IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

> .% .^.

1.0

I.I

miM |2.5

| 50 ■^~ ■■■

Z MS 110

1.8

L25 ||_U 111.6

^;.

'^i

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

.*.^

CIHM/ICMH

Microfiche

Series.

CIHM/ICMH
Collection de
microfiches.

Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions / Institut Canadian de microreproductions historiques

Technical and Bibliographic Notes/Notes techniques et bibliographiquet

The institute has attempted to obtain the best
original copy available for filming. Features of this
copy which may be bibliographicaily unique,
which may alter any of the images in the
reproduction, or which may significantly change
the usual method of filming, are checked below.

D
D

Coloured covers/
Couverture de couleur

I I Covers damaged/

Couverture endommagie

Covers restored and/or laminated/
Couverture restaurie et/ou pelliculAe

I I Cover title missing/

Le titre de couvertura manque

I I Coloured maps/

Cartes giographiques en couleur

Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black)/
Fncre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire)

I I Coloured plates and/or illustrations/

Planches et/ou illustraticrns en couleur

Bound with other material/
Reli6 avec d'autres documents

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion
along interior margin/

La reliure sarr6e peut causer de I'ombre ou de la
distortion le long de la marge intirieure

Blank leaves added during restoration may
appear within the text. Whenever possible, these
have been omitted from filming/
II se peut que certaines pages blanches ajouties
lors d'une rAstauration apparaissent dans le texts,
mais, lorsque cela Atait possible, ces pages n'ont
pas AtA filmies.

Additionsi comments:/
Commentaires suppiimentaires;

Various pagings.

L'institut a microfilm* le mellleur exemplaire
qu'il lui a AtA possible de se procurer. Les d6tails
de cet exemplaire qui sont peut-Atre uniques du
point de vue bibliographique, qui ireuvent modifier
une image reproduite, ou qui peuvent exiger une
modification dans la mtthode normale de filmage
sont indiqute cl-dessous.

□ Coloured pages/
Pages de couleur

□ Pages damaged/
Pages endommag^es

I — I Pages restored and/or laminated/

Pages restauries et/ou peiliculAes

Pages discoloured, stained or foxed/
Pages d6coiorAes, tachetAes ou piquies

Pages detached/
Pages ditachies

Showthrough/
Transparence

Quality of prir

Qualiti in^gaie de I'impression

Includes supplementary materii
Comprend du materiel suppi^mentaire

Only edition available/
Seule Mition disponible

|~~| Pages detached/

ry^ Showthrough/

I I Quality of print varies/

I I Includes supplementary material/

I — I Only edition available/

Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata
slips, tissues, etc., have been ref limed to
ensure the best possible image/
Les pages totalement ou partieilement
obscurcies par un feuillet d'errata, une pelure,
etc., ont 6t6 filmies A nouveau de fagon A
obtenir la meillaure image possible.

The
tot

The
poa
of
filnrj

Orii
bes
the
sioi
oth
firs
sioi
or i

The
sha
TIN
whi

Ma
diff
ent
beg
righ
reqi
met

This item is filmed at the reduction ratio checked below/

10X

14X

18X

22X

26X

30X

12X

16X

20X

24X

28X

32X

lire

details
J6S du
modifier
B«r une
filmaga

The copy filmed here has been reprodu4:ed thanlcs
to the generosity of:

National Library of Canada

The images appearing here are the best quality
possible considering the condition and legibility
of the original copy and in keeping with the
filming contract specifications.

L'exempiaire film6 fut reproduit grdce k la
g6n6rosit6 de:

Bibliothdque nationale du Canada

Les images suivantes ont 6t6 reproduites avec le
plus grand soin, compte tenu de la condition et
de la nettet6 de l'exempiaire filmi, et en
conformity avec les conditions du contrat de
filmaga.

4es

Original copies in printed paper covers are filmed
beginning with the front cover and ending on
the last page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, or the back cover when appropriate. All
other original copies are filmed beginning on the
first page with a printed or illustrated impres-
sion, and ending on the last page with a printed
or illustrated impression.

Les exemplaires originaux dont la couverture en
papibr est imprimde sont film6s en commenpant
par le premier plat et en terminant soit par la
dernidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration, soit par le second
plat, selon le cas. Tous les autres exemplaires
originaux sont film6s en commengant par la
premidre page qui comporte une empreinte
d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par
la dernidre page qui comporte une telle
empreinte.

The last recorded frame on each microfiche
shall contain the symbol — ^> (meaning "CON-
TINUED "), or the symbol V (meaning "END "),
whichever applies.

Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la
derni^re image de cheque microfiche, selon le
cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le
symboie V signifie "FIN".

Maps, plates, charts, etc., may be filmed at
different reduction ratios. Those too large to be
entirely included in one exposure are filmed
beginning in the upper left hand corner, left to
right and top to bottom, as many frames as
required. The following diagrams illustrate the
method:

Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre
filmds A des taux de reduction diffdrents.
Lorsque le document est trop grand pour dtre
reproduit en un seul cliche, il est filmd A partir
de Tangle sup6rieur gauche, de gauche d droite,
et de haut en bas, en prenant le nombre
d'images ndcessaire. Les diagrammes suivants
illustrent la mdthode.

/ errata
id to

)e pelure,

pon A

32X

Heac

ALL

ENGLISH LITERATURE SERIES.

GOLDSMITirS DESERT^]) VILLAGE,
COWPER'S TASK,

(liOUK III., THE GARDEN)

AM)

THE ])E COVERLET PAPERS,

(FROM T:.E SPECTATOR).

KDITED WITH

LIVES, NOTES, INTRODUCTORY CHAPTERS AND
EXAMINATION QUESTIONS.

WILLIAM WILLIAMS, B.A..

Head Matter Collingwood CoUejiatfi. Institute, Author nf ** (joldsmith'g
Traveller" and ''Gray's Elegy. "

COMPRISTNa IK ONE VOLUME

ALL THE SELECTIONS IN LITKKATURK PRESCRIBED FOR UNI-
VERSITY MATRICULATION, FIRST (gRADK C.) ANP SECOND
CLASS teachers' CERTIFICATES, AND THE HIGH
SCHOOL INTERMEDIATE EXAMINATION.

(Tovcrnto :

CANADA PUBLISHING COMTANY.

Entered ficcordinpc to the Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year ojie
thousand eight hundred and eighty-one, hy the Canada Pubusiiino
CoMPANT, in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture.

CONTENTS.

General Tntroduction.

Clironological Parallel — Goldsmllh anil Cowpcr,

Life of GoUlsmith.

Introduction to the "Deserted Village."

Dedication to the ** Deserted Village.'*

The "Deserted Village."

Notes on the " Deserted VilLige. "

Life of Cow'ier.

Introduction to the ** Task."

The "Task," Book III., " The Garden."

Notes on " The Garden."

Chronological Parallel — Addison and Steele.

Introduction to the " De Coverley Papers,"

The "De Coverley Papers."

Notes on the " Dc Coverley Papers."

Questions for Examination,

not

pre

veil

rarl

inti

was

GENKRAL INTKODUCTION.

TuF, eighteenth century, as regards the history of poetry,
may be conveniently divided into three periods. The
first embraces almost half the century, while the artifi_
cial school of Pope and his admiring imitators bore un-
disturbed sway within the domain of the Muses ; the
second is a period of barrenness and transition, during
which the sentimental school of Darwin and Hayley spread
out in vain their viands of luscious sweets to regale the
sated appetites of their guests, and when a few voices,
led by Thomson, Gray, and Collins, wtre gently heralding
in the dawn of a brighter day ; in the last, poetry, under
the hand of Covvper, the real, if unconscious, founder of
a new school, broke entirely loose from the conventional
artificiality of tie early part of the century, and returned
in a manner to the old sources of inspiration, at which
had drunk the great masters of English verse — Chaucer,
Spenser, and Shakespeare,

The Augustan age, a term frequently employed to de-
note the supremacy of Pope in poetry and Addison in
prose, possessed but little that could call forth and de-
velope a true poetic spirit. Prior to the Revolution, lite-
rary men had formed a distinct class ; but, with the
introduction of responsible parliamentary government, i^
was united with, or rather absorbed into, the political.

GKNtCRAL INTRODUCTION.

Hence, literature, instead of being an honored profes-
sion, became merely an instrument lo ])e employed for
the pleasure of the Court, or for the assistance of i)olitical
intrigue. The atmos|)hcre in which it was thus compelled
to live, and the menial purposes it was obliged to serve,
dwarfed its growth, narrowed its symjv.ithies, chilled its
heart, and degraded its tone. Vet the new relation it
occupied was not williout its ad v. ullages. Jt was one of
the received opinions of the tijiie liiat the C.uverninent
should assist struggling genius, and that a certain pro[)or-
tion of the means at its control should be devoted to this
jHirpose. During the reign of Anne, both Whigs .uid Tories
— Somers and Montague on the one side, Harley and St.
John on the other- did n^ore to assist literature than any
other I^nglish statesmen have ever done. The system may
have had its abuses ; but it cannot be denied that the bril-
liant outburst of poetic and prose writings of this age was
fostered, if not created, by the pensions, appointments,
and professional promotions which were conferred by the
Government on Newton, Addison, Swift, Steele, Prior,
Rowe, Congreve, Parnell, and many others. With the
accession of the House of Hanover all this was changed,
(^eorge I. possessed none of the qualities that made his
mother one of the most brilliant women in Europe. Wal-
pole, his minister, was likewise totally d-evoid of literary
tastes. The maif<igcmcnt of party was his aim. In this
he spent the large sums at his control, and to attain this
end he employed the patronage of the Government. If
he used literary men, it was for the same purpose, and
the rewards he gave were the wages of party libel or
political vituperation. The inevitable result was social

(iENKKAL INTRODUCTION.

ilegradiition, literary drudgery, and the most wretched
poverty. Steele died in neglect, Savage wandered home-
less and starving ihrongh the streets of London, Johnson
spent thirty years in penury, and Thomson was deprived
of a sm;Jl place in Chancery, his sole means of support.
Queen Caroline, it is true, exerted her influence in favor
of many men of merit, and drew from obscurity some well
worthy of her patronage — as Ihitler. Sherlock, and Seeker.
'I'he suddenness of the change from social consideration
to contempt, from pensions and sinecures to garrets and
hack-work, threw a class of men that had been taught to
look up to the Government for support, entirely upon
their own resources. At this time the reading public was
small, and its tastes low. Little work could be found, except
f)oliiical pamphleteering, that promised any remuneration,
so that such as determined to follow letters were doomed,
with few exceptions, to drudging for booksellers, at such a
pittance as they chose to dole ou; to their starving toilers.
In the Court and in political circles the state of public
morality was exceedingly low. The reaction against the
deep earnest Puritanical austerity had reached its inten-
sity, and the opposition current which was already be-
ginning to set in, soon a^ter rose to such impetuous
violence, that it bore down in its mighty wave many of
the customs and fashions of society, and revoluticnized
the moral condition of England. In thr* grand transfor-
m ition, not only the religious life of the people was re-
newed, but its literature likewise felt the regenerating
power ; and the old poetic spirit of the nation once more
burst forth, and broke away entirely from the modish
bonds which had so long held it in polished chains. But

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

this was not suddenly accomplished. Great national
chan^^es seldom are. There was a lon<^ period during;
which this elcJ,^'l^t mode was rising to perfection ; nor did
it instantly pall upon the taste. Society for a time hum-
bly worshipped the diamond imajje it had set up. For
the first two generation^ of the century this state of affairs
continued. The lower classes were brutal and i{,'norant ;
the hi*;hor were protliL,Mte, irreligious, and sentimental.
The pulpit no lon^^cr, except in r.ire instances, sought to
inculcate the (\co.\) experimental piety of the Common-
wealth, but contented itself with seeking to instil a love
for morality, antl to enforce the precepts of natural reli-
gion. The sermons were lectures on the authenticity of
Christianity, and the system of religion of that period
could have as well been founiled on the writings of
Socrates or Confucius as on the Ciospel of Christ. The
wave of Deism which had overtlowcd from France had
inundated the entire land. Men had become rationalistic
as well as sceptical. They did not look deep into the
foundation upon which all truth rests. They sought
rather to adapt truth to their own capacity, and to their
own conventional stiindard. It was not the hrm founda-
tion, but the imposing visible structure that they valued.
It was not the purity within, but the polish without that
they admired. In this temper of mind we could not
expect that the'poetry they rclishetl wouKl be that which
touched the heart or stirred the soul, but that which could
dazzle the understanding, and sparkle in ii>> own extrinsic
brilliancy ; not that which revels in the ilescription of
Nature, but that which boasts that it can scan the mind ;
not that which creates, but that which explains and jus-

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

tifies creation. It was not a creative period. Men were
yet scarcely bej^inninjj to investigate for new truth, but
only to doubt and defend. Their ideas were neither lofty
nor deep. They did not rise into the sublime heights of
metaphysical abstraction, nor had they yet learned to
dive into the hidden mysteries of scicntitlc investi^'ation.
To understand society, to enjoy life as they found it, to
be thoroup^h men of the world, was their hi;;hest ideal ot
the aims of life. It was, forsooth, an a^^c of prosaic com-
mon sense, of social conventionality, literary elegance,
and polished superficiality. '* In literature, in art, in spe-
culation, the imagination was repressed ; strong passions,
elevated motives, and sublime aspirations were replaced
by critical accuracy of thought and observation, by a
measured sobriety, and good sense. Wc find this alike
in the prose of Addison, in the poetry of Pope, and in the
philosophy of Hume. The greatest wit and the most
origmal genius of the age was also the most intensely and
the most coarsely realistic."

French tastes and modes of thought had been trans-
planted into English soil with the return of Charles II.,
and were now bearing abundant fruit. Dryden, the chief
poet of his time, catered to those tastes, and his strong
rugged genius did much to popularize the fashions that
prevailed at Court. But it must not be forgotten that
though his writings are inspired by inP.uences from beyond
the Channel, they are nevertheless truly English, and, as
such, were the direct and regular offspring of the poetical
productions of the preceding age. The Elizabethans and
their successors, in the prodigality and grandeur of their
genius, had mainly kept in view the expression of the

vn»

GKXKKAL IXiKODUCTlOX.

profusioi, of lofty ideas that rushed upon their brain, pay-
ing comparatively little attention to the manner in which
those ideas found utterance. The vehemence of the pas-
sion that wrought within their breast, and the multitude
of visions that pressed for utterance, both from the grand
and stirring scenes of their own time and of the by-gone
Middle Ages wiiich lay in rich and yet ungathered harvest
before their warm and lively fancy, poured down in such
richness that it was impossible for them to break in the
language to poetry, and they fell frequently into caprice of
thought as well as obscuiily of expression, and neglected
that polish and elegance which adorns and gives duration
to art. To this there came a natural reaction. To add
form and finish, to give clearness to language and plain-
ness to thought, to adapt poetry to the expression of the
affairs of life, to describe man, not as a creature of pas-
sion, but as a social and intellectual being, such was the
task of Drydcn and his successors.

Poetry now lost that singleness of aim which charac-
terized it in the hands of the Eli/.abethans, and adapted
itself to the metrical expression of all the varied interests
of human life. In Blackmore's Creation and Prior's Solo^
man we have imitations of the epic taste of stronger gene-
rations. " In Swift are seen the feuds and bitterness of
party government ; in Pope and Parnell, the current theo-
logical and moral speculations ; tiie peace and commer-
cial advance under wise Walpole are embodied in the di-
dactic verse of Dyer and Grainger, Somerville and Thom-
:on ; Watts marks the beginning of the religious change
of which Covvper represents the maturity. The influences
of nature on poetry reappear in Gray, Warton and Burns ;

GENKRAL 1NTK(M)UCTI0X.

: grand
y-gone
harvest
,n such
: ill the
.price of
jglected
luration
To add
id plai ri-
ll of the
e of pas-
was the

foreign travel yields its first fruits in Goldsmith ; Gay
gives pictures from common life, vie.v^ed from the side of
sentiment, Crabbe under the influence of social economy.
Xor are traces of the more general currents affecting poli-
tics and manners absent, although these cannot be so in-
dividually specified." In the wider range of subjects to
which poetry was thus applied, obscurity, conceits and af-
fectation gave place to simplicity and clearness. Thus
far great praise is due to the poets of this age. But they
could not follow their new system in moderation. Men
i.ever can. New ideas must be carried to extremes. And
so it was here. Soon form became everything, and it sub-
dued within its rigid bonds, not merely the language and
the versification, but the sentiments likewise. The whole
tone of society was also artificial, so literature and society,
by their mutual action and reaction upon each other,
tended to further the same end. Uniformity, symmetry,
and consequent mediocrity, became all the fashion.
Poetry contained no lofty flight of imagination, no strong
passion, no deep emotion. It was a sort of regular and
modulated prose. From prose, indeed, it differed chiefly
in form. Its matter was the same, its purpose, too, to
systematize and clearly expound human knowledge and
the concerns of life — »vas also similar.

The poetry of this period was even more crystallized in
form than in sentiment. However the poets may have dif-
fered in other respects, they uniformly agreed to seek for
the greatest perfection in the form of their verse — that is to
say, perfection according lo their standard. The charac-
iterof the poetic line has greatly varied in the history of
UJiglish poetry. With Chaucer and his followers, it was

it . GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

not deemed necessary to regard an exact number of regu-
larly accented syllables as the only essential of good verse ;
much the same manner was observed with our Eliza-
bethans, after them it was the fiishion to glory in the
ruggedness of the verse. Then came the practice of
making the line smooth, regular and exact in its syllables,
and harmoniously varied in the pauses of the different
lines. Much was accomplished in the bold and vigorous
style of Dryden, but the fulness of the art was attained
by Pope. A host of other poets of less note likewise
caught his method, till

" Every warljler had his tune by heart.**

In this respect many of them were no mean imitators, if,
indeed, they did not frequently rival the skill and fa-
cility of their master. As the aim was to be witty and
sparkling, so was it to set out that wit in the most pointed
and elegant language, in the most correct and brilliant form.
In truth, it not unfrequently appears that the thought was
a secondary ''onsideration to the smoothness and epigram-
matic beauty of the couplet.

Polish and brilliancy may dazzle, but can never do more
than please the ear and eye. Alone they can have little
lasting effect on the heart. Hence we are prepared to find
that this artificiality in poetry could not endure, and more,
that such an unnatural state of society could not be per-
petual. There soon became manifest an evident desire
to return to the nature and natural emotion which had
been the informing spirit of early English poetry.

The pioneer of the new taste, at least, in subject and
mode of treatment, was Thomson, whose Seasons (i 726-30)

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

jf regu-
i verse ;
: Eliza-
f in the
ctice of
yllables,
different
vigorous
attained
likewise

itators, if,
il and fa-
witty and
t pointed
iant form,
tought was

iepi

gram-

er do more
have little

ired to find
and more,
ot be per-

dent desire
which had

ry.
subject and

w (1726-30)

exhibit in their rich melody and felicity of description an
ardent love of nature, though yet in artificial dress. Almost
simultaneously came Dyer's Groni^ar Hill and Evefiifi^t^
JVall' {1727). Then nearly twenty years elapsed before
the description of nature received a further impetus from
the skyey fancy and melting pathos of Collins (1746), and
from the elegant and elaborate verse of Gray (1747 — 57).
The next step, that in which we meet with the fust simple
daylight landscape,where the human figure and the aspects
of nature are united in such a manner as to delight us, not
as moralizations, but as pictures, is taken in the poems of
Oliver Goldsmith. The publication of Percy's Reliques
(1763), a collection of English ballads wherein the old
spirit, the openness and freshness of life, the warm ex-
pression of human passion and that simplicity which is the
highest grandeur, dwelt in rich plenitude, found in the
chilled heart of the nation a cordial reception, and called
forth such desires as could no longer be satisfied with tin-
sel and unreality. The attention of both poets and readers
was turned to the older poetry of the language. Study gave
rise to admiration, and admiration to imitation. A new
school of criticism that was about this time founded by the
Wartons, which received its inspiration from romantic
rather than from classical sources, and on which the Mid-
|dle Ages wrought almost as effectually as Greek and Ro-
lan literature did on Collins and Gray, fostered the same
:ourse of feeling. The public, too, had grown tired of art,
md gladly welcomed a return to simplicity and nature*
for was this retarded by pushing the old-school principles
fo extremes, as was done by Darwin and Hayley, whose
)oetry resembles polished metal, bright and shining, but

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

cold, hard and lifeless. The change was first perceptible
in the sentiments, and later it affected also the structure
of the verse. A new class of subjects were chosen, and,
consequently, a different mode of treatment was adopted.
Instead of the reflective came the descriptive, and in lieu
of the didactic, the tale and lyrical narrative.

While these tendencies were making gradual but con-
stant progress, there came over England a ferment of re-
ligious enthusiasm that spread its leaven throughout almost
the entire nation, and gave an impulse that carried
them rapidly forward to the most important results. The
lethargy and indifference of the clergy, the ignorance and
brutality of the lower orders, had awakened a concern for
the spiritual interests of the nation in the breasts of
some of the more devout and zealous of the ministers
of the Established Church. Instead of preaching the old
doctrines of theoretical morality, which for many years
had appeared to be almost the only function of the pulpil,
these men began to insist upon the vital importance of
experimental religion. The enthusiasm which they aroused
took a deep hold on the middle and lower classes of the
nation, and produced the most momentous results both
within and without the Establishment — results which
brought back the heart of the nation, vastly raised the |
standard of public morality and set on foot instrumentali-
ties and agencies for the uplifting and cleansing of the
people, which are still bearing the noblest fruit, and which |
are now embodied in the frame-work of society throughout ||
the world. This great movement, which, at first, was i|
wholly within the national church, was afterwards, in part,
severed from it. Those who separated from the Church

V-

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

Xlll

but con-
;nt of re-
it almost
; carried
ilts. The
•ance and
)ncern for
)reasts of
ministers

ng the old
iiany years
the pulpit,
(ortance of
Ley aroused
|sses of the
:sults both
ilts which
raised the
itrumentali-
Lsing of the
;, and which
throughout
,t first, was
■ds, in part,
the Church

assumed the name of Methodists, while the term Evan-
i^elicism was employed to indicate the movement within
its pale. To the latter, Cowper, as well as his friend and
protector, Mr. Newton, belonged. Cowper did not com-
mence in earnest to write poetry till he was fifty-five years
old, twcncy-three years after his conversion — two facts im-
portant to be remembered. He then undertook it simply
that he might have some occupation for his mind. He
had not kept up his reading in literature and poetry,
which had never been extensive ; hence, when he began
to write, he stood almost alone, and was not greatly
inllucnced either by poetic theories or poetic prac-
tice. Nor had he, indeed, the remotest idea of inaugu-
rating a new school of poetry, though he evidently
felt himself impelled to seek for matter and expression
in a different field from that cultivated by Pope, who ap-
peared to him to have " made poetry a mere mechanic art."
The real source of his inspiration was the religious
movement of the time, of which he is the grand and
devoted exponent in the poetic life of the country. The
change which lias been described as gradually coming
over the poetic taste and production of the century re-
ceived a powerful impetus from the upward movement in
[morality, which had long been coming on as a natural
[reaction to the irreligion and vice of the period succeeding
the Restoration, and which already for many years had
)een permeating and transforming the nation. Cowper,
the lonely hermit of the Ouse, united these two — the rising
noral and religious purity of the people, and their renewed
[ovc for nature, passion, and imagination in poetry — into
)}}ft- noble pean of song. The task was his to gather

XIV

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

into one tlie converging streams of moral and poetic pro-
gress that arose from the quiet return from speculation
and doubt to faith and practice, and from the artificial
gloss with which society had been veneered to the warmer
ebullition of human passion, and the genuine love of
simple nature. Speaking of the part borne by Cowper,
a writer in Blackwood's M agar. i tie (June, 1871) has
well said : —

" It was the re-birth of poetry in Enj^lainl — the first bold de-
parture from the well-worn channel in which all poetical compo-
sitions had flowed for many years. Cowper, in this new work,
served himself suddenly heir to the old poets of greater ages, end
to the homely vigorous English which they had not found too
comr.on for their handling. He cast aside t'le worn-out moulds,
threw the traditions of Pope's and Dryden'sera to the winds, and
caught the old perennial stream from the fountain at which it
flowed brightest and most full. When we think of it, it is im-
possible to over-estimate the courage and even hardihood of this
step. Every poetical influence had been setting one way during
the entire century. Cowper, at the end of that century, a
man with no impulse of youth to help him, no new enthusiasm
to animate him, deliberately set his face against it and turned the
tide. All the smoothness of versification, the artificial melody
of rythm in which his generation had delighted, and in which
he too, himself, had imitated the other songsters of the age, he
put aside to make his new venture. It was entirely new though
it was so old. England had fancied herself to have outlived the
lofty melody of blank verse. She discovered now that the old
strain was her favorite — that it could charm her ear as well as
rouse her soul. She found out that nature was as sweet as it had
been in the days of Milton, the English fields as fair, the rural
sights and sounds as fresh and tender. This worn-out sick man
growing old, half frantic, half madman, half recluse, drew the
veil from her eyes and threw open to her a new, sweet, dewy,

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

bold de-
\ compo-
e\v work,
ages, ftnfl
found too
at moulds,
winds, and
at which it
it, it is in^-
lood of this
way during
century, a
enthusiasm
cl turned the
;icial melody
,d in which
the age, he
new though
outlived the
that the old
par as well as
..eetasithad

v,ir, the rural |
out sick man

tse, drew the |
sweet, dewy,

fragrant world. It is difficult for us even to imagine the surprised
delight with which the nation felt the sweetness of this new voice,
which was so familiar, so homelike, so unpretending. After all
the shade of the Throckmorton elms, the woodman on his way to
the forest, the pheasant's nest perched on the hillside, the post-
boy, light-hearted wretch ! twanging his horn across the bridge
were a thousand times more near the heart than the outpouring
of a poet's malice, the impalation of a Sporus or a Sappho. No-
body had thought of it up to that moment ; but when the mo-
ment came, all England saw it with that sudden enlightenment
which is like inspiration. All through the conventional ages,
the period in which poetry had been a thing of wits and coffee,
houses, the production of a class, full of allusions and assaults
which only that class could appreciate, Shakespeare and Mil-
ton had still been read in the silent corners, in those depths of
the national heart which criticism and its artificial standard did
not reach ; and, lo, these secret worshippers of the old gods rose
up with a thrill of delight to greet the new light which carried in
it all the marks of divinity which they could not recognise in its
predecessors,"

17;

17:

17(jI

170
17(H

17(\

CHRONOLOGICAL PARALLKL.

AD.

BNULIRII IIIHTOKY AND
LITERATl'RK.

LIKK OKCOWrKK.

1728 Pope'H Diiuci'atl. W-rcy b. Horn, November, 10th,

Th(w. Warton h. \ j

17:^0 C«in;,'rcve d. Steelf <i. i |

1730 CoIIey Cilibtr, Poet JiUU- family leave rallasl

reute. lUirke b. | for LiMS( y.

17;U Defoe (/. 'Sent to Misa Dolap. Born, Nov. .iGtli

17:;:'. I'rie.ntley b. ' i

17;>4 To school to Uyrno.

17;!a Heuttie b. l*o|)e'3 AloivV.

I7:;<! PorteoiiH Riots. jTo Rev. Mr. GritVin's

17:>7 Gibbon !». Greene/. \ Loses his inolhir

To school lit
Market Street.

1739 War declared ajj'ainst Spain Tollev.Mr.t'auipbcli's. To Mrs. Disney'n

1741 Walpoic resigns.

174;< Pelham takes ..ttice.

1744 I'ope (I.

1745 I'retender's Ilebellion.
1747

17 H Thomson r/. I'eace of Aix-

; la-Chapelle.
1740:

17;">0 l>r. .lohn.son's Jiamhlcr.
17.VJ Cliattertoii b.
bishop Hiitk-r il.

,The Adventuier staited.

1753 Tlie Wurlil.

iTo Rev. P. Hu-'hch'.

I Enters Tnn. Coliejfe.
His father dies.

'J'akes hi.s I? .\.
At hiwno. I

Tutor at Mr. Flinii't*.'
Starts out to study
law. To Kdinb\ir;,'h
to studv medicine.

house.
To Westminster
School.

i Entered at tho
Middle Temi)lc.

I First attack of d*^-
I spondeiu'y(i>r 1704)
To Leydt'U. Travels. Called to the Bur,
Returns to Enj;land. 'His father dies.
Teaches for Dr. Milner

17,14 Crabl)e /». rifldiiij,*' d.
\l:)i\ War a<»uinst Fraiicc.
17."i7 Seven years' War begins

Whitehead, Puet Laureate. Writes for Monthly

I He view.
17aS Dr. Joluison's Idler. 'Fails at examination.

17a'J Quebec taken. \Li/e nf Voltaire, | Removes to the In

Hurns t. Inquiry. The Hoc. \ ner Temple.

1700 Georjje III. Poems of Writes for BritUh\
Osaian. Maif. and Public

LeJf/e.'.

Churchill's Roixiad.
17(>l Richardson d.

Citizen of the World.

17t32 P.ute Premier. N. Briton. Lije of Beau Nanh.
17G;i Literary Club founded.

Grenville Ministry.
17(i4 Horace Walpole's Otranto. Uixto^-y of Emjland.

I Traveller.

Confined at St.
Alban's.

I 1

CIIR()N()LO(;iCAL PARALLIX.

A.I).

KNdMHIl IlIHTOKY ANU
I.lTKItATrRK.

LIFR OK aoLDNMrrii.

170.') Rockitiu'liiini tukon oflico.
I Young d, I'orcy's A'c/x/i/cs.

LII'R (lKCOWIT.:i.

ITCKl Mosttii' Ministry.

1767
17«S

17«9
1770

Kxppn'mentnl Phlh-lmnnin ■.»( Mr.

SUtiic (/. (;r;iff.>ii tiikos

tillicf
Letters of ,hiniu8.

Nonli Hiu'coeds Grafton.
Wordsworth h.

Unwin's, ut lliint-
intrdon.

8eltlu8 ut Olnoy.

1771 Waller Scott b.

1772
1773

1771

,177fi
1776
1779
1782

Coleridjjo /*. /

Kraneis ,1 elf rev h.

Sonthoy b. Lord Olive </.
Warion'8 Knt/lisk i ortn/
Vol. L

An'ierieun War bejrins.
Smith's Woalth of Nations.
(larriek (/.
Morth sueceeded by Uoek-

iiij,'hain ; lie l>y Lord

Shellmrne.
Poaee of Versaillos.
Dr. Johnson (/.

VDphjf.

Vicar of Walccfirld.
Collect Urn of KKsays.

(iood-Natured Man.

M.B. at Oxford. Ro-
man llisfiirti.

Dcsrrti'd ViUaiin.
I.ifp of I'arnrll.
Ijifc of linliiKjhrolie.

Uaiinch of VchIho i,

Kiujliali IJistorif.

She Stoops to CotKiner Dcranjjrcd, third

time.

Death, 4th April ;
buried, Itth April.'
JictnUiitioa. Ani-
mated Nature.

l7S:i
17S4
1785
178(» Burns' Poems.

1787 j

1789 Dr. Darwin's Lon's of the
I Plants. French JRevolu-
I tion.

1791

Rev. J. Wesley d.

1792

1794 Gibbon d.

1795 Warren Hastings acquitted.

1796 Macpherson d.

1798 Wordsworth's L]irical

I Ballads.
1800 Moore's Anacreon.

I'.

Ohwy Ilymw.
FirHt volunii) of
Poems.

The Task.
Leaves Olnej' for

Weston Under -

•wt>od.
Deranged, fourth

time.

Translation of

Homer.

Again deranped.
Pension of £300.
Removed to

Norfolk.
Death of Mrs. Un-

win.

Death, at Dereham,
I April 25th.

rjwiT.n.

( Mr.

ut Iluiil-

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

WXXXX VX%-V^%%'VV.'\.XX"

Oliicy.

I, thiril

ilumo of

)ik.

Olnej- for
Under -

)cl, fourth

ition of

leranped.
of £300.
Bdto

Ik.
){ Mrs. Un-

it Dereham,
|25th.

When the assembled wits had decided to place the
best epitaph upon Dryden's tomb that had ever been
chiselled, Atterbury exclaimed, "'Dryden' is enough;
they who know his works, want no more, they who do
not know them, would not be enlightened by the most
eloquent eulogy." True as these words are of Dryden,
they are even more applicable to Goldsmith. As we read
his works, his character gradually unfolds itself with each
successive page, and we become familiar with the virtues,
the weaknesses and the foibles of our author. In one
part or other of his writings, he has left us a complete
autobiography of himself, drawn by a faithful, yet gentle
hand. We smile and sympathize, or admire and love, as
we meet, on every page, a genial, easy, and unceasing
flow of good humor, good sense, and good feeling ; as
we see, in all the characters he has sketched, his own art-
less benevolence and fitfulness, his kindness and way-
wardness, or tract in their blunderings and buffetings,
the mischances, ludicrous scenes, or laughable mistakes
of his own life.

The Goldsmiths were a respectable, but unthrifty race,
whose ** hearts were in the right place, but whose heads
seemed to be doing anything but what they ought."
Accordingly the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, Oliver's father,
married very young and very poor, and so was obliged
for some years to " pray and starve'* on forty pounds a
year, in a small rural curacy at Pallas, a c^mote hamlet in
the county of Longford, in Ireland. It was here that

■Ill
lili

'iiil

I ■.

•; !

«i.i

i LIFE OF GOLDSMrrH.

Oliver, the second son of a fanAlly of four sons and two
daughters, was born, on the loih of November, 1728.
While he was yet a child, his father was presented to the
rectorship of Kilkenny West, in Westnieath, worth ^200
a year. The family consequently exchanged the antique
mansion and lonely wilds of Pallas for an elegant rectory
situated on the busy high-road leading to Lissoy. Here,
Oliver spent his boyhood days, here, he received his early
education, and these are the scenes which, in the de-
lightful strains of his Deserted Village^ he has embalmed
in our language forever. When only about three years
old, he was sent to an old lady's private school to learn
his letters. At the end of four years, she pronounced him
a dunce, and passed him over to the hands of the village
schoolmaster, Thomas (or, as the boys had it, Paddy)
liyrne. Byrne, educated for a teacher, had enlisted in the
army, served abroad in Oueen Anne's time, and risen
to the rank of quarter-master. On his return from ser-
vice, he had engaged to drill the urchins of Lissoy in
reading, writing and arithmetic ; but, like many a teacher
whose knowledge is limited, yet whoso tongue is ready,
he gilded over his deficiencies by entertaining his won-
dering scholars with an exhaustless fund of stories. Be-
sides his facility in story-telling, he was an enthusiastic
admirer of the ancient Irish bards, whom he fancied he
could imitate. Such a tutor was just the person to pro-
duce deep and lasting impressions on the imaginative
mind of young Oliver who, before he was eight years of
age, had begun to scribble verses of poetry. Some of
these lines coming under the notice of his mother, she
readily perceived that her son was a poetical genius, and
from that time urged upon his father the necessity of
giving the lad an education befitting his abilities. The
expense of educating his eldest son, Henry, had so strait-

iii

Life ov goldsmith.

fened the father's narrow income, that he liad determined
to put Oliver to a trade ; but the mother's earnest soli-
citations won the day, and it was decided to give him
a University education. Hence, on his recovery from
a severe attack of small-pox, he was placed under the
care of the Rev. Mr. Griftin, of Elphin. One eveninj;
while here, a number of young people assembled at his
uncle's for a dance, and the fiddler, turning Oliver's short
clumsy figure and pock-marked face into ridicule, called
him *' yKsop." This was too much for his sensitive na-
ture, and stopping short, he replied : " Heralds proclaim
aloud this saying — See yl^sop dancing and his monkey
playing." This repartee raised him greatly in the estima-
tion of his friends, several of whom — especially his uncle,
the Rev. Thomas Contarine — contributed means to place
him in a school possessing advantages superior to those
afforded at Elphin. He was therefore removed to a
school kept by the Rev. Mr. Campbell, at Athlone, and,
after two years, transferred to one at Edges worthstown,
under the supervision of the Rev. Patrick Hughes. He
does not appear to have been distinguished at any of
these schools— except, indeed, by his easy, idle disposi-
tion, and blundering manners. No favorite with the
teacher, he was the leader in the sports of the play-
ground, and never hindmost in any school-boy prank.

With this preparation he was sent up to Trinity Col-
lege, Dublin. He was now in his seventeenth year,
eccentric, idle and thoughtless. His sister having mar-
ried a wealthy gentleman, named Hodson, her father
deemed it a point of honor to furnish her with a suitable
dowry, and, acting on this impulse, so embarrassed the
family circumstances, that it was found impossible to
I give Oliver the same advantages as his brother, Henry.
He accordingly entered College, as a sizar. This menial

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

!'l

condition, as might be expected, was very galling to the
proud spirit of young Oliver ; yet, while enduring indigni-
ties, in order to enjoy the advantages of the institution, he
neglected his studies, quarrelled with his tutor, received a
public reprimand for joining in an attack on a bailiff, vio-
lated the college rules by giving a supper and dance to
some of his city friends, won an exhibition of thirty shil-
lings, and was turned to the foot for playing buffoon in
his class.

While he was at Dublin his father died, leaving the
family very poorly {provided for, so that Oliver's situation
became still more painful. To relieve his necessities he
occasionally wrote songs, sold them for live shillings each,
and then squandered the money. However, by the aid
of his uncle, he was enabled to remain at college till
he took his degree in 1749. He then returned home,
and spent three years, partly with his mother, who had
taken a small cottage at Ballymahon, and partly with his
brother-in-law, Hodson, at Lissoy. He was now twenty-
one, and it became necessary to decide on some profes-
sion. His friends urged him to enter the church. After
some difficulty his objections were withdrawn, and he
began to qualify himself for Orders. The time for his
ordination came. He presented himself to the bishop,
dressed in scarlet breeches, and was, in consequence,
rejected. He then became tutor in a wealthy family, but
threw up the situation in a dispute over a game of cards.
On receiving his wages he bought a fme horse, and set
out for Cork, intending to sail for America ; but after six
weeks he returned home on a wretched nag and without
a penny in his pocket. Next he determined to study
law. His friends provided him with a purse of fifty
pounds, with which he set out for London, but on his way
he met an old acquaintance at Dublin, who took him to

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

a gambling house and stripped him of his money. At
the suggestion of Dean ^ioldsmith, of Cloync, a distant
relative, he then determined to study physic. His trust-
ing friends again subscribed the funds, and he set out for
Edinburgh, where he arrived in the autumn of 1752.
Here he rem.lined for eighteen months, studying, riding
into the Highlands, gambling, singing Irish songs, or
telling Irish stories. At the end of that time, he per-
suaded his good uncle, Contarine, to furnish him with
funds to complete his medical studies at the University of
Leyden. For Leyden he forthwith left Edinburgh. On
arriving at this famous University, he recommenced his
studies and his gambling. What progress he made in
the former is uncertain, but, by the latter, he soon lost
the last shilling of the ^{^33, with which he had left Scot-
land. His friend, Ellis, lent him a few pounds with which
to return to Paris, but he generously spent the whole, in
purchasing some costly tulip roots for his affectionate
uncle. Penniless and proud, he now determined to make
a tour of the Continent on foot, and so with one spare
shirt, a flute, and a guinea, he set out on his journey,
visiting France, Germany, vSwitzerland and Italy. In
the story of the '* Philosophic Vagabond," in the I7car oj
Wakefield^ he has given us some delightful reminiscences
of his experiences in these wanderings,

"Remote, unfrienleil, melancholy, s^ow,"

in which he made those observations upon the peculiai*
characteristics of the various countries and their inhab-
itants, which he has, in his own easy, graceful style,
recorded for the delight of all future ages, in the Travel-
ler. At Padua he remained for some months. Here, it
is probable, his medical studies were resumed, and from
this University, he tells us, he received his medical degree.

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

Ill

His generous uncle, whose slender remittances had
never entirely ceased, died about this time, and the wan-
derer was compelled to seek his native shore. So after a
year of roaming about on the Continent, he landed at
Dover in 1756.

" Without friends, recommendation, money, or impu-
dence," he arrived in London. Here, his flute had no
attractions, nor could his philosophy supply his wants.
He was compelled to seek other employment. He tried
to turn his medical knowledge to advantage, but without
avail. He then became a strolling-player, but his face
and figure soon drove him from the boards. Next, he is
found pounding drugs in a chemist's laboratory near Fish
Street. Through the friendship of Dr. Sleigh, an old fel-
low-student, he was enabled to commence the practice of
physic in Bankside, Southwark, but his patients were
chiefly among the poorest and humblest classes of society.
To eke out the miserable pittance thus received, he began
to do some hack-work for the booksellers. A. few months
later, and we find him usher in a school kept by Dr.
Milner, at Peckham. His bitter experiences in this situa-
tion, he has left us in a lively sketch in the sixth number
of the Bee^ and in the history of *' George Primrose."
While thus employed, Mr. Griffiths, proprietor of the
Monthly Review^ being in need of increased writers in
order to cope with the opposition which he now met from
the Critical Review under the able conduct of Dr. Smol-
lett, engaged Goldsmith for a year, at a small regular
salary, with board and lodging. Irksome as the slavery
of an usher had been, the vassalage of the bookseller and
his critical wife was still more unbearable. At the end of
five months, the engagement was broken off. After some
further occasional and ill-paid contributions to various
Reviews, he returned in deep want to Dr. Milner's, and

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

took charge of the school during the Doctor's illness. He
next received a medical appointment in the service of the
East India Company. To raise money for the expected
voyage, he set to work to write a treatise to be entitled An
Inquiry into the Present State of Polite Learning in'
Europe ; but before it was completed the appointment had
been cancelled. He then presented himself for examina-
ation as hospital mate. The suit of clothes in which he
appeared had been secured by writing four articles for
Griffiths' Monthly Revieiv. He failed at the examination,
and pawned the unpaid clothes to relieve his landlady's
distress. The Life of Voltaire was written at this time,
to pacify the demand of Griffiths for the return of the suit
of clothes and the books he had reviewed.

In 1759, appeared the Lnquiry, a work of little value
now-adays, but which, to the grace and charm of its
style, added much that then commanded public attention.

This was the age of periodicals, and Goldsmith must
needs have his. The Bee first appeared on the 6th of Oc-
tober, 1759. It was to be issued every Saturday, and the
price was three pence. It was filled with essays in great
variety, penned in Goldsmith's neat and elegant style,
but it failed to charm the public of the day ; and its
short career of eight weeks closed on the 29th of No-
vember. Whilst publishing the Bee^ Goldsmith had been
writing for other periodicals, the Busy Body and the
Critical Revietu. He soon after became an important
contributor to the British Magazine and to the Public
Ledger. The series of letters which appeared in the latter
was afterwards republished underthe tide of the Citizen of
tlie World. These letters, purporting to be addressed by
a Chinese traveller to his friends at home, contain some
lively and humorous sketches of English society, and have
beei\ '* jiistly praised, for their fresh original perception,

I ''I!

! II

iill

i lilii

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

their delicate delineation of life and manners, their wit and
humor, their playful and diverting satire, their exhilarat-
ing gaiety and their clear and lively style."

Two other anonymous works were published about this
time, The Life of Beau Nash^Ti^xidi The History oj England
in a Scries of Letters from a Nobleman to his Son. The
latter became exceedingly popular, and was attributed in
turn to Lords Chesterfield, Orrery and Lyttleton.

It was during these years that Goldsmith became ac-
quainted with several of the distinguished literary char-
acters of the time. Dr. Percy, renowned for his collection
of English ballads, had some years before introduced him-
self to Goldsmith while the latter sat "writing his Inquiry
in a wretched, dirty room in which there was but one
chair, and when he, from civility, offered it to his visitor,
was obliged himself to sit in the window." He managed
to bring about a meeting between Goldsmith and the great
literary autocrat of the period, Dr. Johnson. Among his
acquaintances also, were now the distinguished painters,
Hogarth and Reynolds. At the house of Reynolds, he
was introduced to more notable company than he had yet
been accustomed to meet ; and on the formation of the
Literary Club in 1763, he was invited to become one of its
members. This club which was suggested by Reynolds,
originally consisted of Johnson, Burke, Beauclerc, Nugent,
Bennet Langton, Hawkins, Chamier, Reynolds, and
Goldsmith. Its meetings were held once a week at the
Turk's head inn, in Gerrard street, Soho, and its conver-
sations exercised no little influence on the literature of the
time. But though Goldsniith's circumstances were now
greatly improved, life seems to have still been a struggle
with him. Sometimes he revelled in plenty, but oftener
was pining in want. One morning in the winter of 1764,
he sent for Dr. Johnson, to come to him immediately, as h^

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

was in trouble. Johnson sent him a guinea, and as soon
as he was dressed called to see him. He found that Gold-
smith had changed the guinea, and procured a bottle of
Madeira, over which he was disputing with his landlady
who had that morning arrested him for arrears of rent.
Johnson replaced the cork, and begged his friend tc calm
himself and con;^ider how the money was to be obtained.
The latter thereupon produced a novel upon which he had
been engaged. After glancing over the manuscript, John-
son perceived that the work possessed rare merit, went
out, and sold it to a bookseller for ^60, brought back the
money, and the rent was paid. The novel which thus
passed into the hands of the publisher, but which lay un-
printed for upwards of two years, was the Vicar of Wake-
field. Goldsmith was not yet known to the public as an
author, and the bookseller had probably made his bargain,
depending largely on the judgment of Johnson. Soon all
this was to be changed, for he was to have a reputation of
his own, that would not only warrant the publication of
the Vicar^ but give hir future productions a ready popu-
larity.

In 1764, the Tf-aveller was published, and Goldsmith
was at once recognised as a poet of genuine worth. The
ablest critics of the day joined in lauding the poem as
worthy of a high place amongst our English classics, and
Johnson, under whose fostering care it had been com-
pleted, introduced it to the public by a kindly notice in the
Critical Reviciu. And it well deserved all the praise it
received. Its outward form, its polish, and the correct-
ness of its versification, are after the manner of the time.
It has not all the epigrammatic brilliancy and point of the
poetry of Pope, but it possesses a richer sweetness, greater
naturalness and a deeper human sympathy. Throughout
there abound ^ freshness and love of nature that more

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

liOHl

than compensate for the unsoundness of its political the-
ory, while the simplicity and neatness of its diction are
equalled only by its charming descriptions and lovely
images. The appearance of the Traveller was the great
turning point in Goldsmith's career. It raised him in the
estimation of the booksellers, opened his way into good
society, and introduced him to the notice of the great.
The Earl of Northumberland expressed a desire to serve
him, but the generous-hearted poet recommended his bro-
ther Henry, saying of himself " that he looked to the
booksellers for support, that they were his best friends,
and that he was not inclined to forsake them for others."

He took advantage of his present popularity to collect
and republish many of his essays which had appeared
anonymously in various perijdicals ; and, that he might
have some permanent means of support, again resumed
the medical profession, hoping that he might now secure
a higher class of patients ; but meeting only disappoint-
ment, he soon abandoned it in disgust, to return to the
service of his old ** patrons."

The fourth edition of the Ti^aveller had just been issued,
and Goldsmith was enjoying the reputation of being the
first poet of his age, when the Vicar of Wakefield was
published. This charming novel of English domestic
life, the earliest of its kind, was at first but coldly received
by the Club, the leading journals of the day, and the
higher classes of society. Yet^ surely, if slowly, it grew
in favour. Three editions were printed within four months,
and the author lived to see it translated into several con-
tinental languages. Its plot is confused, and many of the
incidents are highly improbable, but its quiet humor and
lively wit amuse us at every turn and sparkle on every
page. It overflows with a kindly sympathy for the fail-
ings gf th^ lac^ ; and the characters a^e drawn with '^wM

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

truth to nature, that they cannot fail to reach the heart.
Its moral, too, is excellent — to show us how our lives may
be made happy by * patience in suffering, persevering re-
liance on the providence of God, quiet labor, and an in-
dulgent forgiveness of the faults of others." Little won-
der that such a book has passed from country to country,
and obtained a wider popularity than any other of its
kind.

The celebrity which Goldsmith won by the publication
of the Traveller and Vicar materially raised his social
standing, but did not equally improve his circumstances.
Debts and drudgery were still his portion. He was com-
pelled to toil for the booksellers as before, with this differ-
ence, that hi? services now received a better remuneration.
In the midst of this thankless labor, his leisure was de-
voted to work of another kind. He had won laurels as a
poet, and as a novelist ; now he was emboldened to try
his fortune as a writer of comedy. His first attempt, the
Good-Natured Man, was acted at Covent Garden in 1768.
It had been finished early in the preceding year, but,
though recommended by Johnson, Burke, and Reynolds,
he had much difficulty in inducing the managers to accept
it. ks reception at a time when sentimentalism was the
rage, could not be hearty ; yet the author received from
his benefit nights and from the sale of the copyright up-
wards of ;{^5oo, a 5um many times larger than he had re-
ceived for any of his previous writings. The plot of the
Good-Natured Man, like ^11 Goldsmith's plots, is very im-
perfect, but in character, repartee, and humor, this comedy
has few superiors. Yet at the time when it was brought
on the stage its very excellencies were its ruin. Anything
that moved the audience to laughter was sure to be " his-
sed " from pit to boxes ; and accordingly the very scene
which Goldsmith considered the best — and posterity has

'^■n

■ )!

il .1

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

endorsed his opinion — was received with marked disap-
probation, and had to b withdrawn after the first night.

With so great a sum as £s^^ i" ^is possession, and
with no small reputation as a poet, novelist, and dramatic
author. Goldsmith thought proper to remove into more
commodious and respectable lodgings. Leaving his shabby-
rooms at Jeffs', he leased apartments in Brick Court, Mid-
dle Temple, which he proceeded to furnish in elegant style,
and then began a course of life which burdened him with
debts and mental distress for the rest of his days. His
pen was now more actively engaged than ever in writing
for the booksellers, and his fame commanded a high re-
turn for his labor. For Tom Davies he compiled a His-
tory of Rome for which he received ^300. Its rapid sale
prompted Davies to offer ^^500 for a History of England ^
and at the same time Goldsmith was at work upon his
Animated Nature for which Griffin agreed to give him 800
guineas.

These works are all written with the author's own easy,
graceful flow of narrative, and never fail to please and in-
terest the reader ; but the facts are taken at second-hand,
without any elaborate inquiry into their correctness ; and
consequently he has been led into making some ludicrous
errors and absurd statements. Yet Johnson ranked him,
as an historian, above Robertson, and declared that he
would make his Animated Nature as "entertaining as a
Persian tale." His histories, inaccurate as they are, have
done much to make their subject interesting to young peo-
ple, and they still rank amongst the most popular of
abridged works.

While busy upon these toilsome tasks, he found a few
spare moments left him to cultivate the muse, and added
much to his poetical fame by publishing, in 1770, the
Deserted Village. This poem leaped at once to the height

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

of popularity, no fewer than five editions being required
within the first three months. Nor was its popularity
ephemeral, for the judgment of the time has been endorsed
by tens of thousands of readers since, and seems likely
never to be reversed.

But the " draggle-tailed muses," as Goldsmith was once
heard to say, furnished but a scanty means of subsistence.
Such at least did they in his case. His poetical fame
brought him directly but small returns. Hence we find
him, soon after the publication of the Deserted Village^
again at work for his old" patrons," the booksellers. He
made an abridgment of his Roman History, wrote an in-
ferior Life of Parnell, and compiled a JJfe of Lord Bol-
ingbroke. The biography of Bolingbroke, though written
at a time of great political excitement, is entirely free from
party prejudice, and gives a clear, entertaining account of
this great statesman's life. In 1773, Goldsmith, with great
difficulty, induced the managers to allow him to try his
chances, a second time, with a comedy entitled She Stoops
to Conquer. This play, like its predecessor, the Good-
Natured Man, was based upon character and humor.
The public taste still demanded the sentimental comedy
of Cumberland and Kelly, and scouted everything that
tended to produce boisterous mirth. The fun of Gold-
smith's first comedy had driven it from the boards, and
the fun of this one was uproarious when compared with it.
It was brought out by Coleman, at Covent Garden. The
actors, as well as the managers, are said to have had little
hopes of its success. But all were disappointed, when pit,
and galleries, and boxes, rang with peal upon peal of un-
controllable laughter. The play ran on every night for
the remainder of the season, and is one of the very few
comedies of the time which still retain possession of the
stage. Nor was it fame alone that Goldsmith obtair.ed by

•ftl

'31

Life of coLDSMrni.

the success of tlie Good-Natured Man, for he reaped a
rich pecuniary harvest. Yet all the money he received,
and all he could inanaj;e to raise on works to be written,
but not yet begun, were insufficient to satisfy the demands
of his creditors, or to brighten his prospects for the future.

We find him trying to forget his troubles by a visit to
the country, by attendance at the Club, and by frequent-
ing gay society. But it was all in vain. His unfinished
but prepaid engagements became doubly burdensome, as
presenting no means of relief. Though his "knack at
hoping " seemed to be failing him, yet he was full of plans,
and at times was hard at work. He had almost completed
his AnUnated Nature and Grecian History, was preparing
a third edition of his History of Eh upland , revising his In-
quiryy translating Scarron's Comic Romance, and arrang-
ing his papers for the most extensive work he had ever yet
contemplated — A Popular Dictionary of Arts and Sci-
ences. His plans for this Dictionary, though cheerfully
entertained by his friends, did not secure the confidence
of the ' ooksellers, and the work was never completed.

In the midst of his disappointments and despondency,
his poetical genius once more flashed forth in a little poem
which he composed in reply to some gibing epitaphs
written by his friends, while awaiting his usual late arrival
at a dinner. Being unable to reply at the time he took to
his pen, and with a few inimitable strokes sketched, in
clear and vigorous language, the character of some nine
or ten of his most intimate friends. He gave it the title
of Retaliation, but, like his own generous nature, it had
in it too much of the *' milk of human kindness" to con-
tain revenge. Short and unfinished as it is, its good sense
and humorous raillery, its exquisite discrimination and
graphic truth, will always mark it as a masterpiece.

But this facile pen must write no more. An illness, if

LIFE or GOLDSMITH.

hot induced, at least a^^ravated, by his pressing necessi-
ties and dcran^^ed circumstances, seized him while labor-
ing under his present deprciision. lie complained of pain
in his head, and of fever. Contrary to the advice of his
medical attendants, he persisted in taking some powders
from which he had formerly obtained relief in other dis-
orders. His malady fluctuated for some days, and hopes
were even entertained of his recovery ; but his sleep left
him, his mind was ill at ease, and his appetite was gone.
At length he fell into a deep sleep from which he awoke
in strong convulsions, which continued till death brought
release on the 4th of April, 1774. He was in his forty-
sixth year. His death produced a deep sensation among
his friends. On hearing he was dead, Burke burst into
tears, and Reynolds laid up his pencil for the remainder
of the day. A public funeral and a tomb in Westminster
were at first proposed, but subsequently given up, and he
was privately interred in the burying ground of the Tem-
ple Church. Shortly after his death, a cenotaph was
erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey. Nollekens
was the sculptor, and the inscription was written by Dr.
Johnson.

Of all our English writers there is none over whose
memory the reader lingers with more afifectionate remem-
brance than over that of Goldsmith. Not that his character
was faultless ; far from it. There is much to ddmire, but
also much to regret. He was a compound of weakness
and strength, and his life was full of inconsistencies. His
head was ever devising plans which he lacked resolution
and energy to carry out. Indolence and procrastination
were part of his very nature. At school his lessons were
neglected for some idle sport. At college he feasted his
city friends, and graduated last on the list of Sizars. Of
these habits the booksellers had ahvays to complain ; and

* ■

-TIT

^^B '

' ' ■ ^

.''^^Bj

■!' '■'■ isi

'■fc.y4 Ik 1

LIFK OF GOLDSMITH.

for this reason they rejected the scheme of his proposed
Dictionary. Few men were more ambitious than he, and
his ambition led him at times to put forth great, if spas-
modic, efforts to win the praise which he heard bestowed
upon others. He strove to outshine Johnson in conversa-
tion, but his attempts brought upon him the derision of
of the Club. His vanity led him into exhibitions of
jealousy, and even of envy. His extreme sensibility made
him writhe under the jests of which he was made the ob-
ject, but his forgiving nature could never avenge the insults
heaped upon him. It need not for a moment be supposed
that Goldsmith had more of envy, jealousy, and vanity
than many of his associates, but his blundering, outspoken,
and transparent nature made his failings more conspicu-
ous. He was frivolous, improvident, profuse and sensual.
His benevolence often outran his judgment, for the soft-
ness of his heart could hear no tale of distress without
attempting whatever assistance lay in his power to relieve
it.

Though he had graduated at Trinity College, and had
professedly studied for the church and the medical pro-
fession, yet there was not a single subject of which he
sould be said to be master. He knew nothing thoroughly.
His prose writings exhibit no evidenc^a of depth or close
examination, but are superficial and inaccurate. But
whatever he knew he could tell with clearness, and sur-
round with charming interest. When he looks within his
own heart and gives utterance to the feelings which fill his
breast, he expresses himself with a naturalness, a grace,
and a tenderness, which bespeak the true poet and the
man of broad and deep human sympathy. But when he
goes beyond his own experiences, he always blunders, al-
ways fails. Happily, he has generally confined himself
tQ subjects in which his acute and varied observation gave

LIFE OF GOLDSMITH.

him a power that has largely compensated for his lack of
imagination. His style is the perfection of ease. There
is no straining after effect, no ponderous phrases, no
heavily-turned periods. His words are aptly chosen, his
diction select and terse, his language felicitous, and his
taste excellent. Dealing chiefly with familiar topics, he
always keeps above vulgarity, but he is at times justly
chargeable with carelessness and want of precision in the
construction of his sentences. In palliation of this, it may
be said, that many of his productions were completed in
great haste, under pressing necessities, and are not there-
fore fairly open to criticism. In everything he has written,
there is an easy grace and elegance which have always
made his writings popular, and which bid fair to perpetu-
ate his fame as long as our language endure

I ■'♦•'{1

';M

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

.^■';

»• ■<■

INTRODUCTION.

Goldsmith seems to have conceived the idea of writing
this poem while he was engaged upon the Traveller. In-
deed, the main thoughts which are here illustrated — the
increase of wealth and the consequent exile of the peasan-
try — had already been sympathetically touched upon in
that poem. It is probable that after finishing the latter,
he set to work upon this at his moments of leisure,
in the midst of the multifarious labors that were now
crowding upon him ; for poetry was with him an amuse-
ment, not a business. After some four or five years of
correction and improvement, this poem, which had been
long promised, was at last given to the public on the 26th
of May, 1770. It was published by W. Griffin, and the price
was two shillings. What remuneration the author received
is uncertain. It*is saiu that Griffin paid him a hundred
pounds for the copyright, and that Goldsmith returned a
part of it, as some one told him that no poetry was worth five
shillings a couplet. It at once became immensely popular.
A second edition was issued on the 7th of June, a third
on the 14th, a fourth on the 28th, and a fifth on the i6th

^ \

I^N^

INTRODUCTION.

of August. This sudden popularity was due, partly to the
now famous name of the author, partly to the subject, but
chiefly to the intrinsic beauty of the treatment, and to the
deep and touching appeal to the great heart of humanity.
It was now six years since the Traveller had beg^un to
make the name of Goldsmith eminent, and four, since that
charming story, the Vicar of Wakefield^ had sharpened
the public appetite for anything. Dr. Goldsmith might
write. Whatever came from his pen, especially as poetry,
was sure to be eagerly devoured, for his reputation as the
poet of his time, was thoroughly established. In the choice
of his subject, he was, no doubt, influenced by his natural
sympathy for the poor and the down-trodden, and his innate
antagonism to tyrants and oppressors. It may be, too,
though "he never paid much attention to interest," that
he was swayed somewhat by policy ; and as he could
scarcely look for patronage to the great and the fashion-
able who, if they admired poetry at all, admired it in such
men as Whitehead and Beattie, he sought an audience
amongst the people. Besides, reflective and didactic poe-
try was all the mode, and several prose writers had affected
to mourn over the decreasing population of the country.
But, though the poet chose to regard depopulation as a
fact, and the increase of wealth as a lamentable evil, he
seems to have had very serious misgivings of both. In
fact, in the Dedication, he admits that he has little or no
proof— certainly none from Ireland — nothing but iifs own
conviction that what he writes is true, while he feels and
acknowledges that the weight of intelligent opinion is
against him. As a matter of fact, there was no depopula-

INTRODUCTION.

VII

tion going on at the time, but the number of inhabitants
was increasing more rapidly than in any preceding century.
It was probably true that in a few solitary instances, gen-
tlemen desirous of extending their parks or pleasure
grounds, had removed, perhaps evicted with seeming vio-
lence, some of their tenants. It is a matter of history that
one General Napier did this near Lissoy during the poet's
childhood ; and, doubtless, recollections of the hardships
endured by some of these tenaixi:,, had grown big with the
lapse of time, and, it may be, were strengthened by re-
ports of one or two similar cases, so that he really believed
that both in Ireland and in England such tyranny and
suffering were general. Nor was he alone in thinking
that the tenantry of his native country nad their grievan-
ces nor yet the first whose muse has been inspired with
this theme ; but he mistakes a few solitary cases for a
general social tendency. He errs again in attributing this
supposed depopulation to the growth of commerce. That
wealth had long been rapidly increasing, particularly in
,he large towns and cities, is one of the most patent facts
of the history of the time ; but when the poet regards the
increase of wealth and depopulation as cause and effect,
he is once more entirely astray. It is now a recognised
principle that the richer a country is the more labor it is
able to employ and the greater number of people it can
sustain. And it is somewhat remarkable that at the very
time when Goldsmith was clothing this false theory in so
pleasing a poetic garb, Adam Smith was engaged upon
his great work, The Wealth of Nations^ in which the re-
lations between capital and labor were first correctly set

\-v^

Vlll

INTRODUCTION.

forth. Again, the outburst of sympathy in which h^
pictures the expatriated wanderers " taking a long fare-
well '* of their native shore, leads him to so exaggerate the
trials and privations of their new home " beyond the
western main *' as to cast an air of unreality over the clos-
ing scenes of the poem.

So much for the facts and the reasonings. Of the ar-
tistic structure. Lord Macaulay tells us that " More dis-
cerning judges, however, while they admire the beauty of
the details, are shocked by one unpardonable fault which
pervades the whole. A poet may easily be pardoned for
reasoning ill ; but he cannot be pardoned for describing
ill, for observing the world in which he lives so carelessly
that his portraits beai no resemblance to the originals, for
exhibiting as copies from real life monstrous combinations
of things which never were and never could be found to-
gether. What would be thought of a painter who should
mix August and January in one landscape, who should
introduce a frozen river into a harvest scene ? Would it
be a sufficient defence of such a picture to say that
every part was exquisitely colored, that the green hedges,
the apple-trees loaded with fruit, the v^aggons reeling un-
der the yellow sheaves, and the sun-burned reapers wip-
ing their foreheads, were very fine, and that the ice and
the boys sliding were also very fine ? To such a picture the
* Deserted Village' bears a great resemblance. It is
made up of incongruous parts. The Village in its happy
days is a true Englibh village. The Village in its decay
is an Irish village. The felicity and the misery which
Goldsmith has brought close together belong to two dif-

IKTRRODUCTIOK.

ferent countries ; and to two different stages in the pro-
gress of society. He had assuredly never seen in his na-
tive island such a rural paradise, such a seat of plenty,
content and tranquillity, as his * Auburn.' He had as-
suredly never seen in England all the inhabitants of such
a paradise turned out of their homes in one day and forced
to emigrate in a body to America. The hamlet he had
probably seen in Kent j the ejectment he had probably
seen in Munster : but, by joining the two, he has produced
something which never was and never will be seen in
any part of the world." Of this censure, Mr. Black com-
pletely disposes. He says : **This criticism is ingenious
and plausible, but it is unsound, for it happens to over-
look one of the radical facts of human nature — the mag-
nifying delight of the mind in what is long remembered
and remote. What was it that the imagination of Gold,
smith, in his life-long banishment, could not see when he
looked back to the home of his childhood, and his early
friends and the sports and occupations of his youth?
Lissoy was no doubt a poor enough Irish village ; and
perhaps the farms were not too well cultivated ; and per-
haps the village preacher who was so dear to all the coun-
try round had to administer many a thrashing to a certain
graceless son of his ; and perhaps Paddy Byrne was some-
thing of a pedant ; and no doubt pigs ran over the * nice-
ly sanded floor' of the inn ; and no doubt the village
statesmen occasionally indulged in a free fight. But do
you think that was the Lissoy that Goldsmith thought of in
his dreary lodgings in Fleet-street Courts? No : It was
the Lissoy where the vagrant lad had first seen the * prim-

L.in

, f!^

I ' ' i

-^:

r 1

t INTRODUCTION.

rose peep beneath the thorn ; ' where he had Hstened to
the mysterious call of the bittern by the unfrequented
river ; it was a Lissoy still ringing with the loud laughter
of young people in the twilight hours ; it was ? Lissoy for-
ever beautiful, and tender, and far away. The grown-up
Goldsmith had not to go to any Kentish village for a
model ; the familiar scenes of his youth, regarded with
all the wistfulness and longing of an exile, became glorifi-
ed enough. * If I go to the Opera where Signora Col-
omba pours out all the mazes of melody/ he writes to Mr.
Hodson, * I sit and sigh for Lissoy's fireside, and yoknny
Armstrong's Last Good Night from Peggy Golden.' "

After all, it is neither the plan nor the theorizing of the
poem that gives it such force and beauty. The reader is
careless to enquire whether its facts are facts or its rea-
soning consequent, but he lingers with rapt delight over the
inimitable description of the Village in its undimmed
beauty and " humble happiness," warms with anger, as
the poet rouses him against the ruthless destroyei of
these scenes of peasant bliss, melts into tears at the
distress of its exiled sons, curses that luxury which
can be purchased only at the cost of so much woe, and
turns with sadness from the desolate prospect whence
poetry and the rural virtues have fled.

In these winning strains the poet has confined himself
within narrow limits, but within these limits he is supreme.
The tenderness, pathos and grace touch and charm the
universal heart, as it listens with rapture to this ** portion
of the music of the great hymn of nature." No lofty
flights of imagination, no strong appeals to the judgment

INTRODUCTION.

dazzle or bewilder the reader, but a gentle voice speaks
directly to his heart in tones that never fail to awaken his
sympathy.

Then again, the skilful manner in which the whole is
brought out claims the highest admiration. How lan-
guage, so simple and unadorned, can appear so rich and
mellow, how it can convey sentiments so tender, and
set forth pictures so clear and full, how it can be rendered
so graceful, flowing and harmonious, none but Goldsmith
could enable us to realize. There is much of the neatness
and exquisite polish of the Augustan poets both in dic-
tion and versification ;but there are, also, livelier touches of
nature, tender feeling, greater earnestness and cordiality
than these masters of artistic poetic excellence ever dis-
played. His poetical canon did not allow him to be ** a
rhymer who makes smooth verses and paints to our im-
agination when he should only speak to our hearts," and
thus led him to touch a cord that shall vibrate forever.

'ivU

DEDICATION

SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

DEAR Sir.

I can have no expectation in an address of this kind,
either to add to your reputation, or to establish my own.
You can gain nothing from my admiration, as I am igno-
rant of that art in which you are said to excel ; and I may
lose much by the severity of your judgment, as few have a
juster taste in poetry than you. Setting interest, therefore,
aside, to which I never paid much attention, I must be
indulged at present in following my affections. The only
dedication I ever made was to my brother, because I loved
him better than most other men. He is since dead. Per-
mit me to inscribe this poem to you.

How far you may be pleased with the versificaiion and
mere mechanical parts of this attempt, I do not pretend
to inquire ; but I know you will object (and indeed several
of our best and wisest friends concur in the opinion), that
the depopulation it deplores is nowhere to be seen, and
the disorders it laments are only to be found in the poet's
own imagination. To this I can scarcely make any other

DEDICATION.

Zlll

answer, than that I sincerely believe what I have written ;
that I have taken all possible pains, in my country excur-
sions, for these four or five years past, to be certain of
what I allege ; and that all my views and inquiries have
led me to believe those miseries real, which I here attempt
to display. But this is not the place to enter into an in-
quiry whether the country be depopulating or not : the
discussion would take up much room, and I should prove
myself, at best, an indifferent politician, to tire the reader
with a long preface, when I want his unfatigued attention
to a long poem.

In regretting the depopulation of the country, I inveigh
against the increase of our luxuries ; and here, also, I ex-
pect the shout of modern politicians against me. For twenty
or thirty years past, it has been the fashion to consider
luxury as one of the greatest national advantages ; and all
the wisdom of antiquity in that particular, as erroneous.
Still, however, I must remain a professed ancient on that
head, and continue to think those luxuries prejudicial to
states by which so many vices are introduced, and so many
kingdoms have been undone. Indeed, so much has been
poured out of late on the other side of the question, that
merely for the sake of novelty and variety, one would
sometimes wish to be in the right.

I am, Dear Sir,
Your sincere friend and ardent admirer,

Oliver Goldsmith.

ttt,: •

- *■

* • '4

Anc

Dea

Seat

Hov

Wh<

How

The

Fort

How

Whe

And

Led 1

Whi]

The

And

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,

And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ;

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5

Seats of my youth, when every sport could please.

How often have I loitered o'er thy green.

Where humble happiness endeared each scene !

How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, lo

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topt the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade.

For talking age and whispering lovers made !

How often have I blest the coming day, . 15

When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree ;

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed, 20

And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,

3it|

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

!■

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round !

And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ;

The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25

Hy holding out to tire each other down,

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,

While secret laughter tittered round the place ;

The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,

The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 30

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ;

These were thy charms — but all these charms are fled.

, Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 35

' Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn j
Amidst thy bovvers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green :
One only master grasps the whole domain,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,
But choked with sedges works its weary way ;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest,
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries j

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Sunk arc thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall ;

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,

Far, far away thy children leave the lantL 50

111 fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay :
[princes and lords may flourish, or may fade —
;A breath can make them, as a breath has made —
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55

When once destroyed, can never be supplied

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground niaintained its man ;
'or him light labour spread her wholesome store,
fust gave what life required, but gave no more ; 60

is best companions, innocence and health,
/And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

ill:

But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ;
Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose ;
And every want to luxury allied,
^ And every pang that folly pays to pride.
'Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom.
Those calm desires that asked but little room, fo

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green,
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour, 75

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,
And, many a year elapsed, return to view
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train.
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.

In all my wanderings round this world of care.
In all my griefs — and God has given my share —
I still lad hopes, my latest hours to crown, 8

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ;
To husband out life's taper at the close.
And keep the flame from wasting by repose.
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 9c

Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;
And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue.
Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

I still hrd hopes, my long vexations past, 95

Here to return — and die at home at last.

O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreats from care, that never must be mine !
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these,
A youtVi of labour with an age of ease ; 100

Who qjits a world where strong temptations try.
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly !
For him no wretches, born to work and weep.
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ;
No surly porter stands, in guilty state, 105

To spurn imploring famine from the gate ;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend ;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay.
While resignation gently slopes the way ; no

And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world be past.

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's close
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ;
There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 115

The mingling notes came softened fiom below ;
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung.
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool.

■' ■' ': I

■f^ f.

6 THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

The playful children just let loose from school, 120

The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wird,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind ;

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail, 125

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled —

All but yon widowed, solitary thing,

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 130

She, wretched matron — forced in age, for bread.

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn.

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn —

She only left of all the harmless train, 135

The sad historian of the pensive plain !

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild ;
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 140

A man he was to all the country dear.
And passing rich with forty pounds a year j
Remote from towns he ran his godly race.
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place :

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

145

Unpractised he io fawn, or seek for power

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house wks known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 150

The long-remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast ;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot theif vices in their woe ; 160

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride.
And even his failings leaned to virtue's side ;
Bnt in his duty, prompt at every call.
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all ;
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries.
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, re])roved each dull delay,

I6S

4.,J-i

1I-' I

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,
The reverend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175
And his last faltering accents whispered praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorned the venerable place ;
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 180

The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ra\i ;
Even children followed, with endearing wile.
And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile :
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed, 185

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed ;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given.
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven ;
As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190
Though round its breast the rolling clouds arc spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taiight his little school.

A man severe he was, and stern to view,

I knew him well, and every truant knew ;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day's disaster in his morning face ;

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he ;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned :

Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in f^iulr.

The village all declared how much he knew ;

'Tvvas certain he could write and cipher too :

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage.

And even the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,

For even though vanquished, he could argue still ;

While woid. of learned length and thundering sound,

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew

That one small head could carry all he knew.

But past is all his fame. The very spot.
Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot.
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high,

195

200

205

210

215

THE DESERTED VILLAGE

Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220

Low lies that house vf here nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where gray-beard mirth and smiHng toil retired,

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225

The parlour splendours of that festive place :

The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 230

1'he pictures placed for ornament and use,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose ;

The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,

With aspen bouglis, and flowers and fennel gay ;

While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 235

Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.

Vain transitory splendours ! could not all
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall ?
Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart
An hour's importance to the poor man's heart ; 240

Thither no more the peasant shall repair
'To sweet oblivion of his daily care ;
.1^0 more the farmer's news, the barber'5 tale,
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;

THE DE.SERTED VILLAGE. U

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245

Relax his ponderous strength and lean to hear ;

The host himself no longer shall be found

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ;

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,

Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250

Yes ! let the rich dciide, the proud disdain.
These simple blessings of the lowly train ;
To me more dear, congenial to my heart.
One native charm, than all the gloss of art ;
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 255

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ;
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.
But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, 260

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain.
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ;
And, even while fashion's brightest arts decv^y,
The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 265

The rich man's power increase, the poor's decay,
'Tib yours to judge how wide the limits stand
Between a splendid and a happy land.
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,

[I'i

< i\

I;'!;-

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 27O

Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound,

And rich men flock from all the world around ;

Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name

That leaves our useful products still the same.

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 27S

Takes up a place that many poor supplied ;

Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds .

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sluth

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth :

His seat where solitary sports are seen, 281

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ;

Around the world each ntedful product flies

For all the luxuries the world supplies :

While thus the land, adorned for pleasure, all 285

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.

As some fair female, unadorned and plain,
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies.
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; j 290

But when those charms are past, for charms are fi.ail,
When time advances, and when lovers fail,
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,
In all the glaring impotence of dress :

THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 13

Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed ; 295

In natue's simplest charms at first arrayed,

But verging to decline, its splendours rise,
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;

While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land,

The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 300

And while he sinks, without one arm to save,

The country blooms — a garden and a grave.

Where then, ah ! where shall poverty reside,
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ?
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed
He drives his flocks to pick the scanty blade,
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,
And even the bare-worn common is denied.

305

V^i?,

."r-f^^

If to the city sped— what waits him there ?
To see profusion that he must not share ; 310

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined
To pamper luxury, and thin mankind ;
To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe ;
Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315

There, the pale artist plies the sickly trade ;
Her©, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,
There, the black gibbet glooms beside the way.
The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign,

\k^A

H.13

'f :•

1 1 1
m I ;

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

320

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ;

Tumuhuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy !

Sure these denote one universal joy !

Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies. 326

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed,

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed ;

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 330

Now lost to all ; her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head ;

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour.

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.

Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ?
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led.
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 340

Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary scene.
Where half the convex world intrudes between.
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go,

I: i

THE DLSERTED VILLAGE. 15

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Far different there from all that charmed before, 345

The various terrors of that horrid shore ;

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,

And fiercely shed intolerable day ;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 350

Those poisonous fields, with rank luxuriance crowned,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ;

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ;

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 355

And savage men more murderous still than they ;

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

Far different these from every former scene,

The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 360

The breezy covert of the warbling grove.

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,
That called them from their native walks away ;
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365

Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last.
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain
For seats like these beyond the western main ;

THE DESKRTED VILLAGE.

And, shiidderinj; still to face the distant deep,

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370

The good old sire the hrst prepared to go

To new-found worlds, and went for others' woe ;

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375

The fond companion of his helpless years.

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms.

And left .1 lover's for a father's arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, 380

And iiissed her thouvhtless babes with marvy a tear,

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ;

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief

In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 385

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee !
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy !
Kingdoms, by thee to sickly greatness grown.
Boast of a florid vigour not their own : 390

At every draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ;
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round,

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Even now the devastation is begun, 395

And half the business of destruction done ;
Even now, methinks, as pondering; here I stand,
I sec the rural virtues leave the land.
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400

Downward they move, a melancholy band,
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.
Contented toil, and hospitable care,
And kind connubial tenderness are there ;
And piety with wishes placed above, 405

And steady loyalty, and faithful love.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ;
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame.
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 410

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ;
Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee Avell !
Farewell ! and, oh ! where'er thy voice be tried>
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,
Or winter wrcp'j the polar world in snow, 450

", .

li'lHai

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,

Redress the rigours of the inclement clime ;

Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain j

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ;

Teach him, that states, of native strength possessed, 425

Though very poor, may still be very blest ;

That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away ;

While self-dependent power can time defy,

As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430

_r^

NOTES.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

EPITOME.

The ]'-oem opens with a description of the village and village
life as they loom up in the recollection of the poet. Then fol-
lows a picture of the village in its desolation and decay. This
change has been produced by "trade's unfeeling train" that has
invaded the land and driven out the happy peasawt life. Auburn.
lOO, has fallen. All his life long, the poet had cherished the
idea of spending his old age in the liome of his childhood ; but
all that inclined him to return is gone. Yet he lingers over the
"saddened green" to review in fancy its departed attractions,
" the village murmur," the preacher and his flock, the master
and his school, the iim and its forgotten statesmen ; but all are
gone; their very "mansions" are no more. Still this rural
happiness was far superior to the " toiling pleasure " of the great..
Moreover, splendor is not happiness, nay, the outward "pomp"
of a country is an indication of its approaching ruin. But
"grandeur" has not only occupied the country,'Tt has monopol-
ized the city, too, so that the poor are entirely expatriated ; the
inhabitants of "Sweet Auburn," with the rest, are forced into
exile in the swamps and forests of America. 'J'he departure of
the exiles from their home and . friends is then pathetically
described, and Luxury cursed as the insidious cause of iiTf.ional
ruin. These elegiac strains draw to a close, bewailing the
fate of th.e devastated land which poetry also has forsaken for
some distant clime, where she is to teach that riches are not hap-
piness, and that a bold peasantry, not commercial prosperity, i«;
the safe foundation of a nation's security.

I Auburn. This soft and harmonious name (suggested bj
Langton), composed almost entirely of vowels and litjuids, was
probably chosen by the poet for the sake of its agreeable sound,
'i'here can be no doubt th.at, in the mind of (ioldsmith, it repre-
sented some scene which was endeared to him by early associa-

1:!

NOTES.

i f

tions, and by family reminiscences. Various attempts have been
made to identify Auburn with Lissoy, near Ballymahon, in the
county of Longford. Here Goldsmith's early years were spent.
In the adjoining parish, where he himself was born, his brother
Henry was for many years the humble and much- loved curate of
a rustic but appreciative flock, and in this neighborhood lived
Mr. Hodson, his brother-in-law, with whom he spen- seme two
years after finishing hi^ college course.

Doctor Strean, Henry Goldsmith's successor, by whom the
earliest attempt to identify Auburn with Lissoy was made, in
1807, tells us: "The poem of the Deserted Village took its
origin from the circumstance of General Robeit Napier (the
grandfather of the gentleman who now lives in the house, within
half a mile of Lissoy, and built by the General) having purchased
an extensive tract of country surrounding Lissoy, or Auburn ; in
consequence of wh'ch many families, here called cottiers, were
removed, to make room for the intended improvements of what
was now to become the wide domain of a rich man, warm with
the idea of changing the face of his new acquisition ; and were
forced, *with fainting steps,' to go in search of 'torrid tracts'
and distant climes. This fact alone might be sufficient to estab-
lish the seat of the poem ; but there cannot remain a doubt in
any unprejudiced mind, when the following are added, viz. : that
the character of the village preachef, the above named Henry,
is copied from nature. He is described exactly as he lived, and
his * modest mansion* as it existed. Burn, the name of the vil-
lage master, and the site of his school-house ; and Catherine
Giraghty, a lonely widow —

• The wretched matron, forced in agfe for bread,
To strij) the brook with mantling cresses spread,—'

(and to this day the brook and ditches near the spot where her
cabin stood abound with cresses), still remain in the memory of
the inhabitants, and Catherine's children live in the neighbor-
hood. The pool, 'the busy mill,* the house where 'nut-brown
draughts inspired,' are still visited as the poetic scene ; and the
' hawthorn-bush,' growing in an open space in front of the house,
which I knew to have three trunks, is now reduced to one ; the
other two having been cut, from time to time, by persons carrying
pieces of it away to be made into toys, &c., in honour of the bard,
and of the celebrity of his poem. All these contribute to the
same proof ; and the * decent church,' which I attended for up-
wards of eighteen years, and which 'top* the neighbouring hill,'
is exactly described as seen from Lissoy, the residence of the
preacher." Quoted by Rolfe.

NOTES.

the

•e her
•ry of
Ihbor-
irown
id the
lOUse,
; the
•rying
|bard,
o the
ir up-
hill,'
.f the

By the etherealizing process to which poehy subjects its theme
riiese circumstances became idealized as the poet affectionately
viewed them throuirh the "dim distance" of long years of exile.
As Mr. Forster remarks : " Scenes of the poet's youth had, doubt-
less, risen in his memory as he wrote, minfrling with, and taking
altered hue from, later experiences ; thoughts of those early days
could scarcely have been absent from the wish for a quiet close to
the struggle and toil of his mature life, and very possiblv, nay,
almost certainly, when the dream of such a retirement haunted
him, Liasoy formed part of the vision ; it is even possible he may
have caught the first hint of his design from a local We-^tmeath
poet and schoolmaster, who, in his youth, had given rhymed ut-
terance to the old tenant grievances of the Irish rural po]nilation;
nor could complaints that were also loudest in those boyish days
at Lissoy, of certain reckless and unsparing evictions by which one
General Naper (Napper or Napier) had persisted in improving
his estate, have passed altogether from Goldsmith's memory."

Villagfe. Lat. Villa^ a country-house. Hence originally
the residence.and other buildings of the farmer, as well as the
houses of his work-people.

It is the general condition of the country that the poet intends
to depict, but as particular instances strike us much more forcibly
than general statements, poetry prefers a single object as its
tiheme. For this reason one village is here selected, and its fate
dwelt upon.

2 Cheered. Note the force of the past tense. This use of it
is called Metalepsis, Cf. Virgil, ALn.^ ii. 38. ** Fuimus Troes,
fuit Ilium."

Swain. This word belongs chiefly to poetic diction.

3-4 Smiling;, parting;, lingering. Epithets in poetry are
either essential or ornamental^ and a correct taste and nice dis-
crimination in their choice add greatly to the pleasing effect
which it is the object of poetry to produce. The delicacy
displayed by Goldsmith in this particular, is one of the charms
of his style.

Parting = departing. Cf. 11. 171 and 363, also Gray's ^/t;^'
1. I : "parting day."

5 Bowers. A. S. hut\ a cottage. Contrary to the usual
course, the meaning of this word has been raised. It has also
become specialized, as lady's bower,

6 Seats, &c., the places in which he used to spend his time
when young.

8 Each. Observe how frequently each takes the place of
every. This is common in poetry. Account for it.

9 How often, &c, Thi^ figure of speech, which, by a

■^W^

11^

NOTES.

repetition of the same word or phrase, carries the mind back to
the same idea, is called Anaphora.

10 Cot, farm, &c. An example oi Accumulation. See note
on II. 3 4, regarding Goldsmith's epithets.

12 Decent, presenting a neat and respectable appearance.
Lat. decens, comely. Cf. Milton // Pens. " Thy decent shoulders.''

Topt = crowned.

13 with. For parsing, some such word as furnished may
be supplied. The preposition in such cases might be replaced
by the participle having.

14 This line forms a complement of seats.

Talking^ and "whispering. Note these well-chosen epithets.

Age is an example of Metonymy, the abstract for the concrete.
The abstract age and concrete lover, in the same line, give a
pleasing variety.

16 When — play. This clause is adjectival to day.
Remitting = ceasing for a time.

Its, evidently refers io play, but from its position seems at first
sight to refer to toil.

17 Train. Goldsmith has a great fondness for certain words,
as train, piansion and smiling.

18 Led up = marshalled or arranged.

Spreading tree. " An inseparable accompaniment of the
ideal village green." Sankey,

19 Many a. This is a more than ordinarily difficult constnic-
tion. Archbishop Trench in the nrsi cdicions of his Ettglish
Past and Present y explained "many a man" as a corruption of
** many of men. " In later editions he quietly withdrew this state-
ment. Many excellent grammarians, such as Fleming, Dr.
Adams, Rushton, adopted his solution without due examina-
tion. In early English, it was a irequent jiractice to emphasize
the adjective by a change of position, as long a time, for a long
time. In Layamon, I. 24 : ^* on moni are wiser {later text mani
ane) ; monianes cunnes," ib. 39 ; of many a kind. Dr. Abbott in
his liow to Parse, par. 2 1 8, says the regular construction for
many a man has tried, would be many men have tried ; but this
appears to have been confused with *' many times a man has
tried." Hence he parses many as an adverb, modifying a or as
part of the compound adjective many-a — vi\zxiy-ov\.t — A. S.^
mani-an.

Other authorities regard many as an adjective, and the con-
struction as inverted. See Mason, par. 93 ; Dr. Adams, par.
571 ; Angus, sec. 480 ; Rushton, pars. 281, 299-302.

Pastime. See Trench's interesting remarks on this word in
Study of Words f page 14.

NOTES.

20 The young contending is in the nomii-mtivc absolute,
forming an adverbial extension of circled.

As brevity and terseness give strength to style, and force to
description, poetry aims at the attainment of these objects by
employing the absolujg construction, appositives and adjectives,
instead of dependent adverbial and adjectival sentences.

In this line, the contrast between the young and the old, and
the part acted by each, is very pleasing. The athletic activity of
the one, and the contemplative pride of the other, are agreeable
manifestations o{ pcnocr and repose.

21 Gambol. Ital. ^^w^^?; Fr. /<t/;//v, the leg. Yw gamhilleryio
kick about. Gambol is used by JSIctonymy for the persons who
were indulging in these gambols.

22 Sleights = * ' dexterous feats. "

23 Tired = grew tiresome.

24 Succeeding sports — a varied s; -^cession of sports.

25 Simply="in a simple manner, artlessly."

Pair, swain, looks and glance, are in apposition to sports.

26 Holding out= continuing to dance on. Whatever may
have been the origin of such words as holdings it would save
some of our grammarians a great "amount of unnecessary trouble,
candidly to admit that when used as in this instance, they are
nouns. As they are names of actions, it seems quite gratuitous
to invent some new term obscurely to indicate the fact. Of
course, o^d is a part of the noun, as holding stands for one idea,
and holding otit for quite a different one.

Each other. Grammarians tell us that the construction is,
each holding out to tire the other do7vn. But in poetry, at least,
*' each other " is often regarded as a compound pronoun, as here.
See How to Parse, pars. 223, 385, 531 ; Dr. Adams, par. 258.

27 Mistrustless of = unconscious of, not suspecting.

28 Secret, as hidden from the S7vain.

Laughter tittered. Note the frequent recurrence of this
figure, as pastime circled, gambol frolicked, ^c.

29 Sidelong. Mr. Hales thinks that long is probably a cor-
ruption of ling, which yet survives in ^qro-jelling and darkling,
and which in oldest English occurs in the form of linga or lunga,
as baeclinga = backwards.

30 Would — ostensibly desires to. Here a principal verb.

32 With sweet, &c. "Following one another merrily
shewed how even a life of labor might be enjoyable." — Sankey.

Toil to please. Whether it is best to regard both these
words as accusatives after taught (with Angus), or to consider to
please the object of some preposition understood (with Fleming)
as taught toil concerning pleasing {to please), or finally to regard

I i

y.'i

NOTES.

^ot'I as the indirect object, and ^o please the direct, appears to be
still an open question. The last is probably the best.

33 Influence. **This word is an example of the way in
which old errors, themselves dismissed long ago, may yet sur-
vive in language, being bound up in words that grew into use
when those errors found creHir, and which, now that those errors
are dismissed, maintain still their currency among us." Other
examples are dwarf, wight, urchin, hag, from Gothic mythology ;
mercurial, jovial, saturnine, disastrous, ascendency, from Eng-
lish astrology. See Trench, Study of iVords.

34 In this beautiful and pathetic line, notice the force of the
past tense, the effect of the arrestive conjunction, but^ and of re-
peating charms in the second clause.

35-50 These lines contain the companion picture to that pre-
sented in 11. 1-34. All that pleases us in the one, saddens us in
the other. The first is an earthly paradise, full of life and pure
enjoyment, the second, a scene of desolation and ruin ; in the
former we revel in the fulness of simple human bliss, in the lat-
ter, one man's selfishness has laid wasle the Eden of others with-
out improving his own. The home of peasant joy has become
the abode of lonely birds, a waste of "shapeless ruin."

Painful effects should not be introduced into poetry unless they
are fully redeemed. The exercise of sympathy they call forth, the
opportunity afforded the poet, by tenderness and the charm of
imagery, to cast a speli over suffering, and the belief that such
scenes occur in real life, serve to justify their admission here.

35 Smiling. Mr. Sankey tells us that this is "an instance
of what Mr. Ruskin calls the pathetic fallacy, which consists in
the attribution of the personal feelings of the observer to the in-
animate object observed." In this Mr. Sankey is quite mis-
taken. The feelings of the poet are here pensive, not joyous. It
is simply an example oi personal metaphor^ introduced to describe
the "village" before " its charms were fled."

37 The tyrant's hand. "An English gentleman, General
Robert Napier, purchased the estates of Loid Dillon, which in-
cluded liissoy, and ejected some of his tenants. The land which
they had occupied was thrown into the park. The Napier estate
was the subject of a protracted lawsait, and was sold in 1838." —
Mason.

Hand == results of the acts done by the tyrant's hand. —
Metonymy.

38 Green •«* the plain which is covered with verdure. One
of the distinctive features of poetical diction in the use of the epi-
thet instead of the object, as green for the green latvn.

39 One only master = a single master, the tyrant of 1. 37,
Cf. Shakes. 7. C, 1, 2, " One only man."

I » 'Ti
it

its

NOTES.

in-
lich
late

>ne

epi-

37=

40 Haifa tillagfC. In a few phrases, as half a, many a, what
a, such a, as well as when the adjective is preceded by the ad-
verbs too, so, "a" is placed after the adjective. This mere
change of position, however, does not appear suftlcient to justify
the view taken by Dr. Abliott, that the adjective is semi-adverbial.
See Hoio to Parse, 213-218 ; also, note on 1. 19.

Stints is a diminutive from stunts.

The meaning is that the limited cultivation which the jt^lain
receives from its present occupant (General Napier), who of
course, is intended to represent a class (as the particular stands
for the general), fails to call forth that luxuriant production
which was the result of the labors of the former peasant popula-
tion .

41 Glassy and day — examples of Metonymy.
(Jf. ThrenoJia Afi^i^nisfalia : —

'♦There sorrowinjj by the riverVs gla.->dy boU,**

42 " This is a well (Jbnstructed line. 'I'he description is vivid
and terse. Every word tells ; and the alliteration at the end
gives a heaviness and monotony to the close of the description
that accords admirably with the idea that has to be expressed."
— Mason.

44 Hollow sounding bittern. ** The Common Bittern
{Botaurus Stcllaris) is nearly as large as the heron. Formerly it
was common in Britain, but the extensive drainage of late years
has greatly diminished its numbers, and it is now a permanent
resident only in the fen dislriccs of England. During the breed-
ing season it utters a booming noise, from which it probably de-
rives its general nime, Bolaarus^ and which has made it in va-
rious places an object of superstitious dread." — Enc. Brit.

Qi. Scott, Lady of tae Lake^ I. 31 ; —

And the bittern sound his drum
Buomingfroiu the sedgy shallow.*

45 Desert — deserted.

Lapwing. *'The common Lapwing or Peewit {Vanellus
Cristatus), is a well-known British bird. It is not quite so large
as i pigeon, and has a head surmounted with a beautiful crest.
The name, Lapwing, is derived from the sound which the wings
make in flight ; the name Peewit from the plaintive note. The
Lapwing is very plentiful in moors, open commons and marshy
districts," — Chambers' Enc.

46 Their refers to cries.

47 Note the arrangement. Sunk and aH, the most important

S'' "s

h>M

||;!i{

^'jQ

In '^'

i!'9

IB i

tjJH

li'll

NOTES.

words, occupy the two places of greatest empliasis — the first and
last.

A// Sigrers, whh /nm'crs.

43 Spoiler. See note on I. 37.

50 Far, far. An example of KpLeitxis--?^ repetition of the
same word to ^ive emphasis.

51 Ills. Goldsmith fre([uently repeats the same words, cMsc
together, in a different sense. Toint out (jther examples of '.his
fault.

51-6 These lines owe much of their force to the Antitheses
they contain.

52 This Hpc r-ot *ai»>. in I>n,ci', t e burd n of th . poem. With
Goldsmith the second idea-- i be decrease in the number of the
inhabitants of the coi.ntiy — r'.'^uits from the first, the accumula-
tion of wealth, and, therefure he i; !ult^es in depreciating trade as
the cause of the country's ruin, in IJiis, consists from, the econo-
mist's point of view, the grand mistake of the poem ; but the
world has reason to rejoice that he was a bad economist if
thereby he has produced so excellent an elegy. See Introduction.

53 Fill Uj) the hiatus between this line and the next by add-
ing afler/(^n?t', without affecting the happiness and prosperity of
the country, since a breathy ^c.

54 Breath==" the mere word of a King." The King is the
fountain of honor, and can cieaie titled nobility at his will. Cf.
Burns' Cotter's Sat. Mj/it, 1. 165 :

" Princes and lords are but the breath of Kings.'*

56 Destroyed=driven away from the land.

57 Griefs = present griefs, those arisin,^ from the increase of
wealth.

58 When away, &c. An Hyperbole^ meaning when the
coimtry was fully populated by the *' bold peasantry." It is not
a question in the poet's mind, as some have supposed., whether
small farms or large farms are best adapted to make a country
productive, but his decided opinion is that the peasants should
not be expelled to make room for the parks and mansions of the
wealthy.

60 To express the meaning intended just should be placed
before 7vhat.

Required. Why not the present tense ?

63 Trade's unfeeling train. Explain this, fully expressing
all that is conveyed in the term iwfeeling.

64 Usurp, &c., i.e., buy up and la^-ce possession of the land,
vvhich, in tlie poet's estimation, they cannot rightfully acquire,
fmce rearing " solitary mansions," with their appertaining parks

•V

NOTES.

and other domains, necessitates an eviction of the tenant families
that for centuries have tilled the soil.

Usurp. On the agreement of verbs with collectives, see
Bain's Covipanion to t'le IJighe?- Grammar.

Hamlet. A.. S. haii'ey home, and /c/, little, properly a little
.iome ; now chiefly used in poeiry and the more elevated prose,
'o indicate a small village ; here, -nail tenant houses.

66 For me meaning of this line, see note on 1. 64.
Ob^jrve how frequently the poet uses the figure Metonymy, as

wealth, pomp, want, pa>i!^, hours, denres.

Pomp. .}r. ito).mr), from nen/too, to send : Lat. It. and
Sp. poml^a. From meaning a procession with all its attendant
display, this word has come to mean any great display. Here it
means a magnificent mansion.

67 Allied. Account for the use of this word, and suggest the
one ir^iuired by the sense.

68 The troubles and vexations that people fre([uently i -wi, .0
endure for Having foolishly gratified their pride.

Grammatically, '.he verb ti'fioses is understood after m*.?/ and
also after p(ing, but to make good sense is found or t. .J* f \tOuld
be the proper word. When a word is thus to be suppl d m a
sense different from that in which it is expressed, •> hf've the
figure called Zeugma.

70 Those persons of moderate desires, who were contented
with their sphere in life — Metonymy,

73 These far departing, &c. Cf. Traveller, 11. 237-8.

"These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly,
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky."

Kinder. Compare this with the picture of the emigrant's
situation in America.

74 Observe the alliteration. Manners, tho style of life for-
merly customary among the peasantry.

75-96 The poet becomes deeply affected when he finds that
the sad fate of the country in general is also that of his ^^ Sweet
Auburn,^* and in tender, melting strains pours out the bitterness
of his disappointment. Every line of this beautiful passage is
steeped in pathos, and we seem to share his distress when we see
his hopes, so long and fondly indulged, blasted forever, and the
chains of his exile rendered perpetual.

78 Tangling. Overgrown with vines and briers.

79 Many a year elapsed— after the lapse of many years
See note on 1. 19.

Where — stood. This is a noun clause, the object oi to vieWy
%'hich is adverbial to return.

It]

» 1-1

NOTES.

80 Cottage, »hw *' preacher's modest mansion." Hawthorn.
See note on 1. '.

81 Remembrance— train. This Metaphor, though pleasing,
is somewiiiU ohjcclioiuible, as its trnhi does not properly consist
of iUlLMulauls, as is implied, but of ihc succession of thoughts
which follow each other. The epitliet Inisy serves to still fur-
ther confuse the figure.

82 Turns -pain. The recollections of the past become pain-
ful to me oil account of the sad change that the " tyrant's power "
has produc(Ml.

83 Wanderings. A most appropriate word to express the
poet's moves in lile, which, tliough apparently aimless, yet largely
assisu-d in making liim wliat lie was.

83-96 "We shall not dwell upon the peculiar merits of this
poem ; we cannot help noticing, however, how truly it is a mir-
ror of ihe author's lieart, anrl of all the fond i)iclures of early
life forever present there. It seems to us as if the very last ac-
counts received from home, of his 'shattered family,* and the de-
solation that seemed to have settled upon the haunts of his child-
hood, had cut to the roots one fondly cherished liope and pro-
duced those exquisitely tender and mournful lines." — Irving.

84 So the ])oet consoles himself by throwing,' the blame oa
Providence ; but he might, perhai)s, have profitably enquired
whether such consolation was founded on Hict. " If one's sword
is too short," said the >vise Roman, "he may make it long
enough by taking a step forward."

85 To lay, to husband, to keep=of laying, &c. These in-
finiiives are used adjeciively to qualify hopes.

90-2 No doubt the thought of occupying among the "swains "
such a position as Dr. Johnson held in the conversations of the
club, was in the poet's mind as he penned these lines.

Felt, saw. The sequence of tenses requires had felt ^ had
seen.

93 Note the effect of alliteration.

Whom is here used with excellent effect, and makes the figure
more striking by representing the hare as posse. sing human feel-
ings.

94 Pants. An attendant and resulting action put fertile main
one, rapid motion — Sviiecdoche.

95 I ^tiJl had hopes This passage owes not a little of its
beauty to ih- \/e'I-ti:j.riI use nf the figure, Anaphora.

Vexatioi:?. Vi'tpir.aiiv: absolute. See note on 1. 20.

95 6 Such an e\pres:-iuii of feelings that are common to men
shew.s ih-.it all the InilTetings of life had not been able to render
him entirely worldly or heartless,

!1B \

NOTES.

J in-

100 Ag^ej«old age.

102 To combat. A n<nin infinitive, in opimsiliun to //, the
i^rammaiical subject.

To flv — to avoid temptation.

104 Tempt. Lat. tentare^ to make tri; I of.
^ Cf. Milton, P, L. ii. 404: —

"Who s!i!ill tutn|)t with wamleriug fcot
Tl>c dark, uiihott'jined, Inflnito abywi."

105 Guilty State. "Gay livery," splendor, acquired at the
expense of the homes and happiness of the peasants.

106 Famine^^a famished person, a begS''^r —Mt'tonyfuy.

107 Latter end. Latter is pleonastic, but the exprei>aion is
common. See I'rov. \ix, 20,

108 On the construction. See note on 1. 20.
1 10 Resignation. .Sir [oshua Reynolds, in ttrder to show

liDW gratefully he received the dedication of this j>oem, j)ainted
his jv.cture, Resii^fuitioti^ had it enjjraved by Thomas Watson, and
inscribed upon it these words : " This attempt to describe a char-
acter in the Deserted Vil.'u'^e is dedicated to Dr. Goldsmith by
his sincere friend and aflmirer, Joshua Reynolds.''

108-13 These exquisite lines, which are doubtless a descri{)tion
of the way in which the poet hoped to close his life, afford a
pleasing testimony of the goodness of his heart and the sincerity
of his faith.

1 14-136 The contrast here presented is similar to that with
which the poem opens, yet so varied as to be as interesting as
the first. The variation consists in contrasting diiYerent features
in villap^e life and scenery.

115 Careless. Unburdened with care, as in youth.

116 Cf. Arnold's Li\i;ht of Asia, Bk. ii :

"Save if the city's hum
Came on tlie wind no harsher than when becN
Hum out of sight in tufoliets."

1 16-122 These lines sliew how much the sound of the words
may assist the sense.

117 Responsive, i.e., replying by another song.
119 Gabbled. Onomatopoeia, i.e., the sound of the word

resembles the sound for which it stands. Cf. loiucd^ 1. 118;
plas/iy, 1. 130.

121 Bayed— b.iyed at. Cf. Shakes. J. C. iv. 3 : "I had ra-
ther be a do\r and bay the inoon."

Whispering, ominouiely foreboding ill in a language that dogs
can understand. A superstition now nearly passed away.

{ i

iiiiti

■

'u^^^S

NOTES.

122 Vacant mind. As these people had no worrying cares,
the poet means by the vacant ////;/(/, the mind that is not de-
pressed by the anxieties of the *' tyrant who has ruined their
homes," or even by the "toiling pleasures of the great," — free
from all trouble. It bears the same meaning in 1. 257.

I2J Each pause. The nightingale often comes to an abrupt
p.iuse in its singing.

Had made. The sequence of tenses re quires ///a</t'.

124 Nightingale. A. S. w/V//, and i.-viAz;/, to sing. In is
merely a eoniieclivc participle. " As the nightingale is not found
in Ireland, the introduction of the bird here is either a Iliberni-
eism or a p(x'tic license." — Rolfe.

126 Fluctuate -lloat upon. Note the scansion.

128 Bloomy, &c. People full of health and spirits. Per-
haps there is an allusion to the complexion of English and Irish
farm laborers. Cf. T)avcllc>\\. iS : "all the ruddy family."

129 Solitary thing. 7/////y is here used very elTectively. This
lonely widow, so sunken in decrepitude and misery as to be
scarcely recognizable as a human being, is a fitting climax to the
desolation of the "village." Thing in this line approaches as
nearly as possible to a pronominal use. See Earle's Philology^
l)ar. 234, also note on 1. I.

130 Plashy. Another form of spUuJiy. Cf. hoot, shout;
hoop, whoop.

132 Mantling. See note on 1. 248.

135 Pensive, i.e., causing gloomy thoughts in the beholder
— 1 ransfcrrca Epithet.

136 Historian. Not literally, but in the picture of utter
desolation which she presents, may be read the sad story of the
"plain." Poetry seeks to combine in a single picture as
many pleasing features as possible. It is scarcely to be sup-
posed that all the agreeable sounds and sights just enumerated
were ever found in sweet confusion cu the same evening.
Again, when thus clustering together what is attractive and
delightful, it is careful to omit what in nature is painful or
ofiensive. Tl.ere was another side to the life of this happy
"village" even in its brightest days, and there were other
scenes, but these are hidden from our view. Observe, further,
how the poet gains our attention by placing side by side in vivid
contrast the most delightful views of the village in its pro-
sperity, and the saddest pictures of its loneliness and ruin. The
chief object he keeps in view is to awaken the fine art emotions
in the breast of the reader, and thereby give pleasure. Eor this
purpose, no means is more potent than thus to pass from one ex-
treme to the other. To produce such an effect, the painful scene

NOTKS.

of ihc lonely widow may be considered admissible in poetry,
since, on the whole, theitlcct is one of pleasure. It also awakens
sympathy and compassion, which is agreeable within certain
limits.

137 Copse, Cir. HoTtrGJ, I cut ; Fr. <vu/<ff\ contracted from
coppu c. Aj^rowth of shrubs and bushes. Observe the descript-
ion is made riui/ by bcinj^ localized and individualized.

138 Still. Account for the position of j//7/.

139 Disclose, i.e., point out.

140 Preacher. For this gallery of ex(|uisite portraits, we are
indebted to ^ome of the choicest experiences of (ioldsmilh's own
life, idealized to be sure, but still drawn from the scenes of by-
gone days. Not long before this poem was written, he had re-
ceived tidings of the death of his brother I lenry, the much-loverl
pa>tor of Lissoy. And it seems more than prt^bable that the
tender eniotion thereby awakened, had led him to recall the no-
ble traits of this brother whom he f(jndly loved, and intermingle
them wilh similar recollections of his father, in this inimitable
description of the "village preacher." Henry was the eldest of
the family. In his college cmirse, he was successful in winning ,1
scholarship ; but an early marriage compelled him to leave his
studies unliniNhed and begin to teach school. After a short time,
he obtained a c;uracy atl>issoy, worth forty pounds a year, where
he spetit the remainder of his life in domestic hapi)iness, and in
the enjoyment of the love and affection of his people.

The parson has been a favorite subject with English poets.
Cf. Chaucer, ProJoi:^uc to Can/cr/iury Tales, 11, 477-528 ; Dry
den's Character of a Good l\v so)i ; Crabbe's Villa;^e, Hk. I.;
Wordsworth's /iV\v7/;-.v/^;/, Bk. V. ; also, Cowper's Task^ Bk. II.
11. 326-4S0, especially 11. 395-413 :— ,

" Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own,
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace
His master-strokes, and draw from his design.
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ;
In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain ;
And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste
And natu. I in gesture ; much impress'd
Himself, a.> conscious of his awful charge,
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds
May feel it too; affectionate in look
And tender in address, as well l)ecomes
A messenger of grace to guilty men.
Behold the picture ! — Is it like?— Like whom?

t-U

i '

S,l *i

32 NOTES.

The things that mount the rostnua with a skip,
And then skip down again ; pronounce a text,
Cry hem ! and reading what they never wrote,
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work,
And with a well-bred whisper close the scent. "

See further, Traveller, \\. 11-22. These lines refer directly to
his brother, and the resemblance to the picture before us cannot
])e mistaken.

Mansion is in this poem used in a general sense, as was usual
in the last century. The preacher has his modest mansion ; the
village master, his noisy mansion ; and the host, his tottering
mansion. From l.at. man-'o, to remain, it originally meant any
place of abode. In lOngland the mansio was the dwelling of the
lord of the manor. Hence its modern application.

142 Passing is usually said to mean exceedingly, as if it was
by Aphaercsisy and .Ipoeope for surpassingly ; and in this sense it is
frequently used in Shakesptrare, as passing fair, passing strange.
Might it not here n\eTi\\ passing for (

Forty pounds. The income of his father while at Pallas, and
also of his brother Henry. It seems to have been a common
salary for a curate even in England at this time.

145 Cf. Ileb. xii. i.; also, the Elegy in the V. of IT. chap,
xvii : —

*' In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran.
Whene'er he went to pray. "

144 Nor e'er had changed. True of his brother, but not of
his father. See Life. Cf. Traveller^ 1. 184 : —

** Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil."

146 Unlike the famous vicar of Bray, who used to say : —

*' For in my faith and loyalty, I never more will falter,
And George my lawful king shall be until the times do alter."
— From an oLi Ballad.

149 Vagrant. Lat. vagor, I wander. It is now used in a bad
senscc An idle, vicious wanderer.

150 Long remembered, i.e., known a long time, as he had for
years tramped the same beat.

153 Spendthrift. ** There is a whole fam^^ of words,—
many of them are now under ban, - which were at one time
formed almost at pleasure, the only condition being that the com-

NOTES.

bination should be a liappy one. I refer to those singularly ex-
pressive words formed by a combination of a verb and substan-
tive, the former governing the latter ; as telltale, turncoat, turn-
tail." Many are obsolete, as spendall, pickquarrel, killman,
carrytale. See Trench's English Past atid Present, pp. 201-204.
155 Broken=broken down. Cf. Campbell's 5(?A//VrVZ);vrtw."
— "iheir war-broken soldier," also Virgil, Aen. ii. 13: "fracti
bello."

157 Sorrow is in the nominative absolute. Do7ie — ?{n\9,h.QA.

158 Were won, i. e. , used to be won when he was there to
help.

159 Glow, i.e., with interest and attention.

161-2 As he did not care to inquire particularly into their case,
he allowed his pity to prompt him to relieve their necessities
without satisfying himself whether they were deserving objects
of charity. Like Goldsmith himself, he was moved to relieve
distress by his heart, not his head. See Life.

164 This line is quoted by BumSy in the Character of my
Father,

■• 'S To the skies. To try to fly upward from the nest.

172 Dismayed the dying man. A. S. dis^ not, and maht^
strength.

173 Reverend. *'This word is not here used as a formal
title of honour or courtesy, but as a mere acljective, indicating
that the ' preacher ' was worthy of reverence on account of his
high character. The title * Reverend ' now applied exclusively to
ministers of religion, was formerly applied to other persons as
well.

* Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniorr.. '

— Shakos. Othello, i. 3.

In the ' Paston Letters,' written in the 15th and i6th conturies,
ladies and gentlemen address one another as Rev. and Right
Rev. In the l6th and 17th centuries, the term Reverend was
applied to judges." — Stevens and Morris.

Champion. A. S. campian, to fight ; Lat. campits, a field,
especially a field of battle ; Fr. champ. One who fights for ano-
ther and comes off ma5>ter of the field. It is very applicable to
the minister of religion, by whose presence the deepest human
grief is assuaged, and through whose assistance a complete vic-
tory is won.

175 Wretch. A. S. ivraecea^ an exile. A person in the
deepest distress.

176 Accents = words, well applied here to the almost inaudi-
ble words of the dying person. They are so low and hesitating

■1 ;

NOTES.

{falleriug), tliai though a sound [acicnt] is liea'd yet it is barely
intelligible.

177 I^efore nt chunli supply as Jic coiidiicicd himself .

184 Plucked his gown. "The pi^ctice of preaching in a
black gown was very general in (Goldsmith's day ; and the clergy
usually wore these gowns on Sundays, as is their custom even
now in many places, when going to and from church." — Stevens
and Morris.

187-8 He sym]')athizcd with them in their sorrows, and re-
joiced in their prosperity, but all was done that ho might lead
them to heaven — this was to him the one thought of serious
moment.

189-192 Few poets are happier in their imagery than Gold-
smith. Nothing could more beautifully ])ortray the true Chris-
tian minister, whose constancy amid the storms of life is like the
immoveable rock, whose lofty character insi)ires confidence and
respect, and so raises him beyond the turmoil of this life, that
above its storms he fmds an unbroken calm of peace and joy.

"Lord Lytton {Miscellaneous Works, vol. i. p. 65), has traced
this simile to a poem by the Abb«' de ('haulieu, who lived 1639-
1720, and whose verses were popular at the time when Gold-
smith was travelling on the Continent :

* Tel qu'un rocher dont la tete
Kgalant le Mont Athos,
A'oit .'i ses pieds la tempete
Troublant le calme des Hots,
La mer autour bruit et gronde ;
Malgre ses ('^motions,
Sur son front eleve regne une paix profonde.'

Every one," adds Lord l.ytton, "must own that, in copying*
Goldsmith wonderfully improved the original, and his aj)plica"
tion of the image to the Christian preacher gives it a moral suIj"
limity to which it lias no pretensions in Chaulieu, who applies i^
to his own philosophical patience under his physical maladies."
— Rolfe.

Goldsmith's similies usually set all rules of grnmmar at defi-
ance. This one may be subjected to modern notions of analysis,
by supplying He ivas before as, and is after it, changing on its
head into on the head of ivhich, and placing these words before
tJionc;h round, t5r*<r.

189 Cliff, A. S. clif from eleafan, to split, usually means an
overhanging rock on the shore. "Here it is a lofty crag standing
alone.

NOTES. 35

190 Cf. 7)avcncj\ 1. 33: —

" And placed on high above the storm's career."

193 Strag-gllng. Un trimmed, grown irregular.

194 Furze is a beautiful flowering evergreen. The blossom
is of a bright yellow color. "The green young species give
food to horse and cov/, or donkey may be, and its old branches
make a first-rate fence." It is said here to grow ntiprofitably, as
there are now no inhabitants to make use of it. ^

196 The village master. It is thought that Goldsmith has
drawn the portrait of his old master, Byrne, in this skefch. It
is quite reasonable to suppose that some of the peculiarities of the
old soldier are embodiecl in the description ; but as no work of
art, even when coming from the hands of a Gpldsniith, is an ex-
act copy of nature, there can be no good grounds for forcing the
rest n)l)lance too closely, and excluding tlie effect of other expe-
riences or even the poet's imagination. The naturalness, ease
and sly humor of this picture cannot fail to strike the most care-
less reader. The effect is still further increased by the activities
that are introduced and ascribed to defmite persons.

198 Truant. Truand^ a wanderer, a vagrant. It is now
applied to the class of wanderers who miss their way to school.

199 Boding=who had suspicions that the master's ill-temper
might vent itself upon them.

200 Day's disaster. A whipping inflicted on account of the
master's humor rather than of desert.

Disaster. Or. (5u?, ill, and (x6Tr'}Q, a star. Misfortune
caused by the baleful influence of the stars. Se€ note on 1. 33.

201 Counterfeited glee. The little rogues. * Just like Gold-
smith when lie was a boy.

205-6 Fault is by some authorities pronounced fa^vt. Pope
has the same rhyme. C'f. Essay on Alan. I, 69- ;0 ; —

** Then say not man's i ^perfect, Ileav'n in faidt ;
Say rather, man's as perfect as he ought."

207 Village== villagers — Mcionymy,

208 C3rpher and zero are different adoptions of the same
Arabic word.

Too. The rhyme should bring iiMportant words into prom-
inence.

209 Terms. *'The days of session and vacation observed in
universities and law cou'ts." — Sankey.

Tides, A, S. tid^ time, here seems to mean the moveable fasts

'% '

i
til

NOTES.

Ill J

and other holidays. In th?s sense it is used in Shakes. Kin^;
John^ iii. I, 85 : —

•* Among the hi^h tides in the Calendar."

It may, however, be used in its ordinary application^ the
periods of hit^h and low water.

210 Gauge. To measure the contents of casks with a gauge
or rule.

211 Parson, the " village preacher." Parson is the same word
as person — Lat. persona.

215 Still is properly repeated here as it gives more vigor to
the expression than any of its synonyms coukl.

217. Observe the effect of placing past fust in the sejitence.

2t8 Triumphed, not by argument, but by talking the par?.on
down.

221 Draughts, for the ale, what figure?

222 Gray-beard mirth. Cf Traveller 11. 253-4 : —

" And the gay grandsire, skilled in gestic lore,
Has frisked beneath the burden of three score.**

Mirth and toil = mirthful men and X.oWtx'?, — Metonymy.

224 News, to be interesting, must be fresh, ale, to be good,
needs to be old. Hence the greater innocence of the people who
could so easily be pleased.

What would be the news of the day at this time?

226 Parlour. Gr. TtaftafioXii], parable ; Fr. parler, to speak.
Originally, a parlor was a room in a monastery for conversation,
then any room for that purpose.

Probably it here supplied the place of the modern bar-room
and sitting-room. As the preceding picture is drawn from Gold-
smith's school experience, so he here describes scenes he had of-
ten taken part in along with cousin Bryanton, at Conway's inn
in Ballymahon. See also She Stoops ts Conquer,

Festive=used for merry-making.

227 Wall, floor, &c., are in the objective case in apposition
to splendours.

232 The twelve good ru'es. These were : i, Urge no
healths ; 2, Profane no divine ordinances ; 3, Touch no State
matters ; 4, Reveal no secrets ; 5, Pick no qunrrels ; 6, Make
no companions ; 7, Maintain no ill opinions ; 8, Keep no bad
company ; 9, Encourage no vice; 10, Make no long meals ; 11,
II -pent jn grievances ; 12, Lay no wagers. — Hales.

Xli*^ royd game of goose. Strutt, in his Sports and Pas-
timei^ describes this game at considerable length. He tells us

th.i,
tim
fro
intc
ha\
sixt
ihr
four
2
pre
nou
299

NOTES.

tliat it is a childish diversion usually introduced at Christmas
time. The talkie on which it is played is usually an impression
from a copper-plate al)out the size of a sheet almanac, divided
into sixty-two small comj)artments arranged in a spiral form,
having an open space in the middle marked with the number
sixty-lhrcc. The game is played with two dice, and the players
throw in turn. It is called the Clame of Goose because at every
fourth and fifth compartment in succession a goose is depicted.

233 Except, though once a participle, has now the force of a
preposition. It here shews the relation between c^ay and the
noun clause following. For former us'i, cf. Milton P. L. Bk. ii.
299, 300 :—

** Which when Beelzebul-) perceived, than whom
Satan except, none higher fat."

234 Aspen. " Aspen tree, called a. so the trembling-leaved
poplar {popiilus treniiihi)^ is a native of Britain, and is foimd gene-
rally in moist places. The name 'tremblirg' is applied to it on
account of the constant movement of the leaves even with a "en-
tie breeze. This mobility depends f)n the leaves being suspended
by leaf-stalks flattened laterally, avil when subjected to a slight
wind, by their friction on each other they give ris'i to a rustling
sound." — Enc. Brit.

FenneK "Common feimel {foeyih-ulum 7 ',v(-; //>•,■), is a peren-
nial froin 2 or 3, or when cultivated, 4 feet in heiglit ; the plant
appears to be of South European origin, \)\\\. row is me with in
various parts of Britain and the rest of temperate Eunvpe, and in
the West of Asia." — Idem.

Gay. Qualities heartJi.

235 Wisely = cunningly or ]-)rudently.

236 Ranged over the chimney -arranged on the - nmey-
piece.

'* It was a very graceful and prcUy amusement for iNl . logan,
when he settled in the neighhorhoitd, to rebuild the vi'' rge inn,
and, for security against the enthusiasm of predatory ] :iims, to
fix in the wall 'the biuken tea-cups v/isely kept for --low ;' to
fence round with masonry what still remained of tl - iiav.lli'jrn,
to keei) up the tottering walls of what was once the p ri^h school,
and to christen his furhished-up village and adjoiiui-g m:insio)i
by the name of Aulnirn. All this, as Walter Scott ha- said, * is
a pleasing tribute to the poet in the land of his fatiiers,' but it
certainly is no more." — Forster.

227-336 In a letter to his brother, Henry, in 1759, Goldsmith
E

llj -

IMi

:'B

•flH* ^

Ill

NOTES.

gives the following as a specimen of a lieroi-comlcal poem he
proposed to write ;

** The window, patched with paper, lent a ray
That feebly showed the state in which he lay.
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread,
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;
The game of goose was there exposed to view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And Prussia's monarch showed his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold ; he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire ;
An unpaid reckoning on the frieze was scored,
And five cracked tea-cup,s dressed the chimney-board."
■^ * "^ ^ * *

237 Splendours, i.e., in the estimation of the villagers.

238 Reprieve. Lat, reprehendere^ Yx. reprendre. p. p. re-
fj-is. To delay the execution of a sentence. Observe the anima-
tion imparted by the Interrogation^ a figure by which a question
is substituted for an assertion.

Obscure = into obscurity. See note under 1. 358.

240 Poor man. Is the proprietor or the peasant meant ?

241 Peasant = one of the village train. Fr. paysan, one liv-
ing in the country, from pays^ country ; Lat. pagus^ a district.

242 To — in order to find.

243 The farmer's news. As the farmer would be frequently
at the nearest market town, he would have opportunities for
learning the news of the day.

Barber's tale. "The barber in country places commonly
visits the villages in the neighborhood of his home, and calls
upon those who require his services. He thus picks up all the
gossip of the place." — Stevens and Morris.

244 Woodman's ballad. /f'<7(?^w<7w formerly meant a hunter,
now it means a wood-cutter. Ballady Gr. fSaXXi^GOy to throw
the leg about, once meant a dancing song, now it means a short
narrative poem.

Prevail, be the chief song, be often hoard.

24s No more. Note the effect of the Anaphora.

247 Host, in this sense is from Lat. hospes^ a guest ; host, an
army, is from hostis, an enemy ; and ** the host, from hostia^ a
victim.

248 Mantling bliss. The bliss or merriment which the ale
produces is put for the ale by Metonymy, It is termed mantling

NOTES.

: }

It, an

fia, a

ale

because the foam covers the top of a tinkard like a mantle. Cf.
Pope : —

" And the brain dances in the mantling bowl."

249 Coy. Lat. qidciiis, quiet ^ Ital. cheto \ O. Fr. (juoy^ or
'■oy.

To be pressed, i.e., 'o taste the cup.

250 Shall. Wliat would be the mt-aning if riv'// were used
liere ?

240-250 The characters here enumerated, along with those
previously described, form a directory of the " Village."

256 Deride. The infinitive when tlur, used is called the Com-
)ilenientnry Infinitive because it forms part of the object. See
f/ow to Pa?st', pars. 97, 98.

254 Native=natural, not of art.

Gloss of art--artificial sj-dendor, mere outside grandeur.

255 This line is an amplification of native chartn.

256 First-born sway. As this power exi.-ted before that
arising from the "gloss of art."

257 Vacant. See note on 1. 122.

258 Cf. Shakes. M. of l\ III. 2: — " Is an unlesson'd girl,
unschoolVl, unpractis'd."

Milton, P. L. II. 185 ; — '* Unrespited, unp'iied, imreprieved."
Byron. Childe Harold: — •' Unknelled, u. ■ ■ itined and un-
known."

Sir W. Scott. Lay, VI. i :—

** Unwept, unhonorcd, and unsung."

Pomp— juocession.

Masquerade. Germ, inaske. Or, ]-)erha]->s, fiom Sp. w<7r,
mure, and cara^ a face, a second face. A ball in which the
company is masked.

260 Wanton. An example of degradation in meaning, to be
met with in many words. It formerly meant sportive,

Cf. Shakes. IL VIII.

" Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders."

261 These=/^w/ and mast/iiarade, which stand for the artifi-
cial ]ileasures of the riih and proud.

262 The toiling pleasure, i.e., the pleasure of those who
toil in vain to be happy. Toiling is an example of Transferreii
Epithet.

263 Even, an adverb qualifying the phrase while, <^c.
Fashion's brightest arts. Explain. See note on 1. 2C\,

I H J

ir'

^ i.

NOTK^.

264 Tf — joy, ;i noun clause, the ol)iect v)l (7s^'s.

265 Survey - see. KeciuireU by the measure and rhykic.

266 See, in i/oiv to Parst\ pars. ;?87, 388, the very interest-
ing remarks of Dr. Abbott, on the confusion of the intinitive and
parlicii-le, and on tlie omission of "to."

How wide, &C. =ho\v great the difference, c^'C.

268 Splendid = which has the grandeur and pomp of wealth.

269-70 The very ocean takes a ]iride in as>5sliii,<^ in the com-
merce by whiclr the land is rilled with wealth, and the people in
their folly grow jubilant over their pernicious prosperity.

Tide = ocean, Hymcdoche.

Freighted ore — gold oir merchandise with which the vessel
is freiglued.

See note on 1. 262. Cf. Travdhr^ 1. 397- S : —

** Have wo not seen, round Britain's peopled shore,
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? ^'

272 And rich, &c. England becomes the emporium of the
conniierce of the world.

273-5 The wealth which is acquired b/ these merchant
princes, who have secured large fortunes in commerce is no real
benefit to the country ; it does not assist in developing the agri-
cultural (useful) resources of the land, but, on the other hand,
ultimately forces the peasant laborer to leave the country, as the
land which he formerly tilled is now bought up to be turned into
])arks, lakes and grounds, for "trade's unfeeling train !" — Cf.
Horace, . h'.s^ ii. 15.

275 Loss, i.e., of the peasantry.

277 Space. Recalling a term to make some further explana-
tion or addition is called Epaiwrthosis.

279 Silken sloth. See note on 1. 262.

280 Cost a sum equal to the value of half the produce of the
" neighbouring fields." Such a stn<^ement, in which anything
is represented as greater than it really is, is called Hyperbole.

281 Solitary sports. There may have been a large number of
persons — the family and visitors — enjoying the sports, but they
are termed solitary, as this was the only place for miles around
where any person lived.

283-4 O^^r natural ])roducts necessary for the support of the
peasantry are exported to the various seaports of the world, to
be exchanged for luxuries to regale the rich.

285 All qualifies /^/;/rf'.

286 The is emphatic. The fall that must be the fate of a na-
tion which is thus violated.

NOTKS.

^'^ fi

i 1

r i'

7 W i

287-95 This Sif;n7tis well conceived. It is easily uivlcrstood,
impressive, pleasing, and clearly illu.tiates the suhjcct in hand.

The grammatical construction will be made plain by arran-^ing
thus : — The land fares (acts) as some fair female acts (i.e., slights
and shnres not, but shines forth).

287 Plain, i.e. , in dress and demeanor.

288 Secure to please = confident of pleasing.

290 The triumph of her eyes, i.e., which the charm of
her eyes can win of itself.

Frail. Lat. /)v7;^v7/,s-, frail, from/r.7w^^v^ I break.

The loss of the consonant between two vowels is of a fre(iuent
occurrence. Cf. fair, A. S.yai'V'-v ; nail, A. S. jiac\iH'l.

293 Time -age.

293 Shines is co-ordinate with sH-^/tt's and sJtnrcs.

Solicitous to blt'sSy i.e., anxiously desirous «f conferring her
favors.

295 Fares. A. S. faran, to go. T>iterally, goes on.

296 h'or analysis, supply // is after chartiis.

297 Verging to -approaching. See note on I. 20.
Decline is a noun, not a verb.

Vi'r;^ingto decline forms an adverbial extension of r/.ft*. Cf
Dedication of the l)-avclU't\ ** A country verging to the extre-
mities of refinement."

298 Vistas. Ital. vista^ a view. It usually means a ** pros-
pect through an avenue, as of trees. ''

301 Without —to save. An rcbsolute clause. The noun with
the prei)osition is used instead of the nominative al?solute.

302 A garden and a grave. A garden for the pleasure of
the rich man and a g'Mve where the poor man's hopes if, in-
deed, not himself, are buried.

Garden and grave are in the predicate nominative after
hloo»is. This is a species of Antit/icsis. The effect 's increased
by placing side by side things of an opposite nature. The allit-
eration also a.ssists.

304 Cf. 7>a^y67/t'rll.I79-8o;—

** Sees no contiguous palace rear its head
To shame the meanness of his humble shed."

Also l^uar of Wakefield : — " The m.>rtification of contiguous
tyranny."

305 To some— strayed. This clause forms r» complement
of hti in I. 806. C 'unions fenceless limits — lands which the
peasant supposed were a free common, but which he finds *rQ
C-losed up against him,

■*l|^

i :

%i-

, -1,1 ' *

'.y ■ '

1CI

NOTKS.

I>CJ

, 9^aBfl||y|

IL^BI i

ij^lHl

" The enclosure of Commons, a mcasuie by no means always
dictated by mere greed, but sometimes in the hi^'hest degree
prudential and considerate, has always been an extreme popular
grievance. See Latimer's Last sermon preached before Kiti;^
jh.ihvard /'/. , Ballads on the Condition of Eni:^. in lien. VIII.
reiijn, C-'r., Pari 1. ed. Furnivall p. 54, c\:c. tv:c. Some 1600 or
1700 Inclosuic Acts are said to have l)een jiassed before the
beginning of the present century. Ooldsniith ignores tiie fact
that Mali" a tillage stinted the })lains,' where llie old Commons
lay extended. If the enclosure were made without proper com-
pensation to the Commoners, then assuiedly uothii.g can be
more shameful." — Hales.

306 Blade (or grass — Synecdoche.

305-8. To analyze this sentence, supply some such expression
a.^ he finds. 'I'hen the clause If— blade is adverbial to finds,
and the clauses Those — divide and even— denied are ncuu pro-
positions, the object of finds. The sense is destroyed /jy
making the clause If— I'hide adverbial to divide.

307 Fenceless once fenceless.

Divide, i.e., have divided among themselves, and hedged in.

Sons of wealth. Cf. sons of pleasurein 1. 313. Personifi-
cation.

308, Bare-worn, i.e., even the scanty pr.sturage of the com-
mon, grazed to the ground by the flocks of the peisants is now
denied the poor man.

265 — 308 The student should make himself acquainted with
the condition of England at this time {1770), and examine into
the correctness of the poet's views, lie will find the subject
fully discussed in Kiiigiit's Popular History of En_^land^ chaps,
clxxvii — clxxxii.

309 Sped - gone. Before sped, supply is or has. Waits is
here transitive. Awaits is the usual transitive form.

Must -~- can,

310-18. These lines show well the pleasing effect of an accumu-
lation o^ Antitheses.
311 Thin mankind, i.e., injure the common people.

313 Know enjoy, or participate in.

314 Extorted. How? See 11. 265-2S6.

310 Pale. This word contains an Allusion to the effect pro-
duced upon the complexion by being employed in the close air of
factories.

Artist ^---- arlisan. The distinction between these words is of
quite recent introduction. The former meanings have been
nearly revcis«,d.

NOTES.

'i (It1

Plies = works at. Cf. Sir W. Scott, LaJj' of the Lake ^ vi. 17 : —
" Their plight they i>ly."

317 Long-drawn = long. Cf. Gray's Eh'sy, 1. 3'.» : —

*' Long-drawn aisle and fretted vault."

Pomps. See note on 1. 259.

318 There the black, &C. ILinging was a common pim-
i.shment at this time.

Glooms. Strikes the passers-by with horror and dismay.

315-18 These two couplets place hefore the reader in viv'.d
contrast, the poet's idea of the relative conditions of the rich and
the i^oor,

319 Dome. Spacious hall. Cf. Tnu'tller, 1. 159 ;

*' As in those domes w'liere Cajsars once bore sway."

Pleasure is here personified.
Midnight. Explain the Allusion.

320 Decked. The e of the weak unaccented syllable ed is
droiJfed in conversation, so trhat the word loses its additional
syllable, and we are forced to pronounce a / instead of a d. In
attempting to pronounce^ in one syllable a suni and a sonant,
c'ther the surd will becojive a s(jnant, or the sonani will become
a surd. Thus sofd wilj become either sovd or soft. So d will
pass into / after />, j7/, s sharp, .r, ch and c/c.

321 Blazing, i. e., fdled with a ^rand display of people with
richly ornamented equipage and apparel. MctapJior.

y22, Torches. "Before the introduction of street-lights,
people who 'could afford it were preceded by torch-beaiera when
going abroad at night." Rolfe.

Huge extinguishers still remain at the gates cf some old man-
sions in London.

323 Sure = surely. Like iS here an adjective qualifying
scenes.

23-4 These two lines are supposed to 1 • uttered by the
reader, to whom the poet has shewn the outside life oi p-andcur.
In the subsequent lines he is maiie acquainted with the ruin which
is hidden from public gaire.

326 Poor houseless shivering. It will be observed that the
adjectives houseless and shivering are each applicable to the noiui
female, that the word /i?t^r is used rather as an epithet of commis-
seration than to express the idea of poverty, and that i' is api)licil,
to the expression houseless shivering female as a whole, not to lUc

} ,

-fT^.^

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-S)

/.
^

1.0

I.I

1.25

2.0

1^ 1^

1.8

= lltt

PhotDgmphic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. M580

(716) 872-4503

^1\

'^-u.

4^>

NOTES.

term yi-wrt/^ alone This accumulation of adjectives is purposely
made to give the line a heavy aud. distressing eflect.

327 Blest — happy.

328 Has wept. IJy poetic licence for wept.

329 Might adorn, for might have adorned. See note on 1.
328.

330 For analysis, arrang* thus '.—Her modest hohs {lo/iuh 7vnr)
sweet as the primrose [ts svjet't, that) pt\'p>i beneath the thorn. Tliis
heautiful Simile, is the sweetest line in the poem. The alterna-
tion of consonants with vowels, the variety of the vowel sounds,
and the preponderance of vowels, add richness and softness lu
the n.elody.

To all, i.e. , to all that is good and happy.
Friends an:l virtue arc in tlie nominative al)solute.

334 With, in such a case is not in.-.t rumen t:ji. See note on
1. 301.

That is more emphatic than the.

335 Idly, i. e., as she was tircvl of country life.

336 "Wheel. Alnu)st every collage in Cloldsniith's time had
a spinning-wheel upon which worjl ar.d jlax were spun for domes-
tic use. This was mostly ilone by the single women of the fam-
ily. Hence an unmarri<."d vv(jman was, and is still, called a
spinster.'" — Slevf'Uh and Morris.

338 Tribes, 1-at. tres, three ; as the Roman people were an-
ciently divided into throe divisions. Hence, generally, a part
of any nalion. Here it is used for inhaliitants and is simply a
variation for (ra>n, which has already been repeated too fre-
quently.

Participate is usually followed by *' in."

341 Ah, no ! exclaims the poet, they are not permitted
even the wretched consolation of begging from those whose
pr(^sperity has caused their ruin, but are

** ?'orced from their homes, a melancholy train,
To traverse climes beyond the western main."

For analysis, some such expression as they are compelled to q-o
must be supplied before to distant climes. It would, of course,
be rank nonsense to read they go through torrid tracts to distant
climes, ^c.

342 Where— between. It is somewhat difficult to extract
a rational meaning from this line as it stands. Where may be
taken as used for which, and the line maile to read between
which and the mother land half the convex world intrudes^ i.e.,
half the world intervenes between England and America,

4**

NOTES.

Convex. An ornamental epithet used merely to fill up the
line.

343 Fainting. Cf. Traveller, 1. 420 ;

" To stop too fearful, and too faint to go."

344 Wild refers to the uninhabited districts along the river.
Altama. Probably Alatahamu, a river of Georgia, is meant ;

but, of course, it is a particular river used for anyone in that
part of the New World, to which the emigrants have gone.

Altama Murmurs. Making this lonely river sympathize
with the distress of the exiles has a very fine effect.

347 Blazing, producing great heat. Blazing probably con-
tains an Allusion to the belief that the sun is a mass of fire.

Suns, woods, fields are in apposition to terrors.
Suns. The plural for the singular, Efiall'ic^e.
Downward — perpeudicular, as being more nearly under the
e(|uatoi.

348 Day is used for heat of daytime, Metottymy.

349 Matted. A rich gro.vth of all kinds of trees, shrubs
and vines twined closely together. Cf Scott, Lcuiy of the Lake ^
i. 25 : —

"That winded through the tangled screen."

Forget to sing. A very striking contrast to England, where,
according to our poet,

"Gentlest music melts on every sprav." — Trai'eller, 1. 322.

In this particular, as indeed in the whole of this description,
he is as completely astray as he is when he tells us that the North
American Indians go up and down the Niagara Falls in their
canoes with ease.

350 Bats. Bats sleep in the daytime. Their position of re-
]H)'<e is hanging from the limb of a tree with their heads down-
ward.

352 Dark Scorpion. Scorpions belong to the genus ^rar//-
iiitla. They abound in warm countries, and are greatly dreaded
on account of their stinging, which .seldom proves fatal, but causes
great pain.

Gathers death, i.e., collects the poison which i^roduces death.

354 Rattling terrors. Terrors is by Metonymy for what
mspires them. The rattlesnake {Crotalus horrid us) is common
in many parts of North and South America. Its bite generally
produces death in man and most animals excei)tpigs.

355 Tigers. Tigers are found only in Asia ; but the '* ^^^
guar (/ir/iV oiica)^ one of the largest of the cat-tribe, ia by far th^;

nil

■I

♦t t

^hI

i l

! !•■

NOTES.

most powerful and dan^jeroiis of the American beasts of prey.
It is sometimes called the American Tiger. " Chambers' Encycio.
{>ccdia.

Cf. Campbell, Pleasures of IL^pe :

*' On Erie's banks where tigers steal along."

//'</,/. See note on I. 309.

356 Savag^e. Lat. si/va, a wood ; silvaticua, an inhabitant
ol I he woods ; Tt. sdvaggio ; Fr. sauvage. Here it means
barbarous, uncivilized.

357 Mad tornado. Gr, ropvoi, a lathe, Lat. tornus^
from tortiaie, to turn, past participle, tornaius^ in Spanish
tornado.

358 Mingling is a supplement of the verb Jlies, It will
be observed that when an adjective or participle is used as the
supplement of a verb the expression is equal to a compound
predicate, thusy/iej miugliugi^fkts and mingles.

360-2 Mr. Sankey has poittLed out the care that has been
taken to heighten, by a judicious selection of epithets, the con-
Uast between these home scenes and those of Georgia.

361 Warbling, Transferred Epithet.

361-2 Grove, love, an impetfect rhyme. They are very rare
in Goldsmith. Cf. Travetter^ 11. 151-2.

Thefts. Cf. Thomson's Winter,

** Snatched hasty from the side-long maid.
On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep."

363 Gloomed =* cast a gloom over.

Parting day = day of separation.

363-64 Observe that in these deeply touching lines, the poet
begins with general statements about the bitterness of the grief
experienced by these homeless exiles when they come to the
stern realities of separation from their friends and their homes,
and tSien places before us a single family overwheUtied with dis-
tress at their departure. The reason why this course is adopted
in poetry has already been j>ointed out. See note on 1. i.

365 When — bowers. This clause is adjectival to day.

366 Bowers— »a part for the whole, as frequently.
A line of gieat pathos ajnd richness.

367 Long Farewell = a farewell for a long time, i.e., for
ever. Cf. Shakes, 11. Vfll. "A long farewell to all my greatness."

368 Seats, poetically for abode, homes. The word is often
used of a gentleQ^an's estate, as a country-seat.

M^iOt Lat, fnagnusj great ; A. S, tnacgen, strength, It is

NOTES.

applied to the oceaii when the idea of its greatnei>a or majesty ii
to be made prominent. Cf. Traveller, 1. 410.

"To traverse climes beyond the western main."

Also, Shakes. M. cf V.

•'Bid the main flood bate his usual height."

369 The distant deep. Not in the sense of remote or far
away, but of great distance across. Cf. Traveller, 1. 284 : —
"The broad ocean."

371 The g^ood old, &c. Perhaps the easiest way of dispos-
ing of this idiom, is to read The ^ooJ old sire {was) Die first \that)
prepared to go.

373 For himself. On this use oi for. See Hozv to Parse, par.
364, In conscious virtue brave = brave from a consciousness of
his own virtue.

Cf. Virgil, jEneid. i. 604 : ** Mens sibi conscia recti."

378 Mr. Hales asks, *' VVas the lover never able to go too ? "

379 Plaints, by Aphacresis for complaints, a form common
\*iih the poets.

380 Cot, poetic, and hy Apocope for cottage = home.
fevery pleasure, Hyperbole.

381 Thoughtless. Too young to comprehend the sadness of
the situation.

In — dear. This clause is a complement of them.

383 Strove to lend. In such a construction, as Dv. Angus
remarks (See Handbook, par. 534), "the objective infinitive is
allied to the infinitive of purpose," and it is dilficult to determine
whether ii is used as a noun or an adverb.

385 In this Apostrophe to Luxury which is regarded by the
poet as the natural outcome of commercial wealth, the reader is
forcibly reminded of some passages in the Traveller, which have
a similar forecast.

386 This line contains one of the many examples of Gold-
smith's faculty for making his meaning clear, while violating all
ordinary rules of grammatical construction.

Things like these, i. e., the happy condition of the "bold
peasantry" before the destroying arm of wealth had sown deso-
lation over the once '* smiling village."

387 Potions. Luxury is represented as mixing for its vota
ries, cups which, thdtlgh creating great pleasure, bring, in llw
end, only certain destruction,

! i

[

'.i

,i'

i-l

NOTI<:S.

389 Cf. Traveller \. 1434:—

" And late the nation found, with fruitless skill,
Its former strength was but plethoric ill."

390 Florid, i. e., having the appearance of blooming health.

391 Draught, i. e., of the potions of wealth.

397 Methinks. A. S. thincan^ to seem. / see^ cr*r., is a
noun clause, the subject of thinks, and mc^ an old dative is the
indirect object.

The student will observe how the poet, in this scene, presents
a picture to the eye. The sight is the keenest of our senses.
Poetry takes advantage of this fact, and, when possible, chooses
to describe scenes of which the reader is rather a spectator
than a listener. This description is further enlivened by the cir-
cumstances of motion that are introduced.

399 Where — sail. This clause qualifies some words under-
stood as to the shore.

Anchoring— lying at anchor.

407 Maid. So called in allusion to the nine muses of ancient
mythology. Cf. Nymph of 1. 411.

Where — invade. This is an adjectival clause, used substan-
tively after tojly^ which, by poetic license, is used transitively to
render the expression more terse. See How to Parse^ par. 532.

Cf. Traveller ^ 1. 124 : —

** And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.*

409 Degenerate times. This has been a favorite idea with
poets from Homer down. All deplore the lost ** golden age."

410 Honest fame=fame honestly acquired.

412 My shame in crowds. Because people are too intent on
other pursuits to take an interest in poetry. Note the A ntithcsis
in this line.

413 Cf. Wither's address to the muse in The Shephe7\Vs
Hunting, Also Scott, L.of L. vi. 28 : —

** Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,
Through secret woes the world has never known.
When on the weary night dawned wearier day.
And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.
That I o'erlive such woes. Enchantress ! is thine own.**

414 The former part of this line is literally true, and so far as
deriving pecuniary assistance directly from poetry is concerned,
tU^ latter is, if we credit the poet's own story, equally so. \\^

. U

NOTES.

said to Lord Lisburn, at one of the Academy's dinners : '* I can-
not aflford to court the draggle-tail muses, my lord ; they would
let me starve ; but by my other labors I can make shift to eat,
and drink, and have good clothes." It must not, however, be
(prgotten that Goldsmith owed his social position, and with it
his money-earning power, in no small degree, to thp muse that
inspired the Traveller.

415 NoWer. This compariitlve has merely the force of a
positive. The sarue idea would be expressed by " noble arts,"
i.e., painting, sculpture, music, &c., which are called noble in
comparison with mechanical arts.

The poet meafis that the condition of poetry in a country is a
gauge by which we may determine the state of the other fine
arts. When it flourishes, they flourish ; when it fails, they fail.

416 If poetry is the ** muse of every virtue," how is it that
only the "rural virtues leave the land" with it? Does the
poet wish us to understand that the " bold peasantry" was the
only virtuous class in England ?

Fare thee Tvell. An example of Tmesis.

Thee is here archaic. In early English, many verbs were
used with a reflexive pronoun, which do not admit it in modern
usage, as : — It repents me. Consequently thee in /are thee well
is not the subject, but the reflexive pronoun, the subject thou
being understood.

417 Farewell. When one sentence or clau=e begins with
the same word as that with which the preceding ends, we
have the figure, Anadiplosis.

Be tried i. e. , wherever the exiled poet may settle and at-
tempt to sing. This clause is concessive adverbial to Let thy
voice, <Sr»c-. , in 1. 42 1 .

418 Torno. Probably around Lake Tornea in the extreme
North of Sweden.

Pambamarca is said to be one of the peaks of the Andes,
near Quito.

These two names were, no doubt, chosen simply because of
their sound and of their suitability for fiUingup the line, and stand
for any desolate and unpeopled countries, one lying in the frozen
North and the other beneath the burning heat of the equator.

419-20 This couplet is a repetition in a different form of the
meaning of the preceding line.

Equinoctial for equatorial, by Metonymy.

421 i*reVai!ing overtime, i.e., c-abling the exiled wanderer
to rise superior to the hardships of his lot.

424 Rage of = rage for.

= i

■' 1

H 1

:. fly

NOTRf;.

425 Native — that which naturally belongs to them, i.e., in
Kngland a *' bold peasantry," to till the soil and live in innocent
happiness.

426 Poverty and happiness !<eem to the poet to have a con-
nection as inseparable as wealth and misery. rerhaj)s in his own
poverty he felt happy in imagining that the great were not so.

Cf. Trarc/Ur, 11. 185-208.

427- 30 These four lines were written by Dr. Johnson. To
the y'ravel/er^ Dr. Johnson likewise added a few lines, and liad
the temerity to engraft upon Goldsmith's poem an inference
which the arguiuenls were never intended to bear, and which
strikes the reader as a forced and unwarranted conclusion to-
wards which he has not been led, and which, so far as the poem
is concerned, rests upon the mere assertion of the poet. In this
poem, the added lines are in harmony with the general train of
thought, and form a very fitting conclusion to the main topic,
liut whatever credit they may be to Johnson as a poet, they
certainly are none as a discerner of the times, or as a political
economist.

427 Proud. Why does he use this epithet ?

428 As ocean, &c. Explain this Simile.

Laboured mole. Lat. molt's, a mass. Hence any massive
pile which has been constnicted by labor.

Cf. Traveller^ 1. 288 : — "The firm connected bulwark."

429 Self-dependent power, i.e., a nation that becomes rich
by develotrinc; its o^'m resources, not as England is represented
as doing, by dc'^^cinding upon trade with foreign countries.

Time=lapse of time.

430 Skj, by Metonymy for storms and atmospheric action.

LIFE OF COWPEll

William Ccwper was born on the nCtli of November,
1 731, at Great Birkhamstead. in Hertfordshire. On both
sides he was well descended. His father, the Rev. John
Cowper, D.D., rector of that parish, was chaplain to
George II. His grandfather was a Judge of the Court of
Common Pleas, and one of his grand-uncles was Lord-
Chancellor, and afterwards Earl Cowper. His mother
was a descendant of the family of the celebrated Dean of
St. Paul's, Dr. Donne, the poet. While yet at the tender
age of six years, he suffered an irreparable loss in the
death of his kind and loving mother. From her, as he
himself thinks, he had inherited a nervous and sensitive
nature, which the lack of a mother's soothing sympathy
rendered much more impressible. So greatly did this
gentle nature feel the dark shadow cast over its young
years by this sad bereavement that the remembrance of
the tenderness of her who was gone, was, after the lapse of
nearly fifty years, daily in his thoughts.

To add to the gloom of his situation, the child was sent
from home to a large boarding-school kept by Dr. Pitman,
at the small town of Market Street. Here his timid and
quivering nature sank before the bullying of the larger
boys. Particularly was he in terror of one large lad of
fifteen, by whom, he tells us ** I was singled out as a
proper object upon whom he might let loose the cruelty of

LIFE OF COVVPER.

his temper. His savage treatment of me impressed such a
dread of his tigure upon my mind that I remember well
being afraid to lift my eyes upon him higher than his
knee ; and that I knew liim belter by iiis shoe-buckles
than by any other part of liis dress."

After spending two years in this school, he was rem. wed
on account of a disease of his eyes, and placed under the
care of Mrs. Disney, a female oculist, where, if his eyes
were but little improved, he was frrefiom the suffering of
the boarding-school. He was next sent to Westminster
School. Here he spent seven of his happiest years. He
entered with zest into the sports as well as the studies of
the school ; by the former he improved his health, relieved
his melancholy and became popular amongst his fellows,
being quite a distinguished football-player and cricketer ;
by the latter he gained favor with his masters and reputa-
tion as a scholar. His closest friend was Lloyd, a son of
one of the masters, and among his ether class-mates were
names destined to take prominent places in the history of
their country : Churchill, the poet, Colman, the trans-
lator of Terence, Cumbaiiand, Thornton, Impey and
Hastings were then forming character and collecting
strength for their future career. Yet, noted as some of
them became, none will be longer or more affectionately
remembered than Cowper.

On leaving Westminster, at the age of eighteen, he re-
turned to his father's house, where he spent about nine
months. Owing to family connections, the profession of
law was chosen Tor him, and he was articled to Mr. Chap-
man, an attorney in London. Here he lived for three
years professedly studying law, but in reality spending

ting
le of
Ltely

LIFE OF COWI'ER. y

** his leisure hours, which were weil-nij^h all hi"^ time,"
with his young cousins, Harriet and Thcoiiora Co\vi>f'r,
and his fellow-clerlv, Kdward, afterwards l.oi.l. V ,i>
The chief occupation of this happy ([n.mciio, the p .r
already he had tuned his lyre, tells us, was " ^i;;:-;liii,;
making giggle." The "Delia," to whom his nmse m •»>
addressed her song, was his cousin Theodora. 'I'hc* cKlcr
sister, Harriet, afterwards Lady Hesketh, was his coir*-;-
pondent in later years ; but Theodora had awakened tlu*
tender passion of his heart, which she as truly re( ipro-
cated. Her father, Ashley Cowper, Clerk of Parliament,
fjrbade aunion, and closed his doors against his nephew.
The lovers parted never to meet again, and in 1753
Cowper took a last farewell of *' Delia " in his Poem on
Disappointment. She remained, throughout life, faithful
to her early attachment, and when he became dependent
on his family, " a person who had tenderly loved him,"
oilered to supply any reduction in his income, and from
this same unknown friend, who, he never seemed to sus-
pect, was Theodora, he frequently received presents that
only the delicacy and tenderness of a woman's thoughtful
mind could have devised. She died unmarried in 1825,
and then his love effusions to her— his only poems on tha
theme — were given to the pu lie. It was unfortunate
that Cowper never married, liad there been another to
fill, in his warm and loving heart, the place rendered
vacant by the death of his mother, she might have charmed
his melancholy spirit into happiness, and healed his
wounded heart with the sympathy it craved.

At the end of his three years with the attorney, Cowper
took chambers in the Middle Temple, which he afterwards

^ '1

LIFK OF Cow PER.

changed for the Inner Temple. Here he studied law as
he had previously done with Mr. Chapman, for his time
was spent chiefly in literature and poetry. Flowever, he
was called to the Har in 1754. It was shortly after taking'
up his residence here that he was seized with the first of
those attacks of depression to which he was more or less
subject till the end of his life. The cause of his insanity
has been variously sought for, in his boarding-school sor-
row, in the refusal of his uncle's consent to his marriage
with Theodora, in his religious views, and in his family.
There can be little doubt that he was correct when he
thought it was constitutional. This first attack was of
short duration, and he became fully restored during a
short visit to Southampton. The death of his father,
which occurred in 1756, was the occasion of his last
visit to the scenes of his childhood, scenes to which
he was very deeply attached, though his having been sent
from home so young had prevented the growth of any
strong affection for his father. The next four years of his
life were spent nominally in chambers ; but in order to
prevent a recurrence of his malady, he engaged in a con-
tinued circle of diversions, mostly of a literary character.
He was a member of the " Nonsense Club," which met
every Thursday to dine and discuss literary matters, con-
tributed some articles to the Cotmoisseur, assisted his
brother John in translating V^oltaire's Hefiriade, and the
Duncombes in their Horace. He was now thirty-two.
His law had yet brought him no income, and family in-
fluence had so far secured for him only a Commissionership
of Bankrupts, with a salary of ^60 a year. His father
had left him but an inconsiderable patrimony, so that, al'

lifp: ok cowpr.R.

vii

lliou;;h he labored to liitie it, he became reasonably
alarmed about his future. Just at this juncture, the clerk-
ship of the House of Lortis fell vacant. 'Ihc nomina-
tion was vested with Major Cowper, who conferred it on
his kinsman, William. An examination at the IJar of the
House had to be undergone before entering upon the
duties of the ofrtce. Cowper sank before the thoughts of
such an ordeal. Nearly six months were spent in attempt-
ing to become acquainted with the journals. His melan-
choly again returned. He fancied opposition from the
Lords, thought he had wickedly hoped for the death of
the former occupant, and imagined a libel in every news-
paper. He was thoroughly mad, and made several at-
tempt to take his own life. He bought laudanum, pro-
posed to escape to France, returned to the laudanum, rode
down to the Tower Wharf to drown himself, lay, the night
before his examination, with a penknife at his heart, and
then tried to strangle himself with a garter. For his re-
covery, he was placed in a private asylum, under the care
of Dr. Cotton, where, for the first five months, he seemed
hopelessly lost ; but by kind and judicious treatment he
began to improve. One day he took up his Bible which,
in his madness, he always threw aside, and his eye caught
the 25th verse of the third chapter of Romans. He imme-
diately '' leceived strength to believe, and the full beams
of the Sun of Righteousness fell upon him. In a moment
he believed and received the Gospel. ' Prior to this, he
had not led more than a moral life ; he now becime
deeply religious, and it is clear, from his own minute ac-
count of his restoration to health, and from his sudden
conversion, that religion was not the cause, if, indeed

LIFE OF COWPER.

it was u: the cure, of liis madness. On his recovery, his
brother, who was residinfj at Cambridge, provided him a
lodging at Huntingdon, fifteen miles distant. The brothers
were able to visit each other on horse-back each alternate
week. Cowper

" Found here tliat leisure and that case he wished.''

His happiness was greatly enhanced through an ac-
quaintance he made with a kind and pious family, the
Unwins. Mr. Unwin was the non-resident rector of
Grimston, in Norfolk. His wife, a son and daughter
made up this happy family. After some little time,
Cowper was received as a boarder. He soon became a
real member of the household. The Unwins were Evan-
gelicals, and Cowper had earnestly desired to enjoy fuller
religious intercourse with them. He had lately been
obliged to resign the Commissionership of Bankrupts, and
being unfit to live by his profession, he became entirely
dependent on his family for support. They, however,
generously subscribed a sufficient allowance for his com-
fortable maintenance. Cowper had lived in this happy
home for eighteen months, when it was broken up by the
death of the father, in 1767. At Olney, in Buckingham,
Mrs. Unwin found a new home, and, accompanied by
Cowper, she took up her residence there. The chief rea-
son for selecting this place was that they might enjoy the
ministration of a clergyman who preached the Gospel as
received by the Evangelicals, and Mr. Newton had been
recommended to them as one '' who had been baptized
by the same baptism." Mr. Newton was one of the fore-
most preachers of the revival. His mother, who was a pious

LIFE OF COWPER.

dissenter, had given him a careful religious training ; but
a rough sea-life, and the writings of Shaftesbury, had for a
time led him into a profligate, blasphemous and reckless
mode of life. He fell in love with a girl of thirteen, and left
home because his father disapproved of the connection. He
was impressed, deserted and was flogged. Being released
from the navy, he went on board a slave-ship, where he
suffered every kind of abuse and privation. Even here
he was studying Euclid and Latin. A narrow escape
f--om shipwreck, stirring up vivid recollections of his
mother's teachings, and consequently a strong convic-
tion of his wicked life, led to his conversion. He
now became captain of a slave-ship, on which he made
severa' voyages ; but, as he disliked the trade, al-
though he did not consider it wrong, he gave it up, and
after a short interval was ordained by the Bishop of Lin-
coln. He threw himself with great enthusiasm into the
v/ork of reforming the irreligion and brutality of Olney.
In this employment Cowper was induced to take part. He
visited the sick, prayed with the dying and even led in
public prayer-meetings. He now gave up riding on horse-
back which he had enjoyed at Huntingdon. Hisonlyexercise
besides visiting among the poor, fever-stricken inhabitants
of the village, was pacing a gravel walk thirty yards long,
for eight months in the year. The greater part of his
time was spent with Mr. Newton, indeed, ''for six years
they were seldom, separate, when at home and awake."
He had not been three years at Olney when his brother
John died. To his affectionate nature this was a severe trial,
but he was greatly relieved by knowing that his brother
died a true convert to saving giace. Close confinement,

'-' ?

*i,

X LIFE OF COWPER.

exhausting labor in the parish, lack of lively company, a
perhaps somewhat morbid religiv^us belief, and sorrow at
the death of his brother, could have but one effect on the
despondent, sensitive nature of Cowper. Mr. Newton
noticed the returning gloom, and in order to raise his
spirits induced him to assist in the preparation of the Ol-
ney Hymns. Of these hymns Cowper wrote sixty-seven,
some of which still retain their popularity, as : " God
moves in a mysterious way;'' "Oh, for a closer walk
v»'ith God ; " " There is a fountain iilled with blood."
The return of his dreadful malady was not, however, to
be prevented by such means ; for early in 1773, he was
** suddenly reduced from his wonted rate of understanding
to an almost childish imbecilitv." His mind was racked
by all sorts of imaginings. " He believed that everybody
hated him, and Mrs. Unwin most of all." He went to
Mr. Newton's, and refused to leave. For sixteen months
he suffered all the agony and distress of his previous
attack. At last Dr. Cotton was apnlied to, and the patient
began slowly to recover. He now returned to Mrs. Un-
win's. During all this period she had watched over him
with the fondness and care of a mother. Indeed, a still
tenderer bond drew her to him, for it had been arranged
that they should be united in marriage, had not the re-
currence of his malady precluded all thought of its con-
summ.ation. As he slowly recovered, he began to seek for
employment and diversion. He returned to his favorite
pursuit, gardening ; took a boyish pleasure in building
himself a green-house ; found recreation in landscape-
painting, and especially delighted in tending his pet ani-
mals, of which he had at one time nearly twenty. About

LIFE OF COWPER.

this time some one kindly gave him three hares — Puss,
Tiney and Bess. These he tamed, and afterwards im-
mortalized in his verse. His correspondence, too, which
had entirely ceased, was renewed.

In 1780, Mr. Newton left Olrrey to take charge of the
United Rectories of St. Mary Woolnoth and St. Mary
Woolchurch Haw ; but before his departure, he commended
his dependent friend to the Rev. Mr. Bull, a Congre-
gational minister residing five miles from Olney. He and
Cowper became fast friends, and remained so as long as
the latter continued at Olney. For some time past the in-
valid had found great pleasure and mental benefit in com-
posing short poems on passing events of private or public
interest. The keen eye of love was quick to observe the
quieting effect which this occupation produced on his still
troubled mind, and Mrs. Unwin desired him to undertake
a long poem. In answer to his request for a subject she
gave him The Progress of Error. He at once set ener-
getically to work, and in the short interval between Decem-
ber and March produced not only a poem on that subject,
but also Truths Table Talk and Expostulation. Through
Mr. Newton he found a publisher in Johnson, of St. Paul's
Churchyard, at whose suggestion Hope^ Charity , Con-
versation^ Retirement and a few minor pieces were added.
Early in 1782, the volume appeared. Table Talk, which
seemed the least distasteful to the unregenerated world,
was put first, and the author awaited, with no little an-
xiety, the success of his venture. Cowper tells us that he
had read only one English poet for the past twenty years,
and further asserts *'that he never in his life designed an
imitation of Young or of any other writer ; for mimiciy

riV

: I

■

1 IB

S \ m

1 i

LIFE OF COWPER.

was his abhorrence, at least in poetry." Perhaps this one
poet was Churchill, traces of whose manner may be seen
in the satire of these poems. They likewise bear evident
marks cf the poetical peculiarities of the preceding age,
as well as of the religious tendencies of his own. There is
manifest throughout a fervent desire to improve mankind,
and to this end, they all have a distinctly religious ourpose,
a purpose, no doubt, begotten of the influence of Mr.
Newton. For ten years he had seen nothing of the
world ; never had he had anything like a thorough ac-
quaintance with it, yet he attacks the vices and errors of
the time with all the fervor of an Evangelical preacher of
his day. The fox-hunter, the gambler, the dilettante
preacher, the drunkard and the fop, all come in for a share
of his angry reproofs. Directly opposite opinions have been
expressed regarding Cowper's satirical powers. Some deny
him the character of satirist altogether, while others assert
that he has produced some of our most potent, pungent
and pointed satire. It is true that his attacks sometimes
resemble pulpit denunciations, and that he may be open
to the charge of '* damning sins he has no mind to." But
if satire consists in exposing vice and folly that they may
be reformed, then Cowper is no mean satirist, though his
anger may always be tempered with kindness. Nor are
his writings destitute of that wit and humor which render
satire effective.

To Mrs. Unwin we owe the Moral Satires; to Lady
Austen we are vastly more indebted for the Task. In
1 78 1 she came to Clifton, a mile from Olney, to visit her
sister, Mrs. Jones. She was the widow of Sir Robert
Austen, a baronet, with whom she had lived in France

LIFE OF COWPER.

• • »

Xlll

until his death, eleven years previous. Sprightly, gay,
vivacious and accustomed to the best society, she threw a
spell of delight over the gloomy life of the recluse, such as
he had never enjoyed before. A passion for retirement
had taken possession r^ her, and she, strangely enough,
determined to establish herself at Olney, with these two
Puritans as her companions ; for the two families became
so intimate that " a practice obtained at length of dining
with each other alternately every day, Sundays excepted."
For Lady Austen's harpsichord, The Loss of the Royal
George^ and other poems were written. One evening,
when Cowper appeared unusually gloomy, she related to
him the story of John Gilpin, which he turned into verse
before morning. This ballad was published in the Public
Advertiser^ and became immensely popular. Lady Austen
frequently had urged him to write a long poem in blank
verse, and one day he said " I will, if you give me a subject.*'
"Oh!" she replied, "you can write on any subject —
write upon this sofa." The Sofa grew into the Task^ in
six books. The whole was written in a little more than a
year, and published in 1785, in one volume, along with a
poem called Tirocinia m, or a Review of Schools ^ and the
History of fohn Gilpin. The Task immediately raised
Cowper to celebrity. His friends who had neglected him,
opened up correspondence with him, sent him presents
and complimentary letters, while the general public outdid
them in their emulous endeavors to honor the man who
had been able to supply a deeply-felt want by pouring
forth his heart in these strains at once strongly religious,
manly and human.
While the composition of the Task was in progress, the

III

.; \

fi:| •

XIV

LIFE OF COWPER.

cheering and inspiring presence which had given birth to
the poem, and which had added so much to the mental
health and social happiness of the poet, was to his very
grave loss separated from him. The cause of the rupture
of this friendship has been the fertile source of dispute,
and various theories are still held as to its true origin ;
but whether it arose from jealousy on the part of Mrs.
Unwin, dissimilar temperament, or too great a demand
on the poet's time, '* forcing him to neglect The Task to
attend upon the muse who had inspired the subject," Lady
Austen left Olney in May, 1784, and this singular friend-
ship was ended forever. The loss was in part made up to
Cowper by an acquaintance which he made with the
Throckmortons, who lived on an estate near Olney, and
by the renewal of his correspondence with Lady Hesketh.
This amiable person visited him and Mrs. Unwin about
two years afterwards, and wisely thinking that the gloomy
surroundings were unfavorable to the health and spirits of
the poet, induced him and Mrs. Unwin to remove to
Weston Lodge. Accordingly, after nineteen years' resi-
dence at Olney, they left it on the 15th of November,
1786. Scarcely had they settled in their new abode when
it was saddened by the death of the Rev. Mr. Unwin,
Mrs. Unwin's only son. Shortly after finishing the
Tirocinium^ Cowper had undertaken the laborious task of
translating Homer, and was still busily engaged upon it
when the gloom of the season and overwork brought on
another attack of insanity, in January, 1787. This time,
however, it was only six months till he suddenly recovered,
and went to work at his translating. He received, at this
period, numerous visitors, among others, Mr. and Mrs.

LIFE OF COWPER.

Newton and Mr. Rose, a student from Scotland, who
brought him a copy of Burns' poems. His cousin, Mrs. Bod-
man, sent him his mother's picture, " the only one in the
world." It called forth that effusion of tenderness, pathos
and endearing affection which is unsurpassed in these
c|ualities by any poem in the language. Numerous other
short poems, all characterized by delicacy of conception,
tenderness of sentiment and beauty of execution, flowed
from his pen about this time during his intervals of trans-
lation.

After seven years of toil, his //o;ficrw3.s at last given to
the world in June, 1791. Johnson, the publisher, paid
him ;^r,ooo for the manuscript, and allowed him to retain
the copyright. Covvper has avoided the faults of Pope,
who had stiffened the simplicity, ease and nature of
the ancient bard into the flashing brilliancy and elegant
correctness of the eighteenth century ; but he, too, has
failed where it is impossible to succeed, in rendering into
our harsh tongue the sound and sense of that grand hymn
of nature.

Homer finished, he began to cast aoout lor other sub-
jects. Lady Hesketh suggested the Mediterranean Sea;
Buchanan, The Four Ages^ and he himself selected
Yardley Oak. Of the first a few fragments were written,
of the next an outline sketch was drawn, while the last
was carried further ; and if the whole had been finished,
so as to be equal to the stanzas that are produced, it
would have been the crowning glory of his fame. Its com-
pletion was prevented by a proposition from his publisher
that he should edit a magnificent edition of Milton, which
the former proposed to bring out, with splendid illustra-

*S ■!

* 3

XVI

LIFE OF COWPFR.

tions by Fuseli. From this undertaking, all that we have
is a few translations of Milton's Italian and Latin poems.
The work of annotating was uncongenial to him, and was
never completed. Hayley, a poet of the time, was also
engaged upon an edition of the great Puritan poet. Me
wrote to Cowper to disclaim anything like rivalry, and this
introduction led to a sincere friendship between Cowper
and his admirer, Hayley.

In December, 1791, Mrs. Unwin was seized by a stroke
of paralysis, and after a second attack, in the next year,
her mind, which had since the first shown signs of decline,
rapidly sank into second childhood. The long and affec-
tionate attentions which had been so endearingly bestowed
upon Cowper, it was now his to return. And with all
the tenderness o ' affection he set himself to gratify every
whim of the exacting and querulous sufferer. The task
was more than he could long perform. He once more
sank beneath the dark cloud of despair, which never
again, except at brief intervals, lifted its shroud of black-
ness from his horror-stricken mind. His kinsman, the
Rev. J. Johnson, and his friend Mr. Hayley, on the ad-
vice of the famous Dr. Willis, who had benefited George
III., provided him a change of residence. He was re-
moved to Norfolk, and, after several changes, finally
settled at East Dereham. Here his much-loved and long-
tried friend, Mrs. Unwin, died on the 17th of December,
1796. Both were unconscious of the separation about to
take place. When taken in to look his last upon the life-
less form of her he had loved so long, he uttered one wild
shriek of despair, and was never heard to mention her
name again. During his lucid intervals, Cowper was able

evor, wj
life, anc
wa"d be
Cowp
works, a
own hea
the mosi
but his 1
writings
fail to b(
the poet
alone, 1:
light us
race. If
him to t
he migh
in "virti
portant

LIFE OF COWPER.

xvii

occasionally to receive visitors, to revise his Horner^ and
even to throw off short poems. In the autumn of 1793,
he wrote those beautiful verses ** To Mary," and six years
later he penned those sweet, sad lines. The Castaway.
They were founded upon an incident in AhsojCs Voyages ;
but the gloomy despair which enshrouded the poet's mind,
led him to connect the fate of the perishing sailor with his
own. Early in the next year, signs of dropsy began to ap-
pear ; and about three mo.Lhs later he died peacefully on
the 25th of April, 1800, in the sixty-ninth year of his age.
His friends had fondly hoped that the dark veil of spiritual
despair would have been raised from his beclouded reason
before the lamp of life had ceased to burn. Such, how-
ever, was not the case ; but his blameless, useful, pious
life, and his firm faith in Christ, could have but one re-
wa"d before the *' Judge of all the earth."

Covvper has vividly stamped his personality upon all his
works, and poured into them the thoughts that stirred his
own heart. Like Byron and Wordsworth, he is one of
the most subjective of our poets. Not only his thoughts,
but his feelings and tastes are everywhere present in his
writings. As the reader peruses his page, he can never
fail to be struck with the sincere love of nature in which
the poet seems to revel. Not its forms and appearances
alone, but even its sounds attract his notice, and de-
light us in his copy. Not less intense is his iove for his
race. If any motive other than his own pleasure prompted
him to the production of his poems, it assuredly was that
he might benefit his fellow-men, that he might assist them
in "virtue and piety," for this he considered the most im-
portant of all the aims of life, and to this he was especially

i •

:;i

XVlll

LIFE OF COWrFR.

moved by his own deep and ardent piety. He i*? the
most decidedly religious of all our poets, and with him
religion is something more than doctrine and creed — it is
an actual daily experience of the heart. It must be con-
fessed that his religious views were sometimes narrow and
fanatical, but they are always manly and profound. He is
seldom betrayed into harshness towards those whose theory
or practice he condemns. His satire is always generous
and kindly, inteiy^ed to heal wherever it may wound. -In
truth, he possessed a most tender and sympathetic nature,
and into some of his poems he has breathed all the tender-
ness and pathos of his heart. Some of his poetry has lost
its force, as the occasions which gave it birth are passed
away. Some of it, too, is tedious and dull, but none of
it is weak, twaddling or sentimental. His masculine sense
and nervous, mental vigor are only equalled by the felicity
of his diction, his simplicity, naturalness and wealth of
/imagination.

V_ Southey has pronounced Cowper the best of English
V letter- writers, a praise not undeserved. In his private
correspondence we see the man as he is. His letters are
^11 ease and familiarity, the unaffected, cheerful and hu-
I "Amorous conversation of a man of ability and character.
They lay open the bosom of a friend, attractive, human
and genial. Like his poetry, they are an expression of
his own thoughts and feelings. They were not written to
be published, and if they have not all the biilliancy of the
eloquent epistles of Lord Macaulay, they teach us to love
as well as esteem

*' That teeming, grand poetic mind,
Which God saw fit in chains to hinrl."

THE TASK,

^••^ BOOK III.— THE GARDEN.

INTRODUCTTO?

CowPKR, like Wordsworth, owed rtltif.h'. to h»s lady
friends. It was Mrs. Unwin who inspired* the Moral
Satires^ and but for Lady Austen, he might never have
penned a line of the Task. The formti lady suggested
the Progress of Error as a subject, and it proved only
the commencement of a series of poems on a variety of
topics ; the latter was likewise instrumental in kindling
into flame a long galaxy of coruscations that outshone th..
earlier scintillations of his genius, as the brightness of
noon-day outshines the morning dawn. For this poem,
Lady Austen pro^josed the Soja as the subject, and pre-
scribed blank verse as the form. The terms were accepted,
and the poet set to work with such vigor that, though
the work grew on his hands to dimensions never intended
at first, yet, in little more than a year, he finished the
whole poem, which comprises six books : The Sofa, The
Timepiece^ The Garden, The Winter Evening, The
Wifiter Morning Walk, and The Winter Walk at Noon.
He began The Sofa in June or July, 1783, and by " work-
ing sometimes an hour a day, soiaetimes half a one and
sometimes two," he completed the entire Task in August

INTRODUCTION.

or September, 1784. During c. delay in the publication,
he wrote, or rather finished, another poem. The Tiroci-
nium, which, along with I/tc History of John Gilpin, was
added to the volume, and the whole brought out by Johnson,
a publisher, in St. Paul's Churchyard, in July, 1785. The
name was not intended by the author to indicate the mat-
ter of the poem, but ** it seemed almost necessary to ac-
commodate the name to the incident that gave it birth."
" Nor does it appear to me," he adds ** that because I
performed more than my task, that therefore * The Task '
is not a suitable title."

If to write what he did on the Sofa, was his Ta.^k, he
certainly "performed more" — vastly more, and it is
well that he did. In a semi-comic way, he toyed for a
little with his theme, then wandered off into the green
fields and rural scenes that he loved, vvhence he returned
to satirize the follies of his age. Then, through the whole
of the second book, he continues to attack the vices and
errors of the time. It is here that he brandishes with the
best effect the " satiric thong." In the third book, the plan
of the poem takes definite shape. He here reaches his true
theme — domestic happiness, and, though he exhibits the
worst features of his narrow religious creed in abusing the
pioneers of science, he becomes really interesting when he
begins to tell us of himself and his occupations. The
Winter Evening is a gallery o^ exquisite pictures, the
postman, the poet's brown study, the suffering poor and
others of equal beauty. These pictures continue in the
beginning of the next book ; but icicles carry him away to
the Russian ice-palace, from which he rather awkwardly
launches off into a long and somewhat tiresome discussion

INTRODUCTION.

f i

on liberty, cndinjj with the happiness of him whom grace
makes free so that he can enjoy the works of his Creator.
In the last book, the variety is, if possible, j;rer.ter than
usual, a bell, a walk, books, spring and its flowers, animal s
and their rights are delightfully discoursed upon, and the
poem closes with a sublime invocation to him who is to
restore all things, and with a vindication of retirement.

Mr. Goldwin Smith, in his excellent Life of Cowper,
most justly says : " As Paradise Lost is to iniiituiU Puri-
tanism, so is the Task to the religious movement of its
author's time. To its character as the poem of a sect it no
doubt owed and still owes much of its popularity. Not
only did it give beautiful and effective expressiori to the
sentiments of a large religious party, but it was about the
only poetry that a strict Methodist or Evangelical could
read ; while to those whose worship was unritualistic and
who were debarred by their principles from the theatre
and the concert, anything in the way of art that was not
illicit, must have been eminently welcome. But the Task
has merits of a more universal and enduring kind. Its
author himself, says of it : — * If the work cannot boast a
regular plan (in which respect, however, I do not think it
altogether indefensible), it may yet boast, that the reflec-
tions are naturally suggested always by the preceding
passage, and that, except the fifth book, which is rather
of a political aspect, the whole has one tendency, to
discountenance the modern enthusiasm after a London
life, and to recommend rural ease and leisure as friendly
to the cause of piety and virtue.'" A regular plan, assur-
edly the Task has not. It rambles through a vast variety

of subjects, religious, politicai, social, philosophical, and

* i.

il •

I ^ -I H

:Ml

I !

INTRODUCTION.

horticultural, with as little of method as its author used in
taking his morning walks. Nor as Mr. Benham has
shown, are the reflections, as a rule, naturally suggested
by the preceding passage. From the use of a sofa by the
gouty to those, who, being free from gout, do not need
sofas, — and so to country walks and country life is hardly a
natural transition. It is hardly a natural transition from the
ice-palace, built by a Russian despot, to despotism and poli-
tics in general. liut if Cowper deceives himself in fancy-
ing that there is a plan or a close connection of parts, he
is right as to the existence of a pervading tendency. The
praise of retirement and of country life as most friendly to
piety and virtue, is the perpetual refrain of the Tiuk^ if
not its definite theme. From this idea immediately flow
the best and most popular passages : those which please
apart from anything peculiar to a religious school ; those
which keep the poem alJve ; those which have found their
way into the heart of the nation, and intensitied the taste
for rural and domestic happiness, to which they most win-
ningly appeal. In these Cowper pours out his inmost feel-
ings, with the liveliness of exhilaration, enhanced by con-
trast with previous misery. The pleasures of the country
and of honie, the walk, the garden, but above all the " in-
timate delights " of the winter evenings, the snug parlour,
with its close-drawn curtains shutting out the stormy night,
the steaming and bubbling tea-urn, the cheerful circle, the
book read aloud, the newspaper, through which we look
out into the unquiet world, are painted by the writer with
a heartfelt enjoyment, which infects the reader."

It was this earnest and cordial love of nature and de-
termined persistence, notwithstanding the fashion of the

INTRODUCTION.

Vll

times, in painting her, and in painting her as she is, not
with the Arcadianism of Thomson, but with the plainness
and even the coarseness in which she appears in EngUsh
rural life, along with his use in poetry of the common lan-
guage of conversation, that were the distinctive character-
istics of Covvper, as he appeared to the age in which he
lived, and that made The Task so popular. The heart of
the nation had been longing once more to hear those tones
of natural music which had so long given place to meta-
physical disquisitions, to personal envy or to the song of
polite society. On closer examination, we find that, ob-
servant as he was, his observations were superficial. He
looks only on the exterior surface of the scene — the most
familiar and easy survey, the field and lawns, the snow,
the woodman and his dog. It is all easy observation,
calm meditation, and quiet reflection on what he sees.
There is little strong feeling, emotion is subdued, if, in"
deed, emotion is present ; yet, as he leads us on in wrapt
delight, attracted by our attachment to him personally, we
become delighted with the sweet, the real humanity with
which he invests his subject, and charms his listener. It
is not the astounding creation of a lofty imagination ; it is
the clear, quiet unfolding of a picture with which every eye
is already familiar, a revelation of what every sensitive
soul had felt, but yet had never found words to express.
It is the power which transmutes nature into such a form
that it is appreciated and enjoyed by the affectionate and
tender part of our nature. In striking contrast to his
broad, genial and loving description of rural scenes, stand
his views of human life and humanity. He sees these ob-

different

jects

very

ey<

■i\

J :^-

- !

■If

i
.1

1^ 1

•J (

ii
I J "

Vlll

INTRODUCTION.

vision of his natural eye, the other, with the jaundiced eye
of his narrow creed.

Religion, too, as a subject for poetry, had, for several gen-
erations, been almost entirely abandoned. It was detined
totally unsuitable as a theme for any sublime hymn ; but
religion, practical, experimental religion, that which trans-
forms the heart and ennobles the life, was selected as the.
spec'al theme of this devoted bard. And as he saw that
the practices of society, as indulged at that day, were un-
friendly to the cultivation of exalted piety, he dwelt with
enraptured strain on rural retirement, as the true sphere
for developing the Christian graces. This is the real in-
spiration of the Task. The poet sets before aU things the
intention of doing good to his fellow-men ; and as the
practice of piety is the noblest vocation oi men, he exerts
himself to the utmost to arouse them to this work. It is
for this he lauds rural life and rural scenery. Here men
may be free from the banefi*! influences of depraved mo-
dem society. Here they may, by meditation and devo-
tion, be led up from nature to the "soul that lives and
moves in all things," and which " is God."

The Garden, which is our special study, exhibits all the
best and worst features of Cowper's poetry. The worst
arise from the narrowness and hardness of his religious
creed, which leads him into a violent and unreasonable
attack o« those who follow pursuits of which he is ignorant.
He seems to forget that the occupations of the philoso-
pher, the historian, and the astronomer, may be not less
noble than his own — poetry and cucumbers. But, as we
turn from the prosaic minuteness of the one, and the fana-
tical bigotry of the other, we are charmed with the unob-

INTRODUCTION.

trusive egotism that delights us as we harken with interest
to the relation of his own religious experiences, to a de-
scription of his employments and pleasures, and smile at
the sense of quiet superiority with which he looks out upon
the vain turmoil of the eager world he has left, and the
self-gratulatory contempt with which he regards the pur-
suits of the deluded multitude. But he is not always
wrong, for he administers some well-merited rebuke in his
satire on the gaities and frivolities of London life. Yet,
the theme which warms him most is domestic happiness ;
and " nature, enchanting nature," is the ** charmer,"
whose pleasures he loves to depict as entirely beyond the
false joys wrung from an absiduous attendance on fashion-
able society.

There is, in the Garden^ the same simple, direct and
straightforward language, giving expression to strong,
manly and independent sentiments, that is found through-
out the other books of the TasJc. Though, at times, it falls
below the subject, yet it has a fulness and flow that gives
easy and happy utterance to the copious stream of ideas
and the masculine common sense of the writer. It pos-
sesses, too, a clearness, a vigor and a certain melody and
richness of swell that, in some of the loftier passages,
remind us of the music of the great Puritan poet.

;. i;i|y

'- ! K;

.•1 ^H{

\ \

, ■:!

As 01
Enta
Hisc
Or, h
And !
Plunc
If ch;
Andi
Heel
And }
Sol,
To ac
To te
Have
Of ac
Long
Butn
I me£
Coun
If toi

THE TASK.

BOOK III.— THE GARDEN.

As one who, long in thickets and in brakes

Entangled, winds now this way and now that

His devious course uncertain, seeking home ;

Or, having long in miry ways been foiled

And sore discomfited, from slough to slough

Plunging, and half despairing of escape ;

If chance at length he find a greensward smooth

And faithful to the foot, his spirits rise,

He chirrups brisk his ear-erecting steed.

And winds his way with pleasure and with ease ;

So I, designing other themes, and called

To adorn the Sofa with eulogium due,

To tell its slumbers and to paint its dreams,

Have rambled wide. In country, city, seat

Of academic fame (howe'er deserved)

Long held, and scarcely disengaged at last.

But now with pleasant pace, a cleanlier road

I mean to tread. I feel myself at large.

Courageous, and refreshed for future toil,

If toil await me, or if dangers new.

2 THE TASK.

Since pulpits fail, and sounding-boards reflect
Most part an empty ineffectual sound,
What chance that I, to fame so little known,
Nor conversant with men or manners much,
Should speak to purpose, or with better hope 25

Crack the satiric thong ? 'Twere wiser far
For me, enamoured of sequestered scenes,
And charmed with rural beauty, to repose,
Where chance may throw me, beneath elm or vine
My languid limbs, when summer sears the plains ; 30

Or when rough winter ragos, on the soft
And sheltered Sofa, while the nitrous air
Feeds a blue flame and makes a cheerful hearth ;
There, undisturbed by folly, and apprized
How great the danger of disturbing her, 35

To muse in silence, or at least confine
Remarks that gall so many to the few,
My partners in retreat. Disgust concealed
Is ofttimes proof of wisdom, when the fault
Is obstinate, and cure beyond our reach. 40

Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that hast survived the fall
Though few now taste thee unimpaired and pure,
Or, tasting, long enjoy thee, too infirm
Or too incautious, to preserve thy sweets
Unmi.xed with drops of bitter, which neglect

THE TASK. f

Or temper sheds into thy crystal cup.

Thou art the nurse of virtue. In thine arms

She smiles, appearing, as in truth she is,

Heaven-born and destined to the skies again 50

Thou art not known where pleasure is adored,

That reeHng goddess with the zoneless waist

And wandering eyes, still leaning on the arm

Of Novelty, her fickle, frail support ;

For thou art meek and constant, hating change, 55

And finding in the calm of truth-tried love

Joys that her stormy raptures never yield.

Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made

Of honour, dignity, and fair renown,

Till prostitution elbows us aside 60

In all our crowded streets, and senates seem

Convened for purposes of empire less.

Than to release the adultress from her bond.

The adultress ! what a theme for angry verse !

What provocation to the indignant heart 65

That feels for injured love ! but I disdain

The nauseous task to paint her as she is.

Cruel, abandoned, glorying in her shame !

No : let her pass, and charioted along

In guilty splendour shake the public ways ; 70

The frequency of crimes has washed them white,

And verse of mine shall never brand the wretch,

Whom matrons now, of character unsmircbed,

'• > {'■

f»i i"

I k

THE TASK.

And chaste themselves, are not ashamed to own.

Virtue and vice had boundaries in old time 75

Not to be passed ; and she that had renounced

Her sex's honour, was renounced herself

By all that prized it ; not for prudery's sake,

IJut dignity's, resentful of the wrong.

'Twas hard, perhaps, on here and there a waif So

Desirous to return, and not received ;

But was a wholesome rigour in the main.

And taught the unblemished to preserve with care

That purity, whose loss was loss of all.

Men too were nice in honour in those days, 85

And judged offenders well. Then he that sharped,

And pocketed a prize by fraud obtained.

Was marked and shunned as odious. He that sold

His country, or was slack when she required

His every nerve in action and at stretch, 90

Paid with the blood that he had basely spared,

The price of his default. But now, — yes, now,

We are become so candid and so fair,

So liberal in construction, and so rich

In Christian charity, (good-natured age !) 95

That they are safe, sinners of either sex.

Transgress what laws they may W^ell-drcssed, well-bred,

Well-equipaged, is ticket good enough

To pass us readily through every door.

Hypocrisy, detest her as we may, 100

THE TASK.

(And no man's hatred ever wronged her yet)

May claim this merit still — that she admits

The worth of what she mimics with such care,

And thus gives virtue indirect applause ;

But she has burned her mask, not needed here, 105

Where vice has such allowance, that her shifts

And specious semblances have lost their use.

I was a stricken deer that left the herd
Long since ; with many an arrow deep infixed _
My panting side was charged, when I withdrew 1 10

To seek a tranquil death in distant shades.
There was I found by One who had himself
Been hurt by the archers. In his side He bore.
And in his hands and feet, the cruel scars.
With gentle force soliciting the darts, 115

He drew them forth, and healed and bade me live.
Since then, with few associates, in remote
And silent woods I wander, far from those .
My former partners of the peopled scene ;
With few associates, and not wishing more. 120

Here much I ruminate, as much I may,
With other views of men and manners now
Than once, and others of a life to come.
I see that all are wanderers, gone astray
Each in his own delusions ; they are lost 125

In chase of fancied happiness, still wooed

ii'*

THE TASK.

And never won. Dream after dream ensues,

And still they dream that they shall still succeed,

And still are disappointed. Rings the world

With the vain stir. I sum up half mankind 130

And add two-thirds of the remaining half.

And find the total of their hopes and fears

Dreams, empty dreams. The million flit as gay.

As if created only, like the fly

That spreads his motley wings in the eye of noon. 135

To sport their season and be seen no more.

The rest are sober dreamers, grave and wise,

And pregnant with discoveries new and rare.

Some write a narrative of wars, and feats

Of heroes little known^ and call the rant 140

A history ; describe the man, of whom

His own coevals took but little note,

And paint his person, character, and views.

As they had known him from his mother's womb.

They disentangle from the puzzled skein, 145

In which obscurity has wrapped them up,

The threads of politic and shrewd design

That ran through all his purposes, and charge

His mind with meanings that he never had,

Or having, kept concealed. Some drill and bore 15c

The solid earth, and from the strata there

Extract a register, by which we learn

That He who made it and revealed its date

THE TASK. f

To Moses, was mistaken in its age.

Some, more acute, and more industrious still, ISS

Contrive creation ; travel nature up

To the sharp peak of her sublimest height,

And tell us whence the stars ; why some are fixed,

And planetary some ; what gave them first

Rotation ; from what fountain flowed their light. i6o

Great contest follows, and much learned dust

Involves the combatants, each claiming truth,

And truth disclaiming both. And thus they spend

The little wick of life's poor shallow lamp

In playing tricks with nature, giving laws 165

To distant worlds, and trifling in their own.

Is't not a pity now, that tickling rheums

Should ever tease the lungs, and blear the sight

Of oracles like these ? Great pity too.

That having wielded the elements, and built 170

A thousand systems, each in his own way.

They should go out in fume and be forgot ?

Ah ! what is life thus spent ? and what are they

But frantic who thus spend it all for smoke ?

Eternity for bubbles proves at last 175

A senseless bargain. When I see such games

Played by the creatures of a Power who swears

That he will judge the earth, and call the fool

To a sharp reckoning that has lived in vain r*

And when I weigh this seeming wisdom well, 180

tt -

I i

y '

THE TASIC

And prove it in the infallible result
So hollow and so false — I feel my heart
Dissolve in pity, and account the learned,
If this be learning, most of all deceived.
Great crimes alarm the conscience, biit it sleeps
While thouj;htful man is plausibly amused.
Defend me therefore, common sense, say I,
'Prom reveries so airy, from the toil
/of dropping buckets into empty wells, / *)
|J\nd growing old in drawing nothing up"j (

iSi

190

'Twerc well, says one sage, erudite, profound,
Terribly arched and aquiline his nose,
And overbuilt with most impending brows,
'Twere well, could you permit the world to live
As the world pleases. What's the world to you 'i 195
Much. I was born of woman, and drew milk
As sweet as charity from human I '•'*asts.
I think, articulate, I laugh and weep
\nd exercise all functions of a man.
How then should I and any man that lives 200

Be strangers to each other ? Pierce my vein.
Take of the crimson stream meandering there,
And catechise it well. Apply your glass,
Search it, and prove now if it be not blood
Congenial with thine own j and if it be, 205

What edge of subtlety canst thou suppose

iSi

190

THE TASK. 9

•

Keen enough, wise and skilful as thou art,

To cut the link of brotherhood, by which

One common Maker bound mc to the kind?

True, I am no prolicicnt, I confers, 310

In arts like yours. I cannot call the swift

And perilous liijhtnin^'s from the anL;ry clouds,

And bid them hide themselves in earth beneath ;

I cannot analyse the air, nor catch

The parallax of yonder luminous point 215

That seems half quenched in the immense abyss ;

Such powers I boast not — neither can I rest

A silent witness of the headlong rage,

Or heedless folly by which thousands die,

Bone of my bone, and kindred souls to mine. 220

"^ I

195

200

205

God never meant that man should scale the heavens
By strides of human wisdom. In his works,
Though wondrous, he commands us in his word
To seek him rather where his mercy shines.
The mind indeed, enlightened from above,
Views him in all ; ascribes to the grand cause
The grand effect ; acknowledges with joy
His manner, and with rapture tastes his style.
But never yet did philosophic tube,
That brings the planets home into the eye
Of observation, and discovers, else
Not visible, his family of worldS|

225

23Q

.u^

THE TASK.

Discover him that rules them ; such a veil

Hangs over mortal eyes, blind from the birth,

And dark in things divine. Full often too 235

Our wayward intellect, the more we learn

Of nature, overlooks her Author more ;

From instrumental causes proud to draw

Conclusions retrograde, and mad mistake.

But if his word once teach us, shoot a ray 240

Through all the heart's dark chambers, and reveal

Truths undiscerned but by that holy light.

Then all is plain. Philosophy, baptised

In the pure fountain of eternal love,

Has eyes indeed ; and, viewing all she sees 245

As meant to indicate a God to man,

Gives him his praise, and forfeits not her own.

Learning has borne such fruit in other days

On all her branches. Piety has found

Friends in the friends of science, and true prayer 250

Has flowed from lips wet with Castalian dews.

Such was thy wisdom, Newton, childlike sage !

Sagacious reader of the works of God,

And in his word sagacious. Such too thine,

Milton, whose genius had angelic wings, 255

And fed on manna. And such thine in whom

Our British Themis gloried with just cause,

Immortal Hale ! for deep discernment praised,

And sound integrity not more, than famed

THE TASK.

For sanctity of manners undefiled.

260

[55

All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades
Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind ;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dreani.
The man we celebrite must find a tomb,
And we that worship him, ignoble graves.
Nothing is proof against the general curse
Of vanity, that seizes all below.
The only amaranthine ilovver on earth ./svA,^^
Is virtue ; the only lasting treasure, truth. "^
But what is truth ? 'twaa Pilate's question put
To Truth itself, that deigned him no reply.
And wherefore ': will not God impart his light
To them that ask it ? — Freely — 'tis his joy,
His glory and his nature to impart.
But to the proud, incandid, insincere,
Or negli^nt inquirer, not a spark.
What's that which brinies contemot upon a book
And him that writes it, though the style be neiit,
The methwod clear, and argument exact ?
That makes a minister in holy things
The joy of many, and the dr« id of more,
His name a theme for praise and for reproach ?
That, while it gives us worth in God's account
Depreciates and undoes us in our own ?
What pearl is it that rich men cannot buy,

265

270

275

280

2C.S

1 ■

(4 i\

. <1

THE TASK.

That learning is tOvO proud to gather up,
But which the poor and the despised of all
wSeek and obtain, and often find unsought?
Tell me, and I will tell thee what is truth.

Oh, friendly to the best pursuits of man,
friendly to thought, to virtue and to peace,
Domestic life in rural leisure passed !
Few know thy value, and few taste thy sweets,
Though many boast thy favours, and affect
To understand and choose thee for their own.
But foolish man foregoes his proper bliss,
Even as his first pro^iitor, and quits,
Though placed in paradise, (the earth has still
Some traces of her youthful beauty left)
Substantial happiness for transient joy.
Scenes formed for contemplation, and to nurse
1'he growing seeds of wisdom ; that suggest,
By every pleasing image they present.
Reflections such as meliorate the heart.
Compose the passions, and exalt the mind ;
Scenes such as these, 'tis his supreme delight
To fill with riot and defile with blood.
Should some contagion, kind to the poor brutes
We persecute, annihilate the tribes
That draw the sportsman over hill and dale
Fearless^ and rapt away from all his cares ;

29c

295

30c

305

•^10

THE TASK.

30c

305

hJ'J

Should never game-fowl hatch her c^^'gs again,

Nor baited hook deceive the fish's eye ;

Could pageantry and dance, and feast and song

Be quelled in all our summer-month retreats ; 315

How many self-deluded nymphs and swains,

Who dream they have a taste for fields and groves,

Would find them hideous nurseries of the spleen,

And crowd the road, impatient for the town !

They love the country, and none else, who seek 320

For their own sake its silence and its shade ;

D elights which who would leave, that has a heart

S isceptible of pity, or a mind

C ultured and capable of sober thought,

F or all the savage din of the

-A nd clamours of the field

That owes its pleasures to another's pain,

That feeds upon the sobs and dying shrieks

Of harmless nature, dumb, but yet endued

With eloquence thnt agonies inspire, 330

Of silent tears and heart-distending sighs !

Vain tears, alas ! and sighs that nsver find

A corresponding tone in jovial souls.

Well — one at least is safe. One sheltered hare

Has never heard the sanguinary yell 335

Of cruel man, exulting in her woes.

Innocent partner of my peaceful home,

Whom ten long years' experience of my care

the swift pack,, ,JtP-
? ' Detested sport,

325

THE TASK.

Has made at last familiar ; she has lost

Much of her vigilant instinctive dread, 340

Not needful here, beneath a roof like mine.

Yes — thou may'st eat thy bread, and lick the hand

That feeds thee ; thou may'st frolic on the floor

At evening, and at night retire secure

To thy straw couch, and slumber unalarmed ; 345

For I have gained thy confidence, have pledged

All that is human in me, t© protect

Thine unsuspecting gratitude and love.

If I survive thee I will dig thy grave.

And when I place thee in it, sighing say, 350

1 knew at least one hare that had a friend.

How various his employments, whom the v, rid
Calls idle, and who justly in return.
Esteems that busy world an idler, too !
F'riends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, 355

Delightful industry enjoyed at home,
And nature in her cultivated trim
Dressed to his taste, inviting him abroad —
Can he want occupation who has these ?
Will he be idle who has much to enjoy ? 360

Me, therefore, studious of laborious ease,
Not slothful ; happy to deceive the time,
Not waste it ; and aware that human life
Is but a loan to be repaid with use,

THE TASK,

When He shall call his debtors to account,

From whom are all our blessings, business finds

Even here : while sedulous I seek to improve,

At least neglect not, or leave unemployed,

The mind he gave me ; driving it, though slack

Too oft, and much impeded in its work

By causes not to be divulged in vain,

To its just point — the service of mankind.

He that attends to his interior self,

That has a heart and keeps it ; has a mind

That hungers and supplies it ; and who seeks

A social, not a dissipated life,

Has business ; feels himself engaged to achieve

No unimportant, though a silent task.

A life all turbulence and noise may seem

To him that leads it, wise and to be praised ;

But wisdom is a pearl with most success

Sought in still water, and beneath clear skies.

He that is ever occupied in storms,

Or dives not for it, or brings up instead,

Vainly industrious, a disgraceful prize.

365

370

375

380

38s

^ m

^ i

i ^

The morning finds the self-sequestered man
Fresh for his task, intend what task he may.
Whether inclement seasons recommend
His warm but simple home, where he enjoys,
With her who shares his pleafures and his heart,

390

lit.

THE TAS^t.

Sweet converse, sipping calm the fragrant lymph

Which neatly she prepares ; then to his book

Well chosen, and not sullenly perused

la selfish silence, but imparted oft

As aught occurs that she may smile to hear, 395

Or turn to nourishment, digested well ;

Or if the garden with its many cares,

All well repaid, demand him, he attends

The welcome call, conscious how much the hand

Of lubbard labour needs his watchful eye, 400

Oft loitering lazily if not o'erseen.

Or misapplying his unskilful strength.

Nor does he govern only or direct,

But much performs himself ; no works indeed

That ask robust tough sinews, bred to toil, 405

Servile employ ; but such as may amuse.

Not tire, demanding rather skill than force.

Proud of his well-spread walls, he views his trees

That meet (no barren interval between)

With pleasure more than even their fruits afford, 410

Which, save himself who trains them, none can feel.

These therefore are his own peculiar charge,

No meaner hand may discipHne the shoots,

None but his steel approach the*n. Wliat is weak,

Distempered, or has lost prolific powers, 415

Impaired by age, his unrelenting hand

Dooms to the knife. Nor does he spare the Loft

Bi
L(

Wi«.

THE TASK. 17

And succulent that feeds its giant growth,

But barren, at the expense of neighbouring twigs

Less ostentatious, and yet studded thick 420

With hopeful gems. The rest, no portion left

That may disgrace his art, or disappoint

Large expectation, he disposes neat

At measured distances, that air and sim

Admitted freely may afford their aid, 4:5

And ventilate and warm the swelling buds.

Hence Summer has her riches, Autumn hence,

And hence even Winter fills his withered hand

With blushing fruits, and plenty not his own.

Fair recompense of labour well bestowed 430

And wise precaution, whi^h a clime so rude

Makes needful still, whose Spring is but the cliikl

Of churlish Winter, in her froward moods

Discovering much the temper of her sire.

For oft, as if in her the stream of mild 435

Maternal nature had reversed its course,

She brings her infants forth with many smiles,

But, once delivered, kills them with a frown.

He, therefore, timely warned, himself supplies

Her want of care, screening and keeping warm 440

The plenteous bloom, that no rough blast may sweep

His garlands from the boughs. Again, as oft

As the sun peeps and vernal airs breathe mild,

The fence withdrawn, he gives them every beam,
2

;•

THE TASK.

And spreads his hopes before *\e blaze of day.

445

To raise the prickly and green-coated gourd t^L-ct i'^^'*'^
So grateful to the palate, and when rare
So coveted, else base and disesteemed —
Food for the vulgar merely — is an art
That toiling ages have but just matured, 450

And at this moment unessayed in song.
Yet gnats have had, and frogs and mice long since,
Their eulogy ; those sang the Mantuan bard,
And these the Grecian, in ennobling strains ;
And in thy numbers, Phillips, shines for s.ye 453

The solitary Shilling. Pardon then,
Ye sage dispensers of poetic fame,
The ambition of one meaner far, whose powers,
Presuming an attempt not less sublime,
Pant for the praise of dressing to the taste 460

Of critic appetite, no sordid fare, ^^

A cucumber, while costly yet and scarce. , ^

The stable yields a stercoraceous heap,
Impregnated with quick fermenting salts,
And potent to resist the freezing blast ; 465

For ere the beech and elm have cast their leaf
Deciduous, and when now November dark
Checks vegetation in the torpid plant
Exposed to his cold breath, the task begins.

:v-

...v

IHE TASIC. 19

Warily therefore, and with prudent heed ' 47

He seeks a favoured spot, that where he builds

The a gglomerated pile, his frame may front \.Y^

The sun's 'OierkJian disk, and at the back

Knjoy close shelter, wall, or reeds, or hedge

I mpervio us to the wind. First he bids spread 475

Dry fern or littered hay, that may imbibe

The ascending damps ; then leisurely impose,

And lightly, shaking it with agile hand

From the full fork, the saturated straw.

What longest binds the closest, forms secure 480

The shapely side, that as it rises takes

By just degrees an overhanging breadth,

Sheltering the base with its projected eaves.

The uplifted frame, compact at every joint, , » ,^ .

And overlaid with clear translucent glass ^,a,^^ k'\- 485

He settles next upon the sloping mount, - '""f'^ ^

Whose sharp declivity shoots off secure

From the dashed pane the deluge as it falls.

He shuts it close, and the first labour ends.

Thrice must the voluble and restless earth 490

Spin round upon her axle, ere the warmth,

Slow gathering in the midst, through the square mass

Diffused, attain the surface ; when, behold I

A pestilent and most corrosive steam,

Like a gross fog Boeotian, rising fast, 495

And fast condensed upon the dewy sash.

'■■ i il

.■o

^•''>'

•*f _^m *

S'\-.

THE TASK.

Asks egress ; which obtained, the overcharged

And drenched conservatory breathes abroad,

Ih voUimes wheeling slow, the vapour dank.

And purified, rejoices to have lost 500

Its foul inhabitant. But to assuage

The impatient fervour which it first conceives

Within its reeking bosom, threatening death

To his young hopes, requires discreet delay.

Experience, slow preceptress, teaching oft 505

The way to glory by miscarriage foul.

Must prompt him, and admonish how to catch

The auspicious moment, when the tempered heat

Friendly to vital motion, may afford

Soft fermentation, and invite the seed. 510

The seed selected wisely, plump and smooth

And glossy, he commits to pots of size

Diminutive, well filled with well-prepared

And fruitful soil that has been treasured long.

And drun^: no moisture from the dripping clouds. 515

These on the warm and genial earth that hides

The smoking manure, and overspreads it all,

He places lightly, and, as time subdues

The rage of fermentation, plunges deep

In the soft medium, till they stand immersed. 52©

Then rise the tender germs, upstarting quick

And spreading wide their spongy lobes, at first

Pule, "VAn and livid, but assuming soon

Tin: TASK. 2r

if fanued by balmy and nutritious air,

Strained throuf;h the friendly mats, a vivid green. 525

Two leaves produced, two rough indented leaves,

Cautious he pinches from the second stalk

A pimple that portends a future sprout,

And interdicts its growth. Thence straight succeed

The branches, sturdy to his utmost wish, 530

Prolific all, and harbingers of more. •

The crowded roots demand enlargement now

And transplantation in an ampler space.

Indulged in what they wish, they soon supply

Large foliage, overshadowing golden flowers, 535

Blown on the summit of the apparent fruit.

These have their sexes, and when summer shines

The bee transports the fertilizing meal

From flower to flower, and even the breathing air

Wafts the rich prize to its appointed use. 540

Not so when w inter scowls. Assistant art

Then acts in nature's office, brings to pass

The jlad espousals and ensures the crop.

Grudge not, ye rich, (sin ;e luxury must have
His dainties, and the world's more numerous half
Lives by contriving delicates for you)
Grudge not the cost. Ye little know the cares,
The vigjlanc«, the labour, and the skill
That-day and r'^ht are exercised, and hang

545

THE TASK.

I'pon the ticklish balance of suspense 550

That ye may garnish your profuse regales

With summer fruits, brought forth by wiiUry suns.

Ten thousand clangers lie in wait to thwart

The process. Heat and cold, and wind and steam,

Moisture and drought, mice, worms, and swarming flies 555

Minute as dust and numberless, oft work

Dire disappointment that admits no cure,

And which no care can obviate. It were long,

Too long, to tell the expedients and the shifts

Which he that fights a season so severe, 560

Devises, while he guards his tender trust,

And oft, at last, in vain. The learned and wise

Sarcastic would exclaim, and judge the song

Cold as its theme, and like its theme, the fruit

Of too much labour, worthless when produced. 565

The

And!

Herl

Fic(

All

Thel

Who loves a garden loves a greenhouse too.
Unconscious of a less propitious clime.
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,
While the winds whistle and the snows descend.
The spiry myrtle with unwithering leaf
Shines there and flourishes. The golden boast
Of Portugal and Western India there,
The ruddier orange and the paler lime,
Peep through their polished foliage at the storm,
And seem to smile at what they need not fear.

570

Tlir: TASK. 85

The amomum there with intermin.^ling (lowers

And ciierries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts

Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau,

Ficoides, glitters bright the winter lon^^

All plants, of every leaf, that can endure 5S0

The winter's frown, if screened frf)m his shrewd bite,

Live there and prosper. Those Ausonia claims,

Levantine regions these, the Azores send

Their jessamine, her jessamine remote

Caffraria ; foreigners from many lands, 585

They form one social shade, as if convened

By magic summons of the Orphean lyre.

Yet just arrangement, rarely brought to pass

r>ut by a master's hand, disposing well

The gay diversities of leaf and tlower, 590

Must lend its aid to illustrate all their charms,

And dress the regular yet various scene.

Plant behind plant aspiring, in the van

The dwarfish, in the rear retired, but still

SuVjlime above the rest, the statelier stand. 595

So once were ranged the sons of ancient Rome,

A noble show ! while Roscius trod the stage ;

And so, while Garrick as renowned as he,

The sons of Albion, fearing each to lose

Some note of Nature's music from his lips, 600

And covetous of Shakspeare's beauty, seen

In every Hash of his far-beaming eye.

THE TASK.

Nor taste alone and vv ell-contrived display
Suffice to give the marshalled ranks the grac j
Of their complete effect. Much yet remains
Unsung, and many cares are yet behind,
And more laborious ; cares on which depends
Their vigour, injured soon, not soon restored.
The soil must be renewed, which often washed
Loses its treasure of salubrious salts.
And disappoints the roots ; the slender roots,
Close interwoven where they meet the vase,
Must smooth be shorn away ; the sapless biivnch
Must fly before the knife ; the withered leaf
Must be detached, and where it strews the lloor
Swept with a woman's neatness, breedin^^" else
Contagion, and disseminating death.
Discharge but these kind offices, (and v/ho
Would spare, that loves them, offices like these ?)
Well they reward thctoil. The sight is pleased,
The scent regaled, each odoriferous leaf,
Each opening blossom freely breathes abroad
Its gratitude, and thanks him with its sweets.

60.

6io

615

pleased, .Jto^,.'

1 1 "^^

So manifold, all pleasing in their kind,
All healthful are the employs of rural life,
Reiterated as the wheel of time
Runs round ; still ending, and beginning still.
Nor are these all. To deck the shapely knoll

62;

.>ijyk.^

THE TASK.

I'll

That, softly swelled and gaily dressed, appears

A flowery island, from the dark green lawn 630

Emerging, must be deemed a labour due

To no mean hand, and asks the touch of table.

Here also grateful mixture of well matched

And sorted hues (each giving each relief,

And by contrasted beauty shining more) 635

Is needful. Strength may wield the ponderous spade,

.-Vv^-'

May turn the clod, and wheel the compost home, <-> t^-

But elegance, chief grace the garden f.hows

And most attractive, is the fair result

Of thought, the creature of a polished mind. 640

Without it, all is Gothic as the scene

To which ihs insipid citizen resorts

Near yonder heath ; where industry misspent,

But proud of his uncouth, ill-chosen task,

Has made a heaven on earth ; with suns and moons 645

Of close-r\mmed stones has charged the encumbered soil,

And fairly laid the zodiac in the dust.

He, therefore, who would see his flowers disposed

Sightly and in just order, ere he gives

The beds the trusted treasure of their seeds, 650

Forecasts the future whole ; that wlien the scene

Shall break into its preconceived display,

Each for itself, and all as with one voice

Conspiring, may attest his bright design.

Nor even then, dismissing as performed 635

y'V

)"•

t" '■; ■; I

THE TASK.

His pleasant work, may he suppose it. done.

Few self-supported flowers endure the wind

Uninjured, but expect the upholding aid

Of the smooth-shaven prop, and neatly tied,

Are wedded thus, like beauty to old age, 660

For interest sake, the living to the dead.

Some clothe the soil that feeds them, far diffused

And lowly creeping, modest and yet fair,

Like virtue, thriving ri;'Os^3Ji cro littl e seen.

Some, more aspiring, catch the neighbour shrub 665

With clasping tendrils, and invest his branch,

Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon

And fragrant chaplel, recompensing well

The strength they borrow with the grace they lend.

.\11 hate the rank society of weeds, 670

Noisome, and ever greedy to exhaust

The impoverished earth ; an overbearing race

That, like the multitude made faction-mad,

Disturb good order, and degrade true worth.

Oh blest seclusion from a jarring world,
Which he, thus occupied, enjoys ! Retreat
Cannot, indeed, to guilty man restore
Lost innocence, or cancel follies past ;
Rut it has peace, and much secures the mind
From all assaults of evil, proving still
A faithful b.irrier, not o'erlcapod with ease

675

r^8o

wW\. J

THE TASK.

>6s

By vicious custom, raging uncontrolled

Abroad, and desolating public life.

When fierce temptation, seconded within

By traitor appetite, and armed with darts 685

Tempered in hell, invades the throbbing breast,

To combat may be glorious, and success

Perhaps may crown us, but to fly is safe. __

Had I the choice of sublunary good, LX.\\Ji''CA,/i.<^i >^ • ,

What could I wish that I possess not here ? v< v ^9^ ^^ l-'" ''^^•*-

Health, leisure, means to improve it, friendship, peace, -r v-.. « w v— -

No loose or wanton, though a wandering muse,

And constant occupation without care.

Thus blest, I draw a picture of that bliss ;

Hopeless, indeed, that dissipated minds, 695

And profligate abusers of a world

Created fair so much in vain for them,

Should seek the guiltless joys that I describe,

Allured by my report ; but sure no less

That self-condemned they must neglect the prize, 700

And what they will not taste must yet approve.

What we admire we praise, and when we praise,

Advance it into notice, that its worth

Acknowledged, others may admire it too.

I therefore recommend, though at the risk 7^5

Of popular disgust, yet boldly still

The cause of piety and sacred truth

And virtue, and those scenes which God ordained,

4':

THE TASK.

Should best secure them and promote them most ;

Scenes that I love, and with regret perceive 710

Forsaken, or through folly not enjoyed.

Pure is the nymph, though liberal of her smiles,

And chaste, though unconfined, whom I extol.

Not as the prince in Shushan, when he called,

Vain-glorious of her charms, his Vashti forth, 715

To grace the full pavilion. His design

Was but to boast his own peculiar good,

Which all might view with envy, none partake.

My charmer is not mine alone ; my sweets,

And she that sweetens all my bitters too, 720

Nature, enchanting Nature, in whose form

And lineaments divine I trace a hand

That errs not, and find raptures still renewed,

Is free to all men — universal prize.

Strange that so fair a creature should yet want 725

Admirers, and be destined to divide

With meaner objects even the few she finds.

Stripped of all her ornaments, her leaves and fliowers,

She loses all her influence. Cities then

Attract us, and neglected Nature pines 730

Abandoned as unworthy of our love.

But are not wholesome airs though unperfumed

By roses, and cleai^ suns though scarcely felt.

And groves, if unhannonious, yet secure

From clamour, and whose very silence charms, 735

,',llkS.4«.

THE lASK.

To be preferred to smoke, to the eclipse

That metropolitan volcanoes make,

Whose Stygian throats breathe darkness all day long ;

And to the stir of commerce, driving slow,

And thundering loud, with his ten thousand wheels ? 740

They would be, were not madness in the head

And folly in the heart ; were England now

What England was, plain, hospitable, kind.

And undebauched. But we have bid farewell

To all the virtues of those better days, 745

And all their honest pleasures. Mansions once

Knew their own masters, and laborious hinds

That had survived the father, served the son.

Now the legitimate and rightful lord

Is but a transient guest, newly arrived 750

And soon to be supplanted. He that saw

His patrimonial timber cast its leaf,

Sells the last scantling, and transfers the price

To some shrewd sharper, ere it buds again.

Estates are landscapes, gazed upon awhile, 755

Then advertised, and auctioneered away.

The country starves, and they that feed the o'ercharged

And surfeited lewd town with her fair dues.

By a just judgment strip and starve themselves

The wings that waft our riches out of sigh." 760

Crow on the gamester's elbows, and the alert

And nimble motion of those restless joints

*^si

IfHfl

i I

THE TASK.

That never tire, soon fans them all away*

Improvement too, the idol of the age,

Is fed with many a victim. Lo ! he comes — 765

The omnipotent magician, Brown, appears.

Down falls the venerable pile, the abode

Of our forefathers, a grave whiskered race,

iiut tasteless. Springs a palace in its stead,

But in a distant spot, where, more exposed, 770

It may enjoy the advantage of the North

And aguish East, till time shall have transformed

Those naked acres to a sheltering grove.

He speaks. The lake in front becomes a lawn,

Woods vanish, hills subside, and valleys rise, 775

And sti-eams, as if created for his use.

Pursue the track of his directing wand,

Sinuous or straight, now rapid and now slow,

Now murmuring soft, now roaring in cascades,

Even as he bids. The enraptured owner smiles. 780

'Tis finished, and yet, finished as it seems.

Still wants a grace, the loveliest it could show,

A mine to satisfy the enormous cost.

Drained to the last poor item of his wealth,

He sighs, departs and leaves the accomplished plan 785

That he has touched, retouched, many a long day

Laboured, and many a night pursued in dreams,

Just v/hen it meets his hopes, and proves the heaven

He wanted, for a wealthier to enjoy.

w%^\.

THE TASK.

3«

And now perhaps the glorious hour is come, 790

When having no stake left, no pledge to endear

Her interests, or that gives her sacred cause

A moment's operation on his love,

He burns with most intense and flagrant zeal

To serve his country. Ministerial grace 795

Deals him out money from the public chest ;

Or, if that mii:e be shut, some private purse

Supplies his need with an usurious loan,

To be refunded duly, when his vote,

Well-managed, shall have earned its worthy price. 800

Oh innocent, compared with arts like these.

Crape and cocked pistol and the whistling ball

Sent through the traveller's temples ! He that finds

One drop of heaven's sweet mercy in his cup,

Can dig, beg, rot, and perish well content, 805

So he may wrap himself in honest rags

At his last gasp ; but could not for a world

P'ish up his dirty and dependent bread

From pools and ditches of the commonwealth,

Sordid and sickening at his own successr. 810

Ambition, avarice, penury incurred
By endless riot, vanity, the lust
Of pleasure and variety, despatch,
As duly as the swallows disappear.
The world of wandering knights and squires to town. 815

i' 3

w<'^>.^'

32 THE TASK.

London engulfs then* all. The shark is there,

And the shark's prey ', the spendthrift, and the locch

That sucks him. There the sycophant, and he

That with bare-headed and obs equious bows,

Begs a warm oftice, doomed to a cold jail 820

And groat per diem if his patron frown.

The levee swarms, as if in golden pomp

Were charactered on every statesman's door,

" Battered and bankrupt fortunes mended

HERE."

These are the charms that sully and eclipse 825

The charms of natuie. 'Tis the cruel gripe

That lean hard-handed poverty inflicts.

The hope of better things, the chance to win,

The wish to shine, the thirst to be amused.

That, at the sound of Winter's hoary wing, ,830

Unpeople all our counties of such herds

Of fluttering, loitering, cnngmg, begging, loose

And wanton vagrants, as make London, vast

And boundless as it is, a crowded coop.

Oh thou resort and mart of all the earth, 835

Chequered with all complexions of mankind,
And spotted with all crimes ; in whom I see
Much that I love, and more that I admire,
And all that I abhor ; thou freckled fair
7'hat pleases and vet shocks me ; I can la?igh 840

i-y;

THE TASK.

And I can weep, can hope, and can despond.
Feel wrath and pity when I think on thee !
Ten righteous would have saved a city once,
And thou hast many righteous. — Well for thee !
That salt preserves thee ; more corrupted else,
And therefore more obnoxious at this hour,
Than Sodom in her day had power to be.
For whom God heard his Abraham plead in vain.

845

I
il

NOTES.

• ♦♦

THE GARDEN.

EPITOMK.

TliC poet bej^iiis tliis Book by coniprtiin^ liiiii.^elf to a tiavellor
vvho returns to the route he had lost. He will abandon his satiric
strain, since, if pulpits fail to reform the world, it is vain fur him
tcjtty. He then invoices domestic happiness, whicli lie grieves to
find is so impaired by the vices of the time that have led men
away from the old chastity and honor of the country. This brings
him to advert to his own '* retreat" from the " vain stir" of life,
and to reprove what he considers the foolish pursuits of others,
such as pleasure, history, geology and astronomy. His objection-;
may seem strange to some, but his interest in his fellow-man
mu.it justify his censure. The question. What is Truth, is next
answered, and then the poet returns to domestic happiness. This
is best enjoyed in the country, yet even rural life is not loved for
its own sake, but because it affords opportunities to enjoy the
cruel chase. From the *' savage din," one sheltered hare is safe.
How variously and usefully the idle man may be employe<l, is
then discussed, and his particular occupations dwelt upon, con-
versation, gardening, pruning fruit trees and raising 'cucumbers.
Alter describing the last with tiresome minuteness, the poet re-
gretfully leaves it to set forth the pleasures and cares of a green-
house. From the green-house, he naturally goes to the garden,
and after pointing out how it should be managed, he goes on
into the country, and having shewn how far its pleasures surpass
those ot the town even in winter, he tells how some gamble away
their estates, how others ruin themselves by fancied improve-
ments and then cringe for *' money from the public chest." But
men will not be charmed with nature's joys, they will hasten off
to London, the centre of fashion and vice.

NOTF.S.

1-20 Tho influence of Milton, who wns one of Cowper's fiivor*
lie poets, is clearly perceptible in these opening lines. The
long sentence, the involved construction, the abundant une of
particijjles, the transpositions as well as the somewhat majestic
swell of the verse, all recall the great Puritnn poet. These lines
resemble parts of the description of Satan's journey from pande-
monium to earth in Pai dise Lor.t, Bk. II.

1 The Thickets and brakes in which the poet ha.s been so
/f?;/;'(7/A/;/v/('(/ are the follies and vices o( his age, which in the
preceding book led him so far from his original task, the Sojia.

2 Entangled. The caesural pause coming after this word,
adds greatly lo the Harmony. In the preceding line, the diffi-
culty of the action is well expressed by the difficulty of pronoun-
cing the line which is formed of so large a proportion of conso-
nants, but with cnfa>i,i;/i'i/, the voice, of necessity, pauses, like
the traveller caught in a thicket.

3 His devious course uncertain^his devious, uncertain
course. This collocation of words is frequent in Milton. The
clauses /opti^ • - entanglai ?i\u\ seeking homes are complements (jf
who in 1. I.

4 Before havings supply one who. Who is then grammati-
cally the subject of chirrups in 1. 9, and of winds in 1. 10. He
is inserted to make the sense clearer, but it confuses the construc-
tion.

Each of the clauses, having - ■ - foiledy sore discomjitedy from
' - plunging^ and half - - - escape^ is a complement of who^ to
be supplied in 1. 4.

7 Chance=by chance, or by Aphaeresis for perchance. Cf.
Gray's Elcgy^ 1. 95, ** If chance, by lonely contemplation led."

8 His should, grammatically, be Tt^/iiJj'^, and the clause adjecti-
val to one (understood) in 1. 4. His is used to refer to he in the
preceding line.

I-IO When the construction is changed in the course of a sen-
tence, as, for example, in this case from a relative to a principal
clause, it is customary to call such an arrangement an Atiacohi-
fhon»

9 Chirrups. Probably onomatopoetic, like ehirp. Some con-
sider it a contraction of cheer up. It is sometimes spelled cheriip.

£ar>erecting. This is called a proleptic epithet. The erect*
ing of the ears takes place after the chirruping.

NUTKS.

10 Is way the object of wifiiis f Sec J/oiu to Parse^ pars*,
130-1.

zz So I have rambled, Ac- Tliis is the principal clause of
the sentence, and as onc^ cr*t*., is adverbial to it.

Called to adorn, &c. , alluding to the manner in which ho
was led to undertake the Task. See I nt rod net ion.

Z4 Have rambled wide. This refers particularly to the sub-
jects discussed in the Second Book, which by no deforce of cour-
tesy can be rejjarded as arising naturally from the original subject
of the Task^ the Sofa.

Z4-Z6 See note al)ove.

Z5 Howe'er deserved. See Book IT., also the Tirocinium,
for the poet's opinion o( how well the schools and universities of
England deserved their fame. All were not *' regardless of their
charge," his brother was a noble exception. See note on 11. 191-
260, also. Life.

16 Long held, i.e., 1 7i>as long held.

Vj A cleanlier road. He now proposes fo leave the vices of
the age for the rural nature that he loves.

22 Sounding-boards. These are boards or structures placed
over pulpits to diffuse the speaker's voice through the church.

23 To fame, &C. He, as is the fashion with poets, professes
self-depreciation, and aflects to believe himself obscure. He had
already published, in 1782, his first volume of poems, which had
attracted considerable attention. Cf. Scott, /.. of I.. I. i.

24 Nor conversant, &c. This is literally true. For upwards
of twelve years he had lived in complete isolation from the great
world ; nor had he ever seen much society beyond a narrow circle
of literary friends.

30-1 Observe how the Harmony is improved by the s sounds
in the one clause and the r sounds in the other.

For analysis, supply to repose my languid limbs before on the
soft, dr'e.

32 Nitrous air, "the name given by Priestly to oxygen gas,
whose researches into its natvire were nearly contemporaneous
with the writing of these lines." — Benham.

35 The poet affects to think that his attacks on folly and vice
rather than the character of his verse had brought upon him the
censure of the Critical Review. He had, however, the pleasure
of seeing his poems favorably criticised in the Gentleman'' s and

NOTES.

London Magazines, as well as in the Monthly ^ the chief Review
of the time.

37 That gall. Cowper seems to have had the impression
that his Progress of Error ^ and other satirical poems, wielded a
very cutting lash. To his gentle nature it probably appeared
much more severe than it does to the ordinary reader.

41-107 In this passage the poet expatiates with more than liis
ordinary excellence on two theUiCs, which of all others he loved
to dwell upon— domestic happiness and popular vice, the for-
mer of these he was at this time thoroughly enjoying in the com-
pany of Mrs. Unwin and Lady Austen, the latter he but dim-
ly saw as reflected in the columns of St. Jajncs' Chronicle. The
great religious revival whose effects Cowper rather felt than saw,
was at this very time renuvrting society. He was himself, if
unconsciously, a potent factor in tliis revolution, which
purified the social and moral life of England, It colored his
own views and to its influence, we owe these very lines. The
strong feeling, aflectionate love for his race, a noble outburst of
passion at the departure from the stern morality of the good old
Puritan days, all set forth in language terse and clear, in verse
rich, smooth and meloJious, exhibit some of the finest quali-
ties of this true Christian poet. See General Introduction.

46 Neglect i.e., of one another.

47 Temper— ill temper. Crystal cup=Q.\x^ of perfect hap-
piness.

52 Zoneless. A hybrid word. Eat., zona^ a girdle and
A. S. laes^ less, without. Not having on the girdle worn by
respectable young women,

56 Truth-tried=tried and found true. Poetry, for brevity

liberty of inventing terse and
not j and sccan, to seek.

or ornament, often assumes the
eujVlvjijious Epithets.

58 Forsaking, A. S. for^

63 Bond— the marriage-tie.

68 Abandoned— given up to wickedness.
70 Cuilty splendour. Cf. Goldsmith, D. V. 1. 105 : ** Guilty
state."

72 Of Mine, Dr. Abl)ott thinks of mine is instead of of vie
to avoid harshness. See Hoio to Parse, pars. 432-5.

Shall never, &c. An example of Aposiopcsis, a figure by
which the writer pretends to pass over what he is most strongly
enforcing.

NOTES.

Yl Renowned. The repetition of the chief term in sv\cces-
sive clauses, has the effect of the Balanced Sentence.

80 Waif. Law Lat. waivium^ Law Fr. weif. Something
thrown away by the thief who had stolen it. Waived was ap-
plied to a woman in the same sense as outlaw to a man.

81 To return to the society of those who had not renounced
their sex's honour.

84 Whose loss was loss of all. See iiote on 1. 77.

85 Nice. This word dates from the French period. It first
meant foolish, next whimsical, then sul)lle, and afterwards fasti-
dious. It then fell into its present social use. See Earlo's Phi-
ioloi^y, par. 424.

86 Sharped = won by sharp practice.

91 There may be an allusion to Admiral Byng, who was shot

93-5 Notice the Irony of these lines.

94 In construction — in attributing good motives to other
people.

97 Transgress, &c. Emphatic arrangerrent for whatever
laws they may transgress.

100 Detest. See note on 1. 97.

104 Cf. Rochefoucauld, A'e/lex. Afor., No 2:^3 :— " Hypo-
crisy is a homage thnt vice pays to viriue."

108-190 The poet now proceeds to compare himself and his
religious standing with the rest of mankind, greatly to the d'sad-
vantage of the latter. His conversion was, in his oi)inion, the
cure of his madness, and to the sam<i cause, he owes, as he
thinks, just views of himself and of the engagements of the world.
The originators of the revival movement had been rousing l^ng-
land to think that the affairs of this life were of small importance,
compared with the issires of the life to come. S(jme of their
followers, pushing these ideas to extremes, had begun to regard
literature and science as antagonistic to spiritual life.

This attack on history and science is the worst part of the
Task — the worst outcome of a fanatical view of the concerns of
this life. No doubt, the influence of his friend and protector,
Mr. Newton, had done much to narrow d(.wn Co\vper's creed,
while his entire ignorance of the subjects he assailed, tended to
lead him to despise them. It seems never to have struck hiir. that
the pursuits of others might l)e not less harmless than his own.

;ii

NOTES.

As he always relaxed this austerity towards any systems he op
posed, when he became ac(|uainted with persons who espoused
them it is a matter of regret that some of the pioneers of science
had not fallen within the circle of his private friends.

I08 After his fust attack of insanity, he gave up all thought of
following his profession in the busy world of j^ien. lie uere re-
fers also to his conversion. With the Revivalis^<:, ''coming out
from the w.-V," as it was termed, was a favorite theme.

112. One, i. e., Christ. See Gen. xlix. 23 : — "The archers
have sorely grieved him, and shot him, and hated him." See
also Isaiah liii. 4.

115 Soliciting' = tenderly moving, so as to loosen and draw
out. Imitated from Virgil, .4£fi. xii. 404.

n6 Note the Climax.

117 Since. "Down to the middle of the sixteenth century,
and indeed somewhat later, .*////, scththe,, syth, sithe, sythen^ sithe/iy
sif/ian, sythan, sitJicncc, siin-c, syns, sens, were indifferently em-
ployed, both in the signification oi scein^i^f/iaf, inasniuch as, con-
sidcriuii; and of after or aftcruHirds, About that period, good
authors established a distinction between the forms, and used
sitJi only as a logical word, an illative, while, sithencc, sinee,
whether as prepositions or as adverbs, remained mere narrative
words, confined to the signification of /////t' rt/?6V. Immediately
after this time, all the forms of the word except sinec went out
of use, and of course the distinction perished with them— an ex-
ception to the general tendency of English." Marsh's English-
Language, p, 584 el scq.

Few associates. See Li/?,

120 Recalling an expression in order to add something further
is called Epano!i]usi<.

128 Shall. Will, not shall, is used in the third person to ex-
press futurity.

128-9 Still - - - still - - - still = ever ... yet - - - ever. This
repetition ol the same word is a blemish, as the same meaning
is not retained in each case,

133 See note on 1. 120.

The million -the great majority. A definite number for an
indefinite — Mc/onyiiiy,

The Ephemeridaeor Day-flies, to which the poet appears to re-
fer, are so called because some species of them, at least, exist in

NOTES.

the perfect state for but a single clay. They are often called May
-flies in Enpjland, from the season in which they appear.

14^ As -n- if.

147 Shrewd. The history of t)us \ro\\\ illustrates how the
feeble moral indignation of men against wrong becomes often
wciiktr, or even entirely vanishes, ro do a. s/rrmu/ i\in\ was once
to do a wicked turn ; now it is aiiolicd to men to express a
highly commendable sharpness. Other examples are flirt, luxury,
peevish, and uncivil. See Trench's En^i^lisJt Past and Prcsoif,
page 297.

155 Contrive creation=devise and set forth the scheme by
\\hich the world \\'as made.

156 Travel, &c. Nature, by which is here meant not only
this earth, but the universe of which it forms a part, is compared
to a precipitous mountain which these sages explore to its *' sub-
limest height ; '' and who, not satisfied with inventing mistaken
theories al)out the creation of this globe, profess to explain the
origin and movements of the stars. He probably refers to the
theories of Descartes, La Place and Whiston.

160 Rotation. Referring to the discovery of gravitation by
Sir I-aac Newton. See note on 1. 252.

162-3 Each - - - both. These clauses are so balanced as to
form a species oi Antithesis.

Cowper appears to think more favorably of astronomy, in the
Tiroiiniuni^ where he approves of teaching it to the young. See
11. 630 et seq.

165-6 Observe the Antithesis and gently sarcastic Innuendo,

169 Oracles, i.e., in their own estimation.

170 Wielded=discovered the manner in which the elements
are controlled.

Having - - - elements and built - - - way. These clauses
are complements of they in 1. 172.

174 But frantic— but frantic persons, or if they are not frantic.

175 Eternity. '^^twX.oxXo'sX for bubbles^ proves., k.Q.

178 The relative clause should immediately follow the ante-
cedent y^^/, and might do so without injuring either line.

183 Be. A present supposition, unless contrary to fact, should
be expressed by the Indicative Mood ; few writers are consistent
in their use of the Subjunctive. The Indicative is now used in
many cases in which the Subjunctive was formerly employed.

4«

NOTI-:S.

189-90 One cannot but regret to find so choice a Metaphor
gracing the exposition of such mistaken views of history and
science.

202 Meandering is derived from Meander, a river in Pliry-
gia, noted for its windings. It is one of an interesting class of
words formed from jDroper names. Cf. lal)yrinth, palace, mau-
soleum, hector, tantalize, stentorian and cereal.

205 Congenial from Lat. (on, together, and i^oiihis, born.
Hence, born of the same race, having the same origin.

207 Wise and skilful as. Dr. Abbott {How to Parse, par.
464) thinks tliat as is used for thoui^h, and that the fuller con-
struction would be as 7vise and skilful as thou art^ which is itself
a contraction for be thou as ivisc, erf.

212-16 As Franklin, Priestley and Newton.

191-260 The previous severe criticism of the pleasures and pur-
suits of others is defended, on the grounds that the poet is him-
self a man, and a man desirous of saving his fellow-men from
ruin ; but he cannot think that " philosophy " is of any value un-
less consecrated by ])iety, as in the case of Newton, Milton and
Hale. Indeed, God himself is the oViject after which men should
seek, and in his word, not in his works, are they to seek him.
Cowper can always Hnd some excuse for his friends. Newton
ma_y ** scale the heavens" uncensured ; Warren Hastings may
oppress India, uncondemned, btcause he and the poet had been
school-fellows, and the attack on Popery has to be expunged
after an acquaintance is made with the Throckmortons.

215 Parallax. The parallax (major) of a star is the difference
in its apparent position cis viewed from ojiposile points in the
earth's orbit.

Luminous is to be reckoned a dissylhd)le in scansion.

217 Neither can I rest, &c. The poet wishes to intimate
that he, as a moralist, has as strong claims lo the privilege of ex-
ercising himself in reclaiming his "kind," from " headlong rage
and heedless folly," as men of science have to investigate nature.

222 The clause /// h/s ^co/'hs naturally comes after shines.
Thus To seek him rather ivhe re his ^nerey shines than to seek hifn
in his works, though they are ivondrous,

226 Grand. See note on 1. 77.

228 Manner^ method.

Tastes his style, i.e., approvingly enjoys his method of work-
ing. In such an application, this word is now becom« vulgar.
Cf. to dub, pate, to punch, to wag and to buss,

NOTES.

229 Philosophic tube. Poetry avoids coimuon and famili.ir
names, using instead of the ordinary designation some featun;,
or quality, or part of the object, by which it is readily sug-
gested.

The telescope is believed to have been invented and appHed
to astronomical investigations, by Galileo about the year 1609.

234 The term /;/;•/// may be justified by remembering that
tnortal eyes is by Synccdcchc for men.

236 The is here an adverb. It is said to be derived from
thy the ablative case of the A. S. definite article ; hence the.
|)hrasc properly means more by that quantity.

We should be she. No good purpose is served by introduc-
ing a neAT subject.

238 Instrumental = secondary. See Book ii, 11. 174 et seq.

239 Retrograde. I'hat lead away from, instead of leading
up to the Creator.

To draw cannot strictly be used with mistake, to make would
be the proper term. When a word is thus to be supplied in
one clause in a sense different from that which it bears in the
clause in which it is expressed, we have what is called Zem^fna.
rroiid to make a mad ifiistake,

240 Once. In old English, spelt ones, an adverb formed from
a genitive case. Cf. also needs, perhaps, eftsoons, unawares,
here, there and whence.

Throughout Cowper's poems, are found passages strongly, and
in some cases, bluntly, asserting the ideas prevalent among the
leaders of the great religious movement of the time. In the lines
before us, he means to tell us that if the heart is renewed by
grace, the regenerate one is no longer subject to '* mad mistake,"
but unerringly sees the Creator in all his woiks.

242 But is here a preposition governing the clause by that
holy light, which may be expanded into a proposition.

243 Philosophy, &c. The poet would have us believe that
the study of science when pursued by truly pious men, is the
highest glory of human genius ; but that in the hands of those
*' unbaptised in the pure fountain of eternal love" it is but "bub-
bles and smoke," since it does not lead them to God himself.

247 Observe the Antithesis. \

248 Has borne instead of bore, probably for the sake of th('
measure.

." 'I
! :
I

bi jl

V-^

251 Castalian dews, (n^taliu, ;i (trU-brafcd fountain in
(ireecc, AHiiiJi l i n.v at the foot of Mount Parnassus, in the nei{i;li-
horhood of l>cl[)hi. It was sacred to Apollo and the Mi, les, and
is frecjuentiy referred to both by classical and modern poets as a
source of insi)iralion.

252 Newton. Sir Isaac Newton (1642-1727), a distinguished
mathematician. He sjjenl most of his life in hi.s Colle^'e. llr
sat in I'ailiament for his University, and presided over the Mint
under Montiii;uc. lie iniMishcd. besides hi^ /'.'///(///rr and (>/'■
//(S, Disiomscs at Prophecy. 'Ihe latter are written in Enj^li-.!;,
Ml a plain, manly style, and l)reatlie a spirit of deep l>it'ly.

255 Milton. The great epic j-oet (jf Kngland (1608- 1074).
See note on 1. i.

256 Fed on manna, i.e., roicivod its inspiration from heaven.

257 Themis, tlje dauL;hler of Uranus and (le., was m Greek
n»yili()IoL;y regarded as the jjersonificntioii of order and justice.
In modt rn ait >he is repicscr.led with bandaged eyes, and liolding
a pair of i)alanced scales in lier liands. In this passage the word
.stands lor law personilied — Anio)io/iiasia.

Hale. " Sir Matthew Hale (1609-1676), the celebrated Chief
Justice of the King's Bench in the reign of Charles II., wrote
several work.s, many of them of a moral and religious character,
of which his ContcDiplatiovs Moral and Divine^ are the best
known." — Smith.

261 Psalm ciii. 15, 16 ; Isaiah xl. 6.

262 Dishevelled. Dis, asunder y and Fr, cheveu, hair.

The Si/fiilc is not properly carried out. Tliere can be im
C(jmparison between faaifii^^, and having the leaves (hairs) scaf-
Icrcd by the wind.

263 Proverbs x.\iii. 5.

264 Observe that the term, /ouib is here used, and correctly ;m:),
to denote a burial place superior to that denoted by the word
^Liravt's. This ir a common tlistinction between Anglo-Saxon aiui
classical words.

265 Worship, A. S. liieorlhscipc^ worthship, formerly meant
lienor^ as " with my body I thee worship." Its signification
is now much stronger, but more limited.

268-9 ^^ good example of Balanced Sc7tfence. Amaranthine.
Gr. a, not, and /napaiyeiv^ to fade. In poetry, the amaranth
is an imaginary flower that never fades,

N()Tr:s.

271 Joliii xiv. 6.

276 Not <|ualifies a, which is here a gcmiine arljective = one.

277-289 " Truth" is the answer understood to he given fo
each of these (juestions. In the second (luestion, the poet refer.-.
U) the irrcli[;ion so jMevalent in l»is lime.

278 Be. See note on 1. 1S3.

283-4 ^^ is a peculiarity of our minds that the hi<; her we rise
in moral purity, the less hit;hly we think of ourselves.

285 Matt. xiii. 46.

300 That the retirement of the country is nu)rc favorable to
\;iinethan ihe'activily of the town, is a hworile theme with

llif poet.

301 Scenes is governed hy /o //// \n\. 307.

To nurse may he parseil a-; an adverbial infuiilive, (pialifyin^
the participle fo)-i)hd. See IJo:i> to Parse, yxx. 99. Others re-
ard /o-jofj a [)reposition and nurse — niirsin!^\ a gerundial

noun.

hine.
ranth

304 Meloriate for ameloriale, by A/>hae)-esis.

305 Compose — soothe.

306 'Tis &c. Thii clause would natmally come before 1. 301.

So great a transposition is called An i-trophe'.

311 Rapt = liurried.

312-3 Since Cowper's time, cock-tlghting has been forbidden
by law, but anglii^g, which he places ni the same^category, is still
legal.

316 Self-deluded. " Who imagine themselves nymphs and
swams, i. e., real rustics." — Storr.

318 Spleen. Dr. Johnson says : — The spleen is supposerl the
seat of anger, melancholy and mirth." Now that this theory is
exploded, it means simply melancholy, ill-humour. See note ou
D. V. 1. 33.

320 Who seek, &c. This clause is adjectival to they.

321 To what does tJieir refer ?

322 Who would leave ? This adjectival clause is throw n
into the interrogative form, instead of the negative assertion none

would leave. The clauses that pity and thai « • « , ,

thought^ are each adjectival to icho.

ty,

NOTES.

333 Jovial. Sec nolc on D. K, I. 33,

The Poet's favorite hare, Puss, given to him in

334-51, '
1774. See his ' Account of the '1 reatment of his Ilnrci,' in-
serted in the ' (jcntleman's Magazine,' for June, 1784. Puss
died March 9, 1786, ' aj^ed eleven years, eleven months, of mere
old age.'"— Griffith.*

340 Mine. In AngK)-Saxon, /;//;/ was used |}ot!i as the geni-
tive ca^e of I (.r), nnd as an adjective pronoun. In the lallcr
form it was declined through all the cases in thf; same way is
other adjectives. Ilcncf* it may here be parsed as an adieciiV^",
used substantively, \-\ ti^e objective case afle* akc or after to
und'.'r ;iO'>'!.

351 Cf: Tis:: Hk. VT., 719-72S.

352-445 We .;:;. npi ' > call that the highest poetry which,
dciding witii the subiimesl 'opies, strikes us with the greatest
awe, but it should not be forgotten that, thoi gh such subjects de
mand the handling of a ma-ter genius, yet he who can afford to
select the common-place affairs of every day life as his subject,
and who can exalt them in such ennobling strains (rf simj)le gran-
deur as these lines display, {zS^.o but little short of the liigliest
praise. Cf. Bk. VI., 908 et .seq.

357 Trim — neat and elegant form. Cf. Milton, The Nati-
vity : —

" Nature, in awe to him,
Had dofPd her gaudy trim ;"

Also Tabic 7a2k ; —

" In him.
Humour in holiday and slightly trim."

361 Me is the oh\tc\. oi fi7ids, in 1. 366.

Laborious ease. To thus join together two terms that ex-
press opi*osite ideas is called Oxyinoron.

362 To deceive. To pass away. Cf, Shakes., Maibcth ; f.
6. 61 : " To beguile the time, look like the time."

364 Use — usage, interest.

369 Though too oft {it is drivoi) slack and {thotigh it is) ?nuch
impeded^ ^c.

370-1 The poet here feelingly alludes to his times of meUu*

choly and mental aberration.
373 Cf. Bk. VL, 933 et seq.

NOTES.

384 Or or, poetic license for eillier — or.

3S7 Intend may - whatever task he may itUciid or pinposo
to accomj)lish.

388 Vhether is correlative with or in 1. 397.

3^9 He enjoys withh, r. In the (lescri])tion which follows,
it is easy lo rccoL;nise the original of the portrait in the poet him-
self. At Olney, he .pent nineteen years of his life with her whom
he a*Tect; nately called his "second mother,' pruning his garden,
suidying, writing })oetry, and dipping by jii.s evening fire " tht
cups thiit cheer but not inebriate." Sec Jjijr.

390 Fragrant lymph. I.ynipJta, water, and nympha, a bride,
a goddess ol fountains, are said to have been originally the satne
woid. The muses being of a like natuie are often cUed nytnph<<.
Hence /iv;//// here contains an Allusion to the ch ;n.* effects of
lea-diinking. Fiai^ran/ is an ornamental cpith n.

400 Lubbard. -•/;./ from Germ, haii, do. hi. JuirJus, has
come tons thrc.ugh the Italian ami h'rench. ' ji v (.)rds of this
form have fallen out of use. such as blinkard, nv. arJ, dizzard,
l)osard, stinkard and shreward.

402 His refers to labour. Its would ren\ovc the ambiguity
cau.sed by his in 1. 400.

404-7 Is there lurking in the sentiment of those lines any of
that subordination of class and race that constitutes the spirit of
slavery ?

409 After ///rt« supply Mrt/ //t'rt!.r///'t' is luuch li'Jiiih.

411 Save. See note on ^'.r<r// in Z>. F. I.233.

419 Barren- Tiiis position of the adjective is, no doubt,
imitated from Milton.

421 Gems Inuls, from Lat. £crin/ia^ a bud.

427 Hence. Note the effect of repeating the same term. To
what does lu'iiiC refer?

428 Withered, contains an Allusion, a figure by which some-
thing more is suggested by the words than is expressed.

430 Fair recompense. The fruits which are produced by the
careful j)runing above described are a fair recompense of {I his)
lahour lih'll I'iS/o-iCeil and {of tliii) wise precaution.

431 Rude ---^ severe.

433 Churlish, A. S. aorlt a husbandman. See Trench,
StUiiy o<' Words, p. 56.

N()'ii:s.

4^;4 Discovering •-== sl-owinj^, exhibiting:. J. at. ^/?V, not, tfi,
together, and opciiiVy to cover ; Vx. dt'conmr, to uncover.

439 He, therefore, &C. The poet built himself a grecnliousc
at Ohiey.

44.4 Fence -- defence, by .■!///, i./rs/s.

*445 Hopes, for the plants on uhich he builds his hopes of a
crop. Cf. X'irj^il's *'Spt.s agricola:."

446 To raise, &c. We confess to be unable to enter with
such zest into the " stercornceous "' niinut'Miess of this cucumber
raising as some of the poet's almirers. It is usual to confine
poetic description to such objects as can be eleaily placed before
the inind by a few bold dashes, but C'owper sometimes rides rough
shod over all the rules of art.

Gourd. Gourd is here used for cucumber. It is properly a
name.i,'iven to various plants of the <jrder (7^7//-/'/A?<vvt('. Cucum-
ber {iii(tniiis) is agciusunder this order of which there are many
species as the cttcuniis satirits ov common cucumber.

448 Else base. Ol>serve the Safrasni.

452 Gnats. In the Citlcx^ an early poem by Virgil, the J/j/?-
htaii ha I'd.

Frogs and mice. In the Batraihomyoniachia (battle of the
frogs and mice), a poem which is usually attributed to Homer.

452-6 The poet's method of apologizing by cpioting these ex-
amples, calls to mind the remark of Addison in the Spectator^
No. 122 : "A man is more sure of his conduct, when the verdict
which he passes upon his own behaviour, is thus warranted and
confirmed by the opinion of all who know him."

455 Phillips. Phillijis (1676 170S) is remembered chiefly for
his poem, the SiplciiJid ShiHiiii:;^ a ])arody in which he attempts
to ridicule Milton's pompous style by applying it to a trifhng
subject. The imitation is very felicitous. Phillips was a great
favorite with Cowiier, whose earliest verses that have survived,
were written to imitate him. They are On Finding the Heel of
a Shoe, 1 748.

Shrines. Note the double meaning.

457 Dispensers. The reviewers whom he had reason to fear.
See note on 1. 35.

460 Dressing is here used iox licscribiK'^ hovj tju dresAn^ is
tnaimged— Metonytny.

NOTK<>.

not, ca,
|er.

^cnliousc

I'es of a

Iter Willi
icumher
confine
\<\ l)t'f<»re
es rough

■operly a
Cucuni-
re many

le Ma/7'

e of the
3mer.

bese ex-
'>ectatoi\
• verdict
ted an<l

iefly for
t tempts
trifluK;
a gieat
rvived,
ieel of

o fear.

^ot^'' is

463 Stercoraceous. Cowper never could resist the temptation
to use a ion-; so.iorous Latin word. This practice frequently mars
his o'hciwise clear and natural style.

467 Deciduous. Probably thii position of the adjective is
imitated from Milton.

477 Damps for (/</////, by Eiiolla^e. The plural for the sin-
;^ular is more frequent in I^atin than in Knglisli.

Impose. Tlii> infmite is in the same construction as aprcad.

Shaking - by shakint;. On the adverbial use of the participle,
•;ce How io Parse, pnr. 2O1.

479 Saturated straw ■- atcfioraccoits heap of 1. 46 _v

4S0-9 This j)art of the description is somewhat obscure. The
heap of "saturated straw," gradually wiil<.'nin<^ as it rises, is
piled up to a suitable lieiLjIit. I'pon it is placed the frame which
is covered with a glass rouf of sharp pitch.

What is longest — that which is longest, i.e., th3 longest of
the strain.

481 Shapely is one of n number ^f words that went out of
use, but afterwards ])ecame again familiar. Others are iifter-
lru:e, plunnge, anthem, sphere.

4H3 Eaves is used in tlie plural, but was, originally, singular,
from A. S. (7/ ',*■(', eaves. Cf. riches from Fr, ric/wsse.

484 Uplifted, rather awkward,— which had been lifted up.

486 Sloping. In what direction?

487 Whose, &C. This clause is adjectival to /m///t', and to
prevent ambiguity should be placed nearer its antecedent.

Sharp declivity. One of the characteristics of the roof is,

by Sfjit\(/oc/u\ put for the roof.

490 Thrice, &c., A Pci-ipJirasis for three days. Cf. Milion,
/'. L. lik. I. 50:

" Nine times the space that measures day and night
To mortal men. "

Voluble. Lat. Tohcre, to roll. Revolving.

493-501 "^\\Q. personal interest which is introduced into these
lines by the personifieation o( steam and eonservatory, aids greatly
in elevating this prosaic subject.

495 Gross fog Bceotian. See note on I. 3. Owing to the
number of the lakes in Boeotia, the air was thick and foggy.

KOTHS.

497 Which is in the nominative absohite.
504 Hopes. See note on 1. 445.
509 Vital motion germination.

517 Manure. I. at. nidiins, the hanfl and opera, works ; Fr.
iNdiii, and iCiiTrc. Hence DKUhciiTrc, first nu'ant work done
hy hand. So nunuoc was lo cuUivate willi llie hand (MiUon,
/'. L. iv. 6?6), then apphe I to ft particular branch of the art. It
IS here accented in the first syllable, in Milton it is accented on
the second, according fo present iisaye.

525 Mats. The ylass roof with which the "frame" in

coveicd.

531 Prolific. Lat. fro/cs, offspring, and faccre, to make.
Here sinii)ly. of luxurious growth.

531 Harbingers. Forenniners. A. S. Iivrc, an army and
iuiix, a shelter, h'ornierly ap|)lie{l to the officer whose duty it
was to go before and arrange lodgings for the king and his at-
tendants in a progress.

536 Apparent ^ that is beginning to appear.

in the cucumber, the fruit is of the class called 6'/w//t' Fruits,
which consist of a seed-vessel formed by the ripening of one

537 These, i.e., the (lowers. In imperfect flower.s, one flower
has stamens only and another pistils only. When V)oth kinds
are b me on the same plant, they are called fitouiccioiis, and
M'hen on different plants, d'uccioKS. In such plants, the seed
will not rii)L'n unless the pollen of the stamens of one flower i.s
transported by some means lo the pistils of the sterile flower.
This is done as stated V)y the poet. In the open air, the wind,
insects and other things perform the work, but in the green-
house it is necessary to lub the fl(n\"rs together with the liand
In most plants of the Gourd family, tlie flowers are nion<rcwus.

1'hese subjects are poetically dealt with by Dr. Erasmus Dar-
win in his Botanic (iaidcu, which was published about the same
time as the 'lask. It is written in the artificial style of the pre-
ceeding age, and is, in this respect, the very opposite of the
freshness and ease of Cowper.

538 P'ertilizing meal. Tht fallen ; Ysk\.. pollen^ meal.

546 Delicates. The use of the adjective for the noun is
rare. It is very harsh, and, though it suits the metre, it injures
tlie line.

NOTKS.

$«

549 Carcs» &C., can ^c;mtrly bt- said to ^/'/w;, '-^i. The yoai
nii^;ht more correctly have said, nfti/ their rcstilts hnni:^^ 6rV.

551 Regales. Seldom used as a noun in English, thou^di
quite comnu>n in I'rench.

552 Wintry. To be understood literally as "the task he-
{riiH " ill November.

558 Were -- would be. This use of one moo(l for another
i> Usually called /■^//(i/Zaj^v. It may be rej^arded as an An/iaisffi .

560 Fights, here used transitively. This license is fref|Ueiitly
peiinitled, in order to ^ive terseness to the diction. See //c?.' (0
Pnrsi', i)ar. 532.

563 Exclaim. This line is rendered very harsh by using ex-
ihiitn without an object.

The strong sense of Cow per could not fail to discover the weak-
ness of this cucund)er ep;su(le. As it was introduced with one
i^)ol()L;y, it ends with another. Althoui^di he flatters hini'^elf that
great poets have sung even humbler themes, yet he forecasts a
lack of a|)preciation in the ''learned and wise." It furnishes us,
however, with a fine example of his command of language.
Many jiarts of the description seem rather to resemble rich
melodious prose than deliberate verse.

568 Exotic. Gr. fcQ?, without, ^S&jr/vo?, foreign.

570 Myrtle. The common myrtle is a beautiful evergrepn
shrub that bears white flowers. It is a native of the countries
around the Mediterranean Sea.

573 Orange. The native country of the orange is not known.
I'l In an evergreen tree, and in the South of England it is some-
times cultivated in the open air.

Lime. The lime is a shrub, usually about eight feet ii
height, with many prickly branches. It is a native of India and
Chijia. The fruit resembles a lemon, has a thin rind and a very

acid juice.

574 T 'Vh^ person i/icat ion of oranoc and lime adds greatly to
the he.i ty of these happy lines.

576 Amomum, a genus of plants of the order SiiaNitncae.
The stems are perennial, and the flowers rise by themselve" from
the roots. Some species yield the spice qq.\\<:(X grait?^ of para'
disc.

577 Geranium, or rather Pelargonium, is very ibandant at

iil I

5i NMTi:S.

the Cape of Clood Hope. (.1. yspavo^y a crane. t*opular!y
called Crane's-bill in Kn^'lancl.

578 Beau -- beauty. Lat. hrlhts^ beautiful ; Fr. hcan. S/a/i-
i^/ci/. (icr. .vA///V'. See note on next line.

579 Ficoides, Lat. //\//s, a ("i^, and (Ir. diS()>, form ; so called
from tilt; natme of the seeds, which are sometimes s^round inti
llour. It is u^aally called the Ice-plant, from the watery -pani-
cles with which the lurfacc is coveied. It is an amiual, a native
of Africa and Southern lunojie.

582-4 Observe the antithetical arrangement.

5S2 Ausonia, i.e., Italy. Poetry ]nefers the ancient nnmt-
(if i^laces lo the modern, as bcinj;- less familiar and frequently
more euphonious.

584 Jessamine. A shrub ^ith e\«[uisitel\- frai^ranl flowers. It
is a native of the South of Africa.

586 Shade. Gathered so closely together as to overshadow
the same spot.

587 Orphean lyre. The story of the trees following the lyre
of Orpheus, is often alluded to by the poets, Cf. Dryden.

" And trees uprooted, left their place
Sci[uacious of the lyre."

Summons. I. at. s///' and dioiho^ I admonish. Fr. .'^ciiioni:,
^.-e note on 1. 483.

59 [ Illustrate — display to advantage.

592 Dress. l>y cc^ntraction from Lat. dirii^ox, to put straight;
Jt. drii:<v\\ Here, adorn by giving order and neatnes.i to the
-cene.

597 Roscius was in the time of Cicero and .Sulla, the greatC'-t
comic actor at Rome. Ikfore iii^ »le:ith in 15. C 62, he liud at
i;\incd such perfecti(^n in his art, that his name became a synonym
lor superiority in any profession.

598 After so, supply r.'tvv rai.'^ViL

Garrick. Garrick (1716-1779O "trod the stage'' in London
from 1741-76. He was Dr. Johns()n"s pupil, came with him to
I .ondon, and l)ecame the greatest actor of his day. He also w rote
plays. The Lyitti^' Valcf ■m\^\ Miss in Jut y'rcns are the best. His
naturalness, the chief beauty of his acting • referred to in 1. 6co.
See note on line 5S2.

601 Shakespeare. Tlie repiosentation of Shakesi)e:ire's phiys

NOTKS.

'. scDioHi:,

wliicli h; (1 been almost oiilircly banished from the stage in the
ai;c (^f Auijustaii nnifunahly, was revived with ^leat success by
(latrick.

615 Where floor is a noun clause the subjeol of {vtusi /v)
swept.

616 Breeding ^\si. i*r chr if wii! breed.

Else, old I*!iiL,dish (//.r, is an *'\anii)le of an adverb formed
from a s^eniiive case, Cf. needs, eflsoons, perhaps, once.

637 Wheel home, i.e., w heel the fertilizing mixture to the
place where it is ret[uired.

640 Creature -- cr*;at ion, ]iroduction.

641 Gothic llrst sii;ni!icd barl)arous, compared with Roman
ci\"ili/ation.

642 Insipid tasteless. Lat. , /;/ not, and sahio, I am wise.

643 Heath. " Probably llanii)!*tead lleatli ; but i may be
any of tlie numerous places of annisement in the sulmrbs of Lon-
(loii. " -Storr.

Misspent, i.e., if without the guidance of the " polished
min.l."

644 Uncouth. A. S. iin, not, and vutJi, the past participle
n{ (iiiDiaii, to know ; hence literally, unknown. Render it here

645 Heaven, i.e., in form.

646 Encumbered. Cf. the Epitaph .•—

" Lie heavy on him, earth, for he
Laid many a heavy load on thee."

647 Has made his gnrden a map of the entire heavens,

654 Bright, lb illiant in conception, and brilliantly bedecked

w illi lluuers.

658 Expect. What is the subject?

661 Interest sake. Is not truth here cut short to make a

/i^'ioi round ?

664 A notion <'f Cowper's, from which we have already lu\d
occa'^ion to demur.

66-, Neighbour, as an adjective, has at present given place to
" neighboimg.''

• II

NOTKS.

6('S Fragrant. The addition of this oruaDuutnl epithet
shews lu)\v pc^ctry seeks to unite as many j^ileasing ideas a.s pos-
sible with tlie sul)jecl ^\■ith wliich it deali*.

671 Noisome. Words in .uvin: seem more tliau ordinarily
nmrial. M;'.ny liave disappeared, as mighlsonie, hearsonie,
thouj^litsome, frieiidsome, likesome and laboursome.

657-74 Nearness and appropriateness of lan[];nage, smooth-
ness ot versification and richness of imagery, arc liere united, to
form a verv attractive description.

683 Public life, Life spent in society and buuncis. It is
]>ere opposed to "l)lest seclusion."

" Addison pronounced it an uiujucstionable trulli that there
was ' less apjiearance of religion in I'ju^land than any neighbour-
ing state or kingdom,' wheiher it be I'rotestant or Catholic ; Sir
|ohn Harnard complained that ' it really seems to be the fashion
lor a man to declare himself of no religion,' and Montesfjuicu
.sunnned \\\> his observations on English life by declaring, no
(ioiil)t with great exaggeration, that there \\'as no religion in
l^nglaml, that the suljject, if mentioned in society, excited no-
thing but laughter, and that not more than four or five membeis
of the House of Commons were regular attendants at church."—
i.ecky's Jitv^lcDui in tlic iSili Coitnnj.

687-8 Cf. V. ]\ 11. 101-2.

692-3 This line very aptly states the design and matter of
Cowper's jtoems. For his occupations and his pecuniary re-
sources, see Life.

697 Much qualifies //; rain.

Cowper was, j)erhaps, the greatest reformer that English poetry
has ever seen ; in religion and morality, too, he was in the strong-
est sympathy with the most advanced views of his time, yet all
the while he fancies himself the sternest Cato.

707 Piety and - - and - - and. "It is a general rule that
excess of the connfx:ting parts of speech — as j.'onouns and con-
junctions — enfeebles the style. "^ et emphasis sometimes recjuires
their multiplicatior : as in the verses in Paul, 'For I am per-
suaded ♦hat ;/('//// <^r life, «<?;' death, nor- — , tSrc." — j^ain.

709 A life of retirement is more favorable to virtue than an
active one. *' (iod made the country, and man made the toun. "
Such is the pei-jietual refrain of the 7'ask,

714 See Esther i. 10.

NOTES.

718 Alone is an adjective qualifying ////;/••, wli'ch is here an
adjective used substantially. See note on 1. 340.

720 Bitters. .*^ee note on 1. 546.

721 Nature, enchanting rialure. For figure, see note on

Tnivciu'r, 1. 277.

One of the di-<linLniishin<; featu>'es of C'owper's poetry, and tlial
of llic school ol which he was the real founder, is a genuine love
of nature.

727 Meaner objects. Geology and history, for example.

7-"^o Wander from it as he may, the poet ever again returns to
this, the real object of the Task, to show how much better fitted
for the cultivation (jf piety ai.d virtue is rural thun city life.

7v^ Stygian. Styx, one of the rivers of the lower world.
Ik'ie i)ut tor the infernal regions iheniselves, with, of course, a.
Chri.stian idea added to the pagan.

" In 1833, an Act was passed to abate the smoke nuisance i)ro-
ceeding from chimney shafts and steamers above London Brirlge.
In 1856, its provisions were to steamers below the bridge, and to
potteries aiul glass facloiics, by a second Act, which came into
operation January i, 1858. By these Acts, the 'metropolitan
v<;lcanoes ' are compelled to consume their own smoke." —
Griffith.

742 England, for Englishmen, by Metonymy. The poetsigh>
for the <iays of Puritanism.

746 Honest, from Lat. honor, formerly applied in a wide
sense to wliatever was honoral)le, is now usually narrowed down
in it> application to one kind of honor.

7^7 Hinds — servants. A, S. hint, a servant, a peasant.

Fair, i.e., honestly earned by the town that gives a retuiii,
such as it is, for what it charges those who come from the

country.

7C0. The wings, &c. Gambling was, at this time, one of
the nu)it conunon vices of fashional)le society. Some yea';s pre-
viously, Parliamt-nt had, by special Acts, suppressed, as far as
possible, all gaming-houses and gaming-tables, and people of
quality had established private clubs where they indulged their
fondness for gambling. Lord Sandwich, one of the most in-
veterate gamblers of the time, is said to have sat at his game on
one occasion for twenty-four hours, with no food except "a bit
of beef between two slices of bread."

NOTKS.

765 He. This anticipatory use of the pronoun is here adoptcrl
v. ith excellent effect. As the mind is held in suspense awaiting
the announceuKMit of the name, the impression is much stronger
than if introduced without first awakening expectation.

766 Brown. " Lancelot Brown, a f;nnous landscape-gardener
(born 171^, died 177.0). He was called ' Capability Brown,'
from his favourite phrase alxnit ' great capability of improve-
ment.' He laid out the grounds nnd park at Weston for Sir
Robert Throckmorton, th.o grandfather of Cowper's * Bencvo-
lus,'"— Grifruh.

76S V/hiskered. " Ueards in blnglaml declined with the
Commonwealth, and the court of Charles was the la.st in which
even a small one was grown. After tlie Restoration mu^tachios
or whiskers continued, but the rest of the face was shaven ; in a
short time the custom of shaving the whole face became universal.
It was not till the Crimean war that beards again grew fashion-
able." — Storr.

769 Tasteless. Observe the sly Innuendo.

772 Aguish east. The east wind in England is considered to
be promotive of fevers.

788 Proves — becomes.

794 Burns, &c. Note the Irony.

795-Soo. Bribery did nc t become conspicuous in England till the
early part of the eighteenth century. In the beginning of the reigii
of George III., especially when Fox was Paymaster of the Forces,
it was practised without scruple. Speaking of the peace of 1763,
Eord Macaulay says : "The Pay-office was turned into a mart
for votes. Hundreds of members were closeted there with Fox,
and, as there is too much reason to believe, dei)arted carrying
with them the wages of infiimy. It was affirmed by persons who
had the best opportunities of obtaining information that ^25,000
were thus paid away in a single morning. The lowest bribe given,
it is said, was a bank-note for ^200."

802 Crape. The mnsk worn by highwaymen. "The high-
wayman was an institution especially connected with the stage-
coach. He had been growing into a power for many years. He
was in his most high and palmy state when Fielding had ceased
to write and George III. began to reign. In 1 761, ' the Flying
^igh^vayman engrosses the conversation of most of the towns
within twenty miles of London. He robs upon three different
horses— a gray, a sorrel, and a black one. He has leaped over

NOTKS. 57

r(^!nl)r()ok lMin])ike a do/on liines within this fortnight.' "—
Kni<;ht's Popular Hhtory of Iinj;!aiid, p. 93S.

S05 Probably inleiuieil fur a CVVv/(M-.

Observe the ciVecl of the mono.-ylhibles ''nd of the harsh con-
sonants.

So -if, or i)rovi(k'd tliat. (T. Shakes., J. C. I. 2 : —

"I would not, so with love I mij^ht entreat you."

S14 Swallows goiierally leave I-ni^land early in Oclobei.

Si 5 Not to the country a> in the jjahny days of kniLjIit-
errantry.

Squires. ''The attendant of a knight. Latin srtthun, a
>hiel(l, and ,vr/(?, to carry ; h Mice, scutifer, a shield-bearer. To
this the French added a euphonic initial e, nia'dn-^ it csiUV'-r,
from which we ^et esquire and siuii\\ and * Esij ,' now used a-i
a general title of respect. This i""rench c is seen also in estate
espy (spy, Lat. specio), etc," — Armstrong's Lady of (he l.arc^
p. 197.

• 817 Spendthrift. See .lote on Z>. F. , 1. 153.

SiS Sycophant. On this word, see Trench's Eu^^U^h I\t.d
and Prcstut, p. 296.

820 Cold jail. Ifthereisa particulai reference, it may he
to the Fleet, which was a debtors' prison as early as the twelfth
century.

821 Groat. See note on 1. 5S2.

822 Levee. In Cowper's time, minister> as well as sove-
reigns held their levees. Then, however, these issemblies were
ralher for business than for aftbrding opportun- "s to ladies and
j^entlemen to pay their compliments to the so' ign.

833 This Aicuh'iu/ation of epithets is very 'py. The repe-
tition of the ;/,<,'■ sound strengthens the tone of ntempl,

8.J.3 See Genesis xviii. 23-33.
845 Cf. Malt. V. 13,

f !l

CHRONOLOGICAL PARALLEL.

A. p.

KNOLIHri I1I8T0UY AND
LITKRATURR.

LIKE OF aDDISOX.

LIKE OK STEELK.

1672 Declaration of Indulgence. Born at Milston, Wilts
1075 Ticat}' with Louis,

l<fe3 Ku88ol and Sidney executed At Lichfield Gram-
mar School
1084:
1085; Monmouth's rebellion.

I Enters Cliarter-housc

Born ill Dublin.

At Cliarterhouse.

1687'Newton's Pnncipia.

I
10!»2 Massacre of Glencoe.
10.t3 CJonyrev e's Old Bachelor.

1094 Tillotson d. The first Eng- Emjlinh Ports.

Enters Queen's Col-
lege, Oxford,
I At Merton College,

i Takes his M. A.decrree Oxford.
j Wrote Wirscs to Dry-\
den.

lish Ministry,
1696 Triennial Bill.

1698 Sir W. Temple d.

11390 stillingflect (/.

nOl'Act of Settlement.

1702 Queen Anne.

1703 Swift's Tate of the Tub.

1704 Harley and St. John.

Fourth Georgir.

A Poem to L 'r, Ma-
jesty,

Fellow of Magdalen
College.

Travels on the Con-
tinent.

Letter from Italy to
Halifax. j

I The Funeral.

Returns to England.! '/Vnd'r Husband.

'I he Canipaiyn. iLyiny Lover.

Christian Hero.

Locke d. Battle of Blen- Connnissioner of Ap-

heim.
1705

l'0<i Battle of llamillles.

1"'57 Union. Farquhar d.

1709 Dr. hi. Johnsuu b.
i

1710 Trial of Sachcverell.

1711 Pope's Essay on Criticism.

peal*.
Remarks on Italy. I
Under-Secretary of

State.
Roaamond. |

Chief Sec. for Ireland Begins Tatlcr, 12th
WrUes for the Tatlerl April.
Loses all his employ-.

nients. '

Writes for Whig

1712
1713

Diamissal of Marlborough.

Examiner.
Sjjectutt/r,

Shafte-shury (f. Sterne i>. ICato.

Pope'n \yind80r Forest.

Spectator begun, 1st

Marci).
Seseuth volume ondi

Oth Deceniber.
WriLes for tlic Eng-

jWrites for th« Guar- U.^h man -And Guar-
dian. I diun.

'm'

«
,

i i

CHROXOIOGICAL PAR \Ll.KL-0;///V/;W.

A.D.

ENOLIHH IMRTOKX AND
LITBRATIKK.

MFK OF AUPISON.

LIFK OF STKKl.K.

1714 Geor(?e the First.

Budgell's VharactCTH.

Spectator resumeil. Expelled froru the
St!creiarv to Council Itouse of Comni ih

f<»r writing

tht

Bishop Riirnet (L Rowc,
Laureate.

1710. Septennial BilL Gray b.

1717

1719
1721

Triple Alliance.

Robinson CntMoe.

Walpole's Ministry.

1 Burnet's Ova Times,
1722! Atterbury banished.
1726|Thoms(>n's Winter.

iGuUiver's Traveln.
1727!li«or>fe the Second.

I ton d.
1729iConi{reve d.

New

of state. .Attain

Chief Secretary for

IrelaiuL j

DruiHiiii". Returns

frcni Ireland. Com- 1

menceH the Free-

httlder-,
MarrifN Countess of

Wa-wick
Secretary of State.
Tretnti.^e on Chris-
tian Religion.
Writes for Old Whiij. Writes for Plebeian.
Death, 17th Juno.
Dialogue, on Medals

(posthuniou.s).

Conscious Lovers.

Death, 1st Sept.

3F STKKI.K.

for Plebeian.

om Lovers.

DR COYEULEY rAPERS,

From the " Spectator."

I^'TRODUCTIOX.

Tlie lienor of originating the periodical essay containing
short sketches of character, criticisms of manners, vices,
and modes of life is due to Defoe. Like all inventors, he
had little idea of the improvements which would be made
in his plan, of the purpose lo which it would be applied,
or of the perfection to which it would so soon be brought.
Few men have the genius of invention, many have that of
improvement. Of the latter class, were Steele and Addi-
son. Once give them a plan upon which to work, and
there never have been geniuses better adapted to add the
finer touches and nicer beauties which go to make any in-
vention pei-fect. And this they divd with the social e<?3ay.
In 1704, the year of Blenheim, a time when news of the
French campaigns was as eagerly devoured by the patri-
otic and office-loving Whigs as by the dissatisfied and sul-
len Tory Opposition, Defoe struck the happy thought of
publishing a Weekly Rtruiew of the Affairs of France, to
which was to be added, in every issue, a '* little diver-

sion,

consistir^g of

column detailing the most inter-

f ■•'

■I

I !

INTRODUCTION.

esiing reports of the doings of the Scandalous Chih.
Hence, at first, these essays were only a new feature in-
troduced into the newspaper of the day. Defoe's Review^
for the first two years and a half, was simply a newspaper,
differing from others chiefly by this column of editorial
matter. At the end of that period its name was changed
to Review of the Affairs of iJie Euj^lish Nation^ and
from that time it was more fully devoted to social matters.
Its pleasing and humorous expositions of the follies and
extravagances of the men and women of the time are the
direct predecessors of the delightful fancies of the Tailer
and Spectator. The idea struck the quick and lively mind
of Steele, who had been appointed Government Gazetteer,
that the opportunities he possessed for obtaining the ear-
liest authentic news from the continent would enable him
to issue a journal which would have an advantage over
the numerous newspapers then published in London ; and
that the certainty of thus obtaining a hearing would enable
him to greatly extend the usefulness, interest and pleasure
of papers written in the manner and upon the topicii sug-
gested by the essays in Defoe's Reviciv. Steele belonged,
by birth, to a family that had been settled by Cromwell on
the confiscated estate of some Irish rebel; but he pos-
sessed all the warm-heartedness, impetuosity and reckless-
ness of the Irish Celt. For some years, but with quite
ordinary results, he had been before the public as a writer
in a somewhat varied character. In his Christian Haro^
he had taught virtues he could not practise ; and in
his comedies. The Tender Husband^ and The Lying
Lovsr^ he thought to interest the town without sparkling
dialogue or engaging plot. Need of money drove him, as

INTRODUCTION'

111

it has driven many others, to grasp at the first means of
bettering his financial condition. The French war still
continued, and its prosecution was creatin;.^ more intense
feeling between the two political parties. Accordingly,
on the 1 2th of April, 1709, Steele sent forth the first num-
ber of the Tdtler. It was a small folio half-sheet of four
columns, published three times a week, and purporting to
be edited by Isaac Bickerstaff, Ks(|., a name popularized
by Swift ; it was to cont dn news and advertisements as
well as " advices and reflexions ;" to teach " politic per-
sons what to think," and " to afford something of entertain-
ment to the fair sex." ** All accounts of gallantry," says
the first number, '* pleasure and entertainment, shall be
under the article of Whites Chocolate-house ; poetry, un-
der that of Will's Coffee-house ; learning, under the title of
" The Grecian " ; foreign and domestic news you will have
from St. James's Coffee-house ; and what else I shall on any
other subject offer, shall be dated "from my own apart-
ment.'' Addison was^ in Ireland, as secretary to Lord-Lieu-
tenant Wharton when the Tatlcr appeared. He soon
recognised the voice of his old Charterhouse school-fel-
low, and joined him in his venture, contributing, it is said,
sixty-nine of the two hundred and seventy-one papers the
Tatler contained. They are chief! v visions, dreams or
allegories, and form the most charming and vigorous
pages of the paper. In January, 17 11, the T^r^/Z^r ceased
to appear ; and when Steele proposed that a new periodi-
cal should be begun and conducted in the same manner,
with the improvements which experience had suggested,
Addison willingly consented, and the first number of the
Spectator was issued on the first of March of the same

\>\

- ■■>

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

1.0

l.l

1.25

1 2.5

W -3A II

ui Hi
us

2.2

f -- IIIIIM

•- I.
UUu

ill—

U III 1.6

Photographic

Sciences
Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

•SJ

».

'^'U

i I

I I

ff*

IV -.

INTRODUCTION.

year. It continued to be published daily, till it had reached
the 555th number, making seven volumes, when it ceased,
on the 6th December, 17 12. It was again revived by Ad-
dison on the 1 8th of June, 17 14, and continued to be is-
sued three times a week till the 20th of December of that
year, when, with the completion of the eighth volume and
eightieth number, the nev/ club, which had been less suc-
cessful than its predecessor, was closed. The price was at
first a penny, but when Bolingbroke's Act came in force,
on the ist of August, 1712, it was raised to two-pence. The
Spectator does not, like the Tatler, go from one coffee-
house to another for its various topics, but is supposed to
be issued by a club, the members of which represent the
chief classes of society. This club, however, seems to
serve little other purpose than passively to supply mate-
rials for Mr. Spectator to discourse upon, and to leave on
the public mind the impression that there would be such
variety of subjects, interests and modes of treatment, as
would make the paper interesting to every class of readers.
The papers all appear as if written by Mr. Spectator him-
self, who is president of the club. Sir Roger de Coverley
figures most prominently, but does not contribute a single
paper, though he affords matter for several of the most de-
lightful essays in the book ; nor do the other members
lend more assistance than the occasional contribution of
a letter.

Of the 635 papers which the Spectator contains, it has
been calculated that Addison wrote 274 ; Steele, 240 ; Bud-
gell, 37 ; Hughes, 1 1 ; Grove, 4 ; Pope, two or three. About a
score of other papers have been credited to different writers
— Tickell, Swift, Parnell, Phillips, and others ; while there

INTRODUCTION v

are over fifty the authorship of which is unknown. Most
of the original papers are marked by signatory letters ;
those written by Steele by R or T. T was also used by
other contributors. Budgell signed X or Z, Pope, Z, and
Mr. Addison one of the letters of the word CLIO.

The Spectator was at first printed for Sam. Buckley at
the Dolphin^ and sold by A. Baldwin, in Warwick Lane.
From No. /8 appears, in addition, ** Charles Lillie [per-
fumer, bookseller, and secretary to the Tatler's * Court of
Honour'], at the corner of Beaufort Buildings, in the
Strand." From August 5th, 1712 (No. 449), Jacob Ton-
son's imprint is appended. About that time he removed
from Gray's Inn Gate to the " Strand, over against Cvithe-
rine Street."

It seems probable that when Steele and Addison con-
certed the plan of the Spectator^ they intended fully to
develop the characters of all the members of the club, in
order to expose to ridicule many of the follies and vices of
the age, and to hold up to public admiration the modera-
tion, morality, and social virtues which they themselves
appreciated. If so, this design was never carried out,
but, as is pointed out in another place, the different mem-
bers are disposed of, in some cases at least, before they
are more than mere names. Of those that have been more
fully portrayed, the chief are from the lively and inventive
pen of Steele. The original sketch of all of them, except
Mr. Spectator himself, was drawn by his quaint humor.
It is to him (assisted by some of the other contributors),
that we owe the solid old merchant, Sir Andrew Freeport,
and the outline of the member of the Inner Temple. He
^cw the brave and modest Captain Sentry, and, from hi»

I-

INTRODUCTION.

experience in the world, was evolved the well-dressed,
genteel Will Honeycomb, With none of these has the
public been as fully familiarized as was at first intended ;
nor was the character of Sir Roger, who is by far the most
famous member, carried out as originally proposed. The
first sketch of this last was likewise drawn by Steele, but
the filling up was left entirely to Addison. He conceived
a peculiar fancy for the old knight, and ffave his choicest
wit, humor, and pathos to the perfecting of his cherished
ideal. The weakness and foibles of the old knight, his
superstition, loyalty, bigotry, ignorance and generosity
furnish themes upon which his airy fancy, nimble wit,
kindly satire and descriptive power seem to revel in spor-
tive glee.

At no period of English history have class-lines been
more distinctly drawn than in the reign of Anne and George
I. In the country, as well as in the city, the people were
divided into classes that were separated from one another
by gulfs almost impassable. The lowest was composed of
domestics and laborers, who received poor wages, and
lived, when not required about the master's house, in mis-
erable unfurnished hovels, without one of the minor com-
forts of even the modern English farm laborer. Next to
these, but scarcely above them, came the farmers and
small freeholders. Socially, they held no intercourse with
the classes above them. They possessed no learning, re-
sisted all in^provement in methods of tilling the land, and
lived in a rude and often comfortless domestic condition.

Then followed forty thousand "freeholders of the bet-
ter sort," possessing an average income of about a hun-
dred pounds per annum. These enjoyed many of the

INTRODUCTION.

vii

comforts of life unknown to tae less wealthy farmers^ but
socially they had no rank, and were not recognised even
by the "gentlemen" and esquires immediately above
them, because they could not shew

" Their ancient, but ignoble blooiV
lla<l crept thro' scoundrels since the flood."

Yet his genealogy upon which the esquire especially prided
himself had no power to introduce him to the circles ol
the nobility, the highest class, from which he was as dis-
tinctly and completely separated as from all below him.
To this class of country esquires, Sir Roger belongs. His
character, as presented in the essays selected for our study,
was drawn by the most delicate moralist of that day, and
gives, to say the least, the most favorable view of the coun-
try gentleman of the period. In Addison's papers all the
coarser features of the character have been softened down,
or entirely omitted, and the old Tory fox-hunter, who in
those days of religious and political animosity looked with
contempt and hatred upon the opposite party, is so deli-
neated by the hand of a leading Whig politician as not to
court ridicule, much less scorn. In the papers (not in-
cluded in this selection) written by Steele, a much coarser
and more vulgar side of the character is unfolded — a side,
it is true, little in keeping with the fine and delicate strokes
of Addison's picture, but which, if Steele had been allowed
to complete, as he described Sir Roger's love affair and
pride of ancestry, not to mention his doubtful London es-
capade, would have been nearer a real description of the
actual squire of Queen Anne's reign. The picture must be
regarded as intended to show rather the ideal character

viii

INTRODUCTION.

Mr. .Spectator considered should be aimed at, than the
esquires as they really were. The barbarous hospitality
of the period trembled for the *' honor of the house if the
guest went out sober," but Sir Roger never regaled his
friends with anything stronger than Widow Trueby's
Water. He fell in with the custom then becoming preva-
lent of going periodically to London, but while the squire
of history is drinking more punch than he can carry and
learning to whisper obscene compliments in the ears of
ladies in Spring Gardens, or gambling with sharpers, the
old knight is at his club or walking in company with a gen-
tleman of most refined literary tastes. Bishop Burnet says
" the gentry were ill-taught and ill-bred, haughty and in-
solent, without patriotism or loye of liberty, earnestly de-
siring the return of tyranny, provided they might be the un-
der-tyrants ; '' but our typical old country gentleman reads
history, appreciates the learned eloquence of Dr. Barrow,
loves a widow who is *'a reading lady," "a desperate
scholar," belongs to a club of educated gentlemen, has an
almost absurd pride in his country and a genuine love for
its ancient constitution. He has his little oddities, to be
sure, but he has lived alone, and has had his crosses, too
— experiences that could not fail to leave effects on the
strongest mind. Once more, while the historian's squire
is carousing, gambling or horse-racing, Sir Roger is at
home providing for the temporal happiness or spiritual
welfare of his dependants. It must be admitted that his
religious views are rather intolerant towards Dissenters,
but comparatively mild when it is remembered tha,t he
lived at a time when both Houses of Parliament, as well
as the clergy, were so blinded by bigotry and intolerance

INTRODUCTION.

that they could be satisfied with nothing less than the
Occasional Conformity Bill. It must not be forgotten
either that much of his apparent political exclusiveness
and violence arose from the force of circumstances. We
are all compelled, by the customs of society, to be what
we would not. Sir Roger deplored the pernicious effects
of party divisions ; they injured the land-tax and the
Game Act, and made " honest gentlemen hate one ano-
ther ; " but in times of such agitation, when important
principles (as he thought) were at stake, it behoved him
to do all in his power to strengthen the hands of his poli-
tical friends and weaken their opponents. Then, too, if sin-
cerity is a redeeming feature, he must have full credit for
the best intentions. He was no political trickster, but
held his views from conviction, and conscientiously sup-
ported his church and party.

"When," says Dr. J. R. Green, in the introduction to
his Essci}'s of Addison^ ** we cease to study Addison as a
statesman or a critic, or a theologian or a moralist, what
of him remains ? Well, I think we may fairly answer, all
that is individually and distinctively Addison. There re-
mains his light and playful fancy. There remains his in-
comparable humor. There remains, pervading all, his
large and generous humanity. I know no writer whose
moral temper so perfectly reflects itself in his work. His
style, with its free, unaffected movement, its clear dis-
tinctness, its graceful transitions, its delicate harmonies,
its appropriateness of tone ; the temperance and modera-
tion of his treatment, the effortless self-mastery, the sen£:.e
of quiet power, the absence of exaggeration or extrava-
gance, the perfect keeping with which he deals with his

ir:

INTRODUCTION.

i I

subjects ; or, a^ain, the exquisite reserve, the subtle ten-
derness, the geniality, the pathos ot his humor — what arc
these but the literary reflexion of Addison himself, of that
temper so pure and lofty yet so sympat'.ietic, so strong yet
so loveable ? In the midst of that explosion of individi*
ality, of individual energy and force, which marked the
eighteenth century, Addison stands out individually, full
of force, but of a force harmonious, self-cOntrolled, in-
stinct with the sense of measure, of good taste, good hu-
mor, culture, urbanity. It seems natural to him that this
temper should find its expression in the highest literature.
• The greatest wits I have conversed with,' he says, * were
men eminent for their humanity ; ' and it is this for which
he himself is so eminent as a wit, he is humane. Man
is the one interesting thing to him ; he is never weary of
track!"^ out human character into its shyest recesses, of
studying human conduct, of watching the play of human
thought and feeling, and of contrasting man's infinite ca-
pacities of greatness with his infinite capacities of little-
ness. But the sight stirs in him not only interest, but
sympathy ; he looks on it with eyes as keen as those of
Swift, but with a calmer and juster intelligence ; and as
he looks it moves him not to the ' saeva indignatio ' of the
Dean, but to that mingled smile and te-^r, that blending
of * how wonderful a thing is man,' with, *but oh ! the
pity of it ! ' which had found equal utterance but once be-
fore in Shakespeare. It was the sense of this that won
him so wide a love in his own day ; and it is the sense of
this that still makes his memory so dear to Englishmen."

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

CH/\PTER I.

Wo. a.

SIR ROdER AND THE CLUB.

-Asf alii sex

Et plurcs lino conclamant vv.

-Juv.

The first of our society is: a gentleman of Worces-
tershire, of ancient descent, a baronet, his name
Sir Roger de Coverley. His great grandfather
was inventor of that famous country-dance which is
called after him. All who know that shire are very
well acquainted with the parts and merits of Sir
Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in
his behaviour, but his singularities proceed from his
good sense, and are contradictions to the manners
of the world, only as he thinks the world is in the
wrong. However, this humour creates him no ene-
ixyes, for he does nothing with sourness or obstinacy ;
ahd his being unconfined to modes and forms, makes
him but the readier and more capable to please and
oblige all who know him. When he is in town he
lives in Soho Square. It is said, he keeps himself a
bachelor by reason he was crossed in love by a
perverse beautiful widow of the next county to him.

I. ^^'-^

t '

2 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

according to the tradition of the village where it
lies was bounded by the same hedges and ditches
in William the Conqueror's time that it is at pre-
sent, and has been delivered down from father to
son whole and entire, without the loss or acquisi Jon 20
of a single field or meadow, during the space of six
hundred years. My moiher has often told me, I
threw away my rattle before I was two months old,
and would not make use of my coral till they had
Uiken away the bells from it. 2$

As for the rest of my infancy, there being nothing
in it remarkable, I shall pass it over in silence. I
find, that, during my nonage, I had the reputation of
a very sullen youth, but was always a favourite of
my schoolmaster, who used to say, that my parts 30
were solid, and would wear well. I had not been
long at the university, before I distinguished myself
by a most profound silence : for, during the space
of eight years, excepting in the public exercises of
the college, I scarce uttered the quantity of an hun- 35
dred words ; and indeed do not remember that I
ever spoke three sentences together in my whole life.
Whilst I was in this learned body, I applied myself
with so much diligence to-my studies, that there are
Very few celebrated books, either in the learned or 40
the modern tongues, which I am not acquainted
with.

Upon the death of my father I was resolved to
travel into foreign countries, and therefore left the
university with the character of an odd unaccount- 45
able fellow, that had a great deal of learning, if I

Sr: ROGER DF COVERI.KY.

would but show it. An insatiable thirst after know-
led«;e carried me into all the countries of Europe,
in which there was any thing new or strange to be
seen ; nay, to such a degree was my curiosity raised,
that having read the controversies of some great men
concerning the antiquities of Egypt, I made a voyage
to Grand Cairo, on purpose to take the measure of a
pyramid ; and, as soon as I had set myself right in
that particular, returned to my native country with
great satisfaction.

I have passed my latter years in this city, where
I am frequently seen in most public places, though
there are not above half-a-dozen of my select friends
that know me ; of whom my next paper shall give a 60
more particular account. There is no place of
general resort wherein I do not often make my
appearance : sometimes t am seen thrusting m.y head
into a round of politicians at Will's, and listening
with great attention to the narratives that are made 65
in those little circular audiences. Sometimes I smoke
a pipe at Child's, and whilst I seem attentive to no-
thing but the postman, overhear the conversation
of every table in the ro m. I appear on Sunday
nights at St. James's coffee-house, and sometimes 70
join the little committee of politics in the inner
room, as one who comes there to hear and improve.
My face i5 likewise very well known at the Grecian,
the Cocoa-Tree, and in the theatres both of Drury-
Lane and the Haym'arket. I have been taken for, a 75
merchant upon the exchange for above these ten
years, and sometimes pass for a Jew in the assembly

V -i* I

■>A-m l

4 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

of stock-jobbers at Jonathan's : in short, where-
ever I see a cluster of people, I always mix wiili
them, though I never open my lips but in my own 80
club.

Thus I live in the world rather as a spectator of -
mankind, than as one of the species, by which
means I have made myself a speculative statesman,
soldier, merchant, and artizan, without ever meddling 85
with any practical part in life. I am very well
versed in the theory of a husband, or a father,
and can discern the errors in the economy, busi-
ness, and diversion of others, better than those who
are engaged in them ; as standers-by discover blots, 90
which are apt to escape those who are in the game.
I never espoused any party with violence, and am
resolved to observe an exact neutrality between the
Whigs and Tories, unless I shall be forced to declare
myself by the hostilities of either side. In short, I 95
have acted in all the parts of my life as a looker-on,
which is the character I intend to preserve in this
paper.

1 have given the reader just so much of my his-
tory and character, as to let him see I am not alto- 100
gether unqualified for the business I have under-
taken. As for other particulars in my life and
adventures, I shall insert them in following papers,
as I shall see occasion. In the meantime, when I
consider how much I have seen, read, and heard, I 105
begin to blame my own taciturnity ; and since I have
neither time nor inclination to communicate the
fulness of my heart in speech, I am resolved to do

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

100

105

it in writing ; and to print myself out, if possible,
before I die. 1 have been often told by my friends no
that it is a pity so many useful discoveries which I
have made, should be in the possession of a silent
man. For this reason, therefore, I shall publish a
sheet-full of thoughts every morning, for the benefit
of my contemporaries : and if I can any way con- 115
tribute to the diversion or improvement of the
country in which I live, I shall leave it, when I am
summoned out of it, with the secret satisfaction of
thinking that I have not lived in vain.

There are three very material points which 1 have 120
not spoken to in this paper ; and which, for several
important reasons, L must keep to myself, at least
for some time : I mean, an account of my name,
my age, and my lodgings. 1 must confess I would
gratify my reader in anything that is reasonable; 125
but as for these three particulars, though I am sen-
sible they might tend very much to the embellishment
of my paper, I cannot yet come to a resolution of
communicating them to the public. They would
indeed draw me out of that obscurity which I have 130
enjoyed for many years, and expose me in public
places to several salutes and civilities, which have
been always very disagreeable to me ; for the greatest
pain I can suffer is the being talked to, and being
stared at. It is for this reason, likewise, that I keep 135
my complexion and dress as very great secrets ;
though it is not impossible but 1 may make dis-
coveries of both in the progress of the work 1 have
undertaken. X,

V y'

< K

■ '.' )|

ii^l

fti

6 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

After having been thus particular upon myself, I 140
shall in to-morrow's paper give an account of those
gentlemen who are concerned with me in this work.
For, as I have before intimated, a plan of it is laid
and concerted, as all other matters of importance
are, in a club. However, as my friends have 145
engaged me to stand in the front, those who have a
mind to correspond with me may direct their letters
to the Spectator, at Mr. Buckley's, in Little Britain.
For I must further acquaint the reader, that though
our club meets only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, 150
we have appointed a committee to sit every night,
for the inspection of all such papers as may contri-
bute to the advancement of the public weal.

140

ADDISON'S

SIR ROGER DE COYERLEY.

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

[No. L

Non fuinum ex ftclgore, \'cd ex fuuio dare litceni
Co^itaty lit spcciosa dehinc niiracula proniat.

I have observed that a reader seldom peruses a
book with pleasure until he knows whether the writer
of it be a black or a fair man, of a mild or choleric
disposition, married or a bachelor, with other par-
ticulars of the like nature, that conduce very much to
the right understanding of an author. To gratify
this curiosity, which is so natural to a reader, I
design this paper, and my next, as prefatory dis-
courses to my following writings, and shall ^ive some
account in them of the several persons that are
engaged in this work. As the chief trouble of com-
piling, digesting, and correcting will fall to my
share, I must do myself the justice to open the
work with my own history.

I was born to a small hereditary estate, wh^ch,

I
I

■■■ ■' 1

< \-

1 ' X

•J '

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

(

! I

Before this disappointment, S'r Roger was what you
call a fine gentleman, had often supped with my Lord 20
Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a duel
upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully
Dawson in a public coffee-house for calling him
youngster. But being ill-used by the above-men-
tioned widow, he was very serious for a year and a 25
half; and though his temper being naturally jovial,
he at last got over it, he grew careless of himse.f and
never dressed afterwards ; he continues to wear a
coat and doublet of the same cut, that were in
fashion at the time of his repulse, which, in his 3c
merry humours, he tells us, has been in and out
twelve times since he first wdre it. He is now in
his fifty-sixth year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps
a good house in both town and country ; a great
lover of mankind ; but there is such a mirthful cast 35
in his behaviour, that he is rather beloved than
esteemed. . His tenants grow rich, his servants took
satisfied, all the young women profess love to him,
and the young men are glad of his company ; when
he comes into a house he calls the servants by their 4c
names, and talks all the way up stairs to a visit. I
must not omit that Sir Roger is a justice of the
quorum; that he fills the chair at a quarter-session
with great abilities, and three months ago, gained
universal applause by explaining a passage in the 45
game-act.

The gentleman next in esteem and authority
among us, is another bachelor, who is a member
of the Inner Temple ; a man of great probity, wit,

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

L 25

ps
at

St 35
Ian

he
on
ed
he 45

)er

fit,

and understanding ; but he has chosen his place of 50
residence rather to obey the direction of an old
humoursome father, than in pursuit of his own in-
clinations. He was placed there to study the laws
of the land, and is the most learned of any of the
house in those of the stage. Aristotle and Looginus 55
are much better understood by him than Littleton
or Coke. The father sends up every post questions
relating to marriage-articles, leases, and tenures,
in the neighbourhood ; all which questions he agrees
with an attorney to answer and take care of in the 60
lump. He is studying the passions themselves,
when he should be inquiring into the debates among
men which arise from them. He knows the argu-
ment of each of the orations of Demosthenes and
Tully ; but not one case in the reports of cur own 65
courts. No one ever took him for a fool, but none,
except his intimate friends, know he has a great
deal of wit. This turn makes him at once both
disinterested and agreeable ; as few of his thoughts
are drawn from business, they are most of them fit 70
for conversation. His taste of books is a little too
just for the age he lives in ; he has read all, but
approves of very few. His familiarity with the cus-
toms, manners, actions, and writings of the ancients,
makes him a very delicate observer of what occurs 75
to him in the present world. He is an excellent
critic, and the time of the play is his hour of
business ; exactly at five he passes through New Inn,
crosses through Russell Court ; and takes a turn at
Wills' till the play begins ; he has his shoes rubbed 80

* '^M

• 'I

" h I I

'mi

n '

■1

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

and his periwig powdered at the barber's, as you go
into the Rose. It is for the good of the audience
when he is at a play, for the actors have an ambi-
tion to please Uixn.

The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew 85
Freeport, a merchant of great eminence in the
city of London. A person of indefatigable industry,
strong -reason, and great experience. His notions
of trade are noble and generous, and (as every rich
man has usually some sly way of jesting, which go
would make no great f j:;ure were he not a rich man)
he calls the sea the British Common. He is ac-
quainted with commerce io all its parts, and will tell
you that it is a stupid and barbarous way to extend
dominion by arms ; for true power is to be got by 95
arts and industry. He will often argue, that if this ,
part of our trade were well cultivated, we should
gain from one nation, — and if another, from another.
1 have heard him prove that diligence makes more
lasting acquisitions than valour, and that sloth has 100
ruined more nations than the sword. He abounds
in several frugal maxims, amongst which the greatest
favourite is, *' A penny saved is a penny got." A
general trader of good sense is pleasanter company
than a general scholar ; and Sir Andrew having a 105
natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his
discourse gives the same pleasure that wit would in
another man. He has made his fortunes himself ;
and says that England may be richer than other
kingdoms, by as plain methods as he himself is no
richer than other men ; though at the same time I can

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

100

a 105

is
n

say this of him, that there is not a point in the com-
pass but blows home a ship in which he is an
owner.

Kext to Sir Ant'iew in the club-room sits Cap- 115
tain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good
understanding, but invincible modesty. He is one
of those that deserve very well, but are very awkward
at putting their talents within the observation of
such as should take notice of them. He was some 120
years a captain, and behaved himself with great
gallantry in several engagements, and at several
sieges ; but having a small estate of his own, and
being next heir to Sir Roger, he has quitted a way
of life in which no man can rise suitably to his 125
merit, who is not something of a courtier as well as
a soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a
profession where merit is placed in so conspicuous a
view, impudence should get the better of modesty.
When he has talked to this purpose, I never heard 130
him make a sour expression, but frankly confess that
he left the world, because he was not fit for it. A
strict honesty, and an even regular behaviour, are in
themselves obstacles to him that must press through
crowds, who endeavour at the same end with him- 135
self, the favour of a commander. He will, however,
in his way of talk, excuse generals, for not dis-
posing according to men's desert, or enquiring into
it : for, says he, that great man who has a mind
to help me, has as many to break through to come at 140
me, as I have to come at him : therefore he will
conclude, that the man who would make a figure,

i M

-4

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

especially in a military way, must get over all false
modesty, and assist his patron against the importu-
nity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in 145
his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice
to be backward in asserting what you ought to expect,
as it is a military fear to be slow in attacking when
it is your duty. With this candour does the gentle-
man speak of himself and others. The same frank- 150
ness runs through all his conversation. The military
part of his life has furnished him with many adven-
tures, in the relation of which he is very agreeable
to t^e company ; for he is never over-bearing, though
accustomed to command men in the utmost degree 153
below him ; nor ever too obsequious, from an habit
of obeying men highly above him.

But that our society may not appear a set of hu-
mourists unacquainted with the gallantries and plea-
sures of the age, we have among us the gallant 160
Will Honeycomb, a gentleman who, according to
his years, should be in the decline of his life, but
having ever been very careful of his person, and
always had a very easy fortune, time has made but
a very little injpression, either by wrinkles on his 165
forehead, or traces in his brain. His person is
well turned, and of a good height. He is very
ready at that sort of discourse with which men
usually entertain women. He has all his life
dressed very well, and remembers habits as others 170
do men. He can smile when one speaks to him,
and laughs easily. He knows the history of every
mode, and can inform you from what French

150

160

s 170

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

women our wives and daughters had this man-
ner of curhng their hair, that way of placing their 175
hoods, and whose vanity to show her foot made
that part of the dress so short in such a year. In
a word, all his conversation and knowledge have
been in the female world. As other men of his
age will take notice to you what such a minister 180
said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell
you when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court
such a woman was then smitten, another was taken
with him at the head of his troop in the Park. For
all these important relations, he has ever about the 185
same time received a kind glance, or a blow of a
fan, from some celebrated beauty, mother of the pre-
sent lord such-a-one. This way of talking of his,
very much enlivens the conversation among us of a
more sedate turn ; and I find there is not one of the 190
company but myself, who rarely speak at all, but
speaks of him as of that sort of man, who is usually
called a well-bred fine gentleman. To conclude his
chan.cter, where women are not concerned, he is an
honest worthy man. 195

I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I
am next to speak of, as one of our company ; for he
visits us but seldom, but when he does, it adds to
every man else a new enjoyment of himself. He is
a clergyman, a very philosophic man, of general 200
learning, great sanctity of life, and the most exact
good breeding. He has .the misfortune to be of a
very weak constitution, and consequently cannot
accept of such cares and business as preferments in

^ :■'*

^' I Vl:

H *

•■- -a ' 1

J-SI I

'I'**'*

-S-- -|-

LiMfii il

t.it

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

his function would oblige him to ; he is therefore 205
among divines what a chamber-counsellor is among
lawyers. The probity of his mind, and the integ-
rity of his life, create him followers, as being elo-
quent or loud advances others. He seldom intro-
duces the subject he speaks upon; but we are so 210
far gone in years that he observes, when he is among
us, an earnestness to have him fall on some divine
topic, which he always treats with much authority,
as one who has no interests in this world, as one
who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and 215
conceives hope from his decays and infirmities.

These are my o.dinary companions.

[No. 106.

CHAPTER II.

COVERLEY HALL

•Ilic tibi copia

Manabit ad plenum y bcnigno
Ruris ho no mm opuUnta com it.

— Hor.

Having often received an invitation from my friend
Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him
in the country, I last week accompanied him thither,
and am settled with him for some time at his country-
house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing 5
speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted
with my humour, lets me rise and go to bed when I
please, dine at his own table or in my chamber as I

SIR ROGKR DE COVERLEY.

Id
I

think fit, sit still and say nothing without bidding me
be merry. When the gentlemen of the county come lo
to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I
have been walking in his fields, I have observed them
stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard
the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for
that I hated to be staroa at. i 5

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because
it consists of sober and staid persons ; for, as the
knight is the best master in the world, he seldom
changes his servants ; and, as he is beloved by all
about him, his servants never care for leaving him ; 20
by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown
old with their master. You would take his valet-de-
chambre for his brother, his butler is grey-headed, his
groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen,
and his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. 2^
You see the goodness of the master even in the old
house-dog, and in a grey pad that is kept in the stable
with great care and tenderness out of regard to his
past services, though he has been useless for several
years. 30

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure
the joy that appeared in the countenances of these
ancient domestics, upon my friend's arrival at his
country seat. Some of them could not refrain from
tears at the sight of their old master ; every one of 35
them pressed forward to do something for him, and
seemed discouraged if they were not employed. At
the same time the good old knight, with the mixture
of the father and master of the family, tempered the

-• H

SIR ROCKR DK CO\ KRLKY.

inquiries after his own affairs with several k\nd ques- 40
tions relating to themselves. This humanity and good
nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is
pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good
humour, and none so much as the person whom he
diverts himself with ; on the contrary, if he coughs, 45
or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a
stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of
all his servants.

My worthy friend has put me under the particular
care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as 50
well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully de-
sirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard
their master talk of me as of his particular friend.

My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting
himself in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable 55
man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his
house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years.
This gentleman is a person of good sense and some
learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversa-
tion. He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that 60
he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so that
he lives in the family rather as a relation than a de-
pendant.

I have observed in several of my papers, that my
friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is 65
something of an humorist ; and that his virtues, as
well as imperfections, are as it were tinged by a cer-
tain extravagance, which makes them particularly his,
and distinguishes them from those of other men. This
cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, 70

SIR ro(;er de covkrley.

so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and
more delightful than the same degree of sense and
virtue would appear in their common and ordinary
colours. As I was walking with him last night, he
asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just 75
now mentioned ; and without staying for my answer,
told me that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin
and Greek at his own table ; for which reason he de-
sired a particular friend of his at the university to find
him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much So
learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable
temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little
of backgammon. " My friend," says Sir Roger,
** found me out this gentleman, who, besides the en-
dowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good 85
scholar, though he does not show it. I have given
him the parsonage of the parish ; and because I know
his value, have settled upon him a good annuity for
life. If he outl' /es me, he shall find that he was higher
in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has 90
now been with me thirty years ; and though he does
not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all
that time asked anything of me for himself, though he
is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of
one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There 95
has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived
among them ; if any dispute arises, they apply them-
selves to him for the decision ; i^ they do not acquiesce
in his judgr.ient, which I think never happened above
once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first 100
settling with me, I made him a present of all the

1 f

V''- '■'if

P -A-

SIR KOGFJ^ I)K COVFRI.KY.

good seniions which have been printed in English,
and only begged of him, thai every Sunday he would
pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordin^N^
he has digested them into such a series, that they 105
follow one another naturally, ami make a continued
system of practical divinity."'

As Sir Roger was going on with his story, the
gentleman we were talking of came up to us ; and
upon the knight's asking him who preached to-mor- 1 10
row (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop
of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the
afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers
for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of
pleasure Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, 115
Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors,
who have published discourses of practical divinity.
I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but
I very much approved of my friend's insisting upon
the qualifications of a good aspect and a clear voice ; 120
for 1 was so charmed with the gracefulness of his
figure and delivery, as well as wirh the discourses he
pronounced, that I think I never passed any time
more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after
this manner is like the composition of a poet in the 125
mouth of a graceful actor. .

I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy
would follow this example, and instead of wasting
their spirits in laborious compositions of their own,
would endeavour after a handsome elocution, and all 130
those other talents that are proper to enforce what
has been penned by greater masters. This would not

SIR ROGER DE CUVKRLKY.

only be more easy to themselves, but more eiUfying

to the people.

lKo. 108.

CHAPTER HI.

THE COVERLEY CUESI".

Oralis anhelaus^ mitlta agendo nihil ati'i-ttx.

--riuul.

As I was yesterday mornin}:; walking with Sir
Roger before his house, a country-fellow brought
him a huge tish, which, he told him, Mr. Will
Wimble had caught that morning ; and that he
presented it, with his service to him, and intended 5
to come and dine with him. At the same time he
delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as
soon as the messenger left him : —

" Sir Roger,
*' I desire you to accept of a jack, which is the 10
best I have caught this season. I intend to coine
and stay with you a week, and see how the perch
bite in the Black River. I observed with some con-
cern, the last time I saw you upon the bowling-
green, that your whip wanted a lash to it ; I will 15
bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week,
which I hope will serve you all the time you are in
the country. I have not been out of the saddle for
six days past, having b^en '^t Eton with Sir John's
eldest son. He iakes to his learning hugely. I am, 20
*' Sir, your humble servant,

♦* Will Wimble."

,.»^

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

M '•

This extraordinary letter, and message that accom-
panied it, made me very curious to know the character
and quality of the gentleman who sent them ; which 25
I found to be as follows : Will Wimble is younger
brother to a baronet, and descended of the ancient
family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and
fifty : but being bred to no business, and born to no
estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as "^o
superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of
dogs better than any man in the country, and is
very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely
well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man :
he makes a May-fiy to a miracle ; and furnishes the 35
whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good-
natured officious fellow, and very much esteemed
upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest
at every house, and keeps up a good correspondence
among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a 40
tulip-root in his pocket from one to another, or
exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that
live perhaps in the opposite sides of the county.
Will is a particular favourite of all the young heirs,
whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has 45
weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself.
He now and then presents a pair of garters of his
own knitting to their mothers or sisteri: ; and raises
a great deal of mirth among them, by enquiring as
often as he meets them, how they wear ? These 50
gentleman-like manufactures and obliging little hu-
mours, make Will the darling of the country.

Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of

SIR ROGER DE COVERLKV.

him, when we saw him make up to us with two or
three hazel-twigs in his hand that he had cut in Sir 55
Roger's woods, as he came througli them, in his
way to the house. I was very much pleased to ob-
serve on one side the hearty and sincere welcome
with which Sir Roger received him, and on the
other, the secret joy which his juest discovered at 60
sight of the good old knight. After the first salutes
were over, Will desired Sir Roger to lend him
one of his servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks
he had with him in a little box, to a lady that lived
about a mile off, to whom it seems he had pro- 65
mised such a present for above this half-year. Sir
Roger's back was no sooner turned but honest
Will began to tell me of a large cock-pheasant
that he had sprung in one of the neighbouring
woods, with two or three other adventures of the 70
same nature. Odd and uncommon characters are
the game that I look for, and most delight in ; for
which reason I was as rr xh pleased with the no-
velty of the person that taFked to me, as he could be
for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and 7^
therefore listened to him with more than ordinary
attention.

In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to
dinner, where the gentleman I have been speaking
of had the pleasure of seeing the huge jack he had 80
caught served up for the first dish in a most sumptu-
ous manner. Upon our sitting down to it he gave
us a long account how he had hooked it, played with
it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank,

% \

■mI

l<j 'I

?'.;

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

with several other particulars that lasted all the first S5
course. A dish of wild fowl that came afterwards
furnished conversation for the rest of the dinner,
which concluded with a late invention of Will's for
improvinj^ the quail-pipe.

Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I 90
was secretly touched with :ompassion towards the
honest gentleman that had dined with us ; and could
not but consider with a great deal of concern, how
so good an heart and such busy hands were wholly
employed in trifles ; that so much humanity should 95
be so little beneficial to others, and so much industry
so little advantageous to himself. The same temper
of mind and application to affairs might have re-
commended him to the public esteem, and have
raised his fortune in another station of life. What 100
good to his country or himself might not a trader
or merchant have done with such useful though ordi-
nary qualifications !

Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger
brother of a great f^imily, who had rather see their 105
children starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a
trade or profession that is beneath their quality.
This humour fills several parts of Europe with
pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trad-
ing nation, like ours, that the younger sons, though no
incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be
placed in such a way of life, as may perhaps enable
them to vie with the best of their family : accord-
ingly we find several citizens that were launched
into the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an 115

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY

honest industry to greater estates than those of their

elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was

formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic ; and

that finding his genius did not lie that way, his

parents gave him up at length to his own inven- 120

tions. But certainly, however improper he might

have been for studies of a higher nature, he was

perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade

and commerce.

■h^.

' -t-'

m^'

'"1.1 '

[No. 110.

CHAPTER IV.
THE COVERLEY GHOST.

Horror ubiquc animos, simul ipsa silcntia toTcnt.

-Virg.

At a little distance from Sir Roger's house,
among the ruins of an old abbey, there is a long
walk of aged elms ; which are shot up so very high,
that when one passes under them, the rooks and
crows that rest upon the tops of them seem to be
cawing in another region. I am very much delighted
with this sort of noise, which I consider as a kind of
natural prayer to that Being who supplies the wants
of his whole creation, and nho, in the beautiful
language of the Psalms, feedeth the young ravens
that call upon him. I like this retirement the bet-
ter, because of an ill report it lies under of being
haunted ; for which reason (as I have been told in
the family) no living creature ever walks in it be-

■\

!t;if

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

sides the chaplain. My good Friend the buller de- 15
sired me with a very grave face not to venture my-
self in it after sunset, for that one of the footmen
had been almost frightened out of his wits by a
spirit that appeared to him in the shape of a black
horse without an head ; to which he added, that 20
about a month ago one of the maids coming home
late that way with a pail of milk upon her head,
heard such a rustling among the bushes that she let
it fall.

I was taking a walk in this place last night be- 25
tween the hours of nine and ten, and could not but
fancy it one of the most proper scenes in the world
for a ghost to appear in. The ruins of the abbey
are scattered up and down on every side, and half
covered with ivy and elder bushes, the harbours of 30
several solitary birds, which seldom make their ap-
pearance till the dusk of the evening. The place
was formerly a churchyard, and has still several
marks in it of graves and burying-places. There is
such an echo among the old ruins and vaults, that 35
if you stamp but a little louder than ordinary, you
hear the sound repeated. At the same time the
walk of elms, with the croaking of the ravens,
which, from time to time, are heard from the tops of
them, looks exceedingly solemn and venerable. These 40
objects naturally raise seriousness and attention ;
and when night heightens the awfulness of the
place, and pours out her supernumerary horrors upon
everything in it, I do not at all wonder that weak
minds fill it with spectres and apparitions, 45

SIR ROGER DK COVERLEY

t 35

Mr. Locke, in his chapter of the Association of
Ideas, ^ has very curious remarks to shew how by the
prejudice of education one idea often introduces
into the mind a whole set that bear no resemblance
to one another in the nature of things. Among
several examples of this kind, he produces the fol-
lowing instance : — The ideas of goblins and sprites
have really no more to do with darkness than light ;
yet let but a foolish maid inculcate these often on the
mind of a child, and raise them there together, pos-
sibly he shall never be able to separate them again
so long as he lives ; but darkness shall ever after-
wards bring with it those frightful ideas, and they
shall be so joined, that he can no more bear the one
than the other.

As 1 was walking in this solitude, where the dusk
of the evening conspired with so many other occa-
sions of terror, I observed a cow grazing not far
from me, which an imagination that is apt to startle
might easily have construed into a black horse with-
out an head ; and I daresay the poor footman lost
his wits upon some such trivial occasion.

My friend Sir Roger has often told me, with a
great deal of mirth, that at his fust coming to his
estate he found three parts of his house altogether
useless ; that the best room in it had the reputation
of being haunted, and by that means was locked up ;
that noises had been heard in his long gallery, so

:>D

r '-i

' 1;

!^: i

* Locke's ** Essay on the Human Understanding,'
Book IL, chap. 33.

SIR ROGER DK COVERLEY

that he could not get a servant to enter it after eight
o'clock at night ; that the door of one of his cham- 75
bers was nailed up, because there went a story in the
family that a butler had formerly hanged himself in
it ; and that his mother, who lived to a great age,
had shut up half the rooms in the house, in which
either her husband, a son, or daughter had died. 80
The knight seeing his habitation reduced to so
small a compass, and himself in a manner shut out
of his own house, upon the death of his mother
ordered all the apartments to be flung open, and
exorcised by his chaplain, who lay in every room 85
one after another, and by that means dissipated the
fears which had so long reigned in the family.

I should not have been thus particular upon these
ridiculous horrors, did I not find them so very much
prevail in all parts of the country. At the same time 90
I think a person who is thus terrified with the ima-
gination of ghosts and spectres much more reason-
able than one who, contrary to the reports of all
historians sacred and profane, ancient and modern,
and to the traditions of all nations, thinks the 95
appearance of spirits fabulous and groundless. Could
not I give myself up to this general testimony of
mankind, I should to the relations of particular
persons who are now living, and whom [ cannot dis-
trust in other matters of fact. I might here add, 100
that not only the historians, to whom we may join
the poets, but likewise the philosophers of antiquity,
have favoured this opinion. Lucretius himself,
though by the course of his philosophy he was

SIR ro(;kr de covkrley.

obliged to maintain that the soul did not exist sepa- 105
rate from the body, makes no dniibt of the reality
of apparitions, and that men have often appeared
after tiieir death. This I think very remarkable ;
he was so pressed with the matter of fact, which he
could not have the confidence to deny, that he was 1 10
forced to account for it by one of the most absurd
unphilosophical notions that was ever started. He
tells us, that the surfaces of all bodies are perpetu-
ally flying off from their respective bodies, one after
another; and that these surfaces or thin cases that it$
included each other whilst they were joined in the
body like the coats of an onion, are sometimes seen
entire when they are separated from it ; by which
means we often behold the shapes and shadows of
persons who are either dead or absent. 1 20

''i

[No. 112.

CHAPTER V.
THE COVERLEY SUNDAY.

'AOavdr CD's /.ley npd^va (teovi, y6f.icp cJ$ SidHEirai,
Ti/ud ' — Pyth.

I am always very well pleased with a country Sun-
day ; and think, if keeping holy the seventh day
were were only a human institution, it would be
the best method that could have been thought of for
the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain
the country people would soon degenerate into a

SIR KOGKK Di: COV LKLLY.

kind of b.i\;i^es and barbaiinns, were there not such
frequent returns of a stated time, in which the
whole, village meet togetlicr with their best faces,
and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one K>
another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties
explained to them, and join together in adoration of
the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust
of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their
minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both 15
the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable
forms, and exerting all such ciualities as are apt to
give them a figure in the eye of the village. A
country fellow distinguishes himself as much in the
churchyard, as a citizen does upon the 'Change, 20
the whole parish politics being generally discussed
in that place either after sermon or before the bell
rings.

My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman,
has beautified the inside of his church with sevral 25
texts of his own choosing. He has likewise given a
handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the communion
table at his own expense. He has often told me,
that at his coming to his estate he found his
parishioners very irregular ; and that in order to 30
make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave
every one of them a hassock and a Common Prayer
Book ; and at the same ti' ^e employed an itinerant
singing-master, who goes about the country for that
purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the 35
psalms ; upon which they now very much value them-

SJK RO(,KR DK COVKRLKV

selves, and indeed outdo most of the toiuUry
churches that I have ever he.»'*d.

As Sir Roger is l.imliord to the whole congre-
gation, he keeps thcni in very good order, and will 40
suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself ; for if
by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at
sermon, upon recovering out of it lie stands up and
looks about him, and if he sees an) body else nod-
ding, either wakes them himself, or sends iiis ser- 45
vant to them. Several other of the old knight's
particularities break out upon these occasions.
Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the
singing-psalms, half a minute after the rest of the
congregation have done with it ; sometimes, when 50
he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he
pronounces Amen three or four times to the same
prayer ; and sometimes stands up when everybody
else is upon their knees, to count the congregation,
or see if any of his tenants are missing. ^^

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my
old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out
to one John Matthews to mind what he was about,
and not disturb the congregation. This John Mat-
thews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, 60
and at that time was kicking his heels for his diver-
sion. This authority of the knight, though exerted
in that odd manner which accompanies him in all
circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon
the parish, who are not polite enough to see any 65
thing ridiculous in his behaviour ; besides that the
general good sense and worthiness of his cl)ftr*gt^r

■ '1

Mil

h \

^V; f

SIR ROCKK I)K COVl-.KLKV.

makes his friends observe these little sinj4ul.11 it ies
as foils that rather set off than blcniit,h his good
qualities.

As soon as the sermon is linishcd, nobody pre-
siuncs to strir tiJI Sir Koijer is j;one out of the church.
The knight walks down from his seat in the ch.mcel
between a double row of liis tenants, that stand
bowing to him on each side ; and every now and then 75
cnciuires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son,
or father do, whom he docs not see at church ; which
is unders'ood as a secret reprimand to tiie person
that is absent.

The chaplain has often told mo, that u[)()n a cnte- So
chising day, when Sir Roger li.is been pleiused with
a boy that answers well, he has ordered a liible to
be given him next day for his encouragement ; and
sometimes accompanies it with a llitch of bacon
to h's mother. Sir Roger has likewise added live 85
pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and that he may
encourage the young fellows to make themselves per-
fect in the church servii;e, has promised, upon the
death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to
bestow it according to mcrii. 90

The fair understanding between Sir Roger and
his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing
good, is the more remarkable, because the very next
village is famous for the differences and contentions
that rise between the parson and the squire, who 95
live in a peipetual state of war. The parson is
always preaching at the squire, and the squire to
be revenged on the pair.on never comes to chmch,

SIR K()(;i:k dic covi:klky.

The s(jiiire has made all his tenants alhodsts iuvtl
tithc-stealcrs ; while the parson inbtructs thcMn every loo
Smuiay in the dij^iily of his order, and insinu;Ues
to them in ahnost every sermon that he is a better
man than his patron. In short, matters arc come
to such an extremity, tluit the s(niirc lias not said
his prayers cillier ii\ public or private this half year ; 105
and that the [)arson threatens him, if he docs not
mend his manners, to pray for hini in the f.ice of the
whole con^'rei^.ktion.

Feuds of til is nature, though too fre(|ucnt in the
country, are very fatal to the ordinary per)ple ; who 110
are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay
as much deference to the understandini( of a man
of an estate, as of a man of learning ; and are very
hardly brought to regard any truth, how important
soever it maybe, that is preached to them, when they 1 15
know there are sevenU men of five hundred a year
who do not believe it.

,L^

[No. U5.

CHAPTER VI.

THE COVKRLEY EXKRCISE.

^// si/ mens sana in corpore saiio.

— Juv.

Bodily labour is of two kinds, either that which
a man submits to for his livelihood, or that which
he undergoes for his pleasure. The latter of theui

lX'F

3«

S1K Kl)(;i.K 1)1 I ()\ !• KI.KV.

j;cncr.»lly clian^;cs llu* n.une (»! I.ihoiir for th.»l of
exercise, but dilTcrs only from or<liiiaiy l.ilioiir as it 5
rises from another motive.

A covmtry life ahnumls m l»oili these kinds of
labour, and for that irason j^ives a man a j;reater
stock of health, and conse»|iicnlly a more perfect
enjoyment of himself, than any other way of life. 10
I consider the Ixxly as a system of tnl>cs and glands,
or, to use .1 more rustic phrase, a bundle of pipes
and strainers, titled to one another after so wonderful
a juanner as to make a proper cn}:;ine for the soul to
work with, 'i'his description docs not oidy compre- i;
hend the bowels, bones, tendons, veins, nerves and
arteries, but every muscle and every li^^^lure, which
is a composition of fdiitjs, that are so many imper-
ceptible tubes or pipes inlcrwovcn on all sides with
invisible glands or strainers. ' 20

This general idea of a human body, without con-
sidering it in its niceties of anatomy, lets us see how
absolutely necessary labour is for the right preserva-
tion of it. There must be fre'pic : motions and agi-
tations, to mix, digest, and separate the juices con- 25
tained in it, as well as to clear and cleanse that
infinitude of pipes and strainers of which it is com-
posed, and to give their solid parts a more firm and
lasting tone. Labour or exercise ferments the humours,
casts them into their proper channels, throws off re- 30
dundancies, and helps nature in those secret distribu-
tions, without which the body cannot subsist in its
vigour, nor the soul act with cheerfulness.

I might here mention the effects which this has

SIR ROdKR I)F. COVl.RI.KV.

upon all tlic faculties of the iMiiid, by keeping; the
iiii(lcr-.tan(iin^ clear, the iina;.;inati<)!i iintroiihlcl, and
rclinirj^ those spirits that arc necessary for the proper
cxerliofi of our intcllec lu.il f.u ullies, duiin)^ the pre-
sent laws of union between soul and body. It is to a
ne^'.lect in this i)arlicular that we nivist ascribe the 40
spleen, which is so frc(|uent in men of studious and
sedentary tempers, as well as the vapours, to which
those of the other sex are so often subject.

Had not exercise been absolutely necessary for our
well-being, nature would not have made the body so 45
l)roper for it, by giving such an activity to the limbs,
and such a pliancy to every part, as necessarily pro-
duce those compressions, extensions, contortions,
dilatations, and all other kinds of motions that are
necessary for the presr^rvation of such a system of 50
tubes and glands as has been before mentioned. And
that we might not want inducements to engage us in
such an exercise of the body as is proper for its wel-
fare, it is so ordered that nothing valuable can be pro-
cured without it. Not to mention riches and honour, 55
even food and raiment are not to be come at witliout
the toil of the hands and sweat of the brows. Trovi-
dence furnishes materials, but expects that we should
work them up ourselves. The earth must be laboured
before it gives its increase, and when it is forced into 60
its several product?, how many hands must they pass
through before thoy are fit for use ? Manufactures,
trade, and agricrlture, naturally employ more than
nineteenth parts of the species in twenty ; and as for
those who are ret obliged to labour, by the condition 65

III

A '^'.

iv:

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

in whicli they arc born, they are more miserable
than the rest of mankind, unless they indulge them-
selves in that voluntary labour which goes by the name
of exercise.

My friend Sir Roger has been an indefatigable 70
man in business of this kind, and has hung several
parts of his house with the trophies of his former la-
bours. The walls of his great hall are covered with
the horns of several kinds of deer that he has killed
in the chace, which he thinks the most valuable furni- "j^
ture of his house, as they afford him frequent topics
of discourse, and shew that he has not been idle. At
the lower end of the hall, is a large otter's skin
stuffed with hay, which his mother ordered to be
hung up in that manner, and the knight looks upon it 80
with great satisfaction, because it seems he was but
nine years old when his dog killed him. A little
room adjoining to the hall is a kind of arsenal filled
with guns of several sizes and inventions, with which
the knight has made great havoc in the woods, and S5
destroyed many thousands of pheasants, partridges
and woodcocks. His stable doors are patched with
noses that belonged to foxes of the knight's own hunt-
ing down. Sir Roger shewed me one of them that
for distinction's sake has a brass nail stuck through it, 90
which cost him about fifteen hours' riding, carried him
through half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of
geldings, and lost about half his dogs. This the
knight looks upon as one of the greatest exploits of
his life. The perverse widow, whom I have given 95
some account of, was the death of several foxes ; for

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

Sir Roger has told me that in the course of his
amours he patched tlie western door of his stable.
Whenever the widow was cruel, the foxes were sure
to pay for it. In proportion as his passion for the 100
widow abated and old age came on, he left oft" fox-
hunting ; but a hare is not yet safe that sits within
ten miles of his house.

There is no kind of exercise which I would so re-
commend to my readers of both sexes as this of riding, 105
as there is none which so much conduces to health,
and is every way accommodated to the body, accord-
ing to the idea which I have given of it. Dr. Syden-
ham is very lavish in its praises ; and if the English
reader will seethe mechanical effects of it described no
at length, he may find them in a book published not
many years since, under the title of " Medicina Gym-
nastica." For my own part, when I am in town, for
want of these opportunities, I exercise myself an hour
every morning upon a durib-bcli that is placed in [15
a corner of my room, and pleases nic the more be-
cause it does everything I rccpiirc of it in the most
profound silence. My landlady and her daughters
are so well acquainted with my hours of exercise, that
they never come into my room to disturb me whilst 120
I am ringing.

When I was some years younger than I am at pre-
sent, I used to employ myself in a more laborious
diversion, which I learned from a Latin treatise of
exercises that is written with great erudition : It is 125
there called the aynoiiaxui^ or the fighting with a
man's own shadow, and consists in the brandishing

(JS

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

of two short sticks grasped in each hand, and loaden
with plugs of lead at either end. Ihis opens the
chest, exercises the liinbs, and gives a man all the 13c
pleasure of boxing without the blows. I could wish
that several learned men would lay out that time
which they employ in controversies and disputes
about nothing, in this method of fighting with their
own shadows. It might conduce very much to evap- 135
orate the spleen, which makes them uneasy to the
public as well as to themselves.

To conclude, as I am a compound of soul and body,
I consider myself as obliged to a double scheme of
duties ; and I think I have not fulfilled the business 140
of the day when I do not thus employ the one in
labour and exercise, as well as the other in study and
contemplation.

[NO. 117.

CHAPTER VII.

THE COVERLEY WITCH,

•Ij^si iitli svinmw fnfjvnt.

■Virg.

There are some opinions in which a man shculd
♦ stand neuter, without engaging his assent to one side
or the other. Such a hovering faith as this, which re-
fuses to settle upon any determination, is absolutely
necessary to a mind that is careful to avoid errors
and prepossessions. When the arguments press
equally on both sides in matters that are inQifferent

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 37

to us, the safest method is to give up ourselves to
neither.

It is with this temper of mind that I consider the
subject of witchcraft. When 1 hear the relations 10
that are made from all parts of the world, not only
from Norway and Lapland, from the East and West
Indies, but from every particular nation in Europe,
1 cannot forbear thinkii^g that ihere is such an inter-
course and commerce with evil spirits, as that which 15
we express by the name of witchcraft. But when I
consider that the ignorant and credulous parts of the
world abound most in these relations, and that the
persons among us, who are supposed to engage in
such an infernal commerce, are people of a weak un- 20
derstanding and a crazed imagination, and at the
same time reflect upon the many impostures and de-
lusions of this nature that have been detected in all
ages, I endeavour to suspend my belief till I hear
more certain accounts than any which have yet come 25
to my knowledge. In short, when I consider the
question, whether there are such persons in the world
as those we call winches, my mind is divided be-
tween the two opposite opinions ; or rather (to speak
my thoughts freely) I believe in general that there is 30
and has been such a thing as witchcraft ; but at the
same time can give no credit to any particular in-
stance of it.

I am engaged in this speculation, by some occur-
rences that I met with yesterday, which I shall give 35
my reader an account of at large. As 1 was walking
with my friend Sir Roger by the side of one of hui

i'fc-

ir k

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

i'liii.

woods, an old woman applied herself to me for my
charity. Her dress and figure put me in mind of the
following description in Otway.

/n a close lane, as I pursued my journey ,

I spied a zvrifikled hag, ivith a^e grotvn double^

Picking dry sticks, and mumbling to herself.

Her eyes ivitJi scalding rheum ivere galPd and red,

Coll paliy shook her hea I ; her hands seemed wither''d ; 45

yind on her cro-ked shoulders had she 'wrap''t

The tatter d remnants of an old striped hangings

Which served to keep her carcass from the cold:

So thei-ewax nothing of a piece about her.

Her lower weeds 7ve re all o^er coarsely pate h\l tp

With diff^rent-colour'drags, black, red^ luhite, yillo7Vt

And seemed to speak variety of wretchedness.

As I was musing on this description, and compar-
ing it with the object before me, the knight told me
that this very old woman had the reputation of a witch 55
all over the country, that her lips were observed
to be always in motion, and that there was not a
switch about her house which her neighbours did not
believe had carried her several hundreds of miles. If
she chanced to stumble, they always found sticks or 60
straws that lay in the figure of a cross before her.
If she made any mistake at church, and cried Amen
in the wrong place, they never failed to conclude that
she was saying her prayers backwards. There was
not a maid in the parish that would take a pin of her, 65
though she would offer a bag of money with it. She
goes by the name of Moll White, and has made the
country ring with several imaginary exploits which are
palmed upon her. If the dairy maid does not make

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

; 45

,r-
le
^'h
bd
a

lOt

If
or
er.
ten
hat
'as
ler, 65
>he
[the
lare
ake

her butter come so soon as she would have it, Moll 70
White is at the bottom of the churn. If a horse
• sweats in the stable, Moll White has been upon his
back. If a hare makes an unexpected escape from
the hounds, the huntsman curses Moil White. Nay,
(says Sir Roger) I have known the master of the pack, 75
upon such an occasion, send one of his servants to
see if Moll White had been out that morning.

This account raised my curiosity so far, that I beg-
ged my friend Sir Roger to go with me into her hovel,
which stood in a solitary corner under the side of the 80
wood. Upon our first entering Sir Roger winked to
me, and pointed at something that stood behind the
door, which, upon looking that way, I found to be an
old broom-staff. At the same time he whispered me
in the ear to take notice of a tabby cat that sat in the 85
chimney-corner, which, as the old knight told me,
lay under as bad a report as Moll White herself ; foi*
besides that Moll is said often to accompany her in
the same shape, the cat is reported to have spoken
twice or thrice in her life, and to have played several 90
pranks above the capacity of an ordinary cat.

I was secretly concerned to see human nature in so
much wretchedness and disgrace, but at the same
time could not forbear smiling to hear Sir Roger,
who is a little puzzled about the old woman, advising 95
her as a justice of the peace to avoid all communi-
cation with the devil, and never to hurt any of her
neighbours' cattle. We concluded our visit with a
bounty, which was very acceptable.

In our return home. Sir Roger told me, that old 100

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

Moll had been often brought before him for making
children spit pins, and giving maids the night-mare ;
and that the country people would be tossing her into
a j^ond and trying experiments with her every day, if
it was not for him and his chaplain. ♦ 105

I have since found upon enquiry, that Sir Roger
was several times staggered with the reports that
had been brought him concerning this old woman,
and would frequently have bound her over to the
county sessions, had not his chaplain with much ado 1 10
persuaded him to the contrary.

I have been the more particular in this account,
because 1 hear there is scarce a village in England
that has not a Moll White in it. When an old
woman begins to doat, and grow chargeable to a 115
parish, she is generally turned into a witch, and fills
the whole country with extravagant fancies, imagi-
nary distempers, and terrifying dreams. In the mean
time, the poor wretch that is the innocent occasion
of so many evils begins to be frighted at herself, 120
and sometimes confesses secret commerces and famil-
iarities that her imagination forms in a delirious old
age. This frequently cuts off charity from the great-
est objects of compassion, and inspires people with
a malevolence towards those poor decrepid parts of 125
our species, in whom human nature is defaced by
infirmity and dotage^

SIR ROGER DK COVERLEV.

[No. 121.

CHAPTER VIII.

ON INSTINCT.

In^cniuNi-

-Equidcm credo^ quia sit Divitiihis illis

— Virg.

120

As I was walking this morning in the great yard that
belongs to my friend's country house, I was wonder-
fully pleased to see the different workings of instinct
in a hen followed by a brood of ducks. The young,
upon the eight of a pond, immediately ran into it ; 5
while the step-mother, with all imaginable anxiety,
hovered about the borders of it, to call them out of
an element that appeared to her so dangerous and de-
structive. As the different principle which acted in
these different animals cannot be termed reason, so, 10
when we call it instinct, we mean something we have
no knowledge of. To me, as I hinted in my last pa-
per, it seems the immediate direction of Providence,
and such an operation of the Supreme Being as that
which determines all the portions of matter to their 15
proper centres. A modern philosopher, quoted by
Monsieur Bayle, in his learned dissertation on the
souls of brutes, delivers the same opinion, though in a
bolder form of words, where he says Deus est animi
briitorum, God himself is the soul of brutes. Who 20
can tell what to call that seeming sagacity in animals,
which directs them to such food as is proper for them
and makes them naturally avoid whatever is noxious or
unwholesome ? Tully has observed, that a lamb no

I ■■'-,-■

f 1.:-

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

sooner falls from its mother, but immediately and of 25
its own accord it applies itself to the teat. Dampier,
in his travels, tells us, that when seamen are thrown
upon ajiy of the unknown coasts of America, they
never venture upon the fruit of any tree, how tempt-
ing soever it may appear, unless they observe that it 30
is marked by the peckings of birds, but fall on with-
out any fear or apprehension where the birds have
been before them.

Hut notwithstanding animals have nothing like the
use of reason, we find in them all the lower parts of 35
our nature, the passions and senses, in their greatest
strength and perfection. And here it is worth our
observation, that all beasts and birdsof prey are won-
derfully subject to anger, malice, revenge, and all the
other violent passions that may animate them in 49
search of their own proper food ; as those that are
incapable of defending themselves, or annoying
others, or whose safety lies chiefly in their flight, are
suspicious, fearful and apprehensive of everything
they see or hear , whilst others that are of assistance 45
and use to man have their natures softened with some-
thing mild and tractable, and by that means are
qualified for a domestic life. In this case the passions
generally correspond with the make of the body. We
do not find the fury of a lion in so weak and defence- 50
less an animal as a lamb, nor the meekness of a lamb
in a creature so armed for battle and assault as the
lion. In the same manner, we find that particular
animals have a more or less exquisite sharpness
and sagacity in .hose particular senses which most 55

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

turn to their advantage, and in which their safety and
welfare is the most concerned.

Nor must we here omit that great variety of arms
with which nature has differently fortified the bodies
of several kinds of animals, such as claws, hoofs and 60
horns, teeth and tusks, a tail, a sting, a trunk or a
proboscis. It is likewise observed by naturalists,
that it must be some hidden principle distinct from
what we call reason, which instructs animals in the
use of these their arms, and teaches them to manage 65
them to the best advantage ; because they naturally
defend themselves with that part in which their
strength lies, before the weapon be formed in it : as is
remarkable in lambs, which though they are bred
within doors, and never saw the actions of their own 70
species, push at those who approach them with their
foreheads, before the first budding of a horn appear.

1 shall add to these general observations an instance
which Mr. Locke has given us of Providence, even in
the imperfections of a creature which seems the 75
meanest and most despicable in the whole animal
world. ** We may," says he, *' from the make of an
oyster, or a cockle, conclude that it has not so many
nor so quick senses as a man, or several other ani-
mals ; nor if it had, would it, in that state and inca- 80
pacity of transferring itself from one place to another,
be bettered by them. What good would sight and
hearing do to a creature that cannot move itself to
or from the object, wherein at a distance it perceives
good or evil ? And would not quickness of sensation 8$
be an inconvenience to an animal that must be still

**i

t ■-.-f-

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

where chance has once placed it, and these receive
the afflux of colder or warmer, clean or foul water,
as it happens to come to it ? "

I shall add to this instance out of Mr. Locke 90
another out of the learned Dr. More, who cites it from
Cardan, in relation to another animal which Provi-
dence has left defective, but at the same time has
shown its wisdom in the formation of that organ in
which it seems chiefly to have failed. *' What is more 95
obvious and ordinary than a mole ? and yet what more
palpable argument of Providence than she ? the mem-
bers of her body are so exactly fitted to her nature
and manner of life ; for her dwelling being under
ground, where nothing is to be seen, nature has so 100
obscurely fitted her with eyes, that naturalists can
hardly agree whether she have any sight at all or no.
But for amends, what she is capable of for her de-
fence and warning of danger, she has very eminently
conferred upon her ; for she is exceeding quick of 105
hearing. And then her short tail and short legs, but
broad fore ^eet armed with sharp claws, we see by the
event to what purpose they are, she so swiftly work-
ingherself under ground, and making herway so fast in
the earth, as they that behold it cannot but admire it. no
Her legs therefore are short, that she need dig no
more than will serve the mere thickness of her body ;
and her fore feet are broad that she may scoop away
much earth at a time ; and little or no tail she has,
because she courses it not on the ground, like the rat 115
or the mouse, of whose kindred she is, but lives under

SIR ROGER DF. COVERLnv.

the earth, and Is fain to dig herself a dwelling th^re.
And she making her way through so thick an element,
which will not yield easily, as the air or the water, it
had been dangerous to have drawn so long a train 120
behind her ; for her enemy might fall upon her rear,
and fetch her out, before she had completed or got
full possession of her works."

I cannot forbear mentioning Mr. Boyle's remark
upon this last creature, who, 1 remember, somewhere 125
in his works observes, that though the mole be not
totally blind (as it is commonly thought) she has not
sight enough to distinguish particular objects. Her
eye is said to have but one humour in it, which is
supposed to give her the iden of light, but of nothing 130
else, and is so formed that this idea is probably pain-
ful to the animal. Whenever she comes up into broad
day, she might be in danger of being taken, unless
she were thus affected by a light striking upon her eye,
and immediately warning her to bury herself in her 135
proper element. More sight would be useless to her,
as none at all might be fatal.

I have only instanced such animals as seem the
most imperfect works of nature ; and if Providence
shows itself even in the blemishes of these creatures, 140
how much more does it discDver itself in the several
endowments which it has variously bestowed upon
such creatures as are more or less finished and com-
pleted in their several faculties, according to the
condition of life in which they are posted. 145

I could wish our Royal Society would compile a
body of natural h' tory, the best that could be gathered

! .

4'''

SIR ROC.K.U OK COVKRLKV.

t(>};cthei' from books and observations. If the several
writers among them look each his parUcuhir species,
and gave as a distinct account of its original, birth, 150
and education ; its policies, hostilities and alliances,
with the frame and texture of its inward and outward
parts, and particularly those that distinguish it from
all other animals, with their peculiar aptitudes for the
state of being in which Providence has placed them, 155
it would be one of the best services their studies could
do mankind, and not a little redound to the glory of
the all-wiie Contriver.

It is true, such a natural history, after all the disqui-
sitions of the learned, would be infinitely short and 160
defective. Seas and deserts hide millions of animals
from our observation. Innumerable artifices and
stratagems are acted in the howling wilderness and
in the great deep, that can never come to our know-
ledge. Besides that there are infinitely more species 165
of creatures which are not to be seen without, nor in-
deed with the help of the finest glasses, than of such
as are bulky enough for the naked eye to take hold
of. However, from the consideration of such animals
as lie within the compass of our knowledge, we might 170
easily form a conclusion of the rest, that the same
variety of wisdom and goodness runs through the
whole creation, and puts every creature in a condition
to provide for its safety and subsistence in its proper
station. 175

TuUy has given us an admirable sketch of natural
history, in his second book concerning the Nature of
the Gods ; and that in a style so raised by metaphors

SIR ko(;kr i)i: cu\ kki.i:v.

nnd desctiptions, that it lifts the subject above lalUcry
and liiMcule, which frequently fall on such observa- iRo
lions when they pass throu^di the hands of an ordi-
M.irv writer.

1 60

165

175

CHAl'TKR IX.
"Ko. 122.

SIR ROGER Al THK ASSIZES.

Comes J III und US in i<ia fro Tehiculo est.

— Pub. Syr. l"'iag.

•

A man's first care should be to avoid the reproaches
of his own heart ; his lext, to escape the censures of
the world ; if the last interferes with the former, it
ought to be entirely neglected ; but otherwise there
cannot be a greater satisfaction to an honest mind,
than to see those approbations which it gives itself
seconded by the applauses of the public : a man is
more sure of his conduct, when the verdict which he
passes upon his own behaviour is thus warranted and
confirmed by the opinion of all that knew him.

My worthy friend Sir Roger is one of those who is
not only at peace within himself, but beloved and
esteemed by all about him. He receives a suitable
tribute for his universal benevolence to mankind, in
the returns of affection and good-will, which are paid
him by every one that lives within his neighbourhood,
I lately met with two or three odd instances of that
general respect which is shewn to the good old knight.
He would needs carry Will Wimble and myself with

"•3

Si'R ro(;kr de co\erli:y.

him to the county assizes. As wc were upon the road, 20
Will Wimble joined a couple of plain men who rode
before us, and conversed with them for some time ;
during which my friend Sir Roger acquainted me with
their characters.

** The first of them," says he, ''that has a spaniel 25
by his side, is a yeoman of about an hundred pounds
a year, an honest man : he is just within the game-
act, and qualified to kill an hare or a pheasant : he
knocks down a dinner with his gun twice or thrice a
week ; and by that means Hves much cheaper than 30
those who have not so good an estate as ht^-iself.
He would be a good neighbour if he did not destroy
so many partridges : in short he is a very sensible
man ; shoots flying ; and has been several times fore-
man of the pett\' jury. 3-

" The other that rides along with him is Tom
Touchy, a fellow famous for taking the law of every
body. There is not one in the town where he Hves
that he has not sued at a quarter-sessions. The
rogue had once the impudence to go to law with the 40
\NiQOw. His head is full of costs, damages, and
ejectments ; he plagued a couple of honest gentlemen
so long for a trespass in breaking one of his hedges,
till he was forced to sell die grmmd it inclosed to
defray the cl-arges of the prosecution : his father left 45
him fourscore pounds a year ; but he has cast and
been cast so often, that he is not now worth tliirty.
I suppose he is going upon the old business of the
willow tree.''

As Sir Roger was giving me this accoimt of Tom 50

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

Touchy, Will Wimble and his tvvo companions stop-
ped short until we came up to them. After having
paid their respects to Sir Roger, Will told him that
Mr. Touchy and he must appeal to him upon a dis-
pute that arose between them. Will, it seems, had 55
been giving his fellow-traveller an account cf his
angling one day in such a hole ; when Tom Touchy,
instead of hearing out his story, told him, that Mr.
such an one. if he pleased, might take the Jaw of him
for fishing in that part of the river. My friend Sir 60
Roger heard them both upon a round trot , and after
having paused some time, told them, with the air of
a man who would not give his judgment rashly, that
much might be said on both sides. They were neither
of them dissatii'fied with the knight's determination, 65
because neither of them found himself in the wrong
by it ; upon which we made the best of our way to
the assizes.

The court was set before Si** Roger came ; but
notwithstanding all the justices had taken their places 70
upon the bench, they made room for the old knight
at the head of them ; who, for his reputation in the
country, took occasion to whisper in the judge's ear;
that he was glad his lordship had met with so much
good weather in his circuit. I was listening to the 75
proceedings of the court with much attention, and
infinitely pleased with that great appearance and
solemnity which so properly accompanies such a
public administration of our laws, when, after about
an hour's sitting, I observed to my great surprise, in iio
the midst of a trial, that my friend Sir Roger was

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY

getting up to speak. I was in some pain for him '.ill
1 found he had acquitted himself of two or three
sentences, with a look of much business and great
intrepidity. 85

Upon his first rising the court was hushed, and a
general whisper ran among the country people that
Sir Roger was up. The speech he made was so little
to the purpose, that I shall not trouble my readers
with an account of it ; and I believe was not so much 90
designed by the knight himself to inform the court,
as to give him a figure in my eye, and keep up his
credit in the country.

1 was highly delighted, when the court rose, to see
the gentlemen of the country gatherin.c( about my old 95
friend, and striving who should compliment him
most ; at the same time that the ordinary people
gazed upon him at a distance, not a little admiring
his courage, that was not afraid to speak to the
judge. 100

In our return home we met with a very odd acci-
dent, which I cannot forbear relating, because it
shows how desirous all who know Sir Roger are of
giving him marks of their esteem. When we were
arrived upon the verge of his estate, we stopped at a 105
little inn to rest ourselves and our horses. The man
of the house had, it seems, been formerly a servant
in the knight's family ; and to do honour to his old
master, had some time since, unknown to Sir Roger,
put him up in a sign-post before the door; so that iro
**The Knight's Head" had hung out upon the road
about a week before he himself knew anythmg of the

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

100

matter. As soon as Sir Roger was acquainted with
it, finding that his servant's indiscretion proceeded
wholly from affection and good-will, he only told him 1 15
that he had made him too high a compliment ; and
when thv*; fellow seemed to think that could hardly be,
added with a more decisive look, that it was too great
an honour for any man under a duke ; but told him
at the same time, that it might be altered with a very 120
few touches, and that he himself would be at the
".harge of it. Accordingly, ihey got a painter by the
knight's directions to add a pair of whiskers to the
face, and by a little aggravation of the features to
change it into "The Saracen's Head." I should not 125
have known this story, had not the innkeeper, upon
Sir Roger's alighting, told him in my hearing, that his
honour's head was brought back last night with the
alterations that he had ordered to be made in it.
Upon this my friend with his usual cheerfulness re- 1 30
lated the particulars above-mentioned, and ordered
the head to be brought into the room. I could not
forbear discovering greater expressions of mirth than
ordinary upon the appearance of this monstrous face,
under which, notwithstanding it was made to frown 135
and stare in a most extraordinary manner, I could
still discover a distant resemblance of my old friend.
Sir Roger, upon seeing me laugh, desired me to tell
him truly if I thought it possible for people to know
him in that disguise. I at first kept my usual silence : 140
but upon the knight conjuring me to tell him whether
it was not still more like, himself than a Saracen, 1
composed my countenance in the best manner I could,

^l^i t

L-^

5«

SIR ROGER DK COVERLEV.

and replied that, much mig/it be said on both sides.

These several adventures, with the knight's bcha- 145

viour in them, gave me as pleasant a day as ever I

met with in any of my travels.

CHAPTER X.
(No. 123.

THE STORY OF AN HEIR.

Dodrina scd vir}i promovet iusitam,
Kcctiqiie ciiUus pcctora roborant ;

Utctinque defeccre mores,

Dcdccorant bene nata culptc.

—Hon

As I was yesterday taking the air with my friend
Sir Roger, we were met by a fresh-coloured ruddy
young man, who rid by us full speed, with a couple
of servants behind him. Upon my inc[uiry who he
was, Sir Roger told me that he was a young gentle-
man of a considerable estate, who had been educated
by a tender ""lother that lived not many miles from the
phi '^ where n ^. were. She is a very good lady, says my
friend, but ' ;ok so much care of her son's health,
the. she ■ .IS made him good for nothing. She
quickly found that reading was bad for his eyes, and
that writing made his head ache. He was let loose
among the woods as soon as he was able to ride on
horseback, or to carry a gun upon his shoulder. To
be brief, I found, by my friend's account of him, that
he had got a great stock of health, but nothing else ;

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

and that if it were a man's business only to live, there
would no^ be a more accomplished young fellow in
the whole country.

The truth of it is, since my residing in these parts 20
I have seen and heard innumerable instances of
young heirs and elder brothers, who either from their
own reflecting upon the estates they are born to, ancl
therefore thinking all other accomplishments unne-
cessary, or from hearing these notions frequently 25
inculcated to them by the flattery of their servants
and domestics, or from the same foolish thought pre-
vailing in those who have the care of their education,
are of no manner of use but to keep up their fami-
lies, and transmit their lands and houses in a line to 30
posterity.

Eudoxus and Leontine bet^an the world with small
estates. They were both of them men of good sense
and great virtue. They prosecuted their studies to-
gether in their earlier years, and entered into such a 35
friendship as lasted to the end of their lives. PIu-
doxus, at his first setting out in the world, threw
himself into a court, where by his naturcd endow-
ments and his acquired abilities he made his way
from one post to another, till at length he had raised 40
a very considerable fortune. Leontine, on the con-
trary, sought all opportunities of improving his mind
by study, conversation, and travel. He was not only
acquainted with all the sciences, but with the most
eminent professors of them throughout Europe. He
knew perfectly well the interests of its j^rinces, with

the customs and fashions of their couits, and could

1,1

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

scarce meet with the name of an extraordinary person
in the Gazette whom he had not either talked to or
seen. In short, he had so well mixed and digested 50
liis knowledge of men and books, that he made one
of the most accomplished persons of hi? age. Dur-
ing the whole course of his studies and travels he
kept up a punctual correspondence with Eudo;xus,
who often made himself acceptable to the principal 55
men about court by the intelligence which he received
from Leontine. When they were both turned of forty
(an age in which, according to Mr. Cowley, there is
no dallying with life) they determined, pursuant to
the resolution they had taken in the beginning of 60
their lives, to retire, and pass the remainder of their
days in the country. In order to this, they both of
them married much about the same time. Leontine,
with his own and his wife's fortune, bought a farm of
three hundred a year, which lay within the neighbour- 65
hood of his friend Eudoxus, who had purchased an
estate of as many thousands. They were both of them
fathers about the same time, Eudoxus having a son
born to him, and Leontine a daughter ; but to the
unspeakable grief of the latter, his young wife (in 70
whom all his happiness was wrapt up) died in a few
days after the birth of her daughter. His affliction
would have been insupportable, had not he been
comforted by the daily visits and conversations of his
friend. As they were one day talking together with 75
their usual intimacy, Leontine, considering how in-
capable he was of giving his daughter a proper educa-
tion in his own house, and Eudoxus reflecting on the

circ
way
derc
duc(
mor
thin

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

1
r
d
e

r-
le
s,

il 55
;d

is
to

of 60
eir
of
le,
of

ur- 65
an
em
>on
the

(in 70
ew
ion
een
his
Irith 75

in-
Bca-

the

ordi

beha^

^ho kn(

Lviour ot a son who knows himself to be
the heir of a great estate, they both agreed upon an
exchange of children, nimely, that the boy should be
bred up with Leontine as his son, and that the girl
should live with Eudoxus as his daughter, till they
were each of them ^trrived at years of discretion. The
wife of Eudoxus, knowing that her son could not be so
advantageously brought up as under the care of Leon-
tine, and considering at the same time that he would
be perpetually under her own eye, was by degrees
prevailed upon to fall in with the project. She there-
fore took Leonilla, for that was the name of the girl,
and educated her as her own daughter. The two
friends on each side had wrought themselves to such
an habitual tenderness for the children who were
under their direction, that each of them had the real
passion of a father, where the title was but imaginary.
Florio, the name of the young heir that lived with
Leontine, though he had all the dnty and affection
imaginable for his supposed parent, was taught to
rejoice at the sight of Eudoxus, who visited his friend
very frequefitly, and was dictated by his natural affec- 100
tion, as well as by the rules of prudence, to make
himself esteemed and beloved by Florio. The boy
was now old enough to know his supposed father's
circumstances, and that therefore he was to make his
way in the world by his own industry. This con si- 105
deration grew stronger in him every day, and pro-
duced so good an effect, that he applied himself with
more than ordinary attention to the pursuit of every
thing which Leontine recommended to him, Hi^

■i

I i

Slk kOGER DE COVERLEY.

natural abilities, which were very good, assisted by iio
the directions of so excellent a counsellor, enabled
him to make a quicker progress than ordinary through
all the parts of his education. Before he was twenty
years of age, having finished his studies and exercises
with great applause, he was removed from the univer- 1 15
sity to the Inns of Court, where there are very few
that make themselves considerable proficients in the
study of the place, who know they shall arrive at
great estates withrat them. This was iiot Florio's
case ; he found that three hundred a-year was but a 120
poor estate for Leontine and himself to live upon ; so
that he studied without intermission, till he gained a
very good insight into the constitution and laws of his
country.

I should have told my reader, that whih^t Florio 725
lived at the hou3e of his foster-father, he was always
an acceptable guest in the family of Eudoxus, where
he became acquainted with Leonilla from her infancy.
His acquaintance with her by degrees grew into love,
which in a mind trained up in all the sentiments of 130
honour and virtue became a very uneasy passion. He
despaired of gaining an heiress of so great a fortune,
and would rather have died than attempted it by any
indirect methods. Leonilla, who was a woman of thf
greatest beauty, joined with the greatest modr^siy, 135
entertained at the same time a secret passion for
Florio, but conducted herself with so much prudcrce
that she never gave him the least intimation of it.
I' lorio was now engaged in all those arts and improve-
meuts that are ^^roper to raise a man's private fortune, 140

/-■^

r'*^

■'--i:>^.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

, 1 35
|r

140

and give him a figure in his country, but secretly tor-
mented with that passion, which burns with the
greatest fury in a virtuous and noble heart, when he
received a sudden summons from I.eontinc to repnir
to him in the country, the next day. For it seems 145
Eudoxus was so filled with the report of his son's re-
putation, that he could no longer withhold making
himself known to him. 'J'he morning after his arrival
at the house of his supposed lather, Leontine told him
that Eudoxus had something of great importance to 150
communicate to him ; upon which the good man em-
braced him, and wept. Florio was no sooner arrived
at the great house that stood in his neighbourhood ,
but Eudoxus took him by the hand, a.'^er the first
salutes were over, and conducted him into 'us closet. 155
He there opened to him the whole secret of his pa-
rentage and education, concluding after this manner ;
*' I have no other way left of acknowledging my gra-
titude to Leontine, than by marrying you to his
daughter. He shall not lose the pleasure of being 160
your father by the discovery I have made to you.
Leonilla too shall still be my daughter; her filial
pieiy, though misplaced, has been so exemplary, that
it deserves the greatest reward I can confer upon it.
You shall have the pleasure of seeing a great estate 165
fall to you, which you would have lost the relish of,
had you known yourself born to it. Continue only
to deserve it in the same manner you did before you
were possessed of it. I have left your mother in the
. next room. Her heart yearns towards you. She is 170
making the same discoveries to Leoniha which I have

SIR R0(;KI< DE COVKRIJ'.Y.

made to yourself." Florio was so overwhelmed with
this profusion of happiness, tliat he was not able to
make a reply, but threw himself down at his father's
feet, and amidst a flood of tears kissed and embraced 175
his knees, asking his blessing, and expressing in
dumb show those sentiments of love, duty, and grati-
tude, that were too big for utterance. To conclude,
the happy pair were married, and half Eudoxus's
estate settled upon them. Leontine and Eudoxus 180
passed the remainder of their lives together, and re-
ceived in the dutiful and affectionate behaviour of
Florio and Leonilla the just recompense, as well as
the natural effects, of that care which they had be-
stowed upon them in their education. 185

[No 125.

CHAPTER XI

ON PARTY SPIRIT.

JVe pucn\ nc tanta aniviis assticscite hclla :
Ncii patriiE validas hi viscera vcrtitc vires.

-Virg.

My worthy friend Sir Roger, when we are talking^
of the malice of parties, very frequently tells us an
accident that happened to him when he was a school-
boy, which was at a time when the feuds ran high
between the Roundheads and Cavaliers. This worthy
knight, being then but a stripling, had occasion to
inquire which was the way to St. Anne's Lane, upon
wWcb the person whom he spoke to, instead of an^

SIR ROGER I)E COVERLKY. 59

swcrinj^ his question, called him a young Popish cur,
and asked him who had made Anne a saint ! The 10
boy, being in some confusion, inquired of the next he
met, which was the way to Anne's Lane, but was
called a prick-eared cui for his pains, and instead of
being shewn the way, was told, that she had been a
saint before he was born, and would be one after he 15
was hanged. Upon this, says Sir Roger, I did not
think fit to repeat the former question, but going into
every lane of the neighbourhood, asked what they
called the name of that lane. By which ingenious
artifice he found out the place he inquired after, with- 20
out giving offence to any party. Sir Roger generally
closes this narrative with reflections on the mischief
that parties do in the country, how they spoil good
neighbourhood, and make honest gentlemen hate one
another ; besides that they manifestly tend to the 25
prejudice of the land-tax and the destruction of the
game.

There cannot a greater judgment befall a country
than such a dreadful spirit of division as rends a
government into two distinct people, and makes them 30
greater strangers and more averse to one another,
than if they were actually two different nations. The
effects of such a division are pernicious to the last
degree, not only with regard to those advantages
which they give the common enemy, but to those 35
private evils which they produce in the heart of almost
every particular person. This influence is very fatal
both to men's morals and their understandings ; it

■J

'ii ■ i- ,f'

SIR k(>(;i:k di-: covkklky.

^ii •

jinks the virtue of a nation, and not only so, but de-
stroys even common sense. 40

A furious party-spirit, when it nij^'cs in its full
violence, exerts itself in civil war and bloodshed ;
and when it is under its greatest restraints, naturally
breaks out in falsehood, detraction, calumny, and a
partial administration of justice. Jn a word, it fills a 45
nation with spleen and rancour, and e\tiiij;uishcs all
the seeds of good nature, compassion, and humanity.

Plutarch says very finely, that a man should not
allow himself to hate even his enemies, because, says
he, " if you indulge this passion on some occasions, 50
it will rise of itself in others ; if you hate your ene-
mies, you will contrjict such a vicious habit of mind,
as by degrees will break out upon those who are your
friends, or those who are indilYerent to you." 1 might
here observe how admirably this precept of morality 55.
(which derives the malignity of hatred from the pas-
sion itself, and not from its object) answers to that
great rule which was dictated to the world about an
hundred years before this philosopher wrote ; but
instead of that, I shall only take notice, with a real 60
grief of heart, that the minds of many good men
among us appear soured with party-])rinci})les, and
alienated from one another in such a manner, as
seems to me altogether inconsistent with the dictates
either of reason or religion. Zeal for a public cause 65
is apt to breed passions in the hearts of virtuous per-
sons^ to which the regard of their own private interest
would never have betrayed them.

If tliis party-spirit has so ill an cifect on our morals,

SIR K0(;KR de covkkmcy.

It has likewise a very great one upon onr jiul^Mnents. yo
We often hear a poor insipid paper or pamphlet cried
up, and sometimes a noble piece depreciated, by
those who are of a different principle from the author.
One who is actuated by this spirit is almost under an
incapacity of discerning either real blemishes or beau- 75
ties. A man of merit in a difieicnt principle is
like an object seen in two different mediums, that ap-
pears crooked or broken, however straight and entire
it may be in itself. For this reason there is scarce a
person of any figure in England who does not go by 80
two contrary characters, as opposite to one another
as light and darkness. Knowledge and learning
suffer in a particular manner from this strange preju-
dice, which at present prevails amongst all ranks and
degrees of the liritish nation. As men formally be- 85
came eminent in learned societies by their parts and
acquisitions, they now distinguish themselves by the
warmth and violence with which they espouse their
respective parties. Books are valued upon the like
considerations : an abusive scurrilous style passes 90
for satire, and a dull scheme of party notions is called
fine writing.

There is one piece of sophistry practised by both
sides, and that is the taking any scandalous story,
that has been ever whispered or invented of a private 95
man, for a known undoubted truth, and raising suit-
able speculations upon it. Calumnies that have been
never proved, or have been often refuted, are the
or:' !>ary postulations of these infamous scribblers,
upon which they proceed as upon first principles lOQ

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

granted by all men, though in their hearts they
know they are false, or at best very doubtful. When
they have laid these foundations of scurrility, it is no
wonder that their superstructure is every way answer-
able to them. If this shair'eless practice of the 105
present age endures much longer, praise and reproach
will cease to be motives of action in good men.

There are certain periods of time in all govern-
ments when this inhuman soirit prevails. Italy was
long torn in pieces by the Guelfes and Gibellines : no
and P^rance by those who were for and against the
league : but it is very unhappy for a man to be born
in such a stormy and tempestuous season. It is the
restless ambition of artful men, that thus breaks a
people into factions, and draws several well-meaning 115
persons to their interest by a specious concern for their
country. How many honest minds are filled with un-
charitable and barbarous notions, out of their zeal
for the public good ? What cruelties and outrages
would they not commit against men of an adverse 120
party, whom they would honour and esteem, if in-
stead of considering thorn as they are represented,
they knew them as they are .'' Thus are persons of
the greatest probity seduced into shameful errors and
prejudices, and made bad men even by that noblest 125
of principles, tiie love of their country. I cannot
here forbear mentioning the runous Spanish proverb,
*' If there were neither fools nor knaves in the world
all people would be of one mind."

For my ov/n part, I could heartily wish that all 130
honest men would enter into an association, for the

~^.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

support of one another against the endeavours of
those whom they ought to look upon as their common
enemies, whatsoever side they may belong to. Were
there such an honest body of neutral forces, we should 135
never see the worst of men in great figures of life, be-
cause they are above practising those methods which
would be grateful to their faction. We should then
single every criminal out of the herd and hunt him
down, however formidable and overgrown he might 140
appear : on the contrary, we should shelter distressed
innocence, and defend virtue, however beset with con-
tempt or ridicule, envy or defamation. In short, we
should not any longer regard our fellow-subjects as
Whigs or Tories, but should make the man of merit 14-
our friend, and the villain our enemy.

lii

[No. 126.

CHAPTER XII.
PARTY SPIRTT — Continued.

Tros Rufii'usvc fuaf, nullo discriininc haf>eho.

-Vii-g.

In my yesterday's paper I proposed, that the honest
man of all parties should enter into a kind of associa-
tion for the defence of one another, and the confusion
of their common enemies. As it is designed this neu-
tral body should act with a regard to nothing but truth
and equity, and divest themselves of the little heats
and prepossessions that cleave to parties of all kinds, 1
have prepared for them the toUowing form of an asso-

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

ciation, which may express their intentions in the most
plain and simple manner : lo

We, whose names are hereunto subscribed, do so-
lemnly declare, that we do in our consciences believe
two and two i.iake four ; and that we shall adjudge
any man whatsoever to be our enemy who endeavours
to persuade us to the contrary. We are likewise ready 15
to maintain with the hazard of all that is near and
dear to us, that six is less than seven in all times and
all places ; and that ten will not be more three years
hence than it is at present. We do also firmly declare,
that it is our resolution as long as we live to call black 20
black, and white white. And we shall upon all occas-
ions oppose such persons that upon any day of the year
shall call black white, or white black, with the utmost
peril of our lives and fortunes.

Were there such a combination of honest men, who 25
without any regard to places would endeavour to ex-
tirpate all such furious zealots as would sacrifice one-
half of the country to the passion and interest of the
other ; as also such infamous hypocrites, that are for
promoting their own advantage under colour of the 30
public good ; with all the profligate immoral retainers
to each side, that have nothing to recommend them
but an implicit submission to their leaders ; we should
soon see that furious party-spirit extinguished, which
may in time expose us 'O the derision and contempt 35
of all the nations about us.

A member of this society, that would thus carefully "
employ himself in making room for merit, by throw-
ing down the worthless and depraved part of mankind

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

from thoss conspicuous stations of life to which they 40
have been sometimes advanced, and all this without
any regard to his private interest, would be no smail
benefactor to his country.

I remember to have read in Diodorus Siculus an
account of a very active little animal, which I think 45
he calls Ichneumon, that makes it the whole business
of his life to break the eggs of the crocodile, which he
is always in search after. This instinct is the more
remarkable, because the Ichneumon never feeds upon
the eggs he has broken, nor any other way finds his 50
account in them. Were it not for the incessant labours
of this industrious animal, Egypt, says the historian,
would be over-run with crocodiles ; for the Egyptians
are so far from destroying those pernicious creatures,
that they worship them as gods. 55

If we look into the behaviour of ordinary partizans,
we shall find them far from resembling this disinter-
ested animal ; and rather acting after the example of
the wild Tartars, who are ambitious of destroying a
man of the most extraordinary parts and accomplish- 60
ments, as thinking that upon his decease, the same
talents, whatever posts they qualified him for, enter of
course into his destroyer.

As in the whole train of my speculations, I have
endeavoured as much as I am able to extinguish that 65
pernicious spirit of passion and prejudice, which rages
with the same violence in all parties, I am still the
more desirous of doing some good in this particular,
because I observe that the spirit of party reigns more
in the country than in the town. It here contracts a 70

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

kind of brutality and rustic fierceness, to which men
of a pohter conversation are wholly strangers. It
extends itself even to the return of the bow and the
hat ; and at the same time that the heads of parties
preserve towards one another an outward show of 75
good breeding, and keep up a perpetual intercourse of
civilities, their tools that are dispersed in these out-
lying parts will not so much as mingle together at a
cock-match. This humour fills the country with several
periodical meetings of Whig jockeys and Tory fox- 80
hunters ; not to mention the innumerable curses,
frowns, and whispers it produces at a quarter-ses-
sions.

I do not know whether I have observed in any of
my former papers, that my friends Sir Roger de Cov- 85
erley and Sir Andrew Freeport are of different princi-
ples, the first of them inclined io the landed^ and the
other to the moneyed interest. This humour is so mo-
derate in each of them, that it proceeds no farther
than to an agreeable raillery, which very often diverts 90
the rest of the club. I find, however, that the knight
is a much stronger Tory in the country than in the
town, which, as he has told me in my ear, is abso-
lutely necessary for the keeping up his interest. In all
our journey from London to his house, we did not so 95
much as bait at a Whig inn ; or if by chance the
coachman stopped at a wrong place, one of Sir Ro-
ger's servants would ride up to his master full speed,
and whisper to him that the master of the house was
against such an one in the last election. This often 100
betrayed us into hard beds and bad cheer ; for we

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

were not so inquisitive about the inn as the innkeeper;
and provided our landlord's principles were sound,
did not take any notice of the staleness of his provis-
ions. This I found still the more inconvenient, because 105
the better the host was, the worse generally were his
accommodations ; the fellow knowing very well that
those who were his friends would take up with coarse
diet ancU hard lodging. For these reasons, all the
while I was upon the road, I dreaded entering into an no
house of any one that Sir Roger had applauded for
an honest ntan.

Since my stay at Sir Roger's in the country, I daily
find more instances of this narrow party humour.
Being upon a bowling-green at a neighbouring mar- 115
ket-town the other day (for that is the place where
the gentlemen of one side meet once a week), I
observed a stranger among them of a better presence
and genteeler behaviour than ordinary ; but was
much surprised, that notwithstanding he was a very 120
fair better, nobody would take him up. But upon
inquiry, I found that he was one who had given a
disagreeable vote in a former parliament, for which
reason there was not a man upon that bowling-green
who would have so much correspondence with him 125
as to win his money of him.

Amoncr other instances of this nature, I must not
omit one which concerns myself. Will Wimble was
the other day relating several strange stories that he
had picked up, nobody knows where, of a certain 130
great man ; and upon my staring at him, as one that
was surprised to hear such things in the country,

.1 (':

I I!

SIR ROGER TjE COVKRLEV

which haa never been so much as whispered in the
town, Will stopped short in the thread of his dis-
course, and after dinner asked my friend Sir Roger 135
in his ear, if he was sure that I was not a fanatic.

It gives me a serious concern to see such a spirit
of dissension in the country, not only as it destroys
virtue and common sense, and renders us in a man-
mer barbarians towards one another, but as it per- 140
petuates our animosities, widens our breaches, and
transmits our present passions and prejudices to our
posterity. For my own part, I am sometimes afraid
that I discover the seeds of a civil war in these our
divisions ; and therefore cannot but bewail, as in 145
their first principles, the miseries and calamities of
our i;hildien.

CHAPTER Xlir.
INo. 130.

THE COVKRT.EY OIFS-IES,

Semper que recenles
Cchvectarc juval pradas^ et viverc niplo.

As I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my
friend Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance frojn us a
troop of gipsies. Upon the first discovering of them,
my friend was in some doubt whether he should not
exert justice of the peace upon such a band of lawless
vagrants \ but not having his clerk with him, who is a
necessary counsellor on those occasions, and fearing
that his poultry might fare the worse for it, he let the

SIR ROGER I)E ( OVKRLKY.

145

thought drop; but at the same time gave me a particular
account of the mischiefs they do in the country, in 10
steahng people's goods and spoiling their servants.
*' If a stray piece of linen hangs upon an hedge,"
says Sir Roger, " they are sure to have it ; if a hog
loses his way in the fields, it is ten to one that he
becomes their prey ; our geese cannot live in peace 15
for them ; if a man prosecutes them with severity,
his hen-roost is sure to pay for it. They generally
straggle into these parts about this time of the year,
and set the heads of our servant-maids so agog for
husbands, that we do not expect to have any business 20
done as it should be whilst they are in the country.
I have an honest dairy-maid who crosses their hands
with a piece of silver every summer, and never fails
being promised the handsomest young fellow in the
parish for her pains. Your friend thr butler has been 25
fool enough to be seduced by them ; and, though he
is sure to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every time
his fortune is told him, generally shuts himself up in
the pantry with an old gipsy for above half an hour
once in a twelvemonth. Sweethearts are the things 30
they live upon, which they bestow very plentifully
upon all those that apply themselves to them. You
see now and then some handsome young jades amonf^
them ; the sluts have very often white teeth and black
eyes." 35

Sir Roger observing that I listened v/lth great at-
tention to his account of a people who were so en-
tirely new to me, told me, that if I would they should
tell us our fortunes. As I was very well pleased with

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

the knight's proposal, we rid up and communicated 40
our hands to them. A Cassandra of the crew, after
having examined my Hues very diligently, told me,
that I loved a pretty maid in a corner, that I was a
good woman's man, with some other particulais
which I do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir 45
Roger alighted from his horse, and exposing liis pahn
to two or t'life of 'ht n tha*^ stood by aim, they
crumpicd it iiit > all 'rhapes, and diligently scanned
every wrinktC th:-i c'jvk\ be made in it ; when one of
them who was elder and r; ore sunburnt than the rest, 50
told him, that he had a widow in his line of life ;
upon which the knight cried, " Go, go, you are
an idle baggage ; " and at the same time smiled upon
me. The gipsy finding he was not displeased in his
heart, told him after a further inquiry into his hand, 55
that his true love was constant, and that she should
dream of hiin to-night : my old friend cried, " Pish,"
and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he was
a bachelor, but would not be so long ; and that he
was dearer to somebody than he thought ; the knight 60
still repeated that she was an idle baggage, and bid her
her go on. "Ah, master," says the gipsy, " that roguish
leer of yours makes a pretty woman's Keart ache ;
you ha'n't that simper about the mouth for nothing."
The uncouth gibberish with which all this was uttered 65
like the darkness of an oracle, made us the more at'
tentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money
with her that he had crossed her hand with, and got
up again on his horsfi.
As we were riding- a\yay, Sir Roger |;old rne^ that 70

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

r«

it 60

' >

id 65
It-

at 70

he knew several sensible people who believed these
gipsies now and then foretold very strange things; and
for half an hour to(';ether appeared more jocund
than ordinary. In the height of his good humour,
meeting a comnujn b'^j^gar upon the road who was no 75
conjuror, as he went to relieve him, he found his
pocket .as picked ; that l^eing a kind of palmistry
at which this race of vermin are very dexterous.

I might here entertain my reader with historical
remarks on this idle profligate people, who infest all 80
the countries in Europe, and live in the mid o- ,ov-
ernments in a kind of commonwealth by tl- iiis. es.
But instead of entering into observations 0' '"»i^ lature
I shall fill the remaining part of my p/.pe. with a
story which is still fresh in Holland, anc x^-' printed 85
in one of our monthly accounts about twenty years
ago. " As the Trekschuyt, or the hackney boat,
which carries passengers fi om Leyden to Amsterdam,
was putting off, a boy running along the side of the
canal desired to be taken in, which the master of the 90
boat refused, because the lad had not quite money
enough to pay the usual fare. \n eminent mer-
chant, being pleased with the looks of the boy, and
secretly touched with compassion towards him, paid
the money for him, and ordered him to be taken on 95
board. Upon talking with him afterwards, he found
that he could speak readily in three or four lan-
guages, and learned upon further examination that
he had been stolen away when he was a child by a
gipsy, and had rambled evei since with a gang of 100

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

>
l!'

these strollers up .md down several parts of I'urope.
It happened that the merchant, whose heart seems
to have inclined towards the boy by a secret kind of
instinct, had himself lost a child some years before.
The parents, after a long search for hini, gave him 105
for drowned in one of the canals with which that
country abounds ; and the mother was so alllicted at
the loss of a fine boy, who was her only son, that she
died for grief of it. Upon laying together all par-
ticulars, and examining the several moles and marks 1 10
by which the mother used to describe the child when
he was first missing, the boy proved to be the son of
the merchant whose heart had so unaccountably
melted at the sight of him. The lad was very well
pleased to find a father who was so rich, and likely 1 15
to leave him a good estate ; the father, on the other
hand, was not a little delighted to see a son return
to him, whom he had given for lost, with such a
strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding,
and skill of languages." Here the printed story 120
leaves off ; but if I may give ciedit to reports, our
linguist, having received such extraordinary rudi-
ments towards a good education, was afterwards
trained up in everything that becomes a gentleman ;
wearing off by little and little all the vicious habits 125
and practices that he had been used to in the course
of his peregrinations. Nay, it is said that he has
since been employed in foreign courts upon national
busmess, with great reputation to himself and honour
to those who sent him, and that he has visited seve- 130

SIR ROGER DK COVERLKY.

ral countries as a public minister, in which he for-
ineily wandered as a gipsy.

115

120

b 125

1^0

CHAPTER XIV.
INo. 131.

A SUMMONS TO LONHON.

l/>sic rursum lOfUcditc Sy/zur.

-Viig.

It is usual for a man who loves country sports to
preserve the game on his own grounds, and divert
liimself upon those that belong to his neighbour. My
friend Sir Roger generally goes two or three miles
from his houbC, and gets into the frontiers of his 5
estate, before he beats about in search of a hare or
partridge, on purpose to spare his own fields, where
he is always sure of finding diversion when the worst
comes to the worst. Bv this means the breed about
his house has time to increase and multiply, besides 10
that the sport is more agreeable where the game is
the harder to come at, and where it does not lie so
thick as to produce any perplexity or confusion in
the pursuit. For these reasons the country gentle-
man, like the fox, seldom preys near his own home. 15

In the same manner, I have made a month's ex-
cursion out of town, which is the great field of game
for sportsmen of my species, to try my fortune in the
country, where I have started several suVjjects, and
hunted them down, with some pleasure to myself, 20
and, 1 liope, to others. 1 am here forced to use a

SIR kOGER DE COVKRLLY.

great deal of diligence before I can spring anything
to my mind, whereas in town, whilst I am following
one character, it is ten to one but I am crossed in my
way by another, and put up such a variety of odd 25
creatures of both sexes, that they foil the scent of
one another, and puzzle the chase. My greatest
difficulty in the country is to find sport, and in town
to choose it. In the meantime, as I have given a
whole month's rest to the cities of London and West- 30
minster, I promise myself abundance of new game
upon my return thither.

It is indeed high time for me to leave the country,
since I find the whole neighbourhood begin to grow
very inquisitive after my name and character ; my 35
love of solitude, taciturnity, and particular way of
life, having raised a great curiosity in all these parts.

The notions which have been framed of me are
various ; some look upon me as very proud, some as
very modest, and some as very melancholy. Will 40
Wimble, as my friend the IxUler tells me, observing
me very much alone, and extremely silent when I am
in company, is afraid I have killed a man. The
country people seem to suspect me for a conjurer ;
and some of them, hearing of the visit which I made 45
to Moll White, will needs have it that Sir Roger has
brought down a cunning man with him, to cure the
old woman, and free the country from her charms.
So that the character which I go under in part of
the neighbourhood is what they here call a white 50
witch.

A justice of peace, who lives about five miles off,

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

' 45

.ind is not of Sir Roger's party, has, it seems, said
twice or thrice at his table, that he wishes Sir Roger
does not harbour a Jesuit in his house; that he tliinks 55
the gentlemen of the country would do very well to
make mc give some account of myself.

On the other side, some of Sir Roger's friends arc
afraid the old knight is imposed upon by a designing
fellow ; and as they have heard that he converses (>o
very promiscuously when he is in town, do not know
but he has brought down with him some discarded
Whig, that is sullen, and says nothing because he is
out of place.

Such is the variety of opinions which are here 65
entertained of me, so that I pass among some for a
disaffected person, and among others for a Popish
priest ; among some for a wizard, and among others
for a murderer ; and all this for no other reason, th.it
I can imagine, but because I do not hoot and hollow 70
and make a noise. It is true my friend Sir Roger
tells them that it is my way, and that I am only a
philosopher ; but this will not satisfy them. They
think there is more in me than he discovers, and that
I do not hold my tongue for nothing.

For these and other reasons I shall set out for
London to-morrow, having found by experience that
the country is not a place for a person of my temper,
who does not love jollity, and what they call good
neighbourhood. A man that is out of humour when
an unexpected guest breaks in upon him, and does
not care for sacrificing an afternoon to every chanc?

,v,

' .?rr-

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

'1 11

comer,— that will be the master of his own time, and
the pursuer of his own inclinations, — makes but a
very unsociable figure in this kind of life. 1 shall 85
therefore retire into the town, if 1 may make use of
that phrase, and get into the crowd again as fast as
I can, in order to be alone. I can there raise what
speculations I please upon others without being ob-
served myself, and at the same time enjoy all the 90
advantages of company with all the privileges of soli-
tude. In the meanwhile, to linish the month, and
conclude these my rural speculations, I shall here
insert a letter from my friend Will Honeycomb, who
has not lived a month for these forty years out of the 95
smoke of London, and rallies me after his way upon
my country life.

" Dkar Spec,

*' 1 suppose this letter will tind thee picking up
daisies, or smellmg to a lock of hay, or passing away 100
thy time in some innocent country diversion of the
like nature. 1 have, however, orders from the club
10 summon thee up to town, being all of us cursedly
afraid thou wilt not be able to relish our company,
after thy conversations with Moll White and Will 105
Wimble. Pr'ythee don't send up any more stories
of a cock and a bull, nor frighten the town with
spirits and witches. Thy speculations begin to smell
confoundedly of woods and meadows. If thou dost
not come up quickly, we shall conclude that thou art no
in love wiih one of Sir Roger's dairy-m ;ds. Service
to the knight. Sir Andrew is grown the cock of the

>■ ■

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

club since he left us, and if he does not return
quickly, will make every mother's son of us comnion-
vveulth's men.

" Dear Spec,

" Thine eternally,

LNo. 269.

" W'll.L Ih)MEYO)Mli.

CHATTER XV.

SIR R()(ii:K IX LONDON.

.T'.vo raris^iiiia ttv^lro

Sinipliiila^ .

—Ovid.

1 1

100

II 105

is
1

I was this morning surprised with a ;4reat knock-
ing at the door, when my landlady's daughter came
up to me, and told me that there was a man below
desired to speak with me. UjDon my asking lier who
it was, she told me it was a very grave elderly person, 5
but that she did not know his name. I immediately
went down to him, and found him to be the coach-
man of my worthy friend Sir Roger de Coverley. He
told me that his master came to tov/n last night, and
would be glad to take a turn with me in (/ra.y's inn in

walki

As 1 was vvonder

in<

in mvself what had

brought Sir Roger to town, not having lately received
any letter from iiim, he told me that his master was
come up to get a sight of Prince Eugene, and that he
desired \ would inmiediatelv meet him.

I was not a little pleased with the curiosity of the
Id kniuht, tucju'-h I did \mA mu(,li wonder at it,

,:^r— ■

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

having heard him say more than once in private dis-
course, that he looked upon Prince Eugenio (for so
the knight always caTls him) to be a greater man than 20
Scanderbeg.

I was no sooner come into Gray's Inn walks, but
I heard my friend upon the terrace hemming twice
or thrice to himself with great vigour, for he loves to
clear his pipes in good air (to make use of his own 25
phrase), and is not a little pleased with any one who
takes notice of the strength which he still exerts in
his morning hems.

I was touched with a secret joy at the sight of the
good old man, who, before he saw me, was engaged 30
in conversation with a beggar man that had asked an
alms of him. I could hear my friend chide him for
not finding out some work ; but at the same time
saw him put his hand into his pocket and give him
sixpence. 35

Our salutations were very hearty on both sides,
consisting of many kind shakes of the hand, and seve-
ral affectionate looks which we cast upon one another.
After which the knight told me, my good friend his
chaplain was very well, and much at my service, and 40
that the Sunday before he had made a most incom-
parable sermon out of Dr. Barrow. ** I have left,"
says he, *' all my affairs in his hands, and being wil-
ling to lay an obligation upon him, have deposited
with him thirty merks, to be distributed among his 45
poor parishioners."

He then proceeded to acquaint me with the welfare
of Will Wimble. Upon which hf' put his hand into

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

))

il-

re
to

his fob, and presented me in his name with a tobacco-
stopper, telling me, that Will had been busy all the 50
beginning of the winter in turn'r.g great quantities
of them ; and that he made a present of one to every
gentleman in the country who ha.s good principles,
and smokes. He added, that poor Will was at
present under great tribulation, for that Tom Touchy 55
had taken the law of him for cutting some hazel
sticks out of one of his hedges.

Among other pieces of news which the knight

brought from his country seat, he informed me that

«
Moll White was dead ; and that about a month after 60

her death the wind was so very high, that it blew
down the end of one of his barns. '* But for my own
part," says Sir Roger, " I do not think that the old
woman had any hand in it."

He afterwards fell into an account of the diver- 65
sions which had passed in his house during the holi-
days ; for Sir Roger, after the laudable custom of his
ancestors, always keeps open house at Christmas.
I learned from him, that he had killed eight fat hogs
for this season ; that he had dealt about his cmnes 70
very liberally amongst his neighbours ; and that in
particular he had sent a string of hog's-puddings with
a pack of cards to every poor family in the parish.
** I have often thought," says Sir Roger, *' it happens
very well that Christmas should f dl out in the middle 75
of winter. It is the most dead and uncomfortable
time of the year, when the poor people would suffer
very much from their poverty and cold, if they had
not good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas gambols

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY,

to support liiem. I love to rejoice their poor hearts 80
at this season, and to see the whole village merry in
my great hall. I allow a double quantity of malt to
my small beer, and set it a running for twelve days
to every one that calls for it. I have always a piece
of cold beef and a mince pie upon the table, and am 85
wonderfully pleased to see my tenants pass away a
whole evening in playing their innocent tricks, and
smutting one another. Our friend Will Wimble is as
merry as any of them, and shows a thousand roguish
tricks upon these occasions." 90

1 was very much delighted with the reflection of
my old friend, which carried so much goodness in it.
I le then launched out into the praise of the late act of
parliament for securing the Church of England, and
told me, with great satisfaction, that he believed it 95
already began to take effect, for that a rigid dissenter,
who chanced to dine at his house on Christmas day
liad been observed to eat very plentifully of his
plum-porridge.

After having despatched all our country matters, 100
Sir Roger made several enc^uiries concerning the club,
and particularly of his old antagonist Sir Andrew
Freeport. He asked me, with a kind of smile, whether
Sir Andrew had not taken the advantage of his ab-
sence to vent among them some of his republican 105
doctrines ; but soon after, gathering up his counte-
nance into a more than ordinary seriousness, '^ Tell
'v.e truly," says he, " don't you think Sir Andrew had
;. hand in the Pope's procession" — but without giving
mc lime to answer him, " Well, well," says he, "I no

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

100

:ll

I I 10

know yon are a wary man, and do not care for talk-
ing of public matters."

The knight then asked me if I had seen Prince
Eugenio, and made me promise to get him a stand
in some convenient place where he might have a full 1 15
sight of that extraordinary man, whose presence does
so much honour to the British nation. He dwelt very
long on the praises of this great general ; and I found
that, since I was with him in the country, he had
drawn many observations together out of his reading 120
in Baker's CJiroiiicle^ and other authors, who always
lie in his hall window, which very much redound to
the honour of this prince.

Having passed away the greatest nart of the morn-
ing in hearing the knight's reflections, which were 125
partly private and partly political, he ajked me if I
would smoke a pipe with him over a dish Df coffee at
Squire's. As I love the old man, I take deliglit in
complying with every thing that is a.^^reeable t him,
and accordingly waited on him to the coffee-house, 130
where his venerable aspect drew upon us the eyes of
the whole room.. He havd no sooner seated hi \self
at the upper end of the high table, but he call*^ or a
clean pipe, a paper of tobacco, a dish of coffee wax-
cundle, and the Supplement, with such ar ir of 135
cheerfulness and good humour, that all the >ys in
the coffee-room (who seemed to takepleasut in serv-
ing him) were at once employed on hi;^ several
errands, insomuch that nobody else could come at a
dish of tea, till the knight had got all his c-nveni- 140

ences about him„

f \ I

'«r.

,f^~'

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

ill

[No. 329.

CHAPTER XVI.

SIR ROGER IN WESTMINSTER Ar.r.KY.

Irc taiiicn rcsiat, Numa quo dcvenit^ et Ancus,

—I lor.

My friend Sir Roger cle Coverley told me the other
night, that he had been reading my paper upon West-
minster Abbey, "in which," sa^s he, " there are a great
many ingenious fancies. ' He told me at the same time
that he observed that I had promised another paper
upon the tombs, and that he should be glad to go and
see them with me, not having visited them since he
had read history. I could not at first imagine how
this came into the knight's head, till I recollected
that he had been very busy all last summer upon
Baker's Chro?ncle, which he has quoted several times
in his dispute with Sir Andrew Freeport since his
last coming to town. Accordingly, I promised to call
upon him the next morning, that we might go to-
gether to the Abbey.

I found the knight under his butler's hand, who
always shaves him. He was no sooner dressed than
he called for a glass of the Widow Trueby's water,
which he told me he always drank before he went
abroad. He recommended to me a dram of it at the
same time, with so much heartiness, that I could not
forbear drinking ii. As soon as I had got it down, I
found it very unpalatable ; upon which the knight,
observing that I had made several wry faces, told me

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

that he knew I should not like it at first, but that it 2f
was the best thing in the world against the stone or
gravel.

I could have wished, indeed, that he had acquainted
me with the virtues of it sooner ; but it was too late
to complain, and I knew what he hrd done was out
of good will. Sir Roger told me further, that he
looked upon it to be very good for a man whilst he
stayed in town, to keep off infection, and that he got
together a quantity of it upon the first news of
the sickness being at Dantzic : when, of a sudden,
turning short to one of his servants who stood be-
hind him, he bid him call a hackney-coach, and take
care it was an elderly man that drove it.

He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Trueby's
water, telling me that the Widow Truet/ vas one who 40
did more good than all the doctors and apothecaries
in the country ; that she distilled every poppy that
grew within five miles of her ; that she distributed her
water gratis among all sorts of people ; to which the
knight added, that she had a very great jointure, and 45
that the whole country would fain have it a match be-
tween him and her ; " and truly," says Sir Roger,
*' if I had not been engaged, perhaps I could not
have done better."

His discourse was broken oft" by his man's telling 50
him he had called a coach. Upon our going to it,
after having cast his eye upon the wiicels, he asked
the coachman if his axle-tree was good. Upon the
fellow's telling hini he would warrant it, the knight

SIR KOl.KR V\\ V\>V^^HLF,Y.

rfw\

&•:

u'SJ

,-.' 'ii

! tj ill

turned to me, toM me he looked like an honest niani 55
and wen I in without further ceremony.

We had not jijone far, when Sir Roj^er, popping out
his head, called the coachman down from his box,
and upon his prcsentin^^ himself at the window, asked
hini if he smoked ; as I was considerinjjj what this 60
would end in, he bid him stop by the way at any
^ood tobacconist's and take in a roll of their best Vir-
tjinia. Nothing; material happened in the remaining
part of our journe\. till \\c were set down at the west
end of the Abbey. 65

As we went up the body of the church, the knight
pointed at the trophies upon one of the new monu-
iiients, and cried out, *' A brave man, I warrant
him !" PassiniT afterwards bv Sir Clo'ideslev Shovel,
he flunj^ his hand that way, and cried, " Sir Cloudesley 70
Shovel, a very gallant man ! " As we stood before
]-)Usby"5 tomb, the knight uttered himself again after
the same manner. '' Dr. Busby, a great man I he
whipp 'd my grandfather ; a very great man I I
should have gone to him myself, if I had not been a 75
blockhead ; a very great man I "•

We were immediatel)' conducted into the little
chapel on the right hand. Sir Roger planting him-
self at our historian's elbow, was very attentive to
everything he said, particularly to the account he 80
gave us of the lord who cut off the king of Morocco's
head. Among several other figures, he was very well
pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his knees ;
and concluding them all to be great men, was con-
ducted to the figure which represents that martyr to 85

SIR pogi:r de coverley.

good housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle.
Upon our interpreter's telling us that she was a maid
ot honour to ( Uieen Kli/.ibeth, the knight was very
inquisitive into her name and family ; and after hav-
ing regarded her linger for some time, "I wonder," 90
says he, " tliat Sir Richard Baker has said nothing
of her in his CJironiclc^^

We were then conveyed to the two Coronation
chairs, where my old friend, after having heard that
the stone underneath the most ancient of them, which 95
was brought from Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar,
sat himself down in the chair ; and looking like the
figure of an old Gothic king, asked our interpreter :
" What authority they had to say, that Jacob had ever
been in Scotland ?'' The fellow, instead of returning 100
him an answer, told him, that he hoped his honour
would pay his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a
little ruflled upon being thus trepanned ; but our
guide not insisting upon his demand, the knight soon
recovered his good humour, and whispered in my ear 103
that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw those two
chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-
stopper out of one or the other of them.

Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon
Edward the Third's sword, and leaning upon the no
ponmiel of it, gave us the whole history of the Black
Prince ; concluding, that in Sir Richard Baker's
opinion, Edward the Third was one of the greatest
princes that ever sat upon the English throne.

W^e were then shewn Edward the Confessor's tomb; 115
upon which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he wat the

li!

(mm \

' '

ill

lit

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

first who touched for the evil ; and afterwards Henry
the Fourth's, upon which he shook his head, and told
us that there was fine reading in the casualties of
that reign. 120

Our conductor then pointed to that monument
where there is the figure of one of our English kings
without an head : and only giving us to know, that
the head, which was of beaten silver, had been stolen
away several years since ; " Some Whig, I'll warrant 125
you,'^ says Sir Roger ; "you ought to lock up your
kings better ; they will carry off the body too, if you
don't take care."

The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen
Elizabeth gave the knight great opportunities of 130
shining, and of doing justice to Sir Richard 11 iker,
" who," as our knight observed with some surprise,
" had a great many kings in him, whose monuments
he had not seen in the Abbey."

For my own part, 1 could not but be pleased to see 135
the knight shew such an honest passion for the glory
of his country, and such a respectful gratitude to the
memory of its princes.

I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good

old friend, which flows out towards every one he con- 140

verses with, made him very kind to our interpreter,

whom he looked upon as an extraordinary man, for

which reason he shook hini by the hand at parting,

telling him, that he should be very glad to see him at

his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over these 145

matters with him more at leisure.

lini

SIR ROGi: R dj: coverlev.

2 135

140

chapter XVIU

I No. 336.

SIR ROGER AT 'JHE Vl.AV .

Kcspicere exemplar vitiC morunujitr juhcho
DoctUfH iinitatorcin, ct vet as hinc dticcrc v (Vr.

—I lor.

My friend Sir Roger de Coverlev, when we last met
to^j^ctlier at the ckib, told me that he had a great mind
to see the new tragedy with me, assuring me at the
same time, tliat he had not been at a play these twenty
years. "The last I saw," said Sir Roger, '' was The
Com/nittc'Cj which I should not have gone to neither,
had not I been told before-hand that it was a good
Church of England comedy." He tUcn proceeded to
i.iquire of me who this Distressed Mother was ; and
upon hearing that she was Hector's widow, he told me
that her husband was a brave m.iii, and that when he
was a school-boy he had read his life at the end of the
Dictionary. My friend asked me, in the next pla^e,
if there would not be some danger in coming home
late, incase the Mohocks should be abroad. '' I assure
you," says he, " I thought I had fallen into their hands
last night ; for 1 observed two or three lusty black
men that followed me half\\<iy up Elect Street, and
mended their pace behind me in proportion as I put
on to get away from them. You must know," con-
tinued the knight, with a smile, *' I fancied they had
a mind to hunt me ; for I remember m honest gen-
tleman in my neighbourhood, who WiS served such at

IMAGE EVALUATION
TEST TARGET (MT-3)

%>^

:/.

u..

1.0

I.I

1.25

Mi.Ki 12.5

*- 1.

1.8

1.4

^..f J^

:V >

Photographic

Sciences

Corporation

23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

I/.

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

trick in King Charles l\'s time, for which reason he
has not ventured himself in town ever since. I might
have shewn them very good sport, had this been their
design ; for as I am an old fox-hunter, I should have
turned and dodged, and have played them a thousand
tricks they had never seen in their lives before." Sir
Roger added, that if these gentlemen had any such
intention, they did not succeed very well in it ; " for
I threw them out," says he, "at the end of Norfolk
Street, where I doubled the corner, and got shelter in
my lodgings before they could imagine what was be-
come of me. ** However," says the knight, " if Cap-
tain Sentry will make one with us to-morrow night,
and if you will both of you call upon me about four
o'clock, that we may be at the house before it is full,
I will have my coach in readiness to attend you, for
John tells me he has got the forcwhecls mended."

The Captain, who did not fail to meet me there at
the appointed hour, bid Sir Roger fear nothing, for
that he had put on tiie same sword which he made use
of at the battle of Steenkirk. Sir Roger's servants,
and anions the rest, my old friend the butler, had, I
found, provided themselves with good oaken plants,
to attend their master upon this occasion. When we
had placed him in his coach, with myself at his left
hand, the Captain before him, and his butler at the
head of his footmen in the rear, we convoyed him in
safety to the play-house, w here, after having marched
up the entry in good order, the Captain and I went in
with him, and seated him betwixt us in the pit. As
soon as the house was full, and the candles lighted,

SIR ROGER UE COVERLEY.

my old friend stood up and looked about him with that 55
pleasure which a mind seasoned with humanity na-
turally feels in itself, at the sight of a multitude of peo-
ple who seem pleased with one another, and partake
of the same common entertainment. I could not but
fancy myself, as the old man stood up in the middle 60
of the pit, that he made a very proper centre to a tra-
gic audience. Upon the entering of Pyrrhus, the
knight told me that he did not believe the king of
"France himself had a better strut. I was indeed very
attentive to my old friend's remarks, because I looked 65
upon them as a piece of natural criticism, and was
well pleased to hear him, at the conclusion of almost
every scene, telling me th;U he could not imagine how
the play would end. One while he appeared much
concerned for Andromache, and a little while after as 70
much for Hermior.e ; and was extremely puzzled to
think what would become of I'vrrhus.

When Sir Roger saw Andromaclio's obstinate refu-
sal to her lover's importunities, he whispered me in
the ear, that he was sine she would never have him ; 75
to which he added, with a more than ordinary vehe-
mence, *' You can't imagine, Sir, what it is to have to
do with a widow." Upon Pyrrhus his threatening af-
terwards to leave her, the knight shook his head and
muttered to himself, " Ay, do if you can." This part 80
dwelt so much upon my friend's imagination, that at
the close of the third act, as I w-as thinking of some-
thing else, he whispered in my ear, " These widows,
Sir, are the most perverse creatures in the world. But
pray," says he, ** you that are a critic, is this play ac- $^

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

cording to your dramatic rules, as you call them ?
Should your people in tragedy always talk to be un-
derstood ? Why, there is not a single sentence in this
play that I do not know the meaning of."

The fourth act very unluckily began before I had 90
time to give the old gentleman an answer : ** Well,"
says the knight, sitting down with great satisfaction,
" I suppose we are now to see Hector's ghost." He
then renewed his attention, and, from time to time,
fell a-praising the widow. He made, indeed, a little 95
mistake as to one of her pages, whom at his first en-
tering he took for Astynax : but he quickly set him-
self right in that particular, though, at the same time,
he owned he should have been very glad to have seen
the little boy ; *' who," said he, " must needs be a 100
very fine child by the account that is given of him."
Upon Hermione's going off with a menace to Pyrrhus,
the audience gave a loud clap, to which Sir Roger
added, ** On my word, a notable young baggage I "

As there was a very remarkable silence and still- 105
ness in the au:lience during the whole action, it was
natural for them to take the opportunity of these inter-
vals betv»'een the acts, to express their opinion of the
players and their resj)cctive parts. Sir Roger hearing
a cluster of them praise Orestes, struck in with them, no
and told them that he ihouf^ht his friend Pylades was
a very sensible man. As they were afterwards ap-
plauding Pyrrhus, Sir Roger put in a second time :
** and let me tell you," says he, " though he speaks
but little, 1 like the old fellow in whiskers as well as 115
i^ny of them." Captain Sentry seeing two or three

wags V

wards

the kn

sometl

the fif

to the

death,

a blooc

done u

his rav

and toe

conscie

looked

As v/

we wen

to have

did not

crowd.

tertainn

the sarr

house ;

only wi

which 1:

which it

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

9»

:.*» i

wa|:js who sat near us, lean with an attentive ear to-
wards Sir Roger, and fearing lest they should smoke
the knight, plucked him by the elbow, and whispered
something in his ear, that lasted till the opening of 120
the fifth act. The knight was wonderfully attentive
to the account which Orestes gives of Pyrrhus his
death, and at the conclusion of it told me, it was such
a bloody piece of work, that he was glad it was not
done upon the stage. Seeing afterwards Orestes in 125
his raving fit, he grew more than ordinary' serious,
and took occasion to moralize (in his way) upon an evil
conscience, adding, that Orestes, in his madness,
looked as if he saw something.

As v/e were the first that came into the house, so 130
we were the last that went out of it ; being resolved
to have a clear passage for our old friend, whom we
did not care to venture among the jostling of the
crowd. Sir Roger went out fully satisfied with his en-
tertainment, and we guarded hijn to his lodgings in 135
the same manner that we brought him to the play-
house ; being highly pleased, for my own part, not
only with the performance of the excellent piece
which had been presented, but with the satisfaction
which it had given to the good old man. 140

9«

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

[No 383.

CHAPTER XVIII.

EIR RrK;ER AT VAUXHALL.
Criminibus debaU hortos.

As I was sitting in my chamber, and thinking on a
subject for my next Spcctortor^ I heard two or three ir-
regular bounces at my landlady's door ; and r.pon the
opening of it, a loud cheerful voice inquiring whether
the philosopher was at home. The child who went 5
to the door answered very innocently, that lie did not
lodge there.* I immediately recollected that it was my
good friend Sir Roger's voice, and that I had pro-
mised to go with him on llie water to Spring Gar-
den, in case it proved a good evening. The knight 10
put me in mind of my promise from the bottom of the
staircase, but told me, that if I was speculating, he
would stay below till I had done. Upon my coming
down, I found all the children of the family got about
my old friend, and my landlady herself, who is a not- 15
able prating gossip, engaged in a conference with him ;
being mightily pleased with liis stroking her little boy
upon tlie head, and bidding him be a good child, and
nii'^d his book. _

We were no sooner come to the Temple stairs, but 2c
we were surrounded with a crowd of watermen, offer-
ing us their respective services. Sir Roger, after
having looked about him very attentively, spied one

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY. 95

with a wooden leg, and immediately gave him orders
to get his boat ready. As we were walking towards 25
it, "You must know," says Sir Roger, "I never
make use of anybody to row me that has not either
lost a leg or an arm. I would rather bate him a few
strokes of his oar than not employ an honest man
that has been wounded in the (2ueen's service. If I 30
was a lord or a bishop, and kcj)t a i:)arge, I would
not put a fellow in my livery that had not a wooden

leg."

My old friend, after having seated himself and
trimmed the boat with his coachman, who, being a 35
very sober man, always serves for ballast on these
occasions, we made the best of our way for Vauxhall.
Sir Roger obliged the waterman to give us the history
of his right leg, aivd hearing that he had left it at La
Hogue, with many particulars which passed in that 40
glorious action, the knight, in the triumph of his
heart, made several reflections on the greatness of
the liritish nation ; as, that one Englishman could
beat three Frenchmen ; that we could never be in
danger of Popery so long as wc took care of our fleet ; 45
that the Thames was the noblest river in Europe ;
that London bridge was a greater piece of work than
any of the seven wonders of the world ; with many
other honest prejudices which naturally cleave to the
heart of a true Englishman. 50

After some short pause, the old knight, turning
about his head twice or thrice, to take a survey of
this great metropolis, bid me observe how thick the
city was set with churches, and that there was scarce

I <

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEV.

a single steeple on this side Temple Bur. "A mosV
heathenish sight !" says Sir Roger. "There is no
religion at this end of the town. The fifty new
churches will very much mend the prospect ; but
church work is slow, church work is slow.''

I do not remember I have anywhere mentioned, 60
in Sir Roger's character, his custom of saluting
everybody that passes by him with a good morrow
or a good night. This the old man does out of the
overflowings of his humanity, though at the same
time it renders him so popular among all his country 65
neighbours, that it is thought to have gone a good
way in making him once or twice knight of the shire.
He cannot forbear this exercise of benevolence even
in town, when he meets with any one in his morning
or evening walk. It broke from him to several boats
that passed by upon the water ; but to the knight's
great surprise, as he gave the 'j;ood night to two or
three young fellows a luile before our landing, one of
them, instead of returning the civility, asked us what
queer old put we had in the boat, and whether he was
not ashamed to go a-wenching at his years ? with a
great deal of the like Thames ribaldry. Sir Roger
seemed a little shocked at first, but at length assum-
ing a face of magistracy, told us that if he were a
Middlesex justice, he would make such vagrants 80
know that her Majesty's subjects were no more to be
abused by water than by land.

V/e were now arrived at Spring Garden, which is
exquisitely pleasant at this time of the year. When
I considered the fragrancy of the walks and bowers, Q^

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

with the choirs of birds that sung upon the trees,
and the loose tribe of people that walked under the
shades, I could not but look upon the place as a kind
of Mahometan paradise. Sir Roger told me it put
him in mind of a little coppice by his house in the 90
country hich his chaplain used to call an aviary of
nightin'^ales. '' You must understand," says the
knight, ** there is nothing in ♦he world that pleases a
man in love so much as your nightingale. Ah, Mr.
Spectator ! the many moonlight nights that I have 95
walked by myself, and thought on the widow by the
miysic of the nightingale ! " He here fetched a deep
sigh, and was falling into a fit of musing, when a
mask, who came behind him, gave him a gentle tap
upon the shoulder, and asked him if he would drink 100
a bottle of mead with her ? But the knight, being
startled at so unexpected a familiarity, and displeased
to be interrupted in his thoughts of the widow, told
her she was a wanton baggage, and bid her go about
her business. 105

We concluded our walk with a glass of Burton ale
and a slice of hung beef. When we had done eating
ourselves, the knight called a waiter to him, and bid
him carry the remainder to the waterman that had
but one leg. I perceived the fellow stared upon him 1 10
at the oddness of the message, and was going to be
saucy ; upon which I ratified the knight's commands
with a peremptory look.

As we were going out of the garden, my old friend,
thinking himself obliged, as a member of the quoi-um, \ 1 5
to animadvert upon the morals of the place, told the

!> 1^^ \

SIR ROGKR DE COVIIRLEY.

mistress of the house, who sat at the bar, that he
should be a better customer to her garden if there
were more nightingales, and fewer improper per-
sons. , 120

Steele,'
lion to
ami no I
aiul goii
in the i|
of Sir l|
lowing

[As year lollowed year, Addison seems to have felt the
niaiiitenanee of the S/<(/a/or, unexampled as had been its
sueeess, an increasing burden, and to have cast about for
the means of handsomely bringing it to a close. One obvi-
ous expedient was to kill otV, or otherwise disjiose of, the 5
members of the Club. We find mention accordingly, in
No. 513, of the Clergyman as lying on his death-bed, and
four nvnnhers later the incomparable Sir Roger himself is
made to succumb to fate. On the whole, Addison's manage-
ment of the character had been little interfered with by the ic
other contributors. In a paper (Xo. 174), prol)ably written
by wStccle, the knight hokls an entertaining argument with
Sir Andrew Freej)ort on the merits of trade ; and in one by
liudgcll (No. 359), he is made to discoiuse on beards in a
style neither edifying nor witty. A slight mention of him 15
occurs in No. 359. But about a month after the appearance
of Addison's paper, just printed, describing Sir Roger's visit
to Vauxhall, vSteele introiluced him (No. 410) as the hero 01
a questionable and unseemly adventure, in which the reader
is presented with the disagreeable alternative of consideung 20
the poor old knight either as a knave or a fool. He is de-
scribed as Hilling in with a girl called Sukey ir the Temple
cloisters, with whose ajipeararce and manners he is so much
taken that he gives her a dinner at a tavern, invites her to
come to his lodgings, and promises that if she comes down 25
to the country she shall be encouraged. This made Addison
very angry j he is said to have had a sharp altercation with

[No. 617

We 1;
club, wl
questior
bled at t
suspense
this life
sickness
of his cc
the old 1
he was >
penning,
wishes,
of the p(
ant agon
Captain

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

Steele,* ami he 'solved to send the darling of his imagina*
tion to the land where the *• wicked cease from troubling,**
and no rude hand could mar the sweet im.age of simplicity
and goodness which he desired should be the final result,
in the nunds of thou>ands of readers, of the contemplatit)n
of Sir Roger's character. We arc thus brought to the fol-
lowing palmer.]

</7

CHAPTER XIX.
INo. 617.

DKATH OF SIR ROGER.

HcH pictasl /icit fn'siafuiiS !

-Virg.

We last night received a piece of ill news at our
club, which very sensibly afilicted every one of us. I
question not but my readers themselves will be trou-
bled at the hearing of it. To keep them no longe*- in
suspense, Sir Roger de Coverley is dead. He departed
this life at his house in the country, after a few weeks'
sickness. Sir Andrew Freeport has a letter from one
of his correspondents in those parts, that informs him
the old man caught a cold at the county-sesrions, as
he was very warmly promoting an address of lis own
penning, in which he succeeded according to his
wishes. But this particular comes from a Whig justice
of the peace, who was always Sir Roger's enemy and
antagonist. I have letters both from the chaplain and
Captain Sentry, which mention nothing of it, but are

3'^

* Life by Dr. Johnson.

SIR ROGKR Di: COVKRLEY.

tilled with many particulars to the honour of the j^oocl
old man. I have likewise a letter from the butler,
who took so much care of me last summer when I
was at the knight's house. As my friend the butler
mentions, in the simplicity of his heart, several cir-
cumstances the others have passed over in silence,
1 shall give my reader a copy of his letter, without any
alteration or diminution.

" IIONOURKI) SlK,

'' Knowing that you was my master's good friend, 25
I could not forbear sending you the melancholy news
of his death, which has afflicted the whole country, as
well as his poor servants, who loved him, I may say,
better than we did our lives. I am afraid he caught
his death the last county-sessions, where he would go 30
to see justice done to a poor widow woman, and her
fatherless children, that had been wronged by a neigh-
bouring gentleman ; for you know, sir, my good mas-
ter was always the poor man's friend. Upon his com-
ing home, the tirst complaint he made was, that he 35
had lost his roast-beef stomach, not being able to
touch a sirloin, which was served up according to cus-
tom ; and you know he used to take great delight in
it. From that time forward he grew worse and worse,
but still kept a good heart to the last. Indeed we were 40
once in great hope of his recovery, upon a kind mes-
sage that was sent him from the widow lady whom he
had made love to the forty last years of his life, but
this only proved a lightning before death. He has be-
queathed to this lady, as a token of his love, a great 45

SIR R0CI:R DK COVKRLEy.

pearl necklace, and a couple of silver bracelets set
with jewels, which belonged to my good old lady his
mother ; he has bequeathed the tine white gelding,
that he used to ride a hunting upon, to his chaplain,
because he thought he would be kind to him, and he 50
has left you all his books. He has, moreover, be-
queathed to the cha[)lain a very pretty tenement with
yood lands about it. It being a very cold day when
he made his will, he left for mourning, to every m.m
in the ])arish, a great frieze-coat, and to every woman 55
a black riding-hood. It was a most moving sight to
see him take leave of his poor servants, commending
us all for our fidelity, whilst we were not able to speak
a word for weeping. As we most of us are grown
grey-headed in our dear master's service, he has left Co
us pensions and legacies, which we may live very com-
fortably upon the remaining part of our days. He has
bequeathed a great deal more in charity, which is not
yet come to my knowledge, and it is peremptorily said
in the parish, that he has left money to build a steeple 65
to the church ; for he was heard to say some time
ago that if he lived two years longer, Coverley church
should have a steeple to it. The chaplain tells every-
body that he made a very good end, and never speaks
of him without tears. He was buried, according to 70
his own directions, among the family of the Cover-
leys, on the left hand of his father Sir Arthur. The
coffin was carried by six of his tenants, and the pall
held up by six of the quorum j the whole parish fol-
lowed the corpse with heavy hearts, and in their 75
mourning suits, the men in frieze, and the women in

100

SIR R( t:r de coverley.

riding-hoods. Captain Sentry, my master's nephew,
has taken possession of tho Hall-house, and the whole
estate. When my old master saw him a little before
his death, he shook him by the hand, and wished him 80
joy of the estate which was falling to him, desiring
liim only to make a good use of it, and to pay the
several legacies, and the gifts of charity which he told
him he had left as quit-rents upon the estate. The
Captain truly seems a courteous man, though he says 85
but little. He makes much of those whom my master
loved, and shews great kindnesses to the old house-
dog, that you know my poor master was so fond of.
It would have gone to your heart to have heard the
moans the dumb creature n^ade on the day of my 90
master's death. He has never joyed himself since ;
no more has any of us. 'Twas the melancholiest day
for the poor people that ever happened in Worcester-
shire. This is all from,

" Honuuied Sir, your most sorrowful servant, 95

" Edward Biscuit."

" P.S. — My master desired, some weeks before he
died, that a book which comes up to you by the car-
rier should be given to Sir Andrev; Freeport, in his

name.

))

100

"^i

This letter, notwithstanding the poor butler's man-
ner of writing it, gave us such an idea of our good old
friend, that, upon the reading of it, there was not a dry
eye in the club. Sir Andrew, opening the book, found it
to be a collection of acts of parliament. There was 105
in particular the Act of Uniformity, with some pas-

SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY.

loi

sages in it marked by Sir Roger*s own hand. Sir
Andrew found that they related to two or three points
which he had disputed with Sir Roger the last time
he appeared at the club. Sir Andrew, who would have i lo
been merry at such an incident on another occasion,
at the sight of the old man's hand-writing, burst into
tears, and put the book into his pocket. Captain Sen-
try informs me that the knight has left rings and
mourning for every one in the club. 115

11 ^ n

[In the following number Will Honeycomb is disposed
of; his sprightliness and knowledge of the town will be at
the service of the Club no more. Captain Sentry succeeds
to the estate of his uncle Sir Roger de Coverley, and we are '
to suppose that he will not often be seen in town for the fu-
ture. He almost says as much in a letter introduced in No.
544, probably written by Steele, in which also he takes oc-
casion to protest that the passage in No. 410 relating to Sir
Roger's behaviour to the girl whom he met at the Temple
cloisters had been misunderstood, and that not the slightest
reflection on the knight's moral character had been intended.
In No. 541 we are told that the Templar has determined
upon *• a closer pursuit of the law," which seems to be a way
of saying that he will not any longer frequent the club.]

Ilor.

2 A

6 Si

it was I

acters,
that his
futile a
Roger J
tor.

In 17

named

the proi

I he a.sse

ardent 1

and not

"Th(

danse (i.

cised, C

^'orkshi

who has

'Ihoresb

I. had a

(lence be

lands in I

peats ihi

says that

is called

Ilornpip

NOTES TO THE DE COVEliLEY PAPERS.

• I

CHAPTER II.

** Spectator," No, io6. — Momky, July 2iul, 1711.

Ilor. I. Od. xvii. 14.

Mere plenty's liberal horn shall pour
Of fruits for thee a'copious shower,
Rich honors of the quiet plain.

2 A month, July of 171 1,

6 Sir Roger. Notwithstanding the difficulty into which
it was known the Tatlcr had been drawn by describing real char-
acters, and the express statement of the Spectator^ in No. 262,
that his writings were not "aimed at private perscjns," many
futile attempts have been made to identify the original of Sir
Roger De Coveiley, as well as the other characters of the Specta-
tor.

In 1783, Mr. I'yers, in his Historical Essays on Mr. Addison^
named Sir John Packington, of We^twood, \Vorcester>hire, as
the prototy[)e of Sir Roger ; but, as Mr. Wills has pointed out,
the assertion is untenable, for Sir Juhn was twice married, an
irdent politician and a barrister, while Sir Roger was a bachelor,
and not greatly interesteil in either politics or law.

** The name of Roger of Coverley (Cuvcrley) applied to a contrc-
danse (i.e. a dance in which partners stand in opposite rows) angli-
cised. Country Dance, was ascribed to the house of Calverley, in
Yorkshire, by an ingenious member thereof, Ralph Thore^by,
who has left a MS. account of the family, written in 1717. Mr.
Thoresby has it that Sir Roger of Calverley, in the time of Richard
I. had a harper which was the composer of this tune ; his evi-
dence being, apparently, that i)ersous of the n.inie of Harper had
lands in the neighborhood of Calverley. Mr. W. Chappell,whi) re-
peats this statement in his ' Popular Music of the Olden Time,'
says that in a MS. o'" the beginning of the last century, this tune
is called * Old Roger of Coverlay, for evermore.' A Lancashire
Hornpipe, In the Dancing Master of 1696. it is railed * Roger

104

NOTES.

ofCoverly.* Mr. Chappell quotes also, in illustration of the
familiar knowledge of this tune and its name in Addison's time,
from the History of Robert Powell the Puppet Showman (1715),
that upon the Preludis being ended, each party fell to bawling
and calling for particular tunes. The hobnail'd fellows, whose
breeches and lungs seem'd to be of the same leather, cried out
for Cheshire Rounds, Roger of Coverly, &c." — Morley.

7 Humour. See note on Chap. vi. 1. 29, also, on D. V. 1. 33.

22 Valet de-chambre. Words from foreign languages
should not be used when it is possible to express the idea in-
tended by any from our own.

27 Pad. For the knight's further treatment of this old
horse, see Chapter xix.

33 Ancient. Still used in this sense in French.

39 Tempered = intermingled. Toiiper and distemper were
once used technically in the theory of medicine explained in the
note on Chap. vi. 1. 29, being applied to the mixture of the dif-
ferent humours.

57 In the nature of = in the capacity of.

59 Conversation = behavior, deportment.
Cf. I Ptrter ii. 12 : — " Having your conversation honest
among the Gentiles."

70 Thi5s rast, &c. This sentence i? not properly constructed,
as This cast of mind \\-x^ xio \t\\'i. Arrange it correctly.

77 Insulted with Latin, &c. The fox-hunting squires of
Enj^land at this lime possessed but little learning or literary
taste. Vet it must not be supposed that literature was not culti-
vated in the country. The great attention which was given to
both poetical and prose composition, and the activity of literary
men, both as scholars in their Colleges and as publishers of news-
papers and pamphlets, sufficiently shews that in the political, re-
ligious and purely literary world there was not wanting a large num-
ber of prolific and able writers, and that they could command no
mean audience. But compared with modern times, whan railway
and postal communication have made all England as accessible as
the City of London then was, the means of general information
was very small.

89 If he outlives, &c. As to how Sir Roger kept his pro-
mise, see Chapter xix.

97 Apply themselves. No*, now used reflexively in this
sense.

Ill Bishop of St. Asaph. Lloyd, one of the Seven Bishops

Out .

This
which
the peril

NOTES.

!05

who refused to read James II. 's Declaration of Induljjence. Mr.
Arnold thinks that Dr. Fleetwood, who then occupied the See,
or his predecessor, Beveridge, is meant.

112 Dr. South (1643— 1716), called the "wittiest church-
man " of the day, was one of the most bijjoted defentlers of the
doctrine of passive obedience. He often preached before Charles
XL, and was much admired by the Court, He was a perfect
master of English prose ; his style being eas), vigorous and rhyth-
mical.

115 Archbishop Tillotson (1630— 1694), next to Barrow, wa=;
the most popular preacher of his time : he rendered himself con-
spicuous by his strong Puritan sympathies. His published sermons
fill fourteen volumes 8vo. His style is easy, even to familiarity.

115 Bishop Saunderson (1587—1663), "one of the nmst
celebrated of the High-Church Divines, wrote >vorks on casu-
istry, and sermons distinguished by great learning." — Shaw.

116 Dr. Barrow (1630— 1677) was a man of almost universal
acquirements. He was one of the greatest mathematicians of his
age, surpassed only by his pupil, Newton. In science, he was
nearly as well versed as in mathematics. His eloquence in the
pulpit was irresistible. His sermons are laden with thought, and
filled with the powerful reasonings of a giant intellect. Chatham
recommended I3arrow to his son as the finest model of elo-
quence.

116 Dr. Calamy (1600 — 1666), originally a clergyman of the
Church of England, but afterwards a dissenting minister in Lon-
don. He took part in the S'ncctymnuus. He opposed the exe-
cution of Charles I., and aided in bringing about the Restora-
tion. He became chaplain to Charles II. ; but the Act of Uni-
formity made him again a seceder.

130 Handsome elocution=A pleasing delivery.

CHAPTER III.

** Spectator," No. 108. —Wednesday, July 4th, 1711.

Phaedr. Fab. v. 2.
Out of breath to no purpose, and very busy about 110th inij.

This paper affords an excellent example of the method by
which the Spectator labored to correct the abuses and follies of
the period. It is not by railing at what is wrong, but by taking

io6

NOTES.

a particular case of the reprehensible custom, and so presenting
it as, with quiet sly humor, to expose it to ridicule.

Will Wimble, like most of the ^tv/a/^r'j characicrs, has been
traced to a supposed original. It has been said that he was a
Mr. Thomas Morecraft, the younger son of a Yorkshire baronet.
Mr. Steele was acquainted with him in early life and introduced
him to Mr, Addison, from whom he received assistance. As
Mr. Wills has pointed out, Will Wimble's is a continuation of the
character of Mr. Thomas Clules (of No. 256 of the 7<7//tv), who,
" according to the ])rinciples of ?il younger brothers of his
family, had never sullied himself with business, but had choseu
rather to starve like a man of honour than lo do anything beneath
his quality. He produced several witnesses that he had never
employed himsell btyond the twisting of a whip, or the making
of a pair of nut-crackers, in which he only worked for his diver-
sion, in order to make a present now and then to his friends."

lo Jack, Fr. Jat/ucs^ James, is a term familiarly applied to
a great variety of ul)jects. Here a common pike.

25 Quality — rank. The word is now often used colloquially
as a terni of concealed contempt.

27 Baronet. The next title below a baron, and above a
knight, and the lowest which is hereditary in England ; insti-
tuted by James I. in 161 1.

37 Officious. Lat. ^/' and/a<7'£», I do. Here, obliging. At
present it means too obliging, intruding one's services where they
are not wanted.

39 Correspondence = intercourse. It is now confined chiefly
to intercourse by letter.

41 Tulip-root. The cultivation of particular s;)ecies of
flowers was begun in Europe by the Dutch in the seventeenth cen-
tury. In 1636-7, a wonderful flower mania, chiefly about tulips,
prevailed in Holland ; the bulbs rose to an enormous price, and
men speculated in them as wildly as in South-Sea shares. A
single bulb sold for 13,000 florins. After the craze passed away
many people were involved in financial ruin. The fashion of
raising special flowers passed into England also, and is referred
to in the text.

46 Setting-dog-, often 'called se/fdr, is a sporting dog of
the same species as the spaniel, trained to sit or crouch to the
game he finds. ^

Made— trained.

67 No sooner . . but. A comparative is now followed
by Ma«,

NOTES.

107

85 Particularities — particulars. Cf. Swift's Journal, Mar.
II, 1 711 : — '• 1 have a mind to write and publish an account of
all the particularities of this fact,"

89 Quail pipe, A pipe used by fowlers for alluring (piails.

105 Had rather. This seems to be an irregular construction
for ivotihi ratfur. As it .stands, had may be regarded as an in-
complete verb with rather for its complement.

113 Accordingly, &c. Sir Andrew Freeport is the repre-
sentative of the class of Englishmen who, having made large
fortunes in trade, purchased landed estates. He, however, was
not a "younger son," but had risen from the ranks by " honest
imiustry." The foolish prejudices which Mr. Addison here de-
rides, have not yet been given up, although many young scions
of noble families do at present engage in commerce.

T2I Improper = unqualified, unsuited.

CHAPTER IV

" Spectator," No. no.— Friday, July 6th, 171 1.

Virg. /En. ii. 755.

All things are full of horror and affright,

And dreadful ev'n the silence of the night. — Dryden.

This paper is in Addison's plainest style. There is little or-
nament, no attempt at effect l)y inversions, unusual collocations
or witticisms ; but a simple, direct and easy description of the old
ablyjy walk, intermingled with quiet, but pointed reflections that
do not fail to accomplish the evident design of making the su-
perstitions of the time appear ridiculous.

10 Feedeth the young ravens.— Psalm cxlvii. 9.

13 It lies under. This form is now become colloquial, and
is scarcely ever found in good authorities except with the prepo-
sitions "to," or "of."

42 Awfulness = solemnity.

46 Mr. Locke (1632-1704), who saw much of the vicissi-
tudes of public life while following the fortunes of his patron,
the Earl of Shaftesbury, >vas an original thinker and voluminous
writer. The greatest of his works is his Essay on the Human
Understanding, the object of which is to prove that all our ideas
arise either from Sensation or Reflection,

io8

NOTES,

67 Trivial is derived, according to Trench, from I.at. tres^
ihrt^e, ami vi(r, roads; and has its meaninj^ from the ♦rifling mat-
ters discussed by persons meeting at crossings. It is more pro-
bable that it is from Gr. TtftEifia)^ to rub ; hence the worn or
beaten path. As what comes out of the road is common or of
little value, so trivia/ haa that meaning.

85 Exorcised. Gr. l^ofthif^oo, to exorcise, (from Ih^ from
and, ofjKo?^, an oath ;) Lat. exorcizo. To drive away, as evil
spirits, by certain forms of conjuration.

Observe that superstitions linger longest among the most ig-
norant classes. The servants are very superstitious, Sir Roger
is not quite free from the chariJ^e, while Mr. Spectator and the
chaplain rise entirely above anything so foolish.

The folly of ]>elieving in ** spirits and apparitions," and the
ill effects of filling children's minds with ghost stories, are the
subject of issue No. 12 of the Spectator.

103 Lucretius, a Roman poet who lived in the first century
before Christ. His chief work is a didactic poem entitled De
Rirtim Natura,

CHAPTER V.
*• Spectator," No. 112. Monday, July 9th, 1711.

Pythag.

First, in oLedience to thy country's rites,
Worship th* immortal gods.

Mr. Wills says that the " church close to which Addison was
born and where his father ministered may have supplied some
of the traits to the exquisite picture of a rural Sabbath which
this chapter presents.

" The parish church of Milston is a modest edifice, situated in
a combe or hollow of the Wiltshire downs, about two miles north-
west of Amesbury. In the parsonage house — now an honored
ruin — on the 1st of May, 1672, Joseph Addison was born. It is
only separated from the grave-yard by a hawthorn fence, and
must have been, when inhabited, the beau-ideal of a country
parsonage. It has a spacious garden, rich glebe, and commands
a pretty view, bounded by the hill on which stands the church of
Darrington.

*' Milston church remains nearly in the same state as during the

NOTES.

109

first twelve years of bis life which Addison passed under its
shndow. As no l)enev<)lent parishioner took the hint conveyed
in Sir Roger's will, it is still without tower or steeple ; the belfry
lieint; noiliinji; more than a small louvered shed. Within, the
church is partitioned off by tall, worm eaten peA's, and is scarcely
capable of holdinji; a hunthed jiersons. At the east end stands
the communion-luble ' railed in.' It was once lighted by a
stained-glass window ; but of this it was deprived by the cupidity
of a deceased incumbent. The same person was guilty of a
worse act: to oblige a friend — 'a collector' — he actually tore
out the lejf of the parish register which contained the entry of
Joseph Ad lison's birth.

" Milston church does not dis])lay the texts of Scripture attri-
buted to the Coverley edifice. If any existed when /Vddiaon wrote,
they must have been since effaced by whitewash."

3 Were is here used as the supposition is contrary to the
truth.

4 Could have been thought of. Observe the force of the
tense.

5 The polishing of. The tendency at present is to omit
both the and of.

10 Habits= cloth eN. Cf. French habit.

9 Village. Collective nouns may have their verl)s and
pronouns either singular or plural. The plural brings into prom-
inence the individuals who compose the v\hole ; the singular, the
whole which the individuals make up.

18 Eye of the Village. A very neat and expressive figure,
or rather combination of figures. Village for villagers, by
Metonymy, and the eye stands for the esteem which the villagers
feel as a result of what they see, the instrument for the effect
produced in the mind — Metoiiyny.

32 Hassock. Sw, h^uass, a rush and A. S. saec, a sack.
A thick mat to kneel on at church.

47 Particularities = peculiarities.

60 For governs the phrase beiii'::^ an idle felloxv. When the' par"
ticiple of a verb of incomplete predication is used as a noun, i.e.»
as the name of a state or condition, it requires a noun or adjec"
tive to complete it in the same way as any other part of the verb*

65 Polite is now chiefly used actively as polished is passively.

71 As soon as = when.

82 Bible is in the objective case the subject of to he given^
wliich is a Complementary Infinitive completing the object Bible,

110

NOTES.

84 Flitch. A. S. Jlicce.

86 Place - salary of the place — Metonymy

95 Parson. Lat. persona, a mask ; from per, through and
sono, 1 speak, or sound. \\\ old Latin plays the actors all wore
masks ; hence first the part and next the actor, was called /t;-.
sona. The parson is the chief person of a parish.

95 Squire. See note on Garden 1. 815.

100 Titlie-stealers. Tithes (A. S. teotha, a tenth) were in-
s'ituted in Knjiland l>y the Saxon Kings, and have continued to
he jniid in some form till the present time. They were for
many centuries paid in kind, i. e. the tenth lamb, pig, sheaf,
61tc. The inconvenience of this method often led to the substitu-
tion of a money payment ; and in 1838, it w.is finally decided by
Act of Parliament that tithes in all cases should be connnuted
into a rent charge. The old system gave much room for dispute
and di.-hoiiesty.

113 Very hardly— with great difficulty.

115 How — soever. An example of Tmesis, the separation
of the pait of a compound word.

This charming essay exhiluts the great beauty of Addison's
style, so easy, so apparently artless, so genial in spirit, so kindly
in reproof, so well adapted to induce the reader insensibly to
adopt the opinions of the writer. The pious zeal of the old
knight whom we, like his tenants and servants, are beginning
to love and admire in spite of his little singularities, is quaintly
depicted with a tender mixture of admiration and humor.

CHAPTER VI.

"Spectator," No. 115, Friday, July 13th, 1711.

Juv. Sat. X. 356 :—

Pray for a sound mind in a sound body.

15 This description, &c. This sentence has a looseness
and obscurity vei7 rare in the clea- and limpid style of these
papers. Which refers to muscle and ligatu>e, and that to boiuels,
bones, ^c.

The metaphor of tubes and pipes of q/ands and strainers, is no
less obscure than the *' system" which it is intended to expfain,
at least, to us who have given up as exploded the theory of "hu-
mors,"

NOTKS.

tit

^9 Ferments the humours. Tn the sixteenth centiuy, as
chcinisiiy l)cc;iine a science, .' s principles were C()ml)ine«l with
tlu)>c of phy-.iolo^y, and ^.ive rise to a new school of chemical
ptiy.ici.ins. They cnii^idered ihit diseases were refenihle to
certain fermentations whi:h took place in the t)lood, and tint cer-
tain hiitfio) :! were naturally acid and others naturally alkaline,
and acconiinfj as one or the other of these ]iredoininatt-d, so cer-
tain spci:itk' iliseases were the result, which were to be removed
hy the exhilv.tion of remedies of an opposite nature to that of iho
liisLase. This school was followed by the mathematical. See
note on D. V. 1. 33.

41 Cpleen. The spleen u-cd to be regarded as the reservoir
of all the [ieccant huniors of the body ; and just as the liver was
supposed to be the seat of the erotic passions, and the heart is still
spv)ken of as that of the affections, so * the spleen' came to mean
a^ger, illdnimour, melancholy. In Addison's time the spleen
and the vapors (the former applied to men and the latter to
women) were terms much in vogue to indicate a state of nervous
weakness and conseciuent depression of spirits, under which the
imai^es of the brain rtoat with a visible distinctness before the
patient. It is now called hypochondriasis.

42 Vapours. .See above.

47 As necessarily, &c. As has here the force of a relative
pronoun.

47 It is so ordered —without it. This repetition of it so near
and in two senses is objectionable.

57 Brows. Commonly used in the "intiular, except in the
compound eye-brow. Perhaps this is an imitation of the Latin
tcmpla. The figure is called Enallai^c.

60 Forced into its several products ^ forced to yield its
several products.

67 Indulge themselves ^ indulge.

75 Which he thinks. Which is here connective, and as it
is so far from its antecedent horns, \}i\^ sentence would be easier if
it was replaced by and this.

He — his — him. Arrange so as to remove the ambiguity
in the pronouns.

90 Distinction's sake. We nov/ write /or the sake of dis'inc-
tion.

91 Cost, is intransitive.

;l!:

1
1

•

r
i

lilHik

I!2

NOTKS.

96 Some account of. See papers 113, 118.

101 Left off Fox-hunting;. Taper 1 16 informs us how Sir
Koj^er made up for the h)ss ot this exercise.

loS Dr. Sydenham (i624-i6iS'j) was ihe most (listin};uisht'il
Ktj^lish phynician of ihe I7lh coniury. He was educated at Ox-
ford and M<iiiii)ellier and practised at Westminster. He inchiied
in theory to tiie chemical school. His wrilinj^s, Opera Mcd'ua^
were once very popular.

1 10 Will see ^= wishes to see.

112 Medicini Gymnastica, or, a Treatise Concerning the
Power of Kxercise. l>y Kraiicis luller, M.A.

124 Latin Treatise of Exercises. "Artis Gymnastica
apud Anti(|uas," in l.il)ri VT. (\'ciiicc, 1569). J{y Hieronyuius
Mercurialis, who died at Forli, in ifKDO. He speaks of the
shadow-fighting in Lib. IV. cap. 5, and Lib. V. Cap. 2, — Mor-
ley.

128 Loaden, now laden or loaded,

136 Uneasy = troublesome.

"The favourite occupations of the country gentry were field-
sports. These amusements, though they somewhat changed their
character, do not appear to have at all tliminished during the first
half of the eighteenth century, and it was in this period that Gay,
and especially Scjmerville, published the most considerable sport-
ing poems in the language. Hawking, which had been extremely
popular in the beginning of the seventeenth century, and which
was a favourite sport of Charles I L , almost disappeared in the
begiiining of the eigliteenth century. Stag-hunting declined with
the spread of agriculture, but hare-hunting still held its ground,
and fox-hunting greatly increased. Cricket had apparently just
risen." — Leckys England in the Eighteenth Century ^ vol. i,
page 604.

no Guelfes and Gibellines. "Two great parties, whose
conflicts make up the history of Italy antl Germany from the
eleventh to the fourteenth century, (iuelph is the Italian form
of Welfe., and Gibelline of Waiblingcn, and the origin of these
two words are this : At the battle of Weinsberg in Suabia
(1114), Conrad, duke of Francouia, rallied his followers with
the war-cry Hie Waiblingen^ while Henry the Lion, duke of
Saxony, used the cry of Hie Welfe (the family names of the rival
chiefs). The former were the supporters of the imperial authori-
ty in Italy, and the latter were the anti-imperialists." — Brewer.

I ,

NOTES.

113

CHAPTER VII.

** Spectator," No. 117. Saturday, July 14th, 1711.
Virg. Eel. viii. 108 :—

With voluntary dreams they cheat their minds.

3 Hovering faith. This metaphor is drawn from the
manner in which some hirds, when about to ilescend to the
ground, hover in the air as if undecided where to alij^ht. It is
still further carrieil out in the word scftlc. Mr. S/'i-ctutor was
not alone, amonjj even the i)est and most enlightened classes of
English society, in holdinj^ this "hovering faith."

13 Every particular nation — every imlividual nation.

20 Infernal commerce intercourse with evil spirits.

23 lieforc reflect understand 7vhcn I. The clause is ad-
verbial to iPiifcavoiir.

27 Whether there are, &c. This is a noun clause in ap-
position to t/Ncstion.

35 Which .... of. This collo([uial form of expression is
almost always employed in the S/^eciator. The more formal
usage of placing the preposition before the relative would not be
in i^r/'ifi^" with tlie easy and familiar style of these essays. The
relative //mt never admits the preposition before it. See t/ia/ /
w^/ 7i>///i in the same line.

41 In a close lane, &c. This quotation is from the Or-
fhan (act ii.), by Thonns Olway (1651— 1685). Otway was the
son of a clergyman. After leaving Oxford, he tried, but with-
out success, the profession of an actor. He produced ? number
of dramatic pieces, which were performed on the stage, some
with grtiat success. The best are the Orphan and Venice Pre-
scj-ved. According to Sir Walter Scott, his talents in the scenes
of passionate affection " rival, at least, and sometimes excel, those
of Shakspeare : more tears have been shed, probably, for the
Sorrows of Belvidera and Monimia than for those of JuFiet and
Desdemona."

49 Of a piece. Explain.

50 All is an adveib qualifying oer.

69 If the dairy-maid, &c. The student should notice the
effect o{ variety in the length of the sentences. If ore or more
short ones are introduced after others of greater length, the mo-

NOTES.

notony is broken and the mind relieved of the strain caused by
following long and complicated statements. Clearer, and con-
sequently deeper, impressions are made by stating the condition
fast, as in these sentences.

85 Whispered me in the ear — whispered in my ear. This
use of the dative is now obsolete in prose.

88 Besides is a preposition, showing the relation between is
reported and that. That is a demonstrative pronoun, and the
noun clause.

88 Moll is said, &c., is in apjwsition to it.

89 To have spoken. This is a noun infinitive, and repre-
sents the retained object after the passive voice.

96 As = in the capacity of.

This advice shews that the old knight had a lurking suspicion
that witchcraft was a reality in this " particular instance." He
evidently was not able to rise as far above tlie superstition of his
age as his chaplain, for, like Mr. Spectator^ whose humanity
prevents him from condemning any individual, he "believes, in
general, that there is, and has been, such a thing as witchcraft,"
if he does not go further and actually believe that Moll White is
a veritable witch.

113 Scarce a. Scarce is an adverb, modifying a = one.

121 Commerces = intercourse.

By the statute of Elizabeth, in 1562, witchcraft was first made
in itself a capital crime in England. The crime was still more
minutely defined by the Act of James VI. (Anno i, cap. 12),
which was in full force at the lime the Spectator was publishecl.
liy it, death was decreed to whoever dealt with evil or wicked
spirits, or invoked them to or for any purpose whatever. L^'ndor
this Act a vast numbt r of persons, chielly aged women, fell vic-
tims to the murderous fanaticism of the times. During the sit-
tings of the Long Parliament, which \\as probably the period that
witnessed the largest numbers of executions : no less than three
thousand persons perished by legal executions, besides many
more who were })ut to death by the mob. Even so great a man
as Sir Mathew Hale, one of the wisest and best men of his time,
was so misled by the superstitior. of his day that he tried and
condemned two women for bewitching children ; and Sir Thomas
Browne, who had written a work on 2\^piilar Fallacies^ was pre-
sent at the trial and gave his opinion against the prisoners. Chief
Justices North and iloltwere among the first persons occupying
high positions who had the humanity and courage to set thera-

NOTES.

lis

selves against this delusion. The year after this essay was writ-
ten Jane Wenham was prosecuted by Sir Henry Chauncey and
the incum^^ent of the parish of Walkerne, in which she lived.
She was found guilty, but was reprieved by Judge Povel. In
1 716, a Mrs. Hicks and her daughter, aged nine, were hauj^ed at
Huntingdon for selling their souls to the devil, and raising a storm
by pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap. With
this crowning atrocity the catalogue in England closes. The
Witch Act was repealed in the tenth year of George II.

CHAPTER Vlll.

"Spectator" No. 121, Thursday, July 19th, 171 1.
Vir. Georg. i. 415 :

I deem their breasts inspired —
W^ith a divine sagacity—

3 Instinct. Instinct, according to Bain, is "untaught abi-
lity." Archdeacon Paley, A^af. 7/ieo/., ch. 18, explains it to be
"a propensity prior to experience and independent of instruc-
struction." See also Darwin's DcSiCiit of Man, pt. I, ch. 2 and 3.

17 Bayle. "Bayle's Dictionai-y, here quoted, first appeared
in English in 1701. I'ierre Bayle himself had first produced it
in two folio vols, in 1695-6, and was engaged in controversies
caused by it until his death in 1 706, at the age of 59 He was
l)orn at Carlat, educated at the universities of Puyh urens and
Toulouse, was professor of philosophy successively at Sedan and
Rotterdam till 1693, when he was deprived for scepticism. He
is said to have worked fourteen hours a day for forty years, and
has been called 'the Shakespeare of dictionary makers.'" —
Morley.

24 Tully. Marcus TuUius CTicero, the great Roman orator,
(B.C. 166-43.)

26 Dampier, a celebrated buccaneer and explorer, was born
in 1652. After his buccaneering expedition, he was sent out by
the government to explore. He published a voyage round the
world, and several other works giving an account of his t avels.

74 Locke. Essay on the Human Understanding, Bk ii. ch,
y, s. 13. See note on.

91 Dr. More, (1730- 1802) a Scotch physician, is the author
of a number of works on various subjects, travels, medicine, and
iction,

Il6

NOTES.

92 Cardan (i 501 -1576), a famous mathematician, naturalist
and physician, was bom at Pavia. He was a very voluminous
writer, having composed 122 treatises on physic, mathematics,
astronomy, rhetoric, history, medicine, &c,

124 Boyle. Robert Boyle ( 1627- 1 691), one of the greatest
natural philosophers of his age, was the seventh son of the Earl
of Cork. He devoted his life to the furtherance of science, and
published a vast number of volumes containing his researches.
The first complete edition of his works was that by Dr. Birch in
five vols, folio, in 1744. He was one of the foundtrs of the
Royal Society.

146 Royal Society, an association for the promotion of ma-
thematical and physical science, was incorporated by act of Par-
liament in 1662. Its members are elected by ballot, fifteen be-
ing elected each year out of those who have been previously
proposed. To be elected a member is now considered the
highest scientific honor an Englishman can receive ; the Philo-
sophical Transactions of the Society have been published every
year since 1665, and form a comolete history of the progress of
science.

159 After=Not withstanding.

CHAPTER IX.

•'Spectator," No. 122. Friday, July 20th, 1711.

Pub. Syr. Frag : —

An agreeable companion upon the road is as good as a
coach.

This paper is one of the most characteristic as well as the most
interesting of the selection, and will amply repay the closest
study. Mr. Addison never appears to more advantage than
when planning his own observations or quietly unfolding some
picture from his rich imagination. His mild, but insinuating
tones, his lively fancy and sterling common sense, his clear rela-
tion and limpid description, never fail to attract attention and
profit the reader ; while his kindly humor scarcely breaking in-
to satire spreads through the whole a charming warmth and geni-
ality. The character of the old knight receives in this essay some
of its finest touches. His benevolence scarcely appears till it is
dashed with ancestral class distinction ; our respect for hira rises

NOTES.

117

as Ills love of peace nnd "good neighborhood" awakens his
shrewdness in settling Tom Touchy's dispute, but wavers as his
vanity prompts him "to whisper in the ear of the judge"; once
more, we admire him who is so much beloved and esteemed by
all his people, though he makes a purjioseless speech, but turns
again to smde at the gentle hint that his burly face that covers a
heart in which even the inn-keeper finds a place, is so easily
transformed into a Saracen's head.

3 Last = latter.

19 Needs. See note on Garden.

26 Yeoman, i.e., a freeholder. At the Revolution, it has
been estimated, the average annual income of a ttmporal lord
was 2,800/., that of a baronet 880/., that of e?quires iind other
gentlemen 450/. and 280/., respectively, while there were 40,000
yeomen having 91/. each, a year, and 120,000 with 55/. annual
income.

29 Dinner. Metouymy.

34 Shoots flying. The Ellipsis makes the expression ambi-
guous, but the author's meaning will scarcely Ije mistaken.

39 Sued is from Lat. sequor, I follow; Yr. suis. Hence,
to follow a person into a cotirt of justice.

39 Quarter Sessions, in England, is a court or meeting of
justices of the peace, or magistrates of the county, who assemble
every quarter of the year for judicial and miscellaneous business.
The jurisdiction of this court includes all criminal offences ex-
cept the highest class. The chief officer is called the ciistos rot-
ulorum, or keeper of the records. Pie is always one of the jus-
tices of the county. In this paper he is called the judge.

43 So long. That is now used to denote consequence.

46 Cast and been cast. Won his suit in the court at one
time and lost at another.

55 Arose = had arisen.

64 They neither of them were = Neither of them was.

68 Assizes strictly means the periodical session of the judges
of the superior courts of Common Law, held in the various coun-
ties of England, chiefly for the pu'po-.e of gaol delivery and
trying causes at Nisi Prhis : but as ihe term is often loosely ap-
plied, it probably stands for the quarter-s<^ssions here.

69 Was sat -= had began its sitting.

dBip

■'l

nr l'<

ii' 1

■■*'

! : 1

'ii' '

'' '

■ !'

■

;.
1

11:.

Ii8

NOTES.

70 All the justices, &c. This is a noun clause after the pre*
position notu'ithstauditis;.

72 For = for the purpose of maintaining.

77 Great appearance and solemnity = a very solemn and

digiiilic'd api)cai;uice.

92 A figure, &c. If we credit tlie knight with shrewdness in
undci.sland ng iiiminn luuiire, v\o must also admit a little vanity
— parvloiiablu iliou^h it he.

99 That was not, &C. This clause is adjectival to hisy

109 Unknown to Sir Roger. This phrase is absolute and
forms an adverbial extension uf the predicate ////.

no Him — a likeness of him. — Metonymy.

116 Made . . compliment, PaiJ'xs now used.

133 Discovering -- exhibitinjj. It is not used now causa*
lively.

147 Met, i.e., have met. The present perfect tense and not
the imjierlect, is used when the period of time in which the
event occunctl, extends up to, and includes the present.

CHAPTER X.

** Spectator," No. 123.— Saturday, July 2 1st, 171 1.

Hor. 4 Od. iv. 33 : —

Yet the best l)Iood by learning is refmed,
And virtue arms the solid mind ;
^Vhilst vice will stain the noblest race,
And the paternal stamp efface. — Ohiisworth.

In the vast variety of subjects which flowed from the fertile
imagination of the authors of the Spectator^ the power of the tale
to interest the general reader was not overlooked. At intervals,
stories and vi.>ions are introduced throughout the whole course
of its publication, not regularly, but probably, when it seemed
desirable to reawaken a more general interest. Like the one
before us, they all manifest a doable purpose ; the interest they
arouse is always utilized to impress some important moral orjsocail
lesson. No amount of censure or reprehension could have been
nearly so effectual, in exposing or correcting the mistaken mc-

NOTES.

119

thods of educating younp; people or of introducing a more prud-
ent system, not to speaU of the charming pleasure afforded
every reader.

3 Rid. This form is always used in the S/'etfafor. It is now
obsolete.

Novel. Addison calls thi> story of Kudoxus and Leon-
tine a novel, or fictitious story. 'J ho novel in its modern form
(lid not exist till the latter part of the century. Richardson's
Pamela, usually considered the first example of the modern do-
mestic novel, was not published till 1746. l)e Foe's I^oln'nson
Crusoe was published in 1 719.

n6 Inns of Court. "The four voluntary societies which
have the exclusive rit^ht of calling to the bar. They are the in-
ner Temple, the Middle Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and Gray's Inn.
Each is governed by a board of benchers." — Brewer,

CHAPTER XL

< (

Spectator," No. 125. Tuesday, July 24th, 1711,

Virgil /En. vi. 832 : —

This thirst of kindred blood, my sons, detest,
Nor turn your face against your country's breast.

— Uryden,

6 Stripling^. Tlie termination ling is a double diminutive
formed of cl and ing. To the idea of diminution, it usually odds
that of contempt as loniling, witling, underling. This, however,
is not the case in foundling.

7 St. Anne's Lane. Of the two lanes of this name, Mr. Cun-
ningham thinks, the one turning out of Great Peter Street, West-
minster, is meant.

8 Upon which, &c. This is a principal clause.

15 A Saint before hanged. This is an example before
structure, i.e., the different parts of the sentence are made simi-
lar in form. There is also combined with it, in this case, a spe-
cies of antithesis or contrast in the meaning of the two clauses.

24 Honest. See note on Garden^ I. 746.

26 Land-tax and game.

As the representative of the landed'interesty Sir Roger con«

lii rl'

J&%

120

NOTES.

sidered the keeping up the land-tax and securing the game the
two all-important duties of the Government.

41 A furious party spirit. At no period in English His-
tory has party spirit ra;,'ed more fiercely than at the lime when
these papers were written. The strong ground taken by the
contending factions had driven them to the opposite poles. Re-
ligious rancour added to the bitterness of political division.
Thereligio-political sermons of Dr. Sacheverell had awakened in-
tense feeling. The cry that the chu-ch was in danger had,
through the earnest efforts of the High Church clergy, been one
of the most potent means by which the overwhelming Tory ma-
jority of 1710 was returned. The Whigs saw that the continu-
ance of the war was the only chance for their retaining power,
and used every means, fair and unfair, for attaining that end. But
the machinations of the Tories were more than a match for their
intriguing. Mrs. Masham supplanted the Duchess of Marlbor-
ough in the Queen's favor, and the Duke was forced to give up
the command of the armies. These questions, the church and
the war, along with succession, wrought the country to a white
heat of partizan fury, that had all the injurious results described
in these papers. Mr. Addison himself was deprived of all his
employments, and Steele lost his office of Gazetteer. But even
these days had bright gleams of beauty and sunshine. Had it
been possible for Steele to continue his political pamphleteering
or had Addison thought it would avail anything to ply his satire
on the stolid Tory voting majority of six to one, they would have
both continued at their work, and it is quite possible that they
would never have turned their attention to the composition of these
Social Essays, and the Spectator would have been an ardent de-
fender of Whig politics, like the Whig Examiner, in which Ad-
dison strongly worked for his party before and during the election
oi i^lOfOr i\iQ F>ee/ioI(ier, in which he returned to the task of
weakening his opponents as soon as their divisions and mistakes
had laid them open to attack.

CHAPTER Xn.

"Spectator," No. 126. Wednesday, July 25th, 171 1.
Virgil yEn. x. 108 : —

Rutulians, Trojans, are the same to me. — Dryden.
44 Diodorus Siculus, a Greek historian who spent thirty

NOTES.

121

years in writing a history of the world in forty books. The
work was written some time after the death of Julius Caesar.

86 Sir Andrew Freeport is the character who, in the i)lan
of .S/tV/a/^r, represents the moneyed-interest in hliii,'land. Ever
since the reign of Henry VIT. the commerce of England had
been rapidly increasini.^. In 1688, Gregory King estimated there
were 2,000 eminent merchants with an income of 400/. each,
8,000 lesser merchants with 200/. each. Some of them became
immensely wealthy, and in many instances, like Sir Andiew,
withdrew their money from commerce and invested it in the pur-
chase of land, and thus gradually gavafise to a new landed aris-
tocracy, rivalling in wealth the most ancient houses of England.

96 Bait = take refreshments.

125 Correspondence == intercourse.

126 As to. See Ho7a ^0 parse, par. 479.
1 T,6 Fanatic. A dissenter.

138 As = because.

146 First principles==bcginnings.

i 'i

t IS.

V-

; i

;

(

if'

ikes

CHAPTER XHI.

''Sjectator," No. 130, Monday, July 30th, 1711.

Virgil JEn. vii.'748 :—

A plundorinp: race, still ea^'er to invade,

On spoil they live, and make of theft a trade.

3 Gipsies. "The English name * Gipsy' and the Hunga-
rian ' Pharaoh-ncpet' (Pharaoh's people, applied to this race,
testify to the popular (but erroneous) belief that they are of
Egyptian origin. They were proscribed by Stat. 22 Hen. viii.
c. 10 (1530) as the 'outlandish people calling themselves Egyp-
tians.' There is a legend that they were expelltd f(jr having re-
fused hospitality to Joseph and Mary, with the infant Savio«r,
on the banks of the Nile ; and it is stated that when they first
appeared in luirope r/;r. 1418, they were led by one who styled
himself ' Duke Michael of Little Egypt.' But in Egypt itself,
where they are numerous, they are rec;arded as strangers qui.e as
much as in Europe ; and their language afifords ami)le proof that
they are in reality of Indian origin. One of their names for
themselves is Si/zte, as coming from Sind i.e. India; and the

122

NOTES.

Turks called thorn * Tchinfjani,' from a .ribe !»lill existing aear
the mouth of the Indus {Ishin-calo, black Indians). They much
resemble theiNuls or Baze^urs, a wandering race in Hindostan,
of very low repute aniont; the other Hindoos ; and it is conjec-
tured that they belonj^cd to the Soudras, a very low Indian caste,
which were expelled by the Tiinour Heg c. 1390. In Feb., 1856,
Sir H. Rawlinson read before the Royal Gcograi>hical Society
of London a paper on the migrations of the Ciypsies, tracinjL^
them distinctly from the Indus, through I'aris and Syria, and
Asia Minor, to the liosphorus, whence they passed into Europe
in the fi^urteenth century (see 'Athenieum,' 1856, p. 312). The
earliest circumstatitial acct^uut of the Gipsies in England is *Tiie
Art of Juggling or Leger-demain by s. k., [Samuel Rid], Loml.
1612, 4to. This author states that they arrived in England
about the year 1512. (Notes and Queries, 1st ser., xi. 826)."—
GrifTith.

14 It is ten to one but, i.e. it is ten chances to one chance
if— not. !)}(( performs the double function of conjunction and
negative adverb.

24 Young fellow. Fellow is in the objective case, the Re-
tained Object after //vwwrZ. See J/ozu to J\irse, par. 123. «

30 Sweethearts. This is an example of simulated deriva-
tion i. e., the word appears to be derived from sivect and heart ;
but it really comes from swcti and the Gothic Suffix ard.

40 Communicated — presented to be inspected. We now
lommunkate intelligence, »S:c.

41 Cassandra, i-e., a prophetess. Using a proper name
instead of a common is called An^onontosia.

Cassandra, the daughter of Priam, King of Troy, was gifted
with the power of prophecy ; but Apollo, whom she had of-
fended, brought it to pass that no one believed her predictions.

51 Line of life. The line in the palm which passes around
nearest the thumb ; when deep it is said to indicate long life,
and z'ue versa.

77 Palmistry. Note the Fun. The word usually signifies
the TArelended science of telling fortunes by the lines in the /a/;//
of the hand. It is here used for the action of the hand by which
pockets are pickctU

NOTES.

I2i

CHAPTER XIV.

" Spectator.*' No. 131.— Tuesday, July 131st. 171 1.

Virgil Eel. x. 63 : —

Once more, ye woods, adieu.

6 Beats about. Beat, A. S. /^eatan, properly sif^nifies to
strike often. Hence to beat ^out, is to go al)f)ut striking the
shrubbery to "put up" the game, to search for it.

That it may be explained by supposing that it was originally
regarded as a demonstrative pronoun having the sentence fol-
lowing in apposition to it.

It iu now considered pleonastic.

16 In the same manner, &c. This sentence is very loosely
constructed, the phrase /o try, qt'c, is not well placed and the
clause where If h^^c, hangs heavily at the close. The student
should arrange properly.

16 A month's excursion. The first paper from Coverley
Hall, was published on July 2nd, of this year.

19 Several subjects. Witches, widows, gipsies, &c.

25 Put up. = I start up.

36 Taciturnity. See Author's Preface.

36 Particular way of life. Describe.

47 Cunning. Literally knowing. Here, one who pos-
sesses some :>ecret knowledge or art.

50 White witch. It was believed that there were three

classes of witches — white, black and gray. The first helped,

but could not hurt ; the second the reverse ; and the third did
both.

55 Jesuit. Jesuits or Society of Jesus is a celebrated reli-
gious order in the IjLoman Catholic Chuich. It was founded by
Ignatius Loyola in 1554' \\.'^vt\o\.X.o\^admajo}ctn Dei gloriaui
(To God's greater glory), and the members in ddition to the
threefold obligations of all Catholic religious oiders, of chastity,
poverty and ol)edience, take a fourth, binding themselves to go
as missionaries wherever the Pope may desire ihem. Here
Jesuit is used for any priest of the Catholic Church.

As the Act of Conformity and the Test Act were not sufficient
to gratify the intolerance of the Parliament of William III., in

l-\i M-

r,r

'1 :i

Ipv

124

NOTES.

1698, a still more stringent and disgraceful law was passed,
enacting tliat " any person aiipreljcnding and prosecuting to
conviction any such hi-^liop, priest, or Jesuit, for saying njass, or
exercising any priestly unction, is to receive a reward of a hun-
dred pounds. The ]>uni.-lnnent for such convicted persons, or
for a papist keeping a school, is to he perpetual imprisonment.
Every person educated in the ])opish rehgion, u\n)U atlahiing
the age of eighteen, to lake the oath of allegiance and supremacy
and subscribe the decl.iialion against transubstantialion and the
worship of saints, and in default of such oalh and subscription,
is declared incapable of purchasing lands, or of inheriting lands
untler any devise or limilaiion, the next of kin, being a protes-
tant, to enj(;y such devised lands during life." — Knight's History
of Eni^laitJf p. 68 1.

60 Converses, &c. i.e., ha?^ intercourse with a great variety
of pcoi^le.

62 Discarded Whig. The Tory party was returned to
parliament at the election of 1710, and Mr. Addison lost his post
of Chief Secretary for Ireland.

70 But because = than because.

87 The crowd . . . alone. An Epiij^ram, "a figure which
rouses the mind by a conflict between the form of the language
and the meaning really conveyed,

94 Will Honeycomb. See Chapter I.

106 Pry thee — I pray thee.

CIIAPTER XV.

** Spectator," No. 269. January 8th, 1712.

Ovid, Ars Am. i. 241.

Most rare is now our old simplicity. — Drydcn.

9 Came. A proper sequence of tenses requires had come.

ID Gray's Inn walks. Gray's Inn Gardens were long a fash-
ionable promenade. They are m)W a pent up retreat for poverty.
The upper walk was the terrace. In this was placed a sundial
on a stone pedestal, around which, on one side, a number of
seats were arranged in a semi-circle.

14 Prince Eugene (1663- 1736), a great general and states-
man, was first intended for the Church, but, on account of the

NOTKS.

banishment of his mother, he renounced his country, France,
and entered the service of the Emperor Leopold, as a volunteer
against the Turks. In the war of the^Spanish Succession, he
was appointed presi<lent of the C'ouncil of War, and with Mail-
borough gained the important victories of Blenheim and Uuden-
arde.

The object of his present mission to England, was to urge the
prosecution of the war against France and have Marlborough
restored to his position as conmiander-in-chief of the English
forces. The Whigs and the people who alike desired the con-
tinuance of the war, idolized the prince. The Tories also and
the Queen received him on hia arrival with every mark of favour,
but when they found that he could not be induced to abandon
the fallen Duke, they heaped every indignity upon bim. He
arrived in England on the 5tli of January, three days before this
paper appeared, and left ou the 17th of March, without having
accomplished liis object.

21. Scanderbeg ( 1414- 1467) the famous chief of Epirus was,
in 1423, given a hostage to the Turks for the obedience of the
Albanian Chiefs. His beauty and intelligence so pleased tlie
Sultan that he had him brought up as his own son. After some
service in the Sultan's armies, he deserted, returned to his own
country, gathered around him his fellow-countrymen and defeat-
ed the Turkish armies sent against him. After twenty-four years
of incessant toil, he died at Alessio, having defeated the Turks
in twenty-two pitched battles.

38. One another. Is this strictly correct ?

41. A most incomparable sermon. Sir Roger's appreci-
ation of Dr. Barrow does credit to his intellectual ability and
literary taste, as well as to the liberality of his religious sen-
timents.

70. Chines. Lat. spina; Yx. ccliinc \ Bret, ktin^ the back.
Properly the back-bone or spine of an animal. Here, a piece of
the back.

88. Smutting one another. Cf. D. V. 1. 27.

93. The Act of Parliament. This Act is usually called
the Occasional Conformity Bill. Its object was to exclude the
Dissenters from all Government positions of power, profit or
dignity. The Act of Uniformity had been evaded by Non-
conformists, by occasionally attending the Established Church
and communing in it. Many Dissenters had risen to important
positions, and thus provoked the opposition of the High Church
party. In 1702, 1703 and 1704, measures were passetl in the

126

NOTES.

Common!, but rtjtgted in the Lords, for su|>pressing Occasional
-Conformity. After the election of 1710, which turned upon
Chinch questions, and in which the Whij? party was defeated,
largely through the Sacheverell agilaiion, the question was re-
vived. A few of the extreme Tory \)M[y joined with the Whigs
to defeat the peace of Utrecht, makini; it a condition that the
Non-conformists should be abandoned. Accordingly, the Bill
was passed in 171 1. It provided that all })ersons holding posi-
tions of trust or profit and all common councilme 1 who attend-
ed any Nonconformist place of worshij), should forfeit their
office and pay a tineof ;^40. It had but little effect, as the Non-
conformists who held office refrained entirely from going tu
church during the time it was in force, and held worship in their
own houses.

109. Pope's procession. " Each anniversary of Queen
Elizabeth's accession (Nov. 17th), was for many years cele-
brated by citizens of London in a manner expressive of their
detestation of the Church of Rome. A procession — at times
sufficiently attractive for royal spectators — paraded the principal
streets, the chief figure being an clligy of

' The Pope, that pagan full of pnde :•

well executed it was and expensively adorned with robe and
tiara. lie was accompanied by a train of Cardinals and Jesuits,
and at his ear stood a buffoon in the likeness of a horned devil.
After having been paraded through divers streets, his holiness
was exultingly burned opposite t<he Whig Club near the Temple
gate, in Fleet Street. After the discovery of the Rye-hous-^ Plot,
the Pope's Procession was discontinued ; but was resuscitated on
the acquittal of the Seven Bishops and the dethronement of James
IT. Sacheverell's trial had added a new interest to the ceremony ;
and on the occasion referred to by Sir Roger, besiiles a popular
dread of the church being — from the listlessness of the ministers
and the machinations of the Pretender — in danger, there was a veiy
general oi)posilion to the peace with France, for which the Tories
were intriguing. The parly cry of "No peace" was shouted ii^.
the same breath with " No Popery. " The Whigs were deter-
mined, it was said, to give significance and force to these
watchwords by getting up the an'^^iversary show of 1711
with unprecedented splendor. No good Protestant, no
honest hater of the French, could refuse to subscribe his guinea
for such an object ; and it was said, upwards of a thousand
pounds were collected for the effigies and their dresses and dec-
orations alone, independent of a large fund for incidental ex-

NOTES.

127

T>*nse». The Pop«, the devil, and the Pretender were, it was as-
iertcd, fashioned in the Hkencss of tlie oluioxious Cabinet Min-
isters. The proceision was to take place at night, and 'a thous-
and moh' were to he hired to carry flandnanx ai a crown a-
piece, and a^ much beer and brandy as would inflame them for
mischief. The p.iLjeaul was to open with ' twcntj'-four bngpijies
marching foui' and four, and l>laying the mcnioiable tunc of Lil-
libulero.' The remainder of the procession was to be formed
with c«|Mal display, and the whole carried out in the most impos-
ing )n;inner. 'ihc Tones, wiio (eared the c<)nse<iiienees of a
jiopular demonstration, spread the most exaj^j^erated reports of
these preparations, and asserted lliat the real intention was to
prolong the war and maltreat the Ministers ; for this reason
they sent a ])osse of constables to Drnry Lane to destroy and
carry olT the images and entire paiaphernalia. Swilt, in his
Journal, says, the nnai^es were not worth A)rty pounds ; yet to
the pu1)lic he either gave or superintended an account of the
alTair w hich was simply a strinj^ of all the mendacious exaggera-
tions then wilfully j)ut about by his patrons. Such were the
party tactics of Sir Holer's lime." — Wills.

114. To get him a stand, &c. This was highly necessary,
lor, whenever the prince appeared in public, he was immediately
.surrounded by immense crowds.

121. Baker's Chronicle. Sir Richard Baker (1568-1645),

author of the Chro)Uilc of the. A'iiii^s of Em^lund, and several
pious works, was educated at Oxford. For debts contracted by
his wife's lamily, he was thrown into the Fleet prison, where he
wrote his works. His Chronicle was, notwithstanding its many
errors, greatly esteemed among the country gentry, and consid-
ered an authority on all matters of English history.

128. Squire's. Squire's Coffee House was situated in FuF
wood's Rents, which led to Gray's Inn Gardens. It was fre*
quented by benchers and students of Gray's Inn. The house
was very roomy and had a wide staircase. See Timbs' Clubs
and tilth Li/c.

135. Supplement. One of the newspapers of the time. The
first Daily in England was begun in 1702. See Grant's Neu>:i-
paper 1 'ress.

ill

m ti

128

NOTES.

CHAPTER XVT.

Spectator," No, 329. Tuesday, Marcli iSih, 171 2.

I lor. i. Kp. vi. 27 : —

With Ancus, ami with Nuina, kiiii^s of Rome, v

\A'e must descend into the silent tomb.

2. My paper upon Westminster Abbey. S/ci/o/.>r, No. 2ft.
It contains l)rief remarks upon the epitaphs, some rellection^ on
seeing a j^rave dug, a stricture on Sir Cioudesley Shovel's mon-
ument, and closes with some further thoughts inspired by the
l)lace.

18. Widow Trucby's Water. One of the many fashion-
able drinks of the time. Such mixtures were considered good
for the vapors and the spleen. Mr. Addison is said to have been
fond of these draughts, although he pn^fessc.; to dislike the taste
of this one. These disguised forms of ardent spirits are adver-
tised in several numbers of the Spectator.

35. Sickness being at Dantzic. A plague raged there in
1 7c 9.

35. When of a sudden, &c. A sentence should possess
unuy, i. e., the parts should form one whole. Hence, this clause
should commence a new sentence.

45. Jointure. An estate settled on a wife to be enjoyed after
her husband's death. It is here used in a general sense for in-
come or fortune.

48. Engaged. This must have taken place since ^Tr. Spec-
tator was out in the country in July of the preceding year.

62. Virginia. It is believed that the use of tobacco was in-
froduc((l into England about the time of Queen Elizabeth.
James I. issued a Counter-l^laste to7ol>acco, in which he described
its use as "acuslom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the nose,
harmful to the brain, dangerous to the lungs, anl in the black,
stinking fume thereof neare^t resembling the horrible stygian
smoke of the pit that is bottomless." The ojiinions both of
kings and people had changed before Sir Roger's day.

69. Sir Cloudesley Shovel rose from being a cnbin boy to
the rank of admiral of a fleet. When returning from an unsuc-
cessful attack on Toulon, his lleet was wrecked (1707). His
body was found and buried in the sand by some fishermen. A

\ : ^

NOTES.

129

ring wliich lliej' took ofT (Viscovered his quality — and he was af-
terwards removed to Westminster Abbey. The monument is in
the South aisle of the choir. It was designed V)y F. Bird. In
the number of the S/'(.r/a/or above referred to, Mr. Addison says ;
*' This monument lias very often given me great offence ; instead
of the brave ronL;h Knghsh admiral, wh'ch was the distinguish-
ing character of that plain, gallant man, he is represented on his
tond) by a figure of a beau, dressed in a long periwig, and re-
posing himself upon velvet cushions under a canopy of state."

73. Dr. Busby. (1606- 1695.) The most celebrated of
English schoolmasters was headmaster of Westminster school
from 1640 till hi*-- death. 1 le has the reputation of having *' bred
up the largest number of learned scholars that ever adorned any
age or nation." His monument, sculptured by Bird, stands near
that of Sir Cloudesley Shovel.

83. Cecil. ' * In the Chapel of St. Nicholas. This tomb was
creeled by the great Lord Burleigh, in the reign jf ()ueen Eliza-
beth, to the memory of his wife Mildred and their daughter
Anne, whose effigies lie under a car\'ed prcli. * At the base of the
monument, withm Corinthian columns, are kneeling figures of
Lord Cecil, their son and three grand-daughters. The inscription
is in Latin, very long and tiresome.' Peter Cunningham's
IV-^sinnusicr AN>i']r~\\\\\>.

85. Martyr. &c. "Described in Murray's Loncon as an
alabaster statue of Elizabeth Russell, of the Bedford' family —
foolishly shown for many years as the lady who died by the prick
of a needle." — Arnold.

93. Two Coronation chairs. These stand in the chapel of
Edward the (,^onfes.~,or. One, the King's chair, encloses the
stone referred to in the note on Jacob' i pillar, l. 96, the other the
Consort's chair, was constructed for the coronation of Maiy, wife
of William III. Both are still used at Coronations.

96 Jacob's Pillar, "This is the stone enclosed in our coro-
nation chair, which was brought from Scone by Edward I., and
said to be the stone on which the patriarch Jacob laid his head
when he drenmt about the ladder reaching to heaven. This
stone was originally used in Ireland as a coronation stone. It
was called " Innisfoil,' or stone of fortune." — Brewer,

103 Trepanned = entrapped. In this sense, it is said by
Skinner to be de-ived from Trapani, a part of Sicily where, in
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, some T^nglish ships were invited,
with great show of friendship, and then detained. It is more
probable that it comes from A. fc>. treppe^ a trap ; inpfan, to

i :> !

I
i

h: I'

!■ Pi

130

NOTES.

snare. In this sense it is usually spelt tmpan. Trcpart, an in-
strument for removing portions of hone, is from Gr. rpvTtdco,
to bore.

117 Touched for the evil. The lyings of England, like those
of France, were long believed to have the power of curing the
struma, or scrofulous tumors, by their touch. The English kings
were supposed to have inherited the power from Edward the
Confessor, and retained, except in the case of William III,,
till Queen Anne. No amount of profligacy, immorality on the
part of the king, nor even the Reformation, shook the popular
faith in the efficacy of the royal touch. With the burst of enthu-
siasm that heralded in the Restoration, the superstition was re-
vived, and Charles IL is said to have touched 100,000 persons
in the course of his reign. The apostacy of James did not de-
prive him of the virtue, and in Anne's reign the belief was re-
awakened by the high-church clergy for the purpose of strength-
ening the Tory party ; and so far were religious feelings carried
during the Sachaverell agitation, that if the c|ueen had died then
there is little doubt that the Pretender woukl have been at once
recalled to the throne. The service v/hich had been previously
printed separately was in Anne's reign inserted in the prayer-
book, and the privy council issued proclamations stating that
the queen would perform the miracle. On a single day in 1712
two hundred persons, among them Samuel Johnson, was touched,
and the royal physician states that many of the cures were real,

123 Without an head. "This is the efhgy of Henry V,,
which was of plated silver, except the head, and ihat was of solid
metal. At the dissolution of the monasteries the figure was
stripped of its plating and the head stolen." — Wills,

CHAPTER XVn.

"Spectator," No. 335, Tuesday, March 21th, iyi2.

Hor. Ars Poet.

327:-

Keep Nature's great original in view,
And thence the Uving images pursue.

3 New Tragedy. This was "The Distressed Mother," a
drama by Ambrose ("Pastoral") Philips, a friend of Addison.
He (1675- 1 749) was the author of some Pastorals, an epistle to
the Earl of Dorset, a fragment of Sappho and three tragedies.

NOTES.

The ** Distressed Mother" is Andlomache, the widow of
Hector. At the fall of Troy, she and her son Astyanax fell to
the lot of Pyrrhus, king of Epirus. Pyrrhus fell in love with her
and wished to marry her, but she refused him. At length an
embassy from Greece, headed by Orestes, son of Agamemnon,
was sent to Epirus to demand the death of Astyanax, lest in
manhood he might seek to avenge his father's death. Pyrrhus
told Andromache he would protect her son, ijnd defy all Greece,
if she would consent to marry him ; and she yielded. While the
marriage rites were going on, the Greek amb.-issadors fell on
Pyrrhus and murdered him. As he fell he placeti ihe crown on
the head of Andromache, who thus became queen of Epirus,
and the Greeks hastened to their ships in flight. This play is
an English translation of Rfxc'ines AnJ?vr?i at/ ue (1667)" — Brewer.

A few days before this paper appeared in No. 290 of the
Spectator, Mr. Addison had given a highly commendatory ac-
count of this tragedy — an account which, indeed, we can by no
means accept, but one which, like the present paper, most con-
clusively show ♦hat in the narrow, stinted and sentimental* age
in which he lived, and by whose opinions he was too much
guided in his own dramatic writings, he had the discernment to
see what the comedy should be, as well as the courage to declare
his convictions.

5 *' The Committee, or the Faithful Irishman, was written by
Sir Robert Howard soon a^terthe Restoration, with for its heroes
two cavalier colonels, whose estates are sequestered, and their
man Teg (Teague), an honest blundering Irishman. The Cava-
liers defy the Roundhead Committee, and * the day may come.'
says one of them, * when those that suffer for their consciences
and honour may be rewarded.' Nobody who heard this from
the stage in the days of Charles IL, could feel that the day had
come. Its comic Irishman kept the Committee on the stage,
and in Queen Anne's time the thorough Tory still relished the
stage caricatures of the maintainers of the Commonwealth in Mr.
Day with his greed, hypocrisy., and private incontinence ; his wife,
who had been a cooksmaid to a gentleman, but takes all the
State matters on herself ; and their empty son Abel, who knows
parliament men and sequestrators, and whose * profound contem-
plations' are caused by the consternation of his spirits for the
nation's good." — Morley.

This comedy was afi erwards cut down to a farce by L. Knight,
and kept possession of the stag<; for a long time under the title of
The Honest Thieves.

6 Not — neither = not— either. Neither (cither) is hcrt ad,
verbial. Cf. Shakes, /. C. T, 2.

1X2

NOTES.

15 Mohocks, " a class of ruffians wlio at one time infested
the streets of London. vSo cnlled from the Indian Mohocks. At
the Restoration, the street bullies were called Muns and Tytre-
Tus ; they were next called Hectors and Scorners ; later still,
Nickers and Hawkabites ; and lastly Mohocks. A full account
of the proceedings of the Mohocks is given in No. 324 of the
Spectator. No. 332 contains a description of an adventure with
the Sweaters, a similar set of *' well-disposed savages." An
attempt was made to suppress the outrages of the Mohocks by
a royal proclamation issued on the i8th March, but it had very
little effect, for on|the 25th Swift writes : " They go on still, and
cut people's faces every night. But they shan''t cut mine : I
like it better as it is." See Timb's Club Life, p. 33-37.

35 Captain Sentry. One of the members of the club,
nephew and heir to Sir Roger. See chaps, ii. and xix.

44 Steenkirk. In August, 1692, William, who had been
watching for an opportuninity to attack the forces of Luxem-
bourg, found a spy in his camp. He forced him to carry
false information to his master, who thinking it strange news,
still determined to trust it. William accordingly attacked the
French befoie daybreak, expecting an easy victory, but owing
to the difficulty of getting the troops through the wood and
past the fortifications and obstacles placed in the way by the
enemy, the allies were repulsed with heavy loss — seven thousand
are said to have fallen on each side. The failure of the attack
was attributed chiefly to the lack of tact on the part of General
Solmes. It led to great discontent in England, and parliament
then for the first time asserted a right, which it has ever since
exercised; of inquiring into military operations. To commem-
orate the triumph of the French, the dandies of the time ex-
changed their elaborate cravats for a sort of loose necktie, which
they called a steenkirk, to indicate the hurried dress in which the
French general had defeated the English. The fashion soon
passed over to England where it continued for some years.

46 Plants. A slang expression for canes or batons.

50 Convoyed. Lat. eoii, with, and via^ a way ; Yx.voie.

53 Pit. When plays were first acted in England, the tra-
velling companies that performed them, for want of better ac-
commodation, generally used the yards of inns. As these were
also employed for the exhibition of cock-fighting, and called the
cock-pit or yard, the name pit or yard was applied to the ground
on which the common spectators stood ; and this was continued
after the theatres were built.

NOTES.

133

54 Candles. Lij^hting by coal-gas was invented by Robert
Murdoch about 1792. It was first used in the Soho workshops
of Boulton and Watt, at Birmingham, where he fitted up an
apparatus for manufacturing gas. It was not used in theatre:.
till 1803, the Royal Lyceum. being the first to adopt the inven-
tion.

74 Pyrrhus his. This use of the possessive case of this
pronoun, which was once quite common, is thought by some to
be the origin of what is called the Saxon po sessive. Thiij
opinion is doubtless quite enontous.

. 1

CHAPTER XVIII.

'• Spectator," No. 383. Tuesday, 20lh, 1712. By Addison,
Juv. Sat. i. 75 : —

A beauteous garden, but by vice maintain'd.

9 Spring Garden was situated in Lambeth, opposite Mill-
bank, near the mnnor called Fulke's Hall (tiie residence of Fulke
de Breanitl, a follower of King John), from which it was c:died
Fox Hall or Vauxhall. It was called Spriui^ Garden after the
oUl public pleasure gardens of the reigns of James I. and Ch;ir!es
I., in which there was a playfully-contrived water- work, that,
on being trodden upon, sprinkled the unsuspecting proinenader.
The spring was omitted in the new gardens. They covered
eleven acres, and were tastefully and artistically laid out in ar-
bors, walks, shady groves, refreshment booths, and a dark walk.
The com]>any appears to have been of a very varied character,
and the amusements equally diversified. It continued for about
two centuries to be the chief promenade (or the upper and mid-
dle classes of London society. The most prosperous period of
its history was the fifty years (1732 — 1782), during which it was
under the management of Mr. Jonathan Tyers.

12 Speculating. Meditating, studying. The word now
usually means incurring financial risks.

16 Gossip, A. S. God and Sib^ akin ; originally, as still
with the Hampshire peasantry, a name given to s])onsors in
baptism, because they were believed to become spiritually re-
lated to the child for whom they stood. Sponsors weie, by the
act of common sponsorship, brought into familiarity wiih one
another, and indulged first in familiar, then in idle, talk.

I-

\k'< Rt

134

NOTES.

20 Temple Stairs. The chief rendezvous of the wattrman
on the Thames, situaied jusr. below the Temple, the residences
of the legal professiun.

28 Bate = abate (A.S. beaten^ Fr. al>a/fre)y to beat down.
Hence to abate, to lessen,

34 My old friend, &c. This sentence is uni^aammaiical.
/'/vV;/^/ stands without a verb. Arrange it correctly.

35 With = with the assistance of.

39 La Hogiie. At La Hogue, the French Army, under
Tourville, sent by Louis to assist in restoring Jp.mcs II., was to-
tally defeated by Admiral Russell in 1692.

47 London Bridge. This bridge was finished in 1209, hav-
ing been thiriy-lhree years in course of erection. It was rebuilt
in the early p.irt of the present century, having st jod for more
than six hundied years,

48 Seven wonders of antiquity, (i) The Pryamids of
Egypt ; (2) I'he Hanging G.udens of Bab) Ion ; (3) The Tomb

with gold.

55 Temple Bar. An old dingy gateway of blackened Port-
land stone which separates the strand from Fleet street, the city
from the Shire, and the Freedom of the city of London from the
Liberty of the city of Westminster, was built by Sir Christopher
Wren in the year 1670. It has recently been removed. For a
full description, see Thornbury's Ilaunlcd London, pp. 4-24.

57 Fifty new churches. "The want of new churches in
the growing sulurbs uf London had long been felt ; an address
from Convocation on the subject was presented to the Queen in
171 1, and this led to resolutions of the House of Commons,
readily passed by the High Church and Tory mnjority, for build-
ing fifty new churches within the bills of mortality." — Arnold.

107 Hung beef. Dried- beef, jerked-beef.

NOTES.

'35

CMAPTKR XIX.

** Spectator," No 517, Thursday, Oct 23, 1712, by Addison.

Virg. JF.n. vi. 87S : -

Mirror of ancient faith !

Undaunted worth ! Inviolable truth ! - Dryden.

14 Letters. See papers No. 544.

52 The chaplain a very pretty tenement. See ciiap. iii.

68 Steeple. See note on chap. v.

74 Quorum. The justices of the peace for the county.

Goldsmith tells us that Mr. Addison killed Sir Roger lest some
one else should mar his character, as Mr. Steele had apparently
done in No. 410 ; Budgell asserts that it was done for the
same reason as Cervantes killed his Don Quixote, and Shakes-
peare his Mercutio, Ic t he should be killed by him. But the
reason suggested by Chalmers is, doubtless, the correct solution.
The work had become burthensome, and it seemed necessary to
draw it to a close. No belter plan suggested itself than killing
of and otherwise disposing of the members of the Club. In No.
513 we are told that the clergyman is on his death-bed ; in this,
517, Sir Roger himself passes away ; in 530, Will Honeycomb
writes to say that he has married a farmer's daughter, and will
henceforth "make a vacancy in the Club;" in 541, we learn
that the Templar meditates *' a closer pursuit of the law ;" in 544,
Captain Sentry intimates that he will in future be required on his
estate ; and in 549, Sir Andrew Freeport announces his with-
drawal from the Clul). It is shortly after closed, and proposals
made for the formation of a new Club. The particulars about
this are staled in part in 556, when the Spectator is revived, after
having ceased publication for eighteen months.

84 Quit-rents. A yearly rent, by the payment of which the
tenant goes quit and f.ee of all other services.

91 Joyed = enjoyed.

Coffee-houses in England, from the time of their commence-
ment (1652), took the place, in part at least, of the modern news-
papers, both as a disseminating point for news, and for political
discussions. In the days of Addison and Steele there was but
one daily paper ; it was small in size, and conducted with little
ability and energy, compared with the mammoth sheets of modern

Hiiiii; !

iii \

i!|:^

136

NUTKS.

times. F'very coffL'o-house had its special purpose. At oiu- met
the seekers for pleasure and frolic ; at another politicians ; at a
third physicians, and so on. 1 hose in which Mr. Spectator
says he was to be found, Will's, at No. I, Bond Street, was the
meeting; place for wits and poets ; Child's, in St. Paul's Church-
yard, the resort of clergyjnen ; St. James's, the Spcc(ator''s
headquarters, at the end (jf Pall Mall, the rendezvous of poli-
ticians, as the Cocoa in St. James Street was of th.e Tories and
men of fashion ; the Grecian, in Devercux Court, the assembly
hall of the learned; Jonathan's, in Change All^y, the general
mart for stock-jobbers.

" Clubs in P^ngland and France arose almost at the same time,
and from the same cr\uses. The barriers of rank were all-
powerlul in ordinary life : and the clubs were a protest against,
and an evasion of, tJiese barriers. They were a necessary result
of the desire of men of intellect of the higher and middle classes
to meet on terms of equality. Modifications were soon intro-
duced. One ciub became that of physicians, another that of
lawyers, anoUier of Gieek scholars, and so on : the ]K)litical char-
acter of some clubs arising from the fact that each had some
leading member who had probably strong i^olitical opinions, and
who would gradually draw around him others of similar opin-
ions. Some few purely political clubs there were both in ling-
land and France." — Airy,

QUESTIO.NS FOR EXAMINATION.

THE DESERTED VILLAGE.

1. Wiiat is the main thesis of the Di'serted Vilhii^e ?

2. To what variety of poetry ck)es the D. V. belonpj ?
Give a list of poems belonging to tliis variety, with au-
thors and dates.

3. Give a brief sketch of the person to whom the J). V.
is dedic..ted.

4. State Lord j\Lacau1ay's criticism of the D, V. and
inquire into its correctness.

5. To what place is the poet supposed to refer under
the name Auburn f (iive tlte reasons for your answer.

6. What were the circumstances and engaj^ements of
the poet at the time of the production of the D. V. ?.

7. How do the Traveller and D. V. compare as to plan
and execution ?

8. Contrast, after Goldsmith, the Village in its pros-
perity and decay.

9. In 11. 1-50, ty^^\:i\\\ labouri/is^ siUiTtn, decent, toil ?'e-
niUting, sleight of art, simply, mistrustless, tyranfs hand,
1. 40, hollow sounding, unvaried crisis, spoiler's hand.

10. Examine the statement contained in 11. 51-2.

11. Compare Goldsmith's apostrophe to *' Retirement"
{D. V. 11. 96112) with that of Cowper {Garden 11. 675-701)
(a) in sentiment, (b) diction, (c) pathos, (d) elevation.

12. In the 1). v., 11, 57-74, Goldsmith intimates that
England once enjoyed a happiness that had passed away
before his day ; and in the Garden 11. 75-107, Cowper de-
clares that the virtue she once possessed, had likewise
departed. State wherein this happiness and virtue con-

OUKSTIONS FOR KXAMINATlON.

sisted, and inquire how far each statement is borne out by
history.

13. Explain the position that (loldsniith holds in rela-
tion to the poetical literature of ICn<4land.

14. How far was Goldsmith's belief in the decieasc
of the population of the countrysharcd by the Icadinj^ men
of the day ? How far was it actually correct ?

15. In 11 52-192, write brief notes on hiisieniiii:; i/ls,
traiii'\^ unfeeling tvain^ 1. 66, tyvaiifs poiccr^ 1. 105, and
11. 187-8.

16. In 11. 1 13-136, the " village"' is again presented in
its prime and decay. Compare these pictures with those
of the early p;irt of the poem. What peculiarities of poetry
are illustrated in these pictures.'*

17. Describe, after Goldsmith, the** village preacher."
Quote in your description as many lines as you can of
more than ordinary beauty, and state wherein that beauty
consists,

18. l^oint out the different meanings in which the word,
" Mansion" is used in the poem ; also, '* Train."

19. Who are thought to have been the originals of the
village preacher .''

20. Compare this description of the parson with Cow-
per's (in the lime-piece^ 11. 337-480.)

21. What other English poets have described "the par-
son" ?

22. W'here did Goldsmith borrow the simile with which
his description of the parson :loses ?

23. Write in your own language a description of the

* village master.'

24. What are the excellencies and defects of Goldsmith's
poetry ?

25. Point out the poetic beauties in the picture of the

* master.'

26. Where did Goldsmith fmd the original of the ' mas-
ter' and his school.?

27. Draw, after Goldsmith, a picture of the inn and its
company.

28. Where did the poet see the picture he has here
drawn ? Is the inn English or Irish \

29. By whom was the inn at Lissoy rebuilt ? When.'*
Why?

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

30. Expl.'iin in 11. 191-250, sf}(iii<]f'ni(i frnrc^ miproffnhly
gaij^ hod\ii(f trenihlcrs, //«/»/ '.s tfis<i,sfrr,('if>hir, ttrni.'< au'lti'lca,
g(ni'j>', iinf.-hr())i:n (Intinilifs, parlnnr siflcinlniirs, /V.s///v,
douldi' (lihf, 1. 233, 1. 240, 11. 242 3, wanfliiKi bliss, 1. 250.

31. Why docs the poet prefer the " simple biessiiii^s "
of the poor to the *' toilirv^ i)lcasure " of the ^rc.it ?

32. How does the poet think wciilth has been acquired ?

33. Point out the fundamental error of his theory.

34. Ciive some account of the ^M'cat political economist
who lived in (ioldsmith's time, and brictly state the chief
doctrines he taught. Shew wherein they differ from (Gold-
smith's.

35. Shew the fallacy of the simile of the *' f«iir female "
as applied to England. To Ireland.

36. Explain the cause of the effect produced by 11. 301-2
upon a reader whose judgment is convinced that as a mat-
ter of fact the statement is incorrect.

37. Inquire how far the poet's views as to the decrease
of population are correct ; also, what are the real effects of
the cause to which he attributes a decrease.

38. Characterize the poet's attack on luxury.

39. " Goldsmith's fallacy lies in idcntifyin;^ trade and
luxury." Examine the correctness of this statement.

40. Give some account of the " commons '' in England
and of the Enclosure Acts by which they have been
limited.

41. How far is the poet's ch?.rge, that the ''sons of
wealth " have appropriated the commons " justifiable .''

42. Point out the poetic beauties of the lines that de-
scribe the reception of " poverty" at the city.

43. In 11. 251-340, explain vdcant mind, wnaton, 1. 268,
f)ri(iht('d ore, 11. 273-4, '^^<''-df\d product, solicitous to hler".,
i'i\s'frt.s, artist, tfimnttiiovs (jr(u\d<:nr, bhc.ing sqiuii ?, idlij.

44. What crimes, in Goldsmith's days, were punished by
the "black gibbet?"

45. What do you understand by the terms *' subjective
poet," *' objective poet," '* realistic poetry," "idealistic
poetry ? " How would you class Goldsmith and Cowper
and their poetry under these heads ?

46. What important effects had the school-boy days of
Goldsmith and Cowper upon their iialuie life and upon
their writings ?

w t

QUESTIONS FOR KXAMINATION.

47. Discuss Coldsmith's views on trade ; luxury ; covi-
vncrcc ; enivfration.

48. Does (ioldsinitli use any particular word so often
in the /). l\ lliat it may be termed a mannerism ?

49. Mention any instances of poetic license in the

D, r,

50. Quote the passages of the /). V. in which the au-
thor refers to himself.

51. What is the ^reat rhaim of this poem ?

52. What were (ioldsmith's motives for adopting litera-
ture as a profession ?

53. Is there any internal evidence in the D. V. which
you could adduce to show approximately the period at
which it was written ?

54. Kxplain in 11. 340-430, convex worlds gathers death
arofttid, ti'iicrHf scafs, roiidCKnis cirtiie, .sappal, l^orno, equi-
nncfi(d firvonrs, irude\H pnAtd ctiipUc.

55. O^'^^G the lines written by Dr. Johnson.

56. How far are the poet's views of the state of poetry
in liis time literally correct }

57. Compare the actual condition of the immigrant in
America wuh the poet's picture. Why does he exagjje-
rate the happiness of the peasant at home and the misery
of his situation in the New World ?

58. Point out the peculiarity of the construction of the
last four lines. Examine the theory they propound.

59. What is the date of the publication of the I). V. ?
By whom published ? The price ? How was it received .'*
How many editions were issued within two months ?

60. To whom was the poem dedicated ? How was the
dedication received ?

61. To what extent can you trace Dr. Johnson's influ-
ence in the D. V. ?

62. Compare Goldsmith and Addison as dramatic wri-
ters, as prose writers, and as poets.

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

THE TASK.— liOOIC III.

THE GARDF.N.

1. How was Cov.p'^r led to undertaVe t\\e 7'asl' ?

2. What is the chief topic on which it dwells ?

3. How long was Cowper engaged in writing it ?

4. How does his theory of poetry differ from Pope's }

5. How far may Cowper lay claim to originality
in poetry ?

6. Name the Books of the Tash\ and outline the con-
tents of each ?

7. Give a minute account of the subjects treated of in
the Gardm.

8. What poets had most influence on Cowper ?

9. Estimate the inlluence of Cowpcr's poetry upon sub-
sequent poetical literature.

10. Account for Cowper's severe treatment of history
and science.

11. What difference is there between the views held
before and since Cowper's time, regarding the province
and object of history ?

12. In what state were geology and astronomy when
the Task was written ?

13. In what light did writers on theology regard sci-
ence at that time ?

14. When did the custom of going to London against
which Cowper rails, come into fashion ? What benefits
did it confer on the country gentleman ? What evil
consequences had it ?

t . I

OUKSTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

15. Give the date of the publication of the T(7 s k ^nd
of Cowper's other chief works.

16. Define t'le term " school of poets."

17. Of what school was Cowper the founder ?

18. Name the representative poets of the following
schools: (ii) Didactic, (/») Natural, (6) Lake, {(/) Roman-
tic, (e) Metaphysical, (0 Artificial.

19. Compare the leading features of modern poetical
literature with those of tin age of (ioldsmith and of
that of Cowper.

20. How does the Ganien differ from the other books
of the T{is/c ?

21. Show how the introductory lines (r-40) of the Gar-
den connect it with the preceding book. The Time-piece .

22. Wherein does the chief interest of the Garden con-
sist ?

23. Toint out the direct personal allusions the author
makes to his own circumstances and history in the Gar-
den.

2.;. Inquire into the effectiveness with which Cowper
*'c.*acked the satiric thong'' in Hook II. of the Task. To
what rank among English satirists is he entitled by hi« ^•..z*
series of moral poems ?

25. Briefly state th^ criticisms rcfcMrcdto in 1. 35.

26. Quote parallel passages from the D. \\ and the
Garden.

27. Does 1. 15 refer to the Time-piece ox to the Tiro-
cininfn ?

28. Explain 1. 52, 1. 63, sharped in 1. 85, fair in 1. 93,
solicitino; in 1. 115, other viczus in 1. i'22, contrive creation
in 1. 156, iviclded the ehfnents'xw 1. ijo, parallax \\\ 1. 215.

29. Give the chief features of Cowper's poetic style as
seen in the Task.

30. What were his motives for writing poetry ?

31. Describe his Olney Hymns ?

32. What rank does Cowper hold as a letter writer.-*

33. Give the substance of Southev's criticism on the
Task.

34. Approximate the date ol the authorship of the Task
from internal evidence.

35. Give some account of Cowper's most intimate
friends, and esMniate their inlluence on his writings.

QUi^STIOXS FOR EXAMI.NATloM.

^6. (Compare Cowper's account of his conversion as
piven in the Gaidcn^ 11. ioS-120 with the one he has left
us in prose.

37. When did the custom of drinking ** fragrant lymph *'
become common in Kn;4land ?

38. (live an account of the moral and religious condi-
tion of the different classes of society in Cowper's day.

39. Show how the religious movements of the eigh-
teenth century affected Covvj)er's life and poetry.

40. Js the poet's attack on th j pursuits of men prompted
by cense (iousness, or by a sincere desire to do his fellows
good ? Justify your answer.

41. On what grounds do Newton, Milton, and Hale
gain the poet's approbation .-^ Give some account of
them.

42. Answer the question of 11. 277-289.

43. What Tire Cowper's opinions of sporting .'^ What
featm-es of his c'laracter dothey exhil)it?

44. What were the chief out-door exercises at this
period }

45. (live an account of the hare referred to in 1. 334.

46. What are the poet's "various employments" as set
forth in the Garden ?

47. Malce a brief sketch of "her who shared his plea-
sures and his heart " (1. 390.)

48. DescrilDe, after the poet, the raising of cucumbers.
Quote the lines you consider the best, state wherein their
excellence consists.

49. Account for the long dcj'^ription of a garden and a
green-house.

50. Kxjilain Casialiaii dcw'\x\.\. 251, British Themis in
1. 257, voiiity in 1. 367, cowpo--' in 1. 305, ;V;77<i'/ in 1. 333,
/;7>;Hn 1. 357, fragrant lymph in 1. 391, the Mantiian
bard in 1. 453, I. 457, mats \\\ 1. 525, their sexes in 1. 537,
crape in 1. 802, le^'ee in 1. 822.

51. Examine the correctness of the poet's views of the
moral advantages of rural life.

52. What are the respective advantages of rhyme and
blank ver^e ?

53. Wliy did Cowper write the Task in blank verse.''

54. What causes contributed to the poetical activity of
the latter part of the i8ih century 'i

!|i

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

55. Was Cowper's malady induced by physical or reli-
gious causes ?

56. Did Covvper sympathize with the American Revo-
lutionists ?

57. Did the French Revolution produce any appreciable
effect on his poetry ?

58. Name the leading poets contemporary with Covv-
per.

59. Compare Cowper and Addison as hymn writers.

60. Contrast (Goldsmith's and Cowpcr's views of com-
merce, and of the causes that prevented the prosperity of
the country.

61. Relate particular instances of the bribery referred
to in 11. 795-800.

62. Quote the apostrophe to London.

63. Goldsmith and Co\vner profess to have each an
object specially dear to himself. Mention it, and dilate
on the sincerity of the affection each bestowed upon it.

64. The poetry of (ioldsmith differs widely from Cow-
per's, each has a charm peculiarly its own. Point out
this difference : fully state and illustrate the special beau-
ties of each.

65. Trace the change which poetry underv.-ent during
the 1 8th century, and show clearly how Cowper came to
found a new school of poetry.

66. Why does the poet prefer rural to city life ?

67. Give, after tiie poe^, the causes why people leave the
country to take refuge in the city.

68. Was the rage for expensive improvements general or
merely local .? What opportunity had Cowper of seeing
the *' omnipotent magician's work"

69. How far is Cowper's character reflected in the
Task ?

70. "Cowper is eminently the poet of the domestic
affections, and the exponent of the strong religious feeling
of the latter part of the i8th centurj'." Illustrate this
statement from his poem on the Garden,

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

THE DE COVERLEY PAPERS.
From the "Spectator."

1. How was the idea of the J>'/<'cAj!/6'>'' suggested ?

2. By whom was it first proposed ?

3. (live the dates and numbers of each consecutive part.

4. Describe its predecessor and successors.

5. What estimate has jDeen made of its circulation ?

6. What was its price ? What the cause of its ceasing
to be published ?

7. Describe the plan of the Spcitator. How far was it
carried out ?

8. What proportion of the papers were written by Ad-
dison ? By Steele? By whom were the rest written ?

9. W^hat were the circumstances of Addison and Steele
when they were engaged in writing the Tatle?', Spectator^
and Guardian ?

10. How are the papers written by Addison distin-
guished '^. How those by Steele ? Explain Addison's
signature.

1 1 . Name and characterize Addison's dramatic writings .

12. Who were Addison's chief contemporaries in poetry
and prose 1

13. Sketch the life of Swift and compare his prose style
with Addison's.

14. What are the common faults of prose ? Which of
them are found in Addison's writings \

15. Distinguish between prose and poetry.

16. What are the chief elements of style ? Treat the
style of Addison under each head.

17. Point out the leading features of Addison's styl>

1 1

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

18. Compare the style of Addison with that of Steele.

19. Account for the prose style of Queen Anne's rei^n.

20. Who is supposed to have been the original of Sir
Roger? of Will Wimble ? State the objections to these
theories.

21. Where did the Spectator get the name Sir Roger
De Coverley ?

22. Write a short accoimt of the originator of such
papers as the Spectator.

23. Name Steele's works and newspapers.

24. How far does Sir Roger represent the actual squire
of that time ?

25. Describe the character of Sir Roger l)e Coverley.

26. In how many of the papers of the Spectator does
Sir Roger occur.? By whom are these papers written t

27. Give some account of the clubs and coffee-houses
of the Spectator's day.

28. Give a short sketch of the rise of journalism in
England.

29. What relation did the Spectator bear to the ordin-
ary newspaper of the time ?

30. What were the different classes of society in Sir
Roger's time ?

31. Tell what jou know of the members of the Specta-
tor Club.

32. Sketch the Life of Addison.

33. Describe the Augustan Age.

34. What public offices did Addison hold ? Steele .-*

35. What relation does the Spectatorht^x to the modern
' ' novel" .?

36. Define that species of literature termed '* The No-
vel," and discuss the claims of Addison, Defoe, Goldsmith
and Richardson to being its originator.

Chap. II. — I. Derive and explain htintoitr^ pad, ancle ni^

conversation, dii^ested, spirits, elocution,

2. What impressions does this essay leave

of the character of Sir Roger ?

3. Write notes on the preachers in the chap-

lain's list.

4. Describe the chaplain.

5. Is parsonage used for an office or a build-

ing

(Cf. teue?nentm chap. XIX.)

OUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION

Chap. 1\'. — I

Chap. V. — I

Chap. III. — I. Point out the words in tliis paper tliat are

obsolete or obsolescent, and give their
modern equivalents.

2. What features of Addison's literary style

and of his method of treating social sub-
jects are illustrated in this essay ?

3. Has his advice as to the training of

" younger sons " been adopted in Eng-
land yet ?

Derive and explain proper, a-ivfuhiess^
sprites, trivial, exorcised.

Write notes on Locke, Jose[)hus and Lu-
cretius.

Examine how far Mr. Spectator himself
is free from superstition.

(iive in your own words an account of tl.e
methods Sir Roger adopts to promote
the religious interests of his peopi?.

2. Derive and explain habits., indijj'erent,

flitcJi, parson y tithe-stealers.

3. Tell what you know of the condition of

the agricultural laborers in Queen
Anne's reign.

4. Explain the tithing system of England and

its modern management.

Chap. VI. — I. Explain sedentary tempers, vapours, pro-
per Jor it, refining those spirits .

2. Select the sentences of this paper that

violate the rules of grammar, and ar-
range them correctly.

3. When did fox-hunting become fashionable

in England ?

Chap. \TL — I. Give an account of the belief in witch-
craft in Addison's time. When and
why did it pass away ?

2. Explain lioveringfaitJi, intercourse and

commerce., speculation , distemper, se-
cret commerces, county sessions.

3. Write a note on Otway,

4. -Addison says, " The great aun ^ji these

Ql i-STIONS FOR EXAMINATIOX.

Chap. VJII.

Chap.

IX.- I

my speculations is to banish vice
and ignorance out of the territories
of Great Britain." What was their
etfect in that direction ?

1. Compare Mr. Addison's idea of instinct

with that held by Darwin and open-
cer.

2. Write short notes on the proper names

in this paper and on the Royal So-
ciety.

3. There are in this paper several in-

stances of variation from modern
grammatical construction. Correct
them.

4. Addison says, ** Animals have nothing

like the use of reason." What is your
opinion ? That of modern scientists ?

What features of the old knight's cha-
racter are brought out in this essay ?

Explain verdict y cast, appearance , dis-
coveringy asshcs.

Make brief notes on the state of the
Game Act, on the administration of
justice, and on the divisions of the
rural population, in Sir Roger's day.

Ho'.v does the construction of the first
paragraph of this essay differ from
Addison's usual style ?

Chap.

1. Relate in your own language the story

of Eudoxus and Leontine, imitating
the style of Addison as well as you
can. Then compare what you have
written with his relation, and inquire
wherein you have failed to equal it.

2. With what incident in Mr. Addison's

life is the writing of this story con-
nected ?

XI. — I. What was the state of political parties
in 1710-12?

Cha

Chap.

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

[ay.
irst
lorn

)ry

ou
live

ire

t.
In's

)n-

les

2. Describe Addison as a politician and

political writer.

3. What did Sir Ro^er consider the evils

of party spirit ? Mr. Spectator ?

4. On what questions were the English

public divided when Sir Roger " was
a school-boy ? "

Chap. XII. — I. Y.\\i\?\xi account^ politer convcrsatioi.

Whig jockeys n,:d Tory fox-huniers^
landed and moneyed interest^ bait,
humour, correspondence, fanatic, first
principles.

2. Relate what is said of Sir Andrew

Freeport in chap. I. What propor-
tion of the population were engaged
in commerce at the Revolution t
How many had an income equal to
that of a country squire .'*

3. On what questions were parties di-

vided at the time this paper was
written ?

4. How had Addison and Steele suffered

from party spirit ?

Chap. XI 11. — I. Reproduce the matter of this paper,

varying the language but following
style.

2. Derive and explain ij^ipsies, siveetJienris,

bachelor , pal uti St ry , line oj life, exeri,
the justice of the peace.

3. I^arse teii to one hut he beconics, him to

be taken on board, gai'c him for
drowned.

4. Point the words and phrases tb it have

become obsolete or colloquial.

5. Give some account of the gipsies in

England.

6. In what light does Sir Roger appear in

this essay }

Chap. XIV. — r. Explain a viontlis excursion, several

subjects, taciturnity, cunning, ii'hite-
witch, converses, if is carded whigj
pr'ythee, y

Cha[j. XV. — 1.

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

2. Who was Will Honey. omb ? Describe

him from chap. I.

3. What is here meant by a Jesuit ? .Why

were they objects of dislike in Eng-
land at this time ?

4. Under what social, political, and reli-

gious disabilities did the Catholics
labor in Addison's time ?

5. Compare the opinions of ihe Spectator

and Cowper regarding the custom
of going to London. Account for
the difference.

Write notes on Gray , Inn Walks ^
Prince Eugene^ Scanderbeg^ the late
Act of Farlia7nent, the Pope's pro-
cession^ Baker'' s Chronicle ^ Squire' Sy
the si4pple77ie7tt.
•2. Describe the state of public feeling,
political and religious, that is referred
to in the dif^^^rent parts of this papei

3. State your reasons for considering Sir
Roger a person of some literary taste
and culture.

4. What was the object of making Sir
Roger idolize the Prince ?

5. What is the antecedent of which in the
clause which very much redound ,
etc. ?

6. Smutting^ etc. Quote a parallel pas-
sage from the D. V.

Derive and explain engaged^ Virginia,
trepanned., chines.

Write explanatory notes on my paper
upon Westminster Abbey, Widow
Trueby's water., the sickness at the
Dantzic, the *wo Coronation Chairs ,
Jacob's pillar., the martyr to good
houseivi/ery,2Lr\d on the propei names
in the essay.

When did Westminster become a
burial place for the ^reat?

Chap. XVI.— I

'\.

Chi

r.'*^

QUESTIONS FOR EXAMINATION.

ita.

Chap. XVII. — I. What was the particular object of this

paper ?

2. Why was Sir Roger taken to the

theatre ?

3. Describe the theatre after the RevoUi-

tion.

4. Give some particulars about the two

plays mentioned, and about their
authors.

5. Who were the leading dramatic wri-

ters of the period .''

6. When were theatres first lighted with

gas ?

Chap. XVIII. — I. Mention points of interest about 6)^r;>/^'-

Garden^ Vauxhall^ Temple Bar^ La
Hague.
2. Explain so as to show their meaning in
the paper, Seven wonders^ Thames
ribaldry, Mahoinctan paradise, bate,
fifty new churches, Knight of the
shire, a face of magistracy, hung beef,
quorum.

Chap. XIX. — I. What reasons have been assigned for

the killing of Sir Roger ?

2. In v/hat quality of style does this paper
excel .''
^ 3. Enumerate Sir Roger's bequests, and

inquire whether they show his life to
have been sincere.

4. Explain 7'oast beef stomach, a lighten-
ing before death, quit rents, Act of
Uniformity.