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Instructor in Elocution, McOill College and Normal School, ami Master (f Elocittwit, JMgh Scliool Department qfMcGill College, Montreal. lonittnl : DAWSON BROTHEES. 1869. ""'•^^'^m^mimmmm ■■■■1 1 ■x% PREFACE. ' 'h In making Selections for this volume, the Compiler has been guided by his experience as a Teacher of Elo- cution for upwards of ten years. The extracts are unhackneyed, easily understood and of a nature to interest or amuse pupils, and at the same time, they are drawn from authors of reputation in the world of letters. The pieces aro mostly unabridged; and in place of time-honoured declamatory speeches, the book is composed largely of extracts from the best dramatists, including scenes from Shakespeare, few of which have hitherto appeared in any class*book. The " Practical Hints to Readers " which form the introductory part of this work are intended to serve the two-fold purpose of a Class Text-Book and a Manual for Teachers who have not made a specialty of the art of reading. Montreal, September, 1869. PRACTICAL HINTS TO READERS. The first and most important requisite for eiFective reading is distinct utterance. Most persons have uncon- sciously acquired habits of slovenly articulation, — unac- cented syllables being made almost inaudible; words joined ; much feebly mumbled that should be spoken clearly — and frequently, where two words come together, the first ending, and the second beginning, with the same letter, one sound is made to do duty for both. It must bo understood that distinct articulation depends wholly on the organs of speech, and on the force and pre- cision of their execution. The student, whose utterance is the result of casual habit only, requires therefore a tho- rough organic training, before he can pass successfully to the firm and exact mode of using his voice which distin- guishes public reading and speaking from ordinary dis- course. In connection with the necessary physical training he nmst give strict attention to elementary sounds, because exactness of articulation cannot exist without close discrim- ination and careful analysis ; and because faulty pronun- ciation is owing to apparpntly slight oversights of the true sounds of letters; for however inseparable the elements of a syllable may seem to the ear, they are in reality separate and wholly independent formations. ' When the syllabic elements are pronounced singly, each may receive an undivided energy of organic effort — a corresponding clearness and firmness, and a well-defined outline, which make an excellent preparation for distinct pronunciation when they are combined in speech. Few persons, howevel', will be able at first, to command a prompt utterance of these sounds, particularly of the consonants or articulations (Table II) ; indeed it is remarkable that sounds, which are pronounced readily in combination require considerable practice on the part of the learner before they can be uttered separately. It should be, notwithstanding, VI PRACTICAL HINTS TO READERS. his first duty to give his earnest attention to their acquirement. The readiest mode of mastering an ele- ment, at first found difficult, is to place it at the end of a syllable, and observe carefully the position of the lips and tongue when pronouncing it in connection with other sounds; — for example, to acquire the exact formation of the whispered consonant " t", pronounce the syllable " put" and by slightly prolonging it the exact sound of " t" will be readily perceived. Note particularly that no consonant sound is complete until the tongue or lips are detached from their position. The following tables of the elementary sounds in the English language form the most complete and systematic arrangement with which the writer is acquainted. They are borrowed from the works of Mr. Melville Bell, the talented inventor of " Visible Speech" to which tho en- quirer is referred for a full exposition of the system. TABLE I. ENGLISH VOWEL SCHEME AND NUMERICAL NOTATION. No, 1 ee(l) (p)u(ll) (p)d6(l) 13 No, " 2 1((11) (Os^oo) o(ld) 12 " " 3 a(le) (a^o ) 6(re) 11 « « 4 6(11) e(re) 6(n) a(ll) 10 " « 5 a(n) u(p) u(rn 9 « " 6 a(sk) (3)ir (h)er 8 « No. 7 1 ah • COMBINATIONS. 7-1, AH^ee (isle.) 7-13, AH^oo (OWl.) lO-l, A Ws^oo (oil.) y-13-(use.) In order to bring this scheme into practical application, the student must commit it to memory discarding letters as names of the sounds, and adopting instead a numerical nomenclature, in accordance with the arrangement in the above Table. Thus, he must associate the sound ee with Number 1, and speak of the vowel in the words be, fee, te«, t>RA(mOAL HtKTtS TO RBADBSft. ▼ii key, ceil, field, people, pique, &c., as UDiformly No. 1, independently of the diverse vowel letters which represent the sound. And so with all the other vowels. He has to deal with sounds, not letters. TABLL II. TABLE OF ARTICULATIONS OR CONSONANTS. Initial. Final. Between Vowels. Before a Consonani p, • • • pay ape- . glebe paper apricot B, • • • bee neighbour ably M, • • • mar arm army arm'd Wh, • • • why .. * awhile — * W, • • • way * away * F, • • • fed deaf definite deftness V, • • • veal leave evil ev(e)ning Th, • • • third dearth ethic ethnic Th, • • • these seethe either wreathed 8, • • • sell less essay estuary z, • •• zone nose rosy rosebush R, • • rare 5^ rarity * L, • • • left fell fellow fell'd T, • • • tale late later lateness D, • • • day aid trader tradesman N, • •• nave vain waning mainland Sh, • • • shelf flesh ' fisher fishmonger Zh, • • • gira£fe rouge pleasure hedgerow Y, • • • ye fille (French) beyond __* K, • • cap pack packet packthread G, • • gum mug sluggard smuggler ng. • • * sing singer singly Every articulation consists of two parts — a position and an action. The former brings the organs into approxi- mation or contact, and the latter separates them, by a smart percussive action of recoil, from the articulative position. This principle is of the utmost importance to all persons whose articulation is defective. Distinctness entirely de- pends on its application. Let it be carefully noted: — audibly percussive organic separation is the necessary action of every articulation. * These articulations do not occur in this position in English. r viii PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO BEADERS. The Breath Obstructives, P-T-K, have no sound in their POSITION, and thus depend on the pufiF that accompanies the organic separation for all their audibility. This there- fore must be clearly heard, or the letters are practically lost. The Voice Obstructives, BtD-G, have a slight audi- bility in their !* positions," from the abrupt murmur of voice which distinguishes them from P, T, and K ; but they are equally imperfect without the organic " action" of separation and its distinctive percussiveness. All the other elements being continuous, have more or less audibility in their ''positions;" but in every case distinctness and flu- ency depend on the disjunctive completion of the articu- Jative " action." * A practice now fallen into disuse in schools, but which might be revived with great benefit to pupils, is the resolv- ing of a syllabic into its elementary sounds. Take, for instance, the word " neighbour." It consists of the ele- ments ?t, a, (No. 3) h, ir, (No. 8). Let these sounds be uttered separately in a distinct and forcible manner and afterwards combined. Words which have been imperfectly sounded may be selected and *' spelled" in this manner. The exercise will furnish a kind of vocal gymnastics well calculated for strengthening and training the voice, and making it obedient to the will of the speaker. It is suggested also, that a sentience be selected and the pupil subjected to the following drill, his attention being confined as much as possible to the mere act of enunciation j 1. Utter every element separately. 2. ** '' syllable " 3. " " word " 4. Read the whole in a loud whisper. The last exercise is a very valuable one. The reader, to be heard, is obliged to pause frequently in order to re- cruit his lungs with the extra air which is necessary, and the larynx, the primary organ of speech, being inactive, he is compelled to exert the other organs to their fullest ex- tent. It is proper to caution the learner against overdoing * Boll's Elocutionary Manual.— Also his rrinciples of Speecb and Dic- tionary of iSouucls. London ; Hamilton, Adams & Co. PEAOnOAL BINTS TO READERS. IX this exercise, as it is fatiguing and might be injurious to persons of weak lungs. It need scarcely be added, that the best conceived plan of vocal training will be of little avail if not persistently followed. The indolent will find the exercises irksome, and the capricious will soon abandon them, but the learner who carries them out faithfully, will attain what he desires — a precise and firm articulation. In connection with this part of the subject, it may be necessary to warn the student against giving a strained and unusual prominence to individual sounds when reading ; since the least deviation from the assumed standard of pro- nunciation will distract the attention of his audience from the subject of the reading, and convert them into critics of his utterance. In this, as in other branches of this Art, he must '* acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness." GROUPING. The words in a sentence are not pronounced singly, nor are they uttered continuously without break or rest. Words in correct reading fall into expressive groups, which are separated from each other, not always by a pause, but by some break, some change of tone or variety of style w}iich clearly marks to the ear the boundaries of each division. — The commas and other points will be of little service to the reader, as they are introduced with no reference to their use in reading aloud ; they tell in fact, nothing more than that the author, or rather the printer, is of opinion that at the places of insertion the sentence is divisible into parts more or less perfectly. Neither does grammar furnish a reliable guide ; for grammatical sequences of words are often inter- rupted by a pause as an important means of expressing emphasis. The reader must make his own punctuation, both in place and length of pause, being guided by the meaning of the words, by a sense of fitness, by the ear and by the requirements of breathing. Perhaps the readiest mode of acquiring a correct idea of grouping is to consider every cluster of words as one 2 PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO BBADES8. "oratorical " word, and that these oratorical words must be distinguished by breaks, of greater or less duration, in the same manner as words are separated on the printed page. The following may serve as an example : To-be, or not-to-be, that-is-the-qaeetion, Whether-'tis nobler in-the-mind to-suffer ' The-8lini(8-and-arrows of-outrageous-fortune: Or to-take-arms against^-a-sea-of-troubleH And-by opposinir, end-tbem? to-die, to-sleep, No-more, and, Dj-a-sleep to-aay-we-end rhe-heartaohe, and-the-tnousand-natural-shooks That-flesh-is-hoir-to 'tis-a— consummation Devoutly-to-be wished, To-die: to-sleep r To-sleep! perohanoe-to-dream. Ay-there is-the-rub. For . in-that-sleep-of-doath what dreams may-come, Whon-we-hare-sbuifled-oif-this-mortal-coil, Must gire-us pause: there's the-respcct That-makps calamity of-so-long-life : For-who would-bear the-whips-and-acorns of-time, The-opprussor's wrong, the proud-man's contumely, The-panffs-of despiseo-loTe, the-laws delay, The-insoTenoe-of-omce, and-the spurns That-patient-merit of-the-unworthy takes. When he-himself might-his-quietua-make With-a bare-bodkin? who would-fardels-bear, To-groan-and-sweat under-a-weary-life ; But that-the-dread of-something after death— The-undiacovered-country, flrom-whose-bourne No-traveller returns puzzles-the-will, And-makes-us-rather bear those-ills we-have Than-fly-to others that-we-know-not-of Thus conscience does-ma l^^-co wards of-us all And-thus tho-natlve-hue of-resolution Is-sicklied-o'er with-the-pale-cast of-thought; And-enterprises of-great-pith and-moment, With-this-regard, tu^ir-currents turn-awry And-lose tlie-name-of action. Suppose I a man gets all the world | what is it | that he gets | It is a bubble I and a phantasm | and hath no reality J beyond a present | tran- sient use I a thing that is impossible to be enjoyed, | because I its fVuits and usages | are transmitted to us | by parts and by aacoession. | He that hath all the world | if we can sunpoHe such a man | cannot hare a dish of fresh summer fruite | in the midst of winter, | not ao much as a | green- iig; I and vorv much of its possessions | is so hid, J so fugacious, | and of so uncertam purchase, | that it is like the riches of the sea | to the lord of the stioro, | all the fish and wealth J within all its hollownoss, are his, I but he is never the better J for what no cannot g;^t; | all the shell-jflshes | thit prodnoo pearls, | produce them not fur him; | and the bowels of the Earth | hide hor troasurea | in undiscovered retirements; I so that it will signify as much | to this great proprietor, | to be entitled to an inheri- tance in the upper region of the air : | ho is so far from possessing | all its riches, I that he does not so much as | know of them, | nor understand f the philosophy of its minerals. Observe that the duration of the pauses, is not indicated in the above illustrations. The learner must carefully PBAOTIOAL HOnra TO READEBS. Xt avoid abrupt pauses between the oratorical word?, or dis- junctive downward inflexions, where the sense implies that the members of the sentence should be connected. Indeed, as has been before hinted, the pause is one only of the modes of marking the group. Mr. Sheridan says on this point '' The tones and inflexions appertaining to these pauses, and the time taken up in them must be left to the reader's own judg^aent ; and his best rule will be to reflect what tones he would use, and what time he would suspend his voice, were he to speak the words as his own imme- diate sentiments." ACCENT AND EMPHASIS. Every word of more than one syllable in the English language has one of its syllables distinguished by force of articulation or vocal effort. This is called verbal or syl- labic accent. There is also accent in sentences, which points out the relative value of words and which is named sentential accent. The position of the sentential accent depends wholly upon the perceptions of the reader, and forms the best test of the accuracy of his judgment ; the regulation of the accent, so as perfectly to bring out the sense of a passage, being often a very nice point requiring muoh judgment and skill. Emphasis is among sentential accents what syllabic ac- cent is among syllables, a prominence given to one accent at the expense of the others. Mr. Bell remarks, " The words in a sentence which express ideas new to the context are pro- nounced with the first degree of emphasis, while all words involved in preceding terms are unemphatio. Words con- trasted with preceding terms are more strongly emphasized and words suggestive of unexpressed antithesis are empha- tic in the highest degree." * The purpose of emphasis and accent is to impress upon the listener's mind the ideas on which it is desired to arrest his attention in proportion to their relative importance. Care must however be taken that due discrimination is made between words which require accent only, and words which * Bell's Elooutionary Manual.— Also bis rrinoiplea oi jSpoeoh and D1q« tlonary of Sounds. London ; UamUtop, Adanis & Cp. i xa FRAOnOAL HINTS TO READERS. ought to be made emphatic. Let it be kept in view that the power of emphatic stress is lost if it is overlaid, and that the reading which is all. emphasis is, in reality, the reverse of emphatic. As this important branch of the. subject, will be most readily understood by illustration, the following masterly analysis by Mr. Bell, is quoted in full : EXAMPLE OP EMPHASIS. Lines on the burial of Sir John Moore. 1^ At the commencement of a Composition everything is, of course, new ; and the first subject and predicate will be emphatic unless either is in the nature of things implied in the other. " Not a drum | was haard, | not a fUnoral noto As I his oorpso | to the ramparts | we hurried." The subject '' drum " will be accented and the predicate " was heard " unaccented, because the mention of a " drum" involves, in the nature of things, recognition by the sense of hearing. To accentuate " heard " would involve one of the false antitheses, " Not a drum was heard" (booauso we wore deaf) or " Not a drum was hoard," (but only seen or felt.) The second subject " note" will be emphatic because it is contrasted with " drum " and suggests the antithesis "not a note" (of any instrument.) . " Funeral is unaccented be- cause pre-understood from the title of the poem. In the next line " as " will be separately accented, because it has no reference to the words immediately following, but to the verb " we hurried." " His corpse " will be unaccented,' because a funeral implies a corpse, and there is no mention in the context of any other than "his." The principal accent of the line may be given to ** ramparts " or " hur- ried ;" the former would perhaps be the better word, as it involves the antithesis " To the ramparts," (and not to a comotery,) In the next two lines, " Not a soldier | discharged I his fhrewoll shot O'or tUo gravo | where | our horo | was budo4." PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS. xiii " Soldier" is implied in conneotion with " drum" and " ram- parts," and the emphasis will fall on *' shot, discharged" being involved in the idea of " shot," and " farewell" being involved in the occasion to which ** shot," refers — a funeral. In the next line the leading accent will be on "grave" — but no word is emphatic, as a " grave" is of course implied. *' O'er" is implied in the nature of things, as the shot could not be discharged under the grave ; " our hero " is the same as "his corpse," and " was buried " is involved in the men- tion of " corpse" and " grave." In the next lines " We buried him | darkly | at dead of night, | The sods | with our bayonets | turning,'' the first clause will be unemphatio, as the fact has been already stated. To emphasize " buried" would suggest the false antithesis *' We buried him" (instead of leaving him on the battle-field.) " Darkly " and "at dead of night" convey the same idea; the latter being the stronger expression will receive the principal accent — on " night ;" — and '* darkly" will be pronounced parenthetically. " Turning the sods" is, of course, implied in the act of burying ; the word " bayonets," therefore, takes the principal accent of the line, because involving the antithesis " With our bayonets," ( and not with spades.) " By the struggling moonbeam's I misty light, And the lantern | dimly burning.*' In the first clause " moonbeam's" will be accented, and " misty light" unaccented, because implied in " the strug- gling moonhoixmy "Lantern" in the second line will take the superior accent of the sentence, because of the two sources of light spoken of, it is tlie more imnediately ser- viceable on the occasion ; and " dimly burning" will bo unaccented, unless the forced antithesis be suggested, " Dimly burning," (as with shrouded light, to osoapo observation.) " Xo useless ooifin | onolosod his breast; Not in sheet | nor in shroud | wo wound him." Emphasis on " coffin," because the word not only conveys a now idea, but is suggestive of contrast: — wimmmm XIV PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS. " No coffin," (as at ordinary interments,) No accent on " useless," because it would suggest the false antithesis. "No useless coffin," (but only one of the least dispensable kind.) " Enclosed his breast" without emphasis, because implied in the mention of "coffin." Emphasis on "breast" would convey the false antithesis (Not) " his breast," (but merely some other part of his body.) " Sheet" and " shroud" in the second line express the same idea 5 the latter being the stronger term, takes the leading accent. "We wound him" unaccented, because implied in the idea of " shroud." The tones in these lines should be rising to carry on the attention to the leading facts of the sentence predicated in the next lines, " Bat I ho lay | like a warrior | taking his rest. With bis martial cloak | around him. " But" separately accented, because it does not refer lo " he lay," which is of course implied in the idea of the dead warrior. To connect "but" with "he lay" would indi- * cate the opposition to be " But ho lay," (instead of assuming some other attitude.) The reference is rather (In " no coffin" or " shroud,") " but" in " his martial cloak." In the simile that follows, no accent on " warrior" be- cause he was a warrior, and not merely was " like " one. The principal emphasis of the whole stanza lies on " rest," which suggests the antithesis, (As if) " taking his rest" (and not with the aspect of death.) In the next line, the principal acoont on " cloak ;" " mar- tial" being implied, unless intended contrast could be sup- posed between his "martial" and some other cloaks; and " around him " being included in the idea of a warrior taking rest in his cloak. " Few I and short I were the prayers | we said, And I we spoke not | a word of sorrow." The principal accent in the first lino will be on the subject " prayers," but the two predicates " yrere few ^nd shorty" PRAOTIOAL HINTS TO READERS. X? are also accented, because all the ideas are new ; the pre- dicates are subordinate to the subject only because the lat- ter is placed last. Had the arrangement been reversed, the principal accent would have fallen on the second predicate " short." Thus :— ** The prayers wo said were few and short." No accent on " we said," because implied in the nature of *' prayers," unless intended contrast could be supposed between *' said" and chanted, or otherwise uttered. In the next line "spoke" being involved in " said," will be unac- cented, unless the antithesis be suggested, " We spoke not"'(though we had the feeling) " of sorrow;" and " word" being involved in " spoke," will be unaccented unless the antethisis be suggested, (So far from making an oration) " we spoke not (eron) a word." The reader may choose between these two emphases, or he may introduce both. *' Not " must be united accentually with the word " spoke " as the negation refers to the verb, and not to the object " a word." To say " Wo spoko I not a word," would bo nonsense. " Sorrow" will bo accented in an equal dcoree with " spoke," if these are made the only accents of the lino, but if *' word" is emphasized, "sorrow" will be unemphatic, because " spoke not (even) a word" would imply of " sorrow" as the feeling natural to the occasion. "But I we I steadfastly | K^i^cd I on the face of the dead, And I wo bitterly thought | of the morrow." The first four words will be separately pronounced, with the emphatic force on " gazed," which should have a fall- ing turn because it completes the sense. "But," is sepa- rated from *' we" because it does not connect that with any other pronoun, but " spoke" with *' gazed." The pronoun, adverb, and verb, might be united in one accentual group, l)Ut such au utterance of this cU\;se ^oul4 be too light an4 XVI i PBAOTIOAL mm& TO READERS. flippant for the solemnity of the sentiment. '< On the face" without emphasis, as no contrast can be intended between face and any other part of the body ; " of the dead" un- emphatic, because implied. In the next line ''and" should have a separate accent ; <' we bitterly thought" may be united, with the accent on the adverb ; '' thought being implied in the " steadfast gazing" of thinking beings. In the last dause " morrow " will be accented, because it intro- duces a new idea. " We thought | as we hollowed his narrow bed, | And smoothed down his lonely pillow, I That the foe | and the stranger | would iread o'er his head, | And we | fu away | on the billow." No emphasis in the first two lines, " we thought" having been already stated, and " as we hollowed and smoothed," &c., being implied in the making of a grave. The gram- matical sentence is, " we thought that the foe," &c. " Foe" and '' stranger" are accented, but not emphatic, as there can be no antithesis. Treading on the grave, whether by friend or foe, would be equally repugnant to the speaker's feelings. The emphasis of the sentence lies on '' tread." The next clause must be emphatic, as there can be no anti- thesis intended to " o'er" or " his," *r between " head" and any other part of the body., " And we " will have the pronoun accented, because opposed to " foe," &c. ; " far away" will have the adverb accented because suggesting " Far away" (and not hero to prevent the indignity.) The meaning is not "away on the billow," but "away" no matter where; and I'on the billow" is merely exple- tive. " But half I of our heavy task | was done When the dock | struck the hour | for retiring." Accent on "half" to suggest " But half" (and not the whole.) " Heavy" and " done" may be accented but not emphatic. In the second line " clock" will be accented, but the em- phatic force must fall on the expressive complement of the predicate " for retiring," because suggesting the antithesis, PRACTICAL HIKtS TO READERS. xvit expl phatio. le em- ofthe " Fos retiring" (and not indulging longer in our reverie.) " And we heard | the distant | and random gun That the foe | was suddenly firing." The first clause uhemphatic, because implied in " the clock struck," which of course was aiso *' heard." The emphasis of this line lies on " gun," which is antithetic to " clock." In the last line " foe" is emphatic, because antithetic to friend, understood as giving the signal for " retiring." " Slowly I and nadly I we laid him down From the field of his fame, | fresh | and gory." In this sentence the subject "we," the predicate ^*laid him down," and the expletive clause *' from the field of his fame," are all implied in the occasion, and the accents fall on " slowly" and " sadly," and on " fresh and gory," which latter are complements of the object "him." The prin- cipal accent is on " gory" as the stronger of the two adjec- tives. The predicate includes all the words "laid him down from the field of his fame," which must be connec- tively read. A falling termination is necessary to discon- nect the^last clause from " fresh and gory," which would otherwice seem to refer to " field" or " fame." " We carved not | a line | and wo raised not | a stone, But I we left him | alono | with his glory." The accents in the first line will fiill on " line " and " stone." The negatives must not bo united with the objects but with the verbs. To read, " Wo carved | not a line." would be nonsense. In the second line " but " should bo separately pronounced, because it does not refer to " wo loft him," which is implied as a matter of course, for even if they had raised a monument to mark the spot, they would equally have " left him." The meaning is equi- valent to "We loft him" (with no monumental tablet or o&im, but) "alono with his glory." The last are therefore the new and accented words. "Lightly I they'll talk | of the spirit that's gone, I And I o'er his cold ashes | upbraid him; Hut I nothing he'll reck I if they let him sleep cm la the grave | whore | a Briton | has laid liim." XViii J ?ftAtiTlOAL mNtS 1)0 READER^. The emphasis in the first line falls on " lightly *' — the expressive complement of the common-placo predicate " will talk/' — antithesis being implied. Thus, " Lightly " {and not feverently as he deserves.") The subject *' they " is used in the general sense of " people " and is unaccented ; " of the spirit that's gone " is implied in connection with the subject of the poem. " And " in the second line, must be separate, to disconnect it from the expletive clause that follows; " upbraid" will be emphatic, as contrasted with the previous predicate, (Not only) " talk lightly " (but even) " upbraid." " But " in the third line, must be separate, to show the sense " notwithstanding " (these facts.) " Nothing he'll reck," the first word accented, but the principal emphasis on " he'll," to suggest the antithesis, , " ife'll reck nothing " (although we shall. ) The only other emphasis is on "Briton," which is sug- gestive of an inference of pride in the nation whose chivalry will defend the hero's name and mortal remains from insult. THE SLUR. Closely allied and of equal importance with emphasis and sentential accent, is the vocal subordination of words or clauses which are mere rhetorical embellishments or which repeat ideas already expressed. All such expletive words or clauses should be passed over lightly, (though dis- tinctly,) and without significant expression. This quality of effective reading, which has been called " Slurring," is by no means easy in practice. Readers who experience little difficulty in rendering words emphatic, being quite un- able to command the intonation required for the inexpres- siveness of the " Slur." The reader of the Scriptures having frequent occasion for the exercise of this quality, the following example, taken from the Bible, may be of service as an illustration. The words to be slurred are placed within parentheses. ^5^ PRAOTICAT. HINTS TO READERS. XIX Nebuchadnezzar tlio kin? made an image of gold, whose height was threescore cubits, and the breadth thereof six ciibita : he set it up in the plain of Dura, in the province of Babylon. Then Nebuchadnezzar (the kin^) sent to gather together the princes, the governors, and the captains, the judges, the treasurers, the counsellors, the sheriffs, and all the rulers of the provinces, to come to the dedication of the image (which Nebuchad- nezzar the king had set up). Then the princes, (the governors, and captains, the judges, the treasurers, the counsellors, the sherilft, and all the rulers of the provinces,) were gathered together (Onto the dedication of the image that Nebuchadnezzar the king had set up) and they stood bfifore the image (that Nebuchadnezzar had set up). Then an herald cried aloud. To you it is commanded, O people, nations, and languages. That at what time ye hear the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, ye fall down and worship the golden image (that Nebuchadnezzar the king hath set up). And whoso falleth not (down and worshippeth) shall the same hour be cast into tne midst of a burning fiery furnace. Therefore at that time, when all the people heard (the sound of the cornet, flute, harp, suckbut, psaltery, and all kinds of music), all the people (the nations, and the languages) fell down and worshipped (the golden image that Nebuchadnezzar the king, had set up). Wherefore at that time certain Chaldeans came near, and accused the Jews. They spake and said to the king Nebuchadnezzar, O king live for over. Thou, O king, hast made a decree, that every man that shall hear the sound of the cornet, (flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, ind all kinds of music,) shall fall down and worship the golden image. And whoso falleth not (down and worshippeth,) that he should be cast into the midst of a burning fiery furnace. There are certain Jews whom thou hast set over the affairs of the province of Babylon, Shadrach, Moshach, and Abod-nego ; these men, O king, have not regarded thee ; they serve not thy gods, nor worship the golden image (which thou hast set up). Then No- uchadnezzar in his rage and fury commanded to bring Shadrach, (Meshach and Abod-nego). Then they brought these men (before the king). Nebu- chadnezzar spake (and said unto them). Is it true, (O Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego,) do not ye servo my gods, nor worship the golden imago which I have set up? Now if ye be ready that at what time ye hoar the sound of the cornet, (flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, and dulcimer, and all kinds of music,) ye fall down and worship the imago (which I have made) well : but if ye worship not, ye shall be cast the same hour into the midst of a burning fiery furnace; and who is that God that shall deliver you out of my hands? Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego, answered and said to the king, O Nebuclialnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us (from the burning fiery furnace) and lie will (deliver us out of thine hand, O king). But if not, bo it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden imago (wlUch thou hast set up). MANAGEMENT OP THE BREATH. The advice, sometimes given, to take in enough of air at the commencement of a sentence to last until its conclusion is not only impracticable in long sentences, but the attempt to do so might be injurious. The time required for the pauses, and which must be observed, will be found quite sufficient to enable the reader to replenish his lungs. It is true that, voice being breath made vocal, a larger supply of air is required for reading, than is neces- sary for vital wants — yet, if the chest is raised, and tho jbt i PRACTICAL HINTS TO READEllti. channels of entrance to the lungs, (particularly the nasal passage,) kept free, the air will enter noiselessly and with little effort on the part of the speaker. The insufl&ciency of breath, which we sometimes hear young readers complain of, arises generally from nervousness, and can be avoided by taking two or three full inspirations before attempting to speak. In reading the first sentence or two let the pauses between the groups be made rather longer than usual, and the reader will find as he proceeds that his breathing will become regular, and that he will encounter no difficulty in uttering the longest sentence or series of sentences in his selection. INTONATION. Oral example is absolutely necessary to exhibit all the varieties of vocal expression and to correct the faults in intonation to which readers are liable. Books on elocu- tion contain ■ directions for the management of the voice which are more or less correct in themselves, but it is doubtful if they arc of practical use to the learner. Cer- tainly no one ever became an accomplished reader by mere- ly following; these precepts. Indeed it seems impossible to convey by words or by printed signs full directions for cor- rect and melodious vocal expression in reading. Those who are curious about the mechanism of expression are referred to Br. Rush's Philosophy of the Voice* and to a little treatise founded upon that work by the late Dr. Barber.-j- In the writings of Mr. Melville Bell, already re- ferred to, will be found valuable directions deduced from certain principles of expression there explained. The writer will content himself by giving a fev? general hints which iio hopes may be found of assistance. In order to give the right expression, it is necessary for the reader to invest himself with the thoughts of the author. It is in vain for him to expect to do this without preliminary study. Every one who has made reading aloud a practice will admit * rhiladelpliia, 1859. t Lovoll, Montreal, ISfiO, k>BAOTICAL HINTS TO REAOBBS. ZXl that he Cannot deliver any piece of written composition so well at sight or on the first reading as on the second ; nor on the second as on the third. He finds that he improves in his manner at every repetition, as the thoughts and the words in which they are conveyed grow more familiar to him. After much practice a reader may indeed, by the quick motion of the eye, comprehend the full meaning and import of the words in compositions which have no obscur- ity in their construction ; yet, it by no means follows that the exact intonation should be ready at his will, or that his execution should at first answer his conception. If the learner practice upon scenes from modern comedies, in which no tones are required but those which he uses in every-day discourse, he will then find that it is one thing to conceive and another to perform ; that it will not be till after repeated attempts that he can hit upon the exact manner in which the words should be delivered or be able to associate to them the just tones, that ought natu{Ally to accompany them. The following exercise may be found useful to beginners : Head a sentence, ponder over its meaning, then nmrh it by placing a single line under accented, and a double line under emphatic words. At first this exercise will appear easy and may seem of little use, but let the learner think over the sentence again, he will then begin to doubt the correctness of some of his markings, other meanings will present themselves and he will be obliged to question closely the author's intent ; the more minute inspection will reveal new difiiculties, not so much of meaning as of the proper mode of expressing the meaning, and he will find at length, that much thought and study are required before he can satisfy himself of . the correctness of his notation. He may then proceed to the grouping of sen- tences as shewn on page x. He will find in his first at- tempts even less difiiculty than he experienced in marking for emphasis, and his pencil will jot off the oratorical words with dashing rapidity, very flattering to his self-complacen- cy. But on the second or third reading he will again find that he has been going too fast ; and it will not be until he ZXll PRACTICAL HmrS TO READ&BS. has arrived at this stage that he will begin to discover the true extent and value of the Art of Reading. The mention of a few of the errors to which readers are liable, will be of service as pointing out to the learner what he should avoid. Indistinct utterance has been already alluded to ; but there is another cause of inaudibility which may be noticed, and that is the diminution in force and the lower- ing of pitch at the end of clauses and sentences. The general rule should be to sustain the pitch, and even slightlv to raise the voice at the termination of sentences. By this, not only is audibility secured, but vigor and live- liness imparted to the reading. Another cause of want of distinctness arises from speak- ing too loud. An unpractised reader often falls into this error. Deliberate utterance, a vocal power suited to the size of the room in which he speaks, an attention to group- ing, and a well-sustained pitch at the periods, will make his reading better heard than shouting at the utmost extent of his voice. A very common fault in intonation is the practice, most unpleasant to the ear, of making the voice rise and fall in meaningless undulations at almost regular periods. This is done with the view of avoiding monotony ; but the per- petual unvarying recurrence of the rise and fall is quite as tiresome as the level pitch from which the reader desires to escape. There is also a bird-like succession of a certain run of melody which, if not interrupted by some forcible or peculiar expression, is repeated again and again until it can bo anticipated by the critical ear with almost unerring certr.inty. This is often ludicrously app2?rent in the reading of poetry. Another fault is that of the reader executing all his emphasis by ''hammering" upon the accented syllables. Besides being wearisome to the listener, this habit destroys the dignity of deliberate intonation. Remember that the emphatic syllable can be distinguished by a variety of means besides force — by the pause, the wave or cir- PBACTIOAL inNTS TO READEIIS. XXIU cumflcx, and other changes in intonation, nay, even by 4i sudden diminution of force. Although the principles which govern the reading of prose are also applicable to poetical composition, there are faults in the recitation of the latter which require special notice. The habit which many have acquired of "singing" instead of reading poetry is so common that it must have been observed by all. The child chants the nursery rhyme unforbidden, and the pupil at school is too often strengthened in the fault by the example of his teacher. Good readers of prose often fail most signally when they attempt the inter- pretation of verse ; if they avoid sing-song, they fall into the opposite error of ignoring the versification altogether and uttering the composition as if it were written in prose. Of the two evils the last is perhaps the most objectionable. The metre, rhythm, and rhyme must be made clearly sensible to the ear, but the meaning of the author should over-ride all. The reader should abandon himself to the spirit of the poem and make his intonation a faithful echo of the sense. The fear of over-doing, or as it is sometimes called " over-acting," is too much dreaded by young readers. They are afraid of rendering themselves ridiculous. But the fact is, that the less the reader thinks about himself and his manner the better, when actually engaged in reading before an audience. If he has familiarized himself with the proper intonation by previous practice, he will be more likely to succeed by giving entire freedom to his imagina- tion and powers of expression. In conclusion, the learner is earnestly warned against imitating /rae readers — readers who exhibit the fine quality and flexibility of their voices by setting the words to meaningless melodies. Every vocal movement should be prompted by the sense of the passage and the voice should convey the meaning with spirit and sympathetic expression but no attempt should be made at ornamentation. The " fine " reading and " stilted " declamation of some Elocu- tionists have done very much to prevent educated men from cultivating the Art of Elocution. MISCELLANEOUS READINGS IN PROSE. THE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON. Daniel Defoe, born in Cripplegate, London, 1661; died April, 1731. Author of ** Robinson Crusoe,''^ &c. Much about the same time I walked out into the fields towards Bow, for I had a great mind to see how things were managed in the river and among the ships. Musing how to satisfy my curiosity in that point, I turned away over the fields, from Bow to Bromley, and down to Blackwall, to the stairs that are there for landing or taking water. Here I saw a poor man walking on the bank or sea-wall, as they call it, by himself. I walked awhile also about, seeing the houses all shut up •, at last I fell into some talk, at a distance, with this poor man. First, I asked him how people did thereabouts. "Alas I sir," says he, ''almost desolate ; all dead or sick. Here are very few families in this part, or in that village " — pointing at Poplar — "where half of them are not dead already, and tlie rest sick." Then, pointing to one house : "There they are all dead," said he, " and the house stands open ; nobody dares go into it. A poor thief," says he, "ventured in to steal something, but he paid dear for his theft, for he was carried to the churchyard too last night." Then he pointed to several other houses. "There," says he, "they are all dead — the man and his wife and five children." " Why," says I, " what do you here all alone ?" "Why," says he, "lam a poor desolate man: it hath pleas'>d God I am not yet visited, though my family is, and one of my children dead." "How do you mean, then," said I, "that you are not visited?" "Why," says he, "that is my house "—pointing to a very little low boarded liouso — " and there my poor wife and two children live," said he, " if they may be said to live I for my wife and one of the children are visited, but I * The great? plague in LONDOJf. do not come at them." And with that word I saw the tears run very plentifully down his face ; and so they did down mine too, I assure you. "But," said I, "why do you not come at them? How can you abandon your own flesh and blood ?' ' "Oh, sir," says he, "the Lord forbid. I do not aban- don them ; 1 work for them as much as I am able ; and, blessed be the Lord, I keep them from want." "Well," says I, " honest man, that is a great mercy, as things go now with the poor. But how do you live then, and how are you kept from the dreadful calamity that is now upon us all?" "Why, sir," says he, "I am a waterman, and there is my boat," says he ; " and the boat serves me for a house : I work in it in the day, and sleep in it in the night ; and what I get 1 lay it down upon that stone," says he, show- ing me a broad stone on the other side of the street, a good way from his house 5 " and then," says he, " I halloo and call to them till 1. make them hear, and they come and fetch it." " Well, friend," says I, " but how can you get money as a waterman ? Does anybody go by water these times ?" "Yes, sir," says he, " in the way I am employed, there does. Do you see there," says he, "five ships lie at anchor ?" — pointing down the river a good way below the town — '-'and do you see," says he, "eight or ten ships lie at the chain there, and at anchor yonder?" — pointing above the town. "All those ships have families on board, of their merchants, and owners, and such like, who have locked themselves up, and live on board, close shut in, for fear of the infection ; and I tend on them to fetch things for them, and carry letters ; and every night I fasten my boat on board one of the ships, and there I sleep by my- self : and, blessed be God, I am preserved hitherto." "Well," said I, "friend, but will they let you come on board after you have been on shore here, when this has been such a terrible place, and so infected as it is ?" "Why, as to that," said he, "I very seldom go up the ship-side I 1 deliver what I bring to their boat, but lie by the side, and they hoist it on board." "Nay," says I, "but that may be worse, for you must have those provisions of somebody or other ; and since all this part of the town is so infected, it is dangerous so much as to speak with anybody." "That is true," added he, "but you do not understand TEtE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON. me right. I do not buy provisions for them here j I row up to Greenwich, and buy fresh meat there, and sometimes 1 row down to Woolwich, and buy there. I seldom come on shore here ; and I came only now to call my wife, and hear how my little family do, and give them a little money which I received last night." " Poor man !" said I ; "and how much hast thou gotten for them?" " I have gotten four shillings," said he, " which is a great sum, as things go now with poor men : but they have given me a bag of bread too, and a salt fish, and some flesh ; so all helps put." "Well," said I, "and have you given it them yet?" "No," said he, "but I have called, and my wife has answered that she cannot come out yet ; but in half an hour she hopes to come, and I am waiting for her. Poor woman I" says he, "she is brought sadly down; she has had a swelling, and it is broke, and 1 hope she will recover, but I fear the child will die ; but it is the Lord !" Here he stopped and wept very much. At length, after some further talk, the poor woman opened the door, and called "Robert, Robert,:" he an- swered, and bid her stay a few moments and he would come ; so he ran down the common stairs to his boat, and fetched up a sack, in which were the provisions he had brought from the ships ; and when he returned, he hal- looed again ; then he went to the great stone which he showed me, and emptied the sack, and laid all out, every- thing by themselves, and then retired ; and his wife came with a little boy to fetch them away ; and he called, and said, such a captain had sent such a thing, and such a cap- tain such a thing ; and at the end adds : " God has sent it all I give thanks to him." When the poor woman had taken up all, she was so weak, she could not carry it at once in, though the weight was not much neither ; so she left the biscuit, which was in a little bag, and left a little boy to watch it. "Well, but," says I to him, " did you leave her the four shillings too, which you said was your week's pay?" "Yes, yes," says he ; "you shall hear her own it." So he calls again : " Rachel, Rachel " — which it seems was her name — " did you take up the money ?" "Yes," said she. "How much was it?" said he. "Four shillings and a groat," said she. "Well, well," says he, "the Lord keep you all ;" and so he turned to go away. IT" i A HAPPY FAMILY. As I could not refrain from contributing tears to this man's story, so neither could I refrain my charity for his assistance ; so I called him. " Hark thee, friend," said I, "come hither, for I believe thou art in bealtli, that I may venture thee ;" so I pulled out my hand which was in my pocket before, "Here," says I, "go and call thy Kachel once more, and give her a little more comfort from me ; God will never forsake a family that trust in him as thou dost:" so I gave him four other shillings, and bid him go lay them on the stone, and call his wife. I have not words to express the poor man's thankful- ness, neither could he express it himself, but by, tears run- ning down his face. He called his wife and told her God had moved the heart of a stranger, upon hearing their con- dition, to give them all that money ; and a great deal more such as that he said to her. The woman, too, made signs of the like thankfulness, as well to Heaven as to me, and joyfully picked it up •, and I parted with no money all that year that I thought better bestowed. A HAPPY FAMILY* Sir R. Steele, horn in Dublin, 1675 ; educated at Charterhouse and Merton ; enlisted in the Horse Guards; afterwards Commissioner in the Stamp Office; sat in Parliament; died in Wales, 1729. An old friend, who wasf ormerly my schoolfellow, came to town last week with his family for the winter, and yester- day morning sent me word his wife expected me to dinner. I am, as it were, at home at that house, arid every member of it knows me for their well-wisher. I cannot, indeed, express the pleasure it is to be met by the children with so much joy as I am when I go thither ; the boys and girls strive who shall come first when they think it is I that am knocking at the door ; and that child which loses the race to me, runs back again to tell the father it is Mr. Bicker- staff. This day I was led in by a pretty giii that we all thought must have forgot me, for the family has been out of town these two years. Her knowing me again was a mighty subject with us, and took up our discourse at the first entrance. With many reflections on little passages which happened long ago, we passed our time during a cheerful and elegant meal. A UAPPY FAMILY After dinner, his lady left the room, as did also ibhe chil- dren. As soon as we were alone, he took me by the hand : " Well, my good friend," says he, " I am heartily glad to see thee ; I was afraid you would never have seen all the com- pany that dined with you to-day again. Do not you think the good woman of the house a little altered since you fol- lowed her from the playhouse, to find out who she was for me ?" I perceived a tear fall down his cheek as he spoke, which moved me not a little . But to turn the discourse, said I, " She is not indeed quite that creature she was when she returned me the letter I carried from you ; and told me, she lioped, as I was a gentleman, I would be em- ployed no more to trouble her who had never offended me, but would be so much the gentleman's friend as to dis- suade him from a pursuit which he could never succeed in. You may remember, I thought her in earnest, and you were forced to employ your cousin Will, who made his sister get acquainted with her for you. You cannot expect her to be for ever fifteen." " Fifteen 1" replied my good friend : '< Ah ! you little understand, you that have lived a bachelor, how great, how exquisite, a pleasure there is in being really beloved ! It is impossible that the most beau- teous face in nature should raise in me such pleasing ideas, as when 1 look upon that excellent woman. That fading in her countenance is chiefly caused by her watching with me in my fever. This was followed by a fit of sickness, which had like to have carried her off last winter. I tell you sincerely, I have so many obligations to her, that I cannot with any sort of moderation think of her present state of health. Ever since her sickness, things that gave me the quickest joy before, turn now to a certain anxiety. As the childreh play in the next room, I know the poor things by their steps, and am considering what they must do, should they lose their mother in their tender years. The pleasure I used to take in telling my boy stories of the battles, and asking my girl questions about the disposal of her baby, and tlie gossiping of it, is turned into inward reflection and melancholy." He wr lid have gone on in this tender way, when the good lady entered, and with an inexpressible sweetness in her countenance, told us she had been searching her closet for something very good, to treat such an old friend as I was. Her husband's eyes sparkled witli pleasure at the cheerfulness of her countenance, and I saw all his fears vanish in an instant. The lady observing something in our N*^; '^ i 6 THE STQRY OP THE SPECTATOK. looks which showed we had been more serious than ordi- nary, and seeing her husband received her with great con- cern under a forced cheerfulness, immediately guessed at what we had been talking of, and applying herself to me, said, with a smile, *'Mr. Bickerstaff, don't believe a word of what he tells you, I shall still live to have yoii for my second, as I have often promised you, unless he takes more care of himself than he has done since coming to town." On a sudden, we were alarmed with the noise of a drum, and immediately entered my little godson to give me a point of war. His mother, between laughing and chiding, would have put him out of the room ; but I would not part with him so. I found upon conversation with him, that the child had excellent parts, and was a great master of all the learning on t'other side of eight years old. I perceived him a very great historian in ^ sop's fables. But he frankly declared to me his mind, that he did not delight in that learning, because he did not believe they were true ; for which reason I found he had very much turned his studies for about a twelvemonth past, into the lives and adventures of Don Bellianis of Greece, Guy of Warwick, the Seven Champions, and other historians of that age. I sat with them till it was very late, sometimes in merry, sometimes in serious discourse, with this particular plea- sure, which gives the only true relish to all conversation, a sense that every one of us liked each other. I went home, considering the different conditions of a married life and that of a bachelor | and 1 must confess that it struck mo with a secret concern, to reflect, that whenever I go off. I shall leave no traces behind me. In this pensive mood I returned to my family — that is to say, to my maid, my dog, and my cat, who only can be the better or worse for what happens to me. THE STORY OF THE SPECTATOR. Lord Macaulay. The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addi- son | and it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was meant to be in some features a likeness of the painter. The Spectator is a gentleman who, after passing a studious youth at the university, Jias travelled on classic ground, THE STORY OP THE SPECTATOR. and has bestowed much attention on curious points of antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his residence in London, and has observed all the forms of life which are to be found in that great city, has daily listened to the wits of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of the Grecian, and has mingled with the parsons at Child's, and with the politicians at the St. James's. In the morning, he often listens to the hum of the Exchange ; in the evening, his face is constantly to be seen in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre. But an insurmountable bashfulness prevents him from opening his mouth, except in a small circle of intimate friends. These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only for a back ground. But the other two, an old country baronet and an old town rake, though not delineated with a very deli- cate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the rude outlines into his own hands, retouched them, coloured them, and is in truth the creator of the Sir Eoger de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all familiar. The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original and eminently happy. Every valuable essay in the series may be read with pleasure separately y yet the five or six hundred essays form a whole, and a whole which has the interest of a novel. It must be remembered, too, that at that time no novel, giving a lively and powerful picture of the common life and manners of England, had appeared. Richardson was working as a compositor. Fielding was robbing birds' nests. Smollett was not yet born. The narrative, therefore, which connects together the Spectator's Essays, gave to our ancestors their first taste of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed constructed with no art or labour. The events were such events as occur every day. Sir Roger comes up to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy baronet always calls Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the water to Spring Gardens, walks among the tombs in the Abbey, and is frightened by the Mohawks, but conquers his apprehen- sion so far as to go to the theatre, when the " Distressed Mother" is acted. The Spectator pays a visit in the sum- mer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old house, the old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack caught by Will Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law ir 8 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. discussed by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings to the club the news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at sixty. The club breaks up ; and the Spectator resigns his functions. Such events can hardly be said to form a plot ; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, such wit, such humour, such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt that, if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it would have been superior to any that we possess. As it is, he is entitled to be considered not only as the greatest of the English essayists, but as the forerunner of the great English novelists. SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. From the Spectator. Joseph Addison, statesman, poet and essayist horn 1672; died 1718. Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a moilth with him in the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my ensumg speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my chamber, as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me be merry. . . I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober, staid persons ; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him ; by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet-de-chambre for his brother ; his butler is grey-headed, his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and his coachman has the looks of a privy councillor. You see the goodness of the master even in his old house-dog, and in a grey pad that is kept in the stable with great care and tcntleiiioss, out of regard for SIR ROGER DE OOVERLEY. rn 1G72; died his past services, though he has been useless for several years. I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master ; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time the good old knight, with the mixture of the father and the master of the fami- ly, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good hu- mour, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with : on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants My friend Sir Roger has often told me, with a great deal of mirth, that at his first coming to his estate he found three parts of his house ialtogether useless -, that the best room in it had the reputation of being haunted, and by that means was locked up | that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight o'clock at night ; that the door of one of his chambers was nailed up, because there went a story in the family, that a butler had formerly hanged himself in it ; and that his mother, who lived to a great age, had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. The knight seeing his habi- tation reduced to so small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out of his own house, upon the death of his mother ordered all the apartments to be flung open and exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room one after another, and by that means dissipated the fears which had so long reigned in the family. . . . My friend. Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a handsome pulpit- cloth, and railed in the communion-table at his own ex- pense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular ; and that in order to make them kneel, and join in the responses, he gave every one of 'them a hassock and a Common Prayer- Book ; and at the same time employed an itinerant sing- 10 Sm ROGER DE COVERLEY. ing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the Psalms, upon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches that I have ever heard. As Sir Koger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short n^p at a sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees any body else nodding, either wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the sing- . ing Psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congre<;ation have done with it ; sometimes when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times in the same prayer ; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congre- gation, or see if any of his tenants are missing. . . . The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that an- swers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given to him next day for his encouragement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of baoon to his mother. Sir Roger has like- wise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make them- selves perfect in the church service, has promised upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit. . . . A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches of his own heart; his next, to escape the censures of the world. If the last interferes with the former, it ought to be entirely neglected ; but otherwise there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest mind than to see those approbations which it gives itself, seconded by the ap- plauses of the public. A man is more sure of his conduct when the verdict which he passes upon his own behaviour is thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all that know him. My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is not only at peace within himself, but beloved and esteemed by all about him. He receives a suitable tribute for his uni- versal benevolence to mankind, in the returns of affection and good-will which are paid him by every one that lives yvithin his neighbourhood. I lately met two or three odd SIR KOGEU DE COVERLEY, 11 instances of that general respect which is shown to the good old knight. He would needs carry Will Wimble and myself with him to the county assizes. . . . In our return home we met with a very odd accident, which I cannot forbear relating, because it shows how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of giving him marks of their esteem. When we were arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a little inn to rest ourselves and lour horses. The man of the house had, it seems, been [formerly a servant in the knight's family; and to dv I honour to his old master, had, some time since, unknown to Sir Roger, put him up in a sign-post before the door ; I so that the knight's head hung out upon the road about a week before he himself knew anything of the matter. As t soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him that he had made him too high [ a compliment ; and, when the fellow seemed to thi nk th at could hardly be, added, with a more decisive ' ' was too great an honor for any man under^ j told him, at the same time, that it might ' [ a very few touches, and that he himself charge of it. Accordingly they got aj knight's directions to add a pair of whis and by a little aggravation to the feati into the Saracen's Head. I should not [story, had not the innkeeper, upon Sir told him in my hearing that his honour's he^ 1 last night with the alterations that he had oi made in it. Upon this, my friend, with his usiialTiresr- I fulness, related the particulars above mentioned, and ordered the head to be brought into the room. I could not j forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth than or- dinary, upon the appearance of this monstrous face, under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown and stare I in a most extraordinary manner, I could still discover a [distant resemblance of my old friend. Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell him truly if I thought lit possible for people to know him in that disguise. I at [first kept my usual silence ; but, upon the knight's con- juring me to tell him whether it was not still more like [himself than a Saracen, I composed my countenance in jthe best manner I could, and replied, that much might bei Igaid on both sides. . . , ■ '\ 1 12 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. Sir Roger comes to London and calls on the Spectator :— 1 was this morning surprised with a great knocking at the door, when my landlady's daughter came up to me and told me that there was a man below desired to speak with me. Upon my asking her who it was, she told me it was a very grave, elderly person, but that she did not know his name. I immediately went down to him, and found him to be the coachman of my worthy friend Sir Eoger de Coverley. He told me that his master came to town last night, and would be glad to take a turn with me in Gray's Inn walks. As I was wondering with myself what had brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately received any letter from him, he told me that his master was come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he desired I would immediately meet him. . . . I was no sooner come into Gray's Inn walks, but I heard my friend hemming twice or thrice to himself with great vigour, for he loves to clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in his morning hems. I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the good old man, who, before he saw me, was engaged in conversa- tion with a beggar-man that had asked an alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for not finding out some work ; but at the same time saw him put his hand in his pocket and give him sixpence. . . . Among other pieces of news which the knight brought from his country-seat, he informed me that Moll White was dead, and that about a month after her death the wind was so very high that it blew down the end of one of his barns. But for my own part, says Roger, I do not think that the old woman had any hand in it. He afterwards fell into an account of the diversions which had passed in his house during the holidays ; for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his ancestors, always keeps open house at Christmas. I learned from him that he had killed eight fat hogs for this season ; that he had dealt about his chines very liber- ally amongst his neighbours : and that, in particular, he had sent a string of hogs' puddings, with a pack of cards, to every poor family in the parish. I have often thought says Sir Roger, it happens very well that Christmas should ; fall out in the middle of winter. It is the most dead, i uncomfortable time of the year, when the poor people I would suffer very much from their poverty and cold, if i SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 13 ks, but I heard iself with great (d air (to make leased with any he still exerts 5ht of the good ;ed in conversa- ilms of him. I ding out some his hand in his cnight brought lat Moll White death the wind of one of his do not think the diversions olidays ; for Sir cestors, always ;ht fat hogs for ines very liber- particular, he pack of cards, often thought iristmas should he most dead, poor people y and cold, if they had not good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gam- bols to support them. I love to rejoice their poor hearts at this season, and to see the whole village merry in my great hall. 1 allow a double quantity of malt to my small- beer, and set it a- running for twelve days to every one that calls for it. 1 have always a piece of cold beef and a mince-pie upon the table, and am wonderfully pleased to see my tenants pass away n. y/hole evening in playing their innocent tricks, and smutting one another. . . . My friend told me that he had a great mind to see the I new tragedy, "The Distressed Mother," with me, assuring I me. at the same time, that he had not been at a play these twenty years. ' ' The last I saw, ' ' said Sir Roger, ' ' was ' The Committee,' which I should not have gone to neither had not I been told beforehand that it was a good Church of England coriiedy." He then proceeded to inquire of me who this Distressed Mother was, and upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me that her husband was a brave man, and that when he v/as a school-boy he had read his life at the end of the dictionary. . . . He expressei some fears of being attacked by robbers on hii way to the play, but— However, says the knight, if Captain Sentry will make I one with us to-morrow night, and you will both of you call iupon nie about four o'clock, that we may be at the house ! be 'bre it is full, I will have my own coach in readiness to I attend you, for John tells me he has got the fore-wheels mended. The captain, who did not fail to meet me there at the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for that he I had put on the same sword which he made use of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger's servants, and among the jrest, my old friend the butler, had, I found, provided themselves with good oaken plants, to attend their master upon this occasion. When we had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left hand, the captain before him, and (his butler at the head of his footmen in the rear, we con- jveyed him in safety to the playhouse, where, after having [marched up the entry in good order, the captain and I jwent in with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. JAs soon as the house was full and the candles lighted, my lold friend stood up, and looked about him with that plea- jsure which a mind seasoned with humanity naturally feels I in itself at tho sight of a multitude of people who seem 14 SIR ROGER DE COVERLfiY. pleased with one another, and partake of the same coni' mon entertainment. I could not but fancy to myself, as the old man stood up in the middle of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tragic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the knight told me that he did not believe the King of France himself had a better strut. I was indeed very attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked upon them as a piece of natural criticism and was well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost every scene, telling me that he could not imagine how the play would end. One while he appeared much concerned for Andromache, and a little while after as much for Hermione, and was extremely puzzled to think what would become of Pyrrhus. When Sir Eoger saw Andromache's obstinate refusal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in the ear, that he was sure she would never have him | to which he added with a more than ordinary vehemence, ''you can't imagine, sir, what it is to have to do with a widow." Upon Pyrrhus threatening to leave her, the knight shook his head, and muttered to himself, *-'Ay, do if you can." This part dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at the close of the third act, as I was thinking on something else, he whispered me in my ear, *'Thes6 widowsy sir, are the most perverse creatures in the worlr". But pray," says he, " you that are a critic, is the play ic ;wrd..ig to your dram- atic rules, as you call them? Should your people in tragedy always talk to be understood ? Why, there is not a single sentence in this play that I do not know the meaning of." The fourth act very luckily began before I had time to give the old gentleman an answer. "Well," says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction, " I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost." He then renewed his attention, and, from time to time, fell a praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little mistake as to one of her pages, whom, at his first entering, he took for Asty- anax ; but quickly set himself right in that • particular, though, at the same time, he owned he should have been glad to have seen the little boy, who, says he, must needs be a very fine child by the account that is given of him. Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus, the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger added, " On my word, a notable young baggage." As there was a very remarkable silence and stillness in StR ROGER DE COVERLEl*. 15 lot know the the audience during the whole action, it was natural for them to take the opportunity of the intervals between the acts to express their opinion of the players and of their respective parts. Sir Roger, hearing a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, and told them that he thought his friend Pylades was a very sensible man. As they were afterward applauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time : ''And let me tell you," says he, "though he speaks but little, I like the old fellow in whiskers as well as any of them." Captain Sentry, seeing two or three wags, who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear towards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered something in his ear that lasted till the opening of the fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus' death, and, at the conclusion of it, told me it was such a bloody piece of work that he was glad it was not done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in his raving tit, he grew more than ordinarily serious, and took occasion to moralize, in his way, upon an evil conscience, adding that Orestes in his madness looked as if he saw something. As we were the first that came into the house, so we were the last that went out of it, being resolved to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we did not care to ven- ture among the jostling of the crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his entertainment, and we guarded him to his lodging in the same manner that we brought him to Lhe playhouse, being highly pleased f5r my own part, not only with the performance of the excellent piece which had been presented, but with the satisfaction which it had given to the good old man. . . . Sir Roger, wishing to go to Vauxhall, is escorted by the Spectator. We were no sooner come to the Temple Stairs but We were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offering us their respective services. Sir Roger, after having looked about him very attentively, spied one with a wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders to get his boat ready. As we were walking towards it, *'You must know," says Sir Roger, " I never make use of anybody to row me that has not lost either a leg or an arm. I would rather bate him a few strokes of his oar than not employ an honest man that has been wounded in the queen's service. If 1 was a 16 StR ROGER DE COVERLET. ' . lord or a bishop, and kept a barge, I would not put a fel- low in my livery that had not a wooden leg." My old friend, after having seated himself, and trimmed the boat with his coachman, who, being a very sober man, always serves for ballast on these occasions, we made the best of our way for Vauxhall. Sir Eoger obliged the waterman to give us the history of his right leg ; and hear- ing that he had left it at La Hogue, with many particulars which passed in that glorious action, the knight, in the triumph of his heart, made several reflections on the greatness of the British nation; as that one Englishman could beat three Frenchmen ; that we could never be in danger of popery so long as we took care of our fleet ; that the Thames was the noblest river in Europe ; that London Bridge was a greater piece of work than any of the seven wonders of the world ; with many other honest prejudices which naturally cleave to the heart of a true English- man. ... The history of the worthy knight is thus concluded by the Spectator. We last night received a piece of ill news at our club, \yhich very sensibly afflicted every one of us. I question not but my readers themselves will be troubled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longer in suspense, 8ir Eoger de Coverley is dead ! He departed this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks' sickness. . . . As my friend the butler mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several circubistances the others have passed over in silence, I shall give my readers a copy of his letter, without any alteration or diminution. Honoured Sir, Knowing that you was my old master's good friend, I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say, better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught his death the last county sessions, where he would go to see justice done to a poor widow woman and her fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neighbouring gentleman ; for you know, sir, my good master was always the poor man's friend. Upon his coming home, the first complaint he made was that he had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to touch a sirloin, which was served up accord- ing to custom J and you know ho used to take great delight SIR ROGER DE COVEELEY. 17 in it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse, but still kept a good heart to the last. ... He has bequeathed the fine white gelding that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his chaplain, because he thought he would be kind to him ; and has left you all his books. He has, moreover, bequeathed to the chaplain a very pretty tenement with good lands about it. It being a very cold day when he made his will, he left for mourning to every man in the parish a great frieze coat, and to every woman a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to see him take leave of his poor servants, commending us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak a word for weep- ing. As we most of us are grown grey- headed in our dear master's. service, he has left us pensions and legacies, which we may live very comfortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has bequeathed a great deal more in charity which is not yet come to my knowledge ; and it is per- emptorily said in the parish that he has left money to build a steeple to the church; for he was heard to say, some time ago, that if he lived two years longer, Coverley church should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells everybody that he made a very good end, and never speaks of him without tears. . . . Captain Sentry, my mas- ter's nephew, has taken possession of the Hall-house and the whole estate. . . . He makes much of those whom my master loved, and shows great kindness to the old house-dog that you know my poor master was so fond of. It would have gone to your heart to have heard the moans the dumb creature made on the day of my master's death. He has never enjoyed himself since ; no more has any of us. It was the melancholiest day for the poor people that ever happened in Worcestershire. This being all from, Honoured Sir, your most sorrowful servant, Edward Biscuit. This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's manner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old friend, that upon the reading of it there \yas not a dry eye in the club. 9 iiii';! 18 ' J'ARTRIDGIS AT THE PLAY. PAKTEIDGE AT THE PLAYHOUSE. Henry Fielding; horn at Sharpham Park, Somersetshircy April 22, 1707 / educated at Eton an^ Ley den ; died at Lisbon, October 8, 1754. In the first row, then, of the first gallery, did Mr. Jones,. Mrs. Miller, her youngest daughter, and Partridge, take their places. Partridge immediately declared it was the- finest place he had ever been in. When the first music was played, he said, " It was a wonder how so many fiddlers could play at one time ^vithout putting one another out. " Nor could he help observing, with a sigh, when all the candles were lighted, ''That here were candles enough burnt in one night to keep an honest poor family for a twelve- month." As soon as the play, which was Hamlet, Prince of Den- mark, began. Partridge was all attention, nor did he break silence till the entrance of the ghost, upon which he asked Jones, " What man that was in the strange dress, some thing, " said he, " like what I have seen in a picture. Sure it is not armour, is it? " Jones answered, " That is the ghost." To which Partridge replied with a smile, " Per- suade me to that, sir, if you can. Though I can't say I ever actually saw a ghost in my life, yet I am certain I should know one if I saw him better than that comes to. Mo, no, sir: ghosts don't appear in such dresses as that neither. " In this mistake, which caused much laughter in the neighbourhood of Partridge, he was suflfered to conti- nue till the scene between the ghost and Hamlet, when Partridge gave that credit to Mr. Garrick which he had denied to Jones, and fell into so violent a trembling that his knees knocked against each other. Jones asked him what was the matter, and whether he was afraid of the warrior on the stage. •' Oh, la I sir, " said he, ''I perceive now it is what you told me. I am not afraid of anything, for I know it is but a play ; and if it was really a ghost, it could do one no harm at such a distance, and in so much company; and yet if I was frightened, I am not the only person." <»Why, who," cries Jones, ''dost thou take to be such a coward here beside thyself?" " Nay, you may call me coward if you will ; but if that little man there upon the stage is not frightened, I never saw any man frightened in my life. Ay, ay, go along witli you I Ay, to be sure ! Who's fool then ? Will you ? Whatever hap- PARTRIDGE AT TlIK I'l AY. 19 pens, it is good enough for you. Follow you ! I'd follow the devil as soon. Nay, perhaps it is the devil — for they say he can put on what likeness he pleases. Oh I here he is again. No farther 1 No, you have gone far enough already • far- ther than I'd have gone for all the king's dominions." Jones offered to speak, but Partridge cried, " Hush, hush, dear sir ! don't you hear him? " And during the whole speech of the ghost, he sat with his eyes fixed partly on the ghost, and partly on Hamlet, and with his mouth open ; the same passions which succeeded each other in Hamlet succeeding likewise in him. When the scene was over, Jones said, " Why, Partridge, you exceed my expectations. You enjoy the play more than I conceived possible. " '^ Nay, sir, " answered Partridge, " if you are not afraid of the devil, I can't help it ; but, to be sure, it is natural to be surprised at such things, though I know there is nothing in them : not that it was the ghost that surprised me neither ; for I should have known that to have been only a man in a strange dress ; but when I saw the little man so frightened himself, it was that which took hold of me. " ''And dost thou imagine then, Partridge," cries Jones, " that he was really frightened ? " " Nay, sir," said Partridge, " did not you yourself observe • afterwards, when he found it was his own father's spirit, and how he was murdered in the garden, how his fear forsook him by degrees, and he was struck dumb with sorrow, as it were, just as I should have been, had it been my own case ? But hush! Oh, lal what noise is that? There he is again. Well, to be certain, though I know there is nothing at all in it, I am glad I am not down yonder where those men are. " During the second act, Partridge made very few remarks. He greatly admired the fineness of the dresses ; nor could he help observing upon the king's countenance. " Well, " said lie, " how people may bo deceived by fiices I Nulla Jidesfronti is, I find, a true saying. Who would think, by looking in the king's face, that he had ever committed a murder?" He then inquired after the ghost; but Jones, who intended he should be surprised, gave him no other satisfaction than " that he might possibly see him again soon, and in a flash of fire. " Partridge sat in fearful expectation of this ; and now, when the ghost made his next appearance, Partridge cried out, "There, sir, now; what (say you now; is he frightened now or no ? As much frightened as you think me, and to be sure nobody can help some foars ; I would not be in so 20 PAIITRIDGE AT THE PLAY. bad a condition as — what's his name ? — Squire Hamlet is there, for all the world. Bless me ! what's become of the spirit? As I am a living soul, I thought I saw him sink into the earth." "Indeed, you saw right," answered Jones. "Well, well," cries Partridge, "I know it's only a play; and besides, if there was anything in all this, Madam Miller would not laugh so ; for, as to you, sir, you would not be afraid, I believe, if the devil was here in per- son. There, there j ay, no wonder you are in such a pas- sion; shake the vile, wicked wretch to pieces. If she was my own mother I should serve her so. To be sure, all duty to a mother is forfeited by such wicked doings. Ay, go about your business ; I hate the sight of you." Our critic was now pretty silent till the play which Ham- let introdvces before the king. This he did not at first um' -IS till Jones explained it to him; but he no soone; . * e'^ into the spirit of it, than he began to bless himseil >;ii**,c uo had never committed murder. Then turn- ing to Mrs. Miller, he asked her, " If she did not imagine the kn:^ lO.^ked nd doth all he can to hide it. Well, I would not have so nmcii to answer for as that wicked man there hath, to sit upon a much higher chair than he sits upon. No wonder he ran away ; for your sake I'll never trust an innocent face again." The grave-digging scene next engaged the attention of Partridge, who expressed much surprise at the number of , skulls thrown upon the stage. To which Jones answered, "That it was one of the most famous burial-places about town." "No wonder, then," cries Partridge, "that the place is haunted. But I never saw in my life a worse grave-digger. I had a sexton when 1 was clerk that should have dug three graves while he is digging one. The fellow handles a spade as if it was the first time he had ever had one in his hand. Ay, ay, you may sing. You had rather sing than work, I believe." Upon Hamlet's taking up the skull, he cried out, "Weill it is strange to see how fearless some men are : I never could bring my- self to touch anything belonging to a dead man on any account. He seemed frightened enough too at the ghost, I thought." Little more worth remembering occurred during the play, at the end of which Jones asked him, " Which of the players he had liked best?" To this he answered, with some appearance of indignation at the (^[uestion, "The PICTURE OP GOLDSMITH. 21 king, without doubt," "Indeed Mr. Partridge," says Mrs. Miller; "you are not of the same opinion with the town ; for they are all agreed that Hamlet is acted by the best player who ever was on the stage." " He the best player 1" cries Partridge, with a contemptuous sneer: " Why I could act as well as he myself. I am sure if I had seen a ghost, I should have looked in the very same man- ner, and done just as he did. And then, to be sure, in that scene, as you called it, between him and his mother, where you told me he acted so fine, why, any man, that is, any good man, that had such a mother, would have done exactly the same. I know you are only joking with me ; but, indeed, madam, though I was never at a play in Lon- don, yet I have seen acting before in the country ; and the king for my money : he speaks all his words distinctly, half as loud again as the otiier. Anybody may see he is an actor," BOSWELL'S PICTUEE OF GOLDSMITH. Jamts Boswell, born in Scotland, 1740j died in London, 1795. Thefnend and biographer of Johnson. Dr. Oliver Goldsmith was a native of Ireland, and a con- tv^mporary with Mr. Burke, at Trinity College, Dublin, but did not then give much promise of future celebrity. He, however, observed to Mr. Malone that, though he made no great figure in mathematics, which was a study in much repute there, he could turn an Ode of Horace into English better than any of them. He afterwards studied physio at Edinburgh, and upon the Continent ; and, I have been in- formed, was enabled to pursue his travels on foot, partly by demanding, at Universities, to enter the lists as a dis- putant, by which, according to the custom of many of them, he was entitled to the premium of a grown, when, luckily for him, his challenge was not accepted j so that, as I once observed to Dr. Johnson, he disputed his passage through Europe. He then came to England, and was em- ployed successively in the capacities of an usher to an academy, a corrector of the press, a reviewer, and a writer for a newspaper. He had sagacity enough to cultivate assiduously the acquaintance of Johnson, and his faculties 22 BOSWELL S PICTURE OF GOLDSMITH. m ill were gradually enlarged by the contemplation of such a model. To me and many others it appeared that he studiously copied the manner of Johnson, though, indeed, upon a smaller scale. At this time I think he had published nothing with his name, though it was pretty generally known that one Dr. Goldsmith was the author of "An Inquiry into the Present State of i^olite Learning in Europe," and of "The Citizen of the World, " a series of letters supposed to be written from London by a Chinese. No man had the art of dis- playing with more advantage, as a wrii°r, whatever lite- rary acquisitions he made. ' ' Nihil quod teliyit nou ornavit^^ His mind resembled a fertile but thin soil. There was a quick, but not a strong, vegetation, of whatever chanced to be thrown upon it. No deep root could be struck. The oak of the forest did not grow there; but the elegant shrubbery and the fragrant* parterre appeared in gay suc- cession. It has been generally circulated and believed that he was a mere fool in conversation ; but, in truth, this has been greatly exaggerated. He had, no doubt, a more than common share of that hurry of ideas which we often find in his countrymen, and which sometimes pro- duces a laughable confusion in exj)ressing them. He was very much what the French call nii eknirdi, and from vani- ty and an eager desire of being conspicuous wherever he was, he frequently talked carel«^ssly without knowledge of the subject, or even without thought. His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. Those who were in any way distinguished, excited envy in him to so ridiculous an excess, that the instances of it are hardly credible. When accompanying two beautiful young ladies, with their mother, on a tour in France, he was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them than to him I and once at the exhibition of the Faatocciid in London, when those who sat next him observed with what dexterity a puppet was made to toss a pike, he could not bear that it s;hould have such praise, and exclaimed, with some warmtH, " Pshaw ! I can do it better myself." He, I am afraid, had no settled system of any sort, so that his conduct must not be strictly scrutinised ; but his affections were social and generous, and when he had money he gave it away very liberally. His desire of imaginary consequence predominated over his attention to truth. When he began to rise into notice, he said ho had a brother u boswell's picture op goldsmith. 23 who was Dean of Durham, a fiction bo easily detected, that it is wonderful how he should have been so inconsiderate as to hazard it. He boasted to me at this time of the power of his pen in commanding money, which I believe was true in a certain degree, though in the instance he gave he was by no means correct. He told me that he had sold a novel for four hundred pounds. This was his ' ' Vicar of Wake- field." But Johnson informed me that he had made the bargain for Goldsmith, and the price was sixty pounds. "And, sir," said he, "a sufficient price too, when it was 8old; for then the fame of Goldsmith had not been ele- vated, as it afterwards was, by his 'Traveller;' and the bookseller had such faint . hopes of profit by his bargain, that he kept the manuscript by him a long time, and did not publish it till after the 'Traveller' had appeared. Then, to be sure, it was accidentally worth more mo- ney." Mrs. Piozzi and Sir John Hawkins have strangely mis- stated the history of Goldsmith's situation and Johnson's friendly interference, when this novel was sold. I shall give it authentically from Johnson's own exact narra- tion : — " I received one morning a message from poor Gold- smith that he was in great distress, and, as it was not in his power to come to me, begging that I would come to him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and pro- mised to come to him directly. I accordingly went as soon as I was dressed, and found that his landlady had arrested him for his rent, at which he was in a violent passion. I perceived that he had already changed my guinea, and had got a bottle of Madeira and a glass before him. I put the cork into the bottle, desired he would he calm, and began to talk to him of the means by which he might be extri- cated. He then told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to nie. I looked into it, and saw its merit ; told the landlady I should soon return : and having gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent, not without rating his landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." My next meeting with Johnson was on Friday, the 1st of July, when he and I and Dr. Goldsmith supped at the Mitre. I was before this time pretty well acquainted with Goldsmith, who was one of the brightest ornaments of the Johnsonian school. Goldsmith's respectful attachment to 24 iiE VAILLANT S MONKEY. Johnson was then at its height ; for his own literary repu- tation had not yet distinguished him so much as to excite a vain desire of competition with his great master. Be had increased my admiration of the goodness of Johnson's heart, by incidental remarks in the course of conversation, such as, when I mentioned Mr. Levett, whom he enter- tained under his roof, *'He is poor and honest, which is recommendation enough to Johnson j" and when I won- cered that he was very kind to a man of whom I had heard a very bad character, " He is now become miserable, and that ensures the protection of Johnson." Goldsmith attempting this evening to maintain, I sup- pose from an affectation of parajlox, "that knowledge was not desirable on its own account, for it often was the source of unhappiness |" Johnson : ** Why, sir, that knowledge may, in some cases, produce unhappiness, I allow. But, upon the whole, knowledge, per se, is certainly an object which every man would wish to attain, although, perhaps, he may not take the trouble necessary for attaining it." LE VAILLANT' S MONKEY. Frangois Le Vaillant, born at Paramaribo, Guiana, 1753; died 1824. Naturalist and traveller. An animal, which often rendered me essential services, whose presence has frequently interrupted or banished from my memory the most bitter and harassing reflec- tions, whose simple and touching affection even seemed, on some occasions, to anticipate my wishes, and whose playful tricks were a perfect antidote to ennui, was a monkey of the species so common at the Cape, and so well known by the name of ' Bavian.' It was very familiar, and attached itself particularly to me. I conferred upon it the office of my taster-general, and when we met with any fruits or roots unknown to my Hottentots, we never ventured to eat them till they had been presented to, and pronounced upon, by Kees. If he ate, we fed ''pon them ; if he refused to eat them, we did so likewise. The baboon has this quality in particular, which distinguishes him from the lower animals, and approximates him more nearly to man : he has received from Nature equal por- LE vaillant's Monkey 25 tions of curiosity and gluttony ; he tastes everything you give him ; without necessity he touches whatever comes in his way. But in Kees I valued a still more precious quali- ty. He was a most trusty guardian. Night or day, it mattered not, the most distant approach of danger roused him to instant watchfulness; and his cries and gestures invariably warned us of any unusual occurrence long before my dogs got scent of it. Indeed, these otherwise faithful guardians became so habituated to his voice, and depended so implicitly upon his instinct, that they became utterly careless of their own duty, and, instead of watching our encampment, went to sleep in full confidence. But no sooner had he given the alarm than the whole pack were up and on the alert, flying to defend the quarter from which his motions directed them to expect the threatened danger. ... I often took him out with me on my hunting and shooting excursions. On the way he amused himself by climbing the trees in search of gum, of which he was passionately fond. Sometimes he would discover the honey combs which the wild bees deposit in the hollows of decayed trees ; but when neither gum nor honey were to be found, and he began to be pressed by hunger, an exhi- bition of the most comic and amusing nature took place. In default of more dainty fare, he would search for roots, and, above all, for a particular kind, which the Hottentots call < kameroo,' which he greatly admired, and which, un- fortunately for him, I had myself fo\ind so refreshing and agreeable, that I often contested the possession of the prize with him. This put him upon his mettle, and developed all his talents for ruse and deception. When he discovered the kameroo at any distance from me, he commenced devour- ing it, without even waiting to peel it according to his usual custom, his eyes all the while eagerly fixed upon my motions, and he generally managed matters so adroitly as to have finished the banquet before I reached him. Occa- sionally, however, I would arrive too soon for him; he would then break the root and cram it into his cheek- pouches, from which I have often taken it without his dis- playing any malice or resentment at what he must have considered as an act of great injustice. To pluck up the roots, he resorted to a most ingenious method, which greatly amused me. Seizing the tuft of leaves with his teeth, he dug about and loosened the root with his fingers, and by then drawing his head gently backwards he com- 26 LE VATLLANT'g MONKEY. monly raaniiged to extract it without brenking; but when this method failed, he would seize the tuft as before, and as close to the root as possible, and then, suddenly turning a somersault, he would throw himself head over heels, and the kameroo rarely failed to follow. On these little expeditions, when he felt himself fa- tigued, it was most ludicrous to see him mounting upon the back of one of my dogs, which he would thus compel to carry him for hours together. One of the pack, how- ever, was more than a match for him, even at his own weapons — cunning and finesse. As soon as this animal found Kees upon his shoulders, instead of trying to shake him off or dispute the point, which he knew by experience to be useless, he would make a dead halt, and, with great resignation and gravity, stand as immovable as a statue, whilst our whole train passed by and proceeded on their journey. Thus the two would continue, mutually trying to tire out one another's patience, till we were nearly out of sight. This had no effect upon the dog, who, to do him justice, possessed a most praiseworthy firmness of charac- ter, and an obstinacy which would have done honour to a logician ; but with Kees it was a different matter. He saw the distance increasing without any better chance of over- coming hid adversary's resolution than at first. Then comtnenced a most ludicrous and amusing scene. Kees would alight, and both follow the caravan at full speed ; but the dog, always distrusting the finesse of the monkey, would adroitly allow him to pass on a little before him, for fear of a surprise, and never for a moment taking his eye off him. In other respects he had gained a complete ascendancy over the whole pack, which he undoubtedly owed to the superiority of his instinct, for among animals, as among men, cunning and address are frequently more than a match for physical force. It was only at meal times, however, that Kees ever showed any ill-nature towards the dogs I when any of them approached him on that impor- tant occasion, the administration of a sound box on the ear warned him to keep at a more respectful distance, and it is singular that none of the pack ever disputed the point or resented the affront. Like all monkeys, he was incorrigibly addicted to petty larceny, and had he been an Englishman, would have been long since tried at the Old Bailey, and transported to Botany Bay ; but being a freeborn Africandar — for such is the name by which the Cape colonists delight to be called LE VAILL ant's JIOXKEY. 27 )ut when fore, and Y turning eels, and mself fa- ing upon s compel ick, how- his own is animal to shake cperience ith great a statue, on their Lly trying learly out to do him )f charac- nour to a He saw e of over- t. Then le. Kees 11 speed ; monkey, 5 him, for g his eye complete ioubtedly animais, atly more eal times, wards the lat impor- X on the ance, and the point d to petty lave been 5orted to 5r such is be called —ho committed his depredations with impunity, or only fled for an hour or two to the woods to escape immediate chastisement, always, however, taking good care to return by nightfall. Never but on one occasion did he absent himself during the night. It was near dinner-time, and I had just prepared some fricasseed beans on my plate, when suddenly the cry of a bird which I htid not before heard called otF my attention, and I seized my gun and set off* in pursuit of it. I had not been more than a quarter of an hour absent, when I returned with my bird in my hand ; but Kees and my dinner had both disappeared in the meantime, though I had severely chastised him for steal- ing my supper on the previous evening. I concluded, however, that, as usual, he would return on the approach of night, when he fancied that the affliir would be forgotten, and so thought no more of it. But for once I was mis- taken in him ; evening came without any appearance ot Kees, nor had any of my Hottentots seen him on the fol- lowing morning, and I began to fear that I had lost him for good. I really began seriously to feel the loss of his amusing qualities and watchfulness, when, on the third day after his disappearance, one of my peojjle hn iiglit the welcome intelligence that he had encountered him in the neighbouring wood, but that he concealed himself among the branches upon seeing that he was discovered. I' imme- diately proceeded to the place indicated, and, after beating some time about the environs to no purpose, at length heard his voice in the tone which he usually adopted when supplicating for a favour or a remission of punishment. Upon looking up, I perceived him half hid behind a large branch in a tree immediately above me, from which, in fact, he had been watching our encampment ever since his departure ; but all my persuasions could not prevail upon him to descend, and it was only by climbing the tree that 1 finally succeeded in securing him. He madte no attempt to escape me, however, and his countenance ex- hibited a ludicrous mixture of joy at the meeting and fear of being punished for his misdeeds. On one occasion, I resolved to reward my Hottentots for good conduct. The pipe -went merrily round, joy was pictured on every countenance, and the brandy-bottle was slowly circulating. Keey, all impatience for the arrival of his turn, followed it with his eyes, holding his plate ready for his allotted portion ; for I had found that in drinking out of a glass his impatience generally caused some of the 28 ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWX. liquc/i' to run up his nose, which greatly incoiiimoded him, and kept him coughing and sneezing for hours afterwards. T was engaged at the moment in sealing a letter. He had just received the share of the brandy, and was stooping down to drink it, when I adroitly introduced a slip of lighted paper under his chin. The whole plate suddenly burst into flame, and the terrified animal, with a yell of indescribable horror, leaped backwards at least twelve or fifteen feet at a single bound, and continued, during the whole time the brandy was burning, to chatter and gaze intently at a phenomenon which he no doubt considered of preternatural occurrence. He could never afterwards be prevailed upon to taste spirits of any kind, and a mere sight of a bottle was at all times sufficient to frighten and alarm him. BLOOD'S ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN. From Batjley's " History and Antiquities of the Tower of London.^' It was soon after the appointment of Sir Gilbert Taibot that the regalia in the Tower first became objects of pub- lic inspection, which King Charles allowed in consequence of the reduction in the emoluments of the master's office. The profits which arose from showing the jewels to strangers, Sir Gilbert assigned, in lieu of a salary, to the person whom he had appointed to the care of them. This was an old confidential servant of his father's, one Talbot Edwards, whose name is handed down to posterity as keeper of the regalia, when the notorious attempt to steal the crown was made in the year 1673 ; the following account of which is chiefly derived from a relation which Mr. Edwards himself made of the transaction. About three weeks before this audacious villain Blood made his attempt upon the crown, he came to the Tower in the habit of a parson, with a long cloak, cassock, and canonical girdle, accompanied by a woman, whom he called his wife. They desired to see the regalia, and, just as iheir wishes had been gratified, the lady feigned sudden indis- position ; this called forth the kind offices of Mrs. Edwards, the keeper's wife, who, having courteously invited her into their house to repose herself, she soon recovered, and. ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN. 29 on their departure, they professed themselves thankful for this civility. A few days after, Blood came again, bringing a present to Mrs. Edwards of four pairs of white gloves from his pretended wife ; and having thus begun the acquaint- ance, they made frequent visits to improve it. After a short respite of their compliments, the disguised ruffian returned again ; and, in conversation with Mrs. Edwards, said that his wife could discourse of nothing but the kindness of those good people in the Tower — that she had long studied, and at length bethought herself of a handsome way of re- quital. "You have," quoth he, "a pretty young gentle- woman for your daughter, and 1 have a young nephew, who has two or three hundred a-year in land, and is at my dis- posal. If your daughter be free, and you approve it, I'll bring him here to see her, and we will endeavour to make it a match." This was easily assented to by old Mr. Ed- wards, who invited the parson to dine with him on that day ; he readily accepted the invitation ; and, taking upon him to say grace, performed it with great seeming devotion, and casting up his eyes, concluded it with a prayer for the King, Queen, and Royal family. After dinner, he went up to see the rooms, and, observing a handsome case of pistols hang there, expressed a great desire to buy them, to present to a young lord, who was his neighbour ; a pretence by which he thought of disarming the house against the period intended for the execution of his design. At his departure, which was a canonical benediction of the good company, he appointed a day and hour to bring his young nephew to see his mistress, which was the very day that he made his daring attempt. The good old gentleman had got up ready to receive his guest, and the daughter was in her best dress to entertain her expected lover ; when behold. Parson Blood, with three more, came to the jewel-house, all armed with rapier blades in their canes, and every one a dagger, and a brace of pocket-pistols. Two of his com- panions entered in with him, on pretence of seeing the crown, and the third stayed at the door, as if to look after the young lady, a jewel of a more charming description, but in reality as a watch. The daughter, who thought it not modest to come down till she was called, sent a maid to take a view of the company, and bring a description of her gallant ; and the servant, conceiving that he was the intended bridegroom who stayed at the door, being the youngest of the party, returned to soothe the anxiety of her young mistress with tho idea she had formed of his ftJ i i 30 ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN. person. Blood told Mr. Edwards that they would not go up-stairs till his wife came, and desired him to show his friends the Cxown to pass the time till then | and they had no sooner entered the room, and the door, as usual, shut, than a cloak was thrown over the old man's head, and a rifr put in his mouth. Thus secured, they told him that their resolution was to have the crown, globe, and sceptre | and if he would quietly submit to it, they would spare his life | otherwise he was to expect no mercy. He thereupon en- deavoured to make all the noise he possibly could, to be heard above ; they then knocked him down with a wooden mallet, and told him that, if yet he would lie quietly, they would spare his life | but if not, upon his next attempt to discover them, they would kill him. Mr. Edwards, how- ever, according to his own account, was not intimidated by this threat, but strained himself to make the greater noise and, in consequence, received several more blows on the head with the mallet, and was stabbed in the belly ; this again brought the poor old man to the ground, where he lay for some time in so senseless a state, that one of the villains pronounced him dead. Edwards had come a little to himself, and hearing this, lay quietly, conceiving it best to be thought so. The booty was now to be disposed of, and one of them, named Parrot, secreted the orb. Blood held the crown under his cloak | and the third was about to file the sceptre in two, in order that it might be placed in a bag, brought for that purpose ; but, fortunately, the son of Mr. Edwards, who had been in Flanders with Sir John Talbot, and, on his landing in England, had obtained leave to come away post to visit his father, happened to arrive whilst this scene was acting ; and on coming to the door, the person that stood sentinel asked with whom he would speak; to which he answered, that he belonged to the house ; and, perceiving the person to bo a stranger, told him that if he had any business with his father he would acquaint him with it, and so hastened up stairs to salute his friends. This unexpected accident spread confusion amongst the party, and they instantly decamped with the crown and orb, leaving the sceptre yet unfiled. The aged keeper now raised himself upon hi;^ legs, forced the gag from his riouth, and cried, " Treason 1 murder 1" which being heard by his daughter, who wa?, perhaps, anxiously expecting far other sounds, ran out and reiterated the cry. The alarm now became general, and young Edwards and his brother-in- law, Captain Bookman, ran after the conspirators, whom a ATTEMPT TO STEAL TUE CROWN. 31 warder put himself in a position to stop, but Blood dis- charged a pistol at him, and he fell, although unhurt, and the thieves proceeded safely to the next post, where one Sill, who had been a soldier imder Cromwell, stood senti- nel ; but he offered no opposition, and they accordingly passed the drawbridge. Horses were waiting for them at St. Catherine's Gate; and as they ran that way along the Tower Wharf, they themselves cried out, "Stop the rogues!" by which they passed on unsuspected, till Cap- tain Beckman overtook them. At his head Blood fired another pistol, but missed him and was seized. Under the cloak of this daring villain was found the crown, and although he saw himself a prisoner, he had yet the impu- dence t© struggle for his prey; and when it was finally wrested from him, said : " It was a gallant attempt, how- ever unsuccessful ; it was for a crown 1" Parrot who had formerly served under General Harrison, was also taken ; but Hunt, Blood's son-in-law, reached his horse and rode off, as did two other of the thieves; but he was soon afterwards stopped, and likewise committed to custody. In this struggle and confusion, the great pearl, a large diamond, and several smaller stones were lost from the crown ; but the two former, and some of the latter, were afterwards found and restored ; and the Ballas ruby, broken off the sceptre, being found in Parrot's pocket, nothing considerable was eventually missing. As soon as the prisoners were secured, young Edwards hastened to Sir Gilbert Talbot, who was then master and treasurer of the Jewel House, and gave him an account of the transaction. Sir Gilbert instantly went to the king, and acquainted His Majesty with it ; and His Majesty com- manded him to proceed forthwith to the Tower, to see how matters stood ; to take the examination of Blood and the others: and to return and report it to him. Sir Gilbert accordmgly went ; but the king in the meantime was per- suaded by some about him to hear the examination him- self, and the prisoners were, in consequence, sent for to Whitehall; a circumstance which is supposed to have saved these daring wretches from the gallows. On his examination under such an atrocious charge, Blood audaciously replied, ''that he would never betray an associate, or defond himself at the expense <5f uttering a falsehood." IFe even averred, perliaps, more than was true against himself, wlien ho confensed that he had lain concealed among the reeds for the purpose of killing the 32 ATTEMPT TO STEAL THE CROWN. king with a carbine, while Charles was bathing j but he pretended that on this occasion his purpose was discon- certed by a secret awe — ^appearing to verify the allegation in Shakspeare, "There's such divinity doth hedge a king, that treason can but peep to what it would, acts little of its will," To this story, true or false, Blood added a declara- tion that he was at the head of a numerous following, disbanded soldiers and others, who, from motives of reli- gion, were determined to take the life of the king, as the only obstacle to their obtaining freedom of worship and liberty of conscience. These men, he said, would be de- termined, by his execution, to persist in the resolution of putting Charles to death; whereas, he averred that, by sparing his life, the king might disarm a hundred poniards directed against his own. This view of the case made a strong impression on Charles, whose selfishness was un- commonly acute; yet he felt the impropriety of pardoning the attempt upon the life of the Duke of Ormond, and condescended to ask that faithful servant's permission, before he would exert his authority, to spare the assassin. Ormond answered, that, if the king chose to pardon the attempt to steal his crown, he himself might easily consent that the attempt upon his own life, as a crime of much less importance, should also be forgiven. Charles, accordingly, not only gave Blood a pardon, but endowed him with a pension of £500 a-year ; which led many persons to infer, not only that the king wished to preserve himself from the future attempts of this desperate man, but that he had it also in view to secure the services of so determined a ruf- fian, in case he should have an opportunity of employing him in his own line of business. There is a striking con- trast between the fate of Blood, pensioned and rewarded for this audacious attempt, and that of the faithful Edwards, who may be safely said to have sacrificed his life in defence of the property entrusted to him ! In remuneration for his fidelity and his sufferings, Edwards only obtained a grant of £200 fron the Exchequer, with £100 to his son ; but so little pains were taken about the regular discharge of these donatives, that the parties entitled to them were ]^la4 to sell them for half the sum. HtJRAL LIFE IX ENGLAND. 33 but he discon- egation a king, le of its ieclara- Llowing, I of reli- ;, as the klip and be de- ition of that, by poniards made a was un- ^rdoning nd, and mission, assassin. don the • consent ciuch less ^rdingly, with a ;o infer, *rom the had it ad a ruf • iploying ing con- ewarded dwards, defence tion for ained a his son; ischarge em were RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. Washington Irving, an American writer, long resident in England, born 1783; died 1859. The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the English character, must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He must go forth into the country | he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages , he must wander through parks and gardens; along hedges and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches ; attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope with the people in all their* conditions, and all their habits and humors. In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering place, or ge- neral rendezvous, of the polite classes, where they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of gaiety and dissipa- tion, and having indulged this carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial habits of rural life. The various orders of society are therefore diffused over the whole sur- face of the kingdom, and the most retired neighbourhoods afford specimens of the different ranks. The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and employ- ments of the country. This passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince a turn for rural occu- pation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the cultivation of his fiower-garden, and the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business and the success of his commercial enterprises. Even those less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to have something that shall remind them of the green aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetables has it^ grasS' 34 RURAL LIFE 1^ ENGLAXD. plot and flower-bed; and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste and gleaming with refresh- ing verdure. Those who see the Englishman only in luwn, are apt to form an unfavourable opinion of his social character. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and feeling in this huge metropolis ; he has, therefore, too commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind is wander- ing to another : and while paying a friendly visit, he is cal- culating how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted to the morning. An immense metro- polis like London is calculated to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient meetings, they can but deal briefly in common places. They present but the cold superficies of character — its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into a flow. It is in the country that the Englishman gives scojje to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formalities and negative civilities of town ; throws oft' his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free- hearted. He manages to collect around him all the con- veniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its restraint. His country seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to his inclina- tion. The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is unrivalled. They have studied nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, which in other countries she lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her coy and fur- tive glances, and spread them, like witchery, about their rural abodes. Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, RURAL LIFE IN BNOLAND. 35 Lc park, refresh- 'e apt to ter. He he thou- d feeling Dmmonly ppens to 5 at the i wander - he is cal- 1 pay the se metro- ilfish and meetings, jy present nd genial 3 scope to from the throws off and free- the con- janish its requisite, ication, or dogs, and He puts )ut in the njoyment, is inclina- land, and 3d. They exquisite Ibinations. Lvishes in haunts of and fur- tout their Ificence of Ike sheets itic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in the most natural meander- ings, or expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, giown green and dark with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; but what most delights me, is the creative talent with which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Englishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely discriminat- ing eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and yet the operations of art which produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training of some trees ^ the cautious pruning of others ; the nice distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage : the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water ; all these are manag- ed with a delicate tact, a prevailing yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that descends to the lowest class. The very la- bourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim hedge, the grass- plot before the door, the little flower-bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly providentially planted about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer the fireside ; all these bespeak the influence of taste, flowing down from high source J, and pervading the lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of an English peasant. The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 36 RURAL LlFR IX ENGLAND. the English has had a great and salutary efiect upon tlie national character. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and ef- feminacy which characterize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recrea- . tions of the country. These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplicity of manners, which even the follies and dissipa- tions of the town cannot easily pervert, and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed to blend and operate favourably upon each other. The distinctions between them do not appear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. The manner in which pro- perty has been distributed into small estates and farms, has established a regular gradation from the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down to the labouring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of inde- pendence. This, it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it was formerly : the larger estates having, in late years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty j it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of exter- nal influences. Such a man may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of com- mon life. Indeed the very amusements of the country bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 37 they are in any other country ; and why the latter have endured so many excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribu- tion of fortune and privilege. To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life : those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from ' The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled with her — they have wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze — & leaf could not rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these im- passioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality. The eflfect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. A great part of the island is level, and would be monoto- nous were it not for the charms of culture ; but it is stud- ded and gemmed as it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but rather in little home- scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique farmhouse, and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and as the roads are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by a continual succession of small landscapes of captivating loveliness. The great charm, however, of English scenery is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober well-estab- lished principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the growth of ages, of regular and peaceful existence. The old church of remote architec- ture, with its low massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its windows rich with tracery and painted glass | its stately monuments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, wcestors of the present lords of the soil ; its tombstones, *1S 38 POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. recording successive generations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the same fields and kneel at the same altar. The parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly anti- quated, but repaired and altered in the taste of various ages and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from the church-yard across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, according to an iEnmemorable right of way — the neighbouring village, with its venerable cottages, its public green sheltered by trees, under which the fore- fathers of the present race have sported — the antique family mansion standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene; all these common features of English landscape evince a calm and settled security, an hereditary transmis- sion of home-bred virtues and local attachments that speak deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the na- tion. POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. Washington Irving. 1 have mentioned the squire's fondness for the marvel- lous, and his predilection for legends and romances. His library contains a curious collection of old works of this kind, which bear evident marks of having been much read. In his great love for all that is antiquated, he cherishes popular superstitions, and listens with very grave atten- tion to every tale, however strange ; so that, through his countenance, the household, and, indeed, the whole neigh- bourhood, is well stocked with wonderful stories ; and if ever a doubt is expressed of any one of them, the narrator will generally observe that the "squire thinks there's something in it." The Hall, of course, comes in for its share, the common people having always a propensity to furnish a great superannuated building of the kind with supernatural inhabitants. The gloomy galleries of such old family man- sions, the stately chambers adorned with grotesque car- vings and faded paintings, the sounds that vaguely echo about them, the moaning of the wind ; the cries of rooks and ravens from the trees and chimney-tops — all produce a state of mind favourable to superstitious fancies, POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 39 In one chamber of the Hall, just opposite a door which opens upon a dusky passage, there is a full length portrait 01 a warrior in armour. When, on suddenly turning into the passage, 1 have caught a sight of the portrait, thrown into strong relief by the dark pannelling against which it hangs, I have more than once been startled, as though it were a figure advancing towards me. To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange and melancholy stories that are connected with family paintings, it needs but little stretch of fancy, on a moonlight night, or by the flickering light of a candle, to $et the old pictures on the walls in motion, sweeping in their robes and trains about the galleries. To tell the truth, the squire confessed that he used to take a pleasure in his younger days in setting marvellous Btories afloat, and connecting them with the lonely and peculiar places of the neighbourhood. Whenever he read jany legend of a striking nature, he endeavoured to trans- i plant it, and give it a local habitation among the scenes of I his boyhood. Many of these stories took root, and he says ■ he is often amused with the odd shapes in which they come back to him in some old woman's narrative, after they have been circulating for years among the peasantry, and undergoing rustic additions and amendments. Among these may doubtless be numbered that of the crusader's ghost, which I have mentioned in the account of my Christmas visit I and another about the hard- riding squire of yore, the family Nimrod ; who is sometimes heard on stormy winter nights, galloping with hound and horn, over a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall. This I apprehend to have had its origin in the famous story of the wild huntsman, the favourite goblin in Ger- man tales; though, by-thebye, as I was talking on the subject with Master Simon the other evening in the dark avenue, he hinted that he had himself once or twice heard odd sounds at night, very like a pack of hounds in cry ; and that once, as he was returning rather late from a hunt- ing dinner, he had seen a strange figure galloping along this same moor ; but as he was riding rather fast at the time, and in a hurry to get home, he did not stop to as- certain what it was. Popular superstitions are fast fading away in England, owing to the general dififusion of knowledge, and the bust- ling intercourse kept up throughout the country, still they have their strongholds and lingering places, and a m i 40 POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. retired neighbourhood like this is apt to be one of them. The parson tells me that he meets with many traditional beliefs and notions among the common people, which he has been able to draw from them in the course of familiar conversation, though they are rather shy of avowing them tto strangers, and particularly to " the gentry," who are apt to laugh at them. He says there are several of his old parishioners who remember when the village had its bar- guest, or bar-ghost ; a spirit supposed to belong to a town or village, and to predict any impending misfortune by midnight shrieks and wailings. The last time it was heard was just before the death r f Mr. Bracebridge's father, who was much beloved throughout the neighbourhood ; though there are not wanting some obstinate unbelievers, who insisted that it was nothing but the howling of a watch-dog. I have been greatly delighted, however, at meeting witk some traces of my old favourite, Robin Goodfellow, though under a different appellation from any of those by which I have heretofore heard him called. The parson assures me that many of the peasantry believe in household goblins, called Dobbies, which live about particular farms and houses, in the same way that Robin Goodfellow did of old. There is a large, old fashioned lire-place in the farm- house, which affords fine quarters for a chimney-corner sprite that likes to lie warm ; especially as Ready-Money Jack keeps up rousing fires in the winter time. The old people of the village recollect many stories about this gob- lin that were current in their young days. It was thought to have brought good luck to the house, and to be the reason why the Tibbets were always beforehand in the world, and why their farm was always in better order, their hay got in sooner, and their corn better stacked than that of their neighbours. The present Mrs. Tibbets, at the time of her courtship, had a number of these stories told her by the country gossips ; and when married, was a little fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin was said to haunt. Jack, however, who has always treated tin's story with great contempt, assured her that there wi" r sprite kept about his house that he could not at any o lay in the Red Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. ill his wife has never got completely over her notions on tii*', subject, but has a horse-shoe nailed on the threshold, and keeps a branch of rauntry, or mountain ash, with its red berries, suspended from one of the great beams in the par- lour — a sure protection from all evil spirits. POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 41 These fairy superstitions seem to me to accord with the nature of English scenery. They suit these small land- scapes, which are divided by honey-suckled hedges into sheltered fields and meadows, where the grass is mingled with daisies, buttercups, and hare-bells. When I first found myself among English scenery, I was continually reminded of the sweet pastoral images which distinguish their fairy mythology , and when for the first time a circle in the grass was pointed out to me as one of the rings where they were formerly supposed to have held their moonlight revels, it appeared for a moment as if fairy-land were no longer a fable. It seems to me that the older British poets, with that true feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have closely adhered to the simple and familiar imagery which they found in these popular superstitions, and have thus given to their fairy mythology those continual allusions to the farm-house and the dairy, the green meadow and the fountain-head, that fill our minds with the delightful asso- ciations of rural life. It is curious to observe how the most delightful fictions have their origin among the rude and ignorant. There is an indescribable charm about the allu- sions with which chimerical ignorance once clothed every subject. These twilight views of nature are often more captivating than any which are revealed by the rays of enlightened philosophy. The most accomplished and poet- ical minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into these accidental conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages, and to draw from them their finest imagery and machinery. If we look through our most admired poets, we shall find that their minds have been impregnated by these popular fancies, and that those have succeeded best who have adhered closest to the simplicity of their rustic originals. It is thus that poetry in England has echoed back every rustic note, softened into perfect melody ; it is thus that it has spread its charms over every -day life, dis- ' icing nothing, taking things as it found them, but tint- ing them up with its own magical hues, until every green hill and fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every 1 nble flower, is full of song and story. I! I k % 42 THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS. THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS. /. Fenimore Cooper, the most popular of American novelists, born at Burlington, New Jersey, 1789, died 1851. The ship had fallen off with her broadside to the sea, and was become unmanageable, and the sails were already brought into the folds necessary to her security, when the quick and heavy fluttering of canvas was thrown across the water, with all the gloomy and chilling sensations that such sounds produce, where darkness and danger unite to appal the seaman. The pilot turned from his contemplative posture, and moved slowly across the deck before he returned any reply to this question — like a man who not only felt that every- thing depended on himself, but that he was equal to the emergency. " 'Tis unnecessary," he at length said ; " 'twould be certain destruction to be taken aback ; and it is difficult to say within several points how the wind may strike us." '"Tis difficult no longer," cried Griffith j ''for here it comes and in right earnest." The rushing sounds of the wind were now indeed heard at hand ; and the words were hardly r)ast the lips of the young lieutenant, before the vessel bowed down heavily to one side, and then, as she began to move through the water, rose again majestically to her upright position, as if saluting like a courteous champion the powerful antagonist with which she was about to contend. Not another minute elapsed before the ship was throwing the waters aside with a lively progress, and, obedient to her helm, was brought as near to the desired course as the direction of the wind, would allow. The hurry and bustle on the yards gradually subsided, and th-^ men slowly descended to the dock, all straining their eyes to pierce the gloom in which they were envel- oped, and some shakmg their heads in melancholy doubt, afraid to express the apprehensions they really entertained. All on board anxiously waited for the fury of the gale ; for there were none so ignorant or inexperienced in that gal- lant frigate as not to know that as yet they only felt the infant effects of the wind. Each moment, however, it increased in power, thougli so gradufil was the alteration that the relieved mariners began to believe that all their gloomy forebodings were not to bo realised. TKB FRIGATE AMONG THE SUOALS. 43 "It blows fresh," cried Griffith, who was the first to speak in that moment of doubt and anxiety; " but it is no more than a cap-full of wind after all. Give us elbow-room and the right canvas Mr. Pilot, and I'll handle the ship like a gentleman's yacht in this breeze." "Will she stay, think ye, under this sail?" said the low voice of the stranger. " She will do all that man in reason can ask of wood and iron," returned the lieutenant ; ''but the vessel don't float the ocean that will tack under double-reefed topsails alone against a heavy sea. Help her with the courses, pilot, aad you shall see her come round like a dancing-master." "Let us feel the strength of the gale first," returned the man who was called Mr. Gray, moving from the side of Griffith to the weather gangway of the vessel, where he stood in silence looking ahead of the ship with an air of singular coolness and abstraction. All the lanterns had been extinguished on the deck of the frigate when her anchor was secured, and as the first mist of the gale had passed over, it was succeeded by a faint light, that was a good deal aided by the glittering foam of the waters, which now broke in white curls around the vessel in every direction. The land could be faintly discerned rising like a heavy bank of black fog above the margin of the waters, and was only distinguishable from the heavens by its deeper gloom and obscurity. The last rope was coiled and deposited in its proper place by the seamen, and for several minutes the stillness of death per- vaded the crowded decks. It was evident to every one that their ship was dashing at a prodigious rate through the waves; and as she was approaching with such velocity the quarter of the bay where the shoals and dangers were known to be situated, nothing but the habits of the most exact discipline could suppress the uneasiness of the officers and men within their own bosoms. At length the voice of Captain Munson was heard calling to the pilot. " Shall I send a hand into the chains, Mr. Gray," ho said, " and try our water ?" Although this question was asked aloud, and the inter- est it excited drew many of the officers and men around him in eager impatience for his answer, it was unheeded by the man to whom it was addressed. His head rested on his hand as he leaned over ihe hammock cloths of the ves- sel, and his whole air was that of one whoso thoughts wan- dcred from the pressing necessity of their situation. I H ii 44 THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS. Griffith was among those who had approached the pilot ; and after waiting a moment from respect, to hear the answer to his commander's question, he presumed on his own rank, and leaving the circle that stood at a little dis- tance, stepped to the side of the mysterious guardian of their lives. " Captain Munson desires to know whether you wish a cast of the lead?" said the young officer, with a little im- patience of manner. No immediate answer was made to this repetition of the question, and Griffith laid his hand unceremoniously on the shoulder of the other with an intent to rouse him before he made another application for a reply, but the convulsive start of the pilot held him silent in amazement. "Fall back there," said the lieutenant sternly to the men, who were closing around them in a compact circle : '^away with you to your stations, and see all clear for stays." The dense mass of heads dissolved at this order, lii;e the water of one of the waves commingling with the ocaan, and the lieutenant and his companion were left by themselves. "This is not a time for musing Mr. Gray," continued Griffith ; " remember our compact and look to your charge. Is it not time to put the vessel in stays ? Of what are you dreaming?" ♦ ♦ * " I hope much of your experience has been on this coast, for the ship travels lively," he said, "and the daylight showed us so much to dread, that we do not feel over- valiant in the dark. How much longer shall we stand upon this tack?" The pilot turned slowly from the side of the vessel, and walked towards the commander of the frigate, as he re- plied, in a tone that seemed deeply agitated by melancho- ly reflections — "You have your wish, then; much, very much of my early life was passed on this dreaded coast. What to you is all darkness and gloom, to me is as light as if a noon-day sun shone upon it. But tack your ship, sir, tack your ship ; I would see how she works before we reach the point where she must behave well, or we perish." Griffith gazed after him in wonder, while the pilot slowly paced the quarterdeck, and then, rousing from his trance, gave forth the cheering order that called each man to his station to perform the desired evolution. The confident assurances which the young officer had given to the pilot tUE ]?RIOA¥£ AMONG THE! SHOALS. 45 I'espec fling thQ qualities of his vessel, and his own £ibility to manage her, were fully realised by the result. The helm was no sooner put alee, than the huge ship bore up gal- lantly against the wind, and dashing directly through the waves, threw the foam high into the air, as she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind, and then, yielding graicefuUy to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round as if they had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air ; and in a few moments the frigate again moved with stately progress through the water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other. During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the ves- sel, but it seemed to howl surlily as it passed the compli- cated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and the very air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded each moment more and more before the storm, and in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor, she was driven along with tremendous fury by the full power of a gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mariners who directed her movements, held her to the course that was necessary to their preservation, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where alone safety was to be found. So far the performance of his duty appeared easy to the stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still calm tones that formed so remarkable a contrast to the re- sponsibility of his situation. But when the land was becoming dim in distance as well aa darkness, and the agitated sea alone was to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apathy and rouse himself to the occasion. " Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith," he cried; "here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place the best quarter- master of your ship in those chains, and let an officer stand by him and see that ho gives us the right water." I 'I I-'; 46 THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS. "I will take that office on myself," saU the captain j "pass a light into the weather main-chains." " Stand by your braces !" exclaimed the pilot, with startling quickness. " Heave away that lead !" These preparations taught the crew to expect the crisis, and every officer and man stood in fearful silence at his assigned station, awaiting the issue of the trial. Even the quarter-master at the gun gave out his orders to the men at the wheel in deeper and hoarser tones than usual, as if anxious not to disturb the quiet and order of the vessel. While this deep expectation pervaded the frigate, the piercing cry of the leadsman, as he called " By the mark seven," rose above the tempest, crossed over the decks, and appeared to pass away to leeward, borne on the blast like the warnings of some water-spirit. "'Tis well," returned thfc pilot calmly; "try it again." The short pause was succeeded by another cry, " And a half-five I" "She shoals I she shoals 1" exclaimed Griffith: "keep her a good full." "Ay I you must hold the vessel in command now," said the pilot, with those cool tones that are most appalling in critical moments, because they seem to denote most pre- paration and care. The third call, "By the deep four !" was followed by a prompt direction from the stranger to tack. Griffith seemed to emulate the coolness of the pilot in issuing the necessary orders to execute this manoeuvre. The vessel rose slowly from the inclined position into which she had been forced by the tempest, and the sails were shaking violently, as if to release themselves from their confinement while the ship stemmed the billows, when the well-known voice of the sailing master was heard shouting from the forecastle — " Breakers 1 breakers, dead ahead !" This appalling sound seemed yet to be lingering about the ship when a second voice cried — " Breakers on our leebow I'" "Wo are in a bite of tlie ...loalB, Mr. (fray," cried the commander. " She loses her way | perhaps an anchor might hold her." " Clear away that best bower !" shouted Griffith through his trumpet. "Hold on!" cried the pilot, in a voice that reached the very hearts of all who heard himj "hold on everything." THE FRIGATE AMONG THE HOALS. 47 keep about d the ling." The young man turned fiercely to the daring stranger who thus defied the discipline of his vessel, and at once demanded — " Who is it that dares to countermand my orders? Is it not enough that you run the ship into danger, but you must interfere to keep her there ? If another word 7" "Peace, Mr. Griffith," interrupted the captain, bending from the rigging, his grey locks blowing about in the wind and adding a look of wildness to the haggard face that he exhibited by the light of his lantern. '' Yield the trumpet to Mr. Gray ; he alone can save us." Griffith threw his speaking-trumpet on the deck, and, as he walked proudly away, muttered in bit'-erness of feel- ing— " Then all is lost indeed ! and among the rest the foolish hopes with which I visited this coast." There was, however, no time for reply. The ship had been rapidly running into the wind, and as the eftbrts of the crew were paralysed by the contradictory orders they had heard, she gradually lost her way and in a few seconds all her sails were taken aback. Before the crew understood their situation the pilot had applied the trumpet to his mouth, and in a voice that rose above the tempest he thundered forth his orders. Each command was given distinctly, and with a precision that showed him to be master of his profession. The helm was kept fast, the headyards swung up heavily against the wind, and the vessel was soon whirling round on her heel with a retrograde movement. Griffith was too much of a seaman not to perceive that the pilot had seized, with a perception almost intuitive, the only method that promised to extricate the vessel from her situation. He was young, impetuous, and proud — but he was also generous. Forgettmg his resentment and his mortification, he rushed forward among the men, and by his presence and example added certainty to the experi- ment. The ship fell off slowly before the gale and bowed her yards nearly to the water, as she felt the blast pouring its fury on her broadside, while the surly waves beat vio- lently against her stern, as if in reproach at departing from her usual manner of moving. The voice of the pilot, however, was still heard, steady and calm, and yet so clear and high as to reach every ear j and the obedient seamen whirled the yards at his bidding, in despite of the tempest, as if they handled the toys of i^H i 49 ¥h£! friqaI^ amoi^g the shoals. their childhood. When the ship had fallen oflf dead before the wind, her head-sfiils were shaken, her after-yards trimmed, and her helm shifted, before she had time to run upon the danger that had threatened as well to lee- ward as to windward. The beautiful fabric, obedient to her government, threw her bows up gracefully towards the wind again J and as her sails were trimmed, moved out from amongst the dangerous shoals in which she had been embayed, as steadily and swiftly as she had approached them. A moment of breathless astonishment succeeded the ac- complishment of this nice manoeuvre, but there was no time for the usual expressions of surprise. The stranger still held the trumpet, and continued to lift his voice amid the bowlings of the blast, whenever prudence of skill required any changa in the management of the ship. For an hour longer there was a fearful struggle for their pre- servation, the channel becoming at each step more com- plicated, and the shoals thickening around the mariners on every side. The lead was cast rapidly, and the quick eye of the pilot seemed to pierce the darkness with a keenness of vision that exceeded human power. It was apparent to all in the vessel that they were under the guidance of one who understood the navigation thoroughly, and their exertions kept pace with their reviving confl- dence. Again and again the frigate appeared to be rushing blindly on shoals where the sea was covered with foam, and where destruction would have been as sudden as it was certain, when the clear voice of the stranger was heard warning them of the danger and inciting them to their duty. The vessel was implicitly yielded to his government 5 and during those anxious moments when she was dashing the waters aside, throwing the spray over her enormous yards, each ear would listen eagerly for those sounds that had obtained a command over the crew that can only be acquired under such circumstances by great steadiness and consummate skill. The ship was recovering from the inaction of changing her course, in one of those critical tacks that she had made so often, when the pilot for the first time addressed the commander of the frigate, who still continued to superintend the all-important duty of the leadsman. ''Now is the pinch," he said, "and if the ship behaves well we are safe — but if otherwise, all we have yet done will be useless." ((■ THE FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS. 49 The veteran seaman whom he addressed left the chains at this portentous notice, and calling to his first lieuten- ant, required of the stranger an explanation of his warn- ing. " See you yon light on the southern headland?" returned the pilot; " you may know it from the star near it — by its sinking at times in the ocean. Now observe the hom-moc, a little north of it, looking like a shadow in the horizon — ' tis a hill far inland. If we keep that light open from the hill, we shall do wellj but if not, we surely go to pieces." " Let us tack again 1" exclaimed the lieutenant. The pilot shook his head as he replied — '< There is no more tacking or box-hauling to he done to-night. We have barely room to p^ss out of the shoals on this course; and if we can weather the 'Devil's Grip,' we clear their outermost point ; but if not, as I said before, there is but one alternative." " If we had beaten out the way we entered," exclaimed Griffith, " we should have done well." "Say, also, if the tide would have let us do so," returned the pilot, calmly. "Gentlemen, we must be prompt; we have but a mile to go, and the ship appears to fly. That topsail is not enough to keep her up to the wind ; we want both jib and mainsail." " 'Tis a perilous thing to loosen canvas in such a tem- pest 1" observed the doubtful captain. "It must be done," returned the collected stranger; " we perish without it. See ! the light already touches the edge of the hom-moc ; the sea casts us to leeward 1" " It shall be done 1" cried Griffith, seizing the trumpet from the hand of the pilot. The orders of the lieutenant were executed almost as soon as issued, and everything being ready, the enormous folds of the mainsail were trusted loose to the blast. There was an instant when the result was doubtful ; the tremen- dous threshing of the heavy sail seemed to bid defiance to all restraint, shaking the ship to her centre ; but art and strength prevailed, and gradually the canvas was distended and, bellying as it filled, was drawn down to its usual place by the power of a hundred men. The vessel yielded to this immense addition of force, and bowed before it like a reed bending to a breeze. But the success of the measure was announced by a joyful cry from the stranger that seemed to burst from his inmost soul. <'She feels it! she springs Jier luff ! observe," he said, 50 THE FRIOATE AMONG THE SHOALS. " the light opens from the horn- moo akeady; if she will only bear her canvas we shall go clear 1" A report like that of a cannon interrupted his exclama- tion, and something resembling a white cloud was seen drifting before the wind from the head of the ship till it was driven in the gloom far to leeward. "'Tis the jib blown from the bolt-ropes/' said the com- mander of the frigate. "This is no time to spread light duck — but the mainsail may stand it yet." " The sail would laugh at a tornado," returned the lieu- ter .tnt ; "but the mast springs like a piece of steel." "Silence all!" cried the pilot. "Now, gentlemen, we shall soon know our fate. Let her luff— luff you can !" This warning effectually closed all discourse, and the hardy mariners, knowing that they had already done all in the power of man to ensure their safety, stood in breath- less anxiety awaiting the result. At a short distance ahead of them the whole ocean was white with foam, and the waves, instead of rolling on in regular succession, appeared to be tossing about in mad gambols. A single streak of dark billows, not half a cable's length in width, could be discerned running into this chaos of water ; but it was soon lost to the eye amid the confusion of the disturbed element. Along this narrow path the vessel moved more heavily than before, being brought so near the wind as to keep her sails touching. The pilot sile^irly proceeded to the wheel, and with his own hands he undertook the steerage of the ship. No noise proceeded from the frigate to interrupt the horrid tumult of the ocean j and she entered the chan- nel among the breakers with the silence of a desperate calmness. Twenty times as the foam rolled away to lee- ward the crew were on the eve of uttering their joy, as they supposed the vessel past the danger; but breaker after breaker ^ould still heave up before them, following each other into the general mass, to check their exultation. Occasionally the fluttering of the sails would be heard ; and when the looks of the startled seamen were turned to the wheel, they beheld the stranger grasping its spokes, with his quick eye glancing from the water to the canvas. At length the ship reached a point where she appeared to be rushing directly into the jaws of destruction, when sud- denly her course was changed and her head receded rapidly from the wind. At the same instant the voice of the pilot was heard shouting : " Square away the yards I — in mainsail !" BATTLE OF CHALGROVE. 51 A general burst from the crew echoed " Square away the yards 1" and quick as thought the frigate was seen gliding along the channel before the wind. The eye had hardly time to dwell on the foam which seemed like clouds driving in the heavens, and directly the gallant vessel issued from her perils and rose and fell on the heavy waves of the sea. BATTLE OF CHALGROVE. Thomas Bahington, afterwards Lord Macaulay, Poet, Histo- rian and Orator. Born at Bothley TempUj Leicester. October 25th, 1800/ died 1859. In the evening of the 17th of June, Eupert darted out of Oxford with his cavalry on a predatory expedition. At three in the morning of the following day, he attacked and dispersed a few Parliamentary soldiers who lay at Pots- combe. He then flew to Chinnor, burned the village, killed or took all the troops who were quartered there, and pre- pared to hurry back with his booty and his prisoners to Oxford. Hampden had, on the preceding day, strongly repre- sented to Essex the danger to which this part of the line was exposed. As soon as he received intelligence of Ru- pert's incursion, he sent off a horseman with a message to the General. The Cavaliers, he said, could return only by Chiselhampton Bridge. A force ought to be instantly despatched in that direction for the purpose of intercepting them. In the meantime, he resolved to set out with all the cavalry that he could muster, for the purpose of impeding the march of the enemy till Essex could take measures for cutting oflE" their retreat. A considerable body of horse and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was not their commander. He did not even belong to their branch of the service. But he was, says Lord Clarendon, " second to none but the General himself in the observance and appli- cation of all men." On the field of Chalgrove he came up with Rupert. A fierce skirmish ensued. In the first charge, Hampden was struck in the shoulder by two bullets, which broke the bone, and lodged in his body. The troops of the Parliament lost heart and gave way. Rupert, after pur- suing them for a short time, hastened to cross the bridge, and made his retreat unmolested to Oxford. 52 BATTLE OF CHALGROVE. Hampden, with his head drooping, and his hands leaning on his horse's neck, moved feebly out of the battle. The mansion which had been inhabited by his father-in-law, and from which in his youth, he had carried home his bride Elizabeth, was in sight. There still remains an affecting tradition that he looked for a moment towards that beloved house, and made an effort to go thither to die. But the enemy lay in that direction. He turned his horse towards Thame, where he arrived almost fainting with agony.The sur- geons dressed his wounds. But there was no hope. The pain which he suliered was most excruciating. But he endured it with admirable firmness and resignation. His first care was for his country. He wrote from his bed several letters to London concerning public affairs, and sent a last pressing message to the head-quarters, recommending that the dis- persed forces should be concentrated. When his public duties were performed, he calmly prepared himself to die. A short time before Hampden's death the sacrament was administered to him. His intellect remained un- clouded. When all was nearly over, he lay murmuring faint prayers for himself, and for the cause in which he died. " Lord Jesus," he exclaimed, in the moment of the last agony, *' receive my soul. Lord, save ijiy country. O Lord, be merciful to ." In that broken ejaculation passed away his noble and fearless spirit. He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His soldiers, bareheaded, with reversed arms and muffled drums and colours, escorted his body to the grave, singing as they marched that lofty and melancholy psalm in which the fra- gility of human life is contrasted with the immutability of Him to whom a thousand years are as yesterday when it is passed, and as a watch in the night. The news of Hampden's death produced as great a con- sternation in his party, according to Clarendon, as if their whole army had been cut off. The journals of the time amply prove that the Parliament and all its friends were filled with grief and dismay. Lord Nugent has quoted a remark- able passage from the next Weekly Intelligencer. " The loss of Colonel Hampden goeth near the heart of every man that loves the good of his king and country, and makes some conceive little content to be at the army now that he is gone. The memory of this deceased colonel is such, that in no age to come but it will more and more be had in honour and esteem ; a man so religious, and of that pru- dence, judgment, temper, valour, and integrity, that he hath left few his like behind." DEATH OP CHATHAM. 53 He had indeed left none his like behind him. There still remained, indeed, in his party, many acute intellects, many eloquent tongues, many brave and honest hearts. There still remained a rugged and clownish soldier, half fanatic, half buffoon, whose talents, discerned as yet only by one penetrating eye, were equal to all the highest duties of thfe soldier and the prince. But in Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were united all the qualities which, at such a crisis, were necessary to save the state : the valour and energy of Cromwell, the discernment and eloquence of Vane, the humanity and moderation of Manchester, the stern integ- rity of Hale, the ardent public spirit of Sydney. Others might possess the qualities which were necessary to save the popular party in the crisis of danger ; he alone had both the power and the inclination to restrain its excesses in the hour of triumph. Others could conquer ; he alone could reconcile. A heart as bold as his brought up the cuiras- siers who turned the tide of battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an eye as his watched the Scotch army descending from the heights over Dunbar. But it was when to the sullen tyranny of Laud and Charles had succeeded the fierce conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendancy and burning for revenge, it was when the vices and ignorance which the old tyranny had generated threatened the new freedom with destruction — that England missed the sobriety, the self-command, the perfect soundness of judgment, the perfect rectitude of intention, to which the history of revo- lutions furnishes no parallel, or furnishes a parallel in Washington alone. a con- f their amply filled emark- le loss ry man makes ;hat he h, that had in at pru- hat he DEATH OF CHATHAM. Lord Macaiilay. The Duke of Kichmond had given notice of an address to the throne, against the further prosecution of hostilities with America. Chatham had, during some time, absented himself from Parliament, in consequence of his growing infirmities. He determined to appear in his place on this occasion, and to declare that his opin' ns were decidedly at variance with those of the Rockingham party. He was in a state of great excitement. His medical attendants were uneasy, and strongly advised him to calm himself, 54 DEATH OP CHATHAM, and to remain at home. But he was not to be controlled. His son William, and his son-in-law Lord Mahon, accompanied him to Westminster. He rested himself in the Chancellor's room till the debate commenced, and then, leaning on his two young relations, limped to his seat. The slightest par- ticulars of that day were remembered, and have been care- fully recorded. He bowed, it was remarked, with great courtliness to those peers who rose to make way for him and his supporters. His crutch was in his hand. He wore, as was his fashion, a rich velvet coat. His legs were swathed in flannel. His wig was so large and his face so emaciated, that none of his features could be discerned, except the high curve of his nose, and his eyes, which still retained a gleam of the old fire. • When the Duke of Richmond had spoken, Chatham rose. For some time his voice was inaudible. At length his tones became distinct and his action animated. Here and there his hearers caught a thought or an expression which re- minded them of William Pitt. But it was clear that he was not himself. He lost the thread of his discourse, hesitated, repeated the same words several times, aifd was so confused that, in speaking of the Act of Settlement, he could not recall the name of the Electress Sophia. The House list- ened in solemn silence, and with the aspect of profound respect and compassion. The stillness was so deep that the dropping of a handkerchief would have been heard. The Duke of Richmond replied with great tenderness and courtesy ; but while he spoke, the old man was observed to be restless and irritable. The Duke sat down. Chatham stood up again, pressed his hand on his breast, and sank down in an apoplectic fit. Three or four lords wlio sat near him caught him in his fall. The House broke up in con- fusion. The dying man was carried to the residence of one of the officers of Parliament, and was so far restored as to be able to bear a journey to Hayes. At Hayes, after linger- ing a few weeks, he expired in his seventieth year. His bed was watched to the last with anxious tenderness by his wife and children ; and he well deserved their care. Too often haughty and wayward to others, to them he had been almost effeminately kind. He had through life been dreaded by his political opponents, and regarded with more awe than love even by his political associates. But no fear seems to have mingled with the affection which his fond- ness, constantly overflowing in a thousand endearing forms, had inspired in the little circle at Hayes. 1)EATH OF CHATHAM. 55 Chathatn, at the time of his decease, had not, in both Houses of Parliament, ten personal adherents. Half the public men of the age had been estranged from him by h ^ errors, and the other half by the exertions which he had made to repair his errors. His last speech had been an attack at once on the poUcy pursued by the Government, and on the policy recommended by the Opposition. But death restored him to his old place in the affection of his country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that which had been so great, and which had stood so long ? The circumstances, too, seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of years and honours, led forth to the Senate House, by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council while straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his coimtry, could not but be remembered with peculiar vene- ration and tenderness. Detraction was overawed. The voice even of just and temperate censure was mute. Noth- ing was remembered but the lofty genius, the unsullied probity, the undisputed services, of him who was no more. For once, all parties agreed. A public funeral, a public monument, were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased were paid. A provision was made for his family. The City of London requested that the remains of the great man whom she had so long loved and honoured might rest under the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition came too late. Everything was already prepared for the interment in Westminster Abbey. Though men of all parties had concurred in decreeing posthumous honours to Chatham, his corpse was attended to the grave almost exclusively by opponents of the Gov- ernment. The banner of the lordship of Chatham was borne by Colonel Barre, attended by the Duke of Richmond and Lord Rockingham. Burke, Savile, and Dunning upheld the pall. Lord Camden was conspicuous in the procession. The chief mourner was young William Pitt. After the lapse of more than twenty- seven years, in a season as dark and perilous, his own shattered frame and broken heart were laid, with the same pomp, in the same consecrated mould. Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the church, in a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen, as the other end of the same transept has long been to poets. Mansfield rests there, and the second William Pitt, and Fox, and Gratton and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow 3 1 1 i I m ^■i 66 I PELHAM. a space. High over those venerable graves towers v,he stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his effi^jy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and out- stretched arm, to bid England be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes. The generation which reared that memorial of him has disappeared. The time has come when the rash and indiscriminate judgments wiAich hia contemporaries passed on his character may be calmly reviccd by history. And history, while for the warning of vehement high and daring natures, she notes his many errors, will yet deliberately pronounce that, among the emi- nent men wliose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a more stainless, and none a more splendid name. PELHAM, DUKE OF NEWCASTLE. Lord Macaulay. Henry Pelham, it is true, w\as by no means a contempt- ible person. His understanding was that of Walpole on a somewhat smaller scale. Though not a brilliant orator, he was, like his master, a good debater, a good parliamentary tactician, a good man of business. Like his master, he dis- tinguished himself by the neatness and clearness of his financial expositions. Here the resemblance ceased. Their characters were altogether dissimilar. Walpole was good humoured, but would have his way : I is spirits were high, nnd his manners frank even to coarseness. The temper of Pelham was yielding, but i)eevish : his habits were regular, and his deportment strictly decorous. Wal])ole was consti- tutionally fearless, Pelham constitutionally timid. Walpole had to face a strong oppositio^j ; but no mm in the Govern- ment durst wag a finger against iiim. Almost all the opi^otition which Pelham had to encounter was from mem- bers of the Government of which he Avas the head. His own paymaster spoke against his estimates. His own s<:cretary-atwar spoke against his Regency Bill. In one day Walpole turned Lord Cho.iterfield, Lord Burlington and Lord Clinton out of the royal household, dismissed the highest dignitaries of Hcotland from their posts, and took away the regiments of th'> Duke of Boltoi\ and Lord Coh- ham, because he suspected them of havin/^ encouraged the resistance to his Excise Bill, lie would far rathur have i'ELHAJtf. 57 las come 111 mom- cOntended with the strongest minority, tinder the ablest leaders, than have tolerated mutiny in his own party. It would have gone hard with any of his colleagues who had ventured, on a Government question, to divide the House of Commons against him. Pelham, on the other hand, was disposed to bear anything rather than drive from office any man round whom a new opposition could form. He there- fore endured, with fretful patience the insubordination of Pitt and Fox. He thought it far better to connive at their occasional infractions of discipline than to hear them, night after night, thundering against corruption and wicked ministers from the other side of the House. We wonder that Sir Walter Scott never tried his hand on the Duke of Newcastle. An interview between Jiis Grace and Jeanie Deans would have been delightful, and by no means unnatural. There is scarcely any public man in our history of whose manners and conversation so many par- ticulars have been preserved. Single stories may be un- founded or exaggerated; but &,11 the stories about him, whether toid by people who were perpetually seeing him in Parliament ani attending his levee in Lincoln's Inn Fields, or by Grub street writers who never had more than a glimpse of his star through the windows of his gilded coach, are of the same character. Horace Walpole and Smollett differed in their tastes and opinions as much as two human bjinge could differ. They kept quite different society. The one played at cards with countesses, and corresponded with ambassadors ; the other passed his life surrounded by prin- ters' devils and ''amished scribblers. Yet Walpole' s Duke and Smollett's Duke are as like as if they were both from one hand. Smollett's Newcastle runs out of his dressing-room, with his face covered with soap suds, to embrace the iMoor- ish envoy. Walpole' s Newcastle pushes his way into the Duke of Grafton's sick room to kiss the old nobleman's plasters. No man was ever so unmercifully satirised. But in truth he was himself a satire ready made. All that the art of the satirist does for other men, nature had done for him. Whatever was absurd about him stood out with gro- tesque prominence from the rest of the character. He was a living, moving, talking caricature. His gaii was a shuf- fling trot 5 his utterance a rapid stutter; he was always in a hurry ; he vv^as never in time ; he abounded i 1 I'ulsome caresses and hysterical tears. His oratory resembhd that of Justice Shallow. It was nonsense effervescent with animal spirits and impertuienco. Of his ignorance many aneo- .*ii-- >;;!' «ei fi 58 PELHAM. dotes remain, some well authenticated, some probably in- vented at coffee-housea, but all exquisitely characterist " Oh — ^yes — yes — to be sure — Annapolis must be defended — troops must be sent to Annapolis. Pray where is Anna- polis?" " Cape Breton an island I wonderful 1 — show it me in the map. So it is, sure enough. My dear sir, you always bring us good news. I must go and tell the King that Cape Breton is an island." » And this man was during near thirty years Secretary of State, and during near ten years First Lord pf the Trea- sury ! His large fortune, his strong hereditary connection, his great Parliamentary interest, will not alone explain this extraordinary fact. His success is a signal instance of whf ' may be effected by a man who devotes his whole heart ana soul without reserve to one object. He was eaten up by ambition. His love of influence and authority resembled the avarice of the old usurer in the " Fortunes of Nigel." It was so intense a passion that it supplied the place of talents, that it inspired even fatuity with cunning. ''Have no money dealings with my father," says Martha to Lord Glenvarloch ; ''for, dotard as he is, he will make an ass of you." It was as dangerous to have any political connection with Newcastle as to buy and sell witli old Trapbois. He was greedy after power with a greediness all his own. He was jealous of all his colleagues, and even of his own bro- ther. Under the disguise of levity he was false beyond all example of political falsehood. All the able men of his time ridiculed him as a dunce, a driveller, a child who never knew his own mind for an hour together 5 and he overreached them all round. If the country had remained at peace, it is not impoH- sible that this man would have continued at the head of affairs without admitting any other person to a share of his authority until the throne was filled by a new Prince, who brought with hhn new maxims of Government, new favour- ites and a strong will. But llie inauspicious commence- nent of the Seven Years' War brought on a crisis to which Newcastle was altogether unequal. After a calm of fifteen years the spirit of the nation was again stirred to its inmost depths. In a few days the whole aspect of the political world was changed. SOCIETY IN QUEEN ANNE's REIGN. SOCIETY IN THE KEIGN OF QUEEN ANNE. 59 you who W. Makepeace Thackeray, Author of " Vanity Fair,^^ d-c. Born at Calcutta in 1811. Educated at Cambridge. Died 1865. You cOiiKl no more suffer in a British drawing-room, under the reign of Queen Victoria, a fine gentleman or fine la<^ hired a hackney-coach with six horses, and a half dozen of soldiers, to aid him in the storm. The coach with a pair of horses (the four leaders being in waiting elsewhere) took its station opposite my Lord Craven's house in Drury-lane, by which door Mrs. Bracegirdle was to pass on her way from the theatre. As she passed in company of her mamma and a friend, Mr. Page, the Captain seized her by the hand, the soldiers hus- tled Mr. Page and attacked him sword in hand, and Cap- tain Hill and his noble friend endeavoured to force Madam Bracegirdle into the coach. Mr. Page called for help, the population of Drury-lane rose : it was impossible to effect the capture ; and bidding the soldiers go about their busi- ness, and the coach to drive off, Hill let go of his prey sul- kily, and he waited for other opportunities of revenge. The man of whom he was most jealous was Will Mount- ford, the comedian ; Will removed, he thought Mrs. Brace- girdle might be his; and accordingly the Captain and his lordship lay that night in wait for Will, and as he was com- ing out of a house in Norfolk Street, while Mohun engaged him in talk, Hill, in the wordH of the Attorney-General, made a pass, nm\ run him clean tlirough the body. Sixty-one of my lord's peers finding hiiu not guilty of W i ■I w '4 * mm 60 SOCIETY IN QUEEN ANXe's REIGN'. murder, while but fourteen found him guilty, this very fast nobleman was discharged ; and made his appearance seven years after in another trial for murder — when he, my Lord Warwick, and three gentlemen of the military profession, were concerned in the fight which ended in the death of Captain Coote. This jolly company were drinking together at Lockit's in Charing Cross, when angry words arose between Captain Coote and Captain French ; whom my lord Mohun and my lord the Earl of Warwick and Holland endeavoured to pacify. My Lord Warwick was a dear friend of Captain Coote, lent him a hundred pounds to buy his commission in the Guards; once when the Captain was arrested for £13 by his tailor, my lord lent him five guineas, often paid his reckoning for him, and shewed him other offices of friend- ship. On this evening the disputants, French and Coote, being separated whilst they were upstairs, unluckily stojiped to drink ale again at the bar of Lockit's. The row began afresh — Coote lunged at French over the bar, and at last all six called for chairs, and went to Leicester-fields, where they fell to. Their lordships engaged on the side oif Captain Coote. My lord of Warwick was severely wounded in the hand, Mr. French also was stabbed, but honest Cap- tain Coote got a couple of wounds— one especially, " a wound on the left side just under the short ribs, and pierc- ing through the diaphragma," which did for Captain Coote. Hence the trials of my lords Warwick and Mohun : hence the assemblage of peers, the report of the transac- tion, in which these defunct fast men still live for the ob- servation of the curious. My Lord of Warwick is brought to the bar by the Deputy Governor of the Tower of Lon- Lon, having the axe carried before him by the gentleman gaoler, who stood with it at the bar at the right hand of the prisoner, turning the edge from him ; the prisoner, at his approach, making three bows, one to his Grace the Lord High-Steward, the other to the peers on each hand; and his Grace and the peers return the salute. And l)esides these great personages, august in periwigs, and notlding to the right and left, a host of the small como up out of the past and pass before us — the jolly captains brawling jn the tavern and laughing and cursing over their cups — the drawer that serves, the bar-girl that waits, the bailift' on the prowl, thd chairman trudging through the black lamp- less streets, and smoking their pipes by the railings, whilst swords are clashing in the garden within. " HoIij there! SOCIETY IN QUEEX ANXE S REIGX. 61 ■ ? email of the it his Loi'd and esidos ing to of the jn the — the iff on lamp- whilst here ! a gentleman is hurt:" the chairmen put up their pipes, and help the gentleman over the railings, and carry him ghastly and bleeding, to the Bagnio in Long Acre, where they knock up the surgeon — a pretty tall gentleman — but that wound under the short ribs has done for him. Sur- geons, lords, cf;ptains, bailiffs, chairmen, and gentleman gaole;' with your axe, where be you now ? The gentleman axeman's head is off his own shoulders; the lords and judges can wag theirs no longer; tRo bailiff 's writs ha'/e ceased to run ; the honest chairman's pipes are put out, and with their brawny calves they have walked away into Hades — all as iri-evocably done for as Will Mountford or Captain Coote. * * * There exists a curious document descriptive of the man- ners of the last age, which describes most minutely the amusements and occupations of persons of fashion in Lon- don at the time of which we are speaking | the time of Swift, and Addison and Steele. When Lord Sparkish, Tom Neverout, and Colonel Alwit, the immortal personages of Swift's polite conversation, came to breakfast with my Lady Smart, at eleven o'clock in the morning, my Lord Smart was absent at the levee. His lordship was at home to dinner at three o'clock to receive his guests : and we may sit down to this meal, like the Barmecides, and see the fops of the last century before us. Seven of them sat down at dinner, and were joined by a country baronet, who told vhem they kept Court hours. These persons of fashion began their dinner with a sirloin of beef, fish, a shoulder of veal, and a tongue. My Lady Smart carved the sirloin, my Lady Answerall helped the fish, and the gallant colonel cut the shoulder of veal. All made a considerable inroad on the sirloin and the shoulder of veal', with the exception of Sir John, wlio had no appe- tite having already partaken of a beefsteak and two mugs of ale, besides a tankard of March beer, as soon as he got out of bed. They drank claret, which the master of the house said should always be drunk after fish; any sea and laud. Life by Warburtou 1853. I THACKERAY. 67 of ine, )ng in lote he >oth proposed to become the illustrator of my earliest book. I saw him last, shortly before Christmas, at the Athenseum Club, when he told me he had been in bed three days — that, after these attacks, he was troubled with cold shiver- ings, *' which quite took the power of work out of him " — aiad that he had it in his mind to try a new remedy which he laughingly described. He was very cheerful, and looked very bright. In the night of that day week he died. The long interval between those two periods is marked in my remembrance of him by many occasions when he was supremely humourous, when he was irresistibly extra- vagant, when he was softened and serious, when he was charming with children. But, by none do I recall him more tenderly than by two or three that start out of the crowd, when he unexpectedly presented himself in my room, announcing how that some passage in a certain book had made him cry yesterday, and how that he had come to dinner, ^* because he couldn't help it," and must talk such passage over. No one can ever have seen him more genial, natural, cordial, fresh, and honestly impulsive, than I have seen him at those times. No one can be surer than I, of tlie greatness and the goodness of the heart that thtn dis- closed itself. We had our differences of opinion. I thought that he too much feigned a want of earnestness, and that he made a pretence of undervaluing his art, which was not good for the art that he held in trust. But when we fell upon these topics, it was never very gravely, and I have a lively image of him in my mind, twisting both his hands in his hair, and stamping about, laughing, to make an end of the discus- sion. When we were associated in remembrance of the late Mr. Douglas Jerrold, he delivered a lecture in London, in the course of which he read his best contribution to Punch, describing the grown up cares of a poor family of young children. No one hearing him could have doubted his na- tural gentleness, or his thoroughly unaffected manly sym- pathy with the weak and lowly. He read the paper most pathetically, and with a simplicity of tenderness that cer- tainly moved one of his audience to tears. This was presently after his standing for Oxford, from which place he had dispatched his agent to me, with a droll note (to which he afterwards added a verbal postscript), urging me to '' come down and make a speech and tell them Who he was, for he doubted whether more than two of the electors had ever heard of him, and he thought there might be as I M % JlM if. i 1:5 m IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-S) / O ,is quiet endurance, his unselfish thoughtfulness for others, and his munificent hand, may not be told. If, in the reckless vivacity of his youth, his satirical pen had ever gone astray or done amiss, he had caused it to pre- fer its own petition for forgiveness, long before : I've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ; Tlie aimless jest that, striking, had caused pain ; The idle word that he'd wish back again. In no pages should I take it upon myself at this time to discourse of his books, of his refined knowledge of charac- ter, of his subtile acquaintance with the weakness of human nature, of his delightful playfulness as an essayist, of his quaint and touching ballads, of his mastery over the English language. Least of all, in these pages, enriched by his brilliant qualities from the first of the series, and beforehand accepted by the public through the strength of his great name. But, on the table before me, there lies all that he had written of his latest and last story. That it would be very sad to any one — that it is inexpressibly so to a writer— in its evidences of matured designs never to be accomplished, of intentions begun to be executed and destined never to be completed, of careful preparation for long roads of thought that he was never to traverse; and for shining goals thit he was never to reach, will be readily believed. The paiD, however, that I have felt in perusing it, has not been deeper than the conviction that he was in the healthiest vigour of his powers when he wrought on this tUJLCtSBAt. 60 to van his lish his md beat lad [ery ■in 5d, to of [ing red. (has Ithe this last labor. In respect of earnest feeling, far-seeing pur* pose, character, incident, and a certain loving picturesque- ness blending the whole, I believe it to be much the best of all his works. That he fully meant it to be so, that he had become strongly attached to it, and that he had bestowed great pains upon it, I trace in almost every page* It contains one picture which must have cost him extreme distress, and which is a master-piece. There are two chil- dren in it, touched with a hand as loving and tender as ever a father caressed his little child with. There is some young love, as pure and innocent and pretty as the truth. And it is very remarkable that, by reason of the singular construction of the story, more than one main incident usually belonging to the end of such a fiction is anticipated in the beginning, and thus there is an approach to com- pleteness in the fragment, as to the satisfaction of the reader's mind concerning the most interesting persons, which could hardly have been better attained if the writer's breaking off had been foreseen. The last line he wrote, and the last proof he corrected, are among those papers through which I have so sorrowful- ly made my way. The condition of the little pages of manuscript where Death stopped his hand, shows that he had carried them about, and often taken them out of his pocket here and there, for patient revision and interlinea- tion. The last words he corrected in print were : " And my heart throbbed with an exquisite bliss." God grant that on the Christmas Eve when he laid his head back on his pillow and threw up his arms as he had been wont to do when very weary, some consciousness of duty done and Christian hope throughout life humbly cherished, may have caused his own heart so to throb, when he passed away to his Redeemer's rest I He was found peacefully lying as above described, com- posed, undisturbed, and to all appearance asleep, on the 24th of December, 1863. He was only in his fifty-third year — so young a man that the : lOther who blessed him in his first sleep blessed him in his last. Twenty years before he had written, after being in a white squall : And when, ita force expended, The harmless storm was ended, And, as the sunrise splendid Came blushing o'er the sea; t thought as day was breaking, My little girls were waking, And smiling, and making. A prayer at homo for me. I 10 SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. Xhose little girls had grown to be women when the mourn- ful day broke that saw their father lying dead. In those twenty years of companionship with him, they had learned much from him ; and one of them has a literary course before her worthy of her famo^^s riame. On the bright wintry day, '.he last but one of the old year, he was laid in his grave at Kensal Green, there to mingle the dust to which the mortal part of him had returned, with that of a third child, lost in her infancy, years ago. The heads of a great concourse of his fellow workers in the Arts, were bowed around his tomb. A SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. Alexander Wilkim Kinglake, M.P. ; born at Taunton^ IS"!!. Educated at Eton, and Trinity College, Cambridge. The advance post of the insurgents, at its north western extremity, . 'as covered by a small barricade, which crossed the Boulevard at a point close to the Gymnase Theatre. Some twenty mou> with weapons and a drum taken in part from the "property room" of the theatre, were behind this rampart, and a small flag, which the insurgents had chanced to find, was planted on the top of the barricade. Facing this little barricade, at a distance of about 150 yards, was the head of the vast column of troops which now occupied the whole of the western Boulevard, and a couple of Held -pieces stood pointed towards the barricade. In the neutral space between the bariicade and the head of the column the shops and almost all the windows were closed, but numbers of spectators, including many women, crowded the foot pavement. These gazers were obviously incurring the risk of receiving sh-ay shots. But westward of the point occupied by the head of the column the state of the Boule- vards was different. From that point home to the Made- leine the whole carriage way was occupied by troops ; the infantry was drawn up in subdivisions at quarter distance. Along this part of the gay and glittering Boulevard the windows, the balconies, and the foot-pavements were crowd- ed with men and women who were gazing at the military display. These gazers had no reason for supposing that they incurred any danger, for they could see no one with whom the army would have to contend. It is true that aC)E^fE IlJ THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. 71 hng )int ile- Ide- Ithe hotices had been placed upon the walls recommending peo- ple not to encumber the streets, and warning them that they would be liable to be dispersed by the troops without being summoned ; but of course those who had chanced to see this announcemerit naturally imagined that it was a menace addressed to riotous crowds which might be press- ing upon the troops in a hostile way. Not one man could have read it as a sentence of sudden death against peaceful spectators. At three o'clock one of the field-pieces ranged in front of the column was fired at the little barricade near the Gymnase. The shot went high over' the mark. The troops at the head of the column sent a few musket shots in the direction of the barricade, and there was a slight attempt at reply, but no one on either side was wounded ; and the engagement, if so it could be called, was so languid and harmless that even the gazers who stood on the foot-pave- ment between the troops and the barricade were not deter- red from remaining where they were. And, with regard to the spectators further west, there was nothing which tended to cause them alarm, for they could see no one who was in antagonism with the troops. So, along the whole Boule- vard, from the Madeleine to near the Kue du Sentier, the foot pavements, the windows, and the balconies still re- mained crowded with men, and women, and children, and from near the Rue du Sentier to the little barricade at the Gymnase, spectators still lined the foot-pavement ; but in that last part of the Boulevard the windows were closed. According to some, a shot was fired from a window or a house-top near the Kue du Sentier. This is denied by others, and one witness declares that the first shot came from a soldier near the centre of one of the battalions, who tired straight up into the air 5 but what followed was this : the troops at the head of the column faced about to the south and opened fire. Some of the soldiery fired point-blank into the mass of spectators who stood gazing upon them from the foot pavement, and the rest of the troops fired up at the gay crowded windows and balconies. The oflficers in general did not order the firing, but seemingly they were agitated in the same way as the men of the rank and file, for such of them as could be seen from a balcony at the cornm' of the Kue Montmartro appeared to acquiesce in all tliat the soldiery did. The impulse which had thus come upon the soldiery near the head of the column, was a motive akin to ptftiio, for it 72 SCENE IN THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. was carried by swift contagion from man to man, till it ran westward from the Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle into the Bou- levard Poissoniere, and gained the Boulevard Montmartre, and ran swiftly through its whole length, and entered the Boulevard des Italiens. Thus by a movement in the nature of that which tacticians describe as "conversion," a column of some 16,000 men facing eastward towards St. Denis was suddenly formed, as it were, into an order of battle fronting southward, and busily firing into the crowd which lined the foot -pavement, and upon the men, women, and children who stood at the balconies and windows on that side of the Boulevard. What made the fire at the houses the more deadly was that, even after it had begun at the eastern part of the Boulevard Montmartre, people standing at the bal- conies and windows farther west could not £.ee or believe that the troops were really firing in at the windows with ball- cartridge, and they remained in the front rooms, and even continued standing at the windows, until a volley came crashing in. At one of the windows there stood a young Russian noble with his sister at his side. Suddenly they received the fire of the soldiery, and both of them were wounded with musket-shots. An English surgeon who had been gazing from another window in the same house had the fortune to stand unscathed ; and when he began to give his care to the wounded brother and sister he was so touch- ed, he s^ys, by their forgetfulness of self, and the love they seemed to bear the one for the other, that more than ever before in all his life he prized his power of warding off death. Of the people on the foot pavement who were not struck down at first some rushed and strove to find a shelter, or even a half-shelter, at any spot within reach. Others tried to crawl away on their hands and knees ; for they hoped that perhaps the balls might fly over them. The impulse to shoot people had been sudden, but was not momentary. The soldiers loaded and reloadea with a strange industry, and made haste to kill and kill, as though their lives depend- ed upon the quantity of the slaughter they could get through in some given period of time. When there was no longer a crowd to fire into, the sol- diers would aim carefully at any single fugitive who was trying to effect his escape, and if a man tried to save him- self by coming close up to the troops, and asking for mercy, the soldiers would force or persuade the supplicant to keep off and hasten away, and then if they could, thoy killed him SOEKE IH the Last FREHCH RETOLIttlOK. 73 sol- was lim- :eep Ihim running. This slaughter of unarmed men and women was continued for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes. It chanced that amongst the persons standing at the balconies, near the corner of the Eue Montmartre, there was an Eng- hsh officer ; and, because of the position in which he stood the professional knowledge which guided his observation, the composure with which he was able to see and to des- cribe, and the more than common responsibility which at- taches upon a military narrator, it is probable that his tes- timony will be always appealed to by historians who shall seek to give a truthful account of the founding of the Second French Empire. At the moment when the firing began, this officer was look'jg upon the military display with his wife at his side, and was so placed, that if he looked (Eastward, he could carry his eye along the Boulevard for a distance of about 800 yards, and see as far as the head of the column, and if he looked westward he could see to the point where the Boulevard Montmartre runs into the Boulevard des Ita- liens. This is what he writes : — " I went to the balcony at which my wife was standing, and remained there watching the troops. The whole Boulevard, as f^^r as the eye could reach, was crowded with them, principally infantry in sub- divisions at quarter distance, with here and there a batch of twelve-pounders and ho^'^'itzers, some of which occupied the rising ground of the Boulevard Poissoniere. The offi- cers were smoking their cigars. The windows were crowded with people, principally women, tradesmen, servants, and children, or, like ourselves, the occupants of apartments. Suddenly, as I was intently looking with my glass at the troops in the distance eastward, a few musket-shots were fired at the head of the column, which consisted of about 3,000 men. In a few moments it spread, and, after hang- ing a little, came down the Boulevard in a waving sheet of flame. So regular, however, was the fire that at first I thought it was a/m de joie for some barricade taken in ad- vance, or to signal their position to some other division ; and it was not till it came within fifty yards of me, that I recognised the sharp ringing report of ball-cartridge j but even then I could scarcely believe the evidence of my ears, for as to my eyes I could not discover any enemy to fire at : and I continued looking at the men until the company below me were actually raising their fire-locks, and one vagabond sharper than the rest — a mere lad without whis- ker or moustache — had covered me. In an instant I dashed n i SCENE IK tHE LASt fBENOH REVOLUTION. my wi^e, who had just stepped back, against the pier be-' tween the windows, when a shot struck the ceiling imme- diately over our heads, and covered us with dust and broken plaster. In a second after I placed her upon the floor, and in another, a volley came against the whole front of the house, the balcony, and windows ; one shot broke the mirror over the chimney-piece, another the shade of the clock, every pane of glass but one was smashed, the curtains and window-frames cut ; the room, in short, was riddled. The iron balcony, though rather low, was a great protection ; still fire-balls entered the room, and in the pause for reloading I drew my wife to the door, and took refuge in the back i-ooms of the house. The rattle of mus- ketry was incessant for more than a quarter of an hour after this ; and in a very few minutes the guns were unlimbered and pointed at the 'Magasin' of M. 8allandrouze, five houses on our right. What the object or meaning of all this might be, was a perfect enigma to every individual in the house, French or foreigners. Some thought the troops had turned round and joined the Reds ; others suggested that they must have been fired upon somewhere, though they certainly had not from our house or any other on the Boulevard Montmartre, or we must have seen it from the balcony. . . . This wanton fusillade must have been the result of a panic, lest the windows should have been lined with concealed enemies, and they wanted to secure their skins by the first fire, or else it was a sanguinary im- pulse. . . . The men, as 1 have already stated, fired volley upon volley for more than a quarter of an hour with- out any return ; they shot down many of the unhappy in- dividuals who remained on the Boulevard and could not obtain an entrance into any house: some persons were killed close to our door." The like of what was calmly seen by this English officer, was seen with frenzied horror by thousands of French men and women. If the officers in general abstained from ordering the slaughter, Colonel Rochefort did not follow their example. He was an officer in the Lancers, and he had already done execution with his horsemen amongst the chairs and the idlers in the neighbourhood of Tortoni's; but afterwards, imagining a shot to have been fired from a part of the Bou- levard occupied by infantry, he put himself at the head of a detachment which made a charge upon th:, crowd : and the military historian of these events relates with t)iumph that about thirty corpses, almost all of them in the clothes of SCENE Ili THE LAST FRENCH REVOLUTION. 75 by of gentlemen, were the trophies of this exploit. Along a distance of 1,000 yards, going eastward from the Rue Riche- lieu, the dead bodies were strewed upon the foot-pavement of the Boulevard, but at several spots they lay in heaps. Some of the people mortally struck would be able to stag- ger blindly for a pace or two until they were tripped up by a corpse, and this perhaps is why a large proportion of the bodies lay heaped one on the other. Before one shop-front they counted thirty-three corpses. By the peaceful little nook or court which is called the Cite Bergere they counted thirty-seven. The slayers were many thousands of armed soldiery : the slain were of a number that never will be reckoned ; but amongst all these slayers and all these slain there was not one combatant. There was no fight, no riot, no fray, no quarrel, no dispute. What happened was a slaughter of unarmed men, and women, and children. Where they lay, the dead bore witness. Corpses lying apart struck deeper into people's memory than the dead who were lying in heaps. Some were haunted with the look of an old man with silver hair^ whose only weapon was the um- brella which lay at his side. Some shuddered because of seeing the ^ay idler of the Boulevard sitting dead against the wall of a house, and scarce parted from the cigar which lay on the ground near his hand. Some carried in their minds the sight of a printer's boy leaning back against a shop-front, because, though the lad was killed, the proof- sheets which he was carrying had remained in his hands, and were red with his blood, and were fluttering in the wind. The military historian of these achievements permitted him- self to speak with a kind of joy of the number of women who suftered. After accusing the gentler sex of the crime of sheltering men from the lire of the troops, the Colonel writes it down that '' many an amazon of the Boulevard has paid dearly for her imprudent collusion with that new sort of barricade," and then he goes on to express a hope that women will profit by the example and derive from it "a lesson for the future." One woman who fell and died clasping her child, was suli'ered to keep her hold in death as in life, for the child too was killed. Words v/hich long have been used for inaking figures of speech, recovered their ancient use, being wanted again in the world for the picturing of things real and physical. Musket-shots do not shed much blood in proportion to the slaughter which they work, but still in so many places the foot-pavement was wot and red, that except by care, no one could pass along T6 ALONE tS THfi DEBtllRt. it without gathering blood. Bound each of the trees in th(^ Boulevards a little space of earth is left unpaved in order to give room for the expansion of the trunk. The blood collecting in pools upon the asphalte, drained down at last into these hollows, and, there becoming coagulated, it re- mained for more than a day, and was observed by many. "Their blood," says the English officer before quoted, " their blood lay in the hollows round the trees the next morning when we passed at twelve o'clock. The Boulevards and the adjacent streets," he goes on to say, "were at some points a perfect shambles." Incredible as it may seem, artillery was brought to bear upon some of the houses in the Boulevard. On its north side the houses were so bat- tered that the foot-pavement beneath them was laden with plaster and such ruins as field-guns can bring down. ALONE IN THE DESERT. A. W. Kinglake. • The "dromedary" of Egypt and Syria is not the two- humped animal described by that name in books of natural history, but is in fact of the same family as the camel, standing towards his more clumsy fellow- slave in about the same relation as a racer to a cart-horse. The fleetness and endurance of this creature are extraordinary. It is not usual to force him into a gallop, and I fancy, from his make, that it would be quite impossible for him to maintain that pace for any length of time ; but the animal is on so large a scale, that the jog-trot at which he is generally ridden im- plies a progress of perhaps ten or twelve miles an hour, and this pace, it is said, he can keep up incessantly without food, or water, or rest, for three whole days and nights. Of the two dromedaries which I had obtained for this journey I mounted one myself, and put Dthemetri on the other. My plan was to ride on with Dthemetri to Suez as rapidly as the fleetness of the beasts would allow, and to let Mysseri (then still remaining weak from the effects of his late illness) come quietly on with the camels and bag- gage. The trot of the dromedary is a pace terribly disagreeable to the rider, until he becomes a little accustomed to it ; but after the first half-hour I so far schooled myself to this ALONB IN THE DESERT. 77 the and not nake, that large kn inl- and ihout \. this the jable it; this new exercise that I felt capable of keeping it up (though not without aching limbs) for several hours together. Now, therefore, I was anxious to dart forward, and annihilate at once the whole space that divided me from the Red Sea. Pthemetri, however, could not get on ci«all| every attempt at trotting seemed to threaten the utter dislocation of his whole frame, and, indeed, I doubt whether any one of Dthe- metri's age (nearly forty, I think), and unaccustomed to such exercise, could have borne it at all easily ; besides, the dromedary which fell to his lot was evidently a very bad one : he every now and then came to a dead stop, and coolly knelt down, as though suggesting that the rider had better get off at once, and abandon the experiment as one that was utterly hopeless. When for the third or fourth time I saw Dthemetri thus planted, I lost my patience and went on without him. For about two hours, I think, I advanced without once looking behind me. I then paused, and cast my eyes back to the western horizon. There was no sign of Dthemetri, nor of any other living creature. This I expected, for I knew that I must have far out distanced all my followers. I had rid- den away from my party merely by way of humouring my impatience, and with the intention of stopping as soon as I felt tired, until I was overtaken. I now observed, however (this 1 had not been able to do whilst advancing so rapidly) that the track which I had been following was seemingly the track of only one or two camels. I did not fear that I had diverged very largely from the true route, but still I could not feel any reasonable certainty that my party would follow any line of march within sight of me. I had to consider, therefore, whether I should remain where I was, upon the chance of seeing my people come up, or whether I should push on alone, and find my own way to Suez. I had now learned that I could not rely upon the continued guidance of any track, but I knew that (if maps were right) the point for which I was bound bore just due east of Cairo, and I thought that, although I might miss the line leading most directly to Suez, I could not well fail to find my way, sooner or later, to the Red Sea. The worst of it was that I had no provision of food or water with me, and already I was beginning to feel thirst. I de- liberated for a minute, and then determined that I would abandon all hope of seeing my party again in the desert, and would push forward as rapidly as possible towards Suez. It was not without a sensation of awe that I swept wiLli 78 ALONE IN THE DESERT. my sight the vacant round of the horizon, and remembered that I was all alone, and miprovisioned in the midst of the arid waste 5 but this very awe gave tone and zest to the exultation with which I felt myself launched. Hitherto, in all my wandering 1 had been under the care of other people — sailors, Tartars, guides and dragomen had watched over my welfare; but now, at last, I was here in this African de- sert, and I myself, and no other, had charye of my Ife. I liked the office weil ; I had the greatest part of the day before me, a very fair dromedary, a fur pelisse, and a brace of pis- tols, but no bread, and worst of all, no water | for that 1 must ride — and ride I did. For several hours I urged forward my beast at a rapid, though steady pace, but at length the pangs of thirst began to torment me. I did not relax my pace, however, and I had not suffered long, when a moving object appeared in the distance before me. The intervening space was soou traversed, and I found myself approaching a Bedouin Arab, mounted on a camel, attended by another Bedouin on foot. They stopped. I saw that there hung from the pack- saddle of the camel one of the large skin water flasks commonly carried in the desert, and it seemed to be well filled. I steered my dromedary close up along-side of the mounted Bedouin, caused my beast to kneel down, then alighted, and keeping the end of the halter in my hand, went up to the mounted Bedouin without speaking, took hold of his water-flasks, opened it, and drank long and deep from its leathern lips. Both of the Bedouins stood fast in amaze- ment and mute horror 5 and really if they had never hap- pened to see a European before, the apparition was enough to startle them. To see for the flrst time a coat and a waistcoat, with the semblance of a white human face at the top, and for this ghastly figure to come swiftly out of the horizon, upon a fleet dromedary— approach them silently, and with a demoniacal smile, and drink a deep draught from their water-flask — this was enough to make the Be- douins stare a little ; they, in fact, stared a great deal — not as Europeans stare, with a restless and puzzled ex- pression of countenance, but with features all hxed and rigid, and with still, glassy eyes. Before they had time to get decomposed from their state of petrifaction, I had remounted my dromex-'.ary, and was darting away towards the east. Without pause or remission of pace, I continued to press forward ; but after a while, I found to my confusion that u ALONE IN THE DESERT. 79 up Id of ex- and time had ^ard8 J>resB (that the slight track which had hitherto guided me now failed altogether. I began to fear that I must have been all along following the course of some wandering Bedouins, and I felt that if this were the case, my fate was a little uncertain. I had no compass with me, but I determined upon the eastern point of the horizon as accurately as I could, by reference to the sun, and so laid down for myself a way over the pathless sands. But now my poor dromedary, by whose life and strength I held my own, began to show signs of distress ; a thick, clammy, and glutinous kind of foam gathered about her lips, and piteous sobs burst from her bosom in the tones of human misery. I doubted for a moment, whether I would give her a little rest or relaxation of pace, but I decided that I w6uld not, and continued to push forward as steadily as before. The character of the country became changed. I had ridden away from the level tracks, and before me now, and on either side, there were vast hills of sand and cal- cined rocks that interrupted my progress, and baffled my doubtful road, but I did my best. *With rapid steps I swept round the base of the hills, threaded the winding hollows, and at last, as I rose in my swift course to the crest of a lofty ridge, Thalatta! Thalatta ! the sea-— the sea was before me! It has been given me to know the true pith, and to feel the power of ancient Pagan creeds, and so (distinctly from all mere admiration of the beauty belonging to Nature's works) I acknowledge ^ sense of mystical reverence when first 1 approach some illustrious feature of the globe — some coast-line of ocean — some mighty river or dreary mountain range, the ancient barrier of kingdoms. But the Red Seal It might well claim my earnest gaze by force of the great Jewish migration which connects it with the history of our own religion. From this very ridge, it is likely enough, the panting Israelites first saw that shining inlet of the sea. Ay 1 ay ! but moreover, and best of all, that beckoning sea assured my eyes, and proved how well I had marked out the east for my path, and gave me good promise that sooner or later the time would come for me to drink of water cool and plenteous, and then lie down and rest. It was distant the sea, but I felt my own strength, and I had heard of the strength of dromedaries, I pushed forward as eagerly as though I had spoiled the Egyptians, and were flying from Pharaoh's police. 80 ALONE IN THE DESERT. I had not yet been able to see any mark of distant Suez, but after a while I descried, far away in the east, a large, blank, isolated building. I made towards this, and in time got down to it. The building was a fort, and had been built there for the protection of a well, contained within its pre- cincts. A cluster of small huts adhered to the fort, and in a short time I was receiving the hospitality of the inhabitants a score or so of people who sat grouped upon the sands near their hamlet. To quench the fires of my throat with about a gallon of muddy water, and to swallow a little of the food placed before me, was the work of a few minutes, and be- fore the astonishment of my hosts had even begun to sub- side, I was pursuing my onward journey. Suez, I found, was still three hours distant, and the sun going down in the west warned me that I must find some other guide to keep me straight. This guide I found in the most fickle and un- certain of the elements. For some hours the wind had been freshening, and it now blew a violent gale ; it blew — not fit- fully and in squalls — ^but with such steadiness that I felt convinced it would blow from the same quarter for several hours ; so when the sun set, I carefully looked for the point whence the wind came, and found that it blew from the very west — blew exactly in the direction of my route. I had nothing to do therefore but to go straight to leeward, and this I found easy enough, for the gale was blowing so hard that, if I diverged at all from my course, I instantly felt the pressure of the blast on the side towards which I had deviated. Very soon after sunset there came on com- plete darkness, but the strong wind guided me well, and sped me too on my way. I had pushed on for about, 1 think, a couple of hours after nightfall, when I saw the glimmer of a light in the distance, and this I ventured to hope must be Suez. Upon approaching it, however, I found that it was only a solitary fort, and this I passed by without stopping. On I went, still riding down the wind, but at last an un- lucky misfortune befell me — a misfortune so absurd that, if you like, you shall have your laugh against me. I have told you already what sort of a lodging it is that you have upon the back of a camel. You ride the dromedary in the same fashion ; you are perched, rather than seated, on a bunch of carpets or quilts upon the summit of the hump. It happened that my dromedary veered rather suddenly from her onward course. Meeting the movement, I me- chanically turned my left wrist, as though I were holding a ▲LONE IK THE DESERT. 81 lOurs the ipon ^itary un- Ithat, Ihave Ihave the on a imp. lenly me- inga bridle rein, for the complete darkness prevented my eyes from reminding me that I had nothing but a halter in my hand. The expected resistance failed, for the halter was hanging upon that side of the dromedary's neck towards which 1 was slightly leaning ; I toppled over, head foremost, and then went falling through air till my crown came whang against the ground. And the ground too was perfectly hard (compacted sand) but my thickly wadded head-gear (this I wore for protection against the sun) nq,w stood me in good part, and saved my life. The notion of my being able to get up again after falling head-foremost from such an immense height seemed to me at first too paradoxical to be acted upon, but I soon found that I was not a bit hurt. My dromedary had utterly vanished ; I looked round me, and saw the glimmer of a light in the fort whiieh I had lately passed, and I began to work my way back in that direction. The violence of the gale made it hard for me to force my way towards the west, but I succeeded at last in regaining the fort. To this, as to the other fort which I had passed, there was attached a cluster of huts, and I soon found myself surrounded by a group of villainous, gloomy- looking fellows. It was sorry work for me to swagger and look big at a time when I felt so particularly small on ac- count of my tumble and my lost dromedary, but there was no help for it ; I had no Dthemetri now to " strike terror" for me. I knew hardly one word of Arabic, but some how or other I contrived to announce it as my absolute will and pleasure that these fellows should find me the means of gaining Suez. They acceded, and having a donkey, they saddled it for me, and appointed one of their number to attend me on foot. I afterwards found that these fellows were not Arabs, but Algerine refugees, and that they bore the character of being sad scoundrels. They justified this imputation to some ex- tent on the following day. They allowed Mysseri with my baggage and the camels to pass unmolested, but an Arab lad belonging to the party happened to lag a little way in the rear, and him (if they were not maligned) these rascals stripped and robbed. Low indeed is the state of bandit morality, when men will allow the sleek traveller with well laden camels to pass in quiet, reserving their spirit of en- terprise for the tattered turban of a miserable boy. I reach'id Suez at last. The British agent, though roused from his midnight sleep, received me in his home with the utmost kindness and hospitality. How delightful it was to 82 i THE THIN RED' LINE. lie on fair sheets, and to dally with sleep, and to wake, and to sleep, and to wake once more, for the sake of sleeping again ! " THE THIN BED LINE." From " The Invasion of the Crimea." A. W. Kinglahe. Including the chasm which divided the Grenadier Guards from the Coldstream, the whole line in which the Duke of Cambridge now moved forward to the attack of the Kour- gane Hill was more than a mile and a half in length. It was only two deep ; but its right regiment was supported by a part of Sir Kichard England's division; and Sir George Cathcart was on its left rear with the part of his Division then on the field. On the extreme left and left rear of the whole force there was the cavalry under Lord Lucan. These troops were going to take part in the first approach to close strife which men had yet seen on that day between bodies of troops in a state of formation deliberately mar- shalled against each other. The slender red line which began near the bridge, and vanished from the straining sight on the eastern slopes of the Kourgane Hill, was a thread which in any one part of it had the strength of only two men. But along the whole line from east to west these files of two men each were strong in the exercise of their country's great prerogative. They were in English array. They were fighting in line against column. . After the rupture of the peace of AmienS, Sir Arthur Wellesley, being then in India, became singularly changed, growing every day more and more emaciated, and seeming- ly more and more sad. He pined ; and was like a man dying without any known bodily illness, the prey of some consuming thought. At length he suddenly announced to Lord Wellesley his resolve to go back to England ; and when he was asked why, he said, "I observe that in Europe the French are fighting in column, and carrying everything before them, and I am sure that I ought to go home direct- ly, because I know that our men can fight in line." From that simple yet mighty faith he never swerved ; for, always encountering the massive columns of infantry, he always was ready to meet them with his slender line of two deep — with what result the world knows. T^ TBIM RED LIKE. 83 irope thing Irect- I'rom Iways |way8 leep iiOng years had passed smce the close of those great wars, and now once more m Europe there was going to be waged yet again the old strife of line against column. Looking down a smooth, gentle, green slope, chequered red with the slaughtered soldiery who had stormed the redoubt, the front-rank men of the great Vladimir column were free to gaze upon two battalions of the English Guards, far apart the one from the other, but each carefully drawn up in line ; and now that they saw more closely, and with- out the distractions of artillery, they had more than ever grounds for their wonder at the kind of array in which the English soldiery were undertaking to assail them j " we were all astonished," says Chodasiewicz — yet he wrote of what he saw when the English line was much less close to the foe than the Guards now were — " we were all astonished at the extraordinary firmness with which the red jackets, having crossed the river, opened a heavy fire in line upon the redoubt. This was the most extraordinary thing to us, as we had never before seen troops fight.in lines of two deep, nor did we think it possible for men to be found with suf- ficient firmness of morale to be able to attack in this ap- parently weak formation our massive columns." But soon the men of the column began to see that though the scar- let line was slender, it was very rigid and exact. Presently, too, they saw that even when the Grenadiers or the Cold- streams began to move, the long line of the black bearskins still kept a good deal of its straightness, and that here, on the bloody slope no less than in the barrack- yard at home, the same moment was made to serve for the tramp of a thousand feet. Beginning on our right hand with the Grenadier Guards, and going thence leftwards to the Coldstream, and, lastly, to the Highland brigade, we shall now see what manner of strife it was when at length, after many a hindrance, five British battalions, each grandly formed in line, marched up to the enemy's columns. Advancing upon the immediate left of the ground aL eady won by Pennefather's brigade, the Grenadiers were covered on their right, but their left was bare : and it was in that direction — in the direction of their left front — that the Vla- dimir battalions stood impending. The Grenadiers were marching against the defeated but now rallied column which had fought with the 7th Fusileers, when Prince Gortscha- koff, having just ridden up to the two left battalions of the Vladimir, undertook to lead them forward. First sending ig 84 *nis fsxH ABO tmti. his only unwounded aide-de-camp to press the advance of any troops he could find, the Prince put himself at the head of the two left Vladimir battalions, and ordered them to charge with the bayonet. The Prince then rode forward a good deal in advance of his troops, and his order for a bayonet charge was so far obeyed, that the column, without firing a shot, moved boldly down towards the chasm which bad been left in the centre of our brigade of Guards* The north-west angle of this strong and hitherto victorious co- lumn was coming down nearer and nearer to the file — the file composed of only two men — which formed tlie extreme left of the Grenadiers. Then, and by as fair a test as war could apply, there was tried the strength of the line formation, the quality of the English officer, the quality of the English soldier. Col- onel Hood first halted; and then caused the left sub- division of the left company to wheel — to wheel back in such a way as to form, with the rest of the battalion, an obtuse angle. The manosuvre was executed by Colonel Percy (he was wounded just at this time) under the direction of Colonel Hamilton, the officer in command of the left wing. In this way whilst he still faced the column which he had originally undertaken to attack. Colonel Hood showed another front, a small but smooth comely front, to the mass which was coming upon his flank. His manoeuvre instantly brought the Vladimir to a halt ; and to those who — ^without being near enough to hear the giving and the repeating of orders — still were able to see Colonel Hood thus changing a part of his front and stopping a mighty column, by making a bend in his line, it seemed that he was handling his fine slender English blade with a singular grace | with the gentleness and grace of the skilled swordsman, when smiling all the while he parries an angry thrust. In the midst of its pride and vast strength of numbers, the Vladi- mir found itself checked ; nay, found itself gravely engaged with half a company of our Guardsmen ; and the minds of these two score of soldiers were so little inclined to bend under the weight of the column, that they kept their per- fect array. Their fire was deadly, for it was poured into a close mass of living men. It was at the work of <' file firing" that the whole battalion now laboured. On the left of the interval wrought by the displacement of the centre battalion of the guards, the Coldstream, drawn up in superb array, began to open its smart, crashing fire upon the more distant battalions which formed the right Wing of the Vladimir foroe. THE TUIN RED LINE. 8i per- ito a M mg lent lawn fire ight We shall see the share which other Bussian and other British troops were destined to have in governing the result of the struggle, but if, for a moment we limit our reckoning to the troops which stood fighting at this time, it appears that the whole of the four Vladimir battalions and the less- ened mass of the left Kazan column were engi^ged with the Grenadiers and the Coldstream. In other words two Eng- lish battalions, each ranged in line, but divided the one from the other by a very broad chasm, were contending with six battalions in column. And, although of these six battalions standing in column there were two which had cruelly suffered, the re'maining four had hitherto had no hard fight- ing, and were flushed with the thought that they stood on ground which they themselves had reconquered. But, after all, if only the firmness of the slender English line should chance to endure, there was nothing except the almost chimerical event of a thorough charge home with the bayonet which could give to the columns the ascendancy due to their vast weight and numbers ; for the fire from a straightened, narrow front could comparatively do little harm, whilst the fire of the battalion in line was carrying havoc into the living masses. Still neither column nor line gave way. On the other hand, neither column nor line moved forward. Fast rooted as yet to the ground, the .groaning masses of the Russians and the two scarlet strings of Guards- men stood receiving and deliv3ring their fire. The Grenadiers were busy with their rifles along their whole line, and were making good use of that delicate bend in the formation of their leftmost company which en- abled them to pour their fire into the heart of the Vladimir column then hanging on their flank. The reckoning of him who puts his trust in column is mainly based on the notion that its mere grandeur of aspect will give it a clear ascendant as soon as it is seen at all near ; and when the English line had once delivered its fire, the front-rank men of the column were not without grounds for making sure that their next glimpse of the fed-coats would be a glimpse of men in retreat ; for to have come forward to within a distance convenient for musket-shots, and to have once de- livered their fire, this was surely the utmost, in the way of close fighting, that files of only two men each would attempt against masses. But when, though only a little, the smoke began to lift, the gleams that pierced it were the light that is shed from bayonet points and busy ramrods — gleams twinkling along the line of the two ranks of soldiery 86 THB THIN BED LINK. who still, as it seemed, must be lingering in their strange . array ; and wherever the smoke lifted clear, there — steawi- fast as oaks disclosed by rising mist — the long avenue of the Bearskins loomed out ; and so righteously in place, as to begin to enforce a surmise that, after all the files of the two men each might be minded to stand where they were, ceremoniously shooting into the column and filling it minute by minute with the tumult of men killed or wounded. And, though it was but a few of the men planted close in the massive columns who could thus from time to time look upon the dim forms of the soldiery who dealt the slaughter, yet the anxiety of those who could gain no glimpse of the Bearskins was not for that reason the less. Nay, it was the greater ; for he who knows of a present danger through his reading of other men's countenances, or by seeing his neigh- bours fall wounded or killed around him, is commonly more disturbed than he who, standing in the firont, looks straight into the eye of the storm. Still, up to this time it was only from the extreme left of the Grenadiers' line that fire was poured into the column. A harder trial was awaiting the Vladimir men. Colonel Hood had hitherto wielded his line as though he judged it right to deal carefully with the left Kazan battalions still linger- ing on his front ; and up to the last, he d'd not think him- self warranted in disdaining their presen e ; for he could not know that their loss in officers had made them so help- less as they were ; but he now saw enough to assure him that his real foe was the left Vladimir column on his flank. Thither, therefore (though he would not altogether avert his line from the defeated troops in his front), he now de- termined to bend the eyes and the rifles of a great portion of his battalion. So he wheeled forward his battalion upon its left — or in other, and perhaps the more expressive form of military speech, he " brought forward his right shoulder." Still, respecting the presence of the defeated Kazan troops, he did not carry this mangeiuvre so far as to place his bat- talion bodily on the flank of the Vladimir column, but he carried it far enough to make the column a mark for the troopfe which formed his left wing. The Vladimir was wrap- ped in fire : was wrapped in that fire which is hardly toler- able to soldiery massed in column — fire poured upon its flank. Even this for some minutes the brave Vladimir bore. If the voice of the English soldier is heard loud in fight, bis shout may be the shout of triumph achieved, or else — and A BULL-FIGHT. 87 I upon I form then it is of a thousandfold higher worth — it may be the like of what used to foretoken the crisis of the old Peninsular battles when late in the day the voice of " the Light Divi- sion " was heard ; — the almost inspired utterance by which the soldier growing suddenly conscious of an overmastering power, declares and makes known his ascendant. Of two things happening on a field of battle at nearly the same tiaae it is often hard to say which was the first, and yet upon that narrow priority of a few moments there may depend the question of which event was the cause and which the eflfect. What people know is that there was an instant when the Vladimir column was se^n to look hurt and unstable, and that, either at the same instant, or the instant before, or the instant after the Grenadiers were hurrahing on their left, hurrahing at their centre, hurrahing along their whole line. As though its term of life were measured, as though its structure were touched and sundered by the very ca- dence of the cheering, the column bulged, heaving, heav- ing. " The line will advance on the centre ! Thq men may advance firing." This, or this nearly, was what Hood had to say to his Grenadiers. Instant sounded the echo of his will. •' The line will advance on the centre ! Quick march !" Then between the column and the seeing of its fate, the cloud which hangs over a modem battle-field was no longer a sufficing veil ; for although whilst the English battalion stood halted, there lay in front of its line that dim, mystic region which divides contending soldiery, yet the Bearskins since now they were marching, grew darker from east to west, grew taller, grew real, broke through. A moment, and the column hung loose. Another, and it was lapsing into sheer retreat. Yet another, and it had come to be like a throng in confusion. Of the left Kazan troops there was no more question. In an array which was all but found fault with for being too grand and too stately, the English battalion swept on. rrap- boler- |n its Limir ight, -and A SPANISH BULL-FIGHT. The Right Honourable Benjamin Disraeli, a distinguished politician and novelist ; born 1805. A Spanish bull-fight taught me fully to comprehend the rapturous exclamation of <' Panem et Circenses 1" The 88 A BULL-nOHT. amusement apart, there is something magnificent in the assembled thousands of an amphitheatre. It is the trait in modem manners which most effectually recalls the no- bility of antique pastimes. The poetry of a bull-fight is very much destroyed by the appearance of the cavahers. Instead of gay, gallant knights bounding on caracoling steeds, three or four shapeless, unwieldy beings, cased in armour of stuffed leather, and looking more like Dutch burgomasters than Si)ani8h chi- valry, enter the list on limping rips. The bull is, in fact, the executioner for the dogs ; and an approaching bull-fight is a respite for any doomed steed throughout all Seville. The tauridors, in their varying, fanciful, costly, and splendid dresses, compensate in a great measure for your disappointment. It is diflBcult to conceive a more brilliant band. These are ten or a dozen footmen, who engage the bull unarmed, distract him as he rushes at one of the cava- liers by unfolding, and dashing before his eyes, a glittering scarf, and saving themselves from an occasional chase by practised agility, which elicits great applause. The per- formance of these tauridors is, without doubt, the most graceful, the most exciting, and the most surprising portion of the entertainment. The ample theatre is nearly full. Be careful to sit on the shady side. There is the suspense experienced at all public entertainments, only here upon a great scale. Men are gliding about, selling fans and refreshments ; the go- vernor and his suite enter their box j a trumpet sounds I— all is silent. The knights advance, poising their spears, and for a mo- ment trying to look graceful. The tauridors walk behind them, two by two. They proceed around and across the lists ; they bow to the vice-regal party, and commend themselves to the Virgin, whose portrait is suspended above. Another trumpet ! A second and a third blast! The governor throws the signal , the den opens, and the bull bounds in. That first spring is very fine. The animal stands for a moment still, staring, stupefied. Gradually his hoof moves ; he paws the ground ; he dashes about the sand. The knights face him, with their extended lances, at due distance. The tauridors are still. One flies across him, and waves his scarf. The enraged bull makes at the nearest horseman; he is frustrated in his attack. Again he plants himself, lashes his tail, and rolls his eye. He A BULl-FIOHT. 89 makes another charge, and this time the glance of the spear does not drive him back. He gores the horse : rips up hie body : the steed staggers and falls. The bull rushes at the rider, and his armour will not now preserve him, but just as his awful horn is about to avenge Ms future fate, a skilful tauridor skims before him, and flaps his nostrils with his scarf. He flies after his new assailant, and immediately finds another. Now you are delighted by all the evolutions of this consummate band; occasionally they can save themselves only by leaping the barriers. The knight, in the meantime, rises, escapes, and momits another steed. The bull now makes a rush at another horseman ; the horse dexterously veers aside. The bull rushes on, but the knight wounds him severely in the flank with his lance. The tauridors now appear, armed with darts. They rush, with extraordinary swiftness and dexterity, at the infuri- ated animal, plant their galling weapons in different parts of his body, and scud away. To some of their darts are affixed fire- works, which ignite by the pressure of the stab. The animal is then as bewildered as infuriate ; the amphi- theatre echoes to his roaring, and witnesses the greatest efforts of his rage. He flies at all, staggering and stream- ing with blood ; at length, breathless and exhausted, he stands at bay, his black, swollen tongue hanging out, and his mouth covered with foam. 'Tis horrible 1 Throughout, a stranger's feelings are for the bull, although this even the fairest Spaniard cannot comprehend. As it is now evident that the noble victim can only amuse them by his death, there is a universal cry for the matador ; and the matador, gaily dressed, appears amid a loud cheer. The matador is a great artist. Strong nerves must combine with great quickness and great expe- rience to form an accomplished matador. It is a rare cha- racterj highly prized ; their fame exists after their death, and different cities pride themselves on producing or pos- sessing the most eminent. The matador plants himself before the bull, and shakes a red cloak suspended over a drawn sword. This last insult excites the lingering energy of the dying hero. He makes a violent charge : the mantle falls over his face, the sword enters his spine, and he falls amid thundering shouts. The death is instantaneous, without a struggle, and without a groan. A car, decorated with flowers and ribbons, and drawn by oxen, now appears, anf* bears off the body in triumph. 9b TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL. I have seen eighteen horses killed in a biill-fight, and eight bulls ; but the sport is not always in proportion to the slaughter. Sometimes the bull is a craven, and then, if, after recourse has been had to every mode of excitement, he will not charge, he is kicked out of the arena, amid the jeers and hisses of the audience. Every act of skill on the part of the tauridors elicits applause ; nor do the specta- tors hesitate, if necessary, to mark their temper by a con- trary method. On the whole, it is a magnificent but barbarous spectacle ; and, however disgusting the principal object, the accessories of the entertainment are so brilliant and interesting that, whatever may be their abstract disap- probation, those who have witnessed a Spanish bull-fight will not be surprised at the passionate attachment of the Spanish people to their national pastime. TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL. Thomas Hughes, M. P. ; horn in England, educated at Rugby and Oxfordj called to the bar of Lincoln^ s Inn. " Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho. coach for Leicester '11 Le round in half-an-hour, and don't wait for nobody." So spake the Boots of the " Peacock Inn," Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the morning of a day in the early part of November, 183 — , giving Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean. Tom and his father had arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and finding, on inquiry, that the Birming- ham coaches which ran from the city did not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch, a village three miles distant on the main road, where said passengers haO to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the evening, or to take a post-chaise — had resolved that Tom should travel down by the Tally-ho, which diverged from the main road and passed through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had driven out to the "Peacock" to be on the road. Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at the "Belle Savage," where they had been put down by the Star, just at dusk, that he might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious, gas lit streets, which, with their glare and hum and moving g| of P) a[ 01 al Z TOM BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL. 91 crowds, excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that the " Peacock " arrangement would get him to Eugby by twelve o'clock in the day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all other plans melted away ; his one absorbing aim being to become a public school-boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance. Tom and his father had alighted at the "Peacock," at about seven in the evening ; and having heard* with un- feigned joy the paternal order at the bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for suppei in half-an-hour, and seen his father seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the paper in his hand — ^Tom had rim out to see about him, had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternised with the Boots and ostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip- top goer, ten miles an hom* including stoppages, and so punctual that all the road set their clocks by her. Then, being summoned to supper, he had regaled him- self in one of the bright little boxes of the "Peacock" coffee-room on the beef-steak and unlimited oyster-sauce, and brown stout (tasted then for the first time — a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone) ; had at first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing on him from over his glass of steaming brandy and water, and then begun nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the lecture, till the squire, observing Tom's state, and remembering that it was nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom having stipulated in the morning before start- ing, that kissing should now cease between them) and a few parting words. " And now, Tom, my boy," said the squire, " remember you are going at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with all your troubles before you — earlier than we should have sent you, perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to see you." Tlie allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choke^, 92 TOH BROWN GOES TO SCHOOL. and he would have liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent stipulation. As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and said, "I'll try, father." " I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe ?" " Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure. " And your keys?" said the squire. ''All right/' said Tom, diving into the other pocket. "Well then, good night. God bless you ! I'll tell Boots to call you, and be up to see you off." Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a little darling, and kissing Lim as she left the room : which indignity he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame and sorrow on the dear folk at home. Indeed, the squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice ; something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of assisting meditation, ,he had even gone the length of taking out his flint and steel, and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an hour till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot, which he silently puffed ; to the no small wonder of (Joachee, who was an old friend, and an institution on the Bath road ; and who always expected to talk on the prospects and doings, agri- cultm-al and social, of the whole country when he carried the squire. To condense the squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows : "I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that — at any rate, not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for ? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If bed this TOM BROWN OOBS TO SCEOOL. OS he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling English- man, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want," thought the squire ; and upon this view of the casfe framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enbugh suited to his purpose. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat- box, coat, and comforter in his hand ; and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table. "Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this ; there's nothing like starting warm, old fellow." Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great- coat, well warmed through ; a Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the hoin sounds. Boots looks in and says, *' Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and the rat- tle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the '< Peacock." " Anything for us. Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and slapping himself across the chest. "Young genl'm'n, Kugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," answers ostler. "Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot and shooting in the parcels, after examining them by the lamps. " Here, shove the portmanteau up a-top — I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind." " Good-bye, father — my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot I the ostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up ; ostler, Boots, and the squire stand looking after them under the " Peacock" lamp. " Sharp work 1" says the squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach being well out of sight and hearing. Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long as he can see it, and then the guard, having dis- §4 i. TOM BROWN AT SCHOOt. posed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the three hours before dawn ; no joke for those who minded cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late majesty. I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer fellows than we used to be*. At any rate, you're much more comfortable travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for pre- serving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another afiair altogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, fee not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First, there was the con- sciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman —of standing out against something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar-frost, over the leaders' ears, into the darkness ; and the cheery toot of the guaid's horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the ostler at the next change ; and the looking forward to day- light — and last but not least, the delight of returning sen- sation in your toes. Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music to see them in their glory ; not the music of singing-men and singing- women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground. TOM BROWN AT SCHOOL. T. Hughes. The school-house prayers were the same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys, who siood altogether at the further table — of all sorts and sizes, like young boars with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him when he was in the same TOM BROWN AT SCHOOL. 06 position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and poor little slight Arthur standhig with them, and as he was leading him upstairs to No. 4, directly after prayers, and shewing him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows looking on to the school close. There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the fur- thest corner by the fire-place occupied by the sixth form boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-tifth and other junior forms, all fags, for the fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves. Being fags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were all bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter past (at which time the old verger came round to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read. Within a few minutes, therefore- of their entry all the other boys who slept in Numbe*- 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undress- ing and talking to each other in whispers, while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about Oii one another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed tallang and laughing. "Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?" "Of course, if you like," said Tom, staring; 'that's your washhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the morn- ing, if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room. On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and put on his nightgown. He then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely boy: however, this time ho didn't ask Tom what he m 5 ^OM BROWN At aOHddL. might or might liot do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony. Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big brutal fellow, who was standing in the middle of the room, picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow. ''Confound you. Brown 1 what's that for?" roared he, stamping with pain. "Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping onto the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling : "if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it." What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punc- tual as the clock, had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his usual "Good night, genl'm'n." There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from think- ing or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leaped, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the .promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bed- side, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise ; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old. It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold's manly piety had TOM BP.OW^ A* SCHOOL. Ot begun to leaven the school, the tables turned ; before he died, in the school-house at least, and I believe in the other houses, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in, bed, and then that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling or sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord before menj and for the last year he had probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times. Poor Tom 1 the first and bitterest feelingVhich was like to break his heart, was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which he loathed was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it ? And then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost soorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do. , The first dawn of com- fort came to him in swearing to himself that he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him. and help him, and bear his burdens, for the good deed done that night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not aftbrd to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed" him, first, all his old friends calling him ^' Saint " and ^^ Square-toes," and a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy ; whereas it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then came the more subtle b3mptation, <' Shall I not be shO\ving myself braver than others by doing this ? Have I any right to begin it now ? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys knew that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should go on as I have done ?" However, his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept^ tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow tho ixr^- 9t * T V 'it i 98 ♦foM BROwif AT scnoot. pulse which had been so strong, and in which he had found peace. Next morning he was up, and washed, and dressed, all but his jacket and waistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell began to ring, and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could he say — the bell mocked him ; he was listening for every whisper in the room — what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of the publican, •' Gbd be merciful to me a sinner 1" He repeated them over and over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not needed j two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example,, and he went down to the great school with a glimmering of another lesson in his heart — the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward spirit has conquered the whole outward world 5 and that other one which the old prophet learned in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the still small voice asked, "What doest thou here, Elijah?" — that however we may fancy o\irselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord of men is nowhere without his wit- nesses; for in every society, however seemingly corrupt and godless, there are those who have not bowed the knee to Baal. He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but three or four followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure owing to the fact, that Tom could probably have thrashed any boy in the room except the prepositor ; at any rate, every boy knew that he would try upon very slight provo- cation, and didn't choose to run the risk of a hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers. Some of the small boys of Number 4 communicated the new state of things to their chums, and in several other rooms the poor little fellows tried it on ; in one instance or so, where the prepositor heard of it and intdfered very decidedly, with partial success ; but in the rest, after a short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down, and the old state of things went on for some time longer. Before either Tom Brown or Arthur left the school -house, THE BOAT Race. 99 thftre was no room in which it had not become the regular custom. 1 trust it is so still, and that the old heathen state of things has gone out for ever. room ae bell in the le was knees. 11 voice •« Gbd irer and ^om his e whole Arthur lown to n in his his own Id; and . in the the still ►"—that of good, his wit- corrupt ihe knee THE BOAT RACE. Thomas Hughes. The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts in the way, or other obstructions | and they swung steadily down past the University barge, the top of which was already covered with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races, but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm enough to cross the water and go down to the starting- place. These sombre groups were lighted up here and there by the dresses of a few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats. At the mouth of the Cher- well were moored two punts, in which reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, f^moking ; several of these were friends of Drysdale, and hailed him as the boat passed them. " What a fool I am to be here 1" he grumbled, in an under tone, casting an envious glance at the punts in their com- fortable berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. <