..•».-. f^!^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 11.25 am us us 2.0 U 11.6 * 1 ^ £.11 ^\ -^ w ■'I sion, or tha bacic covar whan appropriata. All othar original copiaa ara filmad baginning on tha first paga with a printad or illutttratad impraa- sion, and anding on tha laat paga with a printad or illustratad impraaalon. L'axamplaira fiimi fut reproduit grftca A la ginirositi da: Archives of Ontario Toronto Laa imagaa suivantaa ont 4t* raproduitaa avae la piua grand soin, compta tanu da la condition at da la nattati da l'axamplaira filmA, at an eonformit* avac laa conditiona du contrat da fllmaga. Laa axamplairea originaux dont la couvartura •n paplar aat imprimAa sont filmAa an commandant par la pramlar plat at an tarminant soit par la damiira paga qui comporta una amprainta dimpraasion ou dlllustration. soit par la aacond plat, salon la eaa. Tous l«ia autraa axampiairaa originaux sont fllmte an co 7f man^ant par la pramMrtt paga qui comporta una amprainta dlmpraaaion ou d'llluatration at 9n tarminant par la damlAra paga qui comporta una talla amprainta. Tha laat racordad frama on aach microficha shall contain tha symbol -^(moaning "CON- TINUED"), or tha symbol T (maaning "END"), whichavar appliaa. Un daa symbolaa suivants apparaltra sur la damlAra imaga da chaqua microficha, salon la caa: la symbols —»• signifia "A SUIVRE". la symbola T signifia "FIN". Mapa, plataa, charts, ate., may ba filmad at diffarant raduction ratloa. Thoao too larga to ba antiraly includad In ona axptMura ara filmad baginning in tha uppar laft hand eomsf , laft to right and top to bottom, aa many framas aa raquirad. Tha following diagrama illustrata tha method: Laa cartaa. planchas, tablaaux, ate pauvant itra filmAa A daa taux da rMuction diffirants. Lorsqua la document ast trop grand pour Atra raproduit an un saul clichA. II ast film* A partir da I'angla sup4rieur gaucha, da gaueha i droita, at da haut an baa, an pranant la nombra d'imagaa nteassaira. Lm diagrammas suivants lllustrant la m^thoda. Tata o >eiure. 3 32X 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 S 6 G Bi u J. (?lage & (i0'0. (Engliek <§chool (iTlaesirs. GOLDSMITirS TRAVELLER. GRAY'S ELEGY, AND Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France. WITH INTRODUCTION, LIVES OF AUTHORS, CHARACTEK OF THEIR WORKS, BTO. ; AND COPIOUS EXPLANATORY NOTES, ORAMMATICAL, HIS- TORICAL, BIOGRAPHICAL, ETC. JOHI^ MILLAR, B.A., Bead 3Ia$t(irqfSt. Thuaum Volieyiate Institute, W. J. GAGE & COMPANY, TOBONTO AND WINNIPEG. 1883. Entered accordinR to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the OflBce ITS DEPARTMENTS. 1. Literature in its widest sense embraces all kinds oi literary productions which have been preserved in writ- ing ; but is generally restricted to those works tliat come within the sphere of the literary art or rules of rhetoric. 2. Classiflcation. — Literature, in regard to its firrm, is divided intf) (1) Prose and (2) Poetry. In regard to matter, it has three divisions : (1,) Composition, designed to inform the understanding by description, iia -^ation, or exposition ; (2) Oratory ; (3) Poetry. 3. Description, or descriptive composition, is of two kinds : (1) Objective, where the observer pictures what he describes as it is perceived by his ..onses or realized by his fancy ; (2) Subjective, where the observer, referring to the feelings or thoughts of bis own mind, gives his im- pressions as they have been excited by the outward scene. Scott is a good example of an objective, and Byron of a subjective writer. 4. "Narration is that kind of composition which gives an account of the incidents of a series of transactions or events. It may also be subjective or objective. INTRODUCTION. 5. Exposition includes tliono literaiy productions whore t'a«:tH or priticipluti are disouHatul and concIuHions roachod by a process of reii8oiun«^. Tt embraces vari- ous treatiHes, from the brief editorial, or essay, to the full discussion in extensive works. To this claw belongs the (ihilosopjiic poein. t>. Oratory is tliiit kind of comitoaition in wliicli argu- ments or reasons are ottered to inlluence the niiiul. It aduiits of the followiiii? divisions : (1) Judicial, (2) Politi- cal, (.*i) Relij^ions, and (4) Moral suasion. 7. Prose compositions are those in which the thoughts are arran^^ed in non-metrical sontences, or in the natural order in common and ordiiuuy langua,<^e. The principal kinds of prose composition are narrative, letters, memoirs, history, bioi^jraphy, essays, philosophy, sermons, novels, •peeches, iVc. 8. Sentences are divided granunatically into tdmple^ complex, CtfiufKniiui^ and also into (lecliiratioe, inter rogativej imperative^ and exelamative. Rhetorically, they are di- vided into loose sentences and jterioih. 9. A loose sentence cotisists of parts which may be 8eparateyron's Childe Harold; (7) The Pastoral, Idyll, &c., as the Cotter* s Saturday Nvjht, the Ejccv/rsion ; (8) Prose Fiction, inclu ling sentimental, comi- cal, pastoral, historical, philosophical, or religious novels. 35. Dramatic Poetry deals also with some important events, but ditlors from Epic poetry where the author him- self narrates the events forming its subject, in having the various charar ters represent, in action or conversation, the story to be vl^scribed. Dramatic poetry is of two kinds, (1) Tragedy, wh«»re the human passions and woes or mis- fortunes of life » " '1 such a manner as to ex« INTRODUCTION, IX eite pity, as Shakespeare's Macbeth or Hamlet; (2) Comedy, where the lighter faults, passions, actioni, and follies are represented, as the Merch^mt of Venice. 36. Lyric Poetry is so called becauae originally writ- ten to be sung to the Lyre. Its principal kinds are : (1) The Ode, as Gray's Bard ; (2) The Hymn, as those of Cowper ; (3) The Song, as those of Burns or Moore ; (4) The Elegy, as Gray's ; (5) The Sonnet, as those of Shake- speare or Wordsworth ; (6) The simple Lyric, as Burns' Mountain Daisy. 37. Further dassiflcation as to object will embrace ; (1) Descriptive poetry, as Thomson's Seaso7is; (2) Didac- tic, as Wordsworth's E^tcnrsion; (3) Pastoral, as ilam- say's Gentle Shepherd ; Satirical, as Butler's Hudihraa; (6) Humorous, aa Cowper's John Gilpin. n. FIGURES OF SPEECH. 38. A Figure is a deviation from the ordinary form or construction or application of words in a sentence for the purpose of greater precision, variety, or elegance of ex- pression. There are three kinds, viz., of Etymology ^ of Syntax^ and of Rhetoric 39. A Figure of Etymology is a departure from the usual form of words. The principal figures of etymology are : Aphceresis, Prosthesis, Syncope, Apocope, Paragoye, Dicerens, Syrueresit, Tmesis. 40. Aphseresis. — The elision of a syllable from the beginning of a word, as ^neath for beneath. 41. Prosthesis. — The prefixing of a syllable to a word, as agoing for going. If the letters are placed in the middle, EpentliesiSy as farther for farer. 42. Syncope. — The elision of a letter or syllable from the body of a word, as med'cine for medicine. ■t f f •I. ', i X INTRoDUCllOJf. 43. Apocope. — The elision of a letter or syllable from the end of a word, as tho' for though. 44. Paragoge. — The annexing of a syllable to the end of a word as deary for dear. 45. Diseresis. — The divison of two concurrent vowels into different syllables, as co-operate. 46. SynOBresis. — The joining of two syllables into one, in either orthography or pronunciation, as dost for tioeai, loved for lov-ed. 47. Tmesis. — Separating the parts of a compound word, as " WhattiYne soever." When letters in the same word are interchanged, as hrfint for bumtf nostrils for nose- thi/rles, the figure is called Metathesis. 48. A Figure of Syntax is a deviation fro»a the usual construction of a sentence for greater beauty or force. The principal figures of syntax are : Ellipsis, Pleonasm, Hylhpsis, Enallage, Hyperhaton, Periphrasis, Tautology. 49. Ellipsis. — An oiiission of words with a rhetorical purpose, as '* Impossible f" Asyndeton is the omission of connectives. 50. Pleonasm. — The employmont of redundant words, as " Thy rod and thy stafi, they comfort me. " 51. Syllepis. — An inferior species of personijication^ as " The moon gives her lij^ht by night. " 52. Enallage. - The substitution of one part of speech for another, as — " Whether charmer sinner it or saint it If folly grow romantic I must paint it. " — Pope. 53. Hyp^rbaton. — The transposition of words in a sentence, as *' J man he was to ail the country dear." 54. Peciphrasis or Circumlocution. —The employment of more words than are necessary to convey the sense, as the use of a definition or doscriptiv© phrase instead of a INTRODUCTION. X Qoun, as " He waa chanued with Uie idea of taking up anus ill the sefvice of his <'oi(iUry." 66. Tautology. — The repetition of the same sense ii. ditferent words, as — ** The dawn is overcast — the mornin«; lowers, And heavily in ohiuds brings on the day." — Addison. 56. A Figure of Rhetoric is a form . speech art- fully varied from the direct and literal mode of expres- sion for the purpose of greater eiiect. lihetcjrical figures may be divided intf) three classes. 57. I. Jb^igures of Relativity. — Antithesis, Simile , Metaphor^ AUegary, PersonifuuitioUy Ajtostrophe, Vision, Allusion^ Irony, Sarcasm, Synecdoche, Metonymy, Euphem- ism,, Litotes, Epithet, Catachresia. 58. n. Figi^res of Gradation. — Climax, Hyperhde. 59. in. JTigures of Emphasis. — Epizeuxis, Anaphora, Epi})horr,, Anadiplosis, Epaualepsis, AUiteratvm, Anacolu- thon, Aposiopesis, FaraleipsiSf Erotesis, Epanorthosit^ Syl- le'psis, Ecphonesis. 60. Antithesis. — The statement of a contrast of thoughts and words, as ** Tlie wicked flee when no man pursueth, but the nghteous are b(dd as a lion." Under this figure may be mentioned Oxym,oron, or a contradiction of terms, as '* a pious fraud " ; ArUimetahole, where the words are reversed in each member of the anti- thesis, as " A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits." 61. Simile op Comparison. — A formal expression o resemblance, as : " He shall be like a tree planted by t/ rivers of water." 62. Metaphor. — An implied comparison or a simile without the sign, as *' Pitt was the pilltvr of the State." 63. Allegory.— A continuation of metaphors,or a story having a figurative meaning and designed to convey in- W ii if xU INTRODUCTION. struction of a mnral chaxacter, aa Bunyan'a Pilgrim's Fro- gresn 64. Personification. — A figure in which some attri- bute of life is iiscribed to inanimate objects, aa " The mountains .SMJ4/ h (1G72— 1719). Contributions to the Tatter, Spectator, GaanU.an,, Whvj, Examiner, etc. Poems — Letter from Italyf CampaigUy HymnSy lioaamond. The Drummer, Cato. Vanbrugh, John (1072—1726). 77;^ Prmmked Wife.. Bowe, Nicliolas (1673—1718). The Fair Penitmt and Jane Shore. Watts, Isaac (1674 — 1748). Hymns, Logic, The Im- provement of the Mitui. Philips, Ambrose (1675—1740). 77j^ DidreHned Mother. Philips, Jolin (167()— 1708). The SpleiuiUl Shilling. Parquhar,(Juu. (1678— 1707). T}ie Recmitmg Offir.er, The Beaux^ Stratagem. Parnell, Thomas (1679-1717). The Hermit. Young, Edward (1681—1766;. Ni^ht Thoughts, Th.* Reve7uje, The L(pve of Fame. Berkeley, George (1684— 1753). 77»-«on/ of Vision. Tickell, Thomas (1686— 1740). Besides writing for Spectator and G^iardian, wrote the ballad of Colin and Tjucy, find the pobHi Kensington Gardens. Gay, John (1688- -1732). The, ShepJierd's Week, Trima, The Fan, Bkiak-eyed Susan, Beggars' Opera. Pope, Alexander (1688—1744). Essay on Criticism, The Messiah, Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady, The Rape of the Locky The Epistle of tJloisa to Abelard, The Temple of xviii INTRODUCTION. 1 ( ,s i't IK' 'hi 1 ii'"' 1 Fame, translation of Tlind and Odyssey, Tlis Dunciad, E»* nay mi Man, H indaor Forest. Richardson, Samuel (1G89— 17C1). Pamela, Clarista [{arlowe, tSir (Jharles (iraiulUon. Savago, Richard (IHtWJ— 1743). The Wanderer. Thomson, .fames (1700—1748). Seamm, Liberty, The Castle of huloleiice. Wesley, John (1703—175)1). Hymm and Sermons, JonriKtL Fielding, Henrj- (1707—1754). Joseph Andrews, Tom Jones, J(matli(tn Wild. Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784). Wrote for the flam- bier, Idler; and .4 Life of Savage, DictioiMry of the F.uijlish Langiinffe, London, Rasselas, Journey to the Hebrides, Lives of the Poctit. Hume, David (1711 — 1770) A Treatise of fluman, Na^ turn, Moral and Philosophical Essays, Political Discourses^ History of England. Sterne, Lawrence (1713—1708). Tristam Shandy, The Sentimental Jonmey. Shenstone, Williaxn (1714—1763). The Schoolmistress, The Pastwal Ballad. Gray, Thomas (1716 -1771). Th^ Elegy, The Progress of Poesy, The Bard, Ode lo Spnng, Ode to Adversity, Od>e on a Distant Prospect of Et^tn. Walpole, Horace (1717—1797^. Ltiters and Memoirs, The Castle of Otranto. Collins, William (1720—1759). Odes to Liberty and Evening, The Passions, Oriental Eclogues. Akenside, Mark (1720—1770;. Pleasures of Imagina- tion. Robertson, William (1721—1770). HistoHes of Scot- land, Charles the Fifth of Germany and America. Smollett, Tobiaa (1721 — 1771). Eoderick Bcmdom, INTRODUCTION. XIX teregrim Pickle^ Humphrey Clinker^ History of England, Eflited Critical Heview. Warton, Joseph (1722— 1800). Odeto Fancg. Blockstone, William (1723—1780). Corninentaries on the Laws of Englaixd. Smith, Adam (1723—1700). '''U Wealth of Nationa^ The Theory of Moral SentirneiUn. Goldsmith, Oliver (1728—1774). The Traveller, The Deserted Village^ Retaliatvm, The Vlca/r of Wvkefield, The Good-Natund Man,, She Stoojis to Conquer, Animated Na- ture, Hiatorieit of Enylandj liome^ Greece^ Citizen of the World. Percy, Thomns (1728—1811). Published a collection of ballads entitled Heliques of Etujlish Poetry. Warton, Thomas (1728—1790). Tht Pleasures of Mel- andiobj, History of English Poetry. Burke, Edmund (1730—1797). Tlie Vimlication of Natural Society, Essay on the Sublime and Ueautifnlf Re- flection on the Revolution in France^ Letters on a Regicide Peace. Falconer, William (1730— 17G9). The SfUpim-eck. Cowper, Willfam (1731—1800). Tnith, Table-talk, Ex- postulationj Error, Hope, Charity, John Gilpin, The l^ask translation of Homer, Letters. Darwin, Erasmus (1732 -1802). The Botanic Oardm. Gibbon, Edward (1737—1794. The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. Macpherson, James (1738— 1796). Fingal and Temora, t'*fo epic poems, which he represented he had translated from materials discovered in the Highlands. Junius, (Sir P. Francis) (1740— 181b). Letters of Junius. Boswell, James (1740—1796). Life of Johnson. Paley, William (1743— 180.f>\ Element of Mcrral and XX INTRODUCTION. Political PhiloHophy, HorcB Paulirute^ Evidences of Chris- tiduity, Natural Theology. Mackenzie, Henry (1745—1831). T?w Man of Feeling, The Man of the World. Bentham, Jeremy (1747 — 18.'V2). Fragment tm Goverit- ment, and numerous writings on Law and Politics. Sheridan, Richard B. (1751—1817). The Rivals, The Sclutol for Scamlalj Tfte ihienna, The Critic. Chatterton, Thomas (1752 — 1770. Wrote the tragedy of Ella, Ode to Ella, Execution of diaries Baivdin, and other poems which he represented he found, and said had been written in the 15th century by Rowley, a Monk. Stewart, Dugald (1753—1828). Philosophy of the Eu- man Mind, Moral Philosophy. CrabbeGeorge (1754—1832). The Library, Th^ Village, The Parish Register, The Boro'agh, Tlu Tales of the Hall. Burns, Robert (1759—1796). Tarn O'Shanter, To a Daisy, To a Moiise, The Cotter's Satwrday Night, The Jolly Beggars. Hall, Robert (17(54—1831). Sermons. Clarke, Adam (1760 — 1832). Commentaries 07i the Bible. Bloomfleld, Robert (1766—1823). The Farmer's Boy, Riirol Tales, May-dav toith the Mnses. Edgeworth, Maria (1767 — 1848). Castle Rackrent, Pop^i- lar Tales, Leonora, Tales of Fashionable Life, Patronage. Opie, Amelia (1769—1853). FatJier atui Daughter, Tales of the Heart, Temper. Wordsworth, William (1770 — 1850). An Evening Walk, Descriptive Sketches, The Excnrshm, llie White Doe of Hylstonc, Sonnets, Laodaniia, Lines on Revisitiwj the Wye. Scott, Sir W. (1771—1832.) Border Minstrelsy, TJie Lay of the Last Minstrel, Mamiion, The Lady of the Lake, Vision of Don Roderick, Rokeby^ Life and Works of Dryden ; no* INTRODUCTION. XXI rels, including Waverleyy Roh Roy, It)anhoef Keniltoorthy Woodstock ; Life of Napoleori. Montgomery, James (1771 — 1854). Greerdatidy The Pdican Ixlan/ij The. Wanderer in Svntzerlartd^ Prison Amuseme.nts^ The World before tlie Flood. Coleridge, Samuel T. (1772—1834). Ode, to the DepaH- in^ Year^ The Rhne of the Ancyent MoHnere^ CJiristahel^ Genevieve, Dxttirejt on Slmkespearey Biographia Literaria. Lingard, John (1771 — 1851). History of Englatid. Southey, Robert (1774—1843). Wat Tyler, Thalaha, Tfhe Owrse of Kehama, lioderick. Vision of Jiuigment, Lives of Wedey, Com-qyer, &c. Moore, Thomas (1770 — 1852;. Trish Melodi-e.% Lalla Rookh. The Fudge Family in Faris, The Epicurean, n\ THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. -o- Poetry as a Mirror. — The literature of a nation bears an intimate relation to its history. The poets of a period fairly express its prevailing thoughts and senti- ntients. Great eras in a country's rise and progress have always been found to correspond with the great intel- lectual eras of its growth. When questions of a political, social, moral or religious importance have stirred men's minds, then have arisen authors whose works have re- jected the predominant features of the times in which they lived. Thus the heroic greatness of the Hellenic race is marked by Homer, not only rich in poetic thought, but clearly the outcome of the mental life and character of ancient Greece. The age of Pericles, brilliant in poli- tical achievements, was no less illustrious for its intellectual vigor. The Augustan era, forming the lofty climax of Roman influence and power gave to the Latin language Virgil and Horace, Cicero and Livy. A review of English literature, and especially English poetry, exhibits atill more clearly this intimate relationship. The writings lO THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. m n of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden and Pope as well as Cowper, Burns, Scott, Tennyson and Browning reflect, as with a magic mirror, the genius of the periods of which they are distinguished representatives. Chaiicor belongs to a period when the darkness of the Middle Ages was passing away. New languages were forming on the continent, and the happy fusion b} courtly influence of Anglo-Saxon and Norman-French, teriuinated a long struggle for ascendancy, and produced our noble English tongue. It was the age of Dante, of Petrarch, and Boccaccio, — when Wycliffe by his writings, translations and discouises was creating a ferment in the religious world, — when Crecy and Poicticrs were gained, and Edward III. was encouraging the settlement of Flemish artisans and extending the trade of tiie English merchants over every sea of Europe. ?:• J thus paving the way for that commercial supremacy which should subse- quently add to the nation's glory. With Chaucer is weli exemplified the fact that the poet to be successful must live urith and for his generation, must suit himself to the tastes of his public, must have common sympat]iies with his readers and must adopt a stylo that accords 'yith the emotions by wJiich he is actuated. The (Jantcrhury Tales, his greatest work, vividly represents that gaily apparelled time when king tilted in tournament, and knight and lady rode along with falcon on wrist, and when friars sitting in tavern sang war songs £ [Greece and Rome, and an extensive acquaintance with [the older English poets, many years actively employed in bhe keen struggle for civil and religious liberty, well [qualified him for undertaking a theme lofty in its con- iception, and intimately connected with everything im- Iportant in the circumstances of human history. In the crash which shattered the regal and hierarchic institutions of the country, his majestic, unwordly and heroic soul saw [only the overthrew of false systems, and the dawn of a bright period marked by private investigation and ; individual liberty. All the higher influences of the Renaissance are summed up in Milton. That pure poetry I of natural description which he began in L'AUegro^ and II IPenseroso has no higher examples to produce from the [writings of Wordsworth, Scott, or Keats. Living in an age when skilful criticism, though it purified English verse, [gave rise to false conceits and extravagance, Lia know- ledge of good classical models enabled him to free bis works from the advancing inroads of a rising school. Not only did he create the English epic and place him- self by the side of Homer, Virgil and Dante, but he put new life into the masque, sonnet and elegy, the descriptive r I ■ !■• \ i 11 11 II I n 1 pf ■ 14 THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. lyric, the song and the choral drama. Though untrue m his descent from tlie Elizabethans in a want of humor and of the dramatic faculty, we can forget these defects while we listen to the organ ring of his versification, the stately march of his diction, the beautiful and gorgeous illustrations from nature and art, the brightly coloured pictures of human happiness and innocence, and the lofty sentiments of lUwiuJise. Lost. Blank vorso, which Surrey had introduced into our literature, is managed by Milton with a skill that shows its power in the construction of an he:lainly the poet of charactei* and of practical life, writes largely after the manner of the Provingals, but improved by Italian model*. Spenser's manner is also that of the l*rovincals, bnt guided by the authors of a later Italian school. The character of ( Jerman literature influenced Scott, and in our own day, Oarlyie. THE DEVELOPMENT OP ENGLISH POETKV. 15 Milton, as wo have leen, was the great representJitive of the Classical school, now to be followed by the writers who moulded their works after the tastes of Paris. The social mi.s.hiofs of the Restonition wore the worst fruits of the French intluence. The Court and the society of the metroi)olis began to exercise a powerful inHuence on the various dei>artnit'ntH of literature. The corrupt and pniHigate manners of the Court tainte«l too easily a pet))>le wliohud feUtlie restraiiitaof Purit;ui rule. TheligliterUinds of co»n})08ition mirrored fai;lifuliy the surrounding black- ness, wliich reijuired no short period of time, no little exertion and a religious revival to clear it away. The drama sank to a frightful degioe «>f shame and grossness. Other forms of poetry were marked by no higher object than that to which satire aspires. Writing verse was degraded from a high and noble art to a mere courtly amusement, or pander to the immorality of a degenerated age. Tho Artilicial School of Poetry. The poets already considered belonged to the "school of nature." Inlluunces were now at work which gave rise to another phase of 7oetic genius. The Cotliic and Romance literature of the Middle Ages gave its inspiration to Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare and Milton. The study of the Greek and Roman Classics gave an impetus to a class of writers who, influenced l)y causes of another kind, developed a new style of poetry. The great masters possessed artistic as well as n;>tur J powers. The secondary poets of the Elizabethan period, til'. ugh fresh and impassioned, as a result of the strong feelings that inspired them, were ex- travagant and unrestrained because of their want of art. When the national life grew chill, the poets inspired by no warm feelings became lavish in the use of "far-fetched meanings," and fanciful forms of expression. With pc^etry «»itravagant in words arid fantastic in images, the sense i6 THK DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH jw»ETRV. i'!i beramo often obscure. Tlie natural stylo cnro^'ulatf i by art aaaumed an unnatural character. Milton, in ar' Jition to the inspiration derived from (Jothic and lioinan' i liter- ature, by his kno\vledL;e and imitation of the grei' ;lassical nmdels, gave the tirat example in England of a pure, I'n- ished and majestic style. Those who felt during the Restoration period the power of his genius were also inlUienced by the "school of inquiry," which all over Europe showed its work in science, ])(»litic;' and religion. In France this tendency to criticiiiie was well represented ^n poetry by Doileau, LaFontaine, and otiiers, whose eil'orfc after greater tiiiish and neatness of expression told on English writers at a lime when French tastes began "even to mingle with the ink that dropped from the poet's pen." The new French school was founded on classical models, which had already boc»jme fashionabla in England. The admirers of Charles II. were also admirers of that great nation so friendly to the Stuarts, which under Louis XIV. had reached the highest point of civilization then attained by any European state. It would be a mistake to con- clude that the Restorati(m was the origin of the "artificial school." The work had already been begun and had made much i)rogress before the death of the Protector The accession of the "merry monarch" gave it a mighty im- pulse, and in accelerating the adoption of " cold, glittering mannerism, for the sweet, fresh light of natural language" alc of Fa)ne, Thr Dnnciatl and the translation of Homer. In his Epistles and Essay on Man we have numerous passages that have supplied to our current literature more plirases and sentiments re- markable for their mingled truth and beauty than are to be found probably in any other [)icces of cijual length. Decay of tho Artificial School. The greater part of the eighteenth century was, in a literary point «»f view. cold, dissatislied and critical. It valued forms more than substance. Warm feelings, grand thoughts and creative genius, were less esteemed than elegance of phrase and lymmetry of proportion. In a period when philosophy THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRV. »9 was essentially utilitarian, and religion a system of prac- tical morality, it is not surprising that poetry was largely didactic and mechanical. With such attention to form, an active criticism rendered our English prose, when employed by such masters as Addison, for the first time, absolutely simple and clear. For similar reasons during the same period, Nature. Passion, and Imagination de- cayed in poetry. But matters were coming to a crisis. Hume and Robertson were beginning their career as historians. Richardson. Fielding and Smollet aroused a taste for light literature. In moral philosophy Jonathan Edwards and Josei)h l>utler were laying the foundations of systems on a sounder basis. New thoughts moved men. The poets felt the impulse of the transition period. The publication of Warton's Jlidory of Poetry and Percy's Ilel'Kiuet revived a taste for the bold, free style of our earlier writers. The inspiration seized the writers of verse, and a return from the classical to the romantic, from the arti- ficial to the natural, soon began to manifest itself. Pope's name stood highest until his death in 1744, but the most distinguished of his contemporaries departed widely from the style of their great mas'er. Thomson made no attempt to enter the school of polished satire and pungent wit. Equal originality is shown by Young in his startling denunciations of death and judgment, stirring appeals and choice epigrams. Gray and Collins in aiming at the dazzl- ing imagery and magnificence of lyrical poetry show the '*new departure." The former is not without the polish and exquisitely elaborated verse of Pope, but as well as Collins, he shows the freshness, the spirit of imagination, and the sprightly vivacity of the older poets. Akenside in strains of melodious and original blank verse, expatiated on the operations of the mind and the associated charm of taste and geniu.s. Johnson alone of the einin«>nt ■ 20 IffB DLVELOrMENT OF ENGLISH POEl RY. ! i i W autliora of tliis period seems to liave adopted the style of Dry den and Pope. But his ponderous Latinized composi- tion was counteracted in part by the simplicity of Gold- smith and M.ickcnzie. INIany of the poets of the transi- tion period show the didactic tendency of the times. It required in some cases an effort to break off from what had been popular. To such a low ebb had the public taste been reduced that Gray was ridiculed and Collins was neglected. The spirit of true poetry was not, however, dead. The conventional style was destined to fril, leaving only that taste for correct language and polished versification which Pope liad established. The seed was sown and the next generation was to see under Cowper that work com- pleted which Thomson had begun. The System of Patronage. During the Elizabethan period and considerable time afterwards the social stand- ing of literary men was far from encouraging. Tiie names of Spenser, Butler and Otway are sufficient to remind us that warm contemporary recognition was not enough to secure an author from a position of want Paradise Lest yielded its author during eleven ye?rs only £15, Ben Johnson in the earlier, and Dryden in the latter part of the seventeenth century found the laureate's pittance scarcely sufficient to keep their heads above water. The first few years of the next century showed signs of improvement. In the reign of Charles II. , Dorset had introduced the system of patronage, which, under Mon- tague, Earl of Halifax, became subsequently so serviceable to men of literature. The politicians who came into power with the Revolution were willing for a time to share the public patronage with men of intellectual eminence. Addison, Congreve, Swift and other authc ra ot less uote won by their pens not only temporary prohts, but ueruianent places. Prior, Gay, Tickell, Howe and THE DEVELOi'MENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. 21 Steele held offices of considerable emolument, and Locke, NevHon and others were placed above indigence by the same system of princely favor. Before Pope was thirty the fruits of his pen amounted to over £0000, and by the popular mode of subscription he received £8000 for his translation of Homer. Such rewards indicate a readiness among both political parties to patronize literature with a beneficence honourable to those who gave, and advantage- ous to those who received. In one respect at least the period may be termed the Augustan age of literature. Its patrons were in high places and were prepared to give it substantial rewards. Fortunately for the cause of litera- ture, though painfully inconvenient for many writers of the "transition period," this system of patronage was doomed shortly after the accession of the House of Hanover. Decline of Patronage. The reigns of William IIL and Anne are noted for the encouragement given to literature by those in authority. After the accession of the House of Hanover, there was a marked change. The reign of George II. , though productive of much progress in science and literature is marked by no indication of originality. Still it had many authors who deserved better treatment than they received. As the system of party government developed, the political partisans were sufficient to absorb all the sinecures at the disposal of the leaders. Authors were rewarded by no munificent pa- tronage from the Crown or ministers of state. Harley and Bolingbroke were succeeded by Sir Robert Walpole, a wise tactician, but a man with no taste for learning, no admiration of genius. His liberality to the extent of £50,000 was extended only to obscure and unscrupulous partisans, the supporters of a corrupt government, whose names might have passed into oblivion but for the satire di! 22 THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. iilii i ■ i ■i ' i 11 1 'i 1 f VI ■! ? of Pope. Scribbling tor a party in pamphlets and news- papers was rewarded, while genius was neglected. The considerable sums spent on literature were given fo? ser- vices equally degrading to giver and receiver. Men of talent, who would not stoop to the "dirty work" of sustaining with their pens a base administration, might starve in Grub Street, or be pilloried in the Dmiciadf although had they lived thirty years before, they might have been entrusted with an embassy oj- appointed Com- missioners, Surveyors or Secretaries. Men like Churchill, who turned their pens to political satire, were well re- munerated. Young obtained, in time, a pension, and Thomson, after tasting the worst misei ies of author-life, was rewarded with a sinecure. But Collins, Fielding, and even Thomson and Johnson, Nvere arrested for debt, and the wretched and precarious lives of many, liKve made Grub Street, in which they herded together, suggestive of rags, hunger and misery. The age of dedication was intolerable to men of independence of spirit. Authors by profession must either starve or becom? parasites. The reading public was very limited, and the booksellers, in consequence, were not to be blamed for the small sums given to authors. A better day was dawning. The right of the Press to discuss public affairs created a class of writers of higher moral and literary qualitications. The time was rife for the emancipation for ever, of literature from the *' system of flattery." The letter of Johnson to Chesterfield gave the ** knock-down " blow. It was, as Carlyle calls it, "the far-famed bla.stof doom proclaiming into the ear of Lord Chesterfield, and through him, of the luitening world, that patronage should be no more." The period between the old and the new system, was one of much privation and sufl'ering. In tl< it period lived Gold- 3mitn. THE DEVELOPMENT OF EN'GI.ISH POETRY. 23 Revival of the Natural School. From about the middle of Pope's life to the death of Johnson, was a time of transition. The influence of the didactic and satiric poetry of the critical school, lingered among the new elements which were at work. The study of Greek and Latin classics revived, and that correct form for which P()]>e sought, was blended with the beautiful forms of " natural feeling and natural scenery. " The whole course of poetry was taken up with greater interest after the publication of Warton's History of English Foetry, and Dr. Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry in 17C5. Shakespeare was studied in a more accurate way, and the child-likeness and naturalness of Chaucer began to give delight. The narrative ballad and the narrative romance, afterwards perfected by Sir Walter Scott, took root in English verse. Forgeries such as Fiuyal, an Ancient Epic Poeniy by Macpheraon, and the fabrications of Cliat- terton, " the marvellous boy. The sleepless soul, that perish'd in his pride," indicate the drift of the new element. It was felt that the artificial school did not exhibitfully the noble sentiments, emotions and thoughts of the human soul. Man alone had ' I ! Vcatcd of by the poets. Nature now was taken « p. Th^ polish and accuracy of Pope is fully preserved by such writers as Gray, Collins and Goldsmith, but their verse is also " instinct with natural feeling and simplicity." Natural description had appeared already in the poems of the Puritans, Marvel and Milton ; but Thomson, in the Seasons, was the ** first Poet who led the English people into the new world of ii.:ture in poetry, which has moved and enchanted us in the works of Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats and Tennyson, but which was entirely impossible for Pope to understand." The real and actual were, as 11 24 THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POl^TRY. P ! I' ?li :''»' subjects of *-ong, to be substituted for the abstract and remote. Tlie increase in national wealth and population, led to the improvement of literature and the aits, and to the adoption of a more popular style of composition. The human intellect and imagination, unhampered by ;he conventional stitiness and classic restraint imposed upon former autliors, went abroad upon wider survevs and with more ambitious designs. The age of Cowper. Of all poetical writers of the last twenty years of the eighteenth century the name of Co'fper casts the greatest illustration upon the period in which he lived. The hard artificial brilliancy of Pope standing r ' the head of that list, which included Gibbon and Hume, Cliesterfield and Horace Walpole had scarcely ceased to da/zle the poets of the Johnsonian era. The death of "king Samuel" in England, like tliatof Voltaire in Fran> e, was not followed by the accession of another to the throne of literature. The reaction which followed the Restoration did not readily subside, and the approach of ihe French Revolution was marked by movements of great social as well as of great political importance. In England the forces which had been silently gathering strength usliered in a revolution no less strikingthan that whioli convulsed the continent. The attention of the community was arrested by changes of a moral and re- ligious character, which are still running their course. The earnestness of the puritan had almost disappeared, and the forms of religion were found with little of its power. Scepticism widely pervaded the wealthy and educated classes. The progress of free inquiry had produced a general indifference to the great questions of Christian s[)eculation. It arose partly from an aversion to theological strife, as a result of the civil war, and partly from the new intellectual and material channels tlH r3 TH DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POETRY. 25 to which human energy was directed. The spiritual decay of the great c* Assenting bodies had gone hand in hand with that of tlie establishment. It was an age of gilded sinfulness among the higher classes, and of a sin- fulness ungilded, but no less coarse, among the lower classes. Drunkenness and foul langudge were not sufficient to render the politician guilty of them unfit to be prime minister. The purity and fidelity of woman were sneered at, as out of fashion. The vast increase of population which had followed the growth of towns, and the rapid development of manufactures had been met by little effort to improve the moral or intellectual condition of the masses. Without schools the lower orders were ignorant, and brutal to a degree which it is hard to conceive. The rural peasantry who were fast being reduced to a state of pauperism by the abuse of the poor- law had in many cases no moral or religious training of any kind. Within the towns matters were worse. There was no effective police to withstand the outbreaks of ignorant mobs. It was the age of the old criminal law when cutting a pear-tree or stealing a hare, was re- garded as a capital crime, while the "gcTitleman"' might with impunity be guilty of duelling, gambling, or outrages on female virtue. It was the age of the okl system of prison discipline, which aroused the philanthropy of Howard. It was a period which has assooiated M^th it fagging and Ijullying in school and the general applica- tion of the rod as the most potent aid in the process of instruction. It was the period with which the names of Walpole and Newcastle are identified, and which has associated with it rotten boroughs, political corruption, party without principle, and all the rancourness of faction warfare. The sights that indicate cruelty and liardness of heart, such as bull-rings, cock-pita and whipping-noati 1 1 'I :h| m i^ S' 8 I 26 THE DEVELOPMENT OF ENGLISH POF/I RY. were quite as common a^ the fumes that indicate intem- perance. It Wiis the age of great reforms. Johnson had left his impress on the improved tone of society and had overthrown the system of patronage ; Wilberforce and Clarkson were coming forward to abolish the slave trade. Burke and Pitt were to restore the higher principles of statesmanship, and to redeem the cliaracter of public men. A more important reform and one which gave an impulse to all the others, was of a religious character. In the middle classes, the piety yf a former period had not complotely died out. From that quarter issued the " Methodist movement," which awakened a spirit of moral zeal, that softened the manners of the people, called forth philanthropists and statesmen who infused clemency and wisdom into our penal laws, reformed our prisons, abolished the slave trade, gave to popular education its first impulse, discussed measures for arresting the evils of intemperance, and adopted various methods of a Christian character for bettering the social condition of the humbler clashes. (See G.'een's Englisli History.) The enthusiasm of ih ) Wesleys anu Whitefield was not kindled against the rules of the Church or State, but only against vice and irreligion. The results of their zeal are not confined to the denomination which owes its origin to the movement, and no body is more ready than the English CI urch to acknowledge the great advani^agea of tho religious revival of the last century. If Wesley came to revive religion and impress upon his followers that Christian worship was *'of the heart," Cowper, "who was inibued with tlie spirit of the movement came to regenerate poetry, to Christianize it, to elevate it, and to fill it again with feeling and with truth. If the ballads of a nation have, as in the case of Burns, a lasting etiect in arousing patriotism, tlie religious poems of Cowper may be regarded no less influential in extending ** tho-fc roligfion which exalts and ennobles man." H.^ H I LIFE OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Birth 1728. \u the villaj^e of Pallas, or Pallasmore, ill the parish of Ferney, county of Longford, Ireland, was born on the 10th of November, 1728, Oliver Goldsmith. The Goldsmiths wp^e a respectable Protestant family of English descent, which had long been settled in the coun- try without acquiring wealth or fame. In an unpretending parsonage lived the father of the poet, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, who had married Aiiiiu, the daughter of the Rev. Oliver Jones, master of the diocesan school at Elpliin. Oliver was the second son in a family of four sons and two daughters. Though "passing rich with £40 a year," Mr. Goldsmith found it necessary lo devote his attention partly to the cultivation of land. Two years after the poet's birth, he exchanged the curacy of this out-of-the-way and almost inaccessible hamlet for a more lucrative living near the village of Lissoy, in the county of Westmeath. Removal to Lissoy, 1730. In his life-long banish- ment, Oliver Goldsmith often, no doubt, looked back to }4 m 28 LIFE OF OLI'VER GOLDSMITH. if,: the home of liia childhood, his early friends and hia boyish occupations, and to Lissoy we turn for the source of those impressions which have given us "Sweet Auburn," with its charming associations. To magnify delight of the mind in what is long remembered and remote, and to overlook the defects of the past is a common feature of human nature. With this understanding, ii. is not to be wondered at that we fail to find the darlc side of Lissoy exhibited in the "loveliest village of the plain." Young Goldsmith's education was begun at home by Eliaabetli Delap, a maid servant, who taught him his alpha- bet, and pronounced him a dunce. At Mr. Byrne's School, 1734. The means of the poor clergyman having been taxed very heavily to bestoT' A classical education on his eldest son Henry, whom he intended for the church, the same amount of cultivation was not bestowed on the genius of the gifted second son. Oliver was accordingly sent to a kind of hedge school, where he was taught reading, writing and arithmetic with a view to becoming prepared for earning his future live- lihood in a merchant's offlce. This parish school was taught by Thomas Byrne, an old soldier, who, though educated for a teacher, had seen service in the war of the Succession in Spain, under the chivalrous and romantic Earl of Peterborough. He professed to teach nothing but the rudiments of learning ; and, probably, occupied much of his time with his pupils in entertaining them with stories about ghosts, banshees and fairies, and marvellous adventures in which the hero was the master himself. Oliver's vivid imagination kindled at these recitals, and the impressions formed on his mind tinged all his after life. Byrne not only spoke the Celtic language, but was a pas- sionate admirer of the compositions of Canjlan, and other Irish bards, whom he tried to imitate. At the a<;e of LIFE OF OLIVER GOI-HSMITH. 29 a boyish of tliose 1," with e mi] id vedook Jiiimau iiidered >ited ill me by alpliu- of the jestoT" >m he nation 3 son. clioo], ! witJi ! livo- ' was loiigh f t]io antic J but audi witli llous self. and life. pas- her I of seven or eight years Oliver attempted to write poetry, and showed precocious signs of poetical genius — "he lisped in numbers, for the numbers came." To scribble verses is not always a sign of coming greatness, but Mrs. Goiii- siuith detected in her son's poetjy the germ of future powers, and pleaded that he might receive better in- struction. At Mr. Griffin's School, 1736. The mother's earn- est solicitations prevailed, and it was resolved to gi^ e Oliver a university education. He was therefore placed, after his recovery ivowf an attack of small po.\, which had pitted him with move than usual severity, under the care of the Uev. Mr. Cviflln, of Elphin. An incident occurred at tliis time which is said to have changed the future career of the young genius. His uncle, Mr. John Gold- smith, at whoso liouye he resided while attending Mr. Griflln's school, was entertaining a juvenile partj, and Olivci' was requested to dance a hornpipe. The tiddler, struck by the odd look of the boy capering about the room, called out "uEsop," and Goldsmith instantly replied, "Our heraM hath proclaimed tiiis saymg, See /Esop damping and his monkey playing !" This quickness of repartee raided him much in the esti- mation of his uncle, the Rev. Thomas Contarine, who was present, and the father was induced to remove Olivier to t J 3 school of Athlone, where he remained two years under the caro of the Rev. ]Mr. Campbell. On the resignation of this gentleman through ill health, the boy was removed to the Rev. Patrick Hughes's school at Edgeworthstown, county of Longford. His life at these schools was far from happy. Awkward and unprepossessing in appear- ance, his idle disposition and blundering manner only ex- cited the ridicule of his thoughtless schoolmates. As a school boy he exhibited more than average ability, but r ^ ; and he was now called upon to bei^in life for himself. Returng to Baglaud, 1756. After two years of roaming about on the Continent, he landed at Dover and soon found himself alone in London "witliout friends, recommendation, money or impudence." His appearance was far i rom prepossessing, his dress was shabby, and his Irish bi'ogue and eccentric antecedents were agairst him. His degree, his acquaintance with the learned Albinus md learned Gaubius, and his flute so serviceable on the Continent availed him not. Some employment must be sought to keep o!f starvation. Through the recommenda- tion of Dr. lladclilfe, a mild, benevolent man, who had been joint-tutor with the savage Wilder at Trinity Col- lege, he became assistant master in a school, but his flighty genius was ill-adapted to the duties of such an occupation. He pounded drugs in a chemist's laboratory, and ran about the metropolis with phials for charitable purposes. By the advice and assistance of Dr. Sleigh, an old fellow- student at Edinburgh, he set up as a pliysician in South- wark, from which he removed to tlie Temple. His patients, according to his own statements, were numerous, but they were among the poorest and humblest classes of society, and his fees were small and seldom paid. Neces- sity drove him to do some hack-work for the booksellers. He earned a miserable pittance as a corrector of the press, in the establishment of Richardson, The position- was not pleasing to liim, and soon after he drifted to Peckham, where we find him (1757) usher of Dr. Milner's school. This gentleman made him ac(|uainted with Mr. Griffiths, publisher and proprietor of tiie Monthly Rtview. He was employed as a writer shortly afterwards on the staff of that periodical, receiving for his work, board, lodging, and a moderate salary. He made* the acquaintance of several LiUerateurSj including Dr. Smollett, the editor of LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 35 the Critical Review. He found the vassalage of a book- seller and the mortification of havin'* hia articles revised by Mrs. Griffiths more galling to hia proud spirit than tlie irksome and monotonous duties of usher. In a few months the engagement was broken off and he took charge of Dr. Milner's school during the illness of tJie latter, which proved fatal. Through the influence of the Doc^tor, he had secured a situation as pliysiciant.> one of the factories in India. The appointment was subserjuently cancelled, either because Goldsmith disliked the distant exile from all whom he loved, or because he felt nitiompetent to fill the post. At all events, he failed to pass an examination before the College of Surgeons ; but whether to qualify himself for this position or as hospital mate, is uncertain. His best friends were now dead. Failure had attex-ded his efforts •n some half a-dozen callings He had earned trifles as a writer. Literature was now liis only hope. Beginning cf Authorship, 1759. Goldsmith had lingered around the gates of literature for some years before his ambition had inspired him to enter tlr enchant- ed ground. His first efforts W3re to obtain r\ little money to help him on to something more definite and substantia J Besides his articles for the Monthly Review, he wrote u Life of Voltaire for which he received twenty pounds and a like aim for The Memoirs of a Protestant condemned to the Galleys of France for his Religion. The first of his more ambitious works was an JjJ7iquny into the Pre.-^ent State of Polite Learning in Europe. He set about this to prov^ide money to equip himself for the promised medical appointment on the Coroniandol » oast. This work did more for the author than give him an outfit f '^r ^he voyage. The Indian project fell through, but in the eyes of the booksellers his value was enhanced by the appearance of the Enquiry. The book was published anonymously, but V^' i-i I I I: !>'■■■ S H m m ^ 'i l-l p If I ■'! ill ■1 u h ' 1 i' :i ;i"r 36 LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. the authorship was soon no secret in Grub Street It ap- peared the 2nd of April, 1759, and, in October of the same year, he published the fir^t ntmiber of the Bee.^ a weekly magazine, filled with -issavs on a variety of topics. In the mean time, he wrot^ for the CrUical Ileiiew, the Busy Body, the British Magazine and the Public Ledger If these writings did not secTire him iiohes, they secured him favor amons: the w^ll known men of the day Tc his miserable ganct m Fleet Stre^jt, Percy, afterwards Bishop of Dro- more, made Jiia way ; Smollett valued his services ; Burke had spoken of the pleasure given him by Goldsmith's review of his esway on the Sahlime and Beaiitifid ; and fvven the great Chum him«»e)i sought outthie obscure author and formed what is perhaps th'> most interesting literary friendship on record Among hi& acquaintances, also, were Reynolds and Hogarth. He became, inl7C3, one of the nine original members who tormed the celebrated Literary 0*ub The Club, which was suggested by Rey- nolds, consisted of Johnson, Burke, Beaiiolerc, Goldsmith, Benoet, Niig nt, Hawkins Ohami^^^r -.nd Reynolds, and exercised great mibjen 'e on the lit:eratuie of the time. Tiio Oitizeii of the "Wcrld was a reprint of the series of i.ii<^ers winch api>efired in The Ledger, a daily newspap-^r started by Mr Newbery. They were written in the charticter of a Chinese who had come to study European civilization, and their charm lies wholly in their delicate satire and not at all in any foreign air which the author rna} havo assumed. It is not a CJiintiman, but a European who expresses his dissatisfaction with certain phases of civilizati^^ri visible around him. They have, however^ an originality of perception, a delicate delinea- tion of life and manners, and a playful humor which render them interesting to readers of the present day. Gold- smith himself has been identified with the '*Man iu LIFE OF OLIVF.R COl.DSMITll. 37 trpot. It ap- 31 of tlie same 5ee, a weekly )pios. In the ^e Busy Body, er If tliese red him favoi' his miserable :jhop of Dro- t^ioes ; Burke Goldsmith's id ; and even e author and :inir literary aiioos, also, 17C3, one of ■ celebrated ed by Rey- Goldsmith, riiolds, and le time, int of the er, a daily ire written to study lly in their which the nan, but a ith certain hey have, ;e delinea- ic'h render y. Gold- "Man io Black," but though the latter shows some of the author's weaknesses and generous nature, the resemblances do not hold out. About the same time folloAved two other anony- mous works, The Life of Beau Nash and Tlie Hiafonj of J'Jug- la)id in a Series of Letters from a Nohleman to h is Son. The latter work was attributed at the time to Lords Choster- field, Orrery and Lyttelton, and obtained great success. His Survey of E^:peri)neidal Philosophy, which was not printed till some years afterwards, was also written about this time. The Arrest. In the midst of the drudgery which Goldsmith performed for Newbery, the publisher of the Monthly lleiiew, he had hopes of writing a work that would secure its author more reuuineration than bed and board. His acquaintance with Johnson ttiid other mem- bers of the Literary Club spurred him to attempt something better than hdck-work. The literary king had, doubtless, perceived th«^ genius tlipt obscurely burned ni the uncouth tjgure of this IrisUman, and w;is anxious to secure tor him the respect and consideration of otliers. While still in the employment ot Newhery, ' loldsmith ;'.bandoned his apart- ments in Fleet Street, and took lodgings in the house of a Mrs. Fleming, who Uved in some part of Islington. Oc- casionally plenty se^^ms *q favor hiin, but more i'reiiuently want stares him in the face. His desire to *' shine" in society made him often extravagant in his expeaditur.^ for dress. It is quite possible dobt occasionally caused him to go into hiding to escape from his creditors. This may partly account for Goldsmith disappearing from the pages of Boswell's famous memoir at this time. Boswell and Goldsmith were not too friendly. The intimacy of the latter with Johnson did not please the celebrated biogra- pher. Bos well called his rival a blunderer and a feather- brained person. Goldsmith being asked who was the ;j i I: '■' i i . t ! ■* ■ * : m 3^ LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. Scotch cur that followed Johnson's heels, replied: "He is not a cur ; you are too severe — he is only a bur. Tom Davies flung him at Johnson in sport, a'nd he has the faculty of sticking " For a record of a most remarkable event in Goldsmitli's lite, it is necessary to return to Boswell, whose accuracy in other matters leaves no doubt that these are Johnson's own word? : "I received one morning a message from poor Gc^ldsinith that lie was in distress, and as it was not in his power to come to me, begging tli;it T would come o him as soon as possible. I sent him a guinea, and promised to comt tc him directly I accordinLrl V went as soon as I was drossed, and found tliat his landlady hada.rrested him for his renr, at which lie was 10. a violent passion. I perceived Ihat ho had already changed my guinea, and had got a boiHe of Mad 'aria, and a glass befi)re him. T put the cork into the bottle, desired he would be calm, and began to talk to him of the me^ns by which he might be extricated. He bhen told me that he had a novel ready for the press, which he produced to me. I looked into it, and saw its iiieri^. told the land- lady I should soon return ; '»>nd having gone to a book seller, sold it for £60. I brought Goldsmith the money, and he discharged his rent; nol. without rating hia landlady in a high tone for having used him so ill." This novel was the Vicar of Wakefield. The Traveller, 1764. So far Goldsmith was un- known to the public as an author. The recouimondation of Johnson had most to do with the sale of the inanusoiipt of the novel. It remained for upwards of two years unprinted, in the hands of the publisher. Before its appearance the great crisis in Goldsmith's literary life came. At the time of the arrest the poem of the Traveller ^ the fruit of many years' toil, and the consummation of long cherished hopes was almost completed. To polish LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 39 and prune this his master [iece had been the delight of his leisure hours. It was the first work to which he had put his name. It r «,i£:otl him at once to the rank of a legitimate English classic. Johnson, wht) li.id read over the proof-sheets, putti< g in a line ': fame" it is not probable that he gained any pecuniary benefit from the growing popularity of the work. To have found the book dedLaled to Joh^ison would nor, have been a surprirvo. To inscrii e it to his brother accorded well with the author's nature. It was to his brother Henry, ten years before, that he had sent the first sketch of the poem, and the veiy first line "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow" strikes a key note that pervades the whole composition. The Vicar of Wakefield, 1766. The eff"ect pro- duced by the publication of the Traveller was soon visible. The obscure essayist became the first poet of the age. He moved into better quarters in Garden Court, hired a man- servant, and appeared in very fine clothes with wig, Bword, and gold-headed cane. At the suggestion of )!« Jil: 1l ■n V,(S !.r '1. 40 LfFfi OP OUVER GOLDSMITH. Reynolds he resumed the medical profession ; but dis- appointment caused him to return again to literature. Many of liis essays that liad appeared anorymously were now republished. In 17G5 ho published his beautiful ballad of the Hermit, which appeared the next year in the Vicar of Wah'jidd. The plan of the novel is full of wild improbabilities. No definite plot appears to hav»3 been coiicoctod by the author, when ho began to write. Many of the incidents are quite unnatural and incredible. The expedients by which events are brought about as shown in the latter part of the work are nothing short of desperate. Still it is a charming picture of domestic life, full of sly humor, tenderness and pathos. Its true delineation of the better side of human nature and its striking contrasts of good features of character with traits of an opposite kind, have made the work admired by hundreds who pay little attention to the intricacies of tho story. Scarcely a feeling of malignity or ill-nature, or even of satire is to bo found from beginning to end. The style is always expressive, harmonious and pleasing. With all its blunders and inconvistencies the story not only amuses, but takes root in the memory and afTactions, and has obtained a wider popularity than any novel relating to domestic life. The Good-Naturod Man, 1768. Goldsmith was still compelled to toil for the book-sellers. His celebrity as a poot and novelist had not relieved him from debt and drudgery. Amid mucii miscellineous work, consisting mainly of compilations, his Icisire was devoted in a channel that soon established his fame in another depart- ment of literature. He resolved to try his fortune as a dramatist His first attempt, T!ie Good- Nature d MaUy was not as successful as from its merits it deserved. Though Johnson had written the Prologue, and Burke LIFE OF OMVRR GOLDSMITIL 4» and Reynolds had recommended it, tlio conioJy was rejected by Garrick. It was accordingly assigned to Colnian, tlio manager of the rival theatre in Covent Garden, where it was acted in 17G8. The author cleared £500 for his benefit nights, and the s:xle of the copyright. Like all plots, constructed by Goldsmith, the plot of the play is very imperfect ; but it possesses passages that render it excelled by few comedieij. The sentimentalism of tho period caused the finest scene of The Good-Natnred Man to meet with marked disapprobation. In the oi)inion of the pit it was "low. " The critics professed to be shocked, and Goldsmith was obliged to cut out the ludicrous pass- ago where Miss Richland fiiids her lover attended by the bailiffs. So successful were Cumberland, Kelly, and the sentimental comedy, that after nine or ten nights the play was Avithdrawn, and its author did not appear again as a theatrical writer' for five years. Goldsmith in Society. The appearance of TV Good Natured Man ushered in a halycon peri^^l in the author's life. As a poet and novelist he had gained fame. As a dramatist he secured £500, a sum too large Jor him to keep long. The greater part was expended in pur- chasing and decorating a set of chambe*^ in Brick Court, Middle Temple. Gay entertainments, i.iore remarkable for their mirth than their decorum were begun. These parties were generally of a most nondescript character, but, occasional!/, formal entertainments were held at wliich Johnson, Percy and similar distinguished persons were present. Goldsmith himself was asked out to dine with Burke, Nugent, Kelly and other notab' . The style he assumed would have embarrassed a better financier. The course entered upon burdened him with debts and mental distress the rest of his life. His fame now secured him plenty of labor from the book-sellers, who liberally re- '■III 11 4a LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. ^nuneratud him for his aervicos. It would have been well tiad he denied himself the pleasure of so many dinner engagements. They severely taxed his time and encour- aged extravagant aims. At times in company he assumed grand aire, but his manner never imposed on anybody. His friends treated him with a familiarity which occasionally he Vfii", prompted to resent, but his good-nature rendered any effort of the kind unsuccessful. In the "high jinks " to which he good-humoredly resorted for the amusement of h's guests the familiarity he permitted, it was not easy afterwards to discard. Many a joke was played off on poor "Goldie," who was naturally too sensitive not to feel its off(3ct.^. Anxious to have the esteem of his friendat denunciation or malice, the product of envy, which men I'ke Johnson would have passed unheeded, wounded him to the quick. '' The insults to which he had to submit, Thackeray wrote, " are shocking to read of — slander, contumely, vulgar satire, brutal malignity, perverting his commonest motives and actions ; he had his share of these, and one's anger is roused by reading of them, as it is at seeing a woman insulted, or a child assaulted ; at the no- tion that a creature so very gentle and weak, and full of love should have had to sutler. " But while he enjoyed the esteem of Burke, Johnson and Reynolds, he could well afford to forget the ** Henricks, Campbells, Mac- Nicols and Hendersons," who, in the case of Johnson, as Lord Macaulay says " did taeir best to annoy him, in the hope that he would give them importance by answering them." The Deserted Village, 1770. By courting the muses I shall starve," was a statement of Goldsmith to Lord Lisburn, which has much truth when the sums re- ceived from his poems are considered. While, for four or five years, ho was collecting the materials ''^r his most LIFE OF OUVRR GOF DSMITH. 43 nson, as popular poem, it was on his numerous prose works tiiat lie depended for daily l)rcad. For his Animated Nature, Griflin agreed to pay him 800 guineas. A writer, whose acquaintance with Animated Nature would make the "insidious tiger" a denizen of Canada, was not a very safe authority. Griffin had probably consulted Johnson before making his bold offer, and the great Cham, though continually remarking on Goldsmith's extraordinary ignor- ance of facts, was of opinion that the History of Animated Nature would be "as entertaining as a Persian tale." He received £000 for a Histonj of Eome, and its rapid sale made Davios, the publisher, offer him £500 for a History of Etigland. His histories, though inaccurate, are written in a pleasing and interestinsr style. That the reputation of Goldsmith as an historian must have been considerable, is shown by the opinion of Johnson, who ranked him above Roboitson, and by his appointment to the honorary office of Professor of Ancient History on the estalilishment of the Royal Academy of Painting. The leading idea of the Doserted Villacje had already been thrown out in certain lines of the Traveller (lines 393 — 412) and in his recorded conversations. When this charm- ing didactic poem was published, it became immediately so popular that it passed through tive editions the first three months. Every thing that Goldsmith now wrote was read by the public. He had no need to wait for the re- commendation of the reviews, which, in the case of the Deserted Village, bestowed nothing but praise. What the author received from Griffin for the new book is not ac- curately known, and we are therefore unable to judge whether a poet at that time might court the "draggle-tail muses" without risk of starvation. If fame was his chief object, he was rewarded, not only by thousands of readers in his own time, but by tens of thousands from that period :1 PI , Mr' pSI i^ ii- ' 44 MFIC OF OT-IVRK GOT.nSMITfl. to f ho prosent. The dcli\^htful picture wlicro his youth had been p. ascd, the picaclier, the school-.'iiaster, tlio iged b?"ga.'', the ale-liouse, will e^er live in hia melodious linos. lis lovely ('.oTcription, its towelling appeals to human -ympatliy, ii » delightful images, ctamp the poem wiuh a vitaliiy vvhich will probably preserve it in its pre- sent p ya place, as long an the English language exista Its rea Cloning may bo erroneous, and its theory adverse to bhe recognized j)rinciple.i of political economy, but the f i-qnisite finish and polish of the verses, the graceful and tender maiincv in which our feelings are enlisted in the mtei-ests of a race, who, he supposes, is driven from its n-^.tivo Roil by the inroads of wealth, have been noticed and adm'»'ed, without any danger of the fluctuations of poetic fashion alter' ng the verdict invariably pronounced in its favor. She Stoops to Conquer, 1773. Happily for his pecuniary circumstances Goldsmith did not depKtjnd on his poems. In the course of fourteen years he probably received upwards of £8,000 as the price of his prose works. Largo sums were received for an abridgment of his History of Rome, a Life of ParneXl, a History of Greece md a Life of BoUnghroke. It was to the stage that he loolced cor assistance out of the financial slough, into which his extravagance plunged him, and for this purpose IShe Stoops to Conquer was composed. Soutimenta) comedy still reigned. The manage.: of Covont Garden theatre was with difliculty induced to bring out the piece. In this case genuine humor triumphed ; both actors and managers were agreeably disappointed when pit, boxes and galleries were in a constant roar of laughter. The fun of 2Vi.e Good-Natured Man had only been hissed by the admirers of the canting, mawkish plays of its time. On this occasion any friend of Kelly or Cumberland that LIFE OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 45 v(>Titurud to groan was greeted with tlio general cry, "Vurn him out." The verdict of the first night kept it before the public for tho remainder of tlio season, and three generations have not reversed the decision pro- nounced on its app(3aranco tlio 15th of March, 1773. It is worthy of note that this comedy which still retains possession of the stage was pronounced by Horace Walpole as no comedy at all but "tho lowest of farces," and with such criticism wo can well understand tho envy displayed by Henrick and others that infested tho journalism of that day. Increasing Difficulties. The £800 which Gold- smith received for She Stoops to Conquer did but little to satisfy the demands of his creditors. His engagements wore becoming more and more burdensome. The high spirits that formerly enabled him to laugh oil' the cares of debt wero iiisuffijient to bvighton his prospects for tho future. His health became disordered ; ho began to suffer severe fits of depression ; and he gretv irritable and capricious of temper. Ho frequently endeavored to forget his troubles, by attendance at the Club, visits to the country and mixing in gay society. Though never out of debt, he spent much in various pleasures, especially in his early vice of gambling. Incessant toil was kept up. His Animated Nature was almost completed, though not published till after his death. He worked hard at a History of Greece, tor two volumes of which he rcceiv^cd from rjrifhn £250, and was preparing a third edition iA his History of England. Besides revising his / nqidry, and translating Scarron's Comic Romance, he thought of bring- ing out a Popular Dictioiiary of Arts and Sciences, having been ottered assistance from Johnson, Heynolds, Burke, and Dr. Burney. Tho booksellers were afraid, and the project wa» novar completed. About this time were ll u % ." ft 'I III 46 LIFE OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 'iiit If it' 'S.I written two short pooina — The Ihtunch of Vrnhon and RetalUaiioii -iho lust scintillation that tlashod from that bright and hap^jy g»Miiiid that was aoon to bo extinguished for ever. The ori'^in of this jen of fiction had generally given an unnatural aspect to human life, and the moral tone was, especially during the Res- toration period, defective. With the exception of De Foe's Rtjhinwn Crusoe, the men and women painted in these writings failed to roach the tastes of all classes. Even the works of Richardson, Fielding, and Smollett deal with characters belonging to the "upper ten." The Vicar of Wakejield, notwithstanding all its improbabilities (which we forget while captivated with its charming simpli- city) has an interest for all classes. The delightful chiiracter of the " Vicar ;" the exquisitely drawn portraits of his family ; the simple incidents ; the true and tender pathos, and tJie gentle, whole- souled humour maintained in the story, have given the author a prominent positiftu among painters of English domestic life. By its picturesque descriptions of the habits and feelings of daily life, G^athe was first led tc study English literature. From beginning to end it scarcely possesses a word of satire or ill -nature, and a» Craik remarks : " Notwitlistanding all its imx)robabilities, the story not only amuses us wliile we read, but takes root in the memory and alVections as much almost as any story that was ever written. '* A3 a Dramatist Goldsmith could scarcely be expected 1l! I i ! \ (ii V I 1,1,1 X n A ^i 50 GOLDSMITH'S LITERARY CHARACTER. to take the highest place. A good writer of this kind of literature should possess marked objectiveness. Goldsmith's style was remarkably subjective. In whatever he wrote he put a great deal of himself. Unlike Shakespeare, the prince of dramatists, who could assume any individuality he chose, Goldsmith's individuality was his weakness as well as his strength — his strength inasmuch as it lifted him above a large class of writers, and his weakness inas- much as it could not be thrown off, but held him from going out of himself and ' ' rising from the merely charac- teristic, striking or picturesque, either to the dramatic or to the beautiful, of both of which equally the spirit is unegotistic and universal." Still The Good-Natured Man, though wanting point and sprightliness, presents a happy delineation of character, aiid his second play, She Stoops to Co7iquer, has all the requisites for interesting and amusing an audience. Johnson said of it, *'he knew of no comedy for many years that had answered so much the great end of comedy—making an audience merry," and douotless the excellent discrimination of character, the real humour ar.d vivacity of the dialogue in the play ren- der it one of the richest contributions which have been made to modern comedy. Language. *' His language is certainly simple, though it is not cast in a rugged or careless mould. He is no dis- ciple of the gaunt and famished school of simplicity. Deliberately as he wrote, he cannot be accused of wanting natural and idiomatic expression ; but still it is select and refined expression. He uses the ornaments which must always distinguish true poetry from prose ; and when he adopts colloquial plainness, it is with the utmost care and skill, to avoid a vulgar humility. There is more of this sustained simplicity, of this chaste economy and choice of words in Goldsmith than in any modern poet, or perhaps GOLDSMITffs TJTERARV CHARACTER. 5' )eare, the than would be attainable or desirable as a standard for every writer of rhyme. In extensive narrative poems such a style would bo too difficult." — Campbell's British Poets. In the polish of his numbers he is linked to the school of Dryden and Pope, and yet he exhibits that ''naturalness" which already began to decide the decay of the artificial style of versification. As a prose writer, his easy con- versational forms of expression, give him a place by the side of Addison and Steele. Macaulay remarks: — "His style was always pure and easy, and on proper occasions pointed and energetic. His narratives weie always amus- ing, his descriptions always grotesque, his humour rich and joyous, yet not without an occasional tinge of amiable sadness." Descriptive Powers. Few poets are more charming than Goldsmith in powers of description. He was one of the first of his age who had taste and feeling enough to rely for effect on simple and unornamental representations of persons and ordiuaiy objects of nature. "Sweet Auburn" with its preacher, master, inn and other associa- tions is dear to every reader of English poetry. For the natural succession and connection of thoughts and images, one seeming to rise voluntarily and to be evolved from the other, the Traveller is peculiarly admirable. The happy descriptions of the ditlerent countries of Europe, their variety of scenery, climate, productions, systems of government, religions and inhabitants, are unsurpassed by any writer of a philosophical poem. He is a master of the art of contrast in heightening the effect of his pictures. Italy, with its rich scenery but elt'eminate inhabitants, is placed in juxta-position with Switzerland, possessing a sturdy, patriotic and industrious race ; France, with its gay, trifling, praise-seeking citizens, forms a striking contrast to the dull, plodding, money -grasping inhabitants of ill ■1 € s a 111* li-il h" |J U'^ I i'.'l ii! ; I ^ 52 goldsmiths' literary character. Holland ; and Britain displays a happy climax in the ardent zeal of the Englishman after liberty. National Character. In all Goldsmith's writings he exhibits the highest affection and regard for English Society. His manner, language and feeling are all essentially British. The foreign tricks and graces which had been so prevalent before his time he discards. Whether we consider his didactic style in the Deserted Village^ his pholosophical reflections in the Traveller, or the familiar delineation of < iracter in the Vicar of fVakeJield, we can never regard Goldsmith anything but an English writer. Pathos. ' 'His whole manner has a still depth of feeling and reflection, which gives back the image of nature un- ruffled and minutely. He had no redundant thoughts or false transports ; but seems on every occasion to have weighed the impulse to which he surrendered himself. Whatever ardour or casual felicities he may have thus sacrificed, he gained a high degree of purity and self-pos- session. This chaste pathos makes him am insinuating moralist, and throws a charm of Claude-like softness over his descriptions of homely objects, that would seem only fit to be the subjects of Dutch painting. But his quiet enthusiasm leads the aftections to humbler things without a vulciar association ; and he inspires us with a fondness to trace the siiu[)lest recollections of Auburn, till we count the furniture of its ale-house and listen to "The varnished clock that click'd behind the door." Campbell's British Poets. "It may be said that his range is hmited, and that, w'. ether in i)octry or prose, he seldom wanders far from the ground of his own experience ; but wHIiin that circle how potent is his magic, what a command it exercises over the happiest forms of art, with what, a versatile gnice GOLDSMITH'S LITERARY CHARACTER. 53 it moves between what saddens ns in humour or smiles on us in grief, and how unen'iag our response of laughter or of tears I" — Forster. "His humour delights us l* 111; his song is fresh and beautiful as when first he charmed with it ; his words* are all in our mouths ; his very weaknesses are beloved and familiar His benevolent spirit seems still to smile upon us ; to do gentle kindness ; to succour with sweet charity ; to soothe, t£ less and forgive ; to plead with the fortunate for the unhappy and the poor." — Thackeray's HtinhonrisU. Subjectivene3S. In the gifted pages of Goldsmith we have a faithful picture of his own life and character. De- ficient in imaginitive power, but excelling in observation, all his subjects are selected from within the range of his own experience. Scarcely an adventure or character can be found in his works that may not be traced to his own personal impressions. In his biography, he shows him- self the same k id, good-natured, sensitive, whimsical, unfortunate being that he appears in his writings. "Many of his most ludicrous scenes and ridiculous incid- ents have been drawn from his own blunders and mis- chances, and he seems really to have been buffeted in almost every maxim imparted by him for the instruction of his reader." — Irving. As a novelist, he has little of the power of Scott in the picturing of outward life, as perceived by the senses of the observer, or realized by fancy. His own thoughts and feelings are mjmifestly given in the Vkar of Wahejicld, and here, as well as in his poems and miscellaneous writings, it would be possible to reconstruct his character from wliat his industrious pen has bequeath- ed to posterity. Works that appealed much to the imagination, such as Shakespeare and IMilton, received liUIe of his attention. lu that line he was not at home ■i' ,'t. N 1 M U ri lUi 'V ?'li Ifi:: « 54 goldsmith's literary character. And accordingly, when he goes beyond the range of his own observation, as when he attempts, in the Deserted Fillage, a delineation of the tropics, he becomes ineffective In the region of his own experience, he is supreme. Moral Tone. In Goldsmith's writings there is a remarkable absence of any taint arising from his careless life. In his love for inferior company which never forsook him, "no speck ever sullied the robe of his modest and graceful muse. " In the miry paths of life which he trod, the innate purity and goodness Qf his nature never assimilated to vice and vulgarity. The lessons of infancy under the paternal roof, the gentle, benevolent, elevated, unwordly maxims of his father, the conversations of a cultivated character heard in the household of the amiable and generous Contarine breathed a grace and refinement into his mind that continued through life, and found expression in language and sentiments pure and dignified. Religious Feeling. "It has been . questioned whether he really had any religious feeling. Those who raise the question have never considered well his writings ; his Vicar of Wakefield and his pictures of the village pastor present religion under its most endearing forms, and with a feeling that could only flow from the deep convictions of the heart. Wlien his fair travelling com- panions at Faris urged him to read the Church Service on a Sunday, he replied that 'he was not worthy to do it.' He had seen in early life the sacred offices performed by his father and brother, with a solemnity which had sanctified them in his memory ; how could he presume to undertake such functions ? His religion has been called in question by Johnson and Boswell ; he certainly luifj not the gloomy hypochondriacal piety of the one, nor the babbling mouth-piety of the other ; but the spirit of GOLDSMITH'S LITIKARY CHARACIER. 55 Christian charity breathed forth in his writings, and illustrated in his conduct, give U3 reason to believe he luul the indwellirtg religion of tlie soul." — Irvhig. Was his genius recognized ? The sufferings which he undoubtedly endured have generally **been made a whip with which to lush the ingratitude of a world not too quick to recognize the claims of genius." On this point Black (EngJUh Men of Letters) remarks : — "His experiences as an iiuthorhave been bi ought forward to swell the cry about neglected genius — that is, by writers who assume their genius in order to prove the neglect. The misery that occasionally befell him during his wa3r\vard career has been made the basis of an accusation against society, the English Constitution, Christianity, — Heaven knows what. It is time to have done with all this nonsense. Goldsmith resorted to hack-work of literature when everything else failed him ; and he waz fairly paid for it. When he did better work, when he 'struck for honest fame,' the nation gave him all the honor that he could have desired. With an assured reputation, and with ample means of subsistence, he obtained entrance into the most distinguished society then in England— he was made the friend of England's greatest in the arts and literature— and could have confined himself to that society exclusively if he had chosen." Johnson's wise summing up of his character is well suited in an estimate of "Poor Goldsmith." "He had raised money and squandered it, by every artifice of acquisition and folly of expense. But let itot kis ftaiUiea he remembered : he was a very gr^at mail.** ■ E it I III f THE TRAVELLER Jleiicatiou. !i-' ■„ n Ci V : !; f V: 'I' mx |::;:f TO THE REV. HENRY GOLDSMITH. Dear Sir, I am sensible that the friendship between us can acquire no new force from the ceremonies of a dedication ; and perhaps it demands an excuse thus to preiix your name to my attempts, which you decline giving with your own. B'.it as a part of this poem was formerly written to j'ou from Switzerland, the whole can now, with propriety, be only in- scribed to you. It will also throw a light upon many parts of it, when the reare found, That proudly /ise, or humbly court the grounl ; Whatever blooms in torrid traces ap)>ear, Whose bright succession decks the v;>ned year Whatever sweets salute the northern fiky With /ernal lives, that blossom but to die ; These here dispc .ting own the kindred .soil, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil ; While sea-born gales their gelid wing:? expand To winnow fragrance round the sniilin.sj; land. n; 120 til But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, 125 Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign : Though poor, luxurious : though submissive, vain ; Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet untrue; And even in penance planning sins anew. (30 All evils here contaminate the mind. That opulence departed leaves behind ; For wealth was theirs, not far removed the 1i«-p, \>'^hen commerce proudly flourished through the *tite ; A: her command the palace learned to rise, 135 Again the long- fallen column sought the skies, The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teemed with human form ; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale. Commerce on other shores displayed her sail ; 140 While nought remained of all that riches gave, But towns unmanned and lords without a slave : And late the nation found with fruitless skill Its for)' er strength was but plethoric ill THE TRAVELLER. 63 Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied 145 By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind An easy compensation seem to find. Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed, The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade : 150 Processions formed for piety and love, A mistress or a saint in every grove : By sports like these are all their cares beguiled ; The sports of children satisfy the child ; Each nobler aim, represt by long control, 155 Now sinks at last, 01; feebly mans the soul ; While low delights, succeeding fast behind, In happier meanness occupy the mmd : As in those domes, where Caesars once bore swoy Defaced by time and tottering in de ay, 160 There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey '65 Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread ; No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword ; 170 No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May ; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm, 1 75 Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though small. He sees his little lot the lot of all ; Sees no contiguous pr lace rear its head, To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; l8o No costly lord the sumptuous banquet dcai, To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; Rut calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil n •>' ' ' ■' mi ili'l m I Ml X'l' ia|.-..:|^J li'i S'i ■■ t! ■ m 64 GOLDSMITH. Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, 185 Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; With patient angle trolls the finny deep ; Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the st<^cp ; Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way, And drags the struggling savage into day. 190 At night returning, every labour sped. He sits !iim down the monarch of a shed ; Smiles by his cheerful lire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze ; While his loved partner, boastful of her hu ud, 195 Displays her cleanly platter on the board : And haply too some pilgrim, thither led, With many a tale repays the nightly bed. lis if ilvli III Thus every good his native wilds impart Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; ico And e'en those hills, that round his mansion rir>c, Enhance the bliss his scanty fund sup])lies. Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to t!ie storms ; And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 205 Clings close and closer to the mo hcr's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar. But bind him to his native mountains more. Such are the charms to barren states assigned ; Their wants but few, tlieir wishes all confined. 210 Yet let them only share the praises due, If few their wants, their pleasures are but few ; For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redrest. Whence from such lands each pleasing science flies, 215 That first excites desires, and then supplies ; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy ; Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame, Catch every nerve and vibrate through the frame. 220 Their level life is but a smouldering fire, Unquenched by want, unfanned by strong desire ; Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer On some high festival of once a year, ti:<- :1>1J THE TRAVKLLER. 65 In wiM excess the vulgar breast takes fire, Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow : Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, Unaltered, unimproved, the manners run ; 230 And love's and fricndshij/s finely-pointed dart Fall, blunted, from each indurated heart. Some sterner virtues o'er the mountam's breast May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; But all the gentler morals, such as play 235 Through life's more cultured walks, and charm the way, These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 1 i 111 At] To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign, I turn ; and France displays her bright domain. 240 Gay sprightly land of miith and sixial ease, Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sportive choir, With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire ! Where shading elms along the margin grew, 245 And freshened from the wave the zephyr (lew ; And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still, But mocked all tune, and marred the dancer's skill ; Yet would the village praise my wondrous power, And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 250 Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze, And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore, Has frisked beneath the burden of threescore. !l So blest a life these thoughtless realms display ; 255 Thus idly busy rolls their workl away. 1 heirs are those arts that mind to mind endear, For honour fomis the social temper here ; Hcnour, that praise which real merit gains, Or even imagi lary worth obtains, 260 Here passes current ; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land : From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, And all are taught an avarice of praise ; ^i I ,} ' vr- „ jt iC ■*: 1.^ r i;i \>'i% 66 GOLDSMITH. They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem. -J05 But while this softer heart their bliss supplies, It gives their follies also room to rise ; For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought, Enfeebles all interna! strength of thought : 270 And the weak soul, within itself unblest, Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart ; Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 275 And trims her robes of frieze with copper lace ; Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, To boast one splendid banquet once a year : The mind still turns where shifting fashion driws, Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 2 So To men of other minds m" fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep .v^ie' Holland lies. Meihinks her puCicnt sons bc^.;re me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land ; And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall ramp/re's artificial pride. Onward, methitiks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow. Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore — While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile. Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile j The slow canal, the yellow blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail. The crowded mart, the cultivated plain — ^ new creation rescued from his reign. 285 2. JO 20 .'i Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil Impt.s the native to repeated toil, ?.pciastrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. 300 Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed. Their much-loved wealth imparts Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; r ^5 -*■••:■ i THE TRAVELLER, Brt view them closer, craft and fraud appear, Even liberty itself is bartered here. At gold's superior charms all freedom files ; The needy sell it, and the rich man buys : A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, Here wretches seek dishonourable graves, And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. Heavens ! how unlike their Belgic sires of old — Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, War in each breast, and freedom on each brow ; How much unlike the sons of Britain now I ; -('-'»' '' J'^.^''*JK| 1 llW%i K /';^^M 67 i; viM 305 ^'-11 310 3»5 Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her wing. And flies where Britain courts the western spring ; Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian pride, And brighter streams than famed Hydaspes glide. 320 There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray ; There gentlest music melts on ev'ry spray ; Creation's mildest charms are there combined : Extremes are only in the master's mind. Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, 325 With daring aims irregularly great. Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, I see the lords of human kind pass by, Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, By forms unfashioned, fresh from nature' hand, 330 Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, True to imagined right, above control ; While even the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man. Thine, freec' Dm, thine the blessings pictured here. 533 Thine are those charms that dazzle and en • -jar ; Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, But fostered e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; That independence Britons prize too high, Keeps man from man, and breaks the social tie : 340 The self-dependent lordlings stand alone. All claims that bind and sweeten life unknown. Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, Minds combat minds, repelling and repelled ; ir :i !: 68 GOrnSMTTII. Ferments arise, imprisoned factions roar, Repressed ambition strugcfles round her shore. Till, overwrought, the general system feels Its motions stopped, or frenzy fire the wheels. 345 3S0 Nor this the worst. As nature's ties decay, As duty, love, and honour fail to sway. Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and law, Still gather strength, and force unwilling awe. Kence all obdience bows to these alone, And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; Till time may come, when, stripped of all her charms, The land of scholars, and the nurse of arms, 336 Where no1)le sten^.s transmit ine patriot flame, Where kings have toiled, and poets wrote for fame, One sink of level avarice shall lie. And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonoured die. 360 Yet thinV not, thus when freedom's ills I state, I mean to fiaftcr kings, or court the great. Ye powers of truth, that bid my soul aspire, Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feel The rabble's rage, and tyrant's angry steel ; Thct" transitory flower, alike undone By proud contempt, or favour's fostering sun. Still may thy blooms the changeful clime endure ! I only w6',;ld :epre3S them to secure ; For just experience tells in ev'ry soil, That those who think must govern those that toil ; And all that freedom's highest aims can reach Is but to iay propoi'ioned loads on each. Hence, should one order disproportioned grow, Its double weight must ruin all below. 370 75 O then how blind to all that truth requires, Who think it freedom v/hen a part aspires ! Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, Except when fast approaching danger warms ; But, when contending chiefs blockade the throne, Contracting regal power to stretch their own, When I behold a factious band agree To call it freedom when themselves are free ; 380 THE TRAVELLER. 69 Ench wanton judge new penal statutes draw, 385 Laws .L^rind the poor, and rich men rule the law; The wcalih of dimes, where saviige nations roam, Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at home ; Fear, pity, justice, indignation start, Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart; 390 Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. ll Yes, brother! curse with mc that baleful hour When first ambition struck at regal power ; And, thus polluting honour in its source, 395 Gave wealth to sway the mind with double force. Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled shore, Mer useful sons exchanged for useless ore? Seen all her triumphs l.)ut destruction haste, Like flaring tapers brightening as they waste? 400 Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, Lead stern depopulation in her train, And over fields where scattered hamlets rose, In barren solitary pomp repose.? Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 405 The smiling, long-frequented village fall? Beheld the duteous son, the sire decayed. The modest matron, and the blushing maid, P'orccd from tlieir homes, a melancholy train. To traverse climes beyond the western main ; 410 \^'here wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, And Niagara stuns with thundering sound? Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim strays Through tangled forests nnd through dang'rous ways, Where beasts with man divided empire claim, 415 And the brown Indian marks with murderous aim ; There, whi'e above the giddy tempest flies. And all around distressful yells arise, The pensive exile, bending with his woe. To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 420 Casts a long look where England's glories shine^ And bids his bosom sympathise with mine. Vain, very vain, my weary search to find That bliss which only centres in the mind. 11 f ' '( v: 70 GOLDSMITH. Why have I strayed from pleasure and repose, 425 To seek a good each government bestows r In every government, thougli terrors reign, Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, How I mall, of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! 430 Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find. V/ith secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides he smooth current of domest'c ioy ; The lifted axe, the agonising wheel, 435 Luke's iron crown, and Damiens' bed of steel, To men remote from power but rarely known, Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all our own. I 1' PRELIMINARY REMARKS. i -H' THE TRAVELLER. Published, 1764. The poem, as we learn fioin th ; DerH- oation, was begun during ohe poet's wanderings a]>i'oad. Probably the first sketch was sent from Switzerland about 1755. This may, however, have been merely the opening pas- idage in which he talks of himself and heme, and his brother. By the advice of Dr. Johnson, who himself added some of the closing lines, the work was given to Newbery, the publisher, and made its appearance on December 19, 1704. Johnson in- troduced it to the good opinion of the public by a notice in the Critical Revieio, which, after giving several quotations from the poem, ends thus : — "Such is the poem on which we now congratulate the public, as on a production to which, since the death of Pope, it will not be easy to find anything equal." It did not at once become popular. It was largely talked about among Goldsmith's friends. Presently people began to discuss its merits. In eight months it ran through four editions, and soon the fame of the author was established. Epitome. After expressing his affection for his brother and invoking blessings on his quiet, hospitable home, he states that the lot of the wandering poet is of a far diflTerentcharn er. He sBipposes himself seated upon some Alpine height and moralizing on the scene spread out at his feet, '* in the spirit not of an unsympathetic or cynical philosopher, but of an open- h«i■ M i IM r« PR Kl, I M I N A 1'. -k R EM ARKS. of perfect happinos^ is inqniiod nfter, but the efTort is vain, Biiice each regards his own country the desired spot. He con- chides that man may be happy everywhere, and that civiliza- tion is not without its disadvantages. He endeavours to prove his view by examining the condition of the people of diticrcnt lands. In Italy, which possesses a fertile soil and delightful climate, he finds inhabitants ignorant and degraded. The Swiss are brave and contented amidst natural disadvantages. Tiie French are idle and fond of pleasure, but deii( ient in strength of mind or independence of thoiiglit. The very na- ture of Holland inculcates industry and thrift, but this tends to produce a sortlid love of gain. In Britain the inhabitants are free, independent, and high-spirited, but these traits beget political and social ilisuniou. He introduces reflections of his own on the dangers of Englaml. The ascendancy of any one class is regarded daiigeious, and a propcjrtionate adjustment of the burdens of society is recommended. He deplores the evils which arise when an aristocratic faction defies the crown or when wealth becomes pi'edominant and forces the poor to emigra •\ The search for perfect government is both futile and unnecessary, since all governmeiits have little to do with the happiness of individuals. Versification. The metre of T?ip, Traveller is Iambic Pen- tameter, which from its use in Epic or Heroic poems is fre- quently called heroic verse. Each line consists of five iambic feet. An iambic foot is made up of an unaccented and an accented syllable. Occasionally a spondee (two syllables na- turally long) or a trochee (consih^ting of an accented and an unaccented syllabic) takes the place of an iambic foot. Some- times a foot has three .syllables, one of which may be elided or the foot may bo regarded as an anapest (two unaccented followed by an accented syllable). The poem is written in rhyming couplets — a form of versification which was carried to great artificial perfection by Pope. With him each coup-. let was generally complete in itself, and often formed a contrast. Goldsmith uses more freedom in this respect, and I'R^T.IMfVARY REMARKS. 73 his deviations mIiow the inroads which soon became more ap- pireut on the prevalent stylo of poets of the artificial ochool. Its designs and plan. Lord Alacaulay says, 'In one icspect Th" Travelfer differs from all (Joldsinith's otlier writ- ings, 111 ,!,'eneral, his designs were bad, and ids execution good, in The Traveller, the execution, thouL,di deserving of much [)raise, is far inferior to the design. No philosophical poem, ancient or modern, has a plan so noble, and at the same time so simple. " — Bio'jrnpf'ieH, ^ "The nominal object of the poem," says Mr. Hales, "is to show that, as far as happiness is concerned, one form of gov- ernment is as good as another. This was a favourite paradox with Dr. Johnson. Whether he or Goldsmith really believed it, may be reasonably doubted. Of course it is true that no political arrangements, however excellent, can secure for any individual citizen immunity from misery; it is true also that different political systems may suit different peoples, and fur- ther, that every political system has its sp'.'-^ial dangers; and it is true, again, that what constitution may be adapted for what people is often a que-slion of the profoundest difficulty; it is true, lastly, that no civil const.i*ution relieves any one enjoy- ing the benefit of it from his own proper duties and responsi- bilities ; but it is assuredly not trup that there is no relation whatever between the government of a country and the happiness of its luhabitnnts. A government can, as it pleases, or according to its enlightenment, make circumstances favour- able or unfavourable to individual development and happiness, . . . .Fortunately one's enjoyment of the poem does not depend on the accuracy of the creed it professes." '•Throughout the poem two characters are visible — the exile, wanderivig in foreign lands and sij^hing for his country, to which dist.ince \f> lemling its enchantment : and the political phllosopluM*, iniMdiMtluL' his patadox'cal theory that one form of goveiuMient is as conducive to human happiness as another. With <'JoIdsmilh in his former character all must thoroughly sympathise. He ia always charming when he is drawing on Hi p ' r'' M ■ : i *,■ ..'^,. r^y^i IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) A k /^ A^^^ :a ^ I/a ^ ^ 1.0 l^iaKS I.I : us 110 1.8 ^ 1.25 II 1.4 IIJ.6 ^ 6" >- vl / Photographic Sdences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) •72-4503 m \ iV ^\ 6^ &•, ► 74 PRELIMINARY REMARKS. ;i the rich stores of his personal experience ; and here his own individuality seems to inspire his criticisms and his complaints. But to Goldsmith as a political philosopher we must take ex- ception. Though it is true that under the best of governments some men would probably remain miserable, while under the worst some few may attain to happiness, it is far more true that some forms of government do more for the happiness of the individual than others. A government conducted with a view to the greatest good of the greatest number may possibly make mistakes, and occasionally defeat its own objects ; but it will at any rate be more productive of happiness than the rule of a selfish and irresponsible Oriental despot, a Ttoifir}v \aoitv, who regards his subjecte as his flock, to be flee^^ or devoured at his pleasure." — Sankey. Its naturalness. "Johnson pronounced it a poem to which it would not be easy to find anything equal since the death of Pope. Though covering but the space of twenty years, this was praise worth coveting, and was honestly de- served. The elaborate care and skill of the verse, the exquisite choice and oelection of diction, at once recalled to others, as to Johnson, the master so lately absolute in the realms of verse ; and with these, there was a rich harmony of tone, a softness and simplicity of touch, a happy and playful tender- ness, which belonged peculiarly to the later poet. With a less pointed and practised, force of nuderstanding than in Pope, and in some respects less subtle and refined, the appeal to the heart in Goldsmith is more gentle, direct, and pure. The predominant impression of The Traveller is of its ratur- alness and facility ; and there is felt the surpassing charm with which its everyday genial fancies invest high thoughts of human happiness. The serene graces of its style, and the mellow flow of its verse, take us captive, before we feel the enchantment of its lovely images of various life, reflected from its calm, still depths of philosophic contemplation. Above all, do we see that it in a poem built upon nature, that it rests upon honest truth, that it is not crying to the moon and stars £ PRFLfMINARY REMARKS. 75 for impossible sympathy, or dealing with other worlds, in fact or imagination, than the writer has himself lived in and known." — Fomter. * * Its ease, elegance, and tenderness have made many passages^ pass into the memory and language of society. It is peculiarly admirable for the natural succession and connection of the thoughts and images, one seeming to rise enforcedly, and to be evolved, from the other. It is also coloured with a tender haze, so to say, of soft sentiment and pathos, as grateful to the mind as is to the eye the blue dimness that softens the tints of a distant mountain range. " — Shaw. Its excellencies. ** Perhaps, indeed, it may be admitted that the literary charm of The Traveller is mo»e apparent tb.an the value of any doctrine, however profound or ingenious, which the poem was supposed to inculcate. We forget all about the 'particular principle of happiness* possessed by each state in listening to the melody of the singer, and in watch- ing the successive and delightful pictures that he calls up before the imagination." — Black. "In general correctness and beauty of expression, these sketches have never been surpassed. The jiolitician may think that the poet ascvibes too little importance to the in- fluence of government on the happiness of mankind, seeing that in a despotic state the whole must depend on the indi- vidual character of the governor j yet in the cases cited by Goldsmith, it is difficult to resist his conclusions ; while the short sententious reasoning is relieved and elevated by bursts of true po'?tvy."~C7m»w>er«, m ! Kl 1 NOTES TO THE TRAVELLEll. 1. Remote. The adjectives iu this line refer to I in line 7. Melancholy. Greek melas black, and chole bile. This U one of a class of words which arose from the old theory of medi cine. According to this theory there were four principal moist- ures or humours in the body, on the due proportion and combin- ation of which the disposition of boLli mind and body depended. Consult Trench, Stvchj of Words, lecture III. fellow. " •Chamier,' said Johnson, 'once asked me what he (Goldsmith) meant by sloio, the last word in the first line of The Traveller. Did he mean tardiness of locomotion ? ' Goldsmith, who would say something without consideration, answered, * Yes.' I was sitting by, and said, ' No, sir ; you do not mean tardiness of locomotion. You mean that sluggishness of mind which comes upon a man in solitude.' Chamier believed I had written the line as much as if he had seen me write it," — Bos- well, Life of Johnson. " The very first line of the poem strikes a key-note — there is in it a pathetic thrill of distance, and regret, and longing ; and it has the soft musical sound that pervades the whole composi- tion." — Black, 2. Or ... .0'' ^=^ whether ... .or. C'rlioidt. This river rises in the north of France, and flows through Belgium into the North Sea. On it are situated Tour- nay, Oudenarde, Ghent, Antwerp. Po. A river that rises in the Alps, and after passing by Turin, Piacenza, and Cremona empties into the Adriatic. 8. Kude. Uncivil. Carinthia. A province of Austria, east of the Tyrol. G. visited it in 1755. Boor. Literally a cultivator of the soil. For degradation of meaning cf " villain," "churl," "pagan," "knave," "varlet,*' and " prude." 77 1 1 f • i \:\ M? I If 78 MOTES TO THE TKAVELLEft. 4. Door. What peculiarity of rhyme? 6. Caiiipuiila. A province of Central Italy celebrated in classical times for its fertility. Fur.saken. A predicate adjective. " The inhabitants of this tract of country suffer much, and have all the appearance of persons afflicted with dropsy, jaundice, and ague. Its popula- tion is therefore comparatively small, and it is usually avoided by tourists, especially at certain seasons of the year. Hence the poet calls it forsaken" — Stevens and Morris. Q, Wa.st«. In the predicate nominative, 7. Realms. Supply "I roam." The propositions in this line are adverbial, and complements of concession to "turns." 8. Unti-avelleil. That has not travelled. Cf. for the pass- ive use Othello, IV, 2, " How have I been behaved." Fondly. Affeotiouately. 9. Brother. The Rev. Henry Goldsmith, to whom the poem is dedicated. He was a good scholar, having greatly distinguish- ed himself at college. After teaching for a short time he accept- ed the curacy of Lissoy at "forty pounds a year." 10. Cf. Citizen of the World, vol. I, letter iii, " The farther I travel I I'eel the pain of separation with stronger force. Those ties that bind me to my native country and you are still unbrok- en; by every remove I only drag a greater length of chain." 11. Crown. Sul)junctive mood. See Mason, par. 195. 12. Guardian Saints. Guardian angels. 13. Cf. D.V. 149—162. 15. Want and Pain. Synecdoche. Repair. Fr. repairir. "Repair," to mend, is from L. reparare. 16. Ready chair. Metonymy. 17. Crowned. Cf. " This grief is crowned with consolation." — Shak., Antony and Cleop. 18. Around. An adjective qualifying " family." 19. Praukfs. Cf. prance. 22. Cf. " The quality of mercy is not strain'd, It blesseth him that gives and him that takes." — Shak., Merchant of Venice. " This truth once known, to bless is to be blest." — Rogers, Pleaau/res of Memory. in NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 79 23. Me. Object of "leaas" in 1. 29. 24. Prime. Nominative absolute. 26. Fleeting. Swiftly passing. Cf. Pope, Eisaj/ on Man . "Hope springs eternal in the hnni;in l>roast, Man never is, but always to he, blest." 27. t'ircle. The horizon. The poet probably had in mind the phenomenon of the mirage. 28. Far. A noun. Cf. "till now," " at once." 21). Alone. Qualifies " me." 32. Sii ine. Cf. " Hie thee" " he plucked w« ope his doub. let." In these and similar phrases Hales says, the pronoun is the ethic dative. Archaic forms add dignity to poetry. In Elizabethan English the use of the simple pronoun for the reflexive is common. 33. Cf. D. V. 190, and Rogers, Pleasures of Memory: " Though far below the forked lightnings play. And at his feet the thunder dies away." Career. Fr. carriire, L. carrus, 34. An Itundred. On this use oi "an" Hales remark'?: — " Our present rule that a rather than an is to be used before a word beginning with a consonant or a sounded h is of t'omj^.ira- tively modern date. In Oltlest English (what is commonly called A. S.) the shortened form does not occur. In Medireval writers an is a more common form ; thus in the Oniiulum we find an man, in Mandevillo's Travels, an hors, &c. (Stratmann); but a also is found. The distinction between the numer.il ana the article was only then completely forming. In Chaucer's writings it seems fairly former!." In the lUble we have "an house," " an habitation," " an hymn," "an host." This use in early English was perhaps due to French influence. Shake- speare's usage ia pretty much the same as our own. See Mason's Gram. , page 41. 35. liake^, &;c. These nouns are in apposition to "realms.'' 36. Poiup. Qr.pompe; irom pempo, to send. It meant origi- nally an escort, and hence a grand procession. Notice the Anii- thesis. 87. Csreation. An abstract noon used in a concrete sense. See Mason, par. 85. Arouikd. See note on L 18. ,\ \ 1 :'l^ i 8o NOTES TO THE IRAVELLBR. 88. Store. Old. Pr. esioire, L. inatauro. 39. Phllotjoplilc. Reasoning?. 40. Vain, "The poet does uot use this condemnatory epithet, but puts it in the mouth of the; philosoplier. But the poet here mistakes the true spirit of pliilosophy, which echoes ratlier the ci-y of the slave-dramatist Terence, Uomu sutn, nihil humani a me alienum puto." — Sankey. 41. Schuol-taiight. "The pride which the Stoic felt in his conquest of himself and in his superiority to tlie casualties of life." — Bolfe. Most likely the term is used vvith auye to the ' Tchools" of the mediteval philosophers. Cf. P .,<. " Unlearned, he knew no acJioobnan's subtle ait." Disneinble. L. dissimulo, to disguise. 42. Tliese little tUiiig«. Those which '• make each humbler bosom vain." Man. Used for wwti, on account of the rhyme. 43. Sympathetic (Gr. gun and pathos) = com-paasion = fellow-feeling. 44. Kxult. L. Ex and saltare, to leap. 45. CroMTiaud. The repetition of a word is common with Goldsmith. See lines 11 and 17 ; 7, 29, and 34; and 48 and 62. 47. Lftke«» Geneva, Lucerne, Zurich, Constance, &c. Busy. In filling the sails of tha ships. 48. Swains. The word swain was vaguely and somewhat affectedly used by the poets of the last century to mean *' a shep- herd," " a lover," " a peasant," " a servant." Cf. " The conscious swains rejoicing in the sight. Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light." — Pope, And the D.F. 2: " Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain." Dress. Fr. dresser, L. dirigere, to make straight. Cf. " vine-dresser," and see Gen. ii, 11. 50. Heir. Some of the earlier editions have "tenant." The word is in the nominative absolute. Supply " I being " before " creation's heir. " 51. Miser. "From the Laf-. adj. miser^ wretched, denoting the character and disposition of the man who hoards up, instead of making a good use of, his wealth. The words miser, miaerp, NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 8i and miserable have roversed their uses. Miser forim^rly meant Bimply a wretched person, but now a covetous one ; miser y niean'^ covetoTisness, now it means wretchedness ; miserable meant cov- etous, liUt now, wret(h(d." — Stevens and Morris. Siov*-:. How does the meaning diller from " stoin " in 1. 88? 62. RecouiHs. In its literal sense of 'counts again. " 54. Cf. '* Crecscit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia cresoit." — Juvenal. " Multa petentibus desunt multa." — Horace. 'Wanting. The active participle used in a passive yense. Cf. •' The house is building." " The water is boiling." As Ste vens and Morris remark, this common usage ia "due to the absence of a true present participle passive." 55. 'Vims, &c. The principal proposition. 56. Pleused. Agreeing with the pronouu implied in "my' in 65. Each. Used for " every." See Mason, par. 174. 67. Prevails. Used literally. Sorrows. Metonymy. " Tears " are meant. 58, To see. The gerundial infinitive. 60. Consigned. Appropriated. 61. Hope. Nominative absolute. 62. To see. Gerundial infinitive = on seeing. 63. Wliere, &c. The object of "direct." 65. Tenant. Inhabitant, 67. Treasures. Whales, seals, walruses, Ac. 68. liong nights. "In the most northern parts of Lapland the sun remains below the horizon from November 20th to Jan- uai-y 10th." — Sankey. ilevelry. Fr. rSveillon, a feast given in the middle of the night, from the verb rSvcillerf to rouse out of sleep. Some de- rive it from the Dutch raveelen, to wr.nder loosely about. 69. Bla(!k considers it would be difficult to find in the English language more graceful melody than in this and the three follow- ing lines. Lilne. The equator. 70. Ooldt-n sands. The Gold Coast (Guinea). Palmy win**. Made from the sap of the Palmyra palm, the cocoa-nut palm, and other varieties, 71 . Glare. Cf. " clear" and the L, "clarus " to which itia akin. 82 NOTES TO THE TRAVKLLER. 72. Godfl. Animals, parts of animals, or idols of wood and stone. Gave. Used for "have given." Cf. 1. 113 and "saw" for " hnd seen " in D. V. 92. 74. Ilin bwsf . Tu his opinion. Cf. Scott's Love of Country, "Breathes there," (tc, in La;/ of the Last Minstrel. Cf. also Lon^jfellow's ballad, The Happiest Land. 77. Sliall. For this use of the word consult Mason, pur. 229, IVixdom. Synecdoche. 79. As. Since. 80. The want of one blessing being compensated by the pos- session of another. 81. IV at 11 re, a ftiofh«»r. A. metaphor. 82. Nature produces many blessings spontaneously, but her favours (bliss) are t!.e result of toil. 83. Peasant. Fr. paijsan, from pays (L. pagus), a country. 84. Iclra. A small town of Austria, in Carniola, a district of Illyri'!. Tt is situated partly at the bottom of a narrow valley sm-roniided by nunrntains on the river Idria, and is famous for its quicksilver mines. Arno. A river in Tuscany. Shelvy. Gently sloping. 85. Koolcy-rre^te s. Really one word. Frown. A per.mnal metaphor, 86. C'listoiii. Fr. coutinne, L. consuesco. Notice the hyper- bole. 87. Art. Used in antithesis to "Nature" in 81. 8& Content. Cf. Macbeth iii. 2: "Nought's bad, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content.** 89. Strong. For "strongly" by enallage. 90. Eitlier. Is this grammatical? See Mason, par. 175. 01. Contentment tails. Since many have freedom but few wealth. 92. This statement, though often made, may be justly ques- tioned, Cf. Wordsworth, in one of his Sonnets: "Ennobling thoughts depart When men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student's bower for gold." NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 83 98. Cf. Pope, Essay on Ufan: ** And hence one Mastnr Passion in the broiHt, Like Aaron's serpoiit, swallowH up the rest." Prone. L. pronus, inclined, on. Spiii'iiM. Kicks with the "Hpur." '•7. l>omulii. i^r, demesne, L. dominmin, an estate. ITcrc it means the country. '.18. <««hm1. " Thus excess of wealth produces luxuriousness of hvint,'. Excess of commercial enterprise lowers puhHc honour. So lihcrty is apt to degenerate into license, and contentment to indolent acquiescence in thing's as they are, however had they may be." — Stevens and Morris. Cf, Gray, Ode on the Pleasure of Vicissitude: " Still where rosy pleasure leads See a kindred grief pursue." 99. Try, &c. Examine more attentively, 100. Tlie prospert. The diilerent countries. 101. Prop*>r. Fr. vropre, L. proprins, personal. 10.*^. liike. An adjective qualifying "me." Explain the force of the simile. 104. Tliat. Would "which " answer horo? Notice the hyper- bole. 105. Far, Modifies "to the right." The poet represents him- self as facing the east. Apenine. The plural would destroy the rhyme. These mountains are divided into four sections, theLigurian, Etruscan, R(mian, and Neapolitan Apennines. Monte Corno, the highest, is 9,021 feet. lOG. Briglit. A ])rpdieate adjective. 108. " The stage often borrows shniles and metaphors from natui-e; here nature is made indoV)ted to the stage." — Hales. 109. Between, An adjective ; a preposition if you supply " the trees." 110. Venerable. Italy and other classic lands are famous for ancient temples. 111. Cf. Virgil, Georgic II, 136—176; Addison's Letter from Italy ; Rogers' Italy ; Byron's Ch.ilde Harold, Canto IV. Could, The subjunctive. See Mason, par, 252« 113. "Were, Subjunctive. ii II ; I , ••! if ■I i| \'m 84 NOTES TO THK TRAVELLER. 113. IVIiatover, &o. A noun propoBitiou foimij)^', with the similar clfniscB in 115 and 117, the Rnl)je('t of •'own' ' in H'.». Cliiii(*s. For countries by inatoiii/m;/. 114. Araouf,' tho fruits of Italy may he inontioned the orango. lemon, olive, poniejiranate, date, grape, chentuut, mulberry, apple, pear, apricot, Ac. 115. Illoonis. BloRsomH. IIG. "Wliose. ThiH possesaive is Beldom used except in poetry. 117. Sw«'«l«. Perfumes. 118. V<*ruiil lives. Short as the spring (L, vtfr). 119. Own. Acknowledge. For derivation see Mason, par. 214. KiiMlrid. An example of prolepais, a figure where the result is anticipated. Cf, "ear-erecting." 120. Cultivation becomes unnecessary. 121. "Wlillf. Here as well as in 109 "while" introduces a co-ordinate proposition. Gelid. L. qelidm, cold. The word is scarcely natural- ized in En 'lish. 122. AViMiiow. Diffuse. 123. Sens«>, The senses. 124. Sensual. That conferred through the flenses. 126. Florid. With profusion of flowers. Grove. Akin to grave (L. qrafan, to dig). 128. Man only degenerates. 127. Contrasted. Poverty with luxury ; submiasion with ▼anity; gravity with frivolity; zeal with deceit. Manners. In the sense of the i . viores. Cf. Words- worth: "And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power." 129. Zea'oii.s. Enthusiastic. 131. C'ontnnilnaie. L. contatnen, from con and tango. 132. The habits of luxury learnt in opulence continue to be Indulged in poverty. 133. '-Vas Taken emphatically. Date. Towards the close of the 15th century Venice, Florence, Genoa, and Pisa flourished. 136. long-fallen. Since the old Roman days. 137. foMvas. Fr. canevas, L. ca7M?ff6?>, hemp. Among Italy"- most famous painters were Leonardi da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, Titian. The warmth of Titian's colouring was notable, NOTES TO THE I'PAVF.LIER. 85 h the rang(\ W«*rm. Qualifies "canvafl." 138. ** The poet alludes to tl)e idea that in the unhewn block ol marble the figure to he carved lUt of it lies, and that it becomes visible when the superfluou^j stone is removed." — Stevens and Morru. 139. "Two of the main causes, certainly, of the decay of Italian comnitrce were the discovery of America, and that ol the sea-route to India." — Hales. Hoiillierii galo. The Sirocco, blowing from the deserts of Africa, and the most changeable ol Italian winds. 140. ■■■ etofiytni/. 141. Oave. For "had given." Richer. See Mason, par. 60. 142. Uiimamu'il. Depopulated. 143. Skill. Knowledge. 144. Plolhorir. Alluding to the man who is diseased from a superabundance (Gr, plethore) of blond in his veins. Cf. D. V. 889-3P4. 140. A^'^i'iM^ks. The present condition of Art is considered a mere wreck of what it was once. 147. Fallen. Depraved. 148. Inferior works of art satisfy. 160. PasU'bourd iriumph. "In old Roman times, grand processions or 'triumphs* were decreed to victorious generals as a mark of honour. The poet speaks of hlavflfess povip be- cause no blood has been shod, and no wounded prisoners are seen in the processions now. Tlie pastiboard triumph refers to the decorations, and pasteboard imitations of trf)pli es, used in the processions of the Carnival season at Rome, Pasteboard was originally made by pasting various thicknesses of paper together. The Carnival (L. caro, carnis, flesh ; vale, farewell) is held just before Lent, during which season flesh is not eaten by devoiit Roman Catholics, Pasteboard triitinph, however may mean merely a sham one. Cavah-nde, a procession on horseback, perhaps referring to the races of horses without riders held in the Corso at Rome during the Carnival." — Stevens and Morris. 151. Processions. What are the other nominatives to "may be seen" ? m u 86 NOTES TO rHE TRAVELLER. t I I 153. Sports. " Sir Joshua Reynolds calling n]>on the poet one day, opened the door without ceremony and found liinf in the ilouble occupation (jf turning a couplet, and teaching a pet dog to sit upon hia haunches. At one tijiit; lie would glance his eye at hia desk, and at another siiake his finger at the dog to make liim retain hia position. Those lines form the coui)let, and were still wst. Goldsmith, with his usual good humour, joined in the laugh caused Ijy his whimsical employment, and acknowledged that hia boyish sport with the dog suggested the thought." — Irving's Life of Goldsmith. 155. llei»re»«t. A noble and ambitious spirit is represented eb losing ita enei'gy by long subjection. 1.66. >Iaii<*. Alluding to a garrison manned with troops, or a ship with sailors. 157. Past. = closely. 159. Domes. L. dnmwi, a house; here, a palace; usually meaning a copula. Caesars. Name the twelve Caesars. 161. Tkei-e. Notice the three adverbial complements of place to '' builds." 164. With a smile. That anyone should build bo large a palace. 165. Turn. Subjunctive. Survey. Fr. survi'oir, L. super and video. 167. Bl«ttlt» Transferred from the country to its inhabitants. This woi'd now uieans cold, but formerly it meant jiale. It ia akin to bleach. Mansion. L. maneo, to remain; hence, a house. Here it is used for the country. 168. Rolfe says, " The line forcibly expresses the labour re- quired to wring, a? it were, fro)nthe soil, its scanty produce." Churlish. See jicte to 1. 3. The word is generally ap- plied to pera .ns. 170. "Cue might infer at first that the poet meant that Swit- zerland furnished iron as well as mercenary soldiei's; but there are no iron mines in the country. It had furnished the soldiers from the 15th century." —EoZ/e. Cf. Uamlet, iv. 5, and Lndu oj the Lake, vi. 3. lyi. Torpid. Lifeless (L. torpeo). NOTES TO THE TF^AVET.LER. 87 jd as 172. On accoTiTit of the higher latitude aud greater elevation, the winter lingers longer than in Italy. 173. Zephyr. A soft, west wind, 174. Meteors. Gr. rrmteora, things in the air. Here the refer- ence is to the lightning. 176. RtMlress. Ma]<«' amends for. 179. CoiitiguoH-. L, con and tango. 181. CosUy. Sumptnona or costly to the peaflnnt. Banquet. Fr. banquet. Tt is probably derived from the German haiik. Cf. '•bench." 182. Meal. Notice tin- antithesis. 188. Caljm. Fjee from avarice. It qualifies "him." 184. The line may thus be arranged: "He, contracting each wish, fits himself to thvi soil." 185. diecj-fiil. A ])redicite ndjeetive, 180. "It in enough," siys Black, "to make the angels weep to find iuoh a conplet as this, — ' Che( rful at morn, he wakes from short repose, Breasts the keen air, and c irols as he goes,' murdered in sevei'al editions of Goldsmith's works by the pxib- Ktitution of the commonplace 'breathes ' for ' breasts' — and that after Johnson had drawn particular attention to the line by quoting it in hia Dictionary." 187, Paieent .-lusle. it is tl](» angler that is patient. Trails. Akm to -'roll," "drill," &c., and derived from the German trollen. The construction is a forced one, as it i^ not the deep but the line which ia trolled. pinny tlee»i. Cf. "patient angle," "venturous plough- share," and "warbling grove" in D. V. 3G1. 183, Ploughshare. Share, from O. E. aceran. Cf. "sheer, '- "share," "shire," "short." 190. -iavaafe. Fr. Sniivnge, L. silva, a wood, and hence originally an inhabitant of tlie forest. Cf. Pope, Ilia^. ; "When the grim ftavnge, to his rifled den Too late returning, snuffs the Irac k of men." 191. Sped, *• Accomplished. The verb speed, in this fienae, means simply to carry tla-ough successfully, with no spocial vtt, erence to quickness." — Rolfe. CI. "I wish you good apeed;" " More haste, worse speed.'* r];*:| 't ; Sff-iJ 'f n liu .fif, n ti; s 88 NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 193. Cf. Bui'ns' Cotter's Saturday Nighty and Gray's Elegy, stanza 6. 195. Hoaril. Of plates and dishea. 19G. Cleanly. Piuaouuced short when an adjective. 197. Haply. Perchance. 198. Many si. Many grammarians regard a in such an expres* sion as this as a corruption for of. It is more likely that the posi- tion of the adjectives in such phrases as "many a mrtn," "such a person," " what a fine book,"' &c., has arisen from the practice in early English of giving emphasis iu this way. Shakespeare has: "a many of our bodies." Many-a is taken by some as a com- pound adjective in "vian i a im.u." Better to take many as an dverb modifying a, or as an adjective referring to "a man." See Mason '.-^ Grammar, par. 93, and Abbott's Shakespearean Grammar, par. S5. \igUtly. For the night. Notice the metre. 201. Ills. One of the earlier editions has " Hills." 202. Enhance. L. ante. Fr. en avant, forwards. Provencal enansar, to forward. 203. Conf-n-ms. Suits itself. 205. As a <-hilfl, &c. An adverbial proposition forming a complement of degree to its correlative "so." 203. Close .nd closer. " Perhaps = closer and closer; but the former comparative inflection is omitted for euphony's, or for the metre's sake, just as one adverbial inflection is omitted in 'safe and nicely,' King Lear, v. iii, ; *fair and softly,' John Gilpin." — Hales. 203. Charms. Contentment (175); cheerfulness (185); free- dom (188); out-door employments (187-189); indepenviance (191); family pleasures (194); hospitality (197); patriotism (200). 210. Confined. Limited. 211. Share. «« Not used very accurately. They obtain all and not a mere share of the pr,' jec that are really due them." 213. Stimulates. Jj. stimulus, a, gosid. 214. Redrest. Relieved. 215. Hence. "From this cause, viz. : that their pleasures con- sist in the redressing of their ordinary wants. Such lands, ^.f.. the hirren states mentioned in 209. ea<'h pleasing f^clence flies, viz. : — Music, painting, sculpture, which are properly arts, NOTES 10 THE TRAVliLLKK. 89 8 Elegy, n expres" the posi- such a factice iu eare has: 8 a com- ny as an a man." speareau ^roven^al irming a >ser; but ony's, or omitted ly,' John 5) ; free- ce (191); )taiQ all hem." ires con- science rly arts, not sciences, An art is that skill which is acquired by practice under certain rules. Science is properly the study of the various laws which govern the practice of an art. Scievce deals with principles, art with their application. Thus the study of the laws of harmony is a science, the practice of them on a musical instrument or with the voice is an o7t. A man mny be profi- cient in the one, and yet know notlii)ig of the other. The term science appears to be misapplied iu the text. * I present you with a man, Cunning in music and the mathematicks, To instruct her fully iu those acienccs,' — Shakespeare, Tatning oj the Shrew, ii. I. Here music and tnatheynatics may be considered as both arts and sciences." — Stevens and Murris. 216. Supplies. Satisfies. 217. LiiknowM. A predicate adjective. Cloy. To satiate. Cf. "clog," "clot," "cloy," and " clown." 218. TUe lung u Id pause. "The period of weariness when the sensual pleasures, above alluded to, cease to give satisfaction, or when the body is too wearied to continue them." Finer joy. <' The poet says above that each j>lnasi7ig science flies from these lands, and, therefore, the people have no painting, sculpture, music, or learning to dilight them when wearied with their sensual pleasures.'^ — Stevens and Murris. 221. Level. Unvaried, monotonous. Smouldering. Burning slowly. 223. Raptures. Violent feelings of pleasure when the soul ia raised to flame. 224. Of once a year. = of once in a year. 226. Debauch. Fr. de^ from, and bauche, a row of bricks, and hence a deviation from a straiglit line. Expire. The subjunctive by poetical license. 232. Pall. Used for "fails." Probably the poet had in his mind the dart of love and the dart oi friendship. Indurafed. Hardened. 283. Sterner viriues. Bravery, love of freedom, &c. 234. May. The sense requires emphasis on this word. Falcon^. L. /ate, a sickle. 'J : »U P It Ml tr u '1 f I 1 I i it: bird the shape of its bill. IS so named from m 90 NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 234. CoMrerlng. Brooding. 235. Gentler inovalsi. The fine arts, politeness, (fee. Th( itler morals. perhaps 287. Tlieso 233. Kimler. More sal with it3 ordinary mear.in<;. 241. SprigUfly. Frora the same root (F>". esprit) as spirit. 242. He iUustrates this by mentioning his own success. 243. tlioir. Gr. choros. Cf. the narrative of the "philoso- jjhic vagahonrl" in the Vicar of Wakeiicld: '" T had some know- ledge of music, with a tolerable voice; I now turned what was once my amusement into a present means of subsistence. I passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and among such of the French as were poor enough to be merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. Whenever I approached a peasant's house, towards nightfall, I played one of my merriest tunes, and that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence for the next day ; but in truth I must own, whenever I attempted to entertain persons of a higher rank, they always thought my performance odious, and never made me any return for my endeavours to please them." 244. Tuneless*. Explained in 247, 243. Loire. Consult geography. 246. Freshen*-!!. A predicate adjective. 247. Haply. Modifies "would praise" and ** would dance." Faltering. L. /alio. His pi 'j'iag was not only very **liarsh" but also attended with false notea. 249. Village. Metonijmij. 251. Alike all ages. Persons of all ages were alike fond of the amusement. llaines. L. doniina, th.) mistress of a house. 252. Maxe. " A word of uncerbain derivation ; perhaps akin to 'miss.' Asa description of a dince, the word is common enough," — Sankey. 253. Gestic lore. Skill in dancing. 'T-estic is cognate with "gesture," jest (originally gest). 256. I«lly bwsy. Ocumoron. Cf. festina lento, Horace " Strenua nos exercet inertia," and Pope's Elegy on an Unfor- tunate Lady : "Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er." NOTES to THE TRAVELLER. 9* 266. "World. Cf. Hamlet : "Thus runs the world away." 267. Theirs, Sec. Their arts, &c. 258. Honoar. The outward distinction. 261. Current. In allusion to money passing from one to an- other. 2G2. Trnfllc. L. trans and facio. The traffic is called splendid in allusion to tho wealth and maguiticence which it brings. 263. Kings and courtiers and soldiers x*eceive the outward dis- tinction. 264. Cf. Horace : " Preter laudem nuUus avarus." 265. " They exert themselves to please others, and are pleased at the success of their efforts, sr> winning the esteem and good opinion of society ; hence they seem to themselves happy. And what more is required for them to be so, except the continuance of this till it becomes habitual ? " — Sankey. 267. Softer art. fhe art of pleasing. 270. "The influeno^ which France was soon to have, and was even then beginning to acquire, over the thought of Europe, seems not to have been foreseen by Goldsmith. He is as uui on- scious as Johnson was of the existence of D'Alembert, Diderot, and Beaumarchais. " — Sankey. 272. The praise of others is sought after instead of an approv- ing conscience. 273. Ostentation. Personification. Tawdry. Shabbily splendid. The word is said to be a rorruption of St. Audrey (St. Ethelreda). At the fair of St. .\udrey at Ely in former times toys of all sorts, especially laces, were sold. 276. Pert. Sprightly. Now used in a bad sense and meaning impudent. Grimace. Pr. grimace. 276. Frieze. Fr. friae. A kind of coarse woollen cloth, much worn in Ireland. Copper lace. In imitation of the gold or silver lace worn by persons of fashion. 277. Cheer. Fare, 378. Doast. Used transitively. BMtqiMt. Supply " given." ' VII ri i I 9fl NOlliS '1X> IHE tTtAVfiLLBft. I 278, Once a year. See Mason, par. 123. 280. Self-applause. The approval of conscience. 282. Hollaiul. Probably derived from ollant, marshy ground, or from Ger. hold, the hollow land. Cf. "hole." 283. Melhiiiks. See Mason 247. 284. Ci. Dryden, Annus Mirahilis S " And view the ocean leaning on the sky.* 285. Secltilous, Assiduous (from L. sedeo). "This character of the Dutch is veil evinced by their present plan (187G) of recovering the Zuyder Zee, which was formerly a fertile and populous plain, but wus overflowed by the sea in 1421, when seventy-two villages and towns were destroyed, and 100,- 000 people perished. They purpose to do tliis by building huge dykes and pumping out the water, as they have already done with respect to the Lake of Haarlem. They will thus recover about 2,000 square miles of territory." — Stevens and Morris, 286. Rnmpire. The same as " rampart," 287. Diligently slow. Oxymoron. Their work requires a largo amount of persevering toil. 288. Ballpark. " Properly * a defensive work made with the boles or trunks of trees.' Ger. bollwerk, Fr, boulevard. The Helder dyke is perhaps the best instance. Nearly two leagues long, it is forty feet broEid at the top, where is an excellent road; and it descends into the sea by a slope of 200 feet, at an angle of forty degrees. Huge buttresses project at certain intervals sev- eral hundred yards into the sea. It is built entirely of huge blocks of granite from Norway." — Sanhey. 290. " There is some poetical exaggeration here, though the Dutch have rescued large tracts of land from the sea. The case is analogous to that of the River Thames at i ondon, where a large quantity of land has been thus rescued by means of the Thames Embankments." — Stevens and Moi^rh, 292. Amphibious. Gr. amphi and bios. 293. Canal. L. Canna, a reed. Holland is famous for its numercus canals. 294. Willow-tufted bank. The dykes and margins of the canals are planted with willows. Sail. Synecdoche. 295. Mart, A contraction of " market. " Cf. Pr. marchi. At NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 93 jround, At this time HoUand hold a foremost place in the commerce of the world. Cultivated plain. Alluding to the highly cultivat( cl state of Holland. 2%. Creation. In apposition to " canal," " vale," &c., which are lu apposition to •* world." 297. \Vave-sul>.i«*ct<'«l. "Lying below the Ipvel of the waves; or, perhaps, as some explain it, 'exposed to the inroads of the waves.' " — lioJfe. 302. In the D. V. the aiathor deals with those evils. 303. Are. Canthephual be justilied? See 282. 805. Craft. Give diflerent meanings. 806-G. "TheJie lines refor to the political struggles which lon^ disturbed the NetberlrUi 's. The Republicar party received as- sistance from France, to tue amount of n\on\ than a million of money, and though the House of Orange triumi)lied in 1747, it held its sway with difficulty," — Stevens and Mon is. Cf. V, of W.,ch. xix. : "Now the possessor oi accumulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ the suj)erfliiity of his for- tune but in purchasing power, by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, of men who are willing to bear the mortifi- cation of contiguous tyranny for bread." 809. This line occurs verbatim in the Citizen of the World, i. : "A nation once famous for setting the world an example of freedom is now become a land of tyrants and a den of slaves." (Aldine edition.) 811. Calmly bent. Disposed for peace. 312. Owing to their shallowness and ci mparatively small size the lakes of Holland, of which the principal are Yesselmonde, Salt, Lange, and Tjeuke, are not much affected by storms. 813. Belgic. Belgica, the country of the Belgas, occupied during the Roman period a part of what is now France and Holland The tribe which was settled nearest Holland was the Batavi. Sires. Yr.sirOy from seigneur, "L. sen ex. 315. Each breast. Of the "Belgic sires." 316. Sons of Britain. " The poet compares the descendants of the Belgso with those of the Ancient Britons, because tho lat- m i-: I , t ! ■) IP 1 i ?l if ^ r '11 94 NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. ter, who were Gauls or CeltR, were Bimllar in chnrarter to the Bt'lgiB. The prefient ' sons of Britain ' are, however,vather Saxon than Celtic, though Kome of the latter race are found among the Highl.mclers of Siotland, and in WaJeR." — Stevens and Morris. IMow. "In the ]6th centui-j' they had fought stoutly against the same domineering enemy as England had withstood; in the 17th they had contested with England the quecnship of the seas. But perhaps Goldsmith here refers to the fact that the Dutch are our nearest kinsmen. They belong to the same Low German race as ourselves. Their language and our own resemble each other very closely." — Hales. 817. Genius. Plural geniuses. The word is here used in- stead of ]\ use (L. mw«a, and hence feminine). Genius, a spirit' has plural genii. 318. Britain is favourably situated for receiving the benefit of the warm winds blowing from the west, which causes early spring. 319. Lawns. Originally meant layid. See D. V. 85. " Before the time of Virgil, Arcadia was more celebrated for ' pastoral dulness than pastoral ideality,' as the proverbial ex- pressions 'Arcadici sensus,' 'Ariadicae aures ' (cf. Juvenal, vii. 160) sufficiently show. They were a strong and hardy, but rude and savage race, in spite of the law, mentioned by Polybius, an Arcadian himself, wnich made the study of music compulsory. Since the days of Virgil (cf. Eclogues, vii. 4 ; x. 30), and especially since the revival of le.irning, Arcadia has become the golden land of poets and romance- writers. Who wrote the 'Arcadia'? When ? "—Sankey, 320. Hydaspes. " One of the tributaries of the Indus, now known as the Jelum, or Jhelum. Its Sanscrit name was Vitasta, of which Hydaspes is a corruption. Horace (Od. i. 22, 8,) calls it 'fabulosus,' from the marvellous tales connected with it."— Bolfe. 821. All, An adverb modifying " around. " 322, Birds sing on every branch. Cf. Chaucer: " The wood dove upon the spray, He sang full loud and clear." . Dryden: " The painted birds, companions of the sprvrg. Hopping from spray to spray, were heard to sini?.^ NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. 95 and Pope: " The Btvains decay and v H away, In a dying, dying fall." 323. The natural beauties of England are on a sTnallpr wcale and therefovH without the grandeur pos'^essed by othnr linda. 324. Rolfe understands this line to mean "that extremes of climate are known there only in imagination." Others regard the extremes as "minds combiiting minds, ferments, factions, and ambition struggling round her shore." 3i25. "Eeason is mistress of their thoughts and actions; in contrast with the character of the French nation." Stem. An adverb modifying "holds," or an adjective qualifying " state" (power). 320. " This line is somewhat obscure ; for tVie uH], great may qualify reason, state, or aims. But whichever it be, the mean- ing probably is that some of the objects aim-^d at are great on tc- countof the benefits thiy will confer on the nation and individ- uals, whilst others are great on account of their injustice. It may, however, simply mean that some aims are greater than others. But the vroxA dariug inclines one to the former inter- pretation." — Stevens and Morris, 327. P«rt. Bearing (L. porta, I carry). Port, an entrance, is from porta, a gate, and port, a kind of wine from Oporto. Deflniice. This and *' pride " are nominatives absolute. 330. Cf . Tennyson, Locksloy Hall, " Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest natui'e's rule." 332. Imagined right. What he believes to be his right. S33. What kind of propositions in this and the next line ? Boast!*. " Boasts that he scans these rights, that he takes his part in the discussion of public que^^tions." — Hales, Scan. L. scando, I climb. So " to count the feet in a verse" and to examine closely. 334. As. As an example of redundancy cf. " of " in the expres- sion " City of Toronto." 335, Thine, y«t«m. Society in general. 348. PiHuizy. Madness. Fii'e. Infinitive. AVtiHeU. Alluding to the machinery of government, 351. FictitiouM. Artificial tiea take the place of those of nature. 354. Sfjiiecdoche, 35G. J>iuvse of arms. FamoQs for its warriors. 357. Steiin. Families. 358. Have tolled. For fame. WiMte. Have written. M MOTES ro i'HK IkAVELLfiR. 97 For fame. Instead of writing for bread as the puet hints was the case in hia own day. 359. Shall lie. What are tho nominatives? 8U0, These forebodingss havo not y«t been realized. 862. 'ri»«' iyi'«'ai. «' This was a very favourite phrase about Goldsmith's tima.''^ Hales. 363. Cf. Pope : " Why bade ye else, ye powers, her soul aspiirt Beyond the vulgar flights of low desire." 365. Apostrophes to liberty were common with literary uu:i\ of the last century. 866. Rab«»le. Akin to L. rabies, madness. Angry steel. Mctonymii. The poet considers it difficult to tell whether freedom suffers more at the liands of demagogues (such as Wilkes) or from the conduct of arbitrary rulers, 359. Illortiiis. Cf. 115. 870. Rj'pre^H. Keep in check. The i)oet means that he would keep the blooms of the transitory flower, l*'reedom, iu check only to keep them safe. 872. Cf. Thompson, Summer : " While thus laborious crowds Ply the tough oar, philosophy directs The ruling helm." 874. So that thinkers and toilers may have thoir due share. 875. Order. Class in the country. 376 Below. An adjective. 378. It* The real object of the verb is "when a part aspires." 379. IVor. And not. 330. Bxcept. A preposition. See Mason, par. 282. W^rin«i. Notice the defective rhyme. 881. In the preface to the Hisiorif of England, G. says : " It is not yet decided in politics whether the diminution of kingly power in England tends to increase the happiness or free- dom of the people. For my own part, from seeing the bad effectp of the tyranny of the great in those republican states that pre- tend to be free, I cannot help wishing that our monarchs may still be allowed to enjoy the power of controlling the encroach- ments of the great at home. " I 1^1 4i I J f :1 I I ■iti j il' 98 NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER^ Cf. F. o/Tr.,oh. xlx. : " It is the interest of the great to diminish kingly power aa much as possible," 383. -Paction-* band. A number of persons banded together for personal instead of patriotic interests. 3B5. Wanton. Unies trained. Of. Addi^ou : •' How does your tongue grow wanton in hi*r praise." 8S6. Cf. Vicar of Wakefield : " What they (the middle classes in the state) may then expect may be seen by tunimg our eyes to Holland, Genoa, or Venice, wher.i the laws govern the poor^ a d the rick govern the laws." 388. Pillaged. L. pilo, to plunder. 891. Impelled by mingled feelings of patriotism and fear of evils threatening the utatu, the poet thinks the only hope is in the sovereign. Half. An adjective qualifying " a patriot." CoMTard. L. cauda^ a tail, and henco one who *• turns tail" on his enemies. Tyrantii. Gr. turannoa. Account for its present mean- ing. 894. " In all ages the worst foes to monarchical power have been the aristocracy. Thus in Greece the early tyrannies were almost universally overthrown by oligarchies. Cf. the barons' wars in English history, and the attitude of the crown toward-, the nobles in France." — Sanketf. 895. The sovereign is rei»reseuted as the fountain of honour, or as Blackstone puts it : " All degrees of nobility and honour are derived from the king, as their fountain." 396. Oouble force. Bein^ unrestrained. 397. Cf. D. V. 49-56. 898. Exchanged. By emigration. 399. Triumphs. What triumphs ? 408. Cf. D. V. 66, 66 : " Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose, Un wieldly wealth and cumbrous pomp repose." 405. Cf. 2>. F. 275-282 : " The man of wealth and pride Takes np a place that many poor supplied — Space for hia lake, his park's extended bounds, NOTES TO THE IRAVBLLER. 99 Space for his hornes, eqnijin^'o and houndn ; The robe that wraps his limhH in rtilken sloth, Has robb'd the neifjhbouring tiolds of hall their gi'uwth . His :^eat, where Kolitnry sports are seen, Iudit,'nant spurns the cottaj^e from the green." 406. Frequented. L. /r«guen*, crowded. 407. See D. V. 362-884. 409. Cf. D. V. 401--2 : " Downward tliey move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the ntrand." 410. Ufaln. Ab an adjective the word is frequently compound- ed with nouns. 411. Ol*w«'^o. The river is meant. 412. MlagaiH. Htn- accented on the third syllable. 41S. Viow. Qualifies " casts." 414. Cf. D. V. 34^>--355. See also Animated Nature : "Where man in his savage state owns inferior strength, and the beaHts claim divided dominion." 417. Giddy tenipeHf. Cf. "patient angle" and "venturous ploughshare." 418. Yells. Onomnto'popin. 410. Penslvo. L. pcnso, I weigh. "Wo. The noun is usually spelt woe. 420. " In the year 1783, he, at my request, marked with h j-en- cil the lines which he h»d furnished, which are only line 420 and the concluding ten lines, except the last couplet but one. He added, ' these are all of which i can be sure.' They bear a small proportion to the whole."— Bos well's Life of Johnson, ch. xix. 424. Cf. Dryden: " Our hopes must centre in ourselves alone." What does only modify? 426. Cf. Pope, Essay on Man : " For forms of government let fools contest ; Whate'er is best administer'd is best." 427. Terrors reign. Had Goldsmith li/ed till 1789 he wou'd have learned something about the Reign of Terror of the French Ee volution. 430. " The poet means that the sufferings of the human heart Ml TOO NOTES TO THE TRAVELLER. ..i- s I are produced almost entirely by causes with which kings and laws have nothing to do, and cannot remedy; such, for instance, as ingratitude of children, sickness, bereavement, death, Ac." — Stevens and Morris. 431. sun. Always. Cf. Milton, P. L. i. 254 : ' The mind is its own place, and in itself, Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven." 435. "Wlieel. " Breaking on the wheel. This barbarous mode of death is of great antiquity. It was used for the punishment of great ci'iminals, such as assassins and parricides, firt-t, in Ger many. It was also used in the Inquisition, and rarely anywhere else, till Fnmcis I. ordered it to be inflicted upon robbers, first reaking their bones by strokes with a heavy iron club, and then leaving them to expire on the wheel." — Haydn, Diet, of Dates. 43ft. " Groldsniith himself was in a raist^tke. In the Iteapuh- UcO' Hungarica there is an account of a desperate rebellion in the year 1514, hi aded by two brothers of the name of Zeck, George and Luke. When it was quelled, Of^orge^ not Luke, was punished by liis head being encircled with a red-hot ii'on ciown, ' corona cand 'sceute ferred coronatur.'" — Boswkll, Life of Dr. Johnson, ch. xix. The name of the leaders of this peasant revolt was Dosa, not Zeck ; and George Dosa was punished by being seated on a red- hot iron thi'one, with red-hot crown and sceptre; his veins were then opened, and he had to drink a glass of his own blood. He was then torn to pieces, and roasted ; and his flesh was giver, as food to his princi]>al supporters, who had been purposely fam- ished. " — Biographie TJniverselle. Damiens. «♦ On January 6th, 1757, Damiens stabbed Louis XV. in his right side, as he was getting into his carriage at Versailles. Though the wound was very slight, and Damiens insisted that his intention was not to kill the king, but to frighten him and give him a warning, he was most barbarously tortured, and at the end of March was executed. His right hind was burnt off, his arms and legs torn with red-hot pincers, and melted lead, boiling oil, wax, resin, &c., poured into the wounds ; and finally four horses were half an hour in pulling him limb from limb." — Sa/nkey, 11 g8 and ustaiice, &c."— 'US mode ishment in Ger lywhere ^rs, first il). and Diet, of lies pub - llion in >f Zeck, tke, was I CiOWU, ' of Dr. >sa, not 1 a red- na were d. He ver as y fam- tabbed irriage tmiens ighten tured, d was i, and unds; limb LIPE OP THOMAS GRAY. -♦♦- Bii'th, 1716. Thoiuaa Giuy was born in Oovnhill, London, on the 2Cth of December, 1710. Of his ances- try little is known. His father, Philip Gray, an ex- change broker and money-scrivener, was a wealthy and nominally respectable citizen, but a man of harsh and violent disposition. The poet's mother, whose maiden name was Atrobus, unable to endure the brutal severity and neglect of her husband, separated from him, and in conjunction with her sister kept a millinery shop. It was altogether to her affectionate care and industry that the son was indebted for the advantages of a learned edu- cation. Home life was rendered miserable by the cruel- ties of the father, and it seems the boy's uncle, Robert Atrobus, took him away to his own house, where while yet a child he received the I'udiments of his education. The painful domestic circumstances o his early life gave a tinge of melancholy and pensive reflection to Gray, which is visible in his poetry. At Eton, 1727. His father having absolutely refused to educate him, he was sent to Eton about 1727, at the expense of his mother. Here, under the protection of his maternal uncle, who was an assistant master at the school, he exhibited much ability as a scholar and won the esteem of his fellow-students. He made the friend- ship of Horace Walpole, son of the prime minister, Sir Robert Walpole. Richard West, the amiable and gentle 101 i 1 r<4 'f I ,ii I If 1 4- m I09 LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. son of the Chancellor of Ireland, became his intimate as- sociate. A third acquaintance was Thomas Ashton, who soon slips out of our history, but who survived until 1775. The four boys formed a "qu;ulruple alliance" of the warmest friendship. Besides this "inner circle" there was an ** outer ring" of Eton friends, whose names have been preserved in connection with Gray's, Amongst them was Get>rge Montagu, a relative of the great Earl of Halifax, and Jacob Bryant, the antiquary, whose place in class was next Gray's through one term. He Avas naturally drawn by temperament to study, and it is gen- erally believed that at Eton he made his first effort at verse. Shy and studious, and already a scholar and a moralist, we can well understand he was not the youth to j?ain popularity amongst a great many of the students of that time. At Cambridge, 1734. In this year the quadruple aJliau'^ie broke up. Gray proceeded to Cambridge, where he was for a short time a pensioner of Pembroke Hall, but afterwards went over, as a fellow commoner, to Peter- house, the college of his uncle Atrobus. Walpole, after spending the winter in London, entered King's College, Cambridge. Ashton also attended Cambridge, but West was isolated from his friends by being sent to Oxford. Life at college was not joyons to Gray. The dulness of Cambridge lay with a leaden weight on his nerves and en- ergies. Tn his letters written at the time he complains of melancholy and the lack of congenial employment. From 1734 to 1738 he wrote a Copy of Latin Verftes, inserted in the " Musre Etou-^nsis," verses On the Marriage of the Prince of Wales, a Saphic Ode fo West, and some trans- lations. The Grand Tour, 1739. With an excellent know- ledge of classics, which he loved, but with scarcely any LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. 103 acquaintance with mathematics, which he detested, Gray left college in 1733. In the spring of the following year he was invited by Horace Walpole to acc<.nipany him as travelling companion in a tour through France and Italy. They went from Paris to Rlieims, where they remained throe months ; thence to Lyons, Geneva, Turin, and Florence, where they remained the winter. The poet's observations on arts and antiquities and his sketches of foreign manners evince his admiration, taste, and dis- crimination. "In their journey through Dauphiny, Gray's attention was strongly arrested by the wild and picturesque site of the Grande Chartreuse, surrounded by its dense forest of beech and fir, its enormous preci- pices, clilVs, and cascades. He visited it a second time on his return, and in the album of the mountain convent he wrote his famous Alcaic Ode." Naples was visited, and the ruins of the recently disinterred Herculanseum. From Naples he sent his pnciliation was effected about three years afterwards, and Walpole redeemed his youthful error by showing ever af ler a sincere admiration i'?il f m ''ill -. f I i04 LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. ;ii V III and respect for his friend. Parting thus from his com- panion, the poet went to Venice, and returned home- wards through Padua and Milan, only diverging from his path to visit tlie Grande Chartreuse. Settles at Cambridge. Gray arrived in England in September, 1741, and in November his father died. Hia mother's fortune was small. With her unmarried sister she went to live with another sister, Mrs. Rogers, at Stt)ko, near Windsor. The poet not having sufficient means to prosecute the study of law went back to Cam- bridge. While there he took his Bachelor's degree in Civil Law, but his time was almost entirely given up to literature. With the exception of two years' residence in London, where the treasures of the British Museuri were thrown open to him, he spent the remainder of his life at Cambridge, constantly poring over the rich volumo^i of its noble libraries. He pursued with critical attentior the Greek and Roman poets, philosophers, historians, and orators. Plato was read and annotated with great care, parts of Propertius translated, and Petrarch indus- triously studied. He added notes to Linnseus and other naturalists, wrote geographical disquisitions on Strabo, became familiar with French and Italian literature, and was a zealous student of archaeology, architecture, botany, music, and painting. Mathematics was the only depart- ment of learning of which he was not master. A proliflc year, 1742. Gray's first original produc- tion in English verse was a fragment of the tragedy of Agrippina. The opening scene was sent to his friend West, who gave it a cool reception, and with a frankness and a critical sagacity slew the ill-starred play on the spot. Gray warmly defended the style of his production, but never made it complete. During the early part of the summer he wrote the Ode to Spring at Stoke, where, with LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. loS and his mother and aunts, the poet was wont to spend a great portion of the year. It was sent to the same critic, but West had died before the poem was received. To the end of his life he seemed to feel in the death of West *' the affliction of a recent loss." ** We are not surprised to find," says Gosse, "the OcZe fo ISpring, which belongs to a previous condition of things, lighter in tone, colder in sentiment, and more trivial in conception than his other serious productions." Although this poem no longer forms a favourite part of Gray's poetical works, its form at the time gave it considerable significance. It was the first note of protest against the hard versification which reigned during the Augustan age. In the month of August was written the Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College. *' The Eton Ode was inspired by the regret that the illusions of boyhood, the innocence that comes not of vii^tue but of inexperience, the sweetness born not of a good heart bnt of a good digestion, the elation which childish sports give, and which owes nothing to anger or dissipation, that these simple qualities cannot be pre- served through life." In the same month was composed the Hymn to Adversity^ which indicates that statelinessof movement and pomp of allegorical illustration which characterizes his mature style. The Elegy was also com- menced and an affectionate sonnet on the death of Richard West was written this year. In December he wrote a satire, the Hymn to Ljnorancey to ridicule the University, which he thought gave too much attention to mathematics and metaphysics. After this he entirely disappears from us for a couple of years, a few legends pertaining to his studies and schemes of literary work being the only glimpses that have appeared. First poem published, 1747. The unfortunate dif- ference with Horace Walpole came to a close in 1744. I i'i ■II i ■ .' ■«! ■J.M, '! . : I ■ ii ! T06 LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY, A-fter a reconciliation had taken place he wrote, at Wal- pole's request, an ode on the death of his old friend's fav- ourite cat. In 1747 he made the acquaintance of Mr. Mason, to whom we are indebted for many of the particu- lars of the poet's life. In that year Walpole persuaded him to allow Dodsley to print the Eton Ode, and it ac- cordingly appeared anonymously as a thin folio pamphlet. About the same time he began a didactic poem, On ihe Alliance of Education and Government, but wrote only a mere fragment. The hundred and ten lines to which it extends show that the author had high talents for the con- struction of a philosophical work. It attracted the warm enthusiasm of Gibbon, and Dr. Wharton considered ii would not have been inferior to Pope's Essay on Man, had it been finished. He told Mason that Montesquieu's Vesprit des Lois, which was published while he was pur- suing his plan, had forestalled some of his best thoughts and caused his interest in his own scheme to languish. Elegy published, 1751. The death of his aunt Mary Atrobus occurred in 1749. Gray returned to Stoke to console his mother, who felt very keenly the loss of her sister. The event seems to have brought to the poet's recollection the Elegy in a Country Churchyard^ begun seven years before within sight of the ivy- clustered spire under whose shadow his aunt was laid. A portion had been written at Cambridge. Now he finished it, as ho begun it, at Stoke-Pogis, giving the last touches to it on the 12th of June, 1750. He sent it to Walpole, who was delighted with it, and who showed it to a large circle of friends. At the Manor House at Stoke, Lady Oobham, who appears to have known Walpole, read the Elegy in manuscript, and in return for her hospitality Gray was in- duced to write the Long Story. The poem is " charmingly arch and easy in its humourous romance, " but seems un- '!;!i LIFE or THOMAS GRAY. 107 becoming the author, and although included in the semi- private issue of the Six Poems in 1753, it was given to the public in no published collection during his life. The death of his mother, 1753. In January, 1753, Gray was suddenly called from Cambridge to Stoke by the news of his mother's illness. After a painful struggle she expired on the 11th March, at the age of sixty-seven. There may still be read the exquisitely simple and affect- ing epitaph which he inscribed on her tombstone : ' " In the same pious confidence, beside her friend and sister, here sleep the remains of Dorothy Gray, widow, the care- ful, tender mother of many i-hildren, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her." To the next year belongs the Ode on Vicissitude, an unfinished pc)em, which was found after his death in his pocket-book. About the same time he wrote a treatise entitled Aichitectnra Gothica^ in which he shows a taste for architecture quite in advance of his time. In 1756 he left Peterhouse and took up his residence at Pembroke. Being a more than ordinary fastidious person, he became while at the former place the subject of many practical jokes inflicted by riotous un- dergruduates. One of them was a false alarm of fire, by which he was obliged to descend from his window to the ground by a rope which allowed him to drop into a tub of water. The complaints made to the authorities had little effect. The result was his return to P'^mbroke, where he remained the rest of his life, comfortably lodged, and surrounded by congenial friends, but more and more shut out from the world. The Pindaric Odes. The first stage of Gray's pcietical development was marked by the short poems he wrote for his contemporaries. The Ehgy, written for all the wt^rld, designates the second. In the third and final stage ho wrote for the poets the Pindaric Odes. The first of these I ■iiW Uh ■■1: 3 fl it I il I io8 LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. was the O'h on the Proyre^m oj' rodry, ami was written in 1755. In the same year the second, The Bard, was begun. They were published in 17'">7, and were but coldly received. Waipolo s.iys, "The cavils of Mason almost induced him to destroy his two beautiful and sublime odes," and in a letter also remarks : "T send you two copies of a very honourable opening of my press — two amazing odes of Mr. Gray. They are Greeks, they are Pindaric, theyare,sub- lime, consequently, I fear, a little obscure ; the second particularly, by the confinement of the measure and the nature of prophetic vision, is mysterious. I could not persuade him to add more notes." The mysterious char- acter of both poems was felt so much that two parodies, entitled Odeii to Obscurity and Oblivion, were published and had a large sale. Both poems have, however, taken a permanent place among English classics. Their artificiality is manifest, but the language in many parts is graceful and vigorous. In the former is shown the progress of Poesy from the early days of classic Greece to ios high achieve- ments in Britain under Shakespeare, Milton, i\nd Dryden. TliQ Bit rd has for its subject "the terrific malison of a Welsh bard, escaped from the massacre of Conway, who, standing on an inaccessible crag, prophesies the doom of the Norman line of kings, and the glories of the Tudors.' OfFered the Laureateship, 1757. Gray's name now ranked so high that on the death of Gibber he was offered the laureateship, which he wisely declined. He gave the reason for his rejection of it in a letter to Mason. *'The oflfice itself," he said, "has always humbled the possessor hitherto ; if he were a poor writer, by making him more conspicuous ; and if he were a good one, by setting him at war with the little fry of his own profession— for there ai'e poets little enough even to envy a poet laureate." He was one of the first to take advantage of the British Museum LtVE OF THOMAS GRAY. tog Library, which was opened in 1759. He waa ambitious to obtain the conf^enial and dignified appointment of Pro- fessor of Modern History in the University of Cambridge, which fell vacant in 1702. By the advice of friends Gray made application for it to Lord Bute, but was unsuccessful. In 1705 he took a journey into Scotland and made the acquaintance of Dr. Beattie, of whom he speaks very warmly in his letters. He penetrated as far north asDun- keld and the Pass of Killiecrankie, and the account ot hia tour which he gives in letters to his friends " is replete with interest and with touches of his peculiar Jiumour and graphic description." Appointed Professor, 1768. In this year the pro- fessorship of Modern History became again vacant, and the Duke of Grafton bestowed it, unsolicited, on Gray. This kindness gave birth to the Installation Ode the fol- lowing summer, on the occasion of the Duke's election to the Chancellorship of the University. After the ceremony of installation was over the poet-professor, now in ill- health, went on a tour to the lakes of Cumberland and Westmoreland, and few of the beauties of the lake-country escaped hia observation. He kept a lively journal of this tour for the amusement of his friend Dr. Wharton, who accompanied him the first day but was obliged to return because of sickness. In 1770 he wrote from CambridL'e to Dr. Beattie complaining of declining health, and sent him some criticisms on the first book of The Minstrel, which had just been published. Shortly afterwards he made a journey to Wales but left no a^icount of his visit. Death, 1771. His health was fast failing; he com- plained of cough and depression of spirits. The boon of the professorship proved a source of uneasiness and vexa- tion to him. He did not feel equal to its duties, and not one lecture was delivered during his tenure of ofdce. In ^M' I,; i ' ^ no LIFE OF THOMAS GRAY. May he removed again to London, where he grew worse. On the advice of his physician he went to Kensington, where he grew better. He returned to Cambridge, but, on the 24th <>f July, while at dinner in the college hall, he was seized with an attack of gout in his stomach. On the 29th convulsions ensued, which returned more violently on the 30th, and he died in the evening of that day. Ac- cording to his own desire expressed in his will, he was buried beside the remains of his mother at Stoke-Pogis. vH ll I GRAY'S LITERARY CHARACTER. Talents and acquirements. "Perhaps Mr. Gray was the most learned man in Europe : he was equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of science, and not superticially but thoroughly. He knew every branch of history, both natural and civil ; had read all the original historians of England, France, and Italy ; and was a great antiquarian. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal part of his plan of study. Voyages and travels of all sorts were his favourite amusement ; and he had a fine taste in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening. With such a fund of know- ledge, his conversation must have been equally instructing and entertaining. But he was also a good man, a well- bred man, a man of virtue and humanity." — Temple's remarks in Londmi Magazine. Rank as a poet. '' As a poet, though we cannot as- sent to the enthusiastic encomium of his ardent admirer and biographer, Mr. Matthias, that he is ' second to none, ' yet, after naming Milton, and Shakespeare, and Spenser, and Chaucer, if wo were compelled to assign the fifth place to son)e one, wo know not to wliom it would be, if not to Thonwis Gray. There are in the poems that he has left us, few though they be, such a perfect finish of language, such felicity of expression, such richness and harmony of numbers, and such beauty and sublimity of thought and imagination, as to place him decidedly at the head of all English lyric poets. True, Collins comes next, and Bometimes approaches him almost within a hair's 111 ' it i : i i w^il hi rta oaavs LnriuftY ai*\i4(iCiER. ii: II' broarlth ; but nftcr all tlioro is distanco botwoon thorn, and that distauce is goucrally cloaily poiccptiblc. " — CVci-c- UdkI, '' Gray was a puot ot a far hijihur order than Ooldsmith, and of an almost oppusito kind of merit. Of all EnLjlish poets, ho was the most Uuished artist. Ho attained tho hiij'hest kind of splendour of which poetical stylo seems capable. If Virgil and his scholar Racine may bo allowed to have united somewhat more ease with their elegance, no other poet approaches Gray in this kind of excellence. ....Almost all Gray's poetry was lyrical — that species which, issuing from the mind in the hiLjhest state of ex- citement, requires an intensity of feeling whicli, for n long composition, the genius of no poet could support. Those who complained of its brevity and rap: lity, only confessed their own inability to follow the movements of poetical inspiration. Of the two grand attributes of the ode, Dryden had displayed the enthusiasm, Gray exhib- ited the magnificence. lie is also the only modern Eng- lish writer whose Latin verses deserve general notice." — Mackintosh. Naturalness of his poetry. ** Gray, like Milton, was one of the most learned men of his age, and he also had the good taste to avoid, in the subject and imagery of his works, that feeble affectation of exclusive classicism which gives so monotonous and unnatural an air to most of tlio lyric compositions of his day : and thus his very boldnef-s in rejecting all the over-worn machinery of Greek and Roman mythology actually tended to give his works a greater real and essential resemblance to the spirit of classical poetry. The artifices of his language and the peculiar structure of his verse are reproductions of ancient poetry, particularly of Greece ; but tlie main sourco of tho pleasure he gives is in the truly national okay's uter^ry character. "3 Bynipalhics lie excites, a merit strongly cxcftiplified in two of Ilia noblest compositions, the Ode on Eton CoUe(je and tlio J^Jfcijij in a Conidy\j Churchyard," — Shaw. Refined in Sentiment and Language. "IJis poems are works of rofincmont rather than of passion : but yet they are in«piied with genuine scntinient. Tliey aio no doubt extremely artificial in form ; (ho weight <»f (he author's rciuliiig somewhat depresses their originality ; ho can with difhcuKy escape from his books to himself ; but yet there is in him a genuine poetical 8i)irit. His poetry, however elaborated, is sincere and truthful,, If the ex- terior is often what Horace might have called over-filed and polished, the thought is mostly of the simplest iind naturalest. ^Vheu ho sees the school of his youth in the distance, hia eyes fill with real feeUng, whatever carefully chosen phniaea are on his tonj;uo. His soul is always simple, and true, and tender, and catholic, however ex- quisitively select and uncommon the dialect that repre- sents it. And even in this dialect it must be allowed that tliere aro many felicities. It is not always cold and schol- astic. It is often of finished beauty It ia somctim.ea tremulous with emotion." — IJahs. "Gray was as consummate a poetical artist as Pope. His fancy, again, was much less lively : but his sympa- thies were intiniteiy warmer and more expanded ; and he was unfettered by the matter-of-fact tendency of the French school. The polished aptness of language, and exact symmetry of construction, which give so classical an aspect to his Odes, do unquestionably bring with them a iv.-o of classic-i.1 coldness ; and the want of passionate movement is felt particularly in his most ambitious pieces." — Spalding. *' The poetry of Gi*ay, with the exception of the Elegy — which everybody knows- has never become popular ; *'f: ■ '■•fi c -,l !:■'; iV;:! I' !•. 1 in M' 11 ! ^ ■ ' j : i ■ 1; li: i: i 1 114 GRAY*S LITERARY CHARACTER. yet in its own*sp!iere it is very perfect ; delicately if not richly imaginative, curiously studded with imagery ; ex- quisitely finished, liivc miniatures painted in ivory. But his subjects are often remote^ and f)ut of the track of or- dinary human feelings. " — Chambers' Encudopctdia. The secret of his success. ** The characteristics of Gray's mind appear in his poems in all their glory. Like Milton, he had mastered all the classical poetry of antiquity, and much of the poetry of modern Italy ; and,, like Milton, he admired the creations of Gothic genius. . Add to these qualities fire and life, boldness of imjigina- tion, condensed and brilliant expression, deep and quick sympathy, and we have the secret of his success. His Elegy, which Johnson criticised too severely, and which Byron has warmly praised, has received the seal of uni- versal acceptance, while his Pindaric Odes are, as com- positions, unsurpassed for majesty and sweetness. If the meaning of the lines is occasion.illy latent, it is never in- definite or confused ; repeated perusal may be ntces^ary, but it is always rewarded, and as we read, beauties mul- tiply and brighten to the view. His ear was exquisitely fine, and his versification has a harmony and variety found in few of our writers." — Angus, ELEGY. '»S ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCIIYARB. TKE curfew tolls the knell of parting clay, The lowinij herd wind slowly o'er ilie lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, "i'he moping owl does to the moon complain IQ Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 15 The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the slrnw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 30 For them no more the blazing heartli shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care : No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, ' 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe hns broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd tlie woods beneath their sturdy stroke I u I ; 'k 1 ! \ 'I ' !1 s ii6 ■niOMAS GRAY. \- Hj, I Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their liomely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the Poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 30 35 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; 50 Chill Penury rcpress'd their noble rage, And fr^^ze the genial current of the souL Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its svveetncss on the desert air. Some villagc-Hampdfn, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; • Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest. Some Cron: well guiltless of his country's blood. 60 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, ELEGY. Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 117 6S 70 75 Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimcs and shapeless sculpture deck*d. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh, • 80 Their name, their years, spelt by th* unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd. Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, hngering look behind? On some fond^ breast the parting soul relies, 8s eye requues Some pious drops the closing E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' uhhonoui-'d dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire :.by late. Haply some hoary-hcaded swam may sny : " Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn r)rushing with hasty step the dews away To meet the sun UDon the upland lawn. 90 95 ill ^1 iifin i^-'m "' I i i :1 100 7 n ii8 THOMAS GRAY. "There at the foot of yonder nodf'.ing beech That wicatlies its old fantastic roots so high. His Hstless length at noontide would lie stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 Muttring his wayward fancies he would rove ; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn 1 iniss'd him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his fivounie tree ; lib Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; "The next with dirges clue in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou cin'st read) the lay, 115 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged tiiorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, - And Melancholy marked him for her own. icso Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recomi)ense as largely send ; He gave to Misery idl he had — a tear, He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No" farther seek his merits to disclose, 125 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose). The bosom of his Father and his God. PKELIMINAKY REMARKS. ■!?l THE ELEGY. ! I Published 1751. This poem, bcgim in 1742, M'as not finished until IToO, when Gray sent it to AValpole with a letter in which he says : "I have been here at Stoke a few days (where I shall continue good part of the summer), and having put an end to a thing, MJiose beginning j'ou have eeen long ago, 1 immediately send it you." Gray permitted it to be circulated in manuscript amongst some of his friends, and only consented to have it published because it was about to be printed surreptitioufely, a copy having been given to tho editor of the MiKjiizinc oj Jlagazines. Gray wrote to Waif ol tliat the proprietors were going to publish the Ehrifi, and add- ed : "I have but one bad way left to escapo the honour they would inflict upon me : and therefore am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character ; he must corrtct the press him- self, and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continred beyond them, and the title must be — Efer/>/ wrillen in u Country Chvrdn;anL If he would add a lino or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better." Walpole did as re- quested, and in an advertisement vrote that accident alone brought the poem before the public. On which Giay wrote : "I thank you for your advertisement which saves my honour." It appealed in the J\far/uzine a few days before Dodaley's edition came out. The latter was puldished in , ' i:- '•!• ■ V\ !i I I20 PREMMINARY REMARKS. quarto, price sixpeace. The poena as given in the Marjazine is more correctly printed than the authorized edition. In two months it went through four editions, and within two years no fewer than twelve editions were issued to supply the popu- lar demand. Metre. The Efcfji/ is written in Iambic Pentameter nua- sure. Each stanza consists of four lines rhyming alternately, i.e., the third with the first and the fourth with the second. The quatrain, or stanza of four lines, had been used before Gray's time by Dry den in hit) Annus Mirahillsy a;;d by other poets. It is well adapted to convey a scries of solemn reflec- tion such aa are found in this poem. *'In the AVcf///," Hales remarks, '* the quatrain has not the somewhat disjunctive and isolating effect whicli it has in ihose other works where tiiere is continuous argument or narrative that should run on with as few metrical lets and hindrances as possible." With the exception of 2, 10, 17, anil 24, the propositions do not extend from one'ststnzi into another. S^ene of the "noem. '* Several localities have contended for the honour of lieing the scene of the Elcfj}/, but the general sentiment hasalways,and justly, been in favour of Stoke-Pogis. It was there that Gray began the poem in 1742 ; and there, as we have seen, he finished it in I7r)0. In that churchyard his motlier was buried, and there, at his request, his own re- mains were afterwards laid beside her. The scene is, more- over, in all respects in perfect keeping with the spirit of the poem, according to the common Cambridge tradition, Granchester, a parish about two miles south-west of the Uni- versity, to which Gray was in the habit of taking his 'con- stitutionar daily, is the locality of the poem ; and the great bell of St. Mary's is the 'curfew' of the first stanza. Another tradition makes a similar claim for Madingley, some three miles and a half north-weit of Ciimbridge. Jioth places have churchyards such as the AVc/:/y describes ; and tin's is about all that can be said in favour of their pretensions. There is also a parish called Barnham Benches, in Buckinghamshire, PRELIMINARY RFMAP-KS. t2 1 which one writer at least baa suggested as the ecene of the poem." — RoJfe. Epitome. Aa a suitable prelude to the meditations which form the principal feature of the poem ho gives a description (stanzas 1-3) of tho churchyard and its surr^-undings as they a;"pcar to him at tlio approach of the shades of night. The l.fe and fate (1-G) of the humble occupants cf the grave are statcvl, and tho labours, joys, and sorrows which marked their careers (7-11) referred to, whi c tho ambitious and noble are requested not to despise their simple hi;Htory. Circum- stances alone (12-16) prevented them f;om attaining those high positions of influence for which their natural abilities fitted them. Their lot ako saved them (17-19) from commit- ting the crimes of those occupying prominent stations, Eut even they aro not forgotten, since ** frail memorials" ard rude inscriptions (20-21) show that they nre remembered by friends. This is on^y evidence of the universal desire (22-23) ot mankind for immortality. These musings lead him to imagine (24-29) what mny possibly be the thcughts of a "hr.ary-headed Gwain" regarding his own We, The medita- tive inquirer is directed to read his epitaph (30-32), and with this tho poem clones. Its wide fame. **The fame of the E'egy has spread to all countries, and has exercised an influence on all the poetry of Europe, from Denmark to Italy, from France to Tiussia. With the exception of certain works of Byron and Shakes- peare, no E::gli3h poem has been so widely admired and im- itated abroad ; and, after more than a century of existence, • we find it as fresh as ever, when its copies, even the most popular. of all, Lamartine's Le LaCt are faded and tarnished. It possesses the charm of incomparable felicity, of a melody that is not too subtle to charm every ear, of a moral persua- siveness that appeals to every generation, and of metrical Bkill that in each line proclaims tho master. The Elcgj may almost bo look -^d upon as tho typical piece of English verse, our poem of x^ocius ' ^ot that it L 'kI^o ;i«ost brilliant or ori- ^ t. i I I jtki ^ li J" IS 122 PRELIMINARY REMAIiKS. 1^ 3- ■I- i I ginal or profound lyiic in oiiv Inngunge, but l;ccanso it com- bine j in more balanced perfection tliaa a:iy othei* a'.l tho qualities that go to the production of a fino poetical effect." — Gosse. "One peculiar and I'cmarkablo tribute to tl-o meri!} of tho Elegjf" tays Professor Henry rtced, "ia to bo noticed in tlio great number of, translations whivih have been made of ibinto Variona languages, both of ancient and modern Luicpe. It is tho same kind of tribute which has been rendered to Eohinson CrMsce and to Thz Pilfjrlm's Prsr/ress, and is proof of tiic same univcrsrdity of interest, transconuirg ilu limits of lanj,'uago and of race. To no poem in tho English L.nguago baa the same kind of homage been pad to abundantly." "Wolfe's tribute. Lord Mahon, in his History of England, gives a beaut ful account of Wolfe's tribute tj Gray, Refer- ring to tho night cf September 13th, 17."9, the night before tho battlo on tlie Plains of Abraham, the hitoriau says : '* Swif Jy, but silently, did tho boats fall down with tho tide, unobserved l)y the enemy's Bcntincl 5 at their prjsta aiong the shore. Of tho eoldiers on board, how eagerly must every heart have throbbed at thu coming conflict ! hov/" intently must every eye have contemplated tho dark outlijio, ns it lay pencilled upon the midnight sky, and as every moment it gjrew closer and clearer, of the hostile heights ! Not a word was spoken — not a sound heard beyond tho rippling of tho stream. Wolfe alone — thus tradition has told us — repeated in a low tone to the other ofHcers in his boat tho?e beautiful stanzas with whicii a country churchyard inspired tho muse tDf Gray. One noblo line, ' Tho paths of glory lead bu to tho grave,' must have seemed at such a moment fraught with mournful meaning. At tho close of the recitation Wolfo added, * Now, gentlemen, I would rather be tho author of that poem than take Quebec. ' " Tho C2ll3e of its popularity. iHales, in his introduction to the poem, remarks : ** The Elegy is perhaps the most widely PRELIMINARy REMARKS. 143 of tho known puem in our larguage. The reason of this extenpive popularity is |;erhaps to be sought in the fact that i^ expresfcea in an exquisite manner fcolingw and thouglita that are univer- sal. 1\ the current of ideas in the E cfjii/ there is perhaps nothing that is raic, or exceptional, or out of the common way. Tho mnsingg are of the most rational and obvious char- acter possible ; it ia diificult to conceive of any one musing under similar circumstances who should not muse so ; but they are nou che less deep and moving on this account. The mystery of life does not become clearei-, or le^is solemn and awful, for any amount of contemplation. Sucli inevitable, such cverla'^ting questions as rise on the mind when one lingers in the precincts of Death can never lose their fresh- ness, never cease to fascinate and to mo- e. It is with such questions, that would have been commonplace long a.f es since if they could ever be so, that the Elegy deals. It deals with I.. »m in no lofty philosophical manner, but in a si'r.ple, humble, unpretentious way, always with the truest and the broadest humanit;,. The poet's thoughts turn to the poor ; he forgets the fine tombs insido the church, and thinks only ,of the 'mouldering heaps' in tho churchyard. Hence the problem Ihat especially suggests itself is the potential great- ness, when they lived, of the * rude forefathers ' that now lie at his feet. He does not, and cannot solve it, though he finds considerations to mitigate the sadness it must inspire ; but he expresses it in all its awfulness in the most effective language and with the deepest feeling ; and his expression of it has become a living part of our language." **Th0 'Churchyard' abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning 'yet even these bones,' are to me original, I have never seen the notions in any other place ; yet he that reads them here per- suades himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray writ- ten often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him." — Johnson. i < ■ i ■ :ti f *i -y^ i 124 PRELmiXARrf l^'MAJiKA "Of smaller poemi, tho Ek^y ol Gray may bo considered as the most exfluisito and Cuislicd examplo i i the world of the effect resulting from the internuxturo of evening scenery and pathetic reflection." — Drake, "Of tlio form of tha E'cji/ it is euperfluoua to speak ; a poem so dignified and yctso tender, ap;)eal.j immediately, and will continue to appeal, to !-'io hoart of every Englishman, eo lonr; as the care of publio liberty and lovo of tliosoil maintaia their hold in thi^ count; y. In ths poem, as indjcd.in a'.l that Gray ever wrote, we find it hia first principle to prefer his suhject to himself; ho never forgo!; that while ho was a man ho was also an artist, and ho knew that tho functi:)n of art was not moi'ely to indulge nature, but to dignify and rcfiuo it. Yet, in spite of his love of form, there is nothing fiigid or stotuesqMO in the genius of Gray. A vein of deep melancholy, eviilently cousLitutional, runs through hia poetry, and, con- sidering how little he produced, the number of personal al- lusions in bis verses is undoubtedly largo. But ho ia entirely froo from tliat egotism which we have had frequent occasion to blame as the prevailing vico of modern poetry. For where- as the modern poet thrusts his private feelings into promi- nence, and finds a luxury in the confession of liis sorrows, Gray's references to himself are introduced on public grounds, or, in other words, with a view topaeticaleJQfejL"— <2warl«^inii. L. aoUnnia (sollus, complete, and annua, a, year), what takes place every year aa a religious festival, and hence "religious." llold^i. Pervades. 7. Save. A preposition. Originally a verb in the imper itive or perhaps a passive participle. Cf. "except" and see Mason's Grammar, par. 232. ^Vhere, &o. A noun preposition. Cf, Collins, Ode to Evening: " Now air is hnsh'd, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds Hi^ small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twil" ""''.': path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedld^s hum.'* and Macbeth^ iii. 2: " Ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight; ere to black Hecate's sumtQon» The shard-born beetle, with his drowsy hums. Hath rung night'd yawning peal," etc. Beetle, The May-bug, or door-beetle. Droning. Giving a buzzing, useless sound. The drone is a bee that does not collect honey. Notice the tram/erred epithet and Cf. the Traveller I. 187. 8, i>i.'owsy. Lulling, on account of their slow, dull, and monotonous sound. ■■'il Hi i I2f WOTES 1> TfTE ELEGY* Tinklini;;. L. tinnio: Cf. tingle. Folds. Metonymy for flocks. In tliis stanza notice the great abuntlance of epithets. 9. Suvo. A preposition governing the proposition that fol- lows. That. For the Uso •>! this word as a conjunction see Mason, par. 289. Yo9i(lt>r. See Mason, par. 147. MujitltMl. L. vianteluvi, Fr. nwnteauj Ger. mantel, n cloak. Toiver. A, S. toi' or tur, a rock; cf. L. tiirris; Fr. tour. The j)0('t means the old church at Stoke-Pogis, which was cov- ered with ivy ias with a mantle. 19, Moping. Out of spirits or dull. Owl. Mitford quotes Ovid, Met. v. 550: " Ignavus bubo, diriunmortahbus omen;" Thompson, Winierylli: "Assiduous in his bower the wailing owl Plies his sad song; " and Mallet, Excursion : "The wailing owl Screams solitary to the mournful moon." To Joles<. Ij. molest uSyirom moles, a masa... Reign = realm. Cf. Pope : •* The wrat)i which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign The souls of mighty chiefs untimely slain." / NOTES K) THE ELECT, t«9 13. "As he stfincli in the chnrcliymd, iio thinks only of the poorer people, becaaso the bettar-to-do lay int^iTed inside the church. Teunysou (In Menu x.) speiks of resting * beneath the clover sod That takes the sunshine and the rains. Or where the kneeling hamlet drains. The chalice of the grapes of God.' In Gray'g time, and long before, and some time after it, the former resting-place was for the poor, the latter for the rich. It was so in the first instance, for two reasons: (i.) the interior of the church was regarded as of great sanctity, and all who could sought a place in it, the most dearly coveied spot being near the high altar; (ii.) when elaborate tombs were the fashion, they were built inside the church for tiie sake of security, 'gay tombs' being liable to be * robb'd ' (see the funeral dirge in Webster's White Devil), As these two considerations gradually ceased to have power, and other considerations of an opposite tendency be- gan to prevail, the inside of the church became comparatively deserted, except when ancestral reasons gave no ehoico." — Hulet, Riig<{inl. Akin to rough. KliiM. L. ulinus, Ger. ulme. Yew. A. S. iw; L, ivus; Fr. ?/, 14. W^iiei'e, &c. An adverbial proposition modifying the adjuncts "beneath .... elms " and " beneath .... shade." Heave it Used intransitively. The word "heaven" is of the same derivation. 15. Each. Nominative In apposition to " forefathers." . Cell. The grave. Notice the metaphor. 16. Rude. L. rudiSf rough ; here not taken literally bat meaar ing unpolished. Cf. The Traveller, 3i ' " The ntde Carinthian boor.** Hamlet. A. S. ham, home, and let diminntive. CL Ofik- kam, Bucking7trt7n, &c. 17. " This is one of the most striking stanzas in Gray's Elegy, which owes much of its celebrity to the concordance of numbers expressly tuned to the* subjects, and felicity of language both in the sound and the significance of words employed. Yet in the first line of the verse above quoted the far-sought. elegance of oharaoteriatio desoriptiou in the ' breezy call of incense-breathing . m i I d'l VI f 4 1 Ifll 1! h I j 'A 1 130 NOTES TO THE ELEGY. I I I mom * is spoiled utterly by the disagreeable clash between * breezy ' and 'breathing' within a few cyllables of eacli other. Contrast tliis with the corresponciiug line, and the dullest ear will distiu. guish the clear full harmony of * the cock's shrill clarion and the echoing horn.'" — James Monigonienfs Lectures. In the original manuscrii/t this stanza was as follows: "For ever sleep; the broezy call of noom, Or swallow twittering from the itraw-built shed, Or chanticleer so shrill, or echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed." Inrense. Properly a kind of gum which, when burnt, emits a fragrant odour. For the expression "incense-bren thing morn," cf. Milton, Faradise Lost, ix. 292: •' Now when as sacred light began to dawn In Eden on the hi.uiid flowers that breathed Their morning incense." 18. TivitteiiMg. Cf. Dutch Lweitern and Ger. ewitachern. Straw-lmilt. Eeferriuf,' to the thatched roofs. Shed. Cf. Traveller, 102. . 19. Cock's slirill clarion. Rolfe compares, Philips, Cyder, .757: " When chanlicleer with clarion shrill recalls The tardy day ; " Mflton, P.I/., vii. 443: "The crested cock, whose clarion satmdB The silent hours ; " Hamlet, i. 1: " The cock that is the trumpet to the mom;** QndirleB, Argnlus and Parthenia: " I slept not till the early bugle-horn Of chanticlere had snmmon'd in the mom;** and Thomas Kyd, England's Parnassus : " The cheerfiil cock, the sad night's tnmipeter, Wayting upon the rising of the sunnc ; The wandering swallow with her broken Boiig," etc. norn. Of the hunter. 20. Lowly bed. Wakefield remarks: "Some readers, keeji- ing iu mind the 'narrow cell' above, have mistaken the 'lowly bed ' in this verse for the grave — a most puerile and ridiculous WbTES to THE ELEGY. blnnder;" and Mitford says: "Here the epithet 'lowly,* as ap- plied to ' bed,' occasions some ambiguity as to whethar the poet m^aut the bed on which they sleep, or the grave in which they are laid, which in poetry is called a 'lowly bed.' Of course the f jrmer is designed; but Mr. Lloyd, in his . atiu trau^laiion, uxi-i- to ik it for the latter." 21. With the sentiment of the stanza cf. Thompson, WJAiier, 811: " In vain for him the oiHcions wife prepares The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm; In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling stoi-m, demand their sir^ With tears of artless innocence." Slia I. "What is the force of shall here? What wonld wiTl mean ? **—Ilol/e. See Mason, par. 213. 23. Housewife. Gray wrote " huswife." " Hassif " and "hussy," or "huzzy," are contractions. Ply Ixev even iiig care. Mitford says : " To ply a care is an expression that is not proper to our language, and was proba bly formed for the rhyme share.'* Hales remarks: "This is probably the kind of phrase which led Wordsworth to pronounce the language of the Elegy unintelligible. Compare hia own; •And she I cherished turned her wheel Beside an English fire.'" 83, Jfo cliilclvtn, (to. Cf. Shelley, Bevolt of Islam, viii. 4; "What dream ye? Your own hands have built 8. home. Even for yourselves on a beloved shore ; For some, fond eyes are pining till they come. How they will greet him when his toils are o'er, And laughing babes rush from the well-known door! Is this your care ? Ye toil for your own good — Te feel and think — has some immortal power Such purposes; or in a human mood, Dream ye some Power thus builds for man no solitude?" Burns* Cotter's Sat. Night : •* Th' expectant wee things, toddliu', stacher thixmgh To meet their dad, wi' flichterin' noise and glee. His wee-bit ingle blinkin' bounilie, His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifle's smile. The lispin' infant prattlin' on his knee, Does a' his weary oarking cares beguile." I r I ? id M r ii , t'3a NOTES TO TMr: ELECY. I ■ - ' ■ n ■; t I PI Mi : ' il CliiliUvai. A. S. ciJtJ, i-hwA cildrUy cildra. Thib is % cnrious instance of double plural, 24. Euviod kiss. Ttolfe says a MS. variation has "coming kiss." The same critic quotes the following: Virgil, Georgics, ii. /j23: *' Interea dulces pendent circum oscnla nati.* Dryden : " Whose little arms ahont thy legs are cast, And clirabing for a kiss prevent their mother's haste.' •Diomson, Li.herty, iii. 171: " His little children climbing for a kiss.** ^Imi-e. Cf. " shear," " sheer," and " shire.** ?.5. Sfckle. A. S. sicol. What rhetorical fip:ure in this line? 2C. Fnrrow. A. S./wr. The plough is meant. Metonymy. Str.Mioi-n. Cf. " stub," and "stubble." . Glebe. L. gh ha, a clod. The word is now used to signify that which belongs to the incumbent, as such, of a church. Cf. Gray, Falles, ii. 15: " 'Tis mine to tame the stubborn glebe. Broke. For " broken." CI the Traveller, SiiS. 27. Jocnnd. L. jucundus, joyful, an adjective for adverb by enallage. Afield, Cf. ashore, aboard, .7 jar. Cf. also Milton, Z/;/cicZas, 27: " Wo drove a/?., v. 8C : " Sunt mibi, quas possint >eeptra deccre, maiius." Rmi of Empire. The sceptre as an emblem of bovb- relgnty. Instead of " rod " one MS. has " reins." 48. Exla«y, or ecstacy. Gr. ekstasia. li'vviiig lyre. Cf. Cowley: " Begin the song and strike the living hjn*** ad Pope, Wmdsor Forest, 281 : '• Who now shall charm the shades where Cowley strung His living harp, and lofty Denham sung." JiO. Kno-wlfilge. Personification. Aini»lo. L. amplus, large. Ample puge. I^eferriug to the vast amount of knowl«>dge contained in looks. . 50. Rich' Qualifies "page.*' Spoils of Time. The various kinds of Knowledge that have been gained from Ignorance by time and study. Cf. BvownOf lieligio Medici: •' Rich with the spoils of nature." Unroll. Cf . L. revolvere. Account for the word "volume." 51. Chill. Why an appropriate term? l*ennry. L. pennria, poverty. Formerly It also meant meanness, which is retained in " penurious." Repressed, &:c. Their noble desires were kept down by poverty. One MS. has "depress'd." • Rnge. L. rabies, Fr. rage. Here enthusiasm is meant, Cf. Cowley: " Wlio brought green poesy to her perfect ago, And made that art which was a rage / " and Tickell, Prol : " How hind the task 1 How rare the godlike rage ! " C2. Froze, &c. Their desires were checked by poverty as frost checks the natural current of a stream by freezing it. Geiiia!. L. gigno, to be bom, and henco " natural." .53. PuJl, itc. Cf. Bishop Hall, Cnnfoupidt'om: "Therc> is many a rich stone laid up in the bowels of the earth, many a NOTES TO THE ELEGY. 137 fair pearle in tho boaome of tho Bca, that waa novor eccno, nor never Bliall bee«" CL also JMlltuD, Oomioa : " Sea-girt isles, That like to rich and various gems, inlay The unadorned bosom of the deep." i''7/W qualifies "many.** Gem. L. geinvia^ A. S. gim. Purest lay serene. As IT lies retnarlcs, this is a favourite Brrancjement of epithets with Milton. Cf. Ht/mn on Nativity: "flower-inwoven tresses torn;" Comus : "beckoning shadows dire;" "every alloy green," etc.; L' Allegro: "native wood- notes wild;*' Lrjculas: "sad occasion dear;" "blest kingdom meek," etc. Sei-ene. Bright. L. sercnus* 54. Bear. Have. 65. Pull, itc. Rolfe compares Pope, Itape of the Locl\ Iv. 158; " Like roses that in deserts bloom and die.*' Mitford cites Chamberlyane, Phnronida, ii. 4: "Like beauteous flowers which vainly waste their scent . Of. odours in uuhauntpd deserts; ** Young, Univ. Pass. sat. v. : " In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen, She rears her flowers, and r.prmds her velvet greent Pure gur},fling rills the lonely desert trace, And waste their music on the savage race; ** andPhilip, 27/? now. It ms" and ucouth," Rhyiue!3. A. 3, Hm. Earle remarks that h crept in from analogy to " rhythm," Sliapeies.«i, The figures of angles, &c., liave little resem- blance to the objects intended to bo represented. iStriK'tiire. Cleveland quotes Lord Byron's words: "In Gray's Elegy, is there any image more sti'iking than this 'shape- less structure ' ? " lieck'd. Adorned; A. S. decan; cf. L. decuii. 80. Passinjs:. This does not mean " trifling," but rather the "passer-by " who stops and moralises on death, and sympathises with the bereaved. Cf. Lycidas, 19: " So may some gentle Muso With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And, as he passes, turn And bid fair peace be to my sable showed." Tribute. L. trihuo. UiiletterM. Unlearned, alluding to the writer. 82. Klegy. Epitaph in the first reading. "This was an age," Hales remarks, " much given to elaborate epitaphs and elegies." 83. Text. Of Scripture. 84. That teach. Mitford censures " teach " as ungrammati- cal, and thinks Gray originally wrote " to teach," but altered it afterwards for euphony. Rolfe justifies it as a '* construction according to sense." If usage should determine the matter, the construction is ungrammatical. Rustic moralist. The unlearned passer-by who "moral- ises" upon the inscriptions. 85. Hales remarks : "At the first glance it might seem that to dumb Forgetful)) ess a prey was ir. apposition to who, and the meaning was, 'Who that now lies forgotten,' etc.; in which case the second line of the stanza must be closely connected with the fourth; for the question of the passage is not ' Who ever died? ' but * Who ever died without wishing to be remembered? ' But in this way of interpreting this difficult stanza (i.) there is compara- tively little force in the appositional phrase, and (ii.) there is a certain awkwardness in deferring so long the clause (virtually adverbial though apparently c( -ordinate) in which, as has just been noticed, the point of the question really lies. Perhaps, therefore it is better to take the phrase to dumb Forgetfulness a prey as in fact the completion of the predicate resigned, and It iff j^! I' in < M 1 i i.'^l 19 i : I'd si. ;! ' II HI i 144 NOTKS TO THE ELEGY. interpret thus: Who ever resigned this life of his with all its plefiKures and all its jjains to ho utterly ignored and forgotten?= Who ever, when resigning it, reconciled himself to its heing for- gott' n? In this case the second half of the stanza echoes the thought of the first half." After quoting the remarks of Hales, Eolfe says: "We give the note in full and leave the reader to take his choice of the two interpietations. For ourself, we incline to the first rather than the second. We prefer to take to dumb Forgctfvlness a jjrey r.s a))poRitional and prolcptic, and not as the grammatical comple- ment of resigned: Who, yielding himself up a prey to duml) Forgetfulness, ever resigned this life without casting a longing, lingering look hehind?" The argument of Hales, in favour of the second method, remains untouched. For. Not an uncommon word in introducing a statement used to substantiate what has heen asserted. The force may be seen by supplying an ellipsis : " This is the case /or," &c. Prey. In apposition to " being." 87. Warm. With affection. Precincts. Limits, from L. pra and cingere, to limit. 88. iVor, &c. = That did not, &c. 89. In this stanza the poet answers the twice repeated ques- tion of the pievious stanza. Notice the amplification of this and also of line 91. The stanza furnishei an example of a cliviax. Fntifl. Affectionate. Formerly it meant foolish. 90. Pious. Used in the sense of the L. pius, affectionate. Ovid has "piae lacrimae." Mitford quotes Pope, jE'/ci;^/ on an Unfortunate Lady, 49: "No friend's complaint, no kind domestic te.ir Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournful bier; By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd." "In this stanza," says Hales, "he answers in an exquisite man- ner the two questions, or rather the one question twice repeated, of the preceding stanza. . . . What he would say is that every one while a spark of life yet remains in him j^earns for some kindly loving remembrance; nay, even after the spark is quenched, even when all is dust and ashes, that yearning must BtiU be felt." NOTES TO THE ELEGV. 145 «< Ashes. Fires. 91. BSven. Modifies *' from the tomb." Mitford paraphrases the couplet thus: " The voice of Nature still cries from the tomb iu the language of the epit:iph inscribed upou it, which still en- deavours to connect us with the living; the fires of foruier affec- lion are still alive beneath our ashes." 92. An early reading was : " And buried ashes glow with social fires." Of. Cbaucer, G. T., 3380: " Yet in our ashen cold is fire yreken." Tennyson, uaud, I. (x\ii. 11): She is cori^ing, my own, my sweet, Were it ever so airy a tread My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; My dust would hear her and beat. Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet And blossom in purple and red." So called from the early custom of cremation. Aspirations. 93. The original readhig was thiis: — "If chance that e'er some pensive spirit more. By sympathetic musings hero delay'd, With vain, though kind inquiry shall ex()lore Thy once-lov'd haunc, thi^ long-deserted shade." For. Relation: "may say /or thee." Thee. The poet himself. 94. Artlessi Simple. 95. CUaiice. Perchance, an adverb. Coiitemp atioii. Personification, Led. Referring to " spirit." 96. Kimlred. A. S. cyn, and hence of a like meditative nature. 97 Haply, &c. The principal proposition, those in the pre- ceding stanza being subordinate. Swain. A countryman. 98. Cf. Milton, Gointis, 138: " Ere the blabbing eastern scout The nice morn, on the Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep," il i ii •i i I I m T46 NOTES TO THE ELEGY. 99. Cf. Milton, P.L.yV. 428: " though from off the boughs each morn We brush mellifluous dt^wa; " and Arcades, 60 : " Aud from the boughs brush off the evil dew," Wakefield quotes Thomson, S/)rut(j, 103: " Oft let me wander o'er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes, aud dash the trembling drops From the bent brush, as through the verdant maze Of svveetbrier hedges I pursue my '..alk." 100. To meet the *un. To see the sun rise. Upland Sloping upwards. "U|'l;iftd," at one tin:e, meant the country as ()))pos('d to the town. As Itolfe shows, this line wis origiually written thus: " On the high brow of ycmder hanging lawn." After this came the following: " Him have we seen the greenwood side along. While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done, Oft as the woodlark pip'd her faiewell song. With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun." Mason said: " I rather wonder that he rejected tliis stitnza, as it not only has the same sort of Jjoric delicacy, which charms us pecviliai'ly in this part of the poem, but also com])letcs the aceor.nt of hi whole day; whereas, this evening scene being onjitted, we have only his morning walk, and his noontide lepose.'' .101. Nodding. Drooping. 102. Fantastic roots. Alluding to the curious forms into which they are often twisted. Of. Spenser, Bains of Butne, stanza 28: " Shewing her wreathed rootes and naked amies." 103. Li8t:es^. Inattentive, languid. Cf. King Lear, I. 4: "If you will measure your lubber's len;;lh again, tarry; " and Brittain'8 Ida : " Her goodly length sii'etched on a lilly-bed." Noontide. A. S. non-tid. ■ Stretcli. An imperfect rhyme with " beeeh." 104. Babbles. Heb. bavel, ccmfusioi. Cf. Thomson, Spring, G44: "divided by a babbling brook;" and Horace, Od., iii. 13, 15 : " vnde loquaces Lvmphae desiliunt tuae." NOTES TO THE ELEGY. 147 !i~l oi'ms into Wakefield quotes Aa You Like It, II. 1 : '* As he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this road." 105. In one MS. this line reads: " With gestures quaint, now smiling as in scorn." Hard. An adverb modifying " by yon wood." Smiling. Refers to " he," Smiling, muttering, droof ing, xooeful, wan, craz'd, cross' d, describe the varying mood 1 1 the poet. A«, &c. = As he would smile if he smiled in scorn. Of. Shakes., Pass. Pilgrim, 14: '• Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, uill I construe whether." 106. Muttering. L. mutio. 107. "Woefiil-wan. Mitford says : " Woeful-wan is not a le- gitimate compound, and must be divided into two separate parts, for such they are when released from the hanacuffs of the hy- phen." If the hyphen be retained, the epithet = woefully wan ; and if omitted, the expression will mean woeful and wan. "Wakefield quotes Spenser, Sh* . Kal. Juii.: " For pale and wanne he was (alas the while !) May seeme lie loved, or els some care he tooke." Forlorn. "Lorn" is derived from "lose." G'' -iu- give," " forswear," " forsake," " forget," &c. 108. Hopeless. '* Hopeless is here used in a proleptic or anti- cipatory way." — Hales. 109. On, The original MS. has " from." 'CustomM. Cf. 'parting for dtparting, L 1; and 'grav'd for engrav'd, 1. 116. 111. Another. Another morn. Yet. Parse. Rill. Give synonym es, 112. La-*vn. Formerly a meadow. 113. Tile next. The next mom. Uirges. A funeral song. It is derived from the first word in a Latin hymn, beginning, dirige gressus meos; formeily 11 ed by the Catholic Church at funerals. Uue. L. dthere; Fr. devoir, to owe. Array. Fr. arroi. (U ; m i » 148 NOTES TO THE ELEGV. 1J4. Mow. For " slowly," by enaliage. CiiurcU. A. S. circe. CUiit-clivvuy. Church-yard. Some buggest church-kay = churcn-i/urd. CLM, N.JJ.,v.2: " Now it is the time of night, That the graves all gaping uade. Every cue lets forth his sprite In the church way paths to glide.** 116. For. See 85. The " huary-headed swain " himself, it is implied, could not read, since reading was not then a very com- mon accomplishment. l^i^y- A. S. ley. Used instead ol epitaph (Gr. epi and taphos) , on account of the rhyme. 116. 'Gi-av'd. A. S. grafan, to dig. " The old form of the participle ia graven, but graved is also in good use. The old preterite grove is obsolete." — lioLfe. After this stanza, and b( fore the Epitaph, the MS. contains the following omiited stanza: "There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen are frequent viol'ts found; The robin loves to build and warble there, And little footstej)s lightly print the ground." The omission was not made from any objection to the st mza in itself, but simply because it was too long a p.ireii thesis in this place; on the principle wh:oh he states in a letter toDr.Beattie: As to description,! have always thought tliat it made the most graceful ornament of poetry, but never ou-ht to make the sub- ject." The part was sacrifhed for the good of the whole. Mason very justly remarked that "the lines, however, are in themselves exquisitely fine, and demand preservation." 117. Lisip of uurtli. A vietaj.hor, " The poet here speaks of the Earth as his mother, in allusion to the Scriptural accoutit of the Creation of Man from the 'dust of the ground,' and repre- sents himself as sleeping the sleep of death with hia liead restiiig upon her lap, after the manner of a little child." — Stevens and Morris, Cf, Spenser, F. Q., v. 7: " For other beds the priests there used none, But on their Mother Earth's deare lap did lie." • NOTES TO THE ELEGY. 149 S. contains evens a)id Milton, P. L.,x. 777: " Hi)w glad would lay me down, Ab in my mother'.^ lap." 118. Youth. Subject of "robts." PvoM'ii'd iMH. Litotes. 119. Iltiinbie. (. ousult Hie of Gray. 120. i>Itt»'»*'«*« "In aUusioii to the custom of mavl'«*"' An adverb modifying "repose." Gray quotes Petrarch, 6'uM/ie^ 104: "Paventosa speme." Cf. Lucan, Fharsalia^ vii. 297: " Spe trepido;" Mallet, Funeral Hymn, 473: "With trembling tenderness of hope and fear;" and Beaumont, Psyche, xv. 314 : " Divided here 'twixt trembling hope and fear." ; ' ■, i 'f.f J! I 1^ ii 150 NOTES TO THE ELEGY. Hooker (Eccl. Pol., i.) \r . r^ope as " a trembling expectation of things far removed.' 128. Uosom. "This t ..ph h^a been commented on, and translated into different languages, .)^. various men ol eminence, most of them divines. Did it ever occur to f.ny of these that there was an impropriety in making the * bosom ' of Almighty God an abode of human frailty to repose in? Unless, therefore, the author meant by the word * bosom' only remembrance, there is certainly a great inoonsisteucy in the expression.'* — OUveland. ■I '^1 LIFE OP EDMUND BUEKE. Parents. The father of Edmund Burke, Mr. Richard Burke, was descended from some Bourkes of Limorick County, who held a respectable local position in the times of the civil wai^s. He was an attorney of considerable |»r;ictico, a resident of Dublin, and a Protestant in religion. Mrs. Burke belonged to the Nagle family, which had a strung connection in the County of Cork, and like her an- cestorB she remained an adherent of the Catholic faith. Birth, 1729. On the 12th of January of this year Ednmnd Burke was born in Dublin. Heand his two bnjthers were bred in the religion of their father, while their only sister followed the mother's creed. He received the tirst rudiments of education from Mr. O'Halloran, the village school master of Castletown Ruche who many years after- wards used to pride himself on having taught Burke Latin. Like Sir Walter Scott and other distinguished men, delicate health prevented him from engaging in boyish sports, and tended to make him spend much of his time in reading and pondering, sitting by himself in corners. At the age of twelve he attended, ith his two brothers, Garret and Richard, a sclio^ , ■ Ballitore, a village in Kildare ill H <: lis 'i, u '5 LIFE OF EDMUND BURKE. about thirty miles from Dublin. It was to Abraham Sliackletun, a Quakor from Yorkshire, who had already eained a high reputation as teacher of this fjchool, that Burke always [jrofessed he owed whatever !.'aiii had come to him from education. That deep reverence which he always had for homely jrk from the pen of Bolingbroke. So masterly was the imitation of the style, that it deceived many, who took the work for a genuine eti'usion of the distinguished sceptic. In the same year ap- [)cared the Philosophical Inquiry into the Origin of (mr I dean of the Sublime and Beautiful. This work attracted con- siderable attention in England and on the continent but left no permanent impression in the development of aesthetic thought. He became acquainted with men of eminence who appreciated his genius and in whose conversation he took delight. The genial Arthur Murphy, the versatile Garrick, Sir Joshua Reynolds, Oliver Goldsmith and Dr. Samuel Johnson were among his literary friends. He began a series of Hints on the Drama^ wrote an Abridge- ment of the History of England and an Account of the European SettlemeifUs on the Coritinent. 1 1 1 154 LIFE OF EDMUND BURKE. Annual Register, 1769. The Annual Me.gi.tter ww started in 1759 and Burke became the editor and chief contributor. That year — a memurablo one in Canadian history — gave him some fine things to chronicle as historio- grapher. In other respects the first Annual Register could boast of special attractions. In it Burko wrote a review of Johnson's Ra8sela»y not without a kindly expression of wonder, that the nation should as yet have done nothing in acknowledgement of the merit of the author. During these years of literary activity Burke's fame was steadily rising. His various knowledge fairly amazed all with whom he came in contact. Goldsmith placed his ability in conversation above that of Johnson himself. When the famous Literary Club was formed in 1763 he at once became one of its honoured members. Enters Political Life, 1761. His political life began ui 17C1 when he was appointed private Secretary to "Single Speech* Hamilton who then became Chief Secre- tary for Ireland. Here his knowledge of political economy, which was so great as to command the respectful admira- tion of Adam Smith, was of the greatest practical use. The atmosphere of Dublin Castle and the bearing of the coarse- minded Hamilton were not congenial to the clever young Whig, and he threw up a lately conferred pension of £300 a year, returning to London where a brilliant career await- ed him. Enters Parliament, 1766. In 1764 the Marquis of Rockingham, a young nobleman of high character and respectable talents, was placed at the head of a Whig ministry. He appointed Burko, his Secretary. The flattering distinction excited the envy of that malignant pack who throughout his whole career were always baying at the heels of Burke. The meddling and spiteful Duke of Newcastle ran off with a face full of horror to the Prime Minister. "He is an imposter, my dear lord," was the burden of the old busybody's song ; "he is a Papist, sworn to fight against the crown ; a Jesuit in disguise, who got LIFE OF EDMUND RURKF. '55 his training at St. Omer ; a Jacohito, r«ady and willinK to foster rebellioji." In tlie following year a new and great tioUl opened for Hurke's exertions. On the 14th of Janu- ary, 17')<», he took his seat for Wendover, standing for the tirsl time on tlie floor of St Stoplion's Chapel, whose walls were to ring so often with the rolling periods of his .,'rand eloquence, and the peals of acclamation bursting alike troni friend and foe. On the first day of his attendance lie delivered a speech of such power as astonished and (U»lighted no less a critic than the elder William Pitt, elat- ed the sturdy old Johnson and made the relatives of "Ned" proud »>f the name. He s«)on took a front rardt. His deeply rootoidliatio7i in i« 75 and that on Taxatimi exhibit that deep ethical quality which is the prime secret of their convincing power. A Minister, 1782. The Tory government of Lord North was forced to resign in 1782, and the Rockingham party returned to power once more, Burke was made a privy councillor, and obtained the office of Payma.ster of the Forces. He continued to sit during the rest of his parlia- mentary life for Malton. His office was one to which various irregular gains were attached. With singular dis- interestedness he ir.troduced a thorough reform of tlie department, and refused to receive anything beyond the salary for his office. The tenure of power by the new Ministry was brief. In July Rockingham died ; Lord Shel- bume took office; Fox declined to serve under him, and Burke with his loyalty to Fox followed him out of office. Lord Shelburue was obliged to retire and a Coalition Min- LIFE OF EDMUND BURKE. 157 istry under Lord Portland was formed. It contained such an indefeM8i\)le alliance as that of Fox and Lord Nortli. Burke taking his old post at the pay-office. They were uci in office long. The niisgovernnient of India had long bee. a scandal throughout the world. Fox's India Bill weakeiUM the power of the Crown by giving a mass of patronage l- the party which tl)e king hated. The measure was throw h (lut by means of a royal intrigue in the Lords, and tlu' ministers were instantly dismissed. In the election of 1784, the prime minister, young Pitt, was sustained, the action of the kinu against the Portland combination approved of by the nation, and the hopes which Burke had cherished for a political life-time were irretrievably ruined. Trial of Warren Hastings, 1788. Though the rout of the orthodox Whigs was followed by a period of re- pose for the country, it was also followed by one of the most memorable trials recorded in English history. In the famous impeachment of Warren Hastings, Burke stood up in the cause of oppresocd millifms, against a tyranny that surpassed the worst injustice inflicted upon the American colonies. A tyrant, without pity, reniorse, or fear, sat enthroned by the British senate as Governor-General of India. 'Che story of Hasting's crimes, as Macaulay says, made the blood of Burke boil in his veins. The organized extortion and fraud ; the infliction of outrages, insults, and tortures ; a total denial of the rights of the natives as sub- jects of the English government, co isolidated oppression into a system against which there was no appeal. Already in 1785, he delivered one of the most famous of all his speeches, that on the Nabob of Arcot's debts. Now thi " crown of his glory as an orator was won in the great Hall of Westminster, where, in the presence of the noblest and fairest, the wisest and the most gifted of the land, ho uttered the thunders of his eloquence in the impeachment o( Warren Hastings, the Governor-General of India. Open - ing the case in February 1788 in a speech of four days, he continued his statement during certain days of April, and iS8 LIFE OF EDMUND bURKE. I i wound up his charges witli an address, which began on tlie 28th of May and lasted for the nine succeeding days. As !ic spoke, the scen(;ry <)f the East — rice-Held and jungle, voided temple an(i broad-bo^ouied river, Avith a sky of heiited copper glowing ov^r all — pinfolded itself in a brilliant pictur* before the kindle^j fancjl of his audience; and when tin sullerings of the tortun^d Hindoos and the desolation ol their wasted lields w-ere i^liinted, as only Burke could paint in words, the eti'ect o^ the sudden contrast upon those wh< heard him was like t,Ju3 shock of a Leyden jar. Ladie.'- sobbed and screamed, liandkerchiefs and smelling bottle.- were in constant use, and 'somewereevencarriedout in tits. '" That sustained and over-flowing indignation at outraged justice and oppressed humanity which burst forth again and ;igain from the lips of Burke was suoh a scorching lire that even the cool and intrepid Hasiingt. lost his self-control .i.nd cried out with protests and exclamaiions like a criminal writhing under the scourge. Neverthel oss a conviction did not folhjw. The trial lingered too long. The counsel for the defence employed ell'ective tactics. Too many had beer enriched by Hasting's misdeeds. A sum of £20,000 was ex- [)ended by the wealthy defendant in influencing the press. A verdict of acquittal was rendered in 1705. Mr. Burke received for his exertions a vote of thanks which was pro- posed by Mr. Pitt and with this his political life ended, a he immediately afterwards retired from parliament. The Reflections, 1790. For years Burke had watch ed with anxious interest th«* tokens that heralded the com ina: storm in France. He had seen the causes at work that brought about the mighty crash of an ancient throne. Al- ready in 1789, before the horrible phase of the Revolution, the Reign of Terror, had connnenced, Burke made up his mhid regarding the movement. In 1790 appeared the lii- Jlectioiis on the Refvolution in France in which he set forth at length his ideas and proi)hecies. Those who know the in- credible rashness of the revolutionary doctrine then pro- fessed by its admirers and those who know their disregard LIFE OF EDMUND BURKE. 159 II -I I a criuaiic! ! of means to secure the object in view can readily acknow- ledi^'o the sonsible conclusions of Burke in many of his con- tentions. The work had an enormous success, was translat- ed into French and became the text-book of royalists and "empires." (;leorge III. pursued the liejlectiohii with a great deal of pleasure, remarking that it was a book that every gentleman ought to read. The heat and fury with which the author inveighed against the Revolution and everything thereunto appertaining, startled and irritated his old political friends such as Fox, Sheiidan and the rest. The new government of France which Fcjx had praised was declared, by J^urke, in the House of Commons, to be a plundering, ferocious, bloody, tyrannical democracj'. From that time he separated himself from the party with whom ho had acted during his whole parliamentary career. Additional productions. I'.urke's break with his Whig associates was comi)lete. In 171)1 the tliundercloud burst. The scene of the public rupture between him and Fox took place in the Ht)useof Conunons. It occurred in eonnection with the debate on the Quebec Act. Fox went out of his way to laud the French Revolution and to sneer at some etlective passages in the Ixcjlectidus. Burke replied vigorously. " But there is no loss of friends," said Fox in an eager under-tone. "Yes," cried Burke, "there l> th.e inarits of otu' Lord and Saviour Jesus " riet." pr_, jst specimen? Burke flamed ! respects the y glow with kilfully tem- sy stirred the ersion of the government le close of lii,^ ^ far heavier death, from after he had h of Malton. e last hope >etter self." Letters on a !, the writer :'sistent and died quietl} •thed by the the 8th of be a public 3 illustrious ', left strict Te ruijuired ibed on the quiet little tiis last will • Hia mercy iour Jesus ^^ BUUKE'S LITEPxAJlY ClIARACTEH. His style. '* Burke was so far from being a gaudy oi ;lowing writer that he is one of the severest writers. His Aurds are the most like things; his style is the most strictly suited to the subject. He unites every extreme and every variety of composition ; the lowest and the meanest words and descriptions with the highest. He exults in the dis- play of power, in showing the extent, the force, and inten- sity of his ideas. His stock of ideas did not consist of a few meagre facts, meagrely stated, but his mine of wealth was a profcHind understanding, inexhaustible as the human heart and various {is the sources of human nature. If he sometimes multiplies words, it is not for want of ideas, but because there are no words that fully exprea^; his ideas, and he tries to do it as well as he can by dift'erent ones. He had iiotiiing of the set or formal style, the measured cadence, and stately phraseology of Johnston and most of our mod- ern writers." — Hazlit. 'In all its varieties, Burke's style is noble, earnest, deep- Mowing, because his sentiment was lofty and fervid, and went with sincerity and ardent, disciplined travail of judg- ment. He had the style of his t,ubjects, the amplitude, the weightiness, the laboriousness, the sense, the high flight, the grandeur, proper to a man dealing with imperial themes, with the fortunes of great societies, with the sacredness of law, the freedom of nations, the justice of rulers." — Morley, l62 burke's literary character. Ill i: " He ia remarkable for the copiousness and freedom of his diction, the splendour and great variety of his imagery, his astonishing command of general truths, and the ease with which ho seems to wield those fine weapons of language, which most writers are able to man;iifo only by the most anxious care.'' — Cleveland. Powers of Oratory. " His political knowledge was considered almost an encych>p0edia. Learning was his ready servant, presenting to his choice all that antiquity had cull- ed or invented. His i^kill in adapting himself to circum- stances could scarcely be surpassed. Every power of oriito- ry was wielded by him in turn. During Liie same evening he could be pathetic and humorous, acrimonious and con- ciliating ; at one time showing indignation and severity, and at another time calling to his nssiytance ridicule, wit, and mock ^ry. Prior considers that Burke's oratorical style is * not only of tlie very »iip:hest order, but it possesses the first characteristic of genius — ovicjinality. ' Ho further states that his manner partakes of the grandeur of Cicero, ' with more of richnesb, of masculine energy and altogether a greater reach of mind,' V)nt ' with less of chastity, of elaborate elc^qu -nee or methodical arrangement.' ** His narration of fact- is niost lucid ; the nii^t compli- cated case he uni.ivels ^iti< admirable skill. Tho arrange- ment of his topics, without hein?^ too formal, is clear and logical. He selects and marshals his arguments with sin- gular art, grouping the 1 in masiies, illumining them with historical ill u.- rations, or j.hilosophic reflecti(ms, or adorn- ing them wi' I the splendotir of description." — RoherUoii. His Conserv^atism. * " His aim, therefore, in our domestic p^cy was to preserve things, in the main, as they are ; ior the simple reason that under it the nation had become great and prosperous. Not to shut our eyes to abuso — his whole life, he said, hpd been spent in resistiny and repealing abuses — but to amend deliberately and cau- tiously ; to innovate not at all, for innovation was not refor- nmticn ; to overturn nothing which had the saQction of burke's literary CHARACTER- i6% time a,nd many happy days in its favour ; to correct and perfect the superstructures, but to leave nil the foundations, the antiquity of. which was a guarantee of their stabilitj in opinion, sacred and unharmed." — Prior. *' His principles were altogether averse from a purely democratic constitution of governuient from the first. He always, indeed, denied that he was a man of aristocratic in- clinations, meaning by that, one who favoured the aristo- cratic more than the popular element in the constitution ; but he no more for all that, ever professed any wish wholly to extinguish the former element than the latter. —Fenny Cijfhtpa'dio, His Liberalism. The liberal views of Burke are shown in the measures he advocated :— the conciliation of Vmerica ; concessions to the Irish legislature ; removal of restrictions on Roman Catholics ; justice and security to India ; liberty of conscience to dissenters ; the sup/jiession of general warrants ; the abolition of the slave trade ; the extension of the power of juries ; publicity of patliament- ary debates ; rights of electors in the case of Wilkes ; re- sistance to harsh claims of the crown or the church ; retrenchment of expenditure without parsimony, and many other important reforms. His Patriotism. He was no flaming patriot, having early declared in the House of Commons *' that being warned by the ill efiects of a contrary procedure, he had taken his ideas of lil)erty very low, in order that they should stick to him, and that he might stick to them to the end of his life." Superior to all party considerations, his enlightened patriotism proffered support to the government during the riots of 1780, and brought him forward with ir- resistible power in the still more fearful crisis of the French revolution. Attached to the monarchy from principle and conviction, while sprung from the middle ranks of the peo- ple, he rendered a service never to be forgotten , when one of the greatest movements of modern history threatened to destroy all that is good in the political, moral, and r©Ii- gious iiiBtituiions of the country. I I i6i burkf's literary character. I If* i II M?,m 11 " He separated himself from his party, and even from Ills friv ds and associates with whom he had passed his life, when, whether rightly or wrongly he conceived that a higher duty than tint of fidelity to his party-banner called upon him to take that course. — OraiA", " " He brought to politics a horror of crime, a vivacity and sincerity of conscience, a humanity, a sensibility, which seem only suitable to a young man. He 1 ased hu- man society on maxims of morality, insisted, on a high and pure tone of feeling in the conduct of public business, and seemed to have undertaken to raise and authorize the gen- erosity of the human heart. He fought n(tl)ly for noble causes ; against the crimes of power in England, the ^he crimes of the pevjple of France, the crimes of monopo- lists in India. "- Tain*. " Burke grew purer and more powerful for good, to his latest moment ; he C(mstantly rose more and more above the influence of party, until at last the politician was ele- vated into the philosopher." — Croly. A Philosophical Statesman. ' ' He was the most sci- tintitic of statesmen, and referred habitually to principles. This is his first excellence ; and as all his speeches were written under the control of this faculty, and were careful- ly prepared for the press, they are still valuable though the circumstances and events to which they relate have passed away ; at the same tiiiie the imagery and illustration in which they abound make them interest ing to the literary student. In his political writings he is apt to exaggerate in tone and statement, and occasionally he transgresses the bounds of correct taste. But in various knowledc^e, in splendid language, in profound philosophical reflection they are unsurpassed ; nor would it be possible to find writings more suggestive of lessons of political sagac " f^^y ap- plicable to all time." — Angus. **He possessed and had sedulously sharpened that eye which sees all things, actions, and events, in relation to fche laws which determine their existence and circumscribe Burke's literary character. ^65 their possibility. He referred habitually to principles — he was a scientific statesman." — Coleridge. Influence. " There is no political Hgiiro of the eigh- teenth century which retains so enduring an int' rest, or which repays so amply a careful study, ns Edmund Burke. All otlier statesmen seem to belong wh(»lly to the past ; for although many of their achiovements remain, the prt)found changes that have taken place in the conditions of English political life have destroyed the significance of their policy and their exam[)le. A few fine flashes of rhetoric, a few happy epigrams, a few labouiei speeches which now seem cold, lifeless and commou-t»lace, are all that remain of tlu' Pitts, of Fox, of Sheridan, or of Phudled to the dust Conspicu- ous among the agencies that were at work was fhenew power of public opinion. Burke saw this, and to public opinion he successfully made his appeal. As he could find no audience in the House of Commons he addressed the nation at large. He recognized what is now obvious enough, that England's policy must depend on a reasonable democracy. Already democracy had become a power. The immorality of many politicians of the day had awakened distrust, and a demand for reform arose. It was a time of great uncertainty as to the future and of general distrust of the existing frame- work of society. Burke refutes the notion that the revolu- tion in France resembled the English revolution. That of 1088, he held was a revolution not made, but prevented. The French revolution had aiders and abettors in England, who openly avowed their purpose to bring about a similar catastrophe in their own country. Some of these English '* sympathisers " were persons long politically hateful to Burke. His aim was not so much to attack the French, as tlio English revolutionists— not so much to asperse Mira- beau, as Dr. Price and Lord StaTilx po. ilE-PT.EOTIONS ON THE REVOLUTION IN FKANCE. :o: I find a preacher of the gospel profaning the beauti- ful and prophetic ejaculation, commonly called " nunc dimittis,'' made on the first presentation of our Saviour in the temple, and applying it, with an inhuman and unnatural rapture, to the most horrid, atrocious, and 6 afflicting spectacle that perhaps ever was exliihited to the pity and indignation of mankind. This " lead- ing in ti'iumph," a thing in its best form unmanly and inoligioua, which fills our preacher with such unhallow- e 75 clubs alone that the public meaaurea Jiro defonned into monaturs. Tliey undin'LCo a previous distortion in acad- emies, inteniled as so many seminaries for these clubs, which are set up in all the places of public resort. In these meetin<4s of all aorta, every counsel, in ])roportioM as it is daring, and violetit, and ptu'lidi(»us, is taken tor the mark of su[»erior geiiiua. Humanity and compass- ion are ridicideil as the fruits of superstition and igno- rance. Tenderness to individuals is considered astreascm 70 to the i»ublic. Liberty is ahvays to be estimated i)er- fect as property is rendered in.secure. .Amidst aasassi- lu.lion, !nasaaore, and contiacation, perpetrated ii Who is it that admires, and from the heart ia attach- ed to national representative assemblies, but must turn 100 with horror and disgust from such a profane burlesque, and abominable perversion of tliat s.icrely I How must that 110 assembly be silently scandalized with those of their membura who could call a day which seemed to blot the sun out of heaven, "n?i beau jour .^" ' How must they be inwardly indignant at hearing others, who thought fit to declare to them, " that the vessel of the state 116 would fly forward in her course towards regeneration with more speed than ever," from the stiff gale oV treas- onand murder, which preceded our preacher's triumph ! What must they have felt, whilst, with outward pa- tience, and inward indignation, they heard of the 120 slaughter of innocent gentlemen in their houses, that ' ' the blood spilled was not the most pure ! " What must they have felt when they were besieged by com- plaints of disorders which shook their country to its foundations, at being compelled coolly to tell the com- 125 plainants that they were under the protection of the law, and that they would address the kitig (the captive king) to cause the laws to be enforced for their protec- tion ; when the enslaved ministers of that captive king had formally notified them, that there were neith- 130 er laAv, nor authority, nor power left to protect ! What must they have felt at being obliged, asa felicitation on the present new 5'^ear, to request their capti^ e king to forget the stormy period of the last, on account of the great good which he was likely to produce to his peo- 135'^ 1 6th of October, 1789. REFLECTIONS ON THK FRLNCH REVOLUTION, I 77 pie ; to the complete attainiuent of which gotid tiny udjourneti the practical (leinonatratiuns of their loyalty, ussuriiiL,' hiikj of their obedience, when he should no Ioniser possess any authority to couunand ! 140 This address was made with much good nature and .lU'ectiiMi, to be sure. But among the revolutions in Kranci! must bo reckoned a considerabia rcvoluti(jn in their ideas of politeness, [n Kngland we are said to learn manners at second-hand from your side of the 145 water, and that we dress our behaviour in the frippery of France. If so, we are still in the v-)ld cut ; and have not 80 far conformed to the new Parisian mode of good breeding, as to think it quite in the most refined strain of delicate compliment (whether in condolence or in 150 congratulation) to say, to the most humiliated creature that crawls upon the earth, that great public benefits are derived from the murder of his servants, the at- tempted assassination of himself and of his wife, and the mortification, disgrace and degradation that he has 155 personally sufi'ered. ft is a topic of consolati, the king and queen of 185 France, after a day of confu«ion, akirni, dismay and slaughter, lay down, un her to save herself l)y Hight — that this was the last proof of fidelity he could give — that they were upon him, and he was diad. Instjint- ly he was cut down. A band of cruel rutiians and ass- assins, reeking with his blood, rushed into the chair 195 ber of the queen, and pierced with a bundled strokes of bayonets and poniards, the bed fiom whence this persecuted woman had but just time to tiy almost nak- ed, and, through ways unknown to the murderers, had escaped to seek refuge at the feet of a king and hus- 200 band, not secure of his own life for a moment. This king, to say no more of him, and this queen, and their infant children, (who once would have been the ho])e and pride of a great and generous people,) were tlien forced to abandon the sanctuary of the most 205 splendid i>alace in the world, which they left swim- ming in blood, polluted by massacre and strewed with scattered limbs and mutihited carcases. Thence they were conducted into the capital of their kingdom. Two had been selected from the unprovoked, unresisted, 2X0 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. I 79 ]»r()miaciu»U8 slaughter, which was inatives who f(»llowed ill the train were slowly moved along, amidst the hor- v\d yells and shrilling screams, and frantic dances, and infamous contumelies, and all the unutterable abomin- 220 iitions of the furies of hell, in the al)U8od shape of the vilest of vvomun. After they had been made to taate, drop l>y drop, more than the bitterness of death, in tluj slow torture of a journey of twelve miles, protract- ed to six hours, they wore, under a guard, composed of 225 those vijry soldiers who had thus conducted them through tliirt famous triumph, lodged in one of the old palacei of Paris, now converted int(j a bastile for kings. Is this a triumph to be consecrated at altars ? to be commemorated with grateful thanksgiving? 10 be offer- 230 ud to the divine humanity wi^h fervent prayer and en- thusiastic ejaculation ? — These Theban and Thracian i.igies, acted in France, and applauded only in the Old Jtnvry, I assure you, kindle prophetic enthusiasm in tlie minds but of very few people in this kingdom : al- 235 though a saint and apostle, who may have revelations of his own, and who has so completely vanquished all the mean superstitiiins of the heart, may incline to think it pious and decorous to compare it with the en- trance into the world of the Prince of Peace, proclaim- 240 ed in a holy temple by a venerable sage, and not long before not worse announced by the voice of angels to the (|uiet innocence cf shepherds. At first I was at a loss to account for this fit of un- guarded transport. I knew, indeed, that the sufferings 245 of monarchs make a delicious repast for some sort, of palates. There were reffections which might serve to s4i I So REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. % i;; keep this appetite within scrae bounds of temperance. But when I took one circumstance into my considei'a- t,ion, I was obliged to confess, that much allowance 250 ought to be made for the society, and that the tempta- tion was too strong for common discretion ; I mean, the circumstance of the lo Pfean of the triumph, the ani- mati'ig cry which called "' for all the BISHOPS to be hanged on the lamp-posts,"^ might well have brought 255 forth a burst of enthusiasm on the foreseen consequen- ces of this happy day. I allow to so much enthusiasm some little deviation from prudence. I allow this prophet to break forth into hymns of joy and thanks- giving on an event which appears like the precursor of 260 the Millenium, and the projected fifth monarchy, in the destruction of all church establishments. There was, however, (as in all human affairs there is,) in the midst of this joy, something to exercise the patience of these worthy gentlemen, and to try the long-suffering 265 of their faith. The actual murder of the king and queen, and their child, was wanting to the other auspicious circumstances of this " beautiful day." The actual mur- der of the bishops, though called for by so many holy ejaculations, was also wanting. A group of regicide 270 and sacrilegious slaughter, was indeed l)oldly sketched, but it w; s only sketched. It unhappily v/as left unfin- ished in this great history-piece of the massacre of in- nocents. What hardy pencil of a great master, from the school of. the rights of men, will finish it, is to be 275 seen hereafter. The age has not yet the complete bene- fit of that diffusion of knowledge that has undermined superstition and error j and the king of France wants another object or two to consign to oblivion, in consid- eration of all the good which is to arise from his own 280 I Tous les Ev toques k la lanterne. REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTIOM. i8l sufferings, and the patriotic crimes of an enlightened age.^ 1 It is proper here to refer to a letter written upon this subject by an eye-witness. That eye-witness was one of the most honest, intelligent, 285 and eloquent members of the National Assembly, one of the most ac- tive ami zealous retormers of the state, lie was oblijjed to secede from the assembly ; and he after .>ards heiam-ja voluntas txile, on account of the horrors of this pious triumph, and the disjtositiotis of men who, protitinj; of crimes, if not causinjjf them, have tak n the lead in public ^ffO affairs. Extract of M. de Lallif ToUendal's Second Letter to a Friend, " Parlous du parti que j ai pris; ilest bien justifie dans ma conscience — Ni cette ville coupable, ni cette assemblde plus coupable encore, ne meritoient que je me justifie ; mais j'ai k cceur (jue vous, et les per- 295 sonnes qui pensent comme vous, ne me condamnent pas. — Ma sant6, je vous jure, me rendoit mes fonctions impossibles ; mais nieme en les niettant de cotdi il a tte au-dessus de mes forces de supporter plus lonp- tems I'horreur que me causoitce sanuf.-ces tetes— cette reinc jirenqiie eg >ri]i>e, ce rci. — amend sclave, — entrants Paris, au milieu deses assas- 300 sins, et precede destetes deses malheureux grades — ces perfides janis- saires, ces assassins, ces femmeseannibales, ce cri de Tois liKs kvkquks A LA LAXTEH.NK, daiis Ic moment oii le roi entrc sa capitale avec deux ^vcquesde son conseil dans sa voiture — un coup de fiiurl, que j'ai vu tirer d'xna \inde. leur donnc;." This military man had not so good nerves as the peaceable gentle- man of the Old Jewrj'. — See Mon.-^. Mounier's narrative of these trans- actions ; a man also of honour, and ^■irtue and talents, and therefore a 336 fugitive. * N. B. Mr. Mounter was then speaker of the National Assembly, He has since been obliged to live in exile, though one of the firmest m> sartors of liberty, ij: :i 182 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. iff I'm Althoufrh this work of onr new light and knowledge 340 did not go to the length tliat in all probability it was intended it should be carried, yet I must think that such treatment of any human creatures must be shock- ing to any but those who are made for accomplishing Revolutions. l:>ut I cannot stop here. Influenced by .345 the inborn feelings of my nature, and not being illumi- nated by a single ray of this new-sprung modern liLrht, I confess to you, Sir, that the exalted rank of the per- sons suffering, and }>artioul;irly the sex, the beauty, and the amial)le qualities of the descendant of so many .'350 kings and emperors, with the tender age of roya] in- fants, insensible only through infancy and innocence of the cruel outrages to which their [)arents were ex- posed, instead of being a subject of exultation, adds not a little to my sensibility on that most melancholy .355 oocasicm. I hear that the august person, who was the principal object of our preacher's triumph, though he supported himself, felt much on that shameful occasion. As a man, it became him to feel for his wife and his children, .3(i0 and the faithful guards of his person, that wei-e mas- sacred in cold blood abf)ut him ; as a prince, it became him to feel for the strange and frightful transformation of his civilized subjects, and to be more grieved for them than solicitous for himself. It derogates little .305 from his fortitude, while it adds infinitelv to the hon- our of his humanity. I am very sorry to My it, very sorry indeed, that such personages are in a situation in which it is not unbecoming in us to praise the virtues of the great. 370 I hear, and T rejoice to hear, th .1 the great lidy, the other object of the triumph, has borne that day (one is interested that beings made for suffering should suffer well), and that she bears all the succeeding d?iys, that she bears the imprisonment of her husband, and 375 her own captivity, and the exile of her friends, and the REFLECTlONfS ON THK FRENCH REVOLUTION. I 83 i insnltin.Ej adulation of addresses, aiul the whole weight of lier iiccuniulatod wrongs, with a serene patience, in a manner suited to her rank and race, and beeoiiiin'^ the otfsprini; of a sovereign (li:stin<,'iushed for her piety 380 and her courage : that, like her, she lias lofty senti- ments; that she feels with the dignity of a Roman matron ; that in the last extremity she will save lier- self from the last disgrace ; and that, if she uiust fall, she will fall by no ignoble hand. ' 385 It is now sixteen or sesenteen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at V^ersailles , and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the 390 elevated sphere she just btgan to move in, — glittering like the morning-star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh ! what a revolution ! and what a heart must i have to conteniplate without emotion that elevation and that fall ! Little did I dream when she added 395 titles oi veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom ; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant 400 men, in a nation of men of honour, and of cavaliers. 1 thought ten thousand swords nuist have le.aped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone. That of sophisters, economists, and calcuhitors, has 405 succeeded ; and the glory «>f Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that pn)ud submis- sion, that dignitied obedience, that subordination of the heart, which koi)t alive, even in servitude itself, 410 the spirit of an exalted freedom. The uubought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, 11 ,L 184 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage 415 wliilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness. This mixed system of o|)inion and sentiment had its origin in the ancient chivaliy ; and the principle, 420 though varied in its appearance by the varying state of human aiiaira, subsisted and influenced through a long succession of generations, even to the time we live in. If it should ever be totally extinguished, the loss I fear will be great. It is this which has given its 425 character to modern Europe. It is this which has dis- tinguished it under all its forms of government, and distinguished it to its advantage, from tlie states of Asia, and possibly from those states which flourished in the most brilliant periods of the anti(iue world. It 430 was til's, which, without confounding ranks, had pro- duced a noble equality, and handed it down through all the gradations of social life. It was this opinion which mitigated kings into companions, and raised private men to be fellows with kings. Without force 435 or opposition, it : subdued the fierceness of pride and power ; it obliged sovereigns to submit to the soft collar of social esteem, compelled stern authority to submit to elegance, and gave a dominating vanquisher of laws to be subdued by manners. 440 But now all is to be changed. All the pleasing illu- sions, which made power gentle and obedience liberal, which harmonized the difl'erent shades of life, and which by a bland assimila^^ion, incorporated into politics the Bentiments which beautify and soften private 445 society, are to be dissolved by this new conquering empire of li^ht and reason. All the decent drapery of life is to be rudely torn oft". All the super-added ideas, furnished from the wardrobe of moral imagina- tion, which the heart owns, and the understanding 450 REFLECTIONS ON THK FRENCH REVOLUTION. 1 85 ratifies, as necessary to cover the defects of our naked, shiverin,!^ nature, and lo raise it to di^^nity in our own estimation, are to be exploded as a rediculous, absurd, and antiquated fashion. On this scheme of thinj^s, a king is but a man, a 455 queen is but a woman ; a woman is but an animal, and an animal not of the hicjhest order. All homai^^e paid to the sex in general as such, and without distinct views, is to be regarded as romance and folly. Regicide, and parricide, and sacrilege, are but fictions of super- 400 stition, corrupting jurisprudence by destroying its simplicity. The murder of a king, or a queen, or a bishop, or a father, are only common homicide ; and if the people are by any chance, or in any way, gainers by it, a sort of homicide much the most pardonable, 465 and into which we ought not to make too severe a scrutiny. On the scheme of this barbarous philosophy, which is the ofi'spring of cold hearts and muddy understand- ings, and which is as void of solid wisdom aa it is 470 destitute of all taste and elegance, laws are to be sup- ported only by their own terrors, and by the concern which each individual may find in them from his own private speculations, or can spare to t^ ■ nui his own private interests. In the groves of ^'w^, iemy, at the 475 end of every visto, you see nothing but tlie gallows. No- thing is left which engages the afiections on the part of the commonwealth. On the principles of this me- chanic philosophy, our institutions can never be em- bodied, if 1 may use the expression, in persons ; so as 480 to create in us love, veneration, admiration, or attach- ment. But that sort of reason which banishes the atfections is incapable of filling their place. These public affections, combined with manners, are required sometimes as supplements, sometimes as correctives, 485 always as aids to law. The precept given by a wise man, as well as a great critic, for the construction of III 1^. ' i| I. ' 1 1 ■■'. » 1 86 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. n ' I I < i poems, is equally true as to states : — Non satU est ptd- r,h,rQ. i88 REFLECTIONS ON THE KllENCM REVOLUTION*, stand without these old fundamental principles, what sort of a thing must be a nation of gross, stupid, fero- cious, and, at the same time, poor and sordid, barbar- ians, destitute of religion, honour, or manly pride, 505 possessing nothing at present, and li oping for nothing hereafter 'i I wish you may not be going fast, ar»d by the short- est cut, to that horrible and disgustful situatioii. Already there appears a poverty ut conception, a 570 coarseness and vulgarity, in all the proceedings of the Asseuibly and of all their instructors. TlitMr liberty is not liberal. Their science is presumptuous ignorance. Their humanity is savage and brutal. It is not clear, whether in England we learned those 575 grand and decorous principles and manners, of which considerable traces yet remain, from you, or whether you took them f ro n us. But to you, 1 think, we trace them best. You seem to me to be- geidis incunabula nostrce. France has always more or less iuHuenced man- 580 ners in England ; and wlien your fountain is choLod up and polluted, the stream will not run long, or n jt run clear, with us, or perhaps with any nation. This gives all Europe, in my opinion, but too close and con- nected a concern in what is done in France. Excuse 585 me, therefore, if I have dwelt too long on the atrocious spectacle of the 6th of October, 1780, or have given too much scope to the reflections vvhich have arisen in my mind on occasion of the most import;;nt of all rev(Ju- tions, which may be dated from that day, T mean a re- 590' volution in sentiments, manners, and moral opinions. As things now stand, with everything respectable de- stroyed without us, and an attempt to destroy within us every principle of respect, one is almost forced to apolo- gize for harbouring the common feelings of men. 695 Why do I feel so ditFerently from the Reverend Dr. Price, and those of his lay flock who will choose to adopt the sentiments of his discourse ? — For this plain reason REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH UKTOLUTION. 189 — becauso it is natural T should ; W iiuso wo iire so made, as to be alt'octvul at such apoctacloM with uiohmcholy ♦iOO Bonti)neuts ui>oa the unstable uoudition of uu)rtal [>ro- .si)ority,:uKUhe treuioiidous unoortaiiity of liumati great- ness ; because in those natural feuliuifs wo learn great lessons ; IxM^ause in events like these our passions in- .-,truct our reason ; because when kings are hurled from (iOf) ilieir thrones by the Supieuu? Director of this great diaiua. and beeonio the tdjjects of insult to the base, and of pity to the 4served) are purified by terror and [)ity ; our weak, unthinking ])ridi is li urn- bled under the dispensations of a mysterious wisdom. Some tears might be drawn from me, if such a spect- acle were exhibited on the stage. I should be truly 015 ashatned of finding in myself that supi rlicial, theatric sense of painted distress, whilst T could exult over it in real life. With such apervertedmind, [could never venture to show my face at a tragedy. l*eoi»le would think the tears that Garrick formerly, or that Siddons (»20 not long since, have extorted from me, were the tears oi hypocrisy ; I should know them to be the tears of folly. Indeeil the theatre is a better school of moral senti- ments than churches, where the feelings of humanity are thus outraged. Poets who have to deal with an audi- 625 ence not yet graduated in the school of the rights of men, and who must ajjply themselves to the moral con- stitution of the heart, would not dare to produce such a triumph as a matter of exult;ition. There, where men follow their natural impulses, they would not bear the 630 odious maxims of a Maoliiavelian policy, whether ap- plied to the attainment of monarchical or democratic tyranny. They would reject them r weigiiing, as it were in scales hunirinashop ()4(l of horrors, — so inneli aetual crime ai;;iinst so much con- tingent advantage, - and after [»utting in and out weights, declaring that the balance uas on the iido of the advantages. Tlu\y would not b(>ar to see the crimes of new democracy posted as in a ledger against the 040 crimes of old ilespotism, and thehook-keei)ers of politics finding democracy still in debt, but by no means unable or unwilling to pay the balance. In the tlieatre, the first intuitive glance, without any elaborate process of reasoning, will sh<»w, that this method of political compu- ()50 tation would justify every extent of ciime. They would see, that on these principles, even where the very worst acts were not perpetrated, it was owing rather to the fortune of the conspirators, than to their parsimony in the expenditure of tieachery and blood. They would 055 soon see, that criminal means once tolerated are soon preferred. They present a shorter cut to the object than through the highway of the uioial virtues. Jus- tilying pertidy and nun-der for public benefit, public benefit would soon become the pretext, and perfidy 000 and murder the end ; until rapacity, malice, revenge, and fear more dreadful than revenge, could satiate their insatiable appetites. Such must be the conse- quences of losing, in the splendour of these triumi)hs of the rights of men, all natural sense of wrongand right. 005 But the reverend pastt^' exults in this "leading in tri- umph," because truly Louis the Sixteenth was "an arbitrary monarch ;" that is, in other woids, neither more nor less than because he was Louis the Sixteenth, and beaause he had the misfortune to be born king 070 of France, with the prerogatives of which, a long line of ancestors, and a long ac(]|uiescence of the people, REFM-'.CTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTIOM. I91 without any act of liis, had put him in possossiou. A mist'ortuni; it has indm'd tuniod outtohim, that ho was l)oiii hiiiu of Fr;uic(!. Kiit niisfortuiio iHiiotcrimu, nor iub is indi8creti»)n always the giv:it»'st ijuilt. I Hh;ill nevor think that a priiioo, tho acts ot wh()8o wJiole ivign wwo a series of concessions to his subjects, who was willing to relax his authority, to remit his [)rerogative8, to call his people to a shai'e of freedom, not known, perhaps OHO not desired, by their ancestors ; such a prince, thouj. h he should be subjected to the common frailllt!s attachfc»(l to men and to princ(^s, thoujjjh he should have c»nce thought it necessary to provide force ai^ainst th«t des- perate 'esisjns manifestly canying on against his per- r-H;"! son, and tlie remnants of his authoritv ; tlioiiLdi all this should be taken into consider ition. I shall be led with great difficulty to think he deserves the cruel and insnlting triumph of Pjiris, and of Dr. Price. I tremble for the cause of liberty, from such an example to kings, 090 I tremble for the cause of humanity, in the uni»unish- ed outrages of the most wicked of mankind. But there are some people of that lo)V and degenerate fashion of mind, that they look up with a soi't of com])]acent awe and admiration t;* kings, who know t<» keeptirm in their (>05 seat, to hold a strict hand over their subjects, to assert their prerogative, and, by the awakened vigilance of a severe despotism, to guard against the very first a})- proaches of freedom. Against such as these they never elevate their voice. Deserters from principle, listed ', 00 with fortune, thoyoiever see any good in suffering virtue, n(»r any crime in prosperous usurpation. If it could have been made clear to me, that the king and queen of Franco (those I mean who were such before the triumph) were inexorable and cruel tyrants, 705 that they had formed a deliberate scheme for massacr- ing the National Assembly, (I think I have seen some- thing like the latter insinuated in certain publications,) i should think their captivity just. If this be true, Il Ij 193 ri:fllctions oj^ tui: frknch revolvtion. iiiuch more ought to have been clone, but done, in my 710 Dpiiiioii, in aiiothoi' iiiaiau;!'. Thu puni.sliUK'nt of real tyrants \h u noble and awlul act of ju»iioe; and it has with trulli been .said to be eojisolatory to the human mind. Hut if J were to punish a wicked ln fast in Newgate ; and neithei' his heing a public proselyte to Ju(hiisin, nor his having, in his zeal agaiiist catholic priests and all sorts of ecclesi- astics, raised a mob (oxcnse the term, it is still in use 7^^^^ hero) which pulled rlown all our pristms, have pi eserved to him a liberty, of which he did not render liimself worthy liy a virtuous use of it. We havt; rebuilt New- Ljiite, and tenanted the njansion, Wv. have priscnis al- most as srronu as the liastile, ft>r those who dare to libel 7<*>'> the queens of France. In this spiiitual retreat, let the noble libellei" remain. Let him there meditate on his rhahnud, until he learns a conduct more becoming hi« i>irth and parts, and not so disgraceful to the ancient religion to which he has become a proselyte ; or until 7<)<^> some persons from your side of the water, to pleaae 3'()ur new Hebrew brethren, shall ransom him. He may then be enabled to purchase, with the old lioards of the synagogue, and a very small poundage on the long compound interest of the thirty pieces of silver, 770 I Dr. Price has shown us what miracles compound in- terest will perform in 1790 years), the lands which are lately discovered to have been usurped by the (jallican church. Send us your Popish archbishop of Paris, and we will send you our Protestant Rabbin. Wc 77;" shall treat the person you send us in exchange like a irontleman and an honest man, as he is; but pray let him bring with him the fund of his hospitality, bnui>ty, and charity; and, depend up<^»n it, we shall never con- fiscate a shilling of that honourable and pious fund, 780 nor think of enriching the treasury with the spoils of the poor-box. To tell you the truth, my dear Sir, I think the honour of onr nation to be somewhat concerned in ihtf I i ri ij i 4 , ^ J si i« Kf ^, .'I I 194 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLTTTfON. disclaimer of the proceecliiii^s of this society of the Old 785 Jewry and the London Tavern. I have no man's proxy. I speak only fov myself, when I disclaim, as I do with all possible earniistness, all communion with the Jictors in that triumph, or with the admirers of it. When I assert anything; «^l.^e, as concerning the people 700 of England, I speak from observation, not from auth- ority ; but I speak from the experience I have had in a pretty extensive and mixed communication with the inhabitants of this kini^dom, of all descriptions and ranks, and after a course of attentive observaticm, 7^5 began early in life, and continued for nearly foi-ty years. I have often been astonished, consideritig that we are divided from yo\i but by a slender dyke of about twenty-four miles, and that the mutual intercourse between the two countries has lately been very great, 800 to find how little you seem to know of us. 1 suspect that this is owing to yop.r forming a judgment oF this nation from certain publications, which do, very erron- eously, if they do at all, represent the o|»inions and dispositions generally prevalent in England. The HOn vanity, restlessness, petulance, and spirit of intrigue, of several petty cabals, who attempt to hide tlicir total want of conse(|uence in bustle and noise, and puffing, and mutual quotation of each oth^", make you imagine that our contemptuous neglect ot heir .abilities is a 810 mark of geiuiral acquiescenfe in tht.r opinions. No such thing, T assure you. Because half a dozen grass- hoppers under a fern make the field ring with their im- portunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle, re- posed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the 815 cud .uid are silent, pray do not imagine that those who mako the noise are the only inhabitants of the field; that, of course, they are many in number ; or that, after all, they are other than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome, insects 820 of the hour. ;liiii; i REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 1 95 the Old 785 r almost- venture to afHrni, that not one in a huiuired amongst ua participates in the "triumph" of the Revo- lution Society. If the king and queen of Franc<% and tlieir children, were to fall into our hands hy the chance 82;") of war, in the most acrimonious of all hostilitios, (I (loprecate such an event, T deprecate such hostility), they would be treated with another sort of triumphal entry into London. We formerly have had a king of France in that situation ; you have read how he was 83(> treated by the victor in the field ; and in what manner he was afterwards received in England. Four hundred years have gone over us ; but T believe we are not mat- erially chanL;od since that period. Thanks to oui- sul- len resistance to innovation, thanks to the cold slug- 835 gishness of our national character, we still bear the stamp of our forefathers. Wo have not (as I conceive^ lost the generosity and dignity of thinking of the four- teenth century ; nor as yet have we subtilized oui'selvea into savages. We are not the converts of llousseau ; 840 we are not the disciples of Voltaire ; Helvetius has made no progress amongst us. Atheists art^ not our preachers; madmen are not our lawgivers. We know that we have made no disc<3veries, and we tliink that no discoveries are to be made, in morality ; nor many 845 in the great principles of g(»v"ernment, n(»r in the ideas of libert^y, which were understocul long before we were born, aitogetlier as well as they will be after the grave has heaped its mould upon our presumption, and the silent tomb shall have imposed its law on our pert 850 lo([uacity. In England we have not yet been completely emb»welled of our natural entrails ; we still feel within us, and we cherish and cultivate, those inbrod senti- ments which are the faithful guardians, the active monitcj'2 of our duty, the true supporters of all liberal 855 and manly morals. We have not been drawn and trussed, in order that we may be filled, like stulfed birds in a museum, with chatt' and rags and paltry < 'V* c'i i' w nr tl f:.'i rn tw s ! k 1 j ri i !;■■;; s ii" i ■> 1 ■: 1 y 196 REFLKCTIONS ON THt FRENCH REVOLUTION. blurred shreds of paper about the rights of man. We preserve the whole of our feelings still native and en- 860 tire, unsophisticated by pedantry and infidelity. We fear God ; we look up witli awe to kings ; with all'ec- tion to parliaments ; with duty to magistrates ; with reverence to priests; and with respect to nobility.^ Wliy ? lieoause when such ideas are brought before 805 our minds, it is natural to be so atfected ; because all other feelings are false and spurious, and tend to cor- rupt our minds, to vitiate our primary morals, to ren- der us unfit for rational liberty ; and by teaching us a servile, licentious, and abandoned insolence, to be our 870 low sport for a few hobdays, to make us perfectly fit for, and justly deserving of, slavery, through the whole course of our lives. You see. Sir, that in this enlightened age I am bold enough to confess, that we are generally men of 875 untaught feelings , that instead of casting away all our old prejudices, we cherish them to a very considerable degree, and, to take more shame to ourselves, we cher- ish them because they are prejudices; and the longer they have lasted, and the more generally they have 880 prevailed, the more we cherish theui. We are afraid to put men to live and trade each on his t)wn private stock of reason ; because we suspect that this stock in each man is small, and that the individuals would do better to avail themselves of the general bank and 885 capital of nations and of ages. Many of our men of speculation, instead of exploding general prejudices, employ their sagacity to disct)ver the latent wisdom 1 The English are, I conceive, misreproscntcni in a letter published in one of the i ai>erH, hy a j^entleinan thoiii;ht to be a dissenting minister. gOO — When writinji^ to Dr. Price of the j^jiirit wiiich prevails at Paris, he says. "The spirit of ths people in this place has abolished all the proud distincHonn which the kin;/ and nnl)lf.s had usurped in their minds; whether they talk of the kiJifj, the ndhle, or the priest, their whole language is that of the most e.nli(fhtened and liberal avrwnrjst the Eng- 896 lifih." If this gentleman means to confine the terms enlightened and Uberal to one set of men in England, it may be true. It is not generally «n>. REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 1 97 which prevails in them. If they find what they seek, and they seldom fail, they think it more wise to con- 900 tiniie the prejudice, with the reason involved, than to cast away the coat of prejudice, and to leave nothitij/ but the naked I'eason : because prejudice, with its rea- son, hits a motive to give action to that reason, and an ali'cction which will give it permanence. Prejudice is 005 of ready application in the emergency; it previously engages the mind in a steady course of wisdom and vir- tue, and does not leave the man hesitating in the moment of decision, sceptical, puzzled, and unresolved. Prejudice renders a man's virtue his habit; ;ind not a 910 series of unconnected acts. Through just prejudice, his duty becomes a part of his nature. Your literary men, and your politicians, and so do the whole clan of the enlightened among us, essentially differ in these points. They hive no respect for the 915 wisdom of others ; but they pay it off by a very full measure of coniidence in their own. With tliem it is a sufficient motive t(» destroy an old scheme of things, because it is an old one. As to the new, they are in no sort of fear with regard to the duration of a build- 920 ing run up in haste; because duration is no object to those who think little or nothing lias been done before their time, and who place all their hopes in discovery. They conceive, very systematically, that all thinu;s which give perpetuity are mischievous, and therefore 925 they are at inexpiable war with all establishments. They think that government may vary like modes of dress, and with as little ill effect ; that their needp no principle of attachment, except a sense of present con- veniency, to any constitution of the state. Tliey 930 always speak as if they were of opinion that there is a singular species of compact between them and their magistrates, which binds the magistrate, but which has nothing reciprocal in it, but that the tnajesty of the people has a right to dissolve it without any reason, 935 i 'i •Y!!' i'l i ■•] r i' } n ! i it ■i T98 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. but its will. Their attachment to their country itself is only so far as it aa^rees with some of their fleeting projects; it begins luid ends with that scheme of polity which falls in witli tlieir nicjinentary opinion. These doctrines, or rather sentiments, seem i)revalent 940 with your new statesmen. But they are vvlioUy dilt'er- ent from those on which we have always acted in this country. 1 hear it is sometimes given out in France, that what is doing among you is after tlie example of England. 045 T beg leave to afhrm, that scarcely anything done with you has originated from the practice or the prevalent opinions of this people, either in the act or in the spirit of the proceeding. Lot me add, that we aro as unwill- ing to learn these lessons from France, as we are sure l).")!) tliat we never taught them to that nation. Tlie cabals here, wlio take a sort of share in your transactio'v, as yet c<»nsist of but a handful of pi'ople. Tf unfortunately by their intrigues, their sermons, their publications, and by a centidence derived troni an expected union 1)55 with the counsels and forces of the Frencli nation, they should draw considerable numbers into their faction, and in consequence should seri.)usly attempt anything herein imitation of what has been done with you, the event, I dare venture to prophesy, will be, that, with !)«)0 some trouble to their country they will soon acconipli-rdi their own destruction. This people refused to change their law in remote ages from respect to the infallibility of popes ; and they will not now alter it tnnn a pious implicit faith in the dogmatism of philosophers ; 1)05 though the former was armed with the anathema and crusade, and though the latter should act with the libel and the lamp-iron. Formerly your ailairs were your own concern only. We felt for them as men ; hut we kept aloof from them, 1)70 because we were not citizens of France. But when we see the model held up to ourselves, we must feel as Eng- REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH RFTOLUTION. 1 99 Hshmen, and feeling, we mriat provide as* Knijflishmon. Your affairs, lu spite of us, :ire made a part of our in- terest ; so far at }oast as to keep at a distance your OTj: panacea, or your plague. If it be a pii.nacea, we do not want it. We knoAv the consecjuences of unnt'eessary physic. If it be a plague, it is such a plague tliat the precautions of the most severe quarantine ought to be established against it. 980 I hear on all hands that a cabal, calling itself pliilos- ophic, receives the glory of many of the late proceed- ings ; and that their opiniims and systems are the true actuating spirit of the whole c>f them. I have heard of no party in England, literary or political, at any time, 985 known l>y such a description. Ft is not with you com- posed (»f those men, is it? whom the vulgar, in tlieir blunt, homely stylo, commonly call atheists and infi- dels? If it be, I admit that we too have ha * ;i' i I r •I IS!' 200 REFLECTIONS ON THE PRENCH REVOLUTION. the original frame of onv constitution, or in any one oflOlO the several i e[>a)"ati()n8 and improvonients it has under- gone. The whole has been done under the auspices, and is contiiiaod by tb'3 sanctions, of religion and piety. The whole Iwis emanated from the simplicity of our national chavactar, and from a sort of native plain-1015 nesa and directness of understanding, which for a long time characterized those men who have successfully ob- tained authority amongst us. This disposition still re- mains ; at least in the great bodj^ of the people. We know, and what is better, we feel inwardly, thatl020 religion is the basis of civil society, and the source of all good and of all comfort.' In England we are so convinced of this, that there is no rust of superstition, with which the accumulated absurdity of the human mind might have crusted it over in the course of ages, 1025 that ninety-nine in a hundred of the people of England would not prefer to impiety. We shall never be such fools as to call in an enemy to the substance of any sys- tem to remove its corruptions, to auppiy its defects, or to perfect its construction. If our religious tenets 1030 should ever want a further elucidation, we shall not call on atheism to explain them. We shall not light up our temple from that unhallowed fire. It will be illuminated with other lights. It will be perfumed with other incense, than the infectious stuff which isl035 imported by the smugglers of adulterated metaphysics. If our ecclesiastical establishment should want a revi- sion, it is not avarice or rapacity, public or private, that we shall employ for the audit, or receipt, or appli- eati(mof its consecrated revenue. Violently condemn-1040 I Sit ig'itur ho« ab initio persuasum civibug, dominos esse omnium renim ac oderatores, decs; eaquc, qu£0 jjcrantur, eorum j?eri vi, ditione, ac nnmine ; eosdcraque oitime de sjeiior; horaii. ^ra increri ; etf.ualis quisque sit, quid airat, quid in se admittat, qui mente. qua pietate colat reliLiio.ies intuei'i ; ^lioruni et iui )ioruin habere rationeni.1045 His eiiim rebus i ml. iitp inentes baud saue abhorrebuac ah utili et 4 vera scntentia. Cic. de L«gibua. 1. 2. REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTIOM. 201 ing neither the Greek nor the Armenian, nor, since heats are subsided, the Roman system (tf religion, we prefer the Protestant ; not because we think it has Iessl050 of the Christ an religion in it, but because, in our judgment, it has more. We are Protestants, not from indifference, but from zeal. We know, and it is our jjride to know, that man is by his constitution a religious animal ; that atheism isl055 against, not only our reason, but our instincts ; and that it cannot prevail long. But if, in the moment of riot and in a drunken delirium from the hot spirit drawn out of the alembic of hell, which iu France is now 80 furiously boiling, we should uncover ournakedncss, bylOGO throwing off that Christian religion which has hitherto been our boast and comfort, and one great source of civilization amongst us, and among many other na- tions, we are apprehensive (being well aware tliat the niiud v/ill not endure a void) that some uncouth, per-1065 nicious, and degrading superstition might take the place of it. For that reap, (U, before we take from our establish- ment the natural, human means of estimation, and give it up to contempt, us you have done, and in doingl070 it have incurred the penalties you well deserve to suf- fer, we desire that some other may be presented to us in the place of it. We sh ill then form our judgment. On these ideas, instead of quarrelling with establish- ments, as some do, who have made a philosophy and al075 religion of their hostility to such institutions, we cleave closely to them. We are resolved to keep an estab- lished church, an established monarchy, an established aristocracy, an established democracy, each in the de- gree it exists, and in no greater. I shall show youlOSO presently how much of each of these we possess. It has been the misfortune (not, as these gentlemen think it, the glory) of this age, that everything is to be discussed, as if the constitution of our country were to ;■! I H 202 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. be always a subject rather of altercation, than enjoy-1085 nieut. F«>r this reason, as well as for the satisfaction of #liose among you (if any such y«»u liave among you) who may wish to profit of exaxnples, I venture to trouble you with a few thoughts upon uacli of these es- tablishments. 1 do not think they wore -inwise inlO90 ancient Rome, who, when tliey wished to new-model their laws, set commissioners to examine the btist con- stituted re[)ubli<.;s within their reach. First, I beg leave to s]»eak of our church ertablish- ment, which is the first of our [)rejudicca, not a preju-1095 dice destitute of reason, but involving in it profound and extensive wisdom. I speak of it first. It is first, and last, and midst in our minds. For, taking ground on that religious system, of which we are now in pos- session, we continue to act on the early received andllOO uniformlv continued sense of mankind. That sense not only, like a wise architect, hath built up the august fabric of states, but like a provident proprietor, to preserve the structure from profanation and ruin, as a sacred temple purged from all tlie im[)urities of fraud, 1106 and violence, and injustice, and tyraiuiy, hath soleunily and for ever consecrated the commonwealth, and all that officiate in it. This consecration is made, that all who administer in the government of men, in which they stand in the person of God himself, should havelllO high and worthy notions of their function and distinc- tion ; that their hope should be full of innnortality ; that they should not look to the paltry pelf ot the moment, nor to the temporary and transient praise of the vulgar, but to a solid, permanent existence, in thelll5 permanent part of their nature, and to a permanent fame and glory, in the example they leave as a rich inheritance to the world. Such sublime principles ought to be infused into per- sons of exalted situations ; and religious e8tablishmentsll20 provided, that may continually revive and enforce them. REFLECTIONS ON THE FKKNCH RKVOI UTION. 20,^ Every sort of moral, ovcry wort of civil, every aort of |M'lit:c: iiisiitution, aiiliii;^ tlio rational and nafunil ties thai <:oiHUM^t the liinnaii iHKlcrstandiui;- and all'cttions to tho divine, are not fnove than nooos.sary, in onlor toll25 liuild up that wonderful structure, Man ; vvliose jut-rog- iitive it isi, to he in a great degree a creature of his own making; and who wlien niad«;;isheought toheniade, i« de- stined to hold no trivial plaeein the creation. Butwhen- evernian is put overmen, as the better nature ougld ever] 1,'>0 to preside, in that case more particularly, he should as ue.irly as possible be appnjximated to his perfectiim. The consecration of the st; te, by a state religious establishment, is necessary also to operate with a whole- some awe upon free citi/cns ; because, in ord>.'i- to secureJK)5 their freedom, they must enjcty some determinate |)or- tion of power. To them therefore a religion connected with the state, and with their duty towards it, becomes even more necessary than in such societies, where the people, by the terms of their subjection, are continedll40 to private sentiments, and the management of their own family concerns. i'iW persons possessing any portion of power ought to be strongly and awfully impressed with an idea that they act in trust : and that they are to ac- count for their conduct in that trust to the one greatlHo Master, Author, and Founder of society. This principle ought even to be more strongly impres- sed upon the minds of those who compose the collective sovereignty, than upon those of single p-rinces. Without instruments, these princes can do nothing. Whoever usesl 150 instruments, in finding helps, finds also impedinients. Their power is therefore by no means ctmij^lete; nor are they safe in extreme abuse. Such persons, however ele- vated by flattery, arrogance, and self-opinion, must be sensible, that, whether covered or not by positive law, inll55 some way or other they are accountable even here for the abuse of their trust. If they are not cut off by a rebel- lion of their people, they may be strangled by the very !; i 204 REFLECTIONS ON THK FRENCH REVOLUTION. jjiuiasariea kopt for their Becurity against all other re- biillion. Tluis we have seen the kinijof France sold bylili«)^ his sokliers for an increase (jf pay. But where popular authority is aUsoiuto and unrestrained, the people have an infinitely greater, because a far better founded, con- fidence in their own ])o\ver. They are themselves, in a great measure, their own instruments. They arenearerlKii") to their objticts. Besides, they are less under responsi- bility to one of the gr(?ate8t controlling powers on earth, the sense of fame and estimation. The share of infamy, that is likely to fall to the lot of each individual in public acts, is small indeed ; the operation of opinion being inll70 the inverse ratio to the number of those who abuse power. Their own approbati(m of their own acts has to them the appearance of a public judgment in their favour. A perfect democracy is therefore the most shameless thing in the world. As it is the most shame-117^ less, it is also the most fearless. No man apprehends in his person that he can be made subject to punishment. Certainly the people at large never ought : for as all punishments are for example towards the conservation of the people at large, the people at large can never] ISO became the subject of punishment by any human hand. ' It is therefore of infinite importance that they should not be suffered to imagine that their will, any more than that of kings, is the standard of right and wrong. They ought to be persuaded that they are full as little] 185 entitle 1, and far less qualified, with safety to themselves, to use any arbitrary power whatsoever ; that therefore they are not, under a false show of liberty, but in truth, to exercise an unnatural, inverted domination, tyranni- cally to exact, from those who officiate in the state, notllDO an entire devotion to their interest, which is their right, but an abject submission to their occasional will ; extinguishing thereby, in all those who serve them, all moral principle, all sense of dignity, all use of judgment 1 Quicquid multis pucoatur iuultcm. 1195 I' KEFLUCTIONS ON THE FRKNCH kKVOLUllOM. 205 and all consistency of clmractor ; whilst by tho very same |iroce88 tlioy m'ivo thenisulvos up a proper, a suit- hlo, but a most c()ntLMii[»tible prey to tho scrvilo ambition of popular .syco[)hants, or courtly tl.-iitcrrr.s, VVhon tho [tcopjo hav*? om))tio(l thein.sfh cs of all tho J 200 lust ot selfish will, wliiuh without religion it is utterly im- possible they over should, when they are conscious that they exorcise, antl exercise perhaps in a hJLjhor link of the order of ilek'Lj.itioii, the power, which to be le[:fiti- niate must bo according to thai eternal, immutable law, 1206 in which will and reason are tho same, they will bo more careful how they place power in base and incap- able hands. In their nomination to otHco, they will not appoint to the exorcise of authority, as to a pitiful job, but as to a holy function ; n«>t according to theirl210 sordid, selfish interest, nor to their wanton caprice, nor to their arbitrary will ; but they will confer that power (which any man may well tremble to give or to receive) on those only, in whom they may discern that predominant proportion of active virtue a,nd wisdom, 1215 taken together and litted to the charge, such, as in the great and inevitable mixed mass of human imperfections and infirmities, is to be found. When they are habitually convinced that no evil can be acceptable, either in the act or the [>ormis>uon, to himl220 whose essence is good, they will be better able to extir- pate out of the minds of all magistrates, civil, ecclesias- tical, or military, anything that bears the least resem- blance to a proud and lawless domination. But one of the first and most leading principles onl225 which the commonwealth and tho laws are consecrated, is lest the temporary possessors and life-renters in it, unmindful of what they have received from their an- cestors, or of what is due to their posterity, should act as if they were the entire masters; that they shouldl230 not think it among their rights to cut off" the entail, or commit waste on the inheritance, by destroyinsf at their 2o6 f * if ll REFLECTIONS ON THK FRENCH REVOLUTION. plojisuro tho wlutlo ori'^inal f;i.biic of tlieii* aociofy ; hazaidiiiL,' to loavo to tlmso who i-omo after tluMii arm'fi insto.ul of an liabitation — and toai^liiiiL? tluiscsiu-oeHsorsJ w'.*ir» as lii.tlo to resju'ct tlioir conh'ivaiiL'us, as fhcy had thtMn- aolves n-spectiMl th(^ institutiona of thuir foi'tifathers. By this un|>i'i)HM]>h'(l facility of chani^in'^ tho state as oftoii, ami as rnuoh, and in aa many ways, as tli(;ro aiv tloatinLC fancies or faaliionH, the wliole cliain and eon-1240 tinuity of the commonwealth would be broken. No one i^eneration could link with the other. INTen W(mld become little bettor than the fli(\s of a snn^ nor. And first of all, tho si-ionco of jurisnrndenco, the ju'lde of the hinuiin intolh^ct, which, witli all its defects*, r«»-1245 dundanciea, and errors, is the collocted reason of aujes, combinini^ the principles of oi-i'^inal jn tice with the infinite variety of human concerns, as n heap of old ex- ploded errors, wonld be no lonsjfer studied. Personal self-sutticiency and arroLcance (the certain attendantsl250 upon all those who have nov(;r (»xpori(Miced a wisdom greater than their own) would usurp the tribnnal. Of course no certain laws, ostablishini^' invariable i^ronnds of hope and fear, would keep the actions of men in a certain course, or direct them to a certain end. ^0111-125?) ing stable in the miidos of holding ]>ropi!i'ty, or exercis- ing function, could form a solid ground on whiiOi any parent could speculate in the educati(»n of his oilspring, or in a. choice for their future; establishmentin the world. No i)rinciples would be early worked into the habits. I -00 As soon as tho most able instructor had completed his laborious course of institution, iiisteadof sending forth his pupil, accomplished in a virtuous discipline, lltteu to procure hini attention and respect, in his place in society, he would find everything altered ; and that he 1265 had turned out a poor creature to th' .v^ntempt ;ind derision of the world, ignorant of the true grounds of estimation. Who would insure a tender and delicate sense of honour to beat almost with the first pulses of RKFLKCTIONS ON THK FRENCH RICVOLUTION. •07 the hoart, vvlion no man could know what would bo thcl270 tost of hoiKtur ill a nation, continually varying the standard of its coin 'i No part of iile would retain its acquiaitiona. l»arl»arisui with ro-^ard to Hcienco and litoraturo, unakilfnlnoHs with ro!j;ard to arts and niann- facttires, would infallibly succeed to the want of al275 steady education and settled principle ; and thus the ciMunionwiialth itself would, in a few generations, crinuble away, be disconnected into the dust and pow- der of individuality, and at length dispersed to all the winds of heaven. 1280 To avoid therefore the evils of inconstancy and ver- satility, ten thousand times worse than those, of ob- stinacy and the blindest prejudice, we have consecrat- ed the state, that no man should ap]>roach to look into its defects or corruptions but with due caution ; thatl285 he shoidd never dream of beginning its reformation by its subversion ; that he should approach to the faults of ^lle state as to the wounds of a father, with pious awe ind trembling solicitude. By this wise prejudice we are taught tt) look with horror on those children of 1290 their country who are prompt rashly to hack that aged parent in pieces, and put him into the kettle of magi- cians, in hopes that by their poisonous weeds, and wild incantations, they may regenerate the paternal jonstitution, and renovate their father's life. 1295 Society is indeed a contract. Subordinate contracts for objects of more occasional interest, may be dissolved at pleasure — but the state ought not to be considered as nothing better than a partnership agreement in a trade of pepper and coffee, calico or tobacco, or somelSOO other such low concern, to be taken up for a little tem- ^,^x"ary interest, and to be dissolved by the fancy of the parties. It is to b ' looked on with other reverence ; because it is not a partnership in things subservient only to the gross animal existence of a temporary andlclOo perishable rature. It is a partnership in all science ; a .: '4 'o8 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. partnership in all aifc ; a partnership in every virtue, and iu all perfection. As the ends of such a partnership cannot be obtained in many generations, it becomes a partnership not only between those who are living, butlSlO between those who are living, those who are dead, and those who are to bo born. Each contract of each par- ticular state is but a clause in the great prima3val con- tract of eternal society, linking the lower with the higher natures, connecting the visible and invisiblelSlo world, according to alixod compact sanctioned by the inviolable oath which holds all physical and all moral natures, each in their appointed place. This law is not subject to the* will of those, who by an obligation above them, and intinitely superior, are bound to submit theirl320 will to that law. The municipal corporations of that universal kingdom are not morally at liberty at their pleasure, and on their speculations of a contingent im- provement, wholly to separate and tear asunder the bands of their subth move with the order of tlie universe. They all knowlSoO or feel this great ancient truth : "Quod illi principi et prtepotenti Deo qui omnem himc mundum regit, nihil eoruinqufie qiiiinia' ' I 2t6 reflections on thf: French revolution. which often is, the fruit, not the reward, {tov what can be the reward !) of learninsr, piety, and virtue. They 1005 can .see, without pain or grudging, an archbishop precede a duke. Thoy can see a bisliop of Diu-ham, or a bishop of Winchester, in possession of ten thousand pounds a year ; and cannot conceive why it is in worse hands than estates to the like amount in the hands of this narl,16l0 or that squire ; although it may be true, that so many dogs and horses are not kept by the former, and fed with the victuals which ought to nourish the children of the people. It is true, the whole church revenue is not always employed, and to every shilling, in charity ; norlG15 perhaps ought it; but something is generally so employ- ed. It is bet'ter to cherish virtue and humanity, by leaving much to free will, uven with some loss to the object, than to attempt to make men mere machines and instruments of a political benevolence. The worldl620 on the whole will gain by a liberty, without which vir- tue cannot exist. When once the commonwealth has established the estates of the chur'^h as property, it cr.n, consistently, hear nothing of the more or the less. Too much andl626 too little are treason against property. What evil can arise from the quantity in any hand, whilst the sopreme authority has the full, sovereign superintendence over this, as over all property, to prevent every species of abuse; and, whenever it notably deviates, to give to it al630 direction agreeable to the purposes of its institution. In England most of us conceive that it is envy and malignity towards those who are often the beginners of their own fortune, and not a love of the self-denial and mortification of the ancient church, that makes somel635 look askance at the distinctions, and honours, and reven- ues, which, taken from no person, are set apart for vir- tue. The ears of the people of England are distinguish- ing. They hear these men speak broad. Their tongue betrays them. Their language is in the patois of 1640 REFLECTIONS ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 217 fraud ; in the cani and gibberish of hypocrisy. The people of England must think so, when those praters affect to carry back the clergy to that primitive, evan- gelic poverty, which in the spirit, ought always to exist in them, (and in us too, however we may like it,) butl04." in the thing must be varied, when the relation of that body to the state is altered ; when manners, when modes of life, when indeed the whole order of human atf{iirs, nas undergone a total revolution. We shall believe those reformers then to be honest enthusiasts, lii not, as now we think them, cheats and deceivers, when we see them throwing their own goods into common, and submitting their own persons to the austere discip- line of the early churclu e ^.^^C^ ^ '>iV., ^i^.^^ PJIELIMIN ATIY REM ARK fi -♦♦- THE REFLECTIONS. Origin of the Reflections. The members of an association which called itself the Revolution Society and which was com- posed chiefly of Dissenters, met as was their custom, on the 4th of November, the anniversary of the landing of the Prince of Orange, to hear a sermon in commemoration of tlie gloiious day. Dr. Price was the pre;ichei', and both in the morning ser- mon and in the festivities of the afternoon, the Revolutionists in France were loudly extolled. Th« 5e harmless proceedings aroused Burke's anger and scorn. He set to work npon the denunciation of Price's doctrines. His design grew as he went on with the undertaking. Every piece of additional news that came across the Channel supplied Jiew material to his contempt and his alai-m. When it was known that he was writing a pamphlet, the literary world was stirred with the liveliest ex- pectation. The "great rhetorical fabric arose." With inde- fatigable industry he revised, erased, wrote and rewrote for ex- actly a year, until in NovemV>er of 1790 he gave to an anxious public his masterpiece. It was addressed to M. Dupont, "a very young gentleman at Paris," who afterwards translated the work into French. Epitome. In the preceding portion of the Reflections 6urk« after referring to the sermon of Dr. Price shows that it misre presents the English Constitution. He disclaims the right "to choose our own governors," "to cashier them for misconduct,'' Wt "to form a government for ourselves." He compares th« 220 PRELIMINARY REMARKS. procoedingi of the English Revolutioniste in 1688 with those of the Kreiich Revolutioni**-" in IT'^A The National AsHonihly is described; the »opr» «iontatives of the Tiers lUat; the clergy; the turhulent nohlus. Jacobinical fall.icies regarding political power, property, and liberty are discussed and the tnie Rights of man explained. The illiberality and inhumanity of the sennon are pointed out and Price is compared with Peters, thepeaoher who *'conductc error leeognized the 300 el('ctt)r3 as a legal body. Their functions properly extended only' to the election of represontativ^es but they were s.ihse([uently entrnsted witli power by the people because they were tlu; only body iu whom the public could confide. 52. It is notorion.s. The clubs governed in the departments of Paris, and through them in the Assembly. 57. Monstrous* medley. Germans, Swiss, Italians, Spaniards and English. The nobles and clergy took a lead there. GO. Catiline. Lucius Sergius Catiline whoi'lotted to assassinate Cicero and overtlirow the Roman government. Cethe^ii><. Another of the conspirators. 63. Distortion. Perversion. Aca(l('mie.«i. The French ConcilinbulcH. 73. Confiscation. L. con and Jiscm, a basket, the public treasury; hence the act of adjuding to be forfeited t(j the state. 75. Emliracins, (fee. "Burke refers to the circumstances at- tv^nding the condemnation for a bank-note forgery, of the brothers Agasso, which occurred in the middle of January, 1790. Dr. Guillotiu had some time previously proposed to the Assembly to in- flict t!ie punishment of death in a painless manner, and to relieve the relations of the criminal from the feudal taint of felony. The Abbe Pepin, on this occasion, procured the enactment of the last of these changes; and while the criminals lay under sentence of hanging, their brother and cousin, with the view of marking this triumph of liberty, were promoted to be lieutenants in the Grenadier Company of the Battalion of National Guards for th» district of St. Honore', on which occasion, in defiance of public decency and natural feeling, they were publicly feasted and com- plimented."— P(7//«e. 82. Coineilians. Gr. ^o?»(?. a village and otZe a song. 86. Explotyu. The statement here made has been denied. From whence. Pleonasm. 209. Two. M. de Huttes and M. Varicourt, two of the guards. 216. Heads led. Personal metaphor. 220. Contumelies. Reproaches. 227. Old palaces. The Tuileries, where the king was at the time. 233. Orgies. Dnmken revels. They were celebrated in Greece and Thraoe in honour of Bacchus. 236 A Saint. Price. 241. Venerable sage. Simeon. 246. Some sort. Extreme republicans. 253. !« Poean. A song of Apollo to avert some dreaded evil. It was 80 called from the words with which it began. 901. Olillentum. See Bev. xx., SL i! f 224 NOTES ON THE REFLECTIONS. / Fifth monarchy. The dream of a set of enthusiasts iv the Puritan times. 270. Regicide, Burke saw the inovital>le result. 271. Sacrilegious. The persons of the n>yal family were re- garded saored. 274. Hanly pencil. Burke thought tlie queen would be the first victim. 347. Sarcasm. yo5. Not a little, LitoieM, 365. Oerogates. Detracts. 371. Great lady. Mine Antoinette. a72. Triumph. The "joyous entry" of the 6th of October. 380. A sovereign. Marie Theresa, Empress of Austria and niotiier of the Queen. 382. Human niairon. Such as Lucre ti a. a83. Inline last extremity. Aliudiuj^ to the queen's carrying poison about with her. 386. It ** now^. In a letter to Sir. P. Francis, Burke says th6 scene actually drew tears from his eyes. 387. DauphinesK. Marie Antoinette had been married to tlie grandson of Louis XV. while he was still tiio dauphin. 388. This orh, &('. In this fani. us passiigo we have metaphor, iimile, ecphoiiesis, uiakw*, apostrophe, hy/iai bole, «kc., brought intu requisition. 3*J4. Klevation fall. Antithesii, 3U6. Titles. As that of queen. 398. Antidote. The poison. 31)9. Little did I ilream. AnapJiora* 402. Ten thousand. Metonomy. 404. Age of chivalry. The lament for the dv cay of chivalry is an old one. 405. Sopliisters. Sophists. 408. Generous loyalty. The idea of loyalty was to be effaced from the French mind. Proud suhniission. Modestie superbe. 411. Exaltetl freedom. Boliny broke, Gibbon and others con. sidered that the spirit of freedom breathed throughout the feudaj institutions. 415. Felt a stain, (fee. "And if the conscience has not wholly loM its native tenderness, it will not only dread the infection of a wound, but also the aspersion of a h\ot."— South. 416. Knnotole, &c. Cf. Johnson's epitaph on Goldsmith "Nihil tetigit quod non ornavit." \ NOTES ON THE REFI.ECTIONS. 22^ asts iv the LsLiia and 420. CYktrulry, The complement of feudalism. It had its origin about the 11th century. Under it the privileges, duties and manners of the knights were recognized. 435. Feliows. Equals. 441. Illuic. A vessal formerly used by chemists for distilling. 1065. Not endure a void. Tlie worship of humduUn and the Sunday services of "Secular" societies prove the statement. 1091. An«ient Rome. Athens was visited by the Romans, in the time of Pericles and tho Decemvirate which is here referred to established at home. 1144. Act in trust. A favouiite view of Burke's regarding those placed in power. 1159. Jani^sarie8. The name was first applied to a celebrated militia of tho Ottoman empire raised by Orchan in 1626. 1162. Absolute, &c. The stock arguments against democracy. 1166. liCSsi under respoiisibility. Is this true? 1171. Inverse rntio. Discuss this opinion. 1199. Sycoiiiiaiit?-. Qr.sukophan.tea, from sukon & fig. The term was prol)a,bly tirst applied to those who informed against persons exporting tigs and hence an informer, a parasite, a flatterer, 1206. W^ill and reason tlie same. A conclusion of the school- men. 1209 Will not appoint, il'c. Notice the antithesis. 1227. liife-renters. Tenants for life. 1231. Entail, Fr. eiirtailler. , An entail \^ an estate cut froMi the power of a testator. It must go to the legal heivs. :y 41 2-^0 NOTES ON THE REFLECTIONS. 1232. Commit Draste. Permanent injury dore on a landed estate, as pulling down houses, cutting timber Sic. 1240. C'ontiniiUy. Burke holds that the liberties of England form an *' entailed inheritance." 1244. •TuriHprudein-e. In Burke's time practical jurisprudenro in England stood sadly in need of reform. In France matters were about as corrupt as they very well could be, 1284. Approach to. Pleonasm. 1292. In pieces. Alluding to the legend of the daughters of Peliaa, King of Thessaly, who " by th*«vate property, ifeo. In his speech on the Petition against the Acts of Uniformity (1772) Burke maintained the con- trary opinion. 1502. Euripus. The strait between Breotia anil Euboea. Its tides — with the Mediterranean tideless — wore a puzzle to the ancients. 1603. Actions. Fr. actions, shares in a joint stock. 1513. Politic purpose. Qf keeping the vulgar in obedience. NOTES ON THE REFLECTIONS. 231 1621. To the poor. Cf. Luke, vii., 22, «fco. 1531. Medicinal. Notice the metaphorical language in this passage* 1554. Dole. From deal; ''dole" a lament, is from the L. doleo. 1586. li»t'ur llielr cuatciiiiit. Experience does not justify Burke's conclusions, 1503. Mllred fioiil. "The episcopal mitre symbolises the cloven tongues of tire which descended on the apostles on the day of Pentecost." — Brewer. IGOi. Scorn— revoient'e. .1 ,Uthesi$, 1640. Palo in. Provincial! SUA, J ($iim ^ (Ho'e. Iteb (Ebucational SHorks. BEST AIJTHUUIZED KLEMENTAHY TEXT-BOOKS IN GRAMMAR. Revised Price, Ed. Miller's Language Lessons. ___^___ 25 Cents. PROOFH OV TUB SUPERIORITY OF MILLER'S REVISED EDITION OVKR ALL <)TIIKI!8 Its enormous sale. Nearly two liuiiaretl thor.daiid have been Hokl within the last four years. Miller's Swinton'a is ai'.ohorizcd by the Educatitdi Department for use in the Soliools of Ontar'o. Only E.iition adui)ted by the I'rutestant Hoard of Education of Montreal, and used in many of the prineipal Schools of tlie Province of l^uebec. Only Ivlition used ii! the (■'eh kiIs of Newfoundland. Only Iv.litioM adojitud by the .Supt.of Education for theSchoolsof Manitoba. 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This IvJition has been issued at the •"'lU'st of » larno number of I'ublic Soil xil k-acht-rH wliu wish to have a CI; ip IMitioM f'jr tlie use of their pui)ils i)r(.^;>ariiitf for adniissinii t ) Kiyh bcliool. Hints and Answers to Lxamiaation Papers in Arithmetic. By .1 A. McfjKLLAN, M. A., LL. 0., and Tiios. Kikki.and, M. A. Fourth Edition, ----- $1.00 McLellan's Mental Arithmetic. ---Part I. Contafninff the Fundamental Rules, F'ractif.ns and Analysis. By J. A. McI.Ki.iAN, M. A., LL. D., Inspector High Schocis, Ontario. Third Editioi), - . - - 30 Cents. Authorized for use in the Schools of Nova Scotia. McLellan's Mental Arithmetic- --Part II. Specially adapted for Model and High School Student"?. Tliird Edition, - - - Price, 45 Cents. The Teacher's Hand Book of Algebra. By J. A. McLellan, M. A., LL. D. Second Complete Edition, . - - $1.25. Teacher's Hand Book of Alo^ebra.— -Part I. Prepared for the use of Intermediate Students. Price, ... - - 75 Cents. Key to Teacher's Hand Book of Algebra. Second Edition, - - - Price. $.t.60. Wi. J. (&nQt ^ (Ho'a. £ieiD (Bhnc^tional Wiotka. WORKS FOR TEACHERS AND STUDENTS, BY J AS. L. HUGHES. Examination Primer in Canadian Historv. On the Topical Method. By Jxa. L. HiiuHwa, Inspector of Schools, To rente. A Primer for Students preparing for Examination. Price, 260 Mistakes in Teaching. By Ja8. LAuaHLiN Huoiibs, Second edition. *^ice, SOo. 4i)0PTBI> BT 8TATB UNIVBR8ITT OP IOWA, AS AN BLBMBNTART WOKK KG!! VHB OF TBACIIBRS. fhis work diacusses in a terse mariner over one hundred of the mistakes oon:moiily made by untrained or inexijerienced Teachers. It is designed to warn young Teachers of the errors thoy are liable to make, and to help the older members of the profession to discard whatever methods or Iiabits may he preventing their hij,ncr success. The mistakes are arranged under the following heads : 1. Mistakes in Management. 2. Mistakes in Discipline, t. Mistakes in Methods. 4. Mistakes in Manner. How to Secure and Retain Attention. By Jas. LAUGHbiN HuonKs. Price, 25 Centa. Comprising Kinds of Attention. Characteristics of Positive Attention." Characteristics of The Teacher. How to Controi a Class. Developing Men tal Activity. Cultivation of the Senses. (From Tub School and UKiVKRsixY MAaAZ4NK, London, Eno.) "Replete with valuable hints and practical .suggestions which are evideit- ly the result ot wide experience in the scholastic profession." in Manual of Drill and Calisthenics for use Schools. By J. L. HUGFIE.S, Public School Inspector, Toronto, Graduate of Military School, H. M. 2S>th Regiment. Price, 40 Cents. The work contains : The Scjuad Drill prescribed for Public Schools in On- tario, with full and ex}>licit directions for teaching it. Free Gymnastic Ex- ercises, carefully selected from the best German and American systems, and arranged iti proper classes. German Calisthenic Exercises, as taught by tht. late Colonel Goodwin in Toronto Noniial School, and in England. Several of the best ICindergarten Games, and a few choice Exercise Songs. The instructions throughout (he book are divested, as far as possible, of uiuiecessary technicalities. "A most valuable book for every teacher, particularly in country places* [t embraces all that a school teacher should teach his pupils on this subject. Any teacher can use the easy drill lessons, and by doing so he will be con- ferring a benefit on his country "— C. RADOiiiFFR Dbaunalv, Major First Life Guards, Dn'^ Instructor Nonnal and Model Schools, Toronto. gE. J. Cliagt ^: Cos. gm (!5biuational moxW THE BEST ELEM;' nTARY TEXTBOOK OF THE YEAR. Gage's Practical Speller. A MANUAL OF .Sl'ELLING AND DICTATION, p'rice, 30 Oent/S. Sixty copies ordered. Muixt FoitKsr Advocatk. After carofvil iiiyspoi'f, on \vu uiihositiitiugly pronouiioo it the best sjioll- iiiy book ever in use m our pulilic scliools. Tlio Practical Siiciler «ccuns Ttu eas3' access to its contents by tiie very systematic arran<;eineuts of the words in topical classes; a permanent imin-essiou on the memory by the frequent review of dirticult words; and a sa\ iny of time and effort by the selection of only such words as are dilHcult and of common occurrence Mr. Reid, H. S. Master heartily recounaeuds the work, and ordered somt sixty copies. It is a book that should l>'^ on every business man's table aa well as in the school room. Is a necessity. Pkesb. Witnks.s, Halifax We have already had repeated occasion to speak highly of the Ediic\ tioiial Series of which this book is one. The " Sj>eller " is a necessirv ; aiid we have .seen no book which we ^"Mi recommend more heartily than the oi»e before us. o — - Good prij^t. Bow.manvm.lk Obskrver. The " Praotioal :?pellcr " is a credit to the publishers in its j^eneral get .11 1, classification of subject:-^, and clearness of treatment. The child wjio jses this book will not have dauia^ed cyesij^ht through bad ]nint. -o What it is. Stijatiiroy Age. It is a series of trraded lessons, containini? the words in ^^eneral use, with abbreviations, etc. ; words of similar pronunciation and different sjielN ing a collection of the most diHlcult words in the laniruase, and a number of literary sx'lections which may be used for dictation lessons, and commit" 'A'.(\ t< niemor\ h\ the |mpils. Every teacher should introduce it. Canadian Statrsman. It is an improvement on the old spelling book. Every teacher sliould introduce it hito his classes The best yet seen, Colcukstkr Sun, Nova Scotfa. It is away ahead of any'*speller"that we have heretofore seen. Our liublio schools want a good spelling book. The publication before us is the beat we have yet seen