. I envy your Brighton party, and your fine weather. When I was at Abbotsford the mercury was down at six or seven in the morning more than once. I am hammering away at a bit of a story from the old affair of the _diablerie_ at Woodstock in the Long Parliament times. I don't like it much. I am obliged to hamper my fanatics greatly too much to make them effective; but I make the sacrifice on principle; so, perhaps, I shall deserve good success in other parts of the work. You will be surprised when I tell you that I have written a volume in exactly fifteen days. To be sure, I permitted no interruptions. But then I took exercise, and for ten days of the fifteen attended the Court of Session from two to four hours every day. This is nothing, however, to writing _Ivanhoe_ when I had the actual cramp in my stomach; but I have no idea of these things preventing a man from doing what he has a mind. My love to all the party at Brighton--fireside party I had almost said, but you scorn my words--seaside party then be it. Lady Scott and Anne join in kindest love. I must close my letter, for one of the consequences of our misfortunes is, that we dine every day at half-past four o'clock; which premature hour arises, I suppose, from sorrow being hungry as well as thirsty. One most laughable part of our tragic comedy was, that every friend in the world came formally, just as they do here when a relation dies, thinking that the eclipse of _les beaux yeux de ma cassette_ was perhaps a loss as deserving of consolation. TO MARIA EDGEWORTH _Time's revenges_ Edinburgh, 23 _June_, 1830. MY DEAR MISS EDGEWORTH, Nothing would be so valuable to me as the mark of kindness which you offer, and yet my kennel is so much changed since I had the pleasure of seeing you, that I must not accept of what I wished so sincerely to possess. I am the happy owner of two of the noble breed, each of gigantic size, and the gift of that sort of Highlander whom we call a High Chief, so I would hardly be justified in parting with them even to make room for your kind present, and I should have great doubts whether the mountaineers would receive the Irish stranger with due hospitality. One of them I had from poor Glengarry, who, with all the wild and fierce points of his character, had a kind, honest, and warm heart. The other from a young friend, whom Highlanders call MacVourigh, and Lowlanders MacPherson of Cluny. He is a fine spirited boy, fond of his people and kind to them, and the best dancer of a Highland reel now living. I fear I must not add a third to Nimrod and Bran, having little use for them except being pleasant companions. As to labouring in their vocation, we have only one wolf which I know of, kept in a friend's menagerie near me, and no wild deer. Walter has some roebucks indeed, but Lochore is far off, and I begin to feel myself distressed at running down these innocent and beautiful creatures, perhaps because I cannot gallop so fast after them as to drown sense of the pain we are inflicting. And yet I suspect I am like the sick fox; and if my strength and twenty years could come back, I would become again a copy of my namesake, remembered by the sobriquet of Walter _ill tae hauld_ (to hold, that is). 'But age has clawed me in its clutch,' and there is no remedy for increasing disability except dying, which is an awkward score. There is some chance of my retiring from my official situation upon the changes in the Court of Session. They cannot reduce my office, though they do not wish to fill it up with a new occupant. I shall be therefore _de trop_; and in these days of economy they will be better pleased to let me retire on three parts of my salary than to keep me a Clerk of Session on the whole; and small grief at our parting, as the old horse said to the broken cart. And yet, though I thought such a proposal when first made was like a Pisgah peep at Paradise, I cannot help being a little afraid of changing the habits of a long life all of a sudden and for ever. You ladies have always your work-basket and stocking-knitting to wreak an hour of tediousness upon. The routine of business serves, I suspect, for the same purpose to us male wretches; it is seldom a burden to the mind, but a something which must be done, and is done almost mechanically; and though dull judges and duller clerks, the routine of law proceedings, and law forms, are very unlike the plumed troops and the tug of war, yet the result is the same. The occupation's gone. The morning, that the day's news must all be gathered from other sources--that the jokes which the principal Clerks of Session have laughed at weekly for a century, and which would not move a muscle of any other person's face, must be laid up to perish like those of Sancho in the Sierra Morena--I don't above half like forgetting all these moderate habits, and yet Ah, freedom is a noble thing! as says the old Scottish poet. So I will cease my regrets, or lay them by to be taken up and used as arguments of comfort, in case I do not slip my cable after all, which is highly possible. Lockhart and Sophia have taken up their old residence at Chiefswood. They are very fond of the place; and I am glad also my grandchildren will be bred near the heather, for certain qualities which I think are best taught there. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1772-1834 TO CHARLES LAMB _A sympathetic reply_[1] 28 _Sept._ 1796. Your letter, my friend, struck me with a mighty horror. It rushed upon me and stupefied my feelings. You bid me write you a religious letter; I am not a man who would attempt to insult the greatness of your anguish by any other consolation. Heaven knows that in the easiest fortunes there is much dissatisfaction and weariness of spirit: much that calls for the exercise of patience and resignation; but in storms, like these, that shake the dwelling and make the heart tremble, there is no middle way between despair and the yielding up of the whole spirit unto the guidance of faith. And surely it is a matter of joy, that your faith in Jesus has been preserved; the Comforter that should relieve you is not far from you. But as you are a Christian, in the name of that Saviour, who was filled with bitterness and made drunken with wormwood, I conjure you to have recourse in frequent prayer to 'his God and your God'; the God of mercies, and father of all comfort. Your poor father is, I hope, almost senseless of the calamity; the unconscious instrument of Divine Providence knows it not, and your mother is in heaven. It is sweet to be roused from a frightful dream by the song of birds, and the gladsome rays of the morning. Ah, how infinitely more sweet to be awakened from the blackness and amazement of a sudden horror by the glories of God manifest and the hallelujahs of angels. As to what regards yourself, I approve altogether of your abandoning what you justly call vanities. I look upon you as a man called by sorrow and anguish and a strange desolation of hopes into quietness, and a soul set apart and made peculiar to God. We cannot arrive at any portion of heavenly bliss without in some measure imitating Christ; and they arrive at the largest inheritance who imitate the most difficult parts of His character, and, bowed down and crushed under foot, cry in fullness of faith, 'Father, Thy will be done.' I wish above measure to have you for a little while here--no visitants shall blow on the nakedness of your feelings--you shall be quiet, and your spirit may be healed. I see no possible objection, unless your father's helplessness prevent you, and unless you are necessary to him. If this be not the case, I charge you write me that you will come. I charge you, my dearest friend, not to dare to encourage gloom or despair--you are a temporary sharer in human miseries, that you may be an eternal partaker of the Divine nature. I charge you, if by any means it be possible, come to me. [Footnote 1: See Letter, p. 355.] TO JOSEPH COTTLE _Literary adventurers_ [1798.] MY DEAR COTTLE, Neither Wordsworth nor myself could have been otherwise than uncomfortable, if any but yourself had received from us the first offer of our tragedies, and of the volume of Wordsworth's poems. At the same time, we did not expect that you could with prudence and propriety, advance such a sum as we should want at the time we specified. In short, we both regard the publication of our tragedies as an evil. It is not impossible but that in happier times they may be brought on the stage: and to throw away this chance for a mere trifle, would be to make the present moment act fraudulently and usuriously towards the future time. My tragedy employed and strained all my thoughts and faculties for six or seven months; Wordsworth consumed far more time, and far more thought, and far more genius. We consider the publication of them an evil on any terms; but our thoughts were bent on a plan for the accomplishment of which a certain sum of money was necessary, (the whole) at that particular time, and in order to do this we resolved, although reluctantly, to part with our tragedies: that is, if we could obtain thirty guineas for each, and at less than thirty guineas Wordsworth will not part with the copyright of his volume of poems. We shall offer the tragedies to no one, for we have determined to procure the money some other way. If you choose the volume of poems, at the price mentioned, to be paid at the time specified, i.e. thirty guineas, to be paid sometime in the last fortnight of July, you may have them; but remember, my dear fellow! I write to you now merely as a bookseller, and entreat you, in your answer, to consider yourself only; as to us, although money is necessary to our plan [that of visiting Germany], yet the plan is not necessary to our happiness; and if it were, W. would sell his poems for that sum to some one else, or we could procure the money without selling the poems. So I entreat you, again and again, in your answer, which must be immediate, consider yourself only. Wordsworth has been caballed against _so long and so loudly_, that he has found it impossible to prevail on the tenant of the Allfoxden estate to let him the house, after their first agreement is expired, so he must quit it at midsummer; whether we shall be able to procure him a house and furniture near Stowey, we know not, and yet we must: for the hills, and the woods, and the streams, and the sea, and the shores would break forth into reproaches against us, if we did not strain every nerve to keep their poet among them. Without joking, and in serious sadness, Poole and I cannot endure to think of losing him. At all events, come down, Cottle, as soon as you can, but before midsummer, and we will procure a horse easy as thy own soul, and we will go on a roam to Lynton and Lynmouth, which, if thou comest in May, will be in all their pride of woods and waterfalls, not to speak of its august cliffs, and the green ocean, and the vast valley of stones, all which live disdainful of the seasons, or accept new honours only from the winter's snow. At all events come down, and cease not to believe me much and affectionately your friend. TO JOSIAH WADE _A public example_ Bristol, 26 _June_, 1814. DEAR SIR, For I am unworthy to call any good man friend--much less you, whose hospitality and love I have abused; accept, however, my entreaties for your forgiveness, and for your prayers. Conceive a poor miserable wretch, who for many years has been attempting to beat off pain, by a constant recurrence to the vice that reproduces it. Conceive a spirit in hell, employed in tracing out for others the road to that heaven, from which his crimes exclude him! In short, conceive whatever is most wretched, helpless, and hopeless, and you will form as tolerable a notion of my state, as it is possible for a good man to have. I used to think the text in St. James that 'he who offendeth in one point, offends in all,' very harsh; but I now feel the awful, the tremendous truth of it. In the one crime of OPIUM, what crime have I not made myself guilty of! Ingratitude to my Maker! and to my benefactors--injustice! _and unnatural cruelty to my poor children! _--self-contempt for my repeated promise-breach, nay, too often, actual falsehood! After my death, I earnestly entreat that a full and unqualified narration of my wretchedness, and of its guilty cause, may be made public, that, at least, some little good may be effected by the direful example! May God Almighty bless you, and have mercy on your still affectionate, and, in his heart, grateful S.T.C. TO THOMAS ALLSOP _Himself and his detractors_ 2 _Dec._ 1818. MY DEAR SIR, I cannot express how kind I felt your letter. Would to Heaven I had had many with feelings like yours, 'accustomed to express themselves warmly and (as far as the word is applicable to you), even enthusiastically'. But alas! during the prime manhood of my intellect I had nothing but cold water thrown on my efforts. I speak not now of my systematic and most unprovoked maligners. On _them_ I have retorted only by pity and by prayer. These may have, and doubtless have, joined with the frivolity of 'the reading public' in checking and almost in preventing the sale of my works; and so far have done injury to my _purse_. _Me_ they have not injured. But I have loved with enthusiastic self-oblivion those who have been so well pleased that I should, year after year, flow with a hundred nameless rills into _their_ main stream, that they could find nothing but cold praise and effective discouragement of every attempt of mine to roll onward in a distinct current of my own; who _admitted_ that the _Ancient Mariner_, the _Christabel_, the _Remorse_, and some pages of the _Friend_ were not without merit, but were abundantly anxious to acquit their judgements of any blindness to the very numerous defects. Yet they _knew_ that to _praise_, as mere praise, I was characteristically, almost constitutionally, indifferent. In sympathy alone I found at once nourishment and stimulus; and for sympathy _alone_ did my heart crave. They knew, too, how long and faithfully I have acted on the maxim, never to admit the _faults_ of a work of genius to those who denied or were incapable of feeling and understanding the _beauties_; not from wilful partiality, but as well knowing that in _saying_ truth I should, to such critics, convey falsehood. If, in one instance, in my literary life I have appeared to deviate from this rule, first, it was not till the fame of the writer (which I had been for fourteen years successfully toiling like a second Ali to build up) had been established; and secondly and chiefly, with the purpose and, I may safely add, with the _effect_ of rescuing the necessary task from Malignant Defamers, and in order to set forth the excellences and the trifling proportion which the defects bore to the excellences. But this, my dear sir, is a mistake to which affectionate natures are too liable, though I do not remember to have ever seen it noticed--the mistaking those who are desirous and well pleased to be loved _by_ you, for those who love you. Add, as a more general cause, the fact that I neither am nor ever have been of any party. What wonder, then, if I am left to decide which has been my worst enemy, the broad, pre-determined abuse of the _Edinburgh Review_, &c., or the cold and brief compliments, with the warm _regrets_, of the _Quarterly_? After all, however, I have now but one sorrow relative to the ill success of my literary toils (and toils they have been, _though not undelightful toils_), and this arises wholly from the almost insurmountable difficulties which the anxieties of to-day oppose to my completion of the great work, the form and materials of which it has been the employment of the best and most genial hours of the last twenty years to mature and collect. If I could but have a tolerably numerous audience to my first, or first and second Lectures on the _History of Philosophy_, I should entertain a strong hope of success, because I know that these lectures will be found by far the most interesting and _entertaining_ of any that I have yet delivered, independent of the more permanent interest of rememberable instruction. Few and unimportant would the errors of men be, if they did but know, first, _what they themselves meant_; and, secondly, what the _words_ mean by which they attempt to convey their meaning, and I can conceive no subject so well fitted to exemplify the mode and the importance of these two points as the History of Philosophy, treated as in the scheme of these lectures. TO THE SAME _The Great Work described_ _Jan._ 1821. ... I have already the _written_ materials and contents, requiring only to be put together from the loose papers and commonplace or memorandum books, and needing no other change, whether of omission, addition, or correction, than the mere act of arranging, and the opportunity of seeing the whole collectively bring with them of course (1) Characteristics of Shakespeare's dramatic works, with a critical review of each play; together with a relative and comparative critique on the kind and degree of the merits and demerits of the dramatic works of Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger. The History of the English Drama; the accidental advantages it afforded to Shakespeare, without in the least detracting from the perfect originality or proper creation of the Shakespearian Drama; the contradistinction of the latter from the Greek Drama, and its still remaining _uniqueness_, with the causes of this, from the combined influences of Shakespeare himself, as man, poet, philosopher, and finally, by conjunction of all these, dramatic poet; and of the age, events, manners, and state of the English language. This work, with every art of compression, amounts to three volumes of about five hundred pages each. (2) Philosophical Analysis of the Genius and Works of Dante, Spenser, Milton, Cervantes, and Calderon, with similar, but more compressed criticisms on Chaucer, Ariosto, Donne, Rabelais, and others, during the predominance of the Romantic Poetry. In one large volume. These two works will, I flatter myself, form a complete code of the principles of judgement and feeling applied to works of Taste; and not of Poetry only, but of Poesy in all its forms, Painting, Statuary, Music, &c., &c. (3) The History of Philosophy considered as a Tendency of the Human Mind to exhibit the Powers of the Human Reason, to discover by its own Strength the Origin and Laws of Man and the World, from Pythagoras to Locke and Condillac. Two volumes. (4) Letters on the Old and New Testament, and on the Doctrine and Principles held in common by the Fathers and Founders of the Reformation, addressed to a candidate for Holy Orders, including advice on the Plan and Subjects of Preaching, proper to a Minister of the Established Church. To the completion of these four works, I have literally nothing more to do than to _transcribe_; but, as I before hinted, from so many scraps and _sibylline_ leaves, including margins of books and blank pages, that, unfortunately, I must be my own scribe, and not done by myself, they will be all but lost; or perhaps (as has been too often the case already) furnish feathers for the caps of others; some for this purpose, and some to plume the arrows of detraction, to be let fly against the luckless bird from whom they had been plucked or moulted. In addition to these--of my GREAT WORK, to the preparation of which more than twenty years of my life have been devoted, and on which my hopes of extensive and permanent utility, of fame, in the noblest sense of the word, mainly rest--that, by which I might, As now by thee, by all the good be known, When this weak frame lies moulder'd in the grave, Which self-surviving I might call my own, Which folly cannot mar, nor hate deprave-- The incense of those powers, which, risen in flame, Might make me dear to Him from whom they came. Of this work, to which all my other writings (unless I except my Poems, and these I can exclude in part only) are introductory and preparative; and the result of which (if the premises be, as I, with the most tranquil assurance, am convinced they are--insubvertible, the deductions legitimate, and the conclusions commensurate, and only commensurate, with both) must finally be a revolution of all that has been called _philosophy_ or metaphysics in England and France, since the era of the commencing predominance of the mechanical system at the restoration of our second Charles, and with this the present fashionable views, not only of religion, morals, and politics but even of the modern physics and physiology. You will not blame the earnestness of my expressions, nor the high importance which I attach to this work: for how, with less noble objects, and less faith in their attainment, could I stand acquitted of folly, and abuse of time, talents, and learning in a labour of three-fourths of my intellectual life? Of this work, something more than a volume has been dictated by me, so as to exist fit for the press, to my friend and enlightened pupil, Mr. Green; and more than as much again would have been evolved and delivered to paper, but that, for the last six or eight months, I have been compelled to break off our weekly meeting, from the necessity of writing (alas! alas! of attempting to write) for purposes, and on the subjects, of the passing day. Of my poetic works I would fain finish the _Christabel_! Alas! for the proud time when I planned, when I had present to my mind, the materials, as well as the scheme, of the Hymns entitled _Spirit_, _Sun_, _Earth_, _Air_, _Water_, _Fire_ and _Man_; and the Epic Poem on what still appears to me the one only fit subject remaining for an epic poem--Jerusalem besieged and destroyed by Titus. TO THE SAME _Reminiscences_ 4 March, 1822. My Dearest Friend, I have been much more than ordinarily unwell for more than a week past--my sleeps worse than my vigils, my nights than my days; --The night's dismay Sadden'd and stunned the intervening day; but last night I had not only a calmer night, without roaming in my dreams through any of Swedenborg's Hells _modérés_; but arose this morning lighter and with a sense of _relief_.... I shall make you smile, as I did dear Mary Lamb, when I say that you sometimes mistake my position. As individual to individual, from my childhood, I do not remember feeling myself either superior or inferior to any human being; except by an act of my own will in cases of real or imagined moral or intellectual superiority. In regard to worldly rank, from eight years old to nineteen, I was habituated, nay, naturalised, to look up to men circumstanced as you are, as my superiors--a large number of our governors, and almost _all_ of those whom we regarded as greater men still, and whom we saw most of, _viz._ our committee governors, were such--and as neither awake nor asleep have I any other feelings than what I had at Christ's Hospital, I distinctly remember that I felt a little flush of pride and consequence--just like what we used to feel at school when the boys came running to us--'Coleridge! here's your friends want you--they are quite _grand_,' or 'It is quite a _lady_'--when I first heard who you were, and laughed at myself for it with that pleasurable sensation that, spite of my sufferings at that school, still accompanies any sudden reawakening of our school-boy feelings and notions. And oh, from sixteen to nineteen what hours of Paradise had Allen and I in escorting the Miss Evanses home on a Saturday, who were then at a milliner's whom we used to think, and who I believe really was, such a nice lady;--and we used to carry thither, of a summer morning, the pillage of the flower gardens within six miles of town, with Sonnet or Love Rhyme wrapped round the nose-gay. To be feminine, kind, and genteelly (what I should now call neatly) dressed, these were the only things to which my head, heart, or imagination had any polarity, and what I was then, I still am. God bless you and yours. ROBERT SOUTHEY 1774-1843 TO JOSEPH COTTLE _Question of copyrights_ Greta Hall, 20 _April_, 1808. My dear Cottle,... What you say of my copyrights affected me very much. Dear Cottle, set your heart at rest on that subject. It ought to be at rest. These were yours, fairly bought, and fairly sold. You bought them on the chance of their success, which no London bookseller would have done; and had they not been bought, they could not have been published at all. Nay, if you had not purchased _Joan of Arc_, the poem never would have existed, nor should I, in all probability, ever have obtained that reputation which is the capital on which I subsist, nor that power which enables me to support it. But this is not all. Do you suppose, Cottle, that I have forgotten those true and most essential acts of friendship which you showed me when I stood most in need of them? Your house was my house when I had no other. The very money with which I bought my wedding-ring, and paid my marriage fees, was supplied by you. It was with your sisters I left Edith during my six months' absence, and for the six months after my return it was from you that I received, week by week, the little on which we lived, till I was enabled to live by other means. It is not the settling of a cash account that can cancel obligations like these. You are in the habit of preserving your letters, and if you were not, I would entreat you to preserve _this_, that it might be seen hereafter. Sure I am, there never was a more generous or a kinder heart than yours; and you will believe me when I add, that there does not live that man upon earth, whom I remember with more gratitude and more affection. My heart throbs and my eyes burn with these recollections. Good night! my dear old friend and benefactor. TO JOHN MAY _Waterloo_ Liège, 6 _Oct._ 1815. Six p.m. My dear friend, I have a happy habit of making the best of all things; and being just at this time as uncomfortable as the dust and bustle, and all the disagreeables of an inn in a large filthy manufacturing city can make me, I have called for pen, ink, and paper, and am actually writing in the bar, the door open to the yard opposite to this unwiped table, the doors open to the public room, where two men are dining, and talking French, and a woman servant at my elbow is lighting a fire for our party. Presently the folding-doors are to be shut, the ladies are to descend from their chambers, the bar will be kept appropriated to our house, the male part of the company will get into good humour, dinner will be ready, and then I must lay aside the grey goose-quill. As a preliminary to these promised comforts, the servant is mopping the hearth, which is composed (like a tesselated pavement) of little bricks about two inches long by half an inch wide, set within a broad black stone frame. The fuel is of fire-balls, a mixture of pulverized coal and clay. I have seen a great deal and heard a great deal,--more, indeed, than I can keep pace with in my journal, though I strive hard to do it; but I minute down short notes in my pencil-book with all possible care, and hope, in the end, to lose nothing.... Flanders is a most interesting country. Bruges, the most striking city I have ever seen, an old city in perfect preservation. It seems as if not a house had been built during the last two centuries, and not a house suffered to pass to decay. The poorest people seem to be well lodged, and there is a general air of sufficiency, cleanliness, industry, and comfort, which I have never seen in any other place. The cities have grown worse as we advanced. At Namur we reached a dirty city, situated in a romantic country; the Meuse there reminded me of the Thames from your delightful house, an island in size and shape resembling that upon which I have often wished for a grove of poplars, coming just in the same position. From thence along the river to this abominable place, the country is, for the greater part, as lovely as can be imagined.... Our weather hitherto has been delightful. This was especially fortunate at Waterloo and at Ligny, where we had much ground to walk over. It would surprise you to see how soon nature has recovered from the injuries of war. The ground is ploughed and sown, and grain and flowers and seeds already growing over the field of battle, which is still strewn with vestiges of the slaughter, caps, cartridges, boxes, hats, &c. We picked up some French cards and some bullets, and we purchased a French pistol and two of the eagles which the infantry wear upon their caps. What I felt upon this ground, it would be difficult to say; what I saw, and still more what I heard, there is no time at present for saying. In prose and in verse you shall some day hear the whole. At Les Quatre Bras, I saw two graves, which probably the dogs or the swine had opened. In the one were the ribs of a human body, projecting through the mould; in the other, the whole skeleton exposed. Some of our party told me of a third, in which the worms were at work, but I shrunk from the sight. You will rejoice to hear that the English are as well spoken of for their deportment in peace as in war. It is far otherwise with the Prussians. Concerning them there is but one opinion; their brutality is said to exceed that of the French, and of their intolerable insolence I have heard but too many proofs. That abominable old Frederic made them a military nation, and this is the inevitable consequence. This very day we passed a party on their way towards France--some hundred or two. Two gentlemen and two ladies of the country, in a carriage, had come up with them; and these ruffians would not allow them to pass, but compelled them to wait and follow the slow pace of foot soldiers! This we ourselves saw. Next to the English, the Belgians have the best character for discipline.... I bought at Bruges a French History of Brazil, just published by M. Alphonse de Beauchamp, in 3 vols. 8vo. He says, in his Preface, that having finished the first two volumes, he thought it advisable to see if any new light had been thrown upon the subject by modern authors. Meantime, a compilation upon this history had appeared in England, but the English author, Mr. Southey, had brought no new lights; he had promised much for his second volume, but the hope of literary Europe had been again deceived, for this second volume, so emphatically promised, had not appeared. I dare say no person regrets this delay so much as M. Beauchamp, he having stolen the whole of his two first volumes, and about the third part of the other, from the very Mr. Southey whom he abuses. He has copied my references as the list of his own authorities (MSS. and all), and he has committed blunders which prove, beyond all doubt, that he does not understand Portuguese. I have been much diverted by this fellow's impudence. The table is laid, and the knives and forks rattling a pleasant note of preparation, as the woman waiter arranges them. God bless you! I have hurried through the sheet, and thus pleasantly beguiled what would have been a very unpleasant hour. We are all well, and your god-daughter has seen a live emperor at Brussels. I feel the disadvantage of speaking French ill, and understanding it by the ear worse. Nevertheless, I speak it without remorse, make myself somehow or other understood, and get at what I want to know. Once more, God bless you, my dear friend. To HENRY TAYLOR _Anastasius Hope_ Keswick, 15 _July_, 1831. ... Have you seen the strange book which Anastasius Hope left for publication, and which his representatives, in spite of all dissuasion, have published? His notion of immortality and heaven is, that at the consummation of all things he, and you, and I, and John Murray, and Nebuchadnezzar, and Lambert the fat man, and the living skeleton, and Queen Elizabeth, and the Hottentot Venus, and Thurtell, and Probert, and the twelve Apostles, and the noble army of martyrs, and Genghis Khan, and all his armies, and Noah with all his ancestors and all his posterity--yea, all men and all women, and all children that have ever been or ever shall be, saints and sinners alike--are all to be put together, and made into one great celestial eternal human being. He does not seem to have known how nearly this approaches to Swedenborg's fancy. I do not like the scheme. I don't like the notion of being mixed up with Hume, and Hunt, and Whittle Harvey, and Philpotts, and Lord Althorpe, and the Huns, and the Hottentots, and the Jews, and the Philistines, and the Scotch, and the Irish. God forbid! I hope to be I myself; I, in an English heaven, with you yourself--you, and some others, without whom heaven would be no heaven to me. God bless you! TO EDWARD MOXON _Recollections of the Lambs_ Keswick, 2 _Feb._ 1836. My dear sir, I have been too closely engaged in clearing off the second volume of Cowper to reply to your inquiries concerning poor Lamb sooner. His acquaintance with Coleridge began at Christ's Hospital; Lamb was some two years, I think, his junior. Whether he was ever one of the _Grecians_ there, might be ascertained, I suppose, by inquiring. My own impression is, that he was not. Coleridge introduced me to him in the winter of 1794-5, and to George Dyer also, from whom, if his memory has not failed, you might probably learn more of Lamb's early history than from any other person. Lloyd, Wordsworth, and Hazlitt became known to him through their connexion with Coleridge. When I saw the family (one evening only, and at that time), they were lodging somewhere near Lincoln's Inn, on the western side (I forget the street), and were evidently in uncomfortable circumstances. The father and mother were both living; and I have some dim recollection of the latter's invalid appearance. The father's senses had failed him before that time. He published some poems in quarto. Lamb showed me once an imperfect copy: the _Sparrow's Wedding_ was the title of the longest piece, and this was the author's favourite; he liked, in his dotage, to hear Charles read it. His most familiar friend, when I first saw him, was White, who held some office at Christ's Hospital, and continued intimate with him as long as he lived. You know what Elia says of him. He and Lamb were joint authors of the _Original Letters of Falstaff_. Lamb, I believe, first appeared as an author in the second edition of Coleridge's _Poems_ (Bristol, 1797), and, secondly, in the little volume of blank verse with Lloyd (1798). Lamb, Lloyd, and White were inseparable in 1798; the two latter at one time lodged together, though no two men could be imagined more unlike each other. Lloyd had no drollery in his nature; White seemed to have nothing else. You will easily understand how Lamb could sympathize with both. Lloyd, who used to form sudden friendships, was all but a stranger to me, when unexpectedly he brought Lamb down to visit me at a little village (Burton) near Christchurch, in Hampshire, where I was lodging in a very humble cottage. This was in the summer of 1797, and then, or in the following year, my correspondence with Lamb began. I saw more of him in 1802 than at any other time, for I was then six months resident in London. His visit to this county was before I came to it; it must have been either in that or in the following year: it was to Lloyd and to Coleridge. I had forgotten one of his schoolfellows, who is still living--C.V. Le Grice, a clergyman at or near Penzance. From him you might learn something of his boyhood. Cottle has a good likeness of Lamb, in chalk, taken by an artist named Robert Hancock, about the year 1798. It looks older than Lamb was at that time; but he was old-looking. Coleridge introduced him to Godwin, shortly after the first number of the _Anti-Jacobin Magazine and Review_ was published, with a caricature of Gillray's, in which Coleridge and I were introduced with asses' heads, and Lloyd and Lamb as toad and frog. Lamb got warmed with whatever was on the table, became disputatious, and said things to Godwin which made him quietly say, 'Pray, Mr. Lamb, are you toad or frog?' Mrs. Coleridge will remember the scene, which was to her sufficiently uncomfortable. But the next morning S.T.C. called on Lamb, and found Godwin breakfasting with him, from which time their intimacy began. His angry letter to me in the _Magazine_ arose out of a notion that an expression of mine in the _Quarterly Review_ would hurt the sale of _Elia_; some one, no doubt, had said that it would. I meant to serve the book, and very well remember how the offence happened. I had written that it wanted nothing to render it altogether delightful but a _saner_ religious feeling. _This_ would have been the proper word if any other person had written the book. Feeling its extreme unfitness as soon as it was written, I altered it immediately for the first word which came into my head, intending to remodel the sentence when it should come to me in the proof; and that proof never came. There can be no objection to your printing all that passed upon the occasion, beginning with the passage in the _Quarterly Review_, and giving his letter. I have heard Coleridge say that, in a fit of derangement, Lamb fancied himself to be young Norval. He told me this in relation to one of his poems. If you will print my lines to him upon his _Album Verses_, I will send you a corrected copy. You received his letters, I trust, which Cuthbert took with him to town in October. I wish they had been more, and wish, also, that I had more to tell you concerning him, and what I have told were of more value. But it is from such fragments of recollection, and such imperfect notices, that the materials for biography must, for the most part, be collected. =CHARLES LAMB= 1775-1834 TO SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE _Temporary frenzy_ 27 _May_, 1796. ... Coleridge! I know not what suffering scenes you have gone through at Bristol. My life has been somewhat diversified of late. The six weeks that finished last year and began this, your very humble servant spent very agreeably in a madhouse, at Hoxton. I am got somewhat rational now, and don't bite anyone. But mad I was! And many a vagary my imagination played with me, enough to make a volume, if all were told. My sonnets I have extended to the number of nine since I saw you, and will some day communicate to you. I am beginning a poem in blank verse, which, if I finish, I publish.... Coleridge! it may convince you of my regards for you when I tell you my head ran on you in my madness, as much almost as on another person, who I am inclined to think was the more immediate cause of my temporary frenzy. TO THE SAME _A friend in need_ _Thursday, 11 June_, 1796. ... After all, you cannot, nor ever will, write anything with which I shall be so delighted as what I have heard yourself repeat. You came to town, and I saw you at a time when your heart was yet bleeding with recent wounds. Like yourself, I was sore galled with disappointed hope. You had --many an holy lay That, mourning, soothed the mourner on his way; I had ears of sympathy to drink them in, and they yet vibrate pleasant on the sense. When I read in your little volume your nineteenth effusion, or the twenty-eighth or twenty-ninth, or what you call the _Sigh_, I think I hear _you_ again. I image to myself the little smoky room at the _Salutation and Cat_, where we have sat together through the winter nights, beguiling the cares of life with Poesy. When you left London, I felt a dismal void in my heart. I found myself cut off, at one and the same time, from two most dear to me. 'How blest with ye the path could I have trod of quiet life!' In your conversation you had blended so many pleasant fancies that they cheated me of my grief. But in your absence the tide of melancholy rushed in again, and did its worst mischief by overwhelming my reason. I have recovered, but feel a stupor that makes me indifferent to the hopes and fears of this life. I sometimes wish to introduce a religious turn of mind, but habits are strong things, and my religious fervours are confined, alas! to some fleeting moments of occasional solitary devotion. A correspondence, opening with you, has roused me a little from my lethargy, and made me conscious of existence. Indulge me in it: I will not be very troublesome! At some future time I will amuse you with an account, as full as my memory will permit, of the strange turn my frenzy took. I look back upon it at times with a gloomy kind of envy: for, while it lasted, I had many, many hours of pure happiness. Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad! All now seems to me vapid, comparatively so. TO THE SAME _The tragedy_ 27 _Sept_. 1796. MY DEAREST FRIEND, White, or some of my friends, or the public papers, by this time may have informed you of the terrible calamities that have fallen on our family. I will only give you the outlines: My poor dear, dearest sister, in a fit of insanity, has been the death of our own mother. I was at hand only time enough to snatch the knife out of her grasp. She is at present in a madhouse, from whence I fear she must be moved to an hospital. God has preserved to me my senses; I eat, and drink, and sleep, and have my judgement, I believe, very sound. My poor father was slightly wounded, and I am left to take care of him and my aunt. Mr. Norris, of the Bluecoat School, has been very kind to us, and we have no other friend; but, thank God, I am very calm and composed, and able to do the best that remains to do. Write as religious a letter as possible, but no mention of what is gone and done with. With me 'the former things are passed away', and I have something more to do than to feel. God Almighty have us in His keeping! Mention nothing of poetry. I have destroyed every vestige of past vanities of that kind. Do as you please, but if you publish, publish mine (I give free leave) without name or initial, and never send me a book, I charge you. Your own judgement will convince you not to take any notice of this yet to your dear wife. You look after your family; I have reason and strength left to take care of mine. I charge you, don't think of coming to see me. Write. I will not see you if you come. God Almighty love you and all of us! TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH _The delights of London_ 30 _Jan_. 1801. I ought before this to have replied to your very kind invitation into Cumberland. With you and your sister I could gang anywhere; but I am afraid whether I shall ever be able to afford so desperate a journey. Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see a mountain in my life. I have passed all my days in London, until I have formed as many and intense local attachments as any of you mountaineers can have done with dead Nature. The lighted shops of the Strand and Fleet Street; the innumerable trades, tradesmen, and customers, coaches, waggons, playhouses; all the bustle and wickedness round about Covent Garden; the very women of the Town; the watchmen, drunken scenes, rattles;--life awake, if you awake, at all hours of the night; the crowds, the very dirt and mud, the sun shining upon houses and pavements, the printshops, the old book-stalls, parsons cheapening books, coffee-houses, steams of soups from kitchens, the pantomimes--London itself a pantomime and a masquerade--all these things work themselves into my mind, and feed me, without a power of satiating me. The wonder of these sights impels me often into night-walks about her crowded streets, and I often shed tears in the motley Strand from fullness of joy at so much life. All these emotions must be strange to you; so are your rural emotions to me. But consider, what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes? My attachments are all local, purely local. I have no passion (or have had none since I was in love, and then it was the spurious engendering of poetry and books) to groves and valleys. The rooms where I was born, the furniture which has been before my eyes all my life, a book-case which has followed me about like a faithful dog, (only exceeding him in knowledge,) wherever I have moved, old chairs, old tables, streets, squares, where I have sunned myself, my old school,--these are my mistresses,--have I not enough, without your mountains? I do not envy you. I should pity you, did I not know that the mind will make friends of anything. Your sun, and moon, and skies, and hills, and lakes, affect me no more, or scarcely come to me in more venerable characters, than as a gilded room with tapestry and tapers, where I might live with handsome visible objects. I consider the clouds above me but as a roof beautifully painted, but unable to satisfy the mind: and at last, like the pictures of the apartment of a connoisseur, unable to afford him any longer a pleasure. So fading upon me, from disuse, have been the beauties of Nature, as they have been confinedly called; so ever fresh, and green, and warm are all the inventions of men, and assemblies of men in this great city. I should certainly have laughed with dear Joanna. Give my kindest love, and my sister's, to D. and yourself; and a kiss from me to little Barbara Lewthwaite. Thank you for liking my play! TO THOMAS MANNING _At the Lakes_ London, 24 _Sept_. 1802. My dear Manning, Since the date of my last letter I have been a traveller. A strong desire seized me of visiting remote regions. My first impulse was to go and see Paris. It was a trivial objection to my aspiring mind, that I did not understand a word of the language, since I certainly intend some time in my life to see Paris, and equally certainly intend never to learn the language; therefore that could be no objection. However, I am very glad I did not go, because you had left Paris (I see) before I could have set out. I believe Stoddart promising to go with me another year prevented that plan. My next scheme (for to my restless, ambitious mind London was become a bed of thorns) was to visit the far-famed peak in Derbyshire, where the Devil sits, they say, without breeches. _This_ my purer mind rejected as indelicate. And my final resolve was a tour to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick, without giving Coleridge any notice, for my time, being precious, did not admit of it. He received us with all the hospitality in the world, and gave up his time to show us all the wonders of the country. He dwells upon a small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable house, quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains: great floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all couchant and asleep. We got in in the evening, travelling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in the midst of a gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains into colours, purple, &c., &c. We thought we had got into fairy-land. But that went off (as it never came again; while we stayed we had no more fine sunsets); and we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just in the dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds upon their heads. Such an impression I never received from objects of sight before, nor do I suppose I can ever again. Glorious creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, &c. I shall never forget ye, how ye lay about that night, like an intrenchment; gone to bed, as it seemed for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen in the morning. Coleridge had got a blazing fire in his study; which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an Aeolian harp, and an old sofa, half bed, &c. And all looking out upon the last fading view of Skiddaw, and his broad-breasted brethren: what a night! Here we stayed three full weeks, in which time I visited Wordsworth's cottage, where we stayed a day or two with the Clarksons (good people, and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried one day and night), and saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths were gone to Calais. They have since been in London, and passed much time with us: he is now gone into Yorkshire to be married. So we have seen Keswick, Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater (where the Clarksons live), and a place at the other end of Ulswater; I forget the name; to which we travelled on a very sultry day, over the middle of Helvellyn. We have clambered up to the top of Skiddaw, and I have waded up the bed of Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied myself that there is such a thing as that which tourists call _romantic_, which I very much suspected before: they make such a spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets around them, till they give as dim a light as at four o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination. Mary was excessively tired when she got about half-way up Skiddaw, but we came to a cold rill (than which nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of cold water, she surmounted it most manfully. Oh, its fine black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect of mountains all about and about, making you giddy; and then Scotland afar off, and the border countries so famous in song and ballad! It was a day that will stand out, like a mountain, I am sure, in my life. But I am returned (I have now been come home near three weeks; I was a month out), and you cannot conceive the degradation I felt at first, from being accustomed to wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers without being controlled by any one, to come home and _work_. I felt very _little_. I had been dreaming I was a very great man. But that is going off, and I find I shall conform in time to that state of life to which it has pleased God to call me. Besides, after all, Fleet Street and the Strand are better places to live in for good and all than amidst Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those great places where I wandered about, participating in their greatness. After all, I could not _live_ in Skiddaw. I could spend a year, two, three years among them, but I must have a prospect of seeing Fleet Street at the end of that time, or I should mope and pine away, I know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature. My habits are changing, I think, i.e. from drunk to sober. Whether I shall be happier or not remains to be proved. I shall certainly be more happy in a morning; but whether I shall not sacrifice the fat, and the marrow, and the kidneys, i.e. the night, glorious, care-drowning night, that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifications, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to bright and brilliant!--O Manning, if I should have formed a diabolical resolution, by the time you come to England, of not admitting any spirituous liquors into my house, will you be my guest on such shame-worthy terms? Is life, with such limitations, worth trying? The truth is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about my house, who consume me. This is a pitiful tale to be read at St. Gothard, but it is just now nearest my heart. Fenwick is a ruined man. He is hiding himself from his creditors, and has sent his wife and children into the country. Fell, my other drunken companion (that has been: _nam hic caestus artemque repono_), is turned editor of a Naval Chronicle. Godwin continues a steady friend, though the same facility does not remain of visiting him often. X. has detached Marshall from his house; Marshall, the man who went to sleep when the _Ancient Mariner_ was reading; the old, steady, unalterable friend of the Professor. Holcraft is not yet come to town. I expect to see him, and will deliver your message. Things come crowding in to say, and no room for 'em. Some things are too little to be told, i.e. to have a preference; some are too big and circumstantial. Thanks for yours, which was most delicious. Would I had been with you, benighted, &c.! I fear my head is turned with wandering. I shall never be the same acquiescent being. Farewell. Write again quickly, for I shall not like to hazard a letter, not knowing where the fates have carried you. Farewell, my dear fellow. TO THE SAME _Dissuasion from Tartary_ 19 _Feb_. 1803. MY DEAR MANNING, The general scope of your letter afforded no indications of insanity, but some particular points raised a scruple. For God's sake don't think any more of 'Independent Tartary'. What are you to do among such Ethiopians? Is there no _lineal descendant_ of Prester John? Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed?--depend upon it they'll never make you their king, as long as any branch of that great stock is remaining. I tremble for your Christianity.... Read Sir John Mandeville's Travels to cure you, or come over to England. There is a Tartar-man now exhibiting at Exeter Change. Come and talk with him, and hear what he says first. Indeed, he is no very favourable specimen of his countrymen! But perhaps the best thing you can do, is to _try_ to get the idea out of your head. For this purpose repeat to yourself every night, after you have said your prayers, the words, Independent Tartary, Independent Tartary, two or three times, and associate with them the _idea_ of _oblivion_ ('tis Hartley's method with obstinate memories), or say, Independent, Independent, have I not already got an _independence_? That was a clever way of the old Puritans, pun-divinity. My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury such _parts_ in heathen countries, among nasty, unconversable, horse-belching, Tartar-people! Some say they are Cannibals; and then, conceive a Tartar-fellow _eating_ my friend, and adding the _cool malignity_ of mustard and vinegar! I am afraid 'tis the reading of Chaucer has misled you; his foolish stories about Cambuscan, and the ring, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there are no such things, 'tis all the poet's _invention_; but if there were such darling things as old Chaucer sings, I would _up_ behind you on the horse of brass, and frisk off for Prester John's country. But these are all tales; a horse of brass never flew, and a king's daughter never talked with birds! The Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, smouchy set. You'll be sadly moped (if you are not eaten) among them. Pray _try_ and cure yourself. Take hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas none of my thought _originally_). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that gives the heart-burn. _Shave the upper_ _lip_. Go about like an European. Read no books of voyages (they are nothing but lies), only now and then a romance, to keep the fancy _under_. Above all, don't go to any sights of _wild beasts. That has been your ruin_. Accustom yourself to write familiar letters, on common subjects, to your friends in England, such as are of a moderate understanding. And think about common things more.... I supped last night with Rickman, and met a merry _natural_ captain, who pleases himself vastly with once having made a pun at Otaheite in the O. language. 'Tis the same man who said Shakespeare he liked, because he was so _much of the gentleman_. Rickman is a man 'absolute in all numbers'. I think I may one day bring you acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first; for you'll never come back. Have a care, my dear friend, of Anthropophagi! their stomachs are always craving. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out at five pence a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in Holland), not as a guest, but as a meat. God bless you: do come to England. Air and exercise may do great things. Talk with some minister. Why not your father? God dispose all for the best. I have discharged my duty. To MRS. WORDSWORTH _Friends' importunities_ East India House, 18 _Feb_. 1818. MY DEAR MRS. WORDSWORTH, I have repeatedly taken pen in hand to answer your kind letter. My sister should more properly have done it, but she having failed, I consider myself answerable for her debts. I am now trying to do it in the midst of commercial noises, and with a quill which seems more ready to glide into arithmetical figures and names of gourds, cassia, cardemoms, aloes, ginger, or tea, than into kindly responses and friendly recollections. The reason why I cannot write letters at home, is, that I am never alone. Plato's--(I write to W.W. now)--Plato's double-animal parted never longed more to be reciprocally re-united in the system of its first creation, than I sometimes do to be but for a moment single and separate. Except my morning's walk to the office, which is like treading on sands of gold for that reason, I am never so. I cannot walk home from office but some officious friend offers his unwelcome courtesies to accompany me. All the morning I am pestered. I could sit and gravely cast up sums in great books, or compare sum with sum, and write 'paid' against this, and 'unpaid' against t'other, and yet reserve in some corner of my mind 'some darling thoughts all my own',--faint memory of some passage in a book, or the tone of an absent friend's voice--a snatch of Miss Burrell's singing, or a gleam of Fanny Kelly's divine plain face. The two operations might be going on at the same time without thwarting, as the sun's two motions (earth's, I mean), or, as I sometimes turn round till I am giddy, in my back parlour, while my sister is walking longitudinally in the front; or, as the shoulder of veal twists round with the spit, while the smoke wreathes up the chimney. But there are a set of amateurs of the Belles Lettres--the gay science--who come to me as a sort of rendezvous, putting questions of criticism, of British Institutions, Lalla Rookhs, &c.--what Coleridge said at the lecture last night--who have the form of reading men, but, for any possible use reading can be to them, but to talk of, might as well have been Ante-Cadmeans born, or have lain sucking out the sense of an Egyptian hieroglyph as long as the pyramids will last, before they should find it. These pests worrit me at business, and in all its intervals, perplexing my accounts, poisoning my little salutary warming-time at the fire, puzzling my paragraphs if I take a newspaper, cramming in between my own free thoughts and a column of figures, which had come to an amicable compromise but for them. Their noise ended, one of them, as I said, accompanies me home, lest I should be solitary for a moment; he at length takes his welcome leave at the door; up I go, mutton on table, hungry as hunter, hope to forget my cares, and bury them in the agreeable abstraction of mastication; knock at the door, in comes Mr. ----, or Mr. ----, or Demi-gorgon, or my brother, or somebody, to prevent my eating alone--a process absolutely necessary to my poor wretched digestion. O, the pleasure of eating alone!--eating my dinner alone! let me think of it. But in they come, and make it absolutely necessary that I should open a bottle of orange--for my meat turns into stone when anyone dines with me, if I have not wine. Wine can mollify stones; then _that_ wine turns into acidity, acerbity, misanthropy, a hatred of my interrupters--(God bless 'em! I love some of 'em dearly), and with the hatred, a still greater aversion to their going away. Bad is the dead sea they bring upon me, choking and deadening, but worse is the deader dry sand they leave me on, if they go before bed-time. Come never, I would say to these spoilers of my dinner; but if you come, never go! The fact is, this interruption does not happen very often; but every time it comes by surprise, that present bane of my life, orange wine, with all its dreary stifling consequences, follows. Evening company I should always like had I any mornings, but I am saturated with human faces (_divine_ forsooth!) and voices all the golden morning; and five evenings in a week would be as much as I should covet to be in company, but I assure you that is a wonderful week in which I can get two, or one, to myself. I am never C.L., but always C.L. & Co. He who thought it not good for man to be alone, preserve me from the more prodigious monstrosity of being never by myself! I forget bed-time, but even there these sociable frogs clamber up to annoy me. Once a week, generally some singular evening that, being alone, I go to bed at the hour I ought always to be a-bed; just close to my bed-room window is the club-room of a public-house, where a set of singers, I take them to be chorus singers of the two theatres (it must be _both of them_), begin their orgies. They are a set of fellows (as I conceive) who, being limited by their talents to the burthen of the song at the play-houses, in revenge have got the common popular airs by Bishop, or some cheap composer, arranged for choruses, that is, to be sung all in chorus. At least, I never can catch any of the text of the plain song, nothing but the Babylonish choral howl at the tail on't. 'That fury being quench'd'--the howl I mean--a burden succeeds of shouts and clapping, and knocking of the table. At length overtasked nature drops under it, and escapes for a few hours into the society of the sweet silent creatures of dreams, which go away with mocks and mows at cockcrow. And then I think of the words Christabel's father used (bless me, I have dipt in the wrong ink!) to say every morning by way of variety when he awoke: Every knell, the Baron saith, Wakes us up to a world of death-- or something like it. All I mean by this senseless interrupted tale, is, that by my central situation I am a little over-companied. Not that I have any animosity against the good creatures that are so anxious to drive away the harpy solitude from me. I like 'em, and cards, and a cheerful glass; but I mean merely to give you an idea between office confinement and after-office society, how little time I can call my own. I mean only to draw a picture, not to make an inference. I would not that I know of have it otherwise. I only wish sometimes I could exchange some of my faces and voices for the faces and voices which a late visitation brought most welcome, and carried away, leaving regret, but more pleasure, even a kind of gratitude, at being so often favoured with that kind northern visitation. My London faces and noises don't hear me--I mean no disrespect, or I should explain myself, that instead of their return 220 times a year, and the return of W.W., &c., seven times in 104 weeks, some more equal distribution might be found. I have scarce room to put in Mary's kind love, and my poor name ...--goes on lecturing.... I mean to hear some of the course, but lectures are not much to my taste, whatever the lecturer may be. If _read_, they are dismal flat, and you can't think why you are brought together to hear a man read his works, which you could read so much better at leisure yourself; if delivered extempore, I am always in pain, lest the gift of utterance should suddenly fail the orator in the middle, as it did me at the dinner given in honour of me at the London Tavern. 'Gentlemen,' said I, and there I stopped; the rest my feelings were under the necessity of supplying. Mrs. Wordsworth _will_ go on, kindly haunting us with visions of seeing the lakes once more, which never can be realised. Between us there is a great gulf, not of inexplicable moral antipathies and distances, I hope, as there seemed to be between me and that gentleman concerned in the Stamp Office, that I so strangely recoiled from at Haydon's. I think I had an instinct that he was the head of an office. I hate all such people--accountants' deputy accountants. The dear abstract notion of the East India Company, as long as she is unseen, is pretty, rather poetical; but as she makes herself manifest by the persons of such beasts, I loathe and detest her as the scarlet what-do-you-call-her of Babylon. I thought, after abridging us of all our red-letter days, they had done their worst; but I was deceived in the length to which heads of offices, those true liberty-haters, can go. They are the tyrants; not Ferdinand, nor Nero. By a decree passed this week, they have abridged us of the immemorially-observed custom of going at one o'clock of a Saturday, the little shadow of a holiday left us. Dear W.W., be thankful for liberty. To SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE _The famous pigling_ 9 _March_, 1822. DEAR COLERIDGE, It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well: they are such interesting creatures at a certain age. What a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You had all some of the crackling and brain sauce. Did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis? Did the eyes come away kindly with no Oedipean avulsion? Was the crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no complement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not that _I_ sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part Owen could play in the business. I never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present somehow went round to Highgate. To confess an honest truth, a pig is one of those things which I could never think of sending away. Teal, widgeon, snipes, barn-door fowls, ducks, geese--your tame villatic things--Welsh mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self extended, but pardon me if I stop somewhere. Where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to Nature who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the bitterest pangs of remorse I ever felt was when a child--when my kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough I met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts; a look-beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the coxcombry of taught charity I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me; the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect that I--not the old impostor--should take in eating her cake; the ingratitude by which, under the colour of a Christian virtue, I had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like; and I was right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and it proved a lesson to me ever after. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to the dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. But when Providence, who is better to us than all our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and my fall, I shall endeavour to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. Yours (short of pig) to command in every thing. To BERNARD BARTON _A blessing in disguise_ 9 _Jan_. 1823. 'Throw yourself on the world without any rational plan of support, beyond what the chance employ of booksellers would afford you'!!! Throw yourself rather, my dear sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock, slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you have but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the booksellers. They are Turks and Tartars when they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto you have been at arm's length from them. Come not within their grasp. I have known many authors want for bread, some repining, others envying the blessed security of a counting-house, all agreeing they had rather have been tailors, weavers--what not? rather than the things they were. I have known some starved, some to go mad, one dear friend literally dying in a workhouse. You know not what a rapacious, dishonest set these booksellers are. Ask even Southey, who (a single case almost) has made a fortune by book-drudgery, what he has found them. Oh, you know not, may you never know, the miseries of subsisting by authorship! 'Tis a pretty appendage to a situation like yours or mine; but a slavery, worse than all slavery, to be a bookseller's dependant, to drudge your brains for pots of ale, and breasts of mutton, _to change your_ FREE THOUGHTS _and_ VOLUNTARY NUMBERS _for ungracious_ TASK-WORK. Those fellows hate _us_. The reason I take to be, that contrary to other trades, in which the master gets all the credit (a jeweller or silversmith for instance,) and the journeyman, who really does the fine work, is in the background: in _our_ work the world gives all the credit to us, whom _they_ consider as _their_ journeymen, and therefore do they hate us, and cheat us, and oppress us, and would wring the blood of us out, to put another sixpence in their mechanic pouches!... Keep to your bank, and the bank will keep you. Trust not to the public; you may hang, starve, drown yourself, for anything that worthy _personage_ cares. I bless every star, that Providence, not seeing good to make me independent, has seen it next good to settle me upon the stable foundation of Leadenhall. Sit down, good B.B., in the banking-office: what! is there not from six to eleven p.m. six days in the week, and is there not all Sunday? Fie, what a superfluity of man's time, if you could think so! Enough for relaxation, mirth, converse, poetry, good thoughts, quiet thoughts. O the corroding, torturing, tormenting thoughts, that disturb the brain of the unlucky wight who must draw upon it for daily sustenance! Henceforth I retract all my fond complaints of mercantile employment; look upon them as lover's quarrels. I was but half in earnest. Welcome dead timber of the desk, that makes me live. A little grumbling is a wholesome medicine for the spleen, but in my inner heart do I approve and embrace this our close, but unharassing way of life. I am quite serious. If you can send me Fox, I will not keep it _six weeks_, and will return it, with warm thanks to yourself and friend, without blot or dog's-ear. You will much oblige me by this kindness. TO THE SAME _A cold_ 9 _Jan_. 1824. DEAR B.B., Do you know what it is to succumb under an insurmountable day-mare,--'a whoreson lethargy', Falstaff calls it,--an indisposition to do anything, or to be anything,--a total deadness and distaste,--a suspension of vitality,--an indifference to locality,--a numb, soporifical, good-for-nothingness,--an ossification all over,--an oyster-like insensibility to the passing events,--a mind-stupor,--a brawny defiance to the needles of a thrusting-in conscience? Did you ever have a very bad cold, with a total irresolution to submit to water-gruel processes? This has been for many weeks my lot, and my excuse; my fingers drag heavily over this paper, and to my thinking it is three-and-twenty furlongs from here to the end of this demi-sheet. I have not a thing to say; no thing is of more importance than another; I am flatter than a denial or a pancake; emptier than Judge ----'s wig when the head is in it; duller than a country stage when the actors are off it; a cipher, an O! I acknowledge life at all, only by an occasional convulsional cough, and a permanent phlegmatic pain in the chest. I am weary of the world; life is weary of me. My day is gone into twilight, and I don't think it worth the expense of candles. My wick hath a thief in it, but I can't muster courage to snuff it. I inhale suffocation; I can't distinguish veal from mutton; nothing interests me. 'Tis twelve o'clock, and Thurtell is just now coming out upon the New Drop, Jack Ketch alertly tucking up his greasy sleeves to do the last office of mortality, yet cannot I elicit a groan or a moral reflection. If you told me the world will be at an end to-morrow, I should just say, 'Will it?' I have not volition enough left to dot my _i's_, much less to comb my eyebrows; my eyes are set in my head; my brains are gone out to see a poor relation in Moorflelds, and they did not say when they'd come back again; my skull is a Grub Street attic to let--not so much as a joint stool left in it; my hand writes, not I, from habit, as chickens run about a little, when their heads are off. O for a vigorous fit of gout, colic, toothache,--an earwig in my auditory, a fly in my visual organs; pain is life--the sharper, the more evidence of life; but this apathy, this death! Did you ever have an obstinate cold,--a six or seven weeks' unintermitting chill and suspension of hope, fear, conscience, and every thing? Yet do I try all I can to cure it; I try wine, and spirits, and smoking, and snuff in unsparing quantities, but they all only seem to make me worse instead of better. I sleep in a damp room, but it does me no good; I come home late o' nights, but do not find any visible amendment!... It is just fifteen minutes after twelve; Thurtell is by this time a good way on his journey, baiting at Scorpion perhaps; Ketch is bargaining for his cast coat and waistcoat; the Jew demurs at first at three half-crowns, but, on consideration that he may get somewhat by showing 'em in the town, finally closes. WILLIAM HAZLITT 1778-1830 To Miss Sarah Stoddart _A love-letter_ Tuesday night [_Jan._ 1808]. MY DEAR LOVE, Above a week has passed, and I have received no letter--not one of those letters 'in which I live, or have no life at all'. What is become of you? Are you married, hearing that I was dead (for so it has been reported)? Or are you gone into a nunnery? Or are you fallen in love with some of the amorous heroes of Boccaccio? Which of them is it? Is it with Chynon, who was transformed from a clown into a lover, and learned to spell by the force of beauty? Or with Lorenzo, the lover of Isabella, whom her three brethren hated (as your brother does me), who was a merchant's clerk? Or with Federigo Alberigi, an honest gentleman, who ran through his fortune, and won his mistress by cooking a fair falcon for her dinner, though it was the only means he had left of getting a dinner for himself? This last is the man; and I am the more persuaded of it, because I think I won your good liking myself by giving you an entertainment--of sausages, when I had no money to buy them with. Nay now, never deny it! Did I not ask your consent that very night after, and did you not give it? Well, I should be confoundedly jealous of those fine gallants, if I did not know that a living dog is better than a dead lion; though, now I think of it, Boccaccio does not in general make much of his lovers: it is his women who are so delicious. I almost wish I had lived in those times, and had been a little _more amiable_. Now if a woman had written the book, it would not have had this effect upon me: the men would have been heroes and angels, and the women nothing at all. Isn't there some truth in that? Talking of departed loves, I met my old flame the other day in the street. I did dream of her _one_ night since, and only one: every other night I have had the same dream I have had for these two months past. Now, if you are at all reasonable, this will satisfy you. _Thursday morning_. The book is come. When I saw it I thought you had sent it back in a _huff_, tired out by my sauciness, and _coldness_, and delays, and were going to keep an account of dimities and sayes, or to salt pork and chronicle small beer as the dutiful wife of some fresh-looking, rural swain; so that you cannot think how surprised and pleased I was to find them all done. I liked your note as well or better than the extracts; it is just such a note as such a nice rogue as you ought to write after the _provocation_ you had received. I would not give a pin for a girl 'whose cheeks never tingle', nor for myself if I could not make them tingle sometimes. Now, though I am always writing to you about 'lips and noses', and such sort of stuff, yet as I sit by my fireside (which I do generally eight or ten hours a day), I oftener think of you in a serious, sober light. For, indeed, I never love you so well as when I think of sitting down with you to dinner on a boiled scrag-end of mutton, and hot potatoes. You please my fancy more then than when I think of you in--no, you would never forgive me if I were to finish the sentence. Now I think of it, what do you mean to be dressed in when we are married? But it does not much matter! I wish you would let your hair grow; though perhaps nothing will be better than 'the same air and look with which at first my heart was took'. But now to business. I mean soon to call upon your brother _in form_, namely, as soon as I get quite well, which I hope to do in about another _fortnight_; and then I hope you will come up by the coach as fast as the horses can carry you, for I long mightily to be in your ladyship's presence--to vindicate my character. I think you had better sell the small house, I mean that at 4.10, and I will borrow £100. So that we shall set off merrily in spite of all the prudence of Edinburgh. Goodbye, little dear! TO HIS SON _Marriage, and the choice of a profession_ [1822.] ... If you ever marry, I would wish you to marry the woman you like. Do not be guided by the recommendations of friends. Nothing will atone for or overcome an original distaste. It will only increase from intimacy; and if you are to live separate, it is better not to come together. There is no use in dragging a chain through life, unless it binds one to the object we love. Choose a mistress from among your equals. You will be able to understand her character better, and she will be more likely to understand yours. Those in an inferior station to yourself will doubt your good intentions, and misapprehend your plainest expressions. All that you swear is to them a riddle or downright nonsense. You cannot by any possibility translate your thoughts into their dialect. They will be ignorant of the meaning of half you say, and laugh at the rest. As mistresses, they will have no sympathy with you; and as wives, you can have none with them. Women care nothing about poets, or philosophers, or politicians. They go by a man's looks and manner. Richardson calls them 'an eye-judging sex'; and I am sure he knew more about them than I can pretend to do. If you run away with a pedantic notion that they care a pin's point about your head or your heart, you will repent it too late.... If I were to name one pursuit rather than another, I should wish you to be a good painter, if such a thing could be hoped. I have failed in this myself, and should wish you to be able to do what I have not--to paint like Claude, or Rembrandt, or Guido, or Vandyke, if it were possible. Artists, I think, who have succeeded in their chief object, live to be old, and are agreeable old men. Their minds keep alive to the last. Cosway's spirits never flagged till after ninety; and Nollekens, though nearly blind, passed all his mornings in giving directions about some group or bust in his workshop. You have seen Mr. Northcote, that delightful specimen of the last age. With what avidity he takes up his pencil, or lays it down again to talk of numberless things! His eye has not lost its lustre, nor 'paled its ineffectual fire'. His body is but a shadow: he himself is a pure spirit. There is a kind of immortality about this sort of ideal and visionary existence that dallies with Fate and baffles the grim monster, Death. If I thought you could make as clever an artist, and arrive at such an agreeable old age as Mr. Northcote, I should declare at once for your devoting yourself to this enchanting profession; and in that reliance, should feel less regret at some of my own disappointments, and little anxiety on your account! To CHARLES COWDEN CLARKE _The Life of Napoleon_ 7 _Dec_. [1827]. DEAR SIR, I thought all the world agreed with me at present that Buonaparte was better than the Bourbons, or that a tyrant was better than tyranny. In my opinion, no one of an understanding above the rank of a lady's waiting-maid could ever have doubted this, though I alone said it ten years ago. It might be impolicy then and now for what I know, for the world stick to an opinion in appearance long after they have given it up in reality. I should like to know whether the preface is thought impolitic by some one who agrees with me in the main point, or by some one who differs with me and makes this excuse not to have his opinion contradicted? In Paris (_jubes regina renovare dolorem_) the preface was thought a masterpiece, the best and only possible defence of Buonaparte, and quite new _there_! It would be an impertinence in me to write a Life of Buonaparte after Sir W. without some such object as that expressed in the preface. After all, I do not care a _damn_ about the preface. It will get me on four pages somewhere else. Shall I retract my opinion altogether, and forswear my own book? Rayner is right to cry out: I think I have tipped him fair and foul copy, a lean rabbit and a fat one. The remainder of vol. ii will be ready to go on with, but not the beginning of the third. The appendixes had better be at the end of the second vol. Pray get them if you can: you have my Sieyes, have you not? One of them is there. I have been nearly in the other world. My regret was 'to die and leave the world "rough" copy'. Otherwise I had thought of an epitaph and a good end. Hic jacent reliquiae mortales Gulielmi Hazlitt, auctoris non intelligibilis: natus Maidstoniae in comi [ta] tu Cantiae, Apr. 10, 1778. Obiit Winterslowe, Dec., 1827. I think of writing an epistle to C. Lamb, Esq., to say that I have passed near the shadowy world, and have had new impressions of the vanity of this, with hopes of a better. Don't you think this would be good policy? Don't mention it to the severe author of the '_Press_', a poem, but me thinks the idea _arridet_ Hone. He would give sixpence to see me floating, upon a pair of borrowed wings, half way between heaven and earth, and edifying the good people at my departure, whom I shall only scandalize by remaining. At present my study and contemplation is the leg of a stewed fowl. I have behaved like a saint, and been obedient to orders. _Non fit pugil_, &c., I got a violent spasm by walking fifteen miles in the mud, and getting into a coach with an old lady who would have the window open. Delicacy, moderation, complaisance, the _suaviter in modo_, whisper it about, my dear Clarke, these are my faults and have been my ruin. LEIGH HUNT 1784-1859 To JOSEPH SEVERN _A belated letter_[1] Vale of Health, Hampstead, 8 _March_, 1821 DEAR SEVERN, You have concluded, of course, that I have sent no letters to Rome, because I was aware of the effect they would have on Keats's mind; and this is the principal cause; for, besides what I have been told about letters in Italy, I remember his telling me upon one occasion that, in his sick moments, he never wished to receive another letter, or ever to see another face, however friendly. But still I should have written to you, had I not been almost at death's door myself. You will imagine how ill I have been, when you hear that I have but just begun writing again for the _Examiner_ and _Indicator_, after an interval of several months, during which my flesh wasted from me with sickness and melancholy. Judge how often I thought of Keats, and with what feelings. Mr. Brown tells me he is comparatively calm now, or rather quite so. If he can bear to hear of us, pray tell him; but he knows it already, and can put it in better language than any man. I hear that he does not like to be told that he may get better; nor is it to be wondered at, considering his firm persuasion that he shall not survive. He can only regard it as a puerile thing, and an insinuation that he shall die. But if his persuasion should happen to be no longer so strong, or if he can now put up with attempts to console him, of what I have said a thousand times, and what I still (upon my honour) think always, that I have seen too many instances of recovery from apparently desperate cases of consumption not to be in hope to the very last. If he still cannot bear this, tell him--tell that great poet and noble-hearted man--that we shall all bear his memory in the most precious part of our hearts, and that the world shall bow their heads to it, as our loves do. Or if this, again, will trouble his spirit, tell him that we shall never cease to remember and love him; and that, Christian or infidel, the most sceptical of us has faith enough in the high things that nature puts into our heads, to think all who are of one accord in mind or heart are journeying to one and the same place, and shall unite somewhere or other again, face to face, mutually conscious, mutually delighted. Tell him he is only before us on the road, as he is in everything else; or, whether you tell him the latter or no, tell him the former, and add that we shall never forget that he was so, and that we are coming after him. The tears are again in my eyes, and I must not afford to shed them. The next letter I write shall be more to yourself, and more refreshing to your spirits, which we are very sensible must have been greatly taxed. But whether your friend dies or not, it will not be among the least lofty of your recollections by-and-by that you helped to smooth the sick-bed of so fine a being. God bless you, dear Severn. [Footnote 1: Keats died in February.] To PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY _Outpourings of gratitude_ Stonehouse, near Plymouth, 26 _March_, 1822. MY DEAREST FRIEND, Your letters always contain something delightful to me, whatever news they bring. Surgit _amici_ aliquid, quod in ipsis _nubibus_ _ardet_. But I confess your latter ones have greatly relieved me on the subject you speak of. They only make me long, with an extreme Homeric longing, to be at Pisa,--I mean such an one as Achilles felt when he longed to be with his father,--sharp in his very limbs. We have secured a ship, the _David Walter_, which will call for us here, and sets sail from London in a fortnight. I have written by to-day's post with intelligence of it to Mrs. Fletcher, enclosing her the letter, and giving her the option of going on board in London, or here. I need not say we shall attend to her comforts in every respect. The same post also carries a letter to Mr. Gisborne, stating your wishes, and wonders respecting _Adonais_. If it is not published before I leave England, I will publish my criticism upon the Pisa copy,--a criticism which I think you will like. I take the opportunity of showing the public why Gifford's review spoke so bitterly of _Prometheus_, and why it pretends that the most metaphysical passage of your most metaphysical poem is a specimen of the clearness of your general style. The wretched priest-like cunning and undertoned malignity of that review of _Prometheus_ is indeed a homage paid to qualities which can so provoke it. The _Quarterly_ pretends now, that it never meddles with you personally,--of course it never did! For this, _Blackwood_ cries out upon it, contrasting its behaviour in those delicate matters with its own! This is better and better, and the public seem to think so; for these things, depend upon it, are getting better understood every day, and shall be better and better understood every day to come. One circumstance which helps to reconcile me to having been detained on this coast, is the opportunity it has given me to make your works speak for themselves wherever I could; and you are in high lustre, I assure you, with the most intelligent circles in Plymouth, [Greek: astaer epsos]. I have, indeed, been astonished to find how well prepared people of intelligence are to fall in with your aspirations, and despise the mistakes and rascally instincts of your calumniators. This place, for instance, abounds in _schoolmasters_, who appear, to a man, to be liberal to an extreme and esoterical degree. And such, there is reason to believe, is the case over the greater part of the kingdom, greatly, no doubt, owing to political causes. Think of the consequences of this with the rising generation. I delight in _Adonais_. It is the most Delphic poetry I have seen a long while; full of those embodyings of the most subtle and airy imaginations,--those arrestings and explanations of the most shadowy yearnings of our being--which are the most difficult of all things to put into words, and the most delightful when put. I do not know whether you are aware how fond I am of your song on the Skylark; but you ought, if Ollier sent you a copy of the enlarged _Calendar_ _of Nature_, which he published separately under the title of the _Months_. I tell you this, because I have not done half or a twentieth part of what I ought to have done to make your writings properly appreciated. But I intended to do more every day, and now that I am coming to you, I shall be _totus_ in you and yours! For all good, and healthy, and industrious things, I will do such wonders, that I shall begin to believe I make some remote approach to something like a return for your kindness. Yet how can that be? At all events, I hope we shall all be the better for one another's society. Marianne, poor dear girl, is still very ailing and weak, but stronger upon the whole, she thinks, than when she first left London, and quite prepared and happy to set off on her spring voyage. She sends you part of her best love. I told her I supposed I must answer Marina's letter for her, but she is quite grand on the occasion, and vows she will do it herself, which, I assure you, will be the first time she has written a letter for many months. Ask Marina if she will be charitable, and write one to me. I will undertake to answer it with one double as long. But what am I talking about, when the captain speaks of sailing in a fortnight? I was led astray by her delightful letter to Marianne about walks, and duets, and violets, and ladies like violets. Am I indeed to see and be in the midst of all these beautiful things, ladies like lilies not excepted? And do the men in Italy really leave ladies to walk in those very amiable dry ditches by themselves? Oh! for a few strides, like those of Neptune, when he went from some place to some other place, and 'did it in three!' Dear Shelley, I am glad my letter to Lord B. pleased you, though I do not know why you should so thank me for it. But you are ingenious in inventing claims for me upon your affection. To HORACE SMITH _Shelley's death_ Pisa, 25 _July_, 1822. Dear Horace, I trust that the first news of the dreadful calamity which has befallen us here will have been broken to you by report, otherwise I shall come upon you with a most painful abruptness; but Shelley, my divine-minded friend, your friend, the friend of the universe, he has perished at sea. He was in a boat with his friend Captain Williams, going from Leghorn to Lerici, when a storm arose, and it is supposed the boat must have foundered. It was on the 8th instant, about four or five in the evening, they guess. A fisherman says he saw the boat a few minutes before it went down: he looked again and it was gone. He saw the boy they had with them aloft furling one of the sails. We hope his story is true, as their passage from life to death will then have been short; and what adds to the hope is, that in S's pocket (for the bodies were both thrown on shore some days afterwards,--conceive our horrible certainty, after trying all we could to hope!) a copy of Keats's last volume, which he had borrowed of me to read on his passage, was found _open_ and doubled back as if it had been thrust in, in the hurry of a surprise. God bless him! I cannot help thinking of him as if he were alive as much as ever, so unearthly he always appeared to me, and so seraphical a thing of the elements; and this is what all his friends say. But what we all feel, your own heart will tell you.... It has been often feared that Shelley and Captain Williams would meet with some accident, they were so hazardous; but when they set out on the 8th, in the morning it was fine. Our dear friend was passionately fond of the sea, and has been heard to say he should like it to be his death-bed.... To MRS. PROCTER _Accepting an invitation_ 5 York Buildings, 13 _March_ [1831]. MY DEAR MRS. PROCTER (for Madam, somehow, is not the thing), I am most pleased to be reminded of my promise, which I must have made if you say I did. I suppose I have been coming to keep it ever since; but it is a long road from sorrow to joy, and one is apt to get confused on the road. Do you know your letter brought the tears into my eyes? I hardly know why, unless it was that I saw Procter had been pouring his kind heart into yours, and you said:--'We must have him here instead of the coffee-house, and plant him by the fire, and warm him like a stray bird till he sings.' But indeed a kind word affects me where many a hard thump does not. Nevertheless, you must not tell this, except to the very masculine or feminine; though if you do not take it as a compliment to yourself,--I mean the confession of my weakness,--why, you are not Procter's wife, nor Mrs. Montagu's daughter, nor she who wrote the letter this morning to a poor battered author. PS. I eat any plain joint, of the plainer order, beef or mutton:--and you know I care for nothing at dinner, so that it does not hurt me. Friends' company is the thing. To A FRIEND _Offence and punishment_ Wimbledon, 11 and 12 _August_, 1846. ... I find I made a great confusion of my _portion_ of the legal expenses incurred by the _Examiner_, with the _whole_ of them. That portion only amounted to £750, the whole being £1500. Of this £750 out of my pocket (which was quite enough), £250 went to pay for expenses (counsel, &c.) attendant on the _failure_ of two Government prosecutions,--one for saying (_totidem verbis_) that 'of all monarchs since the Revolution, the successor of George III would have the finest opportunity of becoming nobly popular'; (think, nowadays, of being prosecuted for _that_!) and the other for copying from the _Stamford News_ the paragraph against military flogging, alluded to the other day in the _Daily News_. (Think, now, this moment, of being prosecuted for _That_!) The £500 fine and two years' imprisonment was for ludicrously contrasting the _Morning Post's_ picture of the Regent as an 'Adonis', &c. with the old and real fat state of the case, and for adding that his Royal Highness had lived for 'upwards of half a century without doing anything to deserve the admiration of his contemporaries or the gratitude of posterity'. Words to that effect, and I believe better,--but I do not quite remember them. They might be easily ascertained by reference to Peel's Coffee-house, and the words of the _Post_, too. Besides the fine, my imprisonment cost me several hundred pounds (I can't exactly say how many) in monstrous _douceurs_ to the gaoler for _liberty to walk in the garden_, for help towards getting me permission to fit up rooms in the sick hospital, and for fitting up said rooms, or rather converting them from sorts of washhouses, hitherto uninhabited and unfloored, into comfortable apartments,--which I did too expensively,--at least as far as papering the sitting-room with a trellis of roses went, and having my ceiling painted to imitate an out-of-door sky. No notice, however, could be taken, I suppose, of any of _this_ portion of the expenses, governments having nothing to do with the secret corruptions of gaolers or the pastorals of incarcerated poets: otherwise the prosecutions cost me altogether a good bit beyond a thousand pounds. But perhaps it might be mentioned that I went to prison from all but a sick bed, having been just ordered by the physician _to go to the seaside_, and _ride_ for the benefit of my health (pleasing dramatic contrast to the _verdict_!). I also declined, as I told you, to try avoiding the imprisonment by the help of Perry's offer of the famous secret 'Book'; and I further declined (as I think I also told you) to avail myself of an offer on the part of a royal agent (made, of course, in the guarded, though obvious manner in which such offers are conveyed), to drop the prosecution, provided we would agree to drop all future hostile mention of the Regent. But of this, too, governments could not be expected to take notice--perhaps would regard it as an addition to the offence. This, however, I must add, that the whole attack on the Regent was owing, not merely to the nonsense of the _Post_, but to his violation of those promises of conceding the Catholic claims, to which his princely word stood pledged. The subject of the article was the '_Dinner on St. Patrick's day_'. All the Whig world was indignant at that violation; so were the Irish, of course, _vehemently_; and it was on the spur of this publicly indignant movement that I wrote what I did,--as angrily and as much in earnest in the serious part of what I said as I was derisive in the rest. I did not care for any factious object, nor was I what is called anti-monarchical. I didn't know Cobbett, or Henry Hunt, or any demagogue, _even by sight_, except Sir Francis Burdett, and him by sight alone. Nor did I ever see, or speak a word with them, afterwards. I knew nothing, in fact, of politics themselves, except in some of those large and, as it appeared to me, obvious phases, which, at all events, _have since become obvious to most people_, and in fighting for which (if a man can be said to fight for a 'phase'!) I suffered all that Tories could inflict upon me,--by expenses in law and calumnies in literature;--reform, Catholic claims, free trade, abolition of flogging, right of free speech, as opposed by attorneys-general. I was, in fact, all the while nothing but a poetic student, appearing in politics once a week, but given up entirely to letters almost all the rest of it, and loving nothing so much as a book and a walk in the fields. I was precisely the sort of person, in these respects, which I am at this moment. As to George the Fourth, I aided, years afterwards, in publicly wishing him well--'years having brought the philosophic mind'. I believe I even expressed regret at not having given him the excuses due to all human beings (the passage, I take it, is in the book which Colburn called _Lord Byron and his Contemporaries_); _and when I consider that Moore has been pensioned, not only in spite of all his libels on him, but perhaps by very reason of their Whig partisanship, I should think it hard to be refused a pension purely because I openly suffered for what I had earnestly said_. I knew George the Fourth's physician, Sir William Knighton, who had been mine before I was imprisoned (it was _not_ he who was the royal agent alluded to); and, if my memory does not deceive me, Sir William told me that George had been gratified by the book above mentioned. Perhaps he had found out, by Sir William's help, that I was not an ill-natured man, or one who could not outlive what was mistaken in himself or resentful in others. As to my opinions about Governments, the bad conduct of the Allies, and of Napoleon, and the old Bourbons, certainly made them waver as to what might be ultimately best, monarchy or republicanism; but they ended in favour of their old predilections; and no man, for a long while, has been less a republican than myself, monarchies and courts appearing to me salutary for the good and graces of mankind, and Americanisms anything but either. But nobody, I conceive, that knew my writings, or heard of me truly from others, ever took me for a republican. William the Fourth saw or heard nothing of me to hinder his letting Lord Melbourne give me £200 out of the Royal Fund. Queen Victoria gave me another, through the same kind friend. She also went twice to see my play; and everybody knows how I praise and love her. _I do not think, therefore, in reference to the pension, that the public would care twopence about George the Fourth, one way or the other; or that if any remembered the case at all, they would connect the pension in the least with anything about him, but attribute it solely to the Queen's and Minister's goodness, and the wants of a sincere and not undeserving man of letters, distinguished for his loyal attachment_. I certainly think the £500 fine ought not to have been taken out of my pocket, or the other two £125 either; and I think also, that a liberal Whig minister might reasonably and _privately_ think some compensation on those accounts due to me. _I have been fighting his own fight from first to last, and helping to prepare matters for his triumph_. But still the above, in my opinion, is what the public would think of the matter, _and my friends of the press could lay it entirely to the literary account_. GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON 1788-1824 To MR. HODGSON _Travel in Portugal_ Lisbon, 16 _July_, 1809. Thus far have we pursued our route, and seen all sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, &c.,--which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forthcoming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate by smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private and clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the village of Cintra in Estremadura is the most beautiful, perhaps, in the world. I am very happy here, because I loves oranges, and talks bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is like their own,--and I goes into society (with my pocket pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and have got bites from the mosquitoes. But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by folks that go a-pleasuring. When the Portuguese are pertinacious, I say '_Carracho_!'--the great oath of the grandees, that very well supplies the place of 'Damme!'--and when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce him '_Ambra di merdo_'. With these two phrases, and a third,'_Avra bouro_', which signifieth 'Get an ass', I am universally understood to be a person of degree and a master of languages. How merrily we lives that travellers be!--if we had food and raiment. But, in sober sadness, anything is better than England, and I am infinitely amused with my pilgrimage, as far as it has gone. To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. A letter to Malta will find me, or to be forwarded, if I am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and Dwyer, and all the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. Excuse illegibility. Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and defeats and capital crimes and the misfortunes of one's friends; and let us hear of literary matters, and the controversies and the criticisms. All this will be pleasant--'_Suave mari magno_, &c.' Talking of that, I have been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. Adieu. TO THOMAS MOORE _Announces his engagement_ Newstead Abbey, 20 _Sept._ 1814. Here's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh! The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. MY DEAR MOORE, I am going to be married--that is, I am accepted, and one usually hopes the rest will follow. My mother of the Gracchi (that _are_ to be), _you_ think too strait-laced for me, although the paragon of only children, and invested with 'golden opinions of all sorts of men', and full of 'most blest conditions' as Desdemona herself. Miss Milbanke is the lady, and I have her father's invitation to proceed there in my elect capacity,--which, however, I cannot do until I have settled some business in London, and got a blue coat. She is said to be an heiress, but of that I really know nothing certainly, and shall not inquire. But I do know, that she has talents and excellent qualities; and you will not deny her judgement, after having refused six suitors and taken me. Now, if you have anything to say against this, pray do; my mind's made up, positively fixed, determined, and therefore I will listen to reason, because now it can do no harm. Things may occur to break it off, but I will hope not. In the meantime I tell you (a _secret_, by the by,--at least till I know she wishes it to be public) that I have proposed and am accepted. You need not be in a hurry to wish me joy, for one mayn't be married for months. I am going to town to-morrow, but expect to be here, on my way there, within a fortnight. If this had not happened, I should have gone to Italy. In my way down, perhaps you will meet me at Nottingham, and come over with me here. I need not say that nothing will give me greater pleasure. I must, of course, reform thoroughly; and, seriously, if I can contribute to her happiness, I shall secure my own. She is so good a person that--that--in short, I wish I was a better. TO JOHN MURRAY _No bid for sweet voices_ Venice, 6 _April_, 1819. The second canto of Don Juan was sent, on Saturday last, by post, in four packets, two of four, and two of three sheets each, containing in all two hundred and seventeen stanzas, octave measure. But I will permit no curtailments.... You shan't make _canticles_ of my cantos. The poem will please, if it is lively; if it is stupid, it will fail; but I will have none of your damned cutting and slashing. If you please, you may publish _anonymously_; it will perhaps be better; but I will battle my way against them all, like a porcupine. So you and Mr. Foscolo, etc., want me to undertake what you call a 'great work'? an Epic Poem, I suppose or some such pyramid. I'll try no such thing; I hate tasks. And then 'seven or eight years'! God send us all well this day three months, let alone years. If one's years can't be better employed than in sweating poesy, a man had better be a ditcher. And works, too!--is _Childe Harold_ nothing? You have so many '_divine_' poems, is it nothing to have written a _human_ one? without any of your worn-out machinery. Why, man, I could have spun the thoughts of the four cantos of that poem into twenty, had I wanted to book-make, and its passion into as many modern tragedies. Since you want _length_, you shall have enough of _Juan_, for I'll make fifty cantos.... Besides, I mean to write my best work in _Italian_, and it will take me nine years more thoroughly to master the language; and then if my fancy exist, and I exist too, I will try what I _can_ do _really_. As to the estimation of the English which you talk of, let them calculate what it is worth, before they insult me with their insolent condescension. I have not written for their pleasure. If they are pleased, it is that they chose to be so; I have never flattered their opinions, nor their pride; nor will I. Neither will I make 'Ladies' books' '_al dilettar le femine e la plebe_'. I have written from the fullness of my mind, from passion, from impulse, from many motives, but not for their 'sweet voices'. I know the precise worth of popular applause, for few scribblers have had more of it; and if I chose to swerve into their paths, I could retain it, or resume it. But I neither love ye, nor fear ye; and though I buy with ye and sell with ye, and talk with ye, I will neither eat with ye, drink with ye, nor pray with ye. They made me, without my search, a species of popular idol; they, without reason or judgement, beyond the caprice of their good pleasure, threw down the image from its pedestal; it was not broken with the fall, and they would, it seems, again replace it,--but they shall not. You ask about my health: about the beginning of the year I was in a state of great exhaustion ... and I was obliged to reform my 'way of life', which was conducting me from the 'yellow leaf' to the ground, with all deliberate speed. I am better in health and morals, and very much yours, &c.-- PS. I have read Hodgson's '_Friends_'. He is right in defending Pope against the bastard pelicans of the poetical winter day, who add insult to their parricide, by sucking the blood of the parent of English _real_ poetry,--poetry without fault,--and then spurning the bosom which fed them. TO THE SAME _The cemetery at Bologna_ Bologna, 7 _June_, 1819. ... I have been picture-gazing this morning at the famous Domenichino and Guido, both of which are superlative. I afterwards went to the beautiful cemetery of Bologna, beyond the walls, and found, besides the superb burial-ground, an original of a Custode, who reminded me of the grave-digger in _Hamlet_. He has a collection of capuchins' skulls, labelled on the forehead, and taking down one of them, said, 'This was Brother Desiderio Berro, who died at forty--one of my best friends. I begged his head of his brethren after his decease, and they gave it me. I put it in lime, and then boiled it. Here it is, teeth and all, in excellent preservation. He was the merriest, cleverest fellow I ever knew. Wherever he went, he brought joy; and whenever any one was melancholy, the sight of him was enough to make him cheerful again. He walked so actively, you might have taken him for a dancer--he joked--he laughed--oh! he was such a Frate as I never saw before, nor ever shall again!' He told me that he had himself planted all the cypresses in the cemetery; that he had the greatest attachment to them and to his dead people; that since 1801 they had buried fifty-three thousand persons. In showing some older monuments, there was that of a Roman girl of twenty, with a bust by Bernini. She was a princess Bartorini, dead two centuries ago: he said that, on opening her grave, they had found her hair complete, and 'as yellow as gold'. Some of the epitaphs at Ferrara pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance:-- '_Martini Luigi Implora pace.' 'Lucrezia Picini Implora eterna quiete_.' Can anything be more full of pathos? Those few words say all that can be said or sought: the dead had had enough of life; all they wanted was rest, and this they _implore_! There is all the helplessness, and humble hope, and deathlike prayer, that can arise from the grave--'_implora pace_'. I hope, whoever may survive me, and shall see me put in the foreigners' burying-ground at the Lido, within the fortress by the Adriatic, will see those two words, and no more, put over me. I trust they won't think of 'pickling, and bringing me home to Clod or Blunderbuss Hall'. I am sure my bones would not rest in an English grave, or my clay mix with the earth of that country. I believe the thought would drive me mad on my deathbed, could I suppose that any of my friends would be base enough to convey my carcass back to your soil. I would not even feed your worms, if I could help it. So, as Shakespeare says of Mowbray, the banished Duke of Norfolk, who died at Venice (see _Richard II_), that he, after fighting Against black Pagans, Turks, and Saracens, And toiled with works of war, retired himself To Italy, and there, at _Venice_, gave His body to that _pleasant_ country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long. Before I left Venice, I had returned to you your late, and Mr. Hobhouse's sheets of _Juan_. Don't wait for further answers from me, but address yours to Venice, as usual. I know nothing of my own movements; I may return there in a few days, or not for some time. All this depends on circumstances. I left Mr. Hoppner very well.... My daughter Allegra was well too, and is growing pretty; her hair is growing darker, and her eyes are blue. Her temper and her ways, Mr. Hoppner says, are like mine, as well as her features: she will make, in that case, a manageable young lady. I have never heard anything of Ada, the little Electra of my Mycenae.... But there will come a day of reckoning, even if I should not live to see it.... What a long letter I have scribbled! PS. Here, as in Greece, they strew flowers on the tombs. I saw a quantity of rose-leaves, and entire roses, scattered over the graves at Ferrara. It has the most pleasing effect you can imagine. TO THE SAME _In rebellious mood_ Bologna, 24 _Aug_. 1819. I wrote to you by last post, enclosing a buffooning letter for publication, addressed to the buffoon Roberts, who has thought proper to tie a canister to his own tail. It was written off-hand, and in the midst of circumstances not very favourable to facetiousness, so that there may, perhaps, be more bitterness than enough for that sort of small acid punch:--you will tell me. Keep the _anonymous_, in any case: it helps what fun there may be. But if the matter grow serious about _Don Juan_, and you feel _yourself_ in a scrape, or _me_ either, _own that I am the author. I_ will never _shrink_, and if _you_ do, I can always answer you in the question of Guatimozin to his minister--each being on his own coals. I wish that I had been in better spirits; but I am out of sorts, out of nerves, and now and then (I begin to fear) out of my senses. All this Italy has done for me, and not England: I defy all you, and your climate to boot, to make me mad. But if ever I do really become a Bedlamite, and wear a strait waistcoat, let me be brought back among you: your people will then be proper company. I assure you what I here say and feel has nothing to do with England, either in a literary or personal point of view. All my present pleasures or plagues are as Italian as the opera. And, after all, they are but trifles; for all this arises from my 'Dama's' being in the country for three days (at Capofiume). But as I could never live but for one human being at a time (and, I assure you, _that one_ has never been _myself_, as you may know by the consequences, for the _selfish_ are _successful_ in life), I feel alone and unhappy. I have sent for my daughter from Venice, and I ride daily, and walk in a garden, under a purple canopy of grapes, and sit by a fountain, and talk with the gardener of his tools, which seem greater than Adam's, and with his wife, and with his son's wife, who is the youngest of the party, and, I think, talks best of the three. Then I revisit the Campo Santo, and my old friend, the sexton, has two--but _one_ the prettiest daughter imaginable; and I amuse myself with contrasting her beautiful and innocent face of fifteen with the skulls with which he has peopled several cells, and particularly with that of one skull, dated 1766, which was once covered (the tradition goes) by the most lovely features of Bologna--noble and rich. When I look at these, and at this girl--when I think of what _they were_, and what she must be--why then, my dear Murray, I won't shock you by saying what I think. It is little matter what becomes of us 'bearded men', but I don't like the notion of a beautiful woman's lasting less than a beautiful tree--than her own picture--her own shadow, which won't change so to the sun as her face to the mirror. I must leave off, for my head aches consumedly. I have never been quite well since the night of the representation of Alfieri's _Mirra_, a fortnight ago. To PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY _A trio of poets_ Ravenna, 26 _April_, 1821. The child continues doing well, and the accounts are regular and favourable. It is gratifying to me that you and Mrs. Shelley do not disapprove of the step which I have taken, which is merely temporary. I am very sorry to hear what you say of Keats--is it _actually_ true? I did not think criticism had been so killing. Though I differ from you essentially in your estimate of his performances, I so much abhor all unnecessary pain, that I would rather he had been seated on the highest peak of Parnassus than have perished in such a manner. Poor fellow! though with such inordinate self-love he would probably have not been very happy. I read the review of _Endymion_ in the _Quarterly_. It was severe,--but surely not so severe as many reviews in that and other journals upon others. I recollect the effect on me of the _Edinburgh_ on my first poem; it was rage, and resistance, and redress--but not despondency nor despair. I grant that those are not amiable feelings; but, in this world of bustle and broil, and especially in the career of writing, a man should calculate upon his powers of _resistance_ before he goes into the arena. Expect not life from pain nor danger free, Nor deem the doom of man reserved for thee. You know my opinion of _that second-hand_ school of poetry. You also know my high opinion of your own poetry,--because it is of _no_ school. I read _Cenci_--but, besides that I think the _subject_ essentially _un_ dramatic, I am not an admirer of our old dramatists, _as models_. I deny that the English have hitherto had a drama at all. Your _Cenci_, however, was a work of power, and poetry. As to _my_ drama, pray revenge yourself upon it, by being as free as I have been with yours. I have not yet got your _Prometheus_, which I long to see. I have heard nothing of mine, and do not know that it is yet published. I have published a pamphlet on the Pope controversy, which you will not like. Had I known that Keats was dead--or that he was alive and so sensitive--I should have omitted some remarks upon his poetry, to which I was provoked by his _attack_ upon _Pope_, and my disapprobation of _his own_ style of writing. You want me to undertake a great poem--I have not the inclination nor the power. As I grow older, the indifference--_not_ to life, for we love it by instinct--but to the stimuli of life, increases. Besides, this late failure of the Italians has latterly disappointed me for many reasons,--some public, some personal. My respects to Mrs. S. PS. Could not you and I contrive to meet this summer? Could not you take a run here _alone_? To LADY BYRON _A plain statement of facts_ Pisa, 17 _Nov_. 1821, I have to acknowledge the receipt of 'Ada's hair', which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl,--perhaps from its being let grow. I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will tell you why;--I believe that they are the only two or three words of your handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned; and except the two words, or rather the one word, 'Household', written twice in an old account book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for two reasons:--firstly, it was written in a style not very agreeable; and, secondly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people. I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's birthday--the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting her;--perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or nearness;--every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one rallying-point as long as our child exists, which I presume we both hope will be long after either of her parents. The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the not much longer one of our prior acquaintance. We both made a bitter mistake; but now it is over, and irrevocably so. For, at thirty-three on my part, and a few years less on yours, though it is no very extended period of life, still it is one when the habits and thought are generally so formed as to admit of no modification; and as we could not agree when younger, we should with difficulty do so now. I say all this, because I own to you, that, notwithstanding everything, I considered our reunion as not impossible for more than a year after the separation;--but then I gave up the hope entirely and for ever. But this very impossibility of reunion seems to me at least a reason why, on all the few points of discussion which can arise between us, we should preserve the courtesies of life, and as much of its kindness as people who are never to meet may preserve perhaps more easily than nearer connexions. For my own part, I am violent, but not malignant; for only fresh provocations can awaken my resentments. To you, who are colder and more concentrated, I would just hint, that you may sometimes mistake the depth of a cold anger for dignity, and a worse feeling for duty. I assure you that I bear you _now_ (whatever I may have done) no resentment whatever. Remember, that _if you have injured me_ in aught, this forgiveness is something; and that, if I have _injured you_, it is something more still, if it be true, as the moralists say, that the most offending are the least forgiving. Whether the offence has been solely on my side, or reciprocal, or on yours chiefly, I have ceased to reflect upon any but two things,--viz. that you are the mother of my child, and that we shall never meet again. I think if you also consider the two corresponding points with reference to myself, it will be better for all three. To MR. BARFF _Sympathy with the Greeks_ 10 _March_, 1824. Enclosed is an answer to Mr. Parruca's letter, and I hope that you will assure him from me, that I have done and am doing all I can to reunite the Greeks with the Greeks. I am extremely obliged by your offer of your country-house (as for all other kindness) in case that my health should require my removal; but I cannot quit Greece while there is a chance of my being of any (even supposed) utility:--there is a stake worth millions such as I am, and while I can stand at all, I must stand by the cause. When I say this, I am at the same time aware of the difficulties and dissensions and defects of the Greeks themselves; but allowance must be made for them by all reasonable people. My chief, indeed _nine-tenths_ of my expenses here are solely in advances to or on behalf of the Greeks, and objects connected with their independence. [_Enclosure, translated_] To S.R. PARRUCA 10 _March_, 1824. _Sir_,--I have the honour of answering your letter. My first wish has always been to bring the Greeks to agree among themselves. I came here by the invitation of the Greek Government, and I do not think that I ought to abandon Roumelia for the Peloponnesus until that Government shall desire it; and the more so, as this part is exposed in a greater degree to the enemy. Nevertheless, if my presence can really be of any assistance in uniting two or more parties, I am ready to go anywhere, either as a mediator, or, if necessary, as a hostage. In these affairs I have neither private views, nor private dislike of any individual, but the sincere wish of deserving the name of the friend of your country, and of her patriots. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 1792-1822 To T.J. HOGG _His first marriage_ [_No date. Postmark_, Rhayader. Summer of 1811.] MY DEAR FRIEND, You will perhaps see me before you can answer this; perhaps not; Heaven knows! I shall certainly come to York, but _Harriet Westbrook_ will decide whether now or in three weeks. Her father has persecuted her in a most horrible way, by endeavouring to compel her to go to school. She asked my advice: resistance, was the answer, at the same time that I essayed to mollify Mr. W. in vain! And in consequence of my advice _she_ has thrown herself upon _my_ protection. I set off for London on Monday. How flattering a distinction!--I am thinking of ten million things at once. What have I said? I declare, quite _ludicrous_. I advised her to resist. She wrote to say that resistance was useless, but that she would fly with me, and threw herself upon my protection. We shall have £200 a year; when we find it run short, we must live, I suppose, upon love! Gratitude and admiration, all demand that I should love her _for ever._ We shall see you at York. I will hear your arguments for matrimonialism, by which I am now almost convinced. I can get lodgings at York, I suppose. Direct to me at Graham's, 18, Sackville Street, Piccadilly. Your inclosure of £10 has arrived; I am now indebted to you £30. In spite of philosophy, I am rather ashamed of this unceremonious exsiccation of your financial river. But indeed, my dear friend, the gratitude which I owe you for your society and attachment ought so far to overbalance this consideration as to leave me nothing but that. I must, however, pay you when I can. I suspect that the _strain_ is gone for ever. This letter will convince you that I am not under the influence of a _strain_. I am thinking at once of ten million things. I shall come to live near you, as Mr. Peyton. Ever your most faithful friend. I shall be at 18, Sackville Street; at least direct there. Do not send more cash; I shall raise supplies in London. To WILLIAM GODWIN _An introduction_ Keswick, 3 _Jan_. 1812. You will be surprised at hearing from a stranger. No introduction has, nor in all probability ever will authorize that which common thinkers would call a liberty; it is, however, a liberty which, although not sanctioned by custom, is so far from being reprobated by reason, that the dearest interests of mankind imperiously demand that a certain etiquette of fashion should no longer keep 'man at a distance from man', or impose its flimsy fancies between the free communication of intellect. The name of Godwin has been used to excite in me feelings of reverence and admiration. I have been accustomed to consider him a luminary too dazzling for the darkness which surrounds him. From the earliest period of my knowledge of his principles, I have ardently desired to share, on the footing of intimacy, that intellect which I have delighted to contemplate in its emanations. Considering, then, these feelings, you will not be surprised at the inconceivable emotions with which I learned your existence and your dwelling. I had enrolled your name in the list of the honourable dead. I had felt regret that the glory of your being had passed from this earth of ours. It is not so; you still live, and, I firmly believe, are still planning the welfare of human kind. I have but just entered on the scene of human operations; yet my feelings and my reasonings correspond with what yours were. My course has been short, but eventful. I have seen much of human prejudice, suffered much from human persecution, yet I see no reason hence inferable which should alter my wishes for their renovation. The ill-treatment I have met with has more than ever impressed the truth of my principles on my judgement. I am young, I am ardent in the cause of philanthropy and truth; do not suppose that this is vanity; I am not conscious that it influences this portraiture. I imagine myself dispassionately describing the state of my mind. I am young; you have gone before me--I doubt not, are a veteran to me in the years of persecution. Is it strange that, defying prejudice as I have done; I should outstep the limits of custom's prescription, and endeavour to make my desire useful by a friendship with William Godwin? I pray you to answer this letter. Imperfect as may be my capacity, my desire is ardent and unintermitted. Half an hour would be at least humanely employed in the experiment. I may mistake your residence; certain feelings, of which I may be an inadequate arbiter, may induce you to desire concealment; I may not, in fine, have an answer to this letter. If I do not, when I come to London, I shall seek for you. I am convinced I could represent myself to you in such terms as not to be thought wholly unworthy of your friendship; at least, if desire for universal happiness has any claim upon your preference, that desire I can exhibit. Adieu! I shall earnestly await your answer. To THOMAS HOOKHAM _A subscription for Hunt_ _February_ 1813. MY DEAR SIR, I am boiling with indignation at the horrible injustice and tyranny of the sentence pronounced on Hunt and his brother; and it is on this subject that I write to you. Surely the seal of abjectness and slavery is indelibly stamped upon the character of England. Although I do not retract in the slightest degree my wish for a subscription for the widows and children of those poor men hung at York, yet this £1000 which the Hunts are sentenced to pay is an affair of more consequence. Hunt is a brave, a good, and an enlightened man. Surely the public, for whom Hunt has done so much, will repay in part the great debt of obligation which they owe the champion of their liberties and virtues; or are they dead, cold, stone-hearted, and insensible--brutalized by centuries of unremitting bondage? However that may be, they surely may be excited into some slight acknowledgement of his merits. Whilst hundreds of thousands are sent to the tyrants of Russia, he pines in a dungeon, far from all that can make life desired. Well, I am rather poor at present; but I have £20 which is not immediately wanted. Pray, begin a subscription for the Hunts; put down my name for that sum, and, when I hear that you have complied with my request, I will send it you. Now, if there are any difficulties in the way of this scheme of ours, for the love of liberty and virtue, overcome them. Oh! that I might wallow for one night in the Bank of England! _Queen Mab_ is finished and transcribed. I am now preparing the notes, which shall be long and philosophical. You will receive it with the other poems. I think that the whole should form one volume; but of that we can speak hereafter. As to the French _Encyclopédie_, it is a book which I am desirous--very desirous--of possessing, and if you could get me a few months' credit (being at present rather low in cash), I should very much desire to have it. My dear sir, excuse the earnestness of the first part of my letter. I feel warmly on this subject, and I flatter myself that so long as your own independence and liberty remain uncompromised, you are inclined to second my desires. PS. If no other way can be devised for this subscription, will you take the trouble on yourself of writing an appropriate advertisement for the papers, inserting, by way of stimulant, my subscription? On second thoughts, I enclose the £20. To MR. OLLIER _An article by Southey_ Florence, 15 _Oct_. 1819. DEAR SIR, The droll remarks of the _Quarterly_, and Hunt's kind defence, arrived as safe as such poison, and safer than such an antidote, usually do. I am on the point of sending to you 250 copies of a work which I have printed in Italy; which you will have to pay four or five pounds duty upon, on my account. Hunt will tell you the _kind of thing_ it is, and in the course of the winter I shall send directions for its publication, _until the arrival of which directions, I request that you would have the kindness not_ to open the box, _or, if by necessity it is opened, to abstain from observing yourself or permitting others to observe, what it contains_. I trust this confidently to you, it being of consequence. Meanwhile, assure yourself that this work has no reference, direct or indirect, to politics, or religion, or personal satire, and that this precaution is merely literary. The _Prometheus_, a poem in my best style, whatever that may amount to, will arrive with it, but in MS., which you can print and publish in the season. It is the most perfect of my productions. Southey wrote the article in question, I am well aware. Observe the impudence of the man in speaking of himself. The only remark worth notice in this piece is the assertion that I imitate Wordsworth. It may as well be said that Lord Byron imitates Wordsworth, or that Wordsworth imitates Lord Byron, both being great poets, and deriving from the new springs of thought and feeling, which the great events of our age have exposed to view, a similar tone of sentiment, imagery, and expression. A certain similarity all the best writers of any particular age inevitably are marked with, from the spirit of that age acting on all. This I had explained in my _Preface_, which the writer was too disingenuous to advert to. As to the other trash, and particularly that lame attack on my personal character, which was meant so ill, and which I am not the man to feel, 'tis all nothing. I am glad, with respect to that part of it which alludes to Hunt, that it should so have happened that I dedicate, as you will see, a work which has all the capacities for being popular to that excellent person. I was amused, too, with the finale; it is like the end of the first act of an opera, when that tremendous concordant discord sets up from the orchestra, and everybody talks and sings at once. It describes the result of my battle with their Omnipotent God; his pulling me under the sea by the hair of my head, like Pharaoh; my calling out like the devil who was _game_ to the last; swearing and cursing in all comic and horrid oaths, like a French postilion on Mount Cenis; entreating everybody to drown themselves; pretending not to be drowned myself when I _am_ drowned; and lastly, _being_ drowned. You would do me a particular kindness if you would call on Hunt, and ask him when my parcel went, the name of the ship, and the name of the captain, and whether he has any bill of lading, which, if he has, you would oblige me by sending, together with the rest of the information, by return of post, addressed to the Post Office, Florence. To MRS. HUNT _Keats and some others_ [Pisa] 11 _Nov_. 1820. MY BEST MARIANNE, I am delighted to hear that you complain of me for not writing to you, although I have much more reason to complain of you for not writing to me. At least it promises me a letter from you, and you know with what pleasure we receive, and with what anxiety we expect intelligence from you--almost the only friends who now remain to us. I am afraid that the strict system of expense to which you are limited annoys you all very much, and that Hunt's health suffers both from that and from the incredible exertions which I see by the _Indicators_ and the _Examiners_ that he is making. Would to Heaven that I had the power of doing you some good! but when you are sure that the wish is sincere, the bare expression of it may help to cheer you. The Gisbornes are arrived, and have brought news of you, and some books, the principal part of which, however, are yet to arrive by sea. Keats's new volume has arrived to us, and the fragment called _Hyperion_ promises for him that he is destined to become one of the first writers of the age. His other things are imperfect enough, and, what is worse, written in the bad sort of style which is becoming fashionable among those who fancy that they are imitating Hunt and Wordsworth. But of all these things nothing is worse than ----, in spite of Hunt's extracting the only good stanzas, with his usual good nature. Indeed, _I_ ought not to complain of Hunt's good nature, for no one owes so much to it. Is not the vulgarity of these wretched imitations of Lord Byron carried to a pitch of the sublime? His indecencies, too, both against sexual nature, and against human nature in general, sit very awkwardly upon him. He only affects the libertine: he is, really, a very amiable, friendly, and agreeable man, I hear. But is not this monstrous? In Lord Byron all this has an analogy with the general system of his character, and the wit and poetry which surround hide with their light the darkness of the thing itself. They contradict it even; they prove that the strength and beauty of human nature can survive and conquer all that appears most inconsistent with it. But for a writer to be at once filthy and dull is a crime against gods, men, and columns. For Heaven's sake do not show this to any one but Hunt, for it would irritate the wasp's nest of the irritable race of poets. Where is Keats now? I am anxiously expecting him in Italy, when I shall take care to bestow every possible attention on him. I consider his a most valuable life, and I am deeply interested in his safety. I intend to be the physician both of his body and his soul, to keep the one warm, and to teach the other Greek and Spanish. I am aware, indeed, in part, that I am nourishing a rival who will far surpass me; and this is an additional motive, and will be an added pleasure. We are at this moment removing from the Bagni to Pisa, for the Serchio has broken its banks, and all the country about is under water. An old friend and fellow-townsman of mine, Captain Medwin, is on a visit to us at present, and we anxiously expect Keats, to whom I would write if I knew where to address. Adieu, my dear Marianne. Write soon; kiss all the babes for me, and tell me news of them, and give my love to Bessy and Hunt. To LEIGH HUNT _A literary collaboration_ Pisa, 26 _Aug._ 1821. MY DEAREST FRIEND, Since I last wrote to you, I have been on a visit to Lord Byron at Ravenna. The result of this visit was a determination, on his part, to come and live at Pisa; and I have taken the finest palace on the Lung' Arno for him. But the material part of my visit consists in a message which he desires me to give you, and which, I think, ought to add to your determination--for such a one I hope you have formed--of restoring your shattered health and spirits by a migration to these 'regions mild of calm and serene air'. He proposes that you should come out and go shares with him and me, in a periodical work, to be conducted here; in which each of the contracting parties should publish all their original compositions and share the profits. He proposed it to Moore, but for some reason it was never brought to bear. There can be no doubt that the _profits_ of any scheme in which you and Lord Byron engage, must, from various, yet co-operating reasons, be very great. As for myself, I am for the present only a sort of link between you and him, until you can know each other, and effectuate the arrangement; since (to entrust you with a secret which, for your sake, I withhold from Lord Byron) nothing would induce me to share in the profits, and still less, in the borrowed splendour of such a partnership. You and he, in different manners, would be equal, and would bring, in a different manner, but in the same proportion, equal stocks of reputation and success. Do not let my frankness with you, nor my belief that you deserve it more than Lord Byron, have the effect of deterring you from assuming a station in modern literature which the universal voice of my contemporaries forbids me either to stoop or to aspire to. I am, and I desire to be, nothing. I did not ask Lord Byron to assist me in sending a remittance for your journey; because there are men, however excellent, from whom we would never receive an obligation, in the worldly sense of the word; and I am as jealous for my friend as for myself. But I suppose that I shall at last make up an impudent face, and ask Horace Smith to add to the many obligations he has conferred on me. I know I need only ask. I think I have never told you how very much I like your _Amyntas_; it almost reconciles me to translations. In another sense I still demur. You might have written another such a poem as the _Nymphs_, with no access of efforts. I am full of thoughts and plans, and should do something, if the feeble and irritable frame which incloses it was willing to obey the spirit. I fancy that then I should do great things. Before this you will have seen _Adonais_. Lord Byron, I suppose from modesty, on account of his being mentioned in it, did not say a word of _Adonais_, though he was loud in his praise of _Prometheus_, and, what you will not agree with him in, censure of the _Cenci_. Certainly, if _Marino Faliero_ is a drama, the _Cenci_ is not--but that between ourselves. Lord Byron is reformed, as far as gallantry goes, and lives with a beautiful and sentimental Italian lady, who is as much attached to him as may be. I trust greatly to his intercourse with you, for his creed to become as pure as he thinks his conduct is. He has many generous and exalted qualities, but the canker of aristocracy wants to be cut out. JOHN KEATS 1795-1821 To JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS _Burns's cottage_ Maybole, 11 _July_ [1818]. MY DEAR REYNOLDS, ... I am approaching Burns's cottage very fast. We have made continual inquiries from the time we saw his tomb at Dumfries. His name, of course, is known all about: his great reputation among the plodding people is, 'that he wrote a good _mony_ sensible things'. One of the pleasantest means of annulling self is approaching such a shrine as the Cottage of Burns: we need not think of his misery--that is all gone, bad luck to it! I shall look upon it hereafter with unmixed pleasure, as I do my Stratford-on-Avon day with Bailey. I shall fill this sheet for you in the Bardie's country, going no further than this, till I get to the town of Ayr, which will be a nine miles' walk to tea. We were talking on different and indifferent things, when, on a sudden, we turned a corner upon the immediate country of Ayr. The sight was as rich as possible. I had no conception that the native place of Burns was so beautiful; the idea I had was more desolate: his '_Rigs of Barley_' seemed always to me but a few strips of green on a cold hill--Oh, prejudice!--It was as rich as Devon. I endeavoured to drink in the prospect, that I might spin it out to you, as the silkworm makes silk from mulberry leaves. I cannot recollect it. Besides all the beauty, there were the mountains of Arran Isle, black and huge over the sea. We came down upon everything suddenly; there were in our way the 'bonny Doon', with the brig that Tam o' Shanter crossed, Kirk Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and then the Brigs of Ayr. First we stood upon the Bridge across the Doon, surrounded by every phantasy of green in tree, meadow, and hill: the stream of the Doon, as a farmer told us, is covered with trees 'from head to foot'. You know those beautiful heaths, so fresh against the weather of a summer's evening; there was one stretching along behind the trees. I wish I knew always the humour my friends would be in at opening a letter of mine, to suit it to them as nearly as possible. I could always find an egg-shell for melancholy, and, as for merriment, a witty humour will turn anything to account. My head is sometimes in such a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies of our moments, that I can get into no settled strain in my letters. My wig! Burns and sentimentality coming across you and Frank Floodgate in the office. Oh, Scenery, that thou shouldst be crushed between two puns! As for them, I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch region. I hope Brown does not put them in his journal: if he does, I must sit on the cutty-stool all next winter. We went to Kirk Alloway. 'A prophet is no prophet in his own country.' We went to the Cottage and took some whisky. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of writing some lines under the roof: they are so bad I cannot transcribe them. The man at the cottage was a great bore with his anecdotes. I hate the rascal. His life consists in fuzy, fuzzy, fuzziest. He drinks glasses, five for the quarter, and twelve for the hour; he is a mahogany-faced old jackass who knew Burns: he ought to have been kicked for having spoken to him. He calls himself 'a curious old bitch', but he is a flat old dog. I should like to employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. Oh, the flummery of a birthplace! Cant! cant! cant! It is enough to give a spirit the guts-ache. Many a true word, they say, is spoken in jest--this may be because his gab hindered my sublimity: the flat dog made me write a flat sonnet. My dear Reynolds, I cannot write about scenery and visitings. Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable reality, but it is greater than remembrance. You would lift your eyes from Homer only to see close before you the real Isle of Tenedos. You would rather read Homer afterwards than remember yourself. One song of Burns's is of more worth to you than all I could think for a whole year in his native country. His misery is a dead weight upon the nimbleness of one's quill; I tried to forget it--to drink toddy without any care--to write a merry sonnet--it won't do--he talked, he drank with blackguards; he was miserable. We can see horribly clear, in the works of such a man, his whole life, as if we were God's spies.... TO RICHARD WOODHOUSE _The poetic character_ Hampstead, 27 _Oct_. 1818. MY DEAR WOODHOUSE, Your letter gave me great satisfaction, more on account of its friendliness than any relish of that matter in it which is accounted so acceptable in the _genus irritabile_. The best answer I can give you is in a clerklike manner to make some observations on two principal points which seem to point like indices into the midst of the whole _pro_ and _con_ about genius, and views, and achievements, and ambition, _et coetera_. 1st. As to the poetical character itself (I mean that sort, of which, if I am anything, I am a member; that sort distinguished from the Wordsworthian, or egotistical sublime; which is a thing _per se_, and stands alone), it is not itself--it has no self--it is everything and nothing--it has no character--it enjoys light and shade--it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated--it has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher delights the chameleon poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things, any more than from its taste for the bright one, because they both end in speculation. A poet is the most unpoetical of anything in existence, because he has no identity; he is continually in for, and filling, some other body. The sun, the moon, the sea, and men and women, who are creatures of impulse, are poetical, and have about them an unchangeable attribute; the poet has none, no identity. He is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's creatures. If, then, he has no self, and if I am a poet, where is the wonder that I should say I would write no more? Might I not at that very instant have been cogitating on the characters of Saturn and Ops? It is a wretched thing to confess, but it is a very fact, that not one word I ever utter can be taken for granted as an opinion growing out of my identical nature. How can it, when I have no nature? When I am in a room with people, if I ever am free from speculating on creations of my own brain, then, not myself goes home to myself, but the identity of every one in the room begins to press upon me, [so] that I am in a very little time annihilated--not only among men; it would be the same in a nursery of children. I know not whether I make myself wholly understood: I hope enough so to let you see that no dependence is to be placed on what I said that day. In the second place, I will speak of my views, and of the life I purpose to myself. I am ambitious of doing the world some good: if I should be spared, that may be the work of maturer years--in the interval I will assay to reach to as high a summit in poetry as the nerve bestowed upon me will suffer. The faint conceptions I have of poems to come bring the blood frequently into my forehead. All I hope is, that I may not lose all interest in human affairs--that the solitary indifference I feel for applause, even from the finest spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do not think it will. I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labours should be burnt every morning, and no eye ever shine upon them. But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from some character in whose soul I now live ... TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY _Returning advice_ Hampstead, 10 _Aug_. 1820. MY DEAR SHELLEY, I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation, it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery. My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I have done about reputation. I received a copy of the _Cenci_, as from yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of--the poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose, which may be the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have 'self-concentration'--selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure, will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of _Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its monk. I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Could I have my own wish effected, you would have it still in manuscript, or be but now putting an end to the second act. I remember you advising me not to publish my first blights, on Hampstead Heath. I am returning advice upon your hands. Most of the poems in the volume I send you have been written above two years, and would never have been published but for a hope of gain; so you see I am inclined enough to take your advice now. I must express once more my deep sense of your kindness, adding my sincere thanks and respects for Mrs. Shelley. In hope of soon seeing you-- To CHARLES BROWN _A despairing cry_ Naples, 1 _Nov_. [1820.] MY DEAR BROWN, Yesterday we were let out of quarantine, during which my health suffered more from bad air and the stifled cabin than it had done the whole voyage. The fresh air revived me a little, and I hope I am well enough this morning to write to you a short calm letter;--if that can be called one, in which I am afraid to speak of what I would fainest dwell upon. As I have gone thus far into it, I must go on a little;--perhaps it may relieve the load of _wretchedness_ which presses upon me. The persuasion that I shall see her no more will kill me. My dear Brown, I should have had her when I was in health, and I should have remained well. I can bear to die--I cannot bear to leave her. Oh, God! God! God! Everything I have in my trunks that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear. The silk lining she put in my travelling cap scalds my head. My imagination is horribly vivid about her--I see her--I hear her. There is nothing in the world of sufficient interest to divert me from her a moment. This was the case when I was in England: I cannot recollect, without shuddering, the time that I was a prisoner at Hunt's, and used to keep my eyes fixed on Hampstead all day. Then there was a good hope of seeing her again--Now!--O that I could be buried near where she lives! I am afraid to write to her--to receive a letter from her--to see her handwriting would break my heart--even to hear of her anyhow, to see her name written, would be more than I can bear. My dear Brown, what am I to do? Where can I look for consolation or ease? If I had any chance of recovery, this passion would kill me. Indeed, through the whole of my illness, both at your house and at Kentish Town, this fever has never ceased wearing me out. When you write to me, which you will do immediately, write to Rome (_poste restante_)--if she is well and happy, put a mark thus +; if-- Remember me to all. I will endeavour to bear my miseries patiently. A person in my state of health should not have such miseries to bear. Write a short note to my sister, saying you have heard from me. Severn is very well. If I were in better health I would urge your coming to Rome. I fear there is no one can give me any comfort. Is there any news of George? O that something fortunate had ever happened to me or my brothers!--then I might hope,--but despair is forced upon me as a habit. My dear Brown, for my sake, be her advocate for ever. I cannot say a word about Naples; I do not feel at all concerned in the thousand novelties around me. I am afraid to write to her. I should like her to know that I do not forget her. Oh, Brown, I have coals of fire in my breast. It surprises me that the human heart is capable of containing and bearing so much misery. Was I born for this end? God bless her, and her mother, and my sister, and George, and his wife, and you, and all!... THOMAS HOOD 1799-1845 To CHARLES DICKENS _American Notes_ 17 Elm Tree Road, 12 _Oct_. 1842. DEAR DICKENS, Can you let me have an early copy of the _American Notes_ so that I may review it in the _New Monthly_? Is it really likely to be ready as advertised? I aim this at Devonshire Place, supposing you to be returned, for with these winds 'tis no fit time for the coast. But your bones are not so weather unwise (for ignorance _is_ bliss) as mine. I should have asked this by word of mouth in Devonshire Place, but the weather has kept me indoors. It is no fiction that the complaint, derived from Dutch malaria seven years ago, is revived by Easterly winds. Otherwise I have been better than usual, and 'never say die'. Don't forget about the Yankee Notes. I never had but one American friend, and lost him through _a good crop of pears_. He paid us a visit in England; whereupon in honour of him, a pear tree, which had never borne fruit to speak of within memory of man, was loaded with ninety dozen of brown somethings. Our gardener said they were a _keeping_ sort, and would be good at Christmas; whereupon, as our Jonathan was on the eve of sailing for the States, we sent him a few dozens to dessert him on the voyage. Some he put at the bottom of a trunk (he wrote to us) to take to America; but he could not have been gone above a day or two, when all _our_ pears began to rot! _His_ would, of course, by sympathy, and I presume spoilt his linen or clothes, for I have never heard of him since. Perhaps he thought I had _done_ him on purpose, and for sartin the tree, my accomplice, never bore any more pears, good or bad, after that supernatural crop. Pray present my respects for me to Mrs. Dickens. How she must enjoy being at home and discovering her children, after her Columbusing, and only discovering America! TO THE MANCHESTER ATHENAEUM _The uses of literature_ (From my bed) 17 Elm Tree Road, St. John's Wood, 18 _July_, 1843. GENTLEMEN, If my humble name can be of the least use for your purpose, it is heartily at your service, with my best wishes for the prosperity of the Manchester Athenaeum, and my warmest approval of the objects of that Institution. I have elsewhere recorded my own deep obligations to Literature--that a natural turn for reading, and intellectual pursuits, probably preserved me from the moral shipwreck so apt to befall those who are deprived in early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least my books kept me aloof from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloons, with their degrading orgies. For the closet associate of Pope and Addison, the mind accustomed to the noble, though silent discourse of Shakespeare and Milton, will hardly seek, or put up with low company and slang. The reading animal will not be content with the brutish wallowings that satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world. Later experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow; how powerfully intellectual pursuits can help in keeping the head from crazing, and the heart from breaking; nay, not to be too grave, how generous mental food can even atone for a meagre diet; rich fare on the paper, for short commons on the cloth. Poisoned by the malaria of the Dutch marshes, my stomach for many months resolutely set itself against fish, flesh, or fowl; my appetite had no more edge than the German knife placed before me. But luckily the mental palate and digestion were still sensible and vigorous; and whilst I passed untasted every dish at the Rhenish table-d'-hôte, I could still enjoy my _Peregrine Pickle_, and the feast after the manner of the Ancients. There was no yearning towards calf's head _à la tortue_, or sheep's heart; but I could still relish Head _à la Brunnen_, and the _Heart of Mid-Lothian._ Still more recently it was my misfortune, with a tolerable appetite, to be condemned to Lenten fare, like Sancho Panza, by my physician, to a diet, in fact, lower than any prescribed by the Poor-Law Commissioners, all animal food, from a bullock to a rabbit, being strictly interdicted, as well as all fluids stronger than that which lays dust, washes pinafores, and waters polyanthus. But the feast of reason and the flow of soul were still mine! Denied beef, I had Bulwer and Cowper; forbidden mutton, there was Lamb; and in lieu of pork, the great Bacon, or Hogg. Then as to beverage; it was hard, doubtless, for a Christian to set his face, like a Turk, against the juice of the grape. But, eschewing wine, I had still my Butler; and in the absence of liquor, all the Choice Spirits from Tom Browne to Tom Moore. Thus though confined physically to the drink that drowns kittens, I quaffed mentally, not merely the best of our own home-made, but the rich, racy, sparkling growths of France and Italy, of Germany and Spain; the champagne of Molière, the Monte Pulciano of Boccaccio, the hock of Schiller, and the sherry of Cervantes. Depressed bodily by the fluid that damps everything, I got intellectually elevated with Milton, a little merry with Swift, or rather jolly with Rabelais, whose Pantagruel, by the way, is equal to the best gruel with rum in it. So far can Literature palliate, or compensate, for gastronomical privations. But there are other evils, great and small, in this world, which try the stomach less than the head, the heart, and the temper; bowls that will not roll right, well-laid schemes that will 'gang aglee', and ill winds that blow with the pertinacity of the monsoon. Of these Providence has allotted me a full share, but still, paradoxical as it may sound, my _burthen_ has been greatly lightened by a _load of books_. The manner of this will be best understood by a _feline_ illustration. Everybody has heard of the two Kilkenny cats, who devoured each other; but it is not so generally known, that they left behind them an orphan kitten, which, true to its breed, began to eat itself up, till it was diverted from the operation by a mouse. Now the human mind, under vexation, is like that kitten, for it is apt to _prey upon itself_, unless drawn off by a new object, and none better for the purpose than a book. For example, one of Defoe's; for who, in reading his thrilling _History of the Great Plague_, would not be reconciled to a few little ones? Many, many a dreary weary hour have I got over--many a gloomy misgiving postponed--many a mental and bodily annoyance forgotten by help of the tragedies, and comedies, of our dramatists and novelists! Many a trouble has been soothed by the still small voice of the moral philosopher; many a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweet song of the poet! For all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but in my heart, 'Thanks and honour to the glorious masters of the pen, and the great inventors of the press!' Such has been my own experience of the blessing and comfort of literature and intellectual pursuits; and of the same mind, doubtless, was Sir Humphry Davy, who went for _Consolations in Travel_, not to the inn, or the posting-house, but to his library and his books. To DR. MOIR _A humourist to the last_ [1845.] DEAR MOIR, God bless you and yours, and good-bye! I drop these few lines, as in a bottle from a ship water-logged, and on the brink of foundering, being in the last stage of dropsical debility; but though suffering in body, serene in mind. So without reversing my union-jack, I await my last lurch. Till which, believe me, dear Moir, Yours most truly. To SIR ROBERT PEEL _A farewell letter_ Devonshire Lodge, New Finchley Road, [1845]. DEAR SIR, We are not to meet in the flesh. Given over by my physicians and by myself, I am only kept alive by frequent instalments of mulled port wine. In this extremity I feel a comfort, for which I cannot refrain from again thanking you, with all the sincerity of a dying man,--and, at the same time, bidding you a respectful farewell. Thank God my mind is composed and my reason undisturbed, but my race as an author is run. My physical debility finds no tonic virtue in a steel pen, otherwise I would have written one more paper--a forewarning one--against an evil, or the danger of it, arising from a literary movement in which I have had some share, a one-sided humanity, opposite to that Catholic Shakespearian sympathy, which felt with King as well as Peasant, and duly estimated the mortal temptations of both stations. Certain classes at the poles of Society are already too far asunder; it should be the duty of our writers to draw them nearer by kindly attraction, not to aggravate the existing repulsion, and place a wider moral gulf between Rich and Poor, with Hate on the one side and Fear on the other. But I am too weak for this task, the last I had set myself; it is death that stops my pen, you see, and not the pension. God bless you, Sir, and prosper all your measures for the benefit of my beloved country. ROBERT BROWNING 1812-1889 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1806-1861 To LEIGH HUNT _A joint epistle_ Bagni di Lucca, 6 _Oct_. 1857. DEAR LEIGH HUNT, (It is hard to write, but you bade me do so; yet I had better say 'Master Hunt', as they used to call Webster or Ford.) A nine months' silence after such a letter as yours seems too strange even to you perhaps. So understand that you gave us more delight at once than we could bear, that was the beginning of the waiting to recover spirit and try and do one's feeling a little less injustice. But soon followed unexpected sorrows to us and to you, and the expression of even gratitude grew hard again. Certainly all this while your letter has been laid before our very eyes, and we have waited for a brighter day than ever came till we left Florence two months ago and more, then we brought it to 'answer' among the chestnut trees; but immediately on our arrival a friend was attacked by fever, and we were kept in anxiety about him for six weeks. At last he recovered sufficiently to leave for Florence, and (just think) our little boy became ill, for the first time in his life, and gave us solicitude enough for a fortnight: it is nothing now that it is over; he is going about now almost as well as before, and we go away to-morrow, as I said. But I will try and get one, at least, of the joys I came to find here, and really write to you from this place, as I meant to do. '_I_'--you know it is my wife that I write for, though you entangle and distract either of us by the reverberations (so to speak) of pleasures over and above the pleasure you give us. I intend to say, that you praise that poem, and mix it up with praise of her very self, and then give it to me directly, and then give it to _her_ with the pride you have just given me, and then it somehow comes back to me increased so far, till the effect is just as you probably intended. I wish my wife may know you more: I wish you may see and know her more, but you cannot live by her eleven years, as I have done--or yes, what cannot you do, being the man, the poet you are? This last word, I dare think, I have a right to say; I _have_ always venerated you as a poet; I believe your poetry to be sure of its eventual reward; other people, not unlikely, may feel like me, that there has been no need of getting into feverish haste to cry out on what is; yet you, who wrote it, can leave it and look at other poetry, and speak so of it: how well of you! I am still too near the production of _Aurora Leigh_ to be quite able to see it all; my wife used to write it, and lay it down to hear our child spell, or when a visitor came,--it was thrust under the cushion then. At Paris, a year ago last March, she gave me the first six books to read, I having never seen a line before. She then wrote the rest, and transcribed them in London, where I read them also. I wish, in one sense, that I had written and she had read it.... I shall commend myself to you by telling you this. Indeed, the proper acknowledgement of your letter seems to be that one should do something, not say something. If you were here, I might quite naturally begin repeating _Giaffar_ or _Solomon_, and the rest. You would see whether I was not capable of getting all the good out of your praise. While I write, there is a strange thing that happened last night impossible to get out of my thoughts. It may give you pain to tell you of it, yet if with the pain come triumphant memories and hopes, as I expect there will, you may choose the pain with them. What decides me to tell it is that I heard you years ago allude to the destruction of a volume of _Lamia, Isabella, &c., to be restored to you yet_--now you remember; also, I think, of your putting my name near Shelley's in the end of your letter, where you say 'since I lost Shelley'. Is it not strange that I should have transcribed for the first time, last night, the _Indian Serenade_ that, together with some verses of Metastasio, accompanied that book? That I should have been reserved to tell the present possessor of them--to whom they were given by Captain Roberts--_what_ the poem _was, and that it had been published_! It is preserved religiously; but the characters are all but illegible, and I needed a good magnifying-glass to be quite sure of such of them as remain. The end is that I have rescued three or four variations in the reading of that divine little poem, as one reads it, at least, in the _Posthumous Poems_. It is headed the _Indian_ _Serenade_ (not _Lines to an Indian Air_). In the first stanza the seventh line is 'Hath led me'; in the second, the third line is 'And the champak's odours fail'; and the eighth, 'O! Beloved as thou art!' In the last stanza, the seventh line was, 'Oh, press it to thine own again.' Are not all these better readings? (even to the 'Hath' for 'Has'.) There, I give them you as you gave us Milton's hair. If I have mistaken in telling you, you will understand and forgive. I think I will ask my wife to say a word or two so I shall be sure that you forgive. Now let my wife say the remainder. All I have wished to do--know how little likely it was that I should succeed in that--was to assure you of my pride and affectionate gratitude.--God bless you ever, R.B. Dear friend, I will say; for I feel it must be something as good as friendship that can forgive and understand this silence, so much like the veriest human kind of ingratitude. When I look back and think--all this time after that letter, and not a sign made--I wonder. Yet, if you knew! First of all, we were silent because we waited for information which you seemed to desire.... Then there were sadder reasons. Poor _Aurora_, that you were so more than kind to (oh, how can I think of it?), has been steeped in tears, and some of them of a very bitter sort. Your letter was addressed to my husband, you knowing by your delicate true instinct where your praise would give most pleasure; but I believe Robert had not the heart to write when I felt that I should not have the spirits to add a word in the proper key. When we came here from Florence a few months ago to get repose and cheerfulness from the sight of the mountains, we said to ourselves that we would speak to you at ease--instead of which the word was taken from our own mouth, and we have done little but sit by sick beds and meditate on gastric fevers. So disturbed we have been--so sad! our darling precious child the last victim. To see him lying still on his golden curls, with cheeks too scarlet to suit the poor patient eyes, looking so frightfully like an angel! It was very hard. But this is over, I do thank God, and we are on the point of carrying back our treasure with us to Florence to-morrow, quite recovered, if a little thinner and weaker, and the young voice as merry as ever. You are aware that that child I am more proud of than twenty _Auroras_, even after Leigh Hunt has praised them. He is eight years old, has never been '_crammed_', but reads English, Italian, French, German, and plays the piano--then, is the sweetest child! sweeter than he looks. When he was ill, he said to me, 'You pet! don't be unhappy about _me_. Think it's a boy in the street, and be a little sorry, but not unhappy.' Who could not be unhappy, I wonder? I never saw your book called the _Religion of the Heart._ It's the only book of yours I never saw, and I mean to wipe out that reproach on the soonest day possible. I receive more dogmas, perhaps (my 'perhaps' being in the dark rather), than you do. I believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ in the intensest sense--that he was God absolutely. But for the rest, I am very unorthodox--about the spirit, the flesh, and the devil, and if you would not let me sit by you, a great many churchmen wouldn't; in fact, churches do all of them, as at present constituted, seem too narrow and low to hold true Christianity in its proximate developments. I, at least, cannot help believing them so. My dear friend, can we dare, after our sins against you--can we dare _wish_ for a letter from you sometimes? Ask, we dare not. May God bless you. Even if you had not praised me and made me so grateful, I should be grateful to you for three things--for your poetry (that first), then for Milton's hair, and then for the memory I have of our visit to you, when you sat in that chair and spoke so mildly and deeply at once. Let me be ever affectionately yours, ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. CHARLOTTE BRONTË 1816-1855 TO A FRIEND _Trials of a governess_ _July_ 1839. I cannot procure ink, without going into the drawing-room, where I do not wish to go.... I should have written to you long since, and told you every detail of the utterly new scene into which I have lately been cast, had I not been daily expecting a letter from yourself, and wondering and lamenting that you did not write; for you will remember it was your turn. I must not bother you too much with my sorrows, of which, I fear, you have heard an exaggerated account. If you were near me, perhaps I might be tempted to tell you all, to grow egotistical, and pour out the long history of a private governess's trials and crosses in her first situation. As it is, I will only ask you to imagine the miseries of a reserved wretch like me, thrown at once into the midst of a large family--proud as peacocks and wealthy as Jews--at a time when they were particularly gay--when the house was filled with company--all strangers--people whose faces I had never seen before. In this state I had charge given me of a set of pampered, spoilt, turbulent children, whom I was expected constantly to amuse, as well as to instruct. I soon found that the constant demand on my stock of animal spirits reduced them to the lowest state of exhaustion; at times I felt--and, I suppose, seemed--depressed. To my astonishment, I was taken to task on the subject by Mrs.----, with a sternness of manner and a harshness of language scarcely credible; like a fool, I cried most bitterly. I could not help it; my spirits quite failed me at first. I thought I had done my best--strained every nerve to please her; and to be treated in that way, merely because I was shy and sometimes melancholy, was too bad. At first I was for giving all up and going home. But, after a little reflection, I determined to summon what energy I had, and to weather the storm. I said to myself, 'I have never yet quitted a place without gaining a friend; adversity is a good school; the poor are born to labour, and the dependent to endure.' I resolved to be patient, to command my feelings, and to take what came; the ordeal, I reflected, would not last many weeks, and I trusted it would do me good. I recollected the fable of the willow and the oak; I bent quietly, and now, I trust, the storm is blowing over me. Mrs. ---- is generally considered an agreeable woman; so she is, I doubt not, in general society. Her health is sound, her animal spirits good, consequently she is cheerful in company; but oh! does this compensate for the absence of every fine feeling--of every gentle and delicate sentiment? She behaves somewhat more civilly to me now than she did at first, and the children are a little more manageable; but she does not know my character, and she does not wish to know it. I have never had five minutes' conversation with her since I came, except while she was scolding me. I have no wish to be pitied, except by yourself; if I were talking to you I could tell you much more. To WILLIAM WORDSWORTH _Thanks for advice_ [1840.] ... Authors are generally very tenacious of their productions, but I am not so much attached to this but that I can give it up without much distress. No doubt, if I had gone on, I should have made quite a Richardsonian concern of it.... I had materials in my head for half-a-dozen volumes.... Of course, it is with considerable regret I relinquish any scheme so charming as the one I have sketched. It is very edifying and profitable to create a world out of your own brains, and people it with inhabitants, who are so many Melchisedecs, and have no father nor mother but your own imagination.... I am sorry I did not exist fifty or sixty years ago, when the _Ladies' Magazine_ was flourishing like a green bay tree. In that case, I make no doubt, my aspirations after literary fame would have met with due encouragement, and I should have had the pleasure of introducing Messrs. Percy and West into the very best society, and recording all their sayings and doings in double-columned close-printed pages.... I recollect, when I was a child, getting hold of some antiquated volumes, and reading them by stealth with the most exquisite pleasure. You give a correct description of the patient Grisels of those days. My aunt was one of them; and to this day she thinks the tales of the _Ladies' Magazine_ infinitely superior to any trash of modern literature. So do I; for I read them in childhood, and childhood has a very strong faculty of admiration, but a very weak one of criticism.... I am pleased that you cannot quite decide whether I am an attorney's clerk or a novel-reading dressmaker. I will not help you at all in the discovery; and as to my handwriting, or the ladylike touches in my style and imagery, you must not draw any conclusion from that--I may employ an amanuensis. Seriously, sir, I am very much obliged to you for your kind and candid letter. I almost wonder you took the trouble to read and notice the novelette of an anonymous scribe, who had not even the manners to tell you whether he was a man or a woman, or whether his 'C.T.' meant Charles Timms or Charlotte Tomkins. TO A FRIEND _At school abroad_ Brussels [c. _May_ 1842]. I was twenty-six years old a week or two since; and at this ripe time of life I am a school-girl, and, on the whole, very happy in that capacity. It felt very strange at first to submit to authority instead of exercising it--to obey orders instead of giving them; but I like that state of things. I returned to it with the same avidity that a cow, that has long been kept on dry hay, returns to fresh grass. Don't laugh at my simile. It is natural to me to submit, and very unnatural to command. This is a large school, in which there are about forty externes, or day-pupils, and twelve pensionnaires, or boarders. Madame Héger, the head, is a lady of precisely the same cast of mind, degree of cultivation, and quality of intellect as Miss ----. I think the severe points are a little softened, because she has not been disappointed, and consequently soured. In a word, she is a married instead of a maiden lady. There are three teachers in the school--Mademoiselle Blanche, Mademoiselle Sophie, and Mademoiselle Marie. The two first have no particular character. One is an old maid, and the other will be one. Mademoiselle Marie is talented and original, but of repulsive and arbitrary manners, which have made the whole school, except myself and Emily, her bitter enemies. No less than seven masters attend, to teach the different branches of education--French, Drawing, Music, Singing, Writing, Arithmetic, and German. All in the house are Catholics except ourselves, one other girl, and the gouvernante of Madame's children, an Englishwoman, in rank something between a lady's-maid and a nursery governess. The difference in country and religion makes a broad line of demarcation between us and all the rest. We are completely isolated in the midst of numbers. Yet I think I am never unhappy; my present life is so delightful, so congenial to my own nature, compared to that of a governess. My time, constantly occupied, passes too rapidly. Hitherto both Emily and I have had good health, and therefore we have been able to work well. There is one individual of whom I have not yet spoken--M. Héger, the husband of Madame. He is professor of rhetoric, a man of power as to mind, but very choleric and irritable in temperament. He is very angry with me just at present, because I have written a translation which he chose to stigmatize as '_peu correcte_'. He did not tell me so, but wrote the word on the margin of my book, and asked, in brief stern phrase, how it happened that my compositions were always better than my translations? adding that the thing seemed to him inexplicable. The fact is, some weeks ago, in a high-flown humour, he forbade me to use either dictionary or grammar in translating the most difficult English compositions into French. This makes the task rather arduous, and compels me every now and then to introduce an English word, which nearly plucks the eyes out of his head when he sees it. Emily and he don't draw well together at all. Emily works like a horse, and she has had great difficulties to contend with--far greater than I have had. Indeed, those who come to a French school for instruction ought previously to have acquired a considerable knowledge of the French language, otherwise they will lose a great deal of time, for the course of instruction is adapted to natives and not to foreigners; and in these large establishments they will not change their ordinary course for one or two strangers. The few private lessons that M. Héger has vouchsafed to give us, are, I suppose, to be considered a great favour; and I can perceive they have already excited much spite and jealousy in the school. You will abuse this letter for being short and dreary, and there are a hundred things which I want to tell you, but I have not time. Brussels is a beautiful city. The Belgians hate the English. Their external morality is more rigid than ours. To lace the stays without a handkerchief on the neck is considered a disgusting piece of indelicacy. To A FRIEND _Curates to tea_ [1845.] You thought I refused you coldly, did you? It was a queer sort of coldness, when I would have given my ears to say Yes, and was obliged to say No. Matters, however, are now a little changed. Anne is come home, and her presence certainly makes me feel more at liberty. Then, if all be well, I will come and see you. Tell me only when I must come. Mention the week and the day. Have the kindness also to answer the following queries, if you can. How far is it from Leeds to Sheffield? Can you give me a notion of the cost? Of course, when I come, you will let me enjoy your own company in peace, and not drag me out a-visiting. I have no desire at all to see your curate. I think he must be like all the other curates I have seen; and they seem to me a self-seeking, vain, empty race. At this blessed moment, we have no less than three of them in Haworth parish--and there is not one to mend another. The other day, they all three, accompanied by Mr. S., dropped, or rather rushed, in unexpectedly to tea. It was Monday (baking-day), and I was hot and tired; still, if they had behaved quietly and decently, I would have served them out their tea in peace; but they began glorifying themselves, and abusing Dissenters in such a manner, that my temper lost its balance, and I pronounced a few sentences sharply and rapidly, which struck them all dumb. Papa was greatly horrified also, but I don't regret it. To GEORGE HENRY LEWES _Herself and Miss Austen_ 12 _Jan_. 1848. Dear Sir, I thank you then sincerely for your generous review; and it is with the sense of double content I express my gratitude, because I am now sure the tribute is not superfluous or obtrusive. You were not severe on _Jane Eyre_; you were very lenient. I am glad you told me my faults plainly in private, for in your public notice you touch on them so lightly, I should perhaps have passed them over, thus indicated, with too little reflection. I mean to observe your warning about being careful how I undertake new works; my stock of materials is not abundant, but very slender; and besides, neither my experience, my acquirements, nor my powers, are sufficiently varied to justify my ever becoming a frequent writer. I tell you this, because your article in _Fraser_ left in me an uneasy impression that you were disposed to think better of the author of _Jane Eyre_ than that individual deserved; and I would rather you had a correct than a flattering opinion of me, even though I should never see you. If I ever _do_ write another book, I think I will have nothing of what you call 'melodrama'; I _think_ so, but I am not sure. I _think_, too, I will endeavour to follow the counsel which shines out of Miss Austen's 'mild eyes', 'to finish more and be more subdued'; but neither am I sure of that. When authors write best, or at least, when they write most fluently, an influence seems to waken in them, which becomes their master--which will have its own way--putting out of view all behests but its own, dictating certain words, and insisting on their being used, whether vehement or measured in their nature; new-moulding characters, giving unthought-of turns to incidents, rejecting carefully-elaborated old ideas, and suddenly creating and adopting new ones. Is it not so? And should we try to counteract this influence? Can we indeed counteract it? * * * * * Why do you like Miss Austen so very much? I am puzzled on that point. What induced you to say that you would have rather written _Pride and Prejudice_, or _Tom Jones_, than any of the Waverley Novels? I had not seen _Pride and Prejudice_ till I read that sentence of yours, and then I got the book. And what did I find? An accurate, daguerreotyped portrait of a commonplace face; a carefully-fenced, highly-cultivated garden, with neat borders and delicate flowers; but no glance of a bright, vivid physiognomy, no open country, no fresh air, no blue hill, no bonny beck. I should hardly like to live with her ladies and gentlemen, in their elegant but confined houses. These observations will probably irritate you, but I shall run the risk. Now I can understand admiration of George Sand; for though I never saw any of her works which I admired throughout (even _Consuelo_, which is the best, or the best that I have read, appears to me to couple strange extravagance with wondrous excellence), yet she has a grasp of mind, which, if I cannot fully comprehend, I can very deeply respect; she is sagacious and profound;--Miss Austen is only shrewd and observant. Am I wrong--or, were you hasty in what you said? If you have time, I should be glad to hear further on this subject; if not, or if you think the questions frivolous, do not trouble yourself to reply. TO THE SAME _The argument continued_ 18 _Jan_. 1848. Dear Sir, I must write you one more note, though I had not intended to trouble you again so soon. I have to agree with you, and to differ from you. You correct my crude remarks on the subject of the 'influence'; well, I accept your definition of what the effects of that influence should be; I recognize the wisdom of your rules for its regulation.... What a strange lecture comes next in your letter! You say I must familiarize my mind with the fact, that 'Miss Austen is not a poetess, has no "sentiment"' (you scornfully enclose the word in inverted commas), 'no eloquence, none of the ravishing enthusiasm of poetry',--and then you add, I _must_ 'learn to acknowledge her as _one of the greatest artists, of the greatest painters of human character_, and one of the writers with the nicest sense of means to an end that ever lived'. The last point only will I ever acknowledge. Can there be a great artist without poetry? What I call--what I will bend to, as a great artist then--cannot be destitute of the divine gift. But by _poetry_, I am sure, you understand something different to what I do, as you do by 'sentiment'. It is _poetry_, as I comprehend the word, which elevates that masculine George Sand, and makes out of something coarse, something Godlike. It is 'sentiment', in my sense of the term--sentiment jealously hidden, but genuine, which extracts the venom from that formidable Thackeray, and converts what might be corrosive poison into purifying elixir. If Thackeray did not cherish in his large heart deep feeling for his kind, he would delight to exterminate; as it is, I believe, he wishes only to reform. Miss Austen being, as you say, without 'sentiment', without _poetry_, maybe _is_ sensible, real (more _real_ than _true_), but she cannot be great. I submit to your anger, which I have now excited (for have I not questioned the perfection of your darling?); the storm may pass over me. Nevertheless, I will, when I can (I do not know when that will be, as I have no access to a circulating library), diligently peruse all Miss Austen's works, as you recommend.... You must forgive me for not always being able to think as you do, and still believe me, Yours gratefully. TO A FRIEND _Illness and death of Emily Brontë_ 23 _Nov_. 1848. I told you Emily was ill, in my last letter. She has not rallied yet. She is _very_ ill. I believe, if you were to see her, your impression would be that there is no hope. A more hollow, wasted, pallid aspect I have not beheld. The deep tight cough continues; the breathing after the least exertion is a rapid pant; and these symptoms are accompanied by pains in the chest and side. Her pulse, the only time she allowed it to be felt, was found to beat 115 per minute. In this state she resolutely refuses to see a doctor; she will give no explanation of her feelings, she will scarcely allow her feelings to be alluded to. Our position is, and has been for some weeks, exquisitely painful. God only knows how all this is to terminate. More than once, I have been forced boldly to regard the terrible event of her loss as possible, and even probable. But nature shrinks from such thoughts. I think Emily seems the nearest thing to my heart in the world. * * * * * 10 _Dec_. I hardly know what to say to you about the subject which now interests me the most keenly of anything in this world, for, in truth, I hardly know what to think myself. Hope and fear fluctuate daily. The pain in her side and chest is better; the cough, the shortness of breath, the extreme emaciation, continue. I have endured, however, such tortures of uncertainty on this subject that, at length, I could endure it no longer; and as her repugnance to seeing a medical man continues immutable,--as she declares 'no poisoning doctor' shall come near her,--I have written, unknown to her, to an eminent physician in London, giving as minute a statement of her case and symptoms as I could draw up, and requesting an opinion. I expect an answer in a day or two. I am thankful to say that my own health at present is very tolerable. It is well such is the case; for Anne, with the best will in the world to be useful, is really too delicate to do or bear much. She too, at present, has frequent pains in the side. Papa is also pretty well, though Emily's state renders him very anxious. * * * * * _[Tuesday.]_ I should have written to you before, if I had had one word of hope to say; but I have not. She grows daily weaker. The physician's opinion was expressed too obscurely to be of use. He sent some medicine, which she would not take. Moments so dark as these I have never known. I pray for God's support to us all. Hitherto He has granted it. * * * * * 21 _Dec_. 1848. Emily suffers no more from pain or weakness now. She never will suffer more in this world. She is gone, after a hard, short conflict. She died on _Tuesday_, the very day I wrote to you. I thought it very possible she might be with us still for weeks; and a few hours afterwards, she was in eternity. Yes; there is no Emily in time or on earth now. Yesterday we put her poor, wasted, mortal frame quietly under the church pavement. We are very calm at present. Why should we be otherwise? The anguish of seeing her suffer is over; the spectacle of the pains of death is gone by; the funeral day is past. We feel she is at peace. No need now to tremble for the hard frost and the keen wind. Emily does not feel them. She died in a time of promise. We saw her taken from life in its prime. But it is God's will, and the place where she is gone is better than that she has left. God has sustained me, in a way that I marvel at, through such agony as I had not conceived. I now look at Anne, and wish she were well and strong; but she is neither; nor is papa. Could you now come to us for a few days? I would not ask you to stay long. Write and tell me if you could come next week, and by what train. I would try to send a gig for you to Keighley. You will, I trust, find us tranquil. Try to come. I never so much needed the consolation of a friend's presence. Pleasure, of course, there would be none for you in the visit, except what your kind heart would teach you to find in doing good to others. To MR. G. SMITH _Thackeray and 'Esmond'_ 14 _Feb_. 1852. MY DEAR SIR, It has been a great delight to me to read Mr. Thackeray's work; and I so seldom now express my sense of kindness that, for once, you must permit me, without rebuke, to thank you for a pleasure so rare and special. Yet I am not going to praise either Mr. Thackeray or his book. I have read, enjoyed, been interested, and after all, feel full as much ire and sorrow as gratitude and admiration. And still one can never lay down a book of his without the two last feelings having their part, be the subject or treatment what it may. In the first half of the book, what chiefly struck me was the wonderful manner in which the writer throws himself into the spirit and letters of the times whereof he treats; the allusions, the illustrations, the style, all seem to me so masterly in their exact keeping, their harmonious consistency, their nice, natural truth, their pure exemption from exaggeration. No second-rate imitator can write in that way; no coarse scene-painter can charm us with an allusion so delicate and perfect. But what bitter satire, what relentless dissection of diseased subjects! Well, and this, too, is right, or would be right, if the savage surgeon did not seem so fiercely pleased with his work. Thackeray likes to dissect an ulcer or an aneurism; he has pleasure in putting his cruel knife or probe into quivering, living flesh. Thackeray would not like all the world to be good; no great satirist would like society to be perfect. As usual, he is unjust to women; quite unjust. There is hardly any punishment he does not deserve for making Lady Castlewood peep through a keyhole, listen at a door, and be jealous of a boy and a milkmaid. Many other things I noticed that, for my part, grieved and exasperated me as I read; but then, again, came passages so true, so deeply thought, so tenderly felt, one could not help forgiving and admiring.... But I wish he could be told not to care much for dwelling on the political or religious intrigues of the times. Thackeray, in his heart, does not value political or religious intrigues of any age or date. He likes to show us human nature at home, as he himself daily sees it; his wonderful observant faculty likes to be in action. In him this faculty is a sort of captain and leader; and if ever any passage in his writings lacks interest, it is when this master-faculty is for a time thrust into a subordinate position. I think such is the case in the former half of the present volume. Towards the middle, he throws off restraint, becomes himself, and is strong to the close. Everything now depends on the second and third volumes. If, in pith and interest, they fall short of the first, a true success cannot ensue. If the continuation be an improvement upon the commencement, if the stream gather force as it rolls, Thackeray will triumph. Some people have been in the habit of terming him the second writer of the day; it just depends on himself whether or not these critics shall be justified in their award. He need not be the second. God made him second to no man. If I were he, I would show myself as I am, not as critics report me; at any rate, I would do my best. Mr. Thackeray is easy and indolent, and seldom cares to do his best. Thank you once more; and believe me--&c. TO THE SAME '_Esmond' again_ 10 _Nov_. 1852. ... I have read the third volume of _Esmond._ I found it both entertaining and exciting to me; it seems to possess an impetus and excitement beyond the other two,--that movement and brilliancy its predecessors sometimes wanted, never fails here. In certain passages, I thought Thackeray used all his powers; their grand, serious force yielded a profound satisfaction. 'At last he puts forth his strength,' I could not help saying to myself. No character in the book strikes me as more masterly than that of Beatrix; its conception is fresh, and its delineation vivid. It is peculiar; it has impressions of a new kind--new at least, to me. Beatrix is not, in herself, all bad. So much does she sometimes reveal of what is good and great as to suggest this feeling--you would think she was urged by a Fate. You would think that some antique doom presses on her house, and that once in so many generations its brightest ornament was to become its greatest disgrace. At times, what is good in her struggles against this terrible destiny, but the Fate conquers. Beatrix cannot be an honest woman and a good man's wife. She 'tries, and she _cannot_'. Proud, beautiful, and sullied, she was born what she becomes, a king's mistress. I know not whether you have seen the notice in the _Leader_; I read it just after concluding the book. Can I be wrong in deeming it a notice tame, cold, and insufficient? With all its professed friendliness, it produced on me a most disheartening impression. Surely, another sort of justice than this will be rendered to _Esmond_ from other quarters. One acute remark of the critic is to the effect that Blanche Amory and Beatrix are identical--sketched from the same original! To me they are about as identical as a weazel and a royal tigress of Bengal; both the latter are quadrupeds,--both the former, women.