TO 
 
 m 
 

MOORE'S 
 UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS 
 
/^ ~V~ITY^- 
 
PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 HUMOROUS, SATIRICAL, AND SENTIMENTAL 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS MOORE 
 
 WITH SUPPRESSED PASSAGES FROM THE 
 MEMOIRS OF LORD BYRON 
 
 CHIEFLY FROM THE AUTHOR'S MANUSCRIPT 
 AND ALL HITHERTO INEDITED AND UNCOLLECTED 
 
 antr 
 
 BY 
 
 RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD 
 
 Bonbon 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1878 
 
 [A II rights reserved} 
 
LONDON : PRINTED BY 
 
 EPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE 
 AND PARLIAMENT STREET 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 A CONSIDERABLE portion of the volume here presented 
 to the public is derived from manuscript sources. The 
 Note-Books and Commonplace-Books of THOMAS MOORE, 
 together with a large mass of Correspondence, and 
 the original drafts and manuscripts of his principal 
 writings, have been for some time in the possession 
 of the present publishers, and were found on examina- 
 tion to yield so much matter of permanent literary in- 
 terest, that it was thought advisable to place it beyond 
 the possibility of future loss before the dispersion of 
 these Autographs into various hands and places. 
 
 The beautiful dedication of his Juvenile Poems to 
 his mother, and the curious prose fragment of Eomance 
 entitled The Lamp of St. Agatha, are now first printed 
 from an octavo manuscript volume in which Moore has 
 transcribed a number of his early pieces. To these are 
 added the five maiden efforts of his Muse, one of them 
 addressed to his schoolmaster, Samuel Whyte, which 
 were printed in a brief-lived Dublin magazine, the 
 Anthologia Hibernica, in the years 1793 and 1794. 
 These constituted Moore's first appearance in print, and 
 
 304709 
 
vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 already won for him a considerable amount of local 
 celebrity. 
 
 In the second section of the volume we have disin- 
 terred a number of Squibs and Political Satires, equal 
 in pungency and piquancy to any of those already col- 
 lected, and dropped by the author at the time not on 
 the score of inferior merit, but for reasons of the hour 
 which have long ceased to exist. These are derived 
 from a small quarto scrap-book of newspaper cuttings, 
 carefully kept by Moore himself. All the pieces here 
 given are marked by him as his own, and have numerous 
 manuscript corrections in his hand in the margin, which 
 have of course been uniformly adopted and followed. 
 
 Of the wonderful versatility of Moore's genius the third 
 section of the volume, consisting of his contributions 
 to the Edinburgh Review, never before collected, and 
 ranging over a period of twenty years and over a curious 
 variety of subjects, affords a striking proof. His early 
 quarrel with Jeffrey led soon afterwards to a close 
 intimacy and friendship between them. It was at 
 Jeffrey's urgent request and reiterated solicitation that 
 Moore was induced to send him an occasional article ; 
 and though he always remained rather averse to this 
 kind of work, the little he performed of it showed him 
 to be not unworthy of an honourable place in the brilliant 
 constellation of contributors which the Review num- 
 bered during those years Sydney Smith, Brougham, 
 Hallam, Macaulay, Carlyle, and Jeffrey himself. It 
 was with difficulty that the late Dean Milman could be 
 brought to believe Murray's assurance, even when rati- 
 fied by Moore himself, that the latter was the writer of 
 
INTRODUCTION. vii 
 
 the article on German Rationalism. 'No, no,' he 
 exclaimed, ' I know Moore to be very multifarious, but 
 I don't think he has yet got to German theology.' 
 
 Nevertheless it was so, and it seemed as if there 
 were no subject too abstruse or too recondite for Moore 
 to illuminate it with the play of his wit and fancy. 
 
 Another proof of Moore's versatility is the very 
 amusing Comic Opera produced by him in 1811, en- 
 titled M. P., or The Blue-Stocking. With the exception 
 of a few of the songs he never reprinted it, however ; 
 and as the piece is now among the rarissima of col- 
 lectors, we decided to include it in the present volume. 
 
 The unfinished prose story entitled The Chapter of 
 the Blanket now appears in print for the first time. 
 Its sunny brilliancy and gay play of humour, and the 
 luxuriance of imagination displayed in it, make us 
 regret its abrupt termination. The minute character 
 of the calligraphy and the complicated interlineations 
 and corrections in the two manuscript books containing 
 the rough draft and second copy of this tale have 
 made it extremely difficult to decipher ; but we have 
 succeeded in mastering these difficulties, and have now 
 the pleasure to present this delightful fragment to the 
 reader in a legible shape. 
 
 Not the least interesting section of the volume will 
 be the final one containing a selection from Moore's 
 original notes for his Life of Byron deciphered, also, 
 with some difficulty from a rough manuscript book 
 partly in pencil and partly in ink. The destruction 
 of Byron's own memoirs, and the fact that much in 
 these rough notes was eliminated, suppressed, or toned 
 
Yiii INTRODUCTION. 
 
 down in the published Life, gives a peculiar value and 
 importance to the paragraphs we have culled from a 
 mass of memoranda, extracts from books, &c., in which 
 they are embedded. They will, it is believed, aid in 
 throwing some new light on the character and career of 
 the singular and gifted being about whom there still 
 lingers a nameless and mysterious interest unparalleled, 
 perhaps, in literary history. 
 
 E. H. S. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 JUVENILE PIECES: 
 
 To ZELIA, ON HER CHARGING THE AUTHOR WITH WRITING 
 
 TOO MUCH ON LOVE . . . . 3 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLAD . . . . . . 4 
 
 A PARAPHRASE OF ANACREON'S FIFTH ODE . . .5 
 
 To SAMUEL WHYTE. . . . . . . 5 
 
 To THE MEMORY OF FRANCIS PERRY . . .6 
 
 THE LAMP OF ST. AGATHA. A FRAGMENT OF KOMANCE . "6 
 
 .SATIKICAL AND HUMOKOUS POEMS: 
 
 ODE TO SAINT PATRICK . . . . n 
 
 THE Two VETERANS . . . . 12 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. A EECENT CORRESPONDENCE . 14 
 
 THE ANSWER . . . . . 15 
 
 IRELAND AND LORD GREY. BY AN IRISHMAN . .16 
 THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. A TALE OF THE SANDWICH 
 
 ISLES . . . . . . 17 
 
 THE LOFTY LORDS. AN EASTERN LEGEND . . 20 
 
 SONGS OF THE CHURCH . . . . . . 21 
 
 ON THE LATE LORD . . . . .23 
 
 THE EEFORM BIIX . . . . 23 
 
x CONTENTS. k 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INVITATION TO THE TOBIES. BY THE KEY. E. IRVING . 25 
 POLICE EEPORTS. BREACH OF THE PEACE . 28 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN, CALLED 
 
 THE PHELL-POT . . . . . .29 
 
 CONTEIBUTIONS TO THE 'EDINBURGH KEVIEW 1814- 
 1834: 
 
 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. [SEPTEMBER 1814] . . . 35 
 
 THE FATHERS. [NOVEMBER 1814] . . . -55 
 
 FRENCH NOVELS. [NOVEMBER 1820] . . 75 
 
 FEENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. [JUNE 1826] . . .92 
 
 ANNE BOLEYN. [MARCH 1827] . . . . . 117 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. [OCTOBER 1827] . . . 145 
 
 GERMAN KATIONALISM. [SEPTEMBER 1831] . . .177 
 
 THE BOUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. [APRIL 1834] . . 204 
 
 
 A LETTER TO THE ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN 221 
 
 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. A COMIC OPERA IN 
 
 THREE ACTS 253 
 
 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: A FRAGMENT . 341 
 
 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT, &c. . . . . . 389 
 
 NOTES FOR MOORE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON, . 407 
 
 INDEX , . . . 441 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
[From a Manuscript Book, containing other pieces already pub- 
 lished in Moore's Collected Works, written out for and dedicated to 
 his mother, and from a scarce Dublin monthly magazine, the Antho- 
 logia Sibernica, 1793-4, in which Moore's earliest effusions were 
 printed.] 
 
 FOB her who was the critic of my first infant productions 
 I have transcribed the few little essays that follow. The 
 smile of her approbation and the tear of her affection were 
 the earliest rewards of my lisping numbers ; and, however 
 the efforts of my maturer powers may aspire to the ap- 
 plause of a less partial judge, still will the praises which 
 she bestows, be dearer, far dearer to my mind than any ! 
 
 The Critic praises from the head ; the Mother praises 
 from the heart ! with one it is a tribute of the judgment ; 
 with the other it is a gift from the soul ! 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
TO ZELIA. 
 
 ON HER CHARGING THE AUTHOR WITH WRITING TOO MUCH 
 ON LOVE. 
 
 [The following lines were the first poetic effusion of Thomas 
 Moore which ever appeared in a printed form. They were written 
 at his father's residence in Aungier Street, Dublin, in 1793, and 
 published in the AntJwlogia Hibernica, 1 in October of that year. 
 They not only possess considerable beauty, but are singularly pro- 
 phetic of the chord which he struck with such delightful effect in 
 after years.] 
 
 'Tis true my Muse to love inclines, 
 
 And wreaths of Cypria's myrtle twines ; 
 
 Quits all aspiring lofty views 
 
 And chaunts what Nature's gifts infuse. 
 
 Timid to try the mountain's height, 
 
 Beneath she strays, retired from sight ; 
 
 Careless, culling amorous flowers, 
 
 Or quaffing mirth in Bacchus' bowers. 
 
 When first she raised her simplest lays 
 
 In Cupid's never ceasing praise, 
 
 The god a faithful promise gave 
 
 That never should she feel love's stings, 
 
 Never to burning passion be a slave, 
 
 But feel the purer joy thy friendship brings. 
 
 1 AntJwlogia, Hi bernica ; or, Monthly Collections of Science, 
 Belles Lettres, and History, 4 vols. 8vo, January 1 793 to December 
 1794. Dublin: printed for Richard Edward Mercierand Company, 
 31, Anglesea Street. 
 
 B 2 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 A PASTORAL BALLADE 
 
 AH, Celia ! when wilt thou be kind ? 
 
 When pity my tears and complaint ? 
 To mercy, my fair ! be inclined, 
 
 For mercy belongs to the saint. 
 
 Oh ! dart not disdain from thine eye ! 
 
 Propitiously smile on my love ! 
 No more let me heave the sad sigh, 
 
 But all cares from my bosom remove ! 
 
 My gardens are crowded with flowers, 
 My vines are all loaded with grapes ; 
 
 Nature sports in my fountains and bowers, 
 And assumes her most beautiful shapes. 
 
 The shepherds admire my lays 
 
 When I pipe they all flock to the song ; 
 They deck me with laurels and bays, 
 
 And list to me all the day long. 
 
 But their laurels and praises are vain, 
 They've no joy or delight for me now ; 
 
 For Celia despises the strain, 
 
 And that withers the wreath on my brow. 
 
 Then adieu, ye gay shepherds and maids ! 
 
 I'll hie to the woods and the groves ; 
 There complain in the thicket's dark shades, 
 
 And chaunt the sad tale of my loves I 
 
 Antlwhgia Hilernica, October 1793, vol. ii. p. 299. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE OF ANACREON'S FIFTH ODE. 1 
 
 LET'S, with the gaily-clustering vine, 
 The rose, Love's blushing flower, entwine ! 
 Fancy's hand our chaplets wreathing, 
 Vernal sweets around us breathing, 
 We'll madly drink, full goblets quaffing, 
 At frighted Care securely laughing. 
 Eose ! thou balmy-scented flower ! 
 Eear'd by Spring's most fostering power , 
 Thy dewy blossoms, opening bright, 
 To gods themselves can give delight. 
 Cypria's child, with roses crown'd, 
 Trips with each Grace the mazy round. 
 My temples bind ; I'll tune the lyre ; 
 Love my rapturous notes shall tire ; 
 Near Bacchus' grape-encircled shrine, 
 While roses fresh my brows entwine, 
 Led by the winged train of pleasures, 
 I'll dance with nymphs to sportive measures. 
 
 TO SAMUEL WHYTE* 
 
 HAIL ! heaven-taught votary of the laurell'd Nine ! 
 
 That in the groves of science strike their lyres : 
 Thy strains, which breathe an harmony divine, 
 
 Sage Reason guides, and wild-eyed Fancy fires. 
 
 If e'er from Genius' torch one little spark 
 
 Grlow'd in my soul, thy breath increased the flame ; 
 
 Thy smiles beain'd sunshine on my wandering bark, 
 That dared to try Castalia's dangerous stream. 
 
 1 Anthologia Hibernica, February 1794, vol. iii. p. 137. 
 
 2 Ibid, March 1794, vol. iii. p. 223. 
 
6 JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 Oh, then ! for thee, may many a joy-wing'd year, 
 With not a stain, but still new charms appear ; 
 Till, when at length thy mortal course is run, 
 Thou sett'st, in cloudless glory, like a sinking sun ! 
 
 January I, 1794. 
 
 [Keprinted in the third edition of Samuel Whyte's Poem* on 
 Various Subjects : Dublin, 1795, p. 272.] 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF FRANCIS PERRY. 1 
 
 LIFE'S fading spark now gleams the last dim ray 
 'Tis out th' unfetter'd spirit wings its flight 
 
 In happier climes to drink eternal day 
 
 And mix with kindred souls in realms of light ! 
 
 Farewell, blest shade ! (if bliss the virtuous find) 
 
 While, loosed from earth, thou seek'st a heavenly 
 sphere, 
 
 And 'gainst a wreath by seraph hands entwined, 
 Why yet, for thee, thus flows the sorrowing tear ? 
 
 Alas ! while memory can thy worth recall 
 (For in thy mind each virtue claim'd a part), 
 
 The dewy streams of grief, sincere, must fall ; 
 The sigh must heave, untutor'd from the heart. 
 
 THE LAMP OF ST. AGATHA. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF ROMANCE. 2 
 
 ' TILL the lamp in the cell of St. Agatha is extinguished, 
 never shall the house of Malvezzi be in peace.' Such, says 
 
 1 Antlwlogia Hibernica, June 1794, vol. iii. p. 461. 
 
 2 From the MS. Book, containing a collection of his early pieces 
 in verse, and the preceding Dedication to his mother. 
 
JUVENILE PIECES. 7 
 
 the guide, were the prophetic words which the hermit 
 of the mountain uttered before he died. He was a man 
 of strange and mysterious habits, and many were the 
 miracles which he performed in his cave ; so that the 
 villagers (as we learn from the legendary tradition of 
 those times), agreed that he was either the devil or a 
 saint. When he lay upon his bed of rushes expiring, 
 just before the last gleam of life was out, his eyes 
 seemed to glow with more than mortal animation, and 
 he pronaunced these words with a voice not of this 
 world : ' Till the lamp in the cell of St. Agatha is ex- 
 tinguished, never shall the house of Malvezzi be in 
 peace.' ' Here,' says the guide, pointing to a heap of 
 stones which rudely peeped forth from amidst a wilder- 
 ness of weeds, 6 here are the ruins of the abbey, which 
 adjoined the castle of Malvezzi, and here was the cell 
 of St. Agatha, where the fatal lamp lay burning. 
 
 ' Near a century had elapsed from this prediction of 
 the hermit of the mountain, and still the house of 
 Malvezzi was convulsed by the most bloody dissensions. 
 Father against son, and brother against brother, con- 
 flicted with unrelenting ferocity, and murder was almost 
 sated with its victims.' 
 
 ' But did they not remember the prophecy of the 
 hermit ? ' said the youthful stranger, who appeared 
 most interested in the tale, and to whom the guide 
 particularly addressed himself. 
 
 6 They did,' answered the guide, ' and still the lamp 
 was unextinguished ; in vain was it exposed to the 
 winds and the rain ; it would hiss in the shower, and 
 quiver to the blast, but it would not go out ! No it 
 burned brighter than ever ! Ill-fated family ! when were 
 your sorrows to have an end ? 
 
 ' It was on the last evening of the year 1450, which 
 completed a century from the period of the hermit's 
 
8 JUVENILE PIECES. 
 
 death. Vespers were just concluded, and the abbey was 
 still lighted up. The unfortunate young Malvezzi and 
 his followers had been offering their thanks to the Deity, 
 for he had suffered that day to pass over them without 
 blood! The Marquis lingered last in the abbey, and 
 was pacing pensively towards the gate, when a female 
 figure rushed precipitately by him, and, gliding along 
 the abbey, disappeared through the subterraneous 
 wicket. He followed the phantom, and she entered the 
 cell of St. Agatha. " How interestingly beautiful ! " 
 said Malvezzi to himself, scarce repressing his astonish- 
 ment, while he stole a glance at this unknown over a 
 fragment of the wall of the cell. She stood over the 
 lamp and raised her eyes to heaven ; they had a 
 mingled expression of pity and exultation ; and while 
 they softened with regret for the past, they seemed to 
 brighten with a [cheerful] hope for the future ! Malvezzi 
 gazed with breathless astonishment, when suddenly a 
 peal of music floated [solemnly] along the aisles, as if 
 the organ of the abbey was [had been] touched by some 
 visionary hand, and it seemed the sweet language of 
 heaven breathing peace to the wounded spirit of the 
 unfortunate ! 
 
 6 The female extinguished the lamp and vanished.' 
 [' But how ? ' asked the young marquis. ' She . . . .' 
 said the reverend guide.] 
 
 1 That Moore attached some value to this clever youthful jeu 
 $ esprit a very felicitous parody of the absurd Radcliffe romances 
 of the period is evident from the fact that, while the body of the 
 fragment is in the same juvenile hand as the poems, the corrections 
 and additions here printed in brackets are in the mature hand of his 
 manhood. That he should have thought it worth while to retouch 
 this boyish trifle ever so slightly, must give it a certain value it 
 would not otherwise possess ; and, indeed, the final added touch, 
 the naive question of the stranger, and the guide's suppressed reply, 
 which we may presume to have been, She ~bUw it out ! ' has a per- 
 fectly alchemic effect upon the whole. ED. 
 
SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS 
 POEMS. 
 
[Most of the following pieces are derived from a Scrap-book 
 formerly in Moore's possession, containing newspaper cuttings of 
 his political squibs, with his own manuscript corrections, as pre- 
 pared for the collected edition of his Poetical Works, from which 
 edition they appear to have been omitted, either by accident or for 
 some temporary reasons which no longer exist.] 
 
II 
 
 ODE TO SAINT PATRICK. 
 
 (Written while half -tipsy over a solitary dinner, on the i;th 
 of March, 1813.) 
 
 THOUGH solus here I pick my bone, 
 And drown my shamrock all alone, 
 
 Yet ne'er the worse for that 
 I'll fill and drink (to make amends) 
 Both to and for all absent friends 
 
 To honour thee, Saint Pat ! 
 
 And, faith, to thee I'd rather quaff 
 Than any saint on Heaven's staff 
 
 That ever Pope gazetted ; 
 Because to thee we Irish sinners, 
 Who love to sprinkle well our dinners, 
 
 Are very deep indebted. 
 
 There's good St. Swithin had he given 
 (Instead of water) wine from heaven, 
 
 For forty days together, 
 Then truly, for a moist set-in, 
 Six weeks of wet would not have been 
 
 Uncomfortable weather. 
 
 But oh ! the liquor, gemm'd with beads, 
 That in my glass this moment reads 
 The Riot Act, so frisky ! 
 
12 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 Sweet Pat, if e'er, in humorous vein, 
 Thou takest it in thy head to rain, 
 For Heaven's sake rain whiskey ! 
 
 I wonder what in censure's way 
 The devil's lawyer l had to say 
 
 Against thee, Pat what had he ? 
 The worst that Eldon's self could prose, 
 (The devil's lawyer, he, God knows !) 
 
 Would be to call thee ' Paddy.' 
 
 But, let them call thee what they will, 
 Through life I'll love thy worship still, 
 
 And when my race is over, 
 Let shamrocks crown my bed of sleep, 
 Let whiskey-dew the shamrocks steep, 
 And friends say round me, while they weep, 
 
 4 Here lies a Pat, in clover ! ' 2 
 
 THE TWO VETERANS. 
 
 ( Hectora quern laudas, pro te pugnare jubeto, 
 Militia est operis altera digna tuis.' OVID. 
 
 OH ! wine is the thing to make veterans tell 
 
 Of their deeds and their triumphs and punch does as 
 
 well-- 
 
 As the Regent and Bliicher, that sober old pair, 
 Fully proved t' other night, when they supp'd you 
 
 know where, 
 
 : A person called the devil's advocate, employed at the canoni- 
 zation of saints to blacken the characters of those chosen for that 
 honour. 
 
 2 The shamrock is a species of clover. 
 
THE TWO VETERANS. 13 
 
 And good-humouredly bragg'd of the feats they'd been 
 
 doing 
 
 O'er exquisite punch of my Yarmouth's own brewing. 
 This difference there was in the modes of their strife, 
 One had fought with the French t' other fought with 
 
 his wife I 
 
 ' How I dress'd them ! ' said Bliicher, and fill'd up, 
 
 sublime 
 4 1, too,' says the Prince, ' have dress'd men in my 
 
 time.' 
 
 Bl. One morning at dawn 
 Reg. Zounds, how early you fight ! 
 
 I could never be ready (hiccups); my things are so 
 
 tight ! 
 
 BL I sent forward a few pioneers over night 
 Reg. Ugly animals these are, in general, I hear 
 
 (hiccups) 
 The Queen, you must know, is my chief pioneer. 
 
 Bl. The foe came to meet us 
 
 Reg. . There I manage better, 
 
 The foe would meet me, but I'm d d if I'll let her. 
 
 BL Pell-mell was the word dash thro' thick and 
 
 thro' thin 
 Reg. Carlton House to a tittle ! how well we chime 
 
 in! 
 BL For the fate of all Europe, the fate of men's 
 
 rights, 
 We battled 
 
 Reg. And I for the grand fete at White's ! 
 
 BL Though the ways, deep and dirty, delay'd our 
 
 design 
 Reg. Never talk of the dirt of your ways think of 
 
 mine ! 
 
14 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 Bl. And the balls hissing round 
 
 Reg. Oh ! those balls be my lot 
 
 Where a good supper is, and the Princess is not. 
 And for hissing why, 'faith ! I've so much every day 
 That my name, I expect, in the true Eoyal way, 
 Will descend to posterity, ' G-EORGE LE SIFFLE ! ' 1 
 
 Bl. But we conquer'd, we conquer'd blest hour of 
 my life ! 
 
 Reg. And blest moment of mine, when I've con- 
 quer'd my wife ! 
 
 Here the dialogue falter'd ; he still strove to speak ; 
 But strong was the punch, and the Regent's head 
 
 weak ; 
 And the Marshal cried ' Charge ! ' and the bumpers 
 
 went round, 
 
 Till the fat toilet-veteran sunk on the ground ; 
 And old Bliicher triumphantly crow'd from his seat 
 To see one worthy potentate more at his feet. 
 
 THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. 
 
 A RECENT CORRESPONDENCE. 
 
 WHO, false alike in war and peace, 
 Hath nothing done but cheat and fleece, 
 His brother bilk, and rob his niece ? 
 
 My Miguel. 
 
 Who, on his way to all this evil, 
 In London look'd so sweet and civil, 
 In Lisbon pitch'd us to the devil ? 
 
 My Miguel. 
 
 1 Like Louis la Men-aime, Louis le desire, $c. 
 
THE BISHOP AND MIGUEL. 
 
 Whose tyrant deeds e'en roused the spleen 
 
 Of tyrant-loving Aberdeen 
 
 To call thee names he didn't mean, 
 
 My Miguel ? 
 
 Who rules his realm with guns and drums, 
 And sends poor devils to martyrdoms, 
 With ' little angels ' l round their thumbs ? 
 
 My Miguel. 
 
 Yet, ah ! atrocious as thou art, 
 
 So well thou play'st the monarch's part, 
 
 Thou'rt dear unto a bishop's heart, 
 
 My Miguel. 
 
 For thine the sceptre and the purse, 
 And wert thou even ten times worse, 
 To us 'twould matter not a curse, 
 
 My Miguel. 
 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 As welcome as a richer see 
 Would prove to Exeter, or thee, 
 Thy kindly greeting comes to me, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think, whoever draws 
 His sword against the people's cause, 
 Is sure, at least, of thy applause, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 And whether 'tis old Nick or Nero, 
 With morals, like my own, at zero, 
 Thou'lt hail him as the Church's hero, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 1 Thumb-screws, so called. See Lord Morpeth's speech. 
 
16 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 The world may hold thy ' Nolo ' light, 
 But where men come to ask their right, 
 Thy ' Nolo ' may be trusted quite, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 Love to the bench should you and they 
 Chance to be ousted, some fine day, 
 Pop over here to Lisbon, pray, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 For though 'twill doubtless dull appeal- 
 Without your thousands five per year, 
 You'll meet some kindred spirits here, 
 
 My bishop. 
 
 IRELAND AND LORD GREY. 
 
 BY AN IRISHMAN. 
 
 Written July 1834. 
 
 ALAS ! fated country, of friends and of foes 
 
 Alike doom'd the bane and the victim to be ; 
 Even GTEEY'S long illustrious life, at its close, 
 Is cross'd by the shadow thy destiny throws, 
 For his last act was binding a fetter on thee. 
 
 Oh mournful result of long ages of wrong, 
 That he, even he, ever glorious before, 
 
 Should be turn'd from his bright course, thy breakers 
 among, 
 
 Forget the true star he had steer'd by so long, 
 
 And leave thus a wreck of high fame on thy shore ! 
 
 Yet no, mighty spirit, though deep the heart mourns 
 At this one passing shade o'er a life full of light, 
 
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 17 
 
 Even this fades forgotten, when memory turns 
 To the long track of patriot glory which burns 
 
 Half a century through, marking grandly his flight. 
 
 Nor shall Europe when starting, with England for guide, 
 
 In that march of Keform he hath foremost led on, 
 E'er forget, when a new race shall rise, in its pride, 
 On the ruins of wrong, that her thrall was untied 
 By the noblest and best of the race who are gone ; 
 
 By one who will stand, in posterity's sight, 
 
 When the mists of the moment have fled as a dream, 
 Like some castle of chivalry, throned on a height, 
 Where the day, going off, leaves the last of its light, 
 Where the morn, coming on, brings its earliest beam. 
 
 THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 
 
 A TALE OP THE SANDWICH ISLES. 
 
 I'LL tell you a tale of the southern seas, 
 
 You may laugh or cry at it just as you please. 
 
 Scant was the growth of the bread-fruit tree 
 
 On the beautiful Isle of Owhyhee, 
 
 While, gift of heaven ! it richly grew 
 
 O'er the sunny fields of Woahoo ; 
 
 And it seem'd as Nature had placed these isles 
 
 In the reach of each other's verdant smiles, 
 
 That whate'er was wanting on either shore 
 
 From the other might swift be wafted o'er ; 
 
 The Woahooan nymphs array'd 
 
 In trinkets by Owhyheeans made ; 
 
 While Owhyhee well fed would be 
 
 By Woahoo's sweet bread-fruit tree. 
 
1 8 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 But, alas ! even happy isles like these 
 Have a people upon them call'd Grandees, 
 And where there are lords, I need not say 
 Things will go on in a lordly way. 
 
 Heard you that cry, whose withering sound 
 Saddens the sunny prospect round ? 
 From a million of voices it rings on high, 
 6 We starve, we starve ! ' their fearful cry. 
 Know you what, 'midst such fertile scenes, 
 That awful voice of famine means ? 
 Oh, list to me in Owhyhee 
 Were lords and squires of high degree, 
 Who in bread-fruit held large property, 
 And, of all afflictions, ills, and vices, 
 Thought none so dreadful as low prices. 
 Wherefore they held it just and meet 
 That the world should not too cheaply eat ; 
 Nay, deem'd it radical insolence 
 To wish to dine at a small expense, 
 And swore, for sake of themselves and heirs, 
 That, happen what might with other wares, 
 No bread should be less dear than theirs. 
 
 Tn vain the Owhyheeans said, 
 ' My Lords, we much respect your bread, 
 But, with all due reverence for your Graces, 
 Would rather have cheaper from other places.' 
 In vain from the Woahooan shore, 
 Barks, fill'd with bread-fruit, wing'd them o'er ;- 
 'Twas vulgarly cheap, and tax'd must be 
 Before 'twas fit for good company; 
 Nor must the poor devils swallow a bit, 
 Unless they swallow a tax with it. 
 
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE. 19 
 
 And what said the lords of Owhyhee, 
 And the Owhyheean Squirearchy, 
 In defence of their joint gentility ? 
 Why, they said that they and their sires before 'em 
 Had shone in the senate, camp, and quorum,- 
 Had all been rich had managed to get, 
 As became their station, deep in debt ; 
 And thought it hard that men of reading, 
 Who had cost, themselves, so much in breeding, 
 Should now fall victims to cheap feeding 
 Shorn of their beams of wealth and state 
 To help low fellows to masticate ! 
 'How little,' said they, 'the thoughtless poor 
 Can know what the suffering rich endure, 
 In bringing up dozens of small Grandees 
 In paying off horrible mortgagees 
 To say nothing of assignees, lessees, 
 And an endless quantity more of these 
 Une&sy things that end in ees. 
 And, though (as honest Figaro says) 
 If a gentleman owes, and never pays, 1 
 'Tis just the same, be it great or small, 
 As if he, in fact, owed nothing at all, 
 Yet, somehow, unless one sometimes pays, 
 Lenders are bashful, nowadays.' 
 
 In short, if the bread tax once was gone, 
 These lords and gentlemen ' couldn't get on ; ' 
 And they even hinted, awfully, 
 That if e'er, in the Isle of Owhyhee, 
 Bread-pudding in price should humbled be, 
 All was o'er with the aristocracy ; 
 
 1 ' Quand on doit, et qu'on ne paye pas, c'est comme si on ne 
 devoit rien.' 
 
 c 2 
 
20 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 One penny saved by clods who dine, 
 Being sure to bring our nobles to nine ! l 
 
 Meanwhile, that cry, that dreadful cry, 
 ' We starve, we starve,' rose loud and high, 
 Till what was the upshot all shall see 
 In the Second Canto of Owhyhee. 
 
 THE LOFTY LORDS. 
 
 AN EASTERN LEGEND. 
 
 THERE'S an isle far off, under India's skies, 
 
 Where the mariner oft at eve descries, 
 
 When the heavens are calm and the winds asleep, 
 
 Dark ruins, beneath the shining deep, 
 
 Of towers up-built, as the tale is told, 
 
 By lords of that isle, in days of old, 
 
 Who, aping the Babel builder's skill, 
 
 Heap'd stone on stone, aspiring still 
 
 Till, lodged aloft, on their piles of pride, 
 
 Earth, sea, and heaven these lords defied. 
 
 But little they knew, when towering so, 
 What a mighty power was at work below. 
 For, on land usurp'd from the giant sea, 
 They had built their halls of dignity ; 
 Nor dreamt, while high in air they slept, 
 Of the world of waters that round them swept, 
 And the working waves that, day by day, 
 Were mining their massive mounds away. 
 
 In vain did the wise, whose prescient ear 
 The coming crash in the breeze could hear, 
 Forewarn these lords of the lofty towers 
 
 1 According to the old arithmetical process of 'bringing nobles 
 to ninepence.' 
 
THE LOFTY LORDS. 21 
 
 How vast were the deep's encroaching powers, 
 
 How mighty the waves of that angry sea, 
 
 Coming like crested chivalry. 
 
 'Twas all in vain unmoved they stood, 
 
 Each, like Canute, to the swelling flood, 
 
 Saying, ' Thou comest not to this spot ; ' 
 
 But the swelling waters heard them not. 
 
 In the light of heaven one instant shone 
 
 Both lords and towers, and, the next, were gone ! 
 
 Dark over them swept the mighty main, 
 
 And the giant sea had his own again. 
 
 SONGS OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 No. II. 1 
 
 ' I HAVE found out a cure for Dissent ; 2 
 I have found, when all other means fail, 
 
 To soothe a Non-Con.'s discontent, 
 The best way's to put him in jail.' 
 
 Even so the Welsh parson 3 averr'd, 
 
 When John James into prison he flung ; 
 
 And I loved the Church more when I heard 
 Such tenderness fall from his tongue. 4 
 
 By the foes of the Church 'tis asserted 
 
 She'll ne'er of her ground give an inch up ; 
 
 Why 'twas but last month she converted 
 A rectory into a gin-shop. 
 
 1 Moore reprinted No. 1 only in his Collected Poetical Works. 
 ED. 
 
 ' I have found out a gift for my fair, 
 I have found,' &c. &c. Shenstone. 
 
 8 The parish clergyman of Llanelly, who lately caused a dissenter 
 to be imprisoned for non-attendance at church. 
 
 ' And I loved her the more, when I heard 
 Such tenderness fall from her tongue.' 
 
22 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 Just call at All-Hallows, some day, 
 
 And you'll find, to her very great merit, 
 
 Though given to the flesh, as some say, 
 She now and then deals in the spirit. 1 
 
 Talk of martyrs if ridicule flay men, 
 
 And saints be not deucedly tough, 
 We've among us both churchmen and laymen, 
 
 Who've, Grod knows, been martyr'd enough. 
 
 There's O'Sullivan, Marsyas of mummers, 
 
 There's Poynder, who'd die, branch and root, 
 
 For the rights of the Protestant drummers 
 Of the eighth Native Eegiment of Foot ! 2 
 
 But I care not what antics men play ; 
 
 Ev'n Dissenters their course might pursue, 
 If it weren't that, when souls go astray, 
 
 Fees and perquisites go astray too. 
 
 And a bargain I'd willingly strike, 
 
 Which seems likely both parties to please, 
 
 Let them hold what doctrines they like, 
 If they'll only let us hold the fees. 
 
 They had best, too, look sharp as, perhaps, 
 If they vapour much more in this strain, 
 
 We shall force them to put on square caps, 3 
 And read c Bel and the Dragon ' 4 again ! 
 
 1 The glebe or rectory-house of All-Hallows, lately licensed to 
 sell gin and other spirituous liquors <to be drunk on the premises.' 
 
 2 See a late letter of Mr. Poynder's, pleading in favour of liberty 
 of conscience for certain Christian drummers of the 8th (or I9th) 
 native regiment in India. 
 
 8 One of the great objects of dissent soon after the Eef ormation. 
 When Beza was asked why he would not wear a square cap,' he 
 answered, 'Because his head was not square.' 
 
 * The Convocation in 1661 prescribed the reading of 'Bel and 
 the Dragon,' much to the horror of the ministers. 
 
THE REFORM BILL. 23 
 
 ON THE LATE LORD . 
 
 THIS lord, when young, had some pretence 
 
 To honour, public worth, and sense ; 
 
 But, just at forty trying age, 
 
 When, howsoever pure or sage, 
 
 Both male and female, flesh and blood, 
 
 Grow rather tired of being good 
 
 A riband which hung out, as prize 
 
 For the first turn-coat, caught his eyes ; 
 
 And though as neat he, for a shilling or 
 
 Two, might have of any milliner 
 
 He took it, and aloft was swung, 
 
 One of those malefactors, hung 
 
 In ribands, scarlet, green, or blue, 
 
 For certain awkward things they do, 
 
 Leaving the world in scorn to laugh at a 
 
 Man who damn'd his fame for c taffeta.' 
 
 THE REFORM ILL. 
 
 OF all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass 
 
 By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, 
 
 The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas, 
 
 It has caused between Wetherall's waistcoat and 
 breeches." 
 
 Some symptoms of this Anti-Union propensity 
 Had oft broken out in that quarter before ; 
 
 But the breach, since the Bill, has attain'd such immen- 
 sity, 
 Daniel himself could have scarce wish'd it more. 
 
24 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 Oh haste to repair it, ye friends of good order, 
 Ye Atwoods and Wynns, ere the moment is past ; 
 
 Who can doubt that we tread upon anarchy's border, 
 When the ties that should hold men are loosening so 
 fast? 
 
 Make Wetherall yield to ' some sort of Reform,' 
 
 (As we all must, (rod help us, with very wry faces), 
 
 And loud as he likes let him bluster and storm 
 About Corporate Rights, so he'll only wear braces. 
 
 Or, if those he has now have been long in possession, 
 And, like his own borough, the worse for the wear, 
 
 Advise him, at least, as a prudent concession 
 To Intellect's progress, to buy a new pair. 
 
 Oh who that e'er saw him, when vocal he stands, 
 
 With a look something midway 'twixt Filch's and 
 Lockifs, 
 
 While still, to inspire him, his deeply-thrust hands, 
 Keep jingling the rhino in both breeches-pockets ; 
 
 Who that ever has listen'd, through groan and through 
 cough, 
 
 To the speeches inspired by this music of pence, 
 But must grieve that there's anything like falling off, 
 
 In that great nether source of his wit and his sense ? 
 
 Who that knows how he look'd when, with grace 
 
 debonair, 
 
 He began first to court, rather late in 'the season, 
 Or when, less fastidious, he sat in the chair 
 
 Of his old friend, the Nottingham Goddess of Rea- 
 son ; * 
 
 1 It will be recollected that the learned gentleman himself 
 boasted, in the House of Commons, of having sat in the very chair 
 which this allegorical lady had occupied. 
 
INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 25. 
 
 That Groddess, whose borough-like virtue attracted 
 All mongers in both wares to proffer their love ; 
 
 Whose chair like the stool of the Pythoness acted, 
 As Wetherall's rants, ever since, go to prove ; l 
 
 Who, in short, would not grieve, if a man of his graces 
 Should go on rejecting, unwarn'd by the past, 
 
 The moderate Keform of a pair of new braces, 
 Till, some day, he'll all fall to pieces, at last ? 
 
 INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 
 
 BY THE BEV. E. IRVING. 
 
 HITHER turn you, hapless Tories, 
 Now's your time as Saints to shine 
 
 Since you've lost all earthly glories, 
 Now's your time to share in mine. 
 
 Though you've set your worldly trap ill 
 Though disgrace is all you've caught ; 
 
 Come, and in St. Irving's Chapel 
 Be St. Stephen's all forgot. 
 
 I've, like you, been put to rout, 
 Laugh'd at much by men of sin ; 
 
 Me they've from my place shut out, 
 You, alas, they won't let in. 
 
 1 Lucan's description of the effects of the tripod on the appear- 
 ance and voice of the sitter, shows that the symptoms are, at least,, 
 very similar : 
 
 Spumea tune primum rabies vesana per ora 
 
 Effluit .... 
 
 .... tune moestus vastis ululatus in antris. 
 
26 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 Arm we, then, in joint defence, 
 
 Bring your foetus Cabinet, 
 Til find lungs and impudence, 
 
 So we both may prosper yet. 
 
 Hard as 'tis for pride to gulp it, 
 
 Placing rivals by our sides, 
 K d n shall have half my pulpit, 
 
 And at Cant work double tides. 
 
 Though my primo Tongue * hath flown, 
 Lark'd to Yorkshire on a journey, 
 
 Wetherall, at Tongues Unknown, 
 
 Out and out, will beat th' Attorney ; 
 
 Linsey-woolsey, hung with tassels, 
 French, and Latin, and wha,t not ; 
 
 If we can't have Molly Cassils, 2 
 Wetherel shall be Polyglot. 
 
 Or, if Harrowby prefer 
 
 Miracle more curious yet, 
 We shall make some Waverer 
 
 Sing the Double-Tongue duet. 
 
 And that all things, good and evil, 
 May advance our work of grace, 
 
 Whensoe'er we name the Devil, 
 C d shall show his face. 
 
 Oh,the blest Millennium we 
 
 Then shall preach to Tory ears ! 
 Days, when all the world will be 
 Mad in love with Kings and Peers ; 
 
 1 One of the false brethren, a Yorkshire attorney, who betrayed 
 the mystery of the Tongues. 
 
 2 Miss Cassils, one of the chief Tongue-performers. 
 
INVITATION TO THE TORIES. 27 
 
 When, no more inclined to shrink 
 From our plunderers, as at present, 
 
 Loyal souls, we all shall think 
 Being robb'd extremely pleasant ; 
 
 And when, tame as Eldon wants, 
 
 Or as now the Duke would count them, 
 
 Nations shall, like elephants, 
 
 Kneel to let their drivers mount them. 
 
 Haste, then, hither, haste, ye Tories, 
 Bring, too, each his Sposa dear ; 
 
 Pleased they'll find we've Almack's glories 
 Acted, in a small way, here. 
 
 Once a week, th' eleves of Owen, 
 
 After his long opiate drams, 
 To the fiddle's sound set going, 
 
 Hop in parallelograms. 1 
 
 Though his audience be but middling, 
 Like my own, much given to snore, 
 
 Yet, 'twixt prosing, canting, fiddling, 
 What can Tory's wife wish more ? 
 
 'Tis, n short, the sole asylum 
 Where poor Ultras now can hope 
 
 To disgrace to reconcile 'em, 
 Without aid of knife or rope ; 
 
 Where Newcastle's weary head 
 Safe may rest from sense or riot, 
 
 And Bucky may be brought to bed 
 Of his little Mouse, in quiet. 
 
 1 The evening lectures and dances of Mr. Owen are held under 
 the same roof with the rev. gentleman's present conventicle. 
 
28 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 POLICE REPORTS. 
 
 BEEACH OF THE PEACE. 
 
 Two fierce-looking foreigners, charged with intending 
 Some serious infraction of peace, and of skull, 
 
 Which might take Law and Surgery some time in 
 
 mending, 
 Were had up to-day before old Justice Bull. 
 
 One gave his name ' Jonathan,' t' other, < Mounseer,' 
 Both, speechers and writers, as who now is not ? 
 
 Both, taught at the very same Free-School, we hear, 
 Though Mounseer has, of late, all his learning 
 forgot. 
 
 The dispute turn'd on moneys to Jonathan due, 
 
 A demand which Mounseer thought it high-bred to 
 quash ; 
 
 And while one took to dunning, as tradesmen will do, 
 T' other talk'd of his ( honour/ but still kept the cash. 
 
 Things grew at length serious Mounseer still de- 
 
 murr'd, 
 
 While Jonathan, angry, presumed ev'n to say 
 That ' Mister was squiggling,' (his own very word) 
 6 And would slink from the debt, like an eel, slick 
 away ! ' 
 
 This drew down from t' other on Jonathan's head 
 A loud voluble volley of 4 SacreJ ' MorbleuJ 
 
 ' PesteJ ' DiableJ and other words not so well-bred, 
 Mix'd with ' honour ' and so forth but still not a, 
 sou. 
 
NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN. 29 
 
 In short, he seem'd readier to fight than to pay, 
 
 Which 'Nathan observing said, ' Choose which you 
 
 will; 
 I guess I've a 'nation 'cute knack, either way, 
 
 And can draw on you just which you like sword or 
 bill.' 
 
 As 'twas fear'd two such heroes might do something 
 
 rash. 
 Both were brought before Bull (of the Fleet-street 
 
 Police), 
 
 And Mounseer, who had counted on keeping the cash, 
 Now found himself bound to keep only the peace. 
 
 As they parted, shrewd Jonathan spoke thus his mind, 
 
 ' As I calculate, Mister, your gumption's but dull, 
 If you wish to know how I treat Nobs who're inclined 
 , To take liberties with me, or from me, ask Bull.' 
 
 SOME ACCOUNT OF A NEW GENUS OF CHURCH- 
 MAN, CALLED THE PHILL-POT. 
 
 [To the Editor of the MORNING CHRONICLE. 
 
 Sir, As I perceive that the late achievements of a certain 
 bustling bishop have already been noticed as they deserve by some 
 of your poetical correspondents, I should have hesitated in trou- 
 bling you with the following trifle had I not recollected that, in 
 the good task of exposing such priestly mountebankism, * every 
 little helps ; ' and that, as Luther truly says, ' Religio maximS peri- 
 clitatur inter Keverendissimos.' Yours, &c.] 
 
 As that old married pair, Mother Church and the State, 
 Have giv'n birth to a new sort of offspring, of late, 
 Called by savans the Phill-Pot a race which unite 
 All that's wrong in both parents with none of the right ; 
 
30 SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. 
 
 And as no one can doubt such a nicely mix'd breed 
 Will be sure both with sinners and saints to succeed, 
 We shall soon have the land blackening over with 
 
 swarms 
 
 Of newly-spawn'd Phill-Pots, in all sorts of forms ; 
 Not a spot of our isle but will soon be o'errun with 'em, 
 ' Lordships ' and ' Graces ' each black mother's-son of 
 
 This being the case, and a breed now so curious 
 Being likely, if multiplied thus, to grow spurious, 
 Some test is much wanted and that, too, no slight 
 
 one 
 
 To tell if a Phill-Pot's the wrong breed, or right one ; 
 And, anxious from all such impostures to screen us, 
 The present Eight Eeverend head of the genus 
 Has drawn up some Questions, so framed as to show 
 If one's Phill-Pot is really a Phill-Pot, or no ; 
 Nor could Irving himself with his famed Polyglottism, 
 Evade, it is thought, this strict Test of Phill-Pottism. 
 
 We subjoin, just to show how they baffle evasion, 
 The Questions and Answers drawn up for th' occasion. 
 
 1. What's the Church ? 
 
 A large money-establishment, given 
 To pamper up priests, for the honour of heaven ; 
 And inspiring a zeal in each reverend man 
 Just proportion'd to what he gets by it per ann. 
 
 2. Name the Orders. 
 
 First, Curates, the lowest in larder ; 
 Then Eectors improved much in fat and in ardour ; 
 And so on through Bishops the fervour increases, 
 Extending its glow ev'n to nephews and nieces ; 
 
NEW GENUS OF CHURCHMAN. 31 
 
 Till waxing yet warmer, as upward its motion, 
 
 In Primates it bursts with a blaze of devotion 
 
 Of which hungry curates have not the least notion ! 
 
 3. Do you hold that all Christians who differ from you 
 Are idolaters, heathens, and so forth ? I do. 
 
 4. Are you ready, with St. Athanasius, 1 to damn 
 Everyman, woman, child of the Greek Church ? I am. 
 
 5. Can you prove, if required, that the great Irish Dan 
 Is the 6 lion's whelp ' mention'd Deut. 33 ? 2 I can. 
 
 6. Through the whole Book of Numbers I'll thank you 
 
 to run, 
 And say which the parson loves best ? Number One. 
 
 So far we've the youth in Theology tried : 
 
 We shall now see how well he's with Ethics supplied. 
 
 1. What's your pretext for now taking orders? Devo- 
 
 tion. 
 
 2. And what's your sole object henceforward? Pro- 
 
 motion. 
 
 3. Do you think it much matters, when good things are 
 
 got, 
 By what methods we get them ? No, certainly not. 
 
 4. Have you any slight twinge of those scruples we call 
 ' Self-denial,' < humility,' ' shame ? 'Not at all. 
 
 That will do. 
 
 Here th' Examiner closes his task ; 
 A more promising pupil no bishop need ask : 
 And the Church gladly welcomes to feed on her clover 
 A youth who has proved himself Phill-Pott all over. 
 
 1 See a Defence of the Athanasian Creed in a letter addressed 
 to Mr. Canning by the Kev. Henry Philpotts. 
 
 2 'And of Dan he said, Dan is a lion's whelp.' Deut. xxxiii. 22. 
 
CONTRIBUTIONS 
 
 TO THE 
 
 EDINBURGH REVIEW 
 
 18141834. 
 
LORD THURLOW S POEMS:- 
 
 [SEPTEMBER 1814.] 
 
 OUR modern heroes, poetical as well as military, are en- 
 dowed with a rapidity of motion and achievement which 
 keeps gazettes and reviews continually on the alert. 
 Indeed, so difficult do we critics find it to keep pace 
 with the ' celeritas incredibilis ' of some of our literary 
 Caesars, that we think it would not be amiss if each of 
 these poetical chieftains had a Eeviewer appointed ex- 
 pressly, aupres de so, personne, to give the earliest 
 intelligence of his movements, and do justice to his 
 multifarious enterprises. 
 
 The Poems of Lord Thurlow whose prowess in this 
 
 1 Poems on Several Occasions. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 
 Second Edition. 8vo. pp. 349. London, 1813. 
 
 Moonlight, a Poem, with several Copies of Verses. By Edward, 
 Lord Thurlow. 4to. pp. 75. London, 1814. 
 
 TJie Doge's Daughter, a Poem ; with several Translations from 
 Anacreon and Horace. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 8vo. pp. 66. 
 London, 1814. 
 
 Ariadne : A Poem in Three Parts. By Edward, Lord Thurlow. 
 8vo. pp. 58. London, 1814. 
 
 [Jeffrey writes to Moore, * Edinburgh, September 14, 1814 : Your 
 castigation of Lord T. is admirable, though far more merciful than 
 I had expected, as are also your incartades on a certain great per- 
 sonage. I suspect your heart is softer than you know of, and you 
 look upon that as extreme severity which to harder-fibred men is 
 mere tickling. However, nothing can be more entertaining, ' or 
 more cleverly written ; and, if your taste for reviewing keep any 
 proportion to your genius for it, I shall have many such packets 
 from you.' Memoir, Journals, and Correspondence of Moore, ii. 40.] 
 
 D 2 
 
36 LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 
 
 way is most alarmingly proved by the list prefixed to 
 this article come graced and recommended to notice 
 by two or three very imposing considerations. In the 
 first place, the rank of the writer is not without its pre- 
 possessing influence ; 6 a saint in crape is twice a saint 
 in lawn : ' and we could name but one noble Bard, 
 among either the living or the dead, whose laurels are 
 sufficiently abundant to keep the coronet totally out of 
 sight. Lord Thurlow himself seems fully aware of this 
 advantage ; and we are not quite sure that he did not 
 mean a sly allusion to it, in the following motto from 
 Shakespeare prefixed to one of these volumes 
 
 And then my state 
 
 (Like to the lark at break of day arising 
 From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. 
 
 In the next place, his Lordship is evidently an enthusiast 
 in his art, and loves the Muse witK a warmth which 
 makes us regret that the passion is not mutual. Indeed 
 we doubt whether the shrine of Apollo ever boasted a more 
 ardent worshipper ; and if, unluckily, he but seldom 
 feels the approaches of the god, it is not for want of in- 
 vocations many and importunate. At times he even 
 contrives, by the mere force of devotion, to work him- 
 self up into a sort of mock inspiration, like that of the 
 young priestess Phemonoe in Lucan ; l but, like her 
 too, we fear he will fail in passing off his spurious ec- 
 stasies upon any one at all acquainted with the true 
 symptoms of divine afflation. 
 
 Another peculiarity by which this noble author 
 deceives us into a momentary feeling of interest about 
 his writings, is that air of antiquity, which his study of 
 
 i Deum simulans, sub pectore ficta quieto 
 
 Verba refert, nullo confusse murmure vocis 
 Instinctam sacro mentem testata furore. 
 
 PJuirsal. v. 148. 
 
LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 37 
 
 our earlier writers enables him to throw not only over 
 his verse but his prose. This charm, however, is of short 
 duration. A mimicry of the diction of those mighty 
 elders ; a resemblance, which keeps carefully wide of 
 their beauties, and is laboriously faithful to their defects 
 alone ; the mere mouldering form of their phraseology, 
 without any of that life-blood of fancy which played 
 through it is an imposture that soon wearies, and, if 
 his Lordship does not take especial care, will, at last, dis- 
 gust. He must not be surprised, if some unlucky critic 
 should fall into the tasteless error of Martinus Scrible- 
 rus's maid, and, in scouring off the rust from the pre- 
 tended antique shield, discover but a very indifferent 
 modern sconce underneath it. 
 
 The first poem, of any length, that occurs, and perhaps 
 one of the best that Lord Thurlow has written, is 6 Her- 
 milda in Palestine.' We are assured, indeed, by no 
 less an authority than Dr. Busby, that the Hermilda 
 6 has given much pleasure to the lovers of fine poetry.' l 
 
 It would be scarcely fair, however, to animadvert 
 upon this poem in its present imperfect state. We have 
 little more than the opening of it ; and the noble author 
 has managed, in the course of a few hundred lines, to 
 get half-a-dozen persons into scrapes and situations, from 
 which twice as many thousand would not extricate 
 them safely or creditably. At present, therefore, we 
 shall refrain from touching this very tangled web. But 
 should Lord Thurlow at any time complete his design ; 
 should he ever succeed in bringing back these stray heroes 
 and heroines, and restoring them to their disconsolate 
 friends and relations, we promise, in our critical capacity, 
 to pay all due attention to his labours. At the same 
 time, we submit, for his soberest consideration, whether 
 a King of Ithaca, who thus traces his pedigree 
 1 Preface to his Translation of Lucretius. 
 
38 LO1W THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 Ye kings, and heroes, of whose race I am, 
 Deducing from high Jove my sacred birth, 
 
 And he indeed from ancient Saturn came, 
 That was the first great ruler of the Earth. 
 
 Or a King of Pergamus addicted to the following 
 pastimes : 
 
 For in his tender years he wont to wring 
 The speckled serpents, and compel to die ; 
 And after in the forests he would tear 
 The bloody jaws of libbard and of bear. 
 
 Or finally a fair Amazon, who talks in this homespun 
 style : 
 
 This wretched man, I sleeping in the wood, 
 Thought well to rob me, maugre all his fear ; 
 But found at last, and to his bitter cost, 
 He reckon'd up his bill without his host. 
 
 We submit, we say, whether such personages as these 
 deserve that either he or we should be doomed to take 
 any further trouble about them. 
 
 We come next to ' Verses in all humility dedicated 
 to his Eoyal Highness the Prince Eegent.' These are 
 excellent. The rising sun is, of course, the stock simile 
 upon such occasions, and his lordship thus manages his 
 two great luminaries. 
 
 As when the burning Majesty of day 
 The golden-hoofed steeds doth speed away 
 To reach the summit of the Eastern hill ; 
 (And sweet expectance all the world doth fill) ; 
 
 With all his gorgeous company of clouds 
 (Wherein sometimes his awful face he shrouds) 
 Of amber and of gold, he marcheth on, 
 And the pure angels sing before his throne ; 
 
 So you, great Sir, <fec. &c. 
 
LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 39 
 
 Now, really, if Lord Thurlow were not one of the 
 last persons to be suspected of any wilful deviation into 
 wit and humour if we did not know how he scorns to 
 descend from upper air into the low region of those 
 will-o'th'-wisp meteors, whose brilliancy is too often 
 derived from the very grossness of that earth they 
 illuminate we should swear, that by all these tawdry 
 similitudes, this 'amber' and 'gold,' and 'golden- 
 hoofed steeds,' he meant something not over charitable 
 to the illustrious person so typified. It requires, in- 
 deed, our utmost reliance upon the noble author's 
 sublimity, not to suspect him of some little declension 
 towards waggery in the line, ' With all his gorgeous 
 company of clouds.' This, surely, is too happy and 
 appropriate to be the mere casual windfall of sublimity. 
 Aristophanes had already prepared us for the allusion 
 by representing a ' company of Clouds ' as the secret 
 advisers of Socrates ; and, in short, not to enter need- 
 lessly into particulars, we know nothing in descriptive 
 poetry more strikingly graphical than this motley mix- 
 ture of gorgeousness and opacity, in which the poet has 
 enveloped his * Majesty of day ' and ' his company.' 
 The following is the concluding stanza of these delect- 
 able verses. 
 
 The tears, which we have shed, no more shall flow ; 
 Your beauteous rising in our hearts shall glow ; 
 And hymns of praise, as we behold your light, 
 Shall warble from the bosom of the night ! 
 
 Though we do not by any means agree with Lu- 
 cretius, ' gigni posse ex non-sensibus sensus,' yet we 
 think a little sense might be elicited out of this last 
 couplet by the restitution of a single letter, which, we 
 have no doubt, dropped out at the press : we would 
 read, 'Shall warble from the bosom of the Knight ,' 
 
40 LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 
 
 meaning evidently Sir Greorge Smart, who has the 
 honour of presiding over the royal concerts. 
 
 The remainder of this volume, to the amount of 
 near three hundred pages, consists of poems upon 
 various subjects, under the general title ' Sylva.' There 
 is ' The Induction to my poem, which I designed to 
 write, entitled England Triumphant,' and ' The Legend 
 of the Knight of Illyria,' another fragment of another 
 great work, in which his lordship thus introduces 
 the dam and sire of a certain horse called Eupheme 
 
 Milk-white she was, as is a holy heifer, 
 And bore this son, as I have said, to Zephyr. 
 
 Indeed, from the frequency and fondness with which 
 this noble animal, the horse, is mentioned, we suspect 
 that, like the famous philologer Henry Stephen, 1 his 
 lordship writes most of his poems on horseback ; which 
 makes it the more surprising that he should ever 
 condescend to woo the c Musa pedestris,' or dismounted 
 Muse, in numbers so very near the ground as the 
 following : 
 
 His warlike spear into his hand he took, 
 And paced forth into Eupheme's stall ; 
 Then loosed him, whereas in little nook 
 That horse divine was tied to the wall. 
 
 Or these 
 
 But pity of that lady's sad mishap 
 Did most torment him thro' the restless night ; 
 He thinks the slave will in a dungeon clap 
 Her tender limbs ; perhaps will kill outright ; 
 Or, since he now hath got her in his trap, 
 Will quite despoil, to feed his appetite. 
 
 1 'Pleraque sua carmina equitans composuit,' says his bio- 
 grapher. 
 
LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 41 
 
 There is nothing more delightful than to be ad- 
 mitted, as it were, into the workshop of genius ; to 
 see the many unhewn masses of thought which are 
 destined to grow beneath the chisel into forms of grace 
 and magnificence ; to observe, too, how much of this 
 precious material has been wasted in wild experiments 
 and forgotten fragments ; and then turn with delight 
 to the contemplation of one divine work, which, after 
 nights of thought and days of labour, has at length 
 risen into bright consummate beauty, and waits but 
 the last superficial polish to take its place in a niche of 
 Immortality's temple. This is no common treat, and 
 with something like this (how like we will not say) the 
 sublime Lord Thurlow has good-naturedly gratified us. 
 We have already seen how kindly he lays open his 
 workshop to the curious how many misshapen trunks, 
 and pagod-looking things (some with hardly a foot to 
 stand upon) he has generously submitted to the inspec- 
 tion of literary virtuosi. But, not content with this 
 exhibition of all he has done, or attempted to do, his 
 lordship, in some verses addressed ' to the very noble 
 and accomplished Lord Holland,' gives the following 
 clear account of all he hereafter means to do. 
 
 Perhaps, if time and grace be spared, 
 
 We may prepare a flight, 
 Wherein the heights of glory dared 
 
 And the o'er-fabled night, 
 From out those adamantine gates, 
 
 And plains of penal woe, 
 We may, returning to our mates, 
 
 In blameless triumph go. 
 
 I think, my lord, to build a verse, 
 
 Which, if our language hold, 
 Shall thro' the sides of darkness pierce. 
 
 And to all time unfold 
 
42 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 In language of thrice golden praise 
 
 And ever dear delight, 
 What lives amid th' Olympic ivays, 
 
 And in the shoreless night. 
 
 The public, we are. convinced, will be all impatience to 
 receive the very valuable information promised in this 
 last couplet, and though his lordship seems to fear that 
 our language may break down under him, we trust that 
 no such accident will happen, but that he may perform 
 his journey in safety to those ' adamantine gates ' he 
 talks of, and tell us all about ' th' Olympic ways ' and 
 ' the shoreless night ' on his return. 
 
 In the Appendix, or continuation of the Sylva, there 
 is a poem of no less than four hundred lines' length, in 
 praise of Althea, who, we at first supposed, must be 
 some allegorical personage ; conceiving that nothing 
 but a ( headstrong allegory from the banks of the Nile,' 
 could run away with a man, through four hundred 
 lines together, without suffering him to draw one 
 breath of common sense by the way : but we believe,, 
 after all, this Althea is a downright mortal mistress,. 
 though, if she knows the meaning of his lordship's 
 eulogy, she is much deeper in his secrets than we can 
 ever expect to be. Menage was laughed at for writing 
 to ladies in Greek; but we think Lord Thurlow's 
 English has quite as little chance of being understood 
 by them. We defy any Greek even Prize Greek to 
 be much more puzzling than the following stanzas : 
 
 Then are we to this fatal passion sworn, 
 
 As innocent as is the balmy air ; 
 Nay, often on the pinions of the morn, 
 
 The angels to her golden rest repair. 
 What promise I myself? this perfect praise 
 
 Of spirits, and the large adoring world, 
 That must upon her faultless beauty gaze, 
 
 But shows the height from which I may be hurl'd. 
 
LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 43 
 
 What virtue is in me 1 the way unknown, 
 With no diviner guide, like Hercules, &c. &c. 
 
 A fact, however, has transpired in these verses, which 
 renders them important in a political point of view. 
 It now turns out that neither Moscow, nor Spain, nor 
 even the inspired fatuity of our own Government, in 
 blundering on to success through more than twenty 
 years of waste and failure, are to be assigned any 
 longer as the causes (under Providence) of Napoleon's 
 downfall and the deliverance of Europe ; for we now 
 find, on the authority of these verses, it was Lord 
 Thurlow's friend Althea that did it all : 
 
 Ah me ! whatever is more soft and pure, 
 
 Than all the world of womankind can show ; 
 Whatever can to blameless love allure, 
 
 And make us with heroic passion glow, 
 In her, as in its native seat is found, 
 
 As light has still most splendour in the sun : 
 The name of England is by her renown'd, 
 
 And by her charms Napoleon is undone. 
 
 We have heard indeed of another illustrious claimant 
 to the sole and exclusive glory of these happy events ; 
 but it is not for us to undertake so delicate an arbitra- 
 ment. Between that great person and Althea the 
 matter rests at present. 
 
 We come now to the ' Moonlight ' of the noble 
 author, having already had a foretaste of his lunar 
 inspirations in a sonnet (' Poems,' p. 196) beginning 
 thus : 
 
 How oft, Moon, in thy most tragic face, 
 The travell'd map of mournful history, 
 
 Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace, 
 Fetch'd from old kings' moth-eaten memory. 
 
44 LORD THURLOW S POEMS. 
 
 < Moonlight ' is dedicated to Lord Eldon. ' It is the 
 labour,' the noble author says, ' of two days, and pre- 
 sented to Lord Eldon on two accounts.' We shall try 
 the patience and ingenuity of our readers with but one 
 enigmatical extract from this poem; hoping, at the 
 same time, that Lord Thurlow is less cruelly given than 
 that ancient dealer in riddles, the Sphinx, who made a 
 point of devouring all those that were unable to under- 
 stand her conundrums. 
 
 No soul has flown unto the gate of woe, 
 Or to the blissful soil, or brush'd the shore 
 Of Limbo with its wings ; or flown and lived : 
 But yet intelligence from these has come, 
 By angels, and pale ghosts, and vexed fools, 
 That, straying as they wont, were blown athwart 
 The nether world, from the oblivious pool 
 Scarce 'scaping, on our scornful marge to land ; 
 Thence to be blown by every idle wind, 
 Their tale half told, with a new flight of fools, 
 Eclectic, to the planetary void. 
 
 On this extraordinary passage, its blown-about 
 ghosts and eclectic flight of fools and on all such extra- 
 ordinary passages in Lord Thurlow, we would willingly 
 pass no severer sentence than that which a Mufti, whom 
 Toderini mentions, 1 pronounced upon some verses of the 
 Turkish poet Misri : ' Le sens de ces vers ne peut etre 
 connu et entendu de personne que de Dieu et de 
 Misri.' The noble author had evidently been reading 
 Dante ; and the same process appears to have taken place, 
 which, from his Lordship's peculiar affinities, must always 
 occur upon his immersion into any such writers, he 
 comes out encrusted with a rich deposit of their faults. 
 Not all the authority of Dante 2 can reconcile us to hear- 
 
 1 De la Litterature des Twrcs. 
 
 2 Quando ci scorse Cerbero il gran vermo Inferno, canto 6. The 
 
LORD THURLOWS POEMS. 45 
 
 ing the dog Cerberus called ' a worm ' with ( an iron 
 throat.' 
 
 At length we arrive at a story, which the noble 
 author has condescended to finish ; one of those chefs- 
 d'oeuvre from ' the working-house of thought,' which we 
 have already said there is such fulness of delight in con- 
 templating. ' The Doge's Daughter ' was written, as we 
 are told in the dedication, for the laudable purpose of 
 curing Lord Eldon of the gout : ' but I thank Grod,' 
 says the dedicator, ' your Lordship's pain lasted not so 
 long as my labour.' The poem, however, is here ready 
 against any future attack ; and we trust the learned 
 Lord will find benefit from the application. It is a 
 conceit of Cowley, in speaking of Ovid's writings during 
 his banishment, that ' the cold of the country had 
 stricken through the very feet of his verses : ' and we 
 really fear that the feet of Lord Thurlow's verses are 
 not wholly free from that malady, for which he thinks 
 them so sovereign a cure ; they have all its visible 
 symptoms of hobbling and inflation, and indeed are in 
 such a state as to make us feel that it would be bar- 
 barous to handle them too roughly. We shall therefore 
 be as gentle in our account of ' The Doge's Daughter ' as 
 possible. 
 
 The Poem opens with Aurora leaving the bed of 
 that eternal old gentleman Tithonus, and Apollo 
 
 Coining forth with all his state 
 From the oriental gate ; 
 Now the Doge was at his prayers ; 
 And her bright and golden hairs 
 Amphitrite combed free 
 Underneath the crystal sea. 
 
 ' iron throat 'is a tasteful supplement of his lordship's. Ariosto calls 
 the devil 'gran verme infernal.' To this there can be no objection 
 whatever. 
 
46 LORD THURLOWS POEMti. 
 
 We think this Doge must be quite as astonished to find 
 himself 'at his prayers' between Apollo and Amphi- 
 trite, as his brother Doge was upon seeing himself at 
 the court of Louis XIV. 
 
 But yet Heliodora lay, 
 
 Turning from the golden clay, 
 
 Naked, on her purple bed, 
 
 Tears, like amber, she did shed, 
 
 And her bosom heaved with groans, ' 
 
 Fit to melt the marble stones 
 
 That jut upon the Adrian shore. 
 
 This gorgeous young lady, who lies upon purple, and 
 weeps amber, is the Doge's daughter ; and, not having 
 her recollection very clear about her in waking, she asks 
 her nurse 
 
 Is not this the fatal day, 
 Tell me, Caneura, pray, 
 When the Doge, my father, said, 
 I should mount the marriage bed 
 With the Lord Orsino's heir ? 
 day of madness and despair ! 
 
 The lover of her own choice is Frangipani ; she is, of 
 course, superlatively wretched, and thus calls upon 6 the 
 golden air ' of all conceivable and inconceivable things 
 to pity her ! 
 
 ' pity me, thou golden air ! 
 For pity to my God I fly ; 
 O Frangipani, let me die 
 If I behold thee not again ! ' 
 Then, overcome with sudden pain, 
 The maiden fell upon her back, 
 All her reason gone to wrack. 
 
 The nurse endeavours to console her : Frangipani, she 
 
LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 47 
 
 suggests, is gone ; and it were ' idle pain ' to sigh after 
 him. 
 
 ' Would you with Frangipani go 
 
 An exile, o'er the mountain's snow ? 
 
 Wo'ild you be the windy spouse 
 
 Of a corsair ' 
 
 But all the eloquence of the nurse is vain ; the maiden 
 is not to be consoled ; though her talent for sleeping in 
 such circumstances is truly enviable. 
 
 No more the hapless virgin said ; 
 But fell again upon the bed, 
 And her bright and golden head 
 In the dews of night was steep'd ; 
 Long time then the maiden sleep* d. 
 
 The nurse's heart is at length touched, whether by 
 the profoundness of her lady's sorrow, or of her sleep, is 
 left doubtful ; and she resolves to assist her in escaping 
 to Frangipani. 
 
 ' I've an old head, and that can tell 
 There's nothing so impossible, 
 But that this eve, ere Hesper glow, 
 To Frangipani thou shalt go. 
 There's never a prince in Italy 
 With my Heliodore shall lie, 
 But I'll know the reason why : 
 Unless, and I myself deceive, 
 Frangipani give them leave.' 
 
 This good old woman arranges their voyage in the same 
 unaffected style. 
 
 ' To the port we'll make repair : 
 I have a good brother there, 
 Captain of the ship Saint Mark, 
 Who will take us in the dark.' 
 
48 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 The young lady puts on sailor's clothes ; is told that c it 
 will not hurt her chastity ' to learn to curse and swear 
 a little ; and they embark for Athens. 
 
 The Second Canto opens with their arrival in 'the 
 Athenian Bay ; ' they see the Duke CEneus and his 
 court ; 
 
 And by his side a knight there rode, 
 
 Much in semblance like a god ; 
 
 who turns out to be Frangipani, though shrewdly sus- 
 pected at first view to be Apollo : The Duke and his 
 warriors depart on an expedition against the Pagans ; 
 and Heliodora, after remarking that ' battle is a sweet 
 delight,' resolves to follow them. She applies for equip- 
 ment on the occasion to a facetious armourer, who 
 quotes Anacreon, sings ballads about Achilles, and cries 
 ' Anan ? ' whenever he is spoken to. He accommodates 
 her with a ready-made suit of armour ; and she arrives 
 on the field of battle at the very moment when an able- 
 bodied infidel is attacking her lover Frangipani. 
 
 i 
 
 She gave a cry, as doth a dove, 
 
 Who death will for her offspring prove ; 
 
 And, soul and body, to the fight 
 
 She drove her steed against the knight : 
 
 Like Jove's divine and winged dart, 
 
 Her spear went right way thro' the heart, 
 
 And o'er his crupper he fell dead : 
 
 But Heliodore so swiftly sped, 
 
 That, falling o'er the man her steed, 
 
 She tumbled headlong on the mead. 
 
 No sooner did the lady tumble, than 
 
 Frangipani saw the thing ; 
 And, making for himself a ring, 
 Like Ajax, with his shield and blade, 
 Protected the unhappy maid. 
 
LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 49 
 
 He recognises his Heliodora in the prostrate knight ; 
 and in short the story ends joyously with a marriage. 
 
 The Duke of Athens join'd their hands, 
 Love knit them in his golden bands, 
 And while the stars their lustre spent, 
 And to and fro young Hymen went, 
 The Doge's daughter gave content 
 For Frangipani's banishment. 
 
 If this does not charm away Lord Eldon's gout. 1 we 
 doubt whether even 'my maid's aunt at Brentford' 
 could cure him ; though she, too, used to 'work by spells 
 by the figure, and such daubery as this is ; beyond our 
 element.' 
 
 ' The Doge's Daughter ' is followed by ' several trans- 
 lations from Anacreon and Horace.' ' The sense of the 
 former poet,' his lordship tells us, 'has never been 
 poetically given except by Cowley.' He says also, ' This, 
 at least, is due to me, that I have not wandered far from 
 my author ; nor made that evil, which I found entirely 
 void of it.' If the noble author could have extended 
 this last-mentioned favour to the poetry as well as the 
 morality of his original, we might, perhaps, have been 
 regaled with something better than the stale musty 
 pot-pourri of poor Anacreon's roses he has given us. 
 Boileau describes one of the guests at his well-known 
 dinner, ' lamentant tristement une chanson bachique ; ' 
 and heartily do we pity the audience, if they were 
 doomed to more doleful ' Anacreontiques ' than the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 What needs it then the stone t' anoint, 
 Special, if here you disappoint 
 
 1 The remedy is not quite new : From Buchanan's melancholy 
 elegy upon his gout, it appears he sometimes took a dose of the 
 poetry of Turnebus * Aonii rarissima gloria coetus.' 
 
 E 
 
50 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 Our greedy thirst, or on the earth 
 To pour down the goblet's worth ? 
 Me rather, while I live, with oil 
 Anoint, and with the rose's spoil 
 Adorn my head, for life is short, 
 And call me here a maid to court. 
 
 The noble translator, however, is sometimes more 
 amusing ; as in the Ode beginning 
 
 Yes, I wish, I wish to love ; 
 
 Cupid of old this thing did move ; 
 
 But I, who had no prudent mind, &c. &c. 
 
 Such flights, however, are rare, and he has even been 
 at the trouble of inventing for himself a grave, steady 
 sort of blank verse ' Anacreontique,' to save him from 
 all possible risk of degenerating into the usual airiness 
 of this species of composition : 
 
 Then the cup let us accept, 
 
 And our wrinkled cares dismiss ; 
 
 For what benefit to you, 
 
 By solicitude disturb' d ? 
 
 Have we known whate'er shall be 1 
 
 Life to men is wholly dark. 
 
 And this is poetry ! surely, to give the name of poetry 
 to such lines as we have quoted but too abundantly 
 throughout this article merely because they are fur- 
 nished with their proper quota of syllables is a stretch 
 of complaisance, only to be equalled by that of Linnaeus 
 when he classed bats with mankind in consideration of 
 their mammae. Horace has fared no better under his 
 lordship's hands than Anacreon ; ' Si flava excutitur 
 Cloe,' is translated ' If yellow Cloe go to wrack.' 
 
 There is still another publication on the list, called 
 ' Ariadne ; ' but we are so anxious, before we take 
 
LORD THURL01VS POEMS. 51 
 
 leave of Lord Thurlow, to give our readers some speci- 
 men of his happier efforts, which may excuse, if not 
 justify us in their eyes for bestowing so many pages 
 on such a writer, that we shall despatch this last pro- 
 duction in as few words as possible. 
 
 The heroine, Ariadne, is left alone on a desert island 
 by her lover not Theseus, as in our ignorance we 
 expected, but one ' Lord Marinell ' and 
 
 There sits, 
 
 And with her tears augments the briny flood, 
 Love's prodigal and widow of despite. 
 
 This ' Despite,' whose widow the unfortunate lady is, 
 must be some relation, we surmise, to ' that vile thief 
 Deformed,' who, in Dogberry's time, used to ' go up 
 and down like a gentleman.' Amphitrite, however, 
 takes pity on the deserted lady and sends Ariel. But 
 we really are unable to get through the story, and 
 must, like Sloth in the Lutrin, break off in the middle 
 of our narration, happy, if good breeding can keep 
 us from imitating that goddess when she, 
 
 succombant sous Feffort, 
 Soupire, etend les bras, ferme 1'ceil et s'endort. 
 
 We shall only remark that it required no ordinary 
 courage to take Ariel in hand after Shakespeare, and 
 that his fate here very touchingly reminds us of the 
 story of poor Ver-vert. That divinely-spoken bird, in 
 his way to the nuns who borrowed him, forgot the holy 
 language, for which he had been famed, and learned all 
 sorts of vulgar abominations instead ; and we are sorry 
 to say the loan of Prospero's ' bird ' to Lord Thurlow 
 has been attended with quite as provoking a meta- 
 morphosis. 
 
 But it is time to give the more favourable speci- 
 
 B 2 
 
52 LORD THUHLOJrS POEMS. 
 
 mens we have promised. The following reflections 
 upon the ' Sacred Islands ' are in the noble author's 
 very best manner : 
 
 There sorrow never enters, nor sad pain 
 Afflicts, but joy with youthful love is wed, 
 And endless summer o'er the clime doth reign : 
 There the great poets and the heroes dwell, 
 And kings, who held the glorious sceptre well. 
 
 And there too you, but be the season long, 
 My * *, shall repose in soft delight ; 
 And feed your perfect soul with Virgil's song, 
 Your temples with pure laurel chastely dight ; 
 Since still you sought the right, and left the wrong, 
 There through the golden day, and radiant night, 
 Your bliss shall be ; but ah ! I fable here ; 
 Your virtue will be crown'd in higher sphere. 
 
 Hermilda. 
 
 The following extract from his Lordship's Appendix 
 to the Sylva contains as few of those faults which are 
 peculiar to himself, with as many of those beauties 
 which are common to him with thousands, as any we 
 can select : 
 
 Much pleasure yet there is, and sweetness too, 
 
 In this pale look of the declining year ; 
 I know not if the golden summer's hue 
 
 More soft to me or lovely can appear ; 
 The nightingale, indeed, is flown away, 
 
 The zephyr on its joyous wing is gone, 
 But yet the robin pours a plaintive lay, 
 
 And a soft murmur makes the air its own ! 
 Then thus to lie amid these mournful bowers, 
 
 To dream of joys that may again return, 
 T' extract the worth of these declining hours, 
 
 Shall make my fancy soar, my spirit burn : 
 Let others love the summer's flattering glare, 
 But I will sing to the autumnal air ! 
 
LORD THURLO1FS POEMS. 53 
 
 Indeed, we rather think the most respectable efforts 
 of the noble author's pen are to be found among these 
 lesser pieces of the Sylva and the Appendix ; though, at 
 the same time, truth obliges us to add, that in proportion 
 as they grow rational, they cease to be amusing ; and 
 that we have never read poetry, which explained to 
 us so perfectly, why that people of antiquity the Troe- 
 zenians we believe sacrificed to Sleep and the Muses 
 on the same altar. 
 
 We had concluded this article, when we received, 
 by express, another Poem from the pen of this inde- 
 fatigable nobleman, entitled ' Carmen Britannicum, 
 or, the Song of Britain, written in honour of his Eoyal 
 Highness the Prince Kegent.' This is really overpower- 
 ing; and we find we have not a moment to lose in 
 adopting the measure suggested at the beginning of the 
 article, and appropriating one of our brethren exclusively 
 to his lordship. The ' Carmen Britannicum ' is admir- 
 able in its way ; and we only regret that we have not 
 room for abundant extracts from it. He traces the 
 descent of the Eegent in a direct line from Jupiter, 
 through Hercules, Glaucus, the Tarquins, &c., down to 
 Azo, son of Hugo, 
 
 From whom our kings the Saxon sceptre claim, 
 And the White Horse do in their banners place. 
 
 From Azo, the pedigree flows downward through several 
 other c sons of gods,' till it ends most satisfactorily in 
 the Prince Regent ; whom the poet thus addresses 
 
 The sun beholds thee with uprising love, 
 
 And joyous, laughs, in his thrice-golden sphere, 
 
54 LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. 
 
 And does reluctant from thy presence move \ 
 The, son of Jove, thou to his beams art dear. 
 
 He has the hardihood, however, in one memorable line, 
 to charge this illustrious person with a deed, of which 
 few have ever suspected him to be capable 
 
 Thames, by thy victories, is set on fire ! 
 
 and we are agreeably surprised to find from the following- 
 couplets, that India and Africa are the birth-places of 
 some of those obnoxious things about Court, which we 
 had very much feared were all of home extraction 
 
 All herbs of earth are in thy gardens seen, 
 And in thy forests every glorious tree ; 
 The Indian world has been despoiled clean, 
 And Africa, to find new beasts for thee ! 
 
 One more passage, and we have done. 
 
 This is thy praise : but greater is thy bliss 
 To sit enthroned upon the regal chair, 
 And see around thee what no land but this 
 Can yield to thought of beautiful and fair ; 
 Ladies, whom Nature for a pattern made, 
 In shape, in stature, in complexion pure. 
 
 And now we, for the second time, take our leave of 
 Lord Thurlow ; heartily wishing that as he styles him- 
 self ' the Priest ' of the Prince Eegent, and seems to 
 threaten many more such oblations at his shrine, he 
 would, at once, assume the laurel in form, and eman- 
 cipate the brows of the present wearer, whose Pegasus 
 is much too noble an animal to be doomed to act the 
 part of a cream-coloured horse upon birth-days. 
 
55 
 
 THE FATHERS.^ 
 
 [Nov. 1814.] 
 
 had thought that the merits of the fathers were 
 beginning to be pretty fairly estimated ; that, whatever 
 reverence might still be due to those eminent men for 
 the sanctity of their lives, their laborious lucubrations, 
 their zeal and intrepidity in the cause of the Church, 
 and all those solemn and imposing lights, in which 
 their nearness to the rising sun of Christianity places 
 them ; yet that the time of their authority over con- 
 science and opinion was gone by ; that they were no 
 longer to be regarded as guides, either in faith or in 
 morals ; and that we should be quite within the pale of 
 orthodoxy in saying that, though admirable martyrs 
 and saints, they were, after all, but indifferent Christians. 
 In point of style, too, we had supposed that criticism 
 was no longer dazzled by their sanctity ; that few would 
 now agree with the learned Jesuit, Garasse, that a chap- 
 ter of St. Augustine on the Trinity is worth all the 
 Odes of Pindar ; that, in short, they had taken their 
 due rank among those affected and rhetorical writers, 
 who flourished in the decline of ancient literature, and 
 were now, like many worthy authors we could mention, 
 very much respected and never read. 
 
 We had supposed all this ; but we find we were 
 mistaken. An eminent dignitary of the Church of 
 England has lately shown that, in his opinion at least, 
 these veterans are by no means invalided in the warfare 
 of theology, for he has brought more than seventy 
 volumes of them into the ' field against the Calvinists. 
 
 1 Select Passages of the Writings of St. Ckrysostom, St. Gregory 
 Nazianzen, and St. Basil. Translated from the Greek by Hugh 
 Stuart Boyd. 
 
56 THE FATHERS. 
 
 And here is Mr. Boyd, a gentleman of much Greek, who 
 assures us that the Homilies of St. Chrysostom, the 
 Orations of St. Gregory Nazianzen, and proh pudor ! 
 the Amours of Daphnis and Chloe, are models of 
 eloquence, atticism, and fine writing. 
 
 Mr. Boyd has certainly chosen the safer, as well as 
 pleasanter path, through the neglected field of learning, 
 for, tasteless as the metaphors of the Fathers are in 
 general, they are much more innocent and digestible 
 than their arguments, as the learned bishop we have 
 just alluded to may perhaps by this time acknowledge; 
 having found, we suspect, that his seventy folios are, 
 like elephants in battle, not only ponderous, but dan- 
 gerous auxiliaries, which, when once let loose, may be 
 at least as formidable to friends as to foes. This, 
 indeed, has always been a characteristic of the writings 
 of the Fathers. This ambidexterous faculty, this sort 
 of Swiss versatility in fighting equally well upon both 
 sides of the question, has distinguished them through 
 the whole history of theological controversy. The 
 same authors, the same passages have been quoted with 
 equal confidence by Arians and Athanasians, Jesuits' 
 and Jansenists, Transubstantiators and Typifiers. Nor 
 is it only the dull and bigoted who have had recourse 
 to these self-refuted authorities for their purpose ; we 
 often find the same anxiety for their support, the same 
 disposition to account them, as Chillingworth says, 
 ' Fathers when /or, and children when against,'' in 
 quarters where a greater degree of good sense and 
 fairness might be expected. Even Middleton himself, 
 who makes so light of the opinions of the Fathers in 
 his learned and manly Inquiry into Miracles, yet courts 
 their sanction with much assiduity for his favourite 
 system of allegorising the Mosaic history of the creation ; 
 a point on which, of all others, their alliance is most 
 
THE FATHERS. 57 
 
 * 
 
 dangerous, as there is no subject upon which their 
 Pagan imaginations have rioted more ungovernably. 
 
 The errors of these primitive Doctors of the Church, 
 their Christian heathenism and heathen Christianity, 
 which led them to look for the Trinity among those 
 shadowy forms that peopled the twilight groves of the 
 Academy, and to array the meek, self-humbling Christian 
 in the proud and iron armour of the Portico, their 
 bigoted rejection of the most obvious truths in natural 
 science, the bewildering vibration of their moral doc- 
 trines, never resting between the extremes of laxity and 
 rigour, their credulity, their inconsistencies of conduct 
 and opinion, and, worst of all, their forgeries and false- 
 hoods, have already been so often and so ably exposed 
 by divines of all countries, religions, and sects, the 
 Dtipins, Mosheims, Middletons, Clarkes, Jortins, &c., 
 that it seems superfluous to add another line upon the 
 subject, though we are not quite sure that, in the 
 present state of Europe, a discussion of the merits of 
 the Fathers is not as seasonable and even fashionable a 
 topic as we could select. At a time when the Inqui- 
 sition is re-established by our c beloved Ferdinand ; ' 
 when the Pope again brandishes the keys of St. Peter 
 with an air worthy of a successor of the Hildebrands 
 and Perettis ; when canonization is about to be inflicted 
 on another Louis, and little silver models of embryo 
 princes are gravely vowed at the shrine of the Virgin ; 
 in times like these, it is not too much to expect that 
 such enlightened authors as St. Jerome and Tertullian 
 may soon become the classics of most of the Continental 
 courts. We shall therefore make no further apology 
 for prefacing our remarks upon Mr. Boyd's translations 
 with a few brief and desultory notices of some of the 
 most distinguished Fathers and their works. 
 
 St. Justin the Martyr is usually considered as the 
 
58 THE FATHERS. 
 
 well-spring of most of those strange errors which flowed 
 so abundantly through the early ages of the Church, 
 and spread around them in their course such luxuriance 
 of absurdity. The most amiable, and therefore the 
 least contagious of his heterodoxies, 1 was that which 
 led him to patronise the souls of Socrates and other 
 Pagans, in consideration of those glimmerings of the 
 divine Logos which his fancy discovered through the 
 dark night of heathenism. The absurd part of this 
 opinion remained, while its tolerant spirit evaporated ; 
 and while these pagans were still allowed to have 
 known something of the Trinity, they were yet damned 
 for not knowing more, with most unrelenting ortho- 
 doxy. 
 
 The belief of an intercourse between angels and 
 women, founded upon a false version of a text in Genesis, 
 and of an abundant progeny of demons in consequence, 
 is one of those monstrous notions of St. Justin and other 
 Fathers, which show how little they had yet purged off 
 the grossness of Heathen mythology, and in how many 
 respects their heaven was but Olympus with other 
 names. 2 Yet we can hardly be angry with them for 
 
 1 Still more benevolent was Origen's never-to-be-forgiven 
 dissent from the doctrine of eternal damnation. To this amiable 
 weakness more than anything else, this Father seems to have owed 
 the forfeiture of his rank in the Calendar ; and in return for his 
 anxiety to rescue the human race from hell, he has been sent thither 
 himself by more than one Catholic theologian. 
 
 2 See, for their reveries upon this subject, Clem. Alex. Stromat. 
 Lib. 5, p. 550. Ed. Lutet. 1629. Tertullian de HaUtu Mulieb. 
 cap. 2, and the extraordinary passage of this Father (de Virgin, 
 veland.), where his editor Pamelius endeavours to save his morality 
 at the expense of his Latinity, by the substitution of the word ' ex- 
 cussat ' for ' excusat.' See also St. Basil de verd Virginitate, torn. i. 
 p. 747, edit. Paris ; though it is but fair to say, that Basil's bio- 
 grapher Hermant, and others, think this treatise spurious ; and it 
 certainly contains many things not of the most sanctified descrip- 
 tion. 
 

 THE FATHERS. 59 
 
 this one error, when we recollect, that possibly to their 
 enamoured Angels we owe the beautiful world of Sylphs 
 and Grnomes ; l and that perhaps at this moment we 
 might have wanted Pope's most exquisite poem, if the 
 Septuagint Version had translated the book of Genesis 
 correctly. 
 
 This doctrine, as far as it concerned angelic natures, 
 was at length indignantly disavowed by St. Chrysostom. 
 But Demons were much too useful a race to be so easily 
 surrendered to reasoning or ridicule ; there was no get- 
 ting up a decent miracle without them : exorcists would 
 have been out of employ, and saints at a loss for tempta- 
 tion. Accordingly, the writings of these holy Doctors 
 abound with such stories of demoniacal possession as 
 make us alternately smile at their weakness and blush 
 for their dishonesty. 2 Nor are they chargeable only 
 with the impostures of their own times ; the sanction 
 they gave to this petty diabolism has made them re- 
 sponsible for whole centuries of juggling. Indeed, who- 
 ever is anxious to contemplate a picture of human folly 
 and human knavery, at the same time ludicrous and 
 melancholy, may find it in a history of the exploits of 
 Demons, from the days of the Fathers down to modern 
 times ; from about the date of that theatrical little 
 devil of Tertullian (so triumphantly referred to by 
 Jeremy Collier), who claimed a right to take possession 
 of a woman in the theatre, 'because he there found 
 her on his own ground,' to the gallant demons com- 
 memorated by Bodin 3 and Remigius, 4 and such tragical 
 
 1 Le Comte de Gabalis. 
 
 2 Middleton's Free Inquiry. It would be difficult to add any- 
 thing new to this writer upon the subject ; and he is too well known 
 to render extracts necesssary. 
 
 3 De la Demonomanie des Sorciers. 
 
 4 Denionolatreia, lib. i. cap. vi. The depositions of the two sorce- 
 resses, Alexia Dirigasa and Claudia Fellasa, are particularly curious. 
 
60 THE FATHERS. 
 
 farces as the possession of the nuns of Loudun. The same 
 features of craft and dupery are discoverable through 
 the whole from beginning to end ; and when we have 
 read of that miraculous person, Gregory Thaumaturgus,, 
 writing a familiar epistle to Satan, and then turn to the 
 story of the Young Nun, in Bodin, in whose box was 
 found a love-letter ' a son cher daemon,' l we need not 
 ask more perfect specimens of the two wretched extremes 
 of imposture and credulity than these two very differ- 
 ent letter-writers afford. 
 
 The only class of demons whose loss we regret, and 
 whose visitations we would gladly have restored to us,, 
 are those ' seducing sprites, who,' as Theophilus of An- 
 tioch tells us, ' confessed themselves to be the same that 
 had inspired the Heathen Poets.' The learned Father 
 has not favoured us with any particulars of these inte- 
 resting spirits ; has said nothing of the ample wings of 
 fire,which,we doubt not, the demons of Homer and Pindar 
 spread out, nor described the laughing eyes of Horace's 
 familiar, nor even the pointed tail of the short devil of 
 Martial ; but we own we should like to see such cases 
 of possession in our days ; and though we Ke viewers are 
 a kind of exorcists, employed to cast out the evil demon 
 of scribbling, and even pride ourselves upon having 
 performed some notable cures, from suck demoniacs we 
 would refrain with reverence ; nay, so anxiously dread 
 the escape of the Spirit, that, for fear of accidents, we 
 would not suffer a Saint to come near them. 
 
 The belief of a Millennium or temporal reign of Christ 
 during which the faithful were to be indulged in all 
 
 1 He quotes the story from Wier, a great patron of the demons of 
 that time, who, we are told, invented a Monarchic Diabolique- 
 avec les noms et les surnoms de cinq cent soixante-douze Princes 
 des Demons, et de sept- millions quatre cent cinq mille neuf cent 
 vingt-six diables, sauf erreur de calcul.' Teissier, Eloges de* 
 Hommes Savans. 
 
THE FATHERS. 61 
 
 sorts of sensual gratifications, may be reckoned among 
 those gross errors, for which neither the Porch nor the 
 Academy are accountable, but which grew up in the rank 
 soil of oriental fanaticism, and were nursed into doctrines 
 of Christianity by the Fathers. Though the world's best 
 religion comes from the East, its very worst supersti- 
 tions have sprung thence also ; as in the same quarter 
 of the heavens arises the sunbeam that gives life to the 
 flower, and the withering gale that blasts it. There is 
 scarcely one of these fantastic opinions of the Fathers, 
 that may not be traced among the fables of the ancient 
 Persians and Arabians. The voluptuous Jerusalem of 
 St. Justin and Irenseus may be found in those glorious 
 gardens of Iram, which were afterwards converted into 
 the Paradise of the Faithful by Mahomet ; and their 
 enamoured ' Sons of Grod ' may be paralleled in the 
 Angels Harut and Marut of Eastern story, 1 who, bewil- 
 dered by the influence of wine and beauty, forfeited their 
 high celestial rank, and were degraded into teachers of 
 magic upon earth. 
 
 The mischievous absurdity of some of the moral 
 doctrines of the Fathers, the state of apathy to which 
 they would reduce their Grnostic or perfect Christian, 
 their condemnation of marriage and their monkish fan- 
 cies about celibacy, the extreme to which they carried 
 their notions of patience, even to the prohibition of all 
 resistance to aggression, though the aggressor aimed at 
 life itself ; the strange doctrine of St. Augustine, that 
 the Saints are the only lawful proprietors of the things 
 of this world, and that the wicked have no right what- 
 ever to their possessions, however human laws may de- 
 cree to the contrary ; the indecencies in which too many 
 
 1 Notes on the Baliar-DanusJi. Mariti gives the story differ- 
 ently. 
 
62 THE FATHERS. 
 
 of them have indulged in their writings ; l the profane 
 frivolity of Tertullian, in making Grod himself prescribe 
 the length and measure of women's veils, in a special 
 revelation to some ecstatic spinster ; and the moral in- 
 dignation with which Clemens Alexandrinus inveighs 
 against white bread, periwigs, coloured stuffs, and lap- 
 dogs ; all these, and many more such puerile and per- 
 nicious absurdities, open a wide field of weedy fancies 
 for ridicule to skim, and good sense to trample upon. 
 But we must content ourselves with referring to the 
 works that have been written upon the subject ; particu- 
 larly to the treatise ' de la Morale des Peres ' of Bar- 
 beyrac ; which, though as dull and tiresome as could 
 reasonably be expected from the joint efforts of the 
 Fathers of the Church and a Law Professor of Groningen, 
 abundantly proves that the moral tenets of these holy 
 men are for the most part unnatural, fanatical, and dan- 
 gerous ; founded upon false interpretations of Holy Writ, 
 and the most gross and anile ignorance of human nature ; 
 and that a community of Christians, formed upon their 
 plan, is the very Utopia of Monkery, idleness and fana- 
 ticism. 
 
 Luckily, the impracticability of these wretched doc- 
 trines was in general a sufficient antidote to their mis- 
 chief. But there were two maxims, adopted and enforced 
 by many of the Fathers, which deserve to be branded 
 with particular reprobation, not only because they acted 
 upon them continually themselves, to the disgrace of 
 the holy cause in which they were engaged, but because 
 they have transmitted their contamination to posterity 
 
 1 We need but refer to the second and third Books of the Pceda- 
 goyus of Clemens Alexandrinus ; to some passages in Tertullian 
 de Animd ; and to the instances which La Mothe le Vayer has 
 adduced from Chrysostom in his Hexameron Rmtiqiie Journ. 
 Second. 
 
THE FATHERS. 63 
 
 and left the features of Christianity to this day disfigured 
 by their taint. The first of these maxims (we give it 
 in the words of Mosheim) was, ' that it is an act of 
 virtue to deceive and lie, when by such means the 
 interests of the Church may be promoted.' 1 To this 
 profligate principle the world owes, not only the fables 
 and forgeries of these primitive times, but many of those 
 evasions, those compromises between conscience and 
 expediency, which are still thought necessary and justi- 
 fiable for the support of religious establishments. So 
 industrious were the churchmen of the early ages in the 
 inculcation of this monstrous doctrine, that we find the 
 Bishop Heliodorus insinuating it, as a general principle 
 of conduct, through the seductive medium of his Romance 
 Theagenes and Chariclea. 2 The second maxim, ' equally 
 horrible,' says Mosheim, ' though in a different point 
 of view, was that errors in religion, when main- 
 tained and adhered to after proper admonition, are 
 punishable with civil penalties and corporeal tortures/ 
 St. Augustine has the credit of originating this detest- 
 able doctrine ; to him, it seems, we are indebted for 
 first conjuring up that penal Spirit, which has now, 
 for so many hundred years, walked the earth, and whose 
 votaries, from the highest to the meanest, from St. 
 Augustine down to Doctor Duigenan, from the perse- 
 cutors of the African Donatists to the calumniators and 
 oppressors of the Irish Catholics, are all equally disgrace- 
 ful to that mild religion, in whose name they have 
 dared to torment and subjugate mankind. 
 
 With respect to the literary merits of the Fathers, 
 it will hardly be denied, that to the sanctity of their 
 subjects they owe much of that imposing effect which 
 
 1 Ecclesiast. Hist. Cent. 4, Part ii. Chap. iii. 
 
 2 KaA&i/ yap irorf /cal r6 ^eCSos, '6rav &<f>e\ovv TOI/S \eyovras, 
 
 rovs aKovovras. ^thiopic. Lib. i. 
 
64 THE FATHERS. 
 
 they have produced upon the minds of their admirers. 
 We have no doubt that the incoherent rhapsodies of the 
 Pythia (whom, history tells us, the ministers of the 
 temple now and then helped to a verse) found many an 
 orthodox critic among their hearers who preferred them 
 to the sublimest strains of Homer and Pindar. Indeed, 
 the very last of the Fathers, St. Gregory the Great, has 
 at once settled the point for all critics of theological 
 writings, by declaring that the words of Divine Wisdom 
 are not amenable to the laws of the vulgar grammar 
 of this world ; l ' non debent verba cselestis originis 
 subesse regulis Donati.' 
 
 It must surely be according to some such code of 
 criticism that Lactantius has been ranked above Cicero, 
 and that Erasmus himself has ventured to prefer St. 
 Basil to Demosthenes. Even the harsh, muddy, and 
 unintelligible Tertullian, whom Salmasius gave up in 
 despair, has found a warm admirer in Balzac, who pro- 
 fesses himself enchanted with the ' black lustre ' of his 
 style, and compares his obscurity to the rich and glossy 
 darkness of ebony. The three Greek Fathers, whom the 
 writer before us has selected, are in general considered 
 the most able and eloquent of any ; and of their merits 
 our readers shall presently have an opportunity of 
 judging, as far as a few specimens from Mr. Boyd's 
 translations can enable them : but, for our own parts, 
 we confess, instead of wondering with this gentleman 
 that his massy favourites should be 'doomed to a 
 temporary oblivion,' we are only surprised that such 
 affected declaimers should ever have enjoyed a better 
 fate ; or that even the gas of holiness with which they 
 are inflated, could ever have enabled its coarse and 
 gaudy vehicles to soar so high into the upper regions 
 of reputation. It is South, we believe, who has said, 
 
 1 In the dedication of his Book of Morals. 
 
THE FATHERS. 65 
 
 that ' in order to be pious, it is not necessary to be 
 dull,' but even dulness itself is far more decorous than 
 the puerile conceits, the flaunting metaphors, and all 
 that false finery of rhetorical declamation, in which 
 these writers have tricked out their most solemn and 
 important subjects. At the time, indeed, when they 
 studied and wrote, the glories of ancient literature had 
 faded ; sophists and rhetoricians had taken the place of 
 philosophers and orators ; nor is it wonderful that from 
 such instructors as Libanius, they should learn to reason 
 ill and write affectedly. But the same florid effemi- 
 nacies of style, which in a love-letter of Philostratus, or 
 an ecphrasis of Libanius, are harmless at least, if not 
 amusing, become altogether disgusting when applied 
 to sacred topics ; and are little less offensive to piety 
 and good taste than those rude exhibitions of the old 
 Moralities, in which Christ and his Apostles appeared 
 dressed out in trinkets, tinsel, and embroidery. 
 
 The chief advantage that a scholar can now derive 
 from the perusal of these voluminous Doctors is the 
 light they throw upon the rites and tenets of the 
 Pagans, in the exposure and refutation of which they 
 are, as is usually the case, much more successful than 
 in the defence and illustration of their own. In this 
 respect Clemens Alexandrinus is one of the most valu- 
 able, being chiefly a compiler of the dogmas of ancient 
 learning, and abounding with curious notices of the 
 religion and literature of the Gentiles. Indeed the 
 manner in which some of the Fathers have been edited, 
 sufficiently proves that they were considered by their 
 commentators as merely a sort of inferior classics, upon 
 which to hang notes about heathen gods and philo- 
 sophers. Ludovicus Vives, upon the ' City of God ' of 
 St. Augustine, is an example of this class of theological 
 annotators, whom a hint about the three Graces, or the 
 
 r 
 
66 THE FATHERS. 
 
 god of Lampsacus, awakens into more activity than 
 whole pages about the Trinity and the Resurrection. 
 
 The best specimen of eloquence we have met among 
 the Fathers at least that which we remember to have 
 read with most pleasure is the Charisteria, or Oration 
 of Thanks, delivered by Gregory Thaumaturgus to his 
 instructor Origen. Though rhetorical like the rest, it 
 is of a more manly and simple character, and does 
 credit alike to the master and the disciple. 1 But, upon 
 the whole, perhaps St. Augustine is the author whom 
 if ever we should be doomed, in penance for our sins, to 
 select a Father for our private reading we should 
 choose, as, in our opinion, the least tiresome of the 
 brotherhood. It is impossible not to feel interested in 
 those struggles between passion and principle, out of 
 which his maturer age rose so triumphant; and there 
 is a conscious frailty mingling with his precepts, and at 
 times throwing its shade over the light of his piety, 
 which gives his writings an air peculiarly refreshing, 
 after the pompous rigidity of Chrysostom, the stoic 
 affectations of Clemens Alexandrinus, and the anti- 
 thetical trifling of Gregory Nazianzen. If it were not 
 too for the indelible stain which his conduct to the 
 Donatists has left upon his memory, the philosophic 
 mildness of his tract against the Manichseans, and the 
 candour with which he praises his heretical antagonist 
 Pelagius, as ' sanctum, bonum et praedicandum virum,' 
 would have led us to select him as an example of that 
 tolerating spirit, which, we grieve to say, is so very 
 rare a virtue among the Saints. Though Augustine, 
 after the season of his follies was over, very sedulously 
 
 1 The abstract of this Oration which Halloix professes to give in 
 his Defence of Origen, is so very wide of the original, that we sus- 
 pect he must have received it, at second hand, from some inaccurate 
 reporter. 
 
THE FATHERS. 67 
 
 avoided the society of females, yet he corresponded with 
 most of the holy women of his time ; and there is a 
 strain of tenderness through many of his letters to 
 them, in which his weakness for the sex rather interest- 
 ingly betrays itself. It is in the consolatory epistles, 
 particularly, that we discover these embers of his youth- 
 ful temperament as in the 93rd to Italica, on the 
 death of her husband, and the 263rd to Sapida, in 
 return for a garment she had sent him, in the thoughts 
 of which there is a considerable degree of fancy as well 
 as tenderness. 
 
 We cannot allude to these fair correspondents of 
 Augustine without remarking that the warmest and 
 best allies of the Fathers, in adopting their fancies and 
 spreading their miracles, appear to have been those 
 enthusiastic female pupils, by groups of whom they 
 were all constantly encircled ; l whose imaginations 
 required but little fuel of fact, and whose tongues 
 would not suffer a wonder to cool in circulating. The 
 same peculiarities of temperament which recommended 
 females in the Pagan world as the fittest sex to receive 
 the inspirations of the tripod, made them valuable 
 agents also in the imposing machinery of miracles. At 
 the same time, it must be confessed that they performed 
 services of a much higher nature ; and that to no cause 
 whatever is Christianity more signally indebted for the 
 impression it produced in those primitive ages, than to 
 the pure piety, the fervid zeal, and heroic devotedness 
 
 1 None of the Fathers, with the exception perhaps of St. Jerome, 
 appears to have had such influence over the female mind as Origen. 
 His correspondence with Barbara is still extant. She was shut up 
 by her Pagan father in a tower with two windows, to which, in 
 honour of the Trinity, we are told, she added a third. St. Jerome 
 had to endure much scandal, in consequence of his two favourite 
 pupils, Paula and Melania, of which he complains very bitterly in 
 the epistle ' Si tibi putem,' &c. 
 
 F 2 
 
68 THE FATHERS. 
 
 of the female converts. In the lives of these holy 
 virgins and matrons, in the humility of their belief and 
 the courage of their sufferings, the Grospel found a far 
 better illustration than in all the voluminous writings 
 of the Fathers : there are some of them, indeed, whose 
 adventures are sufficiently romantic to suggest materials 
 to the poet and the novelist ; and Ariosto himself has 
 condescended to borrow from the Legends l his curious 
 story of Isabella and the Moor, to the no small horror 
 of the pious Cardinal Baronius, who remarks with much, 
 asperity on the sacrilege of which ' that vulgar poet ' 
 has been guilty, in daring to introduce this sacred story 
 among his fictions. To the little acquaintance these 
 women could have formed with the various dogmas of 
 ancient philosophy, and to the unencumbered state of 
 their minds in consequence, may be attributed much 
 of that warmth and clearness with which the light of 
 Christianity shone through them; whereas, in the 
 learned heads of the Fathers, this illumination found a 
 more dense and coloured medium, which turned its 
 celestial beam astray, and tinged it with all sorts of 
 gaudy imaginations. Even where these women indulged 
 in theological reveries, as they did not embody their 
 fancies into folios, posterity, at least, has been nothing 
 the worse for them; nor should we have known the 
 strange notions of Saint Macrina about the soul and 
 the resurrection, if her brother, Gregory of Nyssa, had 
 not rather officiously informed us of them, in the dia- 
 logue he professes to have held with her on these im- 
 portant subjects. 2 
 
 1 From the story of the Roman virgin Euphrasia. See also the 
 Life of Euphrosyna (in Bergomensis de Clans Mulieribus), which, 
 with the difference of a father and lover, resembles the latter part 
 of the Memoir cs de Commmgex. 
 
 2 Opera,) torn. ii. p. 177. Edit. Paris, 1638. 
 
THE FATHERS. 69 
 
 We now come to Mr. Boyd's Translations, which 
 are preceded by a short, but pompous preface, in whose 
 loftiness of style we at once discover that, like that 
 insect which takes the colour of the leaf it feeds upon, 
 the translator has caught the gaudy hue of his originals 
 most successfully. Indeed, from the evident tendencies 
 of this gentleman's taste, we should pronounce him a 
 most dangerous person to be entrusted with a version 
 of the Fathers ; for, the fault of these writers being 
 a superabundance of metaphors, and Mr. Boyd being 
 quite as metaphorically given as themselves, the conse- 
 quence is, that, wherever there is a flourish of this kind 
 in the original, he is sure to add another of his own to 
 it in the translation ; which is really ' too much of a 
 good thing.' If double flowers are to be held monsters 
 in botany, with much greater reason must these double 
 and treble flowers of rhetoric be accounted monstrosities 
 in the system of taste. The first specimen we shall 
 give is from ' the Peroration of St. Chrysostom's Third 
 Oration on the Incomprehensible,' where the Saint is 
 speaking of the season of the Eucharist : 
 
 In a moment so sublime, how exalted should be thy hope, 
 how great thy longing for salvation ! Heaven's canopy 
 resounds not with the piercing cry of mortals only : angels 
 fall prostrate before their Lord : archangels kneel before 
 their God. The season itself becomes an argument on their 
 lips ; the oblation an advocate in their cause. And as men, 
 in the office of intercession, cutting down branches of olive, 
 wave them before their king, by the blooming plant remind- 
 ing him of mercy and compassion ; so likewise the host of 
 angels, in the place of olive-branches extending the body of 
 their Lord, invoke the common Parent in the cause of human 
 nature ! WJiat strain seraphic bursts on my enraptured 
 organs ? I hear their celestial accents ! I hear them even 
 now exclaiming ' We entreat for those whom thou didst 
 love with so God-like an affection, as to yield up thy life for 
 
70 THE FATHERS. 
 
 theirs ! We pour our petitions in behalf of those for whom 
 thou didst shed thy blood ! ' (Pp. 23, 24.) 
 
 Whatever may be thought of the sublimity of the 
 passage printed in italics, St. Chrysostom has nothing 
 to do with either the praise or the blame of it ; as he 
 merely says that these angels ' invoke the Lord for the 
 human race, almost, or all but exclaiming (povov ov^l 
 \eyovrss) we pray for those, &c.' So that the ' seraphic 
 strains ' and ' enraptured organs ' are all to be set down 
 to Mr. Boyd's account. 
 
 In the extract which follows, upon the efficacy of 
 prayer, St. Chrysostom says ' I speak of that prayer 
 which is offered up with earnestness ; with a sorrowing 
 soul, and an enthusiastic spirit ; for that is the prayer 
 which ascends to Heaven.' Thus it is in the original ; 
 but how has the poetic Mr. Boyd translated this simple 
 passage ? 
 
 I speak of that prayer which is the child of a contrite 
 spirit, the offspring of a soul converted, born in a blaze of 
 unutterable enthusiasm, and winged, like lightning, for the 
 skies ! (P. 28.) 
 
 This eulogy of prayer concludes with the following 
 simile : 
 
 For, as the tree, whose roots are buried in the earth, 
 though assaulted by a thousand tempests, knows not to be 
 rent asunder, and defies the storm ; so likewise, the prayer 
 implanted in the soul, and from thence arising, spreads wide 
 its luxuriant foliage, elevates its aspiring head, and laughs 
 unhurt at the impotent assailer. (P. 31.) 
 
 Here again we must step in to the defence of the 
 original, which says nothing whatever of the prayer's 
 c luxuriant foliage,' nor of this indecorous ' laugh ' which 
 Mr. Boyd has conferred upon it. But there is no end 
 
THE FATHERS. 71 
 
 to his adscititious graces ; tie seems indeed to think 
 that, as a translator of saints, it is but right for him to 
 deal in such works of supererogation ; but we are sorry 
 to tell him that unlike the superfluities of those 
 pious persons his overdoings are all of the damnatory 
 description. 
 
 We are next presented with extracts from Gregory 
 Nazianzen, and again doomed to suffer under perpetual 
 metaphors, from the joint-stock of the saint and his 
 translator : not that we would have Mr. Boyd set us 
 down as foes to metaphors ; we are only unreasonable 
 enough to require that they should have a little mean- 
 ing in them ; that they should condescend to be useful 
 as well as decorative, and, like the thyrsus of the 
 ancients, carry a weapon under their foliage. 
 
 St. Gregory, in the funeral oration upon Caesarius, 
 says, that the tears of his mother were 6 subdued by 
 philosophy ' Sdfcpvcriv ^TTCO/JLEVOLS <f>l\o<ro<f>la but this 
 is too matter-of-fact for Mr. Boyd, who renders it, * her 
 tears are dried by the sweet breezes of philosophy ' 
 and, in the very next page, the twin metaphors of 
 which he is, as usual, delivered, agree, it must be owned, 
 rather awkwardly together, and lead us to think he has 
 formed his taste for eloquence upon the model of a 
 certain noble and diplomatic orator, who is well known 
 to deal in this broken ware of rhetoric, such as ' the 
 feature, Sir, upon which this question hinges,' &c. &c. 
 The following is Mr. Boyd's imitation of that noble 
 lord, in what may be called the metaphoroclastic 
 style : 
 
 Such, O Csesarius, is my funeral tribute. These are 
 the first-fruits of mine unfledged eloquence, of which thou 
 hast oft complained that it was buried in the shade. 
 
 Seriously, if this learned gentleman had taken the 
 
72 THE FATHERS. 
 
 trouble of consulting his Suicerus upon the word 
 he would not, we think, have spoiled this truly scriptural 
 figure by interpolations so tasteless, and so wholly un- 
 authorised by the text. 
 
 About the middle of this peroration we find the 
 following passage : 
 
 Will he adorn no more his mind with the theories of 
 Plato and of Aristotle, of Pyrrho and Democritus, of Hera- 
 clitus and Anaxagoras, and Cleanthes and Epicurus, and I 
 know not how many disciples of venerated Academe and 
 Stoat 
 
 The original text of these last words is KOI OVK oZS' 
 olv rial TWV sic TTJS o-SfjLvfjs (TToas Kal cLKaBij/jilas ' and I 
 know not how many from the venerable Porch and the 
 Academy.' What could induce Mr. Boyd to translate 
 this passage so strangely ? We hope it was only affec- 
 tation ; though we own we cannot help fearing in 
 spite of all his Greek that, like the worthy French 
 gentleman who looked for Aristocracy and Democracy 
 in the map, he took these said c Academe and Stoa ' 
 for two venerable persons that kept school in Athens. 
 
 We shall next give an extract from St. Gregory's 
 Panegyric upon his deceased friend St. Basil, as a speci- 
 men not only of Mr. Boyd's best manner of writing, but 
 of that unfatherly indifference with which, like a well- 
 known bird, he deposits his own offspring in the nest 
 of another. The words of the original are simply 
 these : 'What joy is there now in our public meetings ? 
 what pleasure in our feasts, our assemblies, or our 
 churches ? ' which small sum of words this munificent 
 translator has, out of his pure bounty, swelled to the 
 following considerable amount : 
 
 Alas ! what joy can we now experience in the feast, 
 what intercourse of soul in the public meetings ? Whom 
 
THE FATHERS. 73 
 
 shall we now consult? Shall we seek the next eminent 1 
 There are none. He hath left a chasm in the world, and 
 there is no one to fill it up. Where then shall we wander, 
 and how shall we employ the vacant hours 1 Shall we bend 
 our steps into the Forum ? Ah, no ; it was there that Basil 
 smiled upon his people. Shall we return into the Church 1 
 Ah, no ; it was there that he fed us with the bread of life. 
 
 In the 1 92nd page, he is equally sui profusus ; 
 thus 
 
 When I peruse his expositions of the sacred page, I stop 
 not at the letter, I rest not at the superficies of the word ; 
 but, soaring on renovated wings, I ascend from discovery to 
 discovery, from light to light, till I reach the sublimest point, 
 and sit enthroned on the riches of Revelation. 
 
 Of which last extraordinary image Mr. Hugh Stuart 
 Boyd is sole inventor and proprietor: indeed, not 
 -a tenth part of this ' extract ' is to be found in the 
 original ; and the saint may be truly said to sink under 
 the obligations he owes to his translator. 
 
 St. Gregory is almost the only Father who has 
 thought it not beneath his dignity to write verses ; 
 there are some by Tertullian ; but the poems under the 
 name of Lactantius are, in general, we believe, rejected 
 as spurious ; and one of them is supposed to have been 
 written by that most jovial of bishops, Venantius For- 
 tunatus. 1 The sparkling conceits of Gregory's style 
 are much more endurable in verse than in prose ; and 
 his similes are sometimes ingenious, if not beautiful. 
 But we do not think Mr. Boyd has been very happy in 
 
 1 Whose works, written chiefly * inter pocula ' as he confesses 
 in his dedicatory epistle to Pope Gregory may be found in the 
 Bibliotlieca Patrum, torn. 8. It is a sad proof of the rapid progress 
 of corruption, to find the head of the Christian Church, in a few 
 -centuries after the death of Christ, thus openly patronising such 
 frivolous profligacy. 
 
74 THE FATHERS. 
 
 his selections, either from this Father's poetry or the 
 prose of St. Basil, whose pathetic remonstrance ' to a 
 fallen Virgin ' l would have furnished more favourable 
 specimens of saintly eloquence than any composition 
 throughout this volume. 
 
 Mr. Boyd's notes consist chiefly of rapturous eulogies 
 on the grandeur, brilliancy, and profoundness of his 
 originals ; on the ' most super-eminent sublimity ' of 
 Plotinus (p. 291); and the 'fascinating' and 'enchant- 
 ing' loves of Daphnis and Chloe (passim). He has 
 detected, too, some marvellous plagiarisms ; for instance, 
 that Milton, in saying ' gloomy as night,' must have 
 pilfered from St. Basil, who, it appears, has said ' dark 
 as night ; ' unless, as Mr. Boyd candidly and saga- 
 ciously adds, ' both Basil and Milton have borrowed the 
 idea from Homer's vv/crl SOI/CMS. ' (P. 237.) 
 
 The construction of this gentleman's English is not 
 always very easy or elegant : as may appear from such 
 sentences as ' cherishing in the minds of men him 
 honoured there '(p. 123). 'It thrills with a poetic 
 ecstasy, of which the offspring is reflection sapient * 
 (p., 240). ' Having made mention of the prayers which 
 for demoniacs are offered' (p. 16). But it is time,. 
 we feel, to bring this article to a conclusion ; hie locus 
 est Somni. If we could flatter ourselves that Mr. 
 Boyd would listen to us, we would advise him to betake 
 himself as speedily as possible from such writers as his 
 Gregories, Cyrils, &c. which can never serve any other 
 purpose than that of a vain parade of cumbrous erudi- 
 tion to studies of a purer and more profitable nature, 
 
 1 There are several very touching passages throughout this 
 letter ; particularly that beginning irov juep cr\ rb 
 
 Tj/xa ; K. T. A. Fenelon says of it, * On ne peut rien voir de plus 
 eloquent que son Epitre a une vierge qui etoit tombee ; a mon sens- 
 c'est un chef-d'oeuvre.' Sur V Eloquence. 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 75 
 
 more orthodox in taste as well as in theology. He will 
 find in a few pages of Barrow or Taylor more rational 
 piety and more true eloquence than in all the Fathers 
 of the Church together ; and if, as we think probable, 
 under this better culture, his talents should bring forth 
 fairer fruits, we shall hail such a result of our counsels 
 with pleasure, and shall even forgive him the many 
 personal risks he has made us run, in poising down our 
 huge folio saints from their shelves. 
 
 FRENCH NOVELL 
 
 [NOVEMBER 1820.] 
 
 THE present state of France, though full of promise 
 with respect to her commercial and political advance- 
 ment, is not very favourable to the immediate interests 
 of her literature. The minds of a great part of the 
 population are still too unsettled for such calm pursuits, 
 and to those who study anything politics is so new 
 a study, that we cannot wonder it should take the lead 
 of all others, and draw most of the thinking spirits of 
 the day into its vortex. Accordingly we find that, out 
 of the circle of this tempting theme which they pursue 
 with all the freshness, as well as the rawness of school- 
 boys there is but little original produced in any 
 
 1 Mademoiselle de Tournon, par 1'Auteur ^CAdele de Sctiange* 
 2 vols. Paris, 1820. 
 
 [There are several allusions to this article in the third volume 
 of Moore's Diary. On October 20, 1820, he writes : * Have apprised 
 Jeffrey, through the Longmans, of my intention to review Madame 
 de Souza's novel. Two days later (October 22), 'Began the 
 review of Madame de Souza,' and on the 29th, ' Finished the 
 article on Madame de Souza.' On February 24, 1821, he records 
 that Chenevix ' spoke of the exceeding comicality of my transla- 
 tion of Lamartine's verses in the last Edinburgh.'] 
 
76 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 department of literature ; and the press is chiefly 
 employed in circulating either new editions of long- 
 established works, or translations from the popular 
 writers of other countries. In the field of poetry, 
 where it might be expected that the excitements of 
 the Revolution would have called forth something at 
 least bold and new, France has been long without even 
 a candidate for fame ; and M. Chateaubriand, who has 
 written nothing but prose, is the only real poet she at 
 present possesses. There has appeared, indeed, within 
 the last year, a little work entitled 'Meditations 
 Poetiques,' which has been profusely lauded in certain 
 circles, but which appears to us a very unsuccessful 
 attempt to break through the ancien regime of the 
 French Parnassus, and transplant the wild and irregular 
 graces of English poetry into the trim parterre of the 
 Gallic muse. What this author's notions of sublimity 
 are may be collected from the first stanza of one of his 
 * Meditations ' : 
 
 Lorsque du Createur la parole feconde, 
 Dans une heure fatale, eut enfante le monde 
 
 Des germes du Chaos, 
 
 De son ceuvre imparfaite il detourna sa face, 
 Et d'un pied dedaigneux le langant dans 1'espace, 
 
 Rentra dans son repos. 
 <Va,' dit-il, etc. etc. 
 
 Which may be thus, not unfairly, translated : 
 
 When the Deity saw what a world he had framed 
 From the darkness of Chaos, surprised and ashamed 
 
 He turn'd from his work with disdain ; 
 Then gave it a kick, to complete its disgrace, 
 Which sent it off, spinning through infinite space, 
 
 And returned to his slumbers again ; 
 Saying, ' Go and be/ &c. &c. 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 77 
 
 M. Chateaubriand himself, in his interesting work, 
 ' Les Martyrs,' which contains more bright pictures and 
 fanciful thoughts than are to be found, perhaps, in any 
 one poem in his language, yet shows, throughout his un- 
 lucky descriptions of Hell and of Paradise, how danger- 
 ous it is for a Frenchman to meddle with the sublime. 
 The following scene (worthy only of the Petites 
 Danaides) is supposed to take place during a council 
 held by Satan. 
 
 A ce discours de 1'Esprit le plus profondement corrompu 
 de Tabime, les Demons applaudirent en tumulte. Le bruit 
 decette lamentable joie se prolongea sous les voutes infer- 
 nales. Les reprouves crurent que leurs persecuteurs venoient 
 d'inventer de nouveaux tourmens. Aussitot ces ames, qui 
 n'etoient plus gardees dans leurs buchers, s'echapperent des 
 flammes, et accoururent au conseil ; elles trainoient avec 
 elles quelque partie de leurs supplices : Tune son suaire 
 embrase, 1'autre sa chape de plomb, celle-ci les glagons qui 
 pendoient a ses yeux remplis de larmes, celle-la les serpens 
 dont elle etoit devoree. Les affreux spectateurs d'un affreux 
 Senat prennent leurs rangs dans les tribunes brulantes. 
 Satan lui-meme appelle les spectres gardiens des ombres. 
 . . . . ' Kemettez/ s'ecrie-t-il, ' ces coupables dans les fers, ou 
 craignez que Satan ne vous enchaine avec eux.' 
 
 He is not more fortunate in revealing to us the 
 mysteries of the other region. Thus, describing a part 
 of the ' Cite de Dieu,' he says 
 
 L& surtout s'accomplit, loin de 1'oeil des Anges, la 
 mystere de la Trinite. L'Esprit qui remonte et descend sans 
 cesse du Fils au Pere, et du Pere au Fils, s'unit avec eux 
 dans ces profondeurs impenetrables. Un triangle de feu 
 paroit alors a 1'entree du Saint des Saints : les globes s'ar- 
 retent de respect et de crainte, 1'Hosanna des Anges est sus- 
 pendu, les milices immortelles ne savent quels seront les 
 decrets de l'IJnit6 vivante, elles ne savent si le Trois Fois 
 Saint ne va point changer, etc. etc Quand les essences 
 
78 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 primitives se separent, le triangle de feu disparoit : 1'Oracle 
 s'entr'ouvre, et Ton aperQoit les trois Puissances. 
 
 After all, however, our own Milton's actual artillery, 
 and the 'broad extinguisher' with which Dryden 
 furnishes the hand of Omnipotence, for the purpose of 
 putting out the fire of London, leaves us but little right 
 to reproach M. Chateaubriand, in particular, for this 
 disparagement of things divine, this profane familiarity, 
 which a too close approach to sacred subjects has, in 
 all times and all writings, produced. 
 
 In the dramatic department in addition to those 
 countless ' minora sidera ' which twinkle out their gay 
 and brief existence on the Boulevards there have 
 lately appeared two or three successful tragedies ; and 
 though, in ' Marie Stuart,' Queen Elizabeth is repre- 
 sented as finding herself at the gates of Fotheringay 
 Castle, during the course of a morning's ride from 
 London, and Mary, from the same accommodating spot, 
 is enabled to catch a view of the mountains of Scotland, 
 this tragedy is, upon the whole, of a superior order ; 
 and contains verses worthy of the admirable manner 
 in which that fine actress, Mademoiselle Duchesnois, 
 recites them. 
 
 In novel-writing which brings us more directly to 
 the subject of the present article since the death of 
 Madame Cottin, and of the inimitable author of c Corinne,' 
 as little has been done as in the other walks of literature. 
 Madame de Grenlis still writes, but, of late, rather to 
 edify than amuse ; and she is at present, we understand, 
 most laudably employed in weeding infidelity out of 
 the works of Voltaire, and writing Jean-Jacques 
 Eousseau all over again. Madame de Souza herself, 
 the author of the novel before us, has been, if we 
 mistake not, a long time idle. Reposing upon the 
 fame which she acquired as Comtesse de Flahaut, this 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 79 
 
 is, we believe, the first wreath with which she has 
 circled her present name. ' Adele de Senange,' one of 
 the earliest of her productions, is the story of a young 
 English nobleman, Lord Sydenham, a sort of wandering, 
 melancholy philosopher of twenty-two, who, in the act 
 of extricating a young lady out of an overturned 
 carriage at Paris, is struck with her beauty, and falls 
 violently in love with her. In the interval, however, 
 between this and their subsequent interview, she 
 becomes the wife of M. de Senange, a gouty old gentle- 
 man of seventy, who, having once had a platonic 
 affection for the young lord's grandmother, and promised 
 her, at parting, that if ever chance should throw any 
 of her children (including, of course, grandchildren) in 
 his way, he would act as a father to them, is delighted 
 to take this opportunity of fulfilling a promise made 
 half a century before, and invites Lord Sydenham to 
 spend the summer at his country-house at Neuilly. 
 The natural consequence of this somewhat rash step of 
 the kindhearted old gentleman, whose character, indeed, 
 throughout, excites much more compassion and respect 
 than it is, in general, the lot of these predestines to 
 inspire, is an instant and ardent attachment between 
 his wife and the young Englishman; and as, in the 
 present times, the scale of familiarities and indecorums 
 has been measured and graduated by such grave 
 authority, that even bishops themselves must now be 
 completely learned on the subject, it will not be difficult 
 to ascertain at how high a point above zero the tem- 
 perature of the following scene is to be rated. ( Adele 
 m'ecoutait avec une espece de ravissement. Elle etait 
 si emue que, lorsque j'eus cesse de parler, elle laissa 
 tomber sa tete sur moi. Nos visages se toucherent ; 
 nos larmes se confondirent, mes bras 1'entouraient 
 encore. Je la pressai contre mon coeur, en me promet- 
 
8o FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 tant interieurement de respecter en elle la femme de 
 mon ami.' 
 
 The difficulties and straggles to which such a passion 
 gives rise are at length happily terminated by a fit of 
 apoplexy, which seizes on the old gentleman on dis- 
 covering the secret of the lovers ; and he dies, gene- 
 rously enjoining that they should marry each othe^ 
 after the decent interval of a year's mourning for his 
 loss. This novel is in letters the least popular form, 
 perhaps, into which a novel can be thrown. Young 
 persons, the chief consumers of such articles generally, 
 prefer the straightforward sort of narrative to which 
 they have been accustomed from their nurseries ; and 
 we confess ourselves young enough to be entirely of 
 their opinion. Neither do we very much approve of 
 the plan of making heroes or heroines tell their own 
 stories. Besides the incompleteness which it necessarily 
 entails upon their history leaving them still alive and 
 at large for new adventures, after the reader has done 
 with them they are generally supposed to be grown 
 old when they relate their adventures ; which matter- 
 of-fact anticipation, as in the case of Marivaux's 
 Marianne, disturbs, at every step, all the illusion and 
 interest of the narrative. Instead of accompanying, in 
 fancy, this young creature through her first moments 
 of bloom and ignorance, we are continually reminded 
 of the wise and withered personage she is now become ; 
 and when, describing her having held out her hand to 
 some admirer, she adds in a parenthesis, ' et je 1'avais 
 belle,' this unfortunate past tense throws the occurrence 
 so very far back, that we cannot help being disenchanted 
 of a considerable part of our interest in it. 
 
 ' Emilie et Alphonse,' another of Madame de Souza's 
 novels, is also in letters ; and, in a similar manner, 
 turns upon the misfortunes of a young lady, who un- 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 81 
 
 luckily marries the wrong man, being violently and 
 irrecoverably in love with another. It displays, like 
 all that the fair author has written, an acute knowledge 
 of that part of the world which is called society. The 
 follies even of her own sex assume a grace and charm 
 in her description of them, and their coquetry becomes 
 of that kind which a French poet describes 
 
 La coquetterie 
 S'epure en passant par son cceur. 
 
 The process by which an innocent young married 
 woman may be transmuted into a heartless lady of 
 fashion (a result like that at which Lavoisier arrived 
 in reducing diamonds to carbon), is developed with 
 much skill in the experiments of Madame d'Artigue 
 upon the character of Emily who, having committed 
 the faute of forgetting her husband, is near falling 
 into the crime of forgetting her lover also. She is, 
 however, saved in time from utter worthlessness by a 
 circumstance which hardly would have occurred to a 
 male philosopher as likely to produce such a seasonable 
 reformation. The accidental smell of a little fan of 
 sandal- wood her lover having once had a little walk- 
 ing-stick of the same odorous material so completelv 
 dissipates, at a whiff, all the collected fumes of vanity, 
 that, bidding adieu to the rouge, flounces, and furbelows 
 of this world, she takes to love, sentiment, and ' mousse- 
 line blanche ' again. She is not, however, in the end, 
 so lucky as Adele de Senange ; for, though the lover 
 performs his duty, by wounding the husband mortally 
 in a duel, the husband, at the same moment, returns 
 the compliment, and poor Emily is obliged to end her 
 days in a convent, without either. 
 
 We cannot help considering this sort of stories, 
 where married ladies are brought into such unconjugal 
 
 G 
 
82 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 situations, as very perilous things, in every sense of the 
 word ; yet female writers have always been fond of 
 them, from the Eoyal Intrigues of Madame la Fayette, 
 down to Madame Cottin's loves of the Manufacturers 
 in Claire d'Albe. We remember, too, some years ago, 
 a novel by one of our own countrymen, in which the 
 heroine (Rhoda, we believe, she is called) loves one 
 man, marries a second, and intrigues with a third 
 
 * au reste, charmante personne ' and having at length 
 driven her husband, who is, as usual, the best sort of 
 man in the world, to blow out his brains, retires from 
 her capacity of heroine, at the end, upon a handsome 
 independence of three thousand a year. 
 
 The story of * Eugenie et Mathilde ' is, perhaps, 
 more artfully constructed than any that Madame de 
 Souza has hitherto produced. The time of the events 
 is during the first years of the French Revolution ; and 
 the struggles of an uncloistered nun with her vow of 
 singleness, afford, if not the chief, the most touching 
 source of its interest. The characters of the three 
 sisters the prim, rigid Ernestine, ' que des quinze ans 
 on eut voulu rajeunir ' the capricious, but affectionate 
 and natural Mathilde, who, when expostulated with on 
 any of her faults, thinks it enough to answer gaily ' je 
 suis comme cela ' and the gentle and sensitive young 
 nun, Eugenie, whose sacrifices to another world are 
 enhanced by her susceptibility of the best affections of 
 this all these various portraits are touched with a 
 delicacy, a discrimination, and a truth, which throw an 
 air of perfect reality over the painful story to which 
 they belong. 
 
 There yet remains to be noticed, in this brief retro- 
 spect of Madame de Souza's works, two other novels, 
 
 * Charles et Marie,' and ' Eugene de Rothelin,' in the 
 latter of which, by-the-by, the wrong halves of the 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 83 
 
 Androgynes are again brought together. But we have 
 already dwelt so much longer than was necessary upon 
 books which everyone has read, that we may now turn 
 our readers into 'fresh fields and pastures new,' by 
 giving some account of the last, and, we rather think, 
 the best of this lady's productions, ' Mademoiselle de 
 Tournon.' 
 
 The story is founded upon a few pages in the Me- 
 moires de Marguerite de Valois, which relate the melan- 
 choly death of the young Helen e de Tournon, daugh- 
 ter of the celebrated woman of that name, who twice 
 1 defended the town of Tournon against the Protestants. 
 This heroic lady was the dame d'honneur of Margue- 
 rite ; and the character of ' femme un peu rude et 
 terrible,' which the lively Queen has given her, is 
 turned skilfully to account in working up the interest 
 of the novel. Having forced her eldest daughter into 
 a marriage of convenance with M. Balanpon, whom the 
 King of Spain had lately appointed governor of the 
 Comte de Bourgogne, she readily accedes to the request 
 of Helene, at this period entering into her seventeenth 
 year, to be allowed to accompany her sister to the Pays- 
 Bas. From the following short sketch of M. Balancon 
 it will be seen that Madame de Souza possesses, as an 
 observer of character, what Cicero in a painter calls the 
 * oculum erudituin.' 
 
 Monsieur de Balancon etait parvenu, seulement en re- 
 spectant les petits devoirs de la societe ; a faire donner le 
 nom d'une vertu a chacuri de ses defauts. Son avarice e"tait 
 nominee de 1'ordre ; sa fausset6 paraissait de la prudence. 
 II prouvait ce qu'une longue observation du monde apprend : 
 c'est que la jeunesse, avec un peu de serieux, obtient des 
 e"gards, inspire de la confiance ; comme les vieillards, en se 
 montrant parfois indulgents et faciles, passent pour bons, 
 quelque exigeants qu'ils soient dans leur interieur. 
 
 o 2 
 
84 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 M. Balanpon has two brothers, Leopold and Auguste, 
 whose situation and dispositions will be best learned 
 from the account which he himself gives of his family 
 affairs, in one of those communicative moods which, 
 providentially for the reader, generally seize some 
 person or other at the beginning of every novel. 
 
 Ma mere avait deux freres. L'aine possedait, comme il 
 est d'usage, tons les biens de sa maison ; le second avait ete 
 destine a 1'Eglise. Get aine mqurut peu apres le mariage de 
 sa soeur avec mon pere. Sa fortune passa done & son jeune 
 frere, qui, fort heureusement pour nous, etait dejii engage 
 dans les ordres. Lorsqu'il parvint a 1'electorat de Treves, 
 il se plaisait a repeter qu'il nous regardait comme ses 
 heritiers. 
 
 Ma mere en mourant recommanda a mon oncle Auguste 
 mon second frere, aujourd'hui marquis de Yarambon. 
 L'electeur de Treves voulut disposer de lui comme s'il etait 
 son fils. Mon pere eut la faiblesse d'y consentir ; et un 
 beau jour 1'enfant partit avec lui. Nous restames avec mon 
 pere. Mais depuis ce moment Leopold et moi nous fume& 
 regardes par mon oncle comme des collateraux incommodes, 
 Toute son immense fortune etait reservee pour mon frere ; 
 il lui accorda meme une pension considerable. Auguste, 
 loin d'economiser pour augmenter le patrimoine de la 
 famille, dispersait en pretendus actes de bienfaisance tout ce 
 que mon oncle lui donnait. Yoila ce que j'appelle une 
 premiere folie serieuse. 
 
 L'electeur 1'a fait elever pom* 6tre son coadjuteur et lui 
 succeder. Cependant, lorsque monsieur Auguste a eu vingt 
 ans, non-seulement il n'a point voulu entrer dans les ordres, 
 mais il a refuse positivement de prendre 1'habit ecclesiastique, 
 declarant qu'il ne se soumettrait 4 la volonte de mon pere 
 et aux desirs de mon oncle que lorsqu'il aurait vingt-cinq 
 ans. Et voila ce que j'appelle une seconde folie tres- 
 serieuse ; car, en attendant cette epoque, Telecteur peut 
 mourir, et monsieur mon frere rester avec toutes les belles 
 phrases qu'il nous debite : ' de ne consentir a ])rendre cet 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 85 
 
 etat qu'apres en avoir bien connu les devoirs; de ne se 
 resigner k sacrifier son independance, sa liberte, qu'apres 
 avoir eu la certitude que ses regrets ne seront pas plus forts 
 que sa raison.' 
 
 Pendant qu'il se refuse a assurer les avantages de sa 
 situation, a prendre 1'habit qui prouverait du moins qu'il 
 se destine a 1'eglise, mon tres-cher frere se soumet a la vie 
 severe et retiree qu'elle prescrit. J'appelle cela encore une 
 folie si serieuse qu'elle m'en fait rire. Auguste me parait 
 un homme au bord d'un precipice, n'osant ni le franchir ni 
 s'en detourner. 
 
 After this interesting 'note of preparation,' the 
 young Marquis de Varambon arrives at the chateau ; 
 and his first interview with the heroine is most happily 
 imagined and described. She had been walking through 
 the apartments prepared for his reception, with an old 
 housekeeper of the family, who had loved and watched 
 over him from his childhood, and who was now busy in 
 ornamenting the rooms with all his favourite flowers. 
 After showing her the library, whose ' meubles de ve- 
 lours noir, sans aucune broderie,' presented a severe and 
 melancholy contrast to the flowers which this good 
 old dame placed among them 
 
 Elle conduisit Helene dans un salon qui tenait a la 
 bibliotheque, et, prenant mademoiselle de Tournon par la 
 main, elle la plaga devant le portrait d'une femme de la plus 
 grande beaute. 'C'est madame, c'est ma bonne et chere 
 maitresse,' dit Genevieve ; ' la voila, comme elle etait, toujours 
 environnee de fleurs.' En effet, le peintre 1'avait representee 
 pres d'une table, sur laquelle il avait place un vase d'albatre 
 rempli de jQeurs, et entoure d'une guirlande de roses. Gene- 
 vieve dit, en montrant une table qui se trouvait au milieu 
 du salon : * Voila ce vase d'albatre, cette table, qui ont servi 
 de modele au peintre ; mais les fleurs et madame n'y sont 
 plus ! ' Helene demanda si ce vase etait cher a monsieur 
 
86 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 de Yarambon? ' Tout ce que madame affectionnait lui est 
 precieux.' 
 
 Alors Helene se mit a placer des fleurs dans ce vase ; 
 elle tachait de les arranger comme elle les voyait dans le 
 tableau ; ensuite elle commena la guirlande. Daine Gene- 
 vieve la regardait travailler avec une sorte de satisfaction ; 
 mais tout-a-coup, revenant a elle-m6me, elle lui dit : ' Ne 
 craignez-vous pas que cette imitation ne lui cause plus de 
 peine que de plaisir 1 ' ' Yous avez bien raison,' repondit 
 Helene. ' Rappeler une perte irreparable, c'est renouveler 
 une douleur.' Comme efirayee, elle rejeta sur la table ce qui 
 lui restait de fleurs, laissa sa guirlande & moitie finie, et, se 
 levant, elle demeura pensive devant ce tableau qui lui offrait 
 la jeunesse, la beaute, les fleurs et la mort. Elle s'oubliait 
 dans ses reflexions melancoliques, lorsqu'un cri echappd 
 a dame' Gene vie ve la fit retourner. Elle fut inter dite en 
 voyant pres d'elle monsieur de Yarambon occupe a la con- 
 siderer. Son extreme ressemblance avec sa mere le lui fit 
 reconnaitre. Embarrassee d'avoir ete surprise par lui dans 
 son appartement, elle se troubla, n'osa lui parler, et se mit 
 a fuir, oubliant meme de le saluer. 
 
 Love follows of course ; and the varieties of its 
 progress and effects, in two such differently constituted 
 natures the reserved, meditative, but jealous and im- 
 petuous, M. de Yarambon, and the gentle, timid, but 
 devoted and unchangeable Helene are denned through- 
 out with all that delicate power of analysis which women 
 seem instinctively to possess on such subjects. A visit 
 with which M. Balanpon is honoured by Don John of 
 Austria, whom his brother Philip II. has just sent to 
 take the government of the Low Countries, gives the 
 first development to that fatal passion of jealousy, 
 which is attended at last with such tragical conse- 
 quences to the young lovers. A ball takes place at the 
 chateau, on the arrival of the Prince, from which the 
 sanctity of the line of life marked out for him imposes 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 87 
 
 upon M. de Varambon the necessity of absenting him- 
 self; and there is considerable fancy, as well as pathos, 
 in the description of his solitary sufferings, within hear- 
 ing of the gaieties by which his mistress is surrounded. 
 
 Revenu chez lui, il y etait poursuivi par le bruit des 
 violons. L'appartexnent ou Ton dansait etait au-dessus du 
 sien : tons les pas retentissaient. II est inquiet de ce qui 
 se passe dans le salon ; il n'a pas un instant de repos ; il fait 
 appeler Genevieve, et, oubliant toute prudence, il lui dit : 
 ' Ma bonne, ma chere amie, allez voir le bal ; sachez ce que 
 fait mademoiselle de Tournon.' ' Elle danse, monsieur; j'en 
 viens.' ' Avec qui 1 ' demande-t-il en tremblant. II le pre- 
 voyait, il le savait, et il le demandait ! Esperait-il une 
 reponse qui put calmer sa jalousie, passion cruelle dont il 
 devait tant souffrir ? 
 
 ' Mademoiselle de Tournon danse avec le prince/ repond 
 Genevieve ; ' il ne voit qu'elle, n'a danse qu'avec elle ; c'est 
 la reine du bal ! ' ' Comment regoit-elle ses attentions 1 ' 
 reprend-il vivement. ' Sans les remarquer ; elle est aussi 
 modeste que belle.' 
 
 Les danseurs se faisaient toujours entendre ; monsieur 
 de Yarambon aurait pu compter la mesure de leurs pas. Ce 
 nouveau supplice lui devient insupportable ; il s'enfuit dans 
 le pare. Ces allees sombres, cette nuit paisible, ne pouvaient 
 le rendre a lui-meme. Les yeux constamment fixes sur les 
 fenetres du chateau, il voyait des ombres fugitives se dessiner 
 sur le plafond de la salle ; des plumes agitees se montraient, 
 disparaissaient, suivant les mouvements animes des dan- 
 seuses : il ne cherchait qu'une seule femme, et ne pouvait la 
 distinguer. 
 
 Tout-a-coup il vit arriver des domestiques, s'empressant 
 d'allumer des lampions qui ^clairerent les jar dins. Les 
 chiffres de dom Juan brillaient en verres de couleur. Mon- 
 sieur de Yarambon revint dans son appartement plus vite 
 encore qu'il ne 1'avait quitte. II eteignit ses lumieres, ne 
 voulant point etre vu du dehors ; et, dans 1'obscuiite, attach6 
 a sa fenetre, il regardait ce qui se passait dans le pare. Au- 
 
88 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 dessus de sa tete, la musique, la gaiete, le tourbillon du bal ; 
 devant lui, 1'eclat des lumieres : ces jardins, brillants de 
 chiffres odieux; lui, seul, dans le silence, dans 1 'ombre, et 
 plus agitee que personne. 
 
 On etait dans les plus beaux jours de 1'annee. Bientot 
 il vit plusieurs femmes qui etaient sorties du bal pour venir 
 se promener dans les jardins. Dom Juan parut, donnant le 
 bras aux deux soeurs. Monsieur de Yarambon ne se posse- 
 dait plus. Mais combien il fut touche de voir Helene se 
 retourner plusieurs fois et regarder son appartement. Elle 
 a 1'air triste : elle pense done a lui ! et des larmes s'echap- 
 paient de ses yeux sans qu'il les sentit couler. 
 
 Apres quelques pas, Helene quitta dom Juan, et revint 
 lentement du cote du chateau. Elle s'arreta devant cette 
 fenetre ou monsieur de Yarambon venait d'eprouver des 
 angoisses si cruelles. Qu'il etait emu ! le bal, dom Juan, 
 les chifires importuns, avaient disparu; il n'y avait plus 
 qu'Helene de presente a sa vue. II se dit qu'elle sera heu- 
 reuse dans la retraite ; ils y vivront uniquement Tun pour 
 1'autre ; elle se contentera de la modeste fortune qu'il peut 
 lui offrir. amour ! toi seul peux peindre ces orages du 
 coaur, qu'un rien fait naitre, qu'un mouvement dissipe ! Le 
 son de la musique, des pas legers, les ondulations de ces 
 plumes flottantes, avaient bouleverse son ame : un regard 
 le calme ! Deja il ne redoute plus 1'avenir, et passe le 
 reste de la nuit a esperer une felicite parfaite. 
 
 He declares at length to M. Balancon the resolution 
 which he has formed to renounce the religious profession 
 for which he was destined; a scene of altercation 
 ensues between the brothers ; and M. Balancon, dis 
 covering that an attachment for Mademoiselle de 
 Tournon is the cause of a step so ruinous to the worldly 
 interests of the family, writes such a letter to Madame 
 de Tournon as determines that proud and rigid woman 
 not only to refuse her consent to a marriage between the 
 young persons, but to recall her daughter instantly to 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 89 
 
 Paris. Thither M. de Varambon secretly pursues her ; 
 and a new source of fuel to his unreasonable jealousy 
 presents itself in the person of M. de Souvre, the chief 
 favourite of Henri III., who becomes deeply enamoured 
 of Mademoiselle de Tournon ; and whose respectful atten- 
 tions, mistaken by her for the assiduities of friendship, 
 are received with all the favour and gratitude which 
 her esteem for his very amiable character dictates. The 
 unlucky appearances arising from such an intercourse, 
 and the effects which they produce upon the inflammable 
 disposition of M. de Varambon, are delineated through a 
 succession of animated scenes and incidents, to which we 
 should ill do justice by such a skeleton abstract with- 
 out either the colouring of style or the life of detail as 
 the limits allowed for this subject afford. The conclusion 
 of the story is peculiarly affecting; and the description 
 of M. Varambon's feelings, on seeing the cold remains 
 of the innocent and faithful girl, whose heart his unjust 
 suspicions had broken, is as simply and finely done as 
 .anything of the kind with which we are acquainted. 
 
 Us arrivent enfin a Liege. Les rues sont encombrees 
 d'un peuple immense qui les arrete. Us voient de loin un 
 convoi qui s'approche. Le char funebre est couvert d'un 
 drap blanc et argent, autour duquel sont attachees des cou- 
 ronnes de roses blanches. Monsieur de Varambon fremit 
 et serre la main de son frere; ses levres tremblantes ne 
 pauvent prononcer une parole. Son air egare attire 1'atten- 
 tion d'un vieillard qui precedait le cortege. II passe en 
 disant : ' Pauvre mademoiselle de Tournon ! ' Monsieur de 
 Varambon tombe sans connaissance. On 1'emporte dans 
 une maison voisine, ou il reste plusieurs heures evanoui. 
 Malheureux ! quel reveil 1'attend ! 
 
 Le convoi s'avance lentement vers 1'eglise. Les chants 
 religieux demandent au ciel la paix d'une autre vie, pour 
 celle qui n'a connu de ce monde que le malheur et la souf- 
 france. 
 
90 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 Yers le soir monsieur de Yarambon revient a lui en 
 jetant des cris aflreux. II appelle Helene, ne pent se per- 
 suader qu'il 1'a perdue ; il la demande a son frere, le supplie, 
 le conjure de la lui rendre ; il veut la revoir encore. . . . 
 II s'echappe, et Leopold, ne pouvant 1'arreter, le suit. Us 
 arrivent a 1'eglise. La foule est dispersee. Les funerailles 
 ne devant avoir lieu que le lendemain, Helene est deposee 
 dans une chapelle ardente. Cette lumiere le guide. Un 
 pretre, a genoux, recite des prieres. Monsieur de Yarambon 
 se jette au pied du cercueil. 
 
 Le pretre, que sa presence etonne, que son desespoir 
 effraie, regarde avec inquietude Leopold, qui lui dit : ' II 
 devait etre son epoux.' L'homme pieux et charitable le 
 plaint, et s'eloigne pour ne point contraindre la douleur. 
 
 L'infortune, aneanti, prosterne contre terre, craint de 
 relever sa tete coupable, et ne cesse de repeter qu'il 1'aime, 
 qu'il l'aimait, qu'il va la suivre. . . . Enfin il ose elever ses- 
 yeux jusqu'a ce visage insensible qu'aucun voile ne lui cache 
 encore. Ses sanglots, ses cris, font retentir 1'eglise. ... 
 Malheureux qui as brise le cceur qui n'existait que pour toi ! 
 .... II joint ses mains, pleure, s'accuse, demande a Dieu 
 qu'un instant, un seul instant, leur soit accorde ! qu'elle le 
 revoie encore ! et puis tous deux mourir ! * Qu'elle sache 
 que je 1'aimais ! que je 1'adorais ! ' crie-t-il en s'adressant au 
 ciel. . . . Sa tete se perd; il la regarde, il attend, il ecoute. 
 . . . Le silence de la mort lui repond ! . . . Un sombre 
 egarement est dans ses yeux ; il etend ses bras et s'ecrie : 
 ' Ne m'entendra-t-elle done jamais ? jamais 1 ' Et les voutes 
 de 1'eglise rep6terent : i JAMAIS ! ' 
 
 The personages in this novel are almost all histori- 
 cal ; and the skill with which their real characters, as 
 well as that of the gallant, superstitious, and cruel 
 court to which they belonged, are made to serve the 
 purposes of the authors fiction, without deviating in 
 the slightest degree from their original and recorded 
 peculiarities, is the more remarkable, from its rarity 
 in works of this kind, where, as in the portraits of dis- 
 
FRENCH NOVELS. 91 
 
 tinguished persons in print-shops, the name is often 
 the only part of the original that is preserved. Madame 
 de Tournon is here exactly what the Queen, whom she 
 served, has painted her ; M. de Souvre, though turned 
 into a sentimental lover (that common fate of all states- 
 men, heroes, and philosophers, that fall into the hands 
 of French writers, and which Eacine would not suffer 
 even Achilles himself to escape), is still the same 
 sensible and amiable man of the world who was, as 
 history tells us, the favourite of so many kings ; the 
 brilliant Don John of Austria acts his part in the novel 
 without losing any of that splendour with which Strada 
 and our own Hume have invested him ; and, though 
 Madame de Souza has had the good taste not to distin- 
 guish her facts from her fancies by pedantic reference 
 to authorities, it is still satisfactory to trace the ac- 
 curacy of her allusions, and to observe how, in this- 
 wedlock between history and fiction, she has contrived 
 to preserve all the wild beauties of the latter, without 
 sacrificing to them any of the masculine dignity of the 
 former. This is particularly remarkable in the scene 
 between Don John and the astrologer (a scene of con- 
 siderable effect throughout), in which the secret treaty 
 entered into by this Prince with the Due de Cruise, and 
 his project to carry off and espouse our Mary Queen of 
 Scots, are introduced so as to give the stamp of authen- 
 ticity to fiction, and make the fairy money of fancy 
 pass current as real. 
 
 We know but two works with which this novel can 
 properly be compared the Princesse de Cleves of 
 Madame la Fayette, and the Mademoiselle de Clermont 
 of Madame de Genlis. The great merit of the former 
 in addition to its being the first of the kind is that 
 insinuating naivete of detail, that uniform flow of events 
 which, like monotony in music, wins more upon the 
 
92 FRENCH NOVELS. 
 
 ear and heart than all the transitions and surprises that 
 the most fertile fancy can invent. The conclusion, 
 however, is unsatisfactory that a lover should ever 
 cease to love, however common in life, is against all 
 the established rules of romance. The story of Made- 
 moiselle de Clermont is one of those which young 
 people will read from generation to generation. The 
 charms of the style, the unity of the interest, and the 
 association of both its pleasant and melancholy scenes 
 with the beautiful forest and gardens of Chantilly, all 
 combine to give it a degree of popularity which few of 
 its most pretending competitors have attained. With- 
 out entering into any formal comparison between these 
 two celebrated works and the novel before us, we shall 
 merely say that, in our opinion, it is in every respect 
 worthy to take its station by their side. We have 
 more weighty matters, however, to settle with our 
 French neighbours, and cannot now afford to dwell 
 longer on this light prelude. 
 
 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 1 
 
 [JUNE 1826.] 
 
 THE author of this work published, some time since, 
 a successful jeu d'esprit, under the title of ' L'Art de 
 faire des Dettes,' an art in which the people of most 
 countries are becoming now as great proficients as their 
 governments. A long experience of the blessings of a 
 National Debt is sure to bring private debts into 
 
 1 Mcewrs Administratives, pow faire suite aux Observations siir 
 les Mceurs et les Usages Frangais au Commencement du XIX<* Siccle. 
 2 tomes I2mo. Paris, 1825. 
 
 [In his Diary of June 1826, Moore says: ' Wrote an article for 
 the Edinburgh Review upon a trifling French work, Mceurs Admitiis- 
 tratives: Vol. v. pp. 87, 88.] 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 93 
 
 fashion ; and when a judge from the bench as was the 
 case some time since in England promulgates the 
 merits and advantages of owing on a grand scale, it is 
 but natural that individuals should try the efficacy of 
 the practice on a small one. ' I would beseech you,' 
 says Panurge, ' to leave me some few centuries of debt 
 if it were for nothing but the exercise of my mind ; ' 
 and English politicians would be, perhaps, equally at a 
 loss for such exercise, if there were, as Panurge ex- 
 presses it, ' any parcel abated from off the principal 
 sums they owe.' The same great advocate for borrowing 
 and lending adduces another argument in favour of the 
 practice, of which the books of some bankrupts in the 
 late crisis would afford no unapt illustration. ' Against 
 the opinion of most philosophers, that of nothing 
 ariseth nothing, and without having bottomed on so 
 much as that which is called the First Matter, did I 
 out of nothing become such a maker and creator, that I 
 have created what ? a gay number of fair and jolly 
 creditors. And creditors, I will maintain it, even to 
 the very fire itself, are fair and goodly creatures.' 
 
 The work before us is more elaborate, and therefore 
 less amusing, than 'L'Art de faire des Dettes.' In 
 extending himself beyond the limits of a brochure into 
 two respectable volumes the author has committed that 
 sort of mistake which success is most apt to generate. 
 Writers are too often tempted thus to outgrow their 
 strength ; the much-lauded sonneteer straggles forth- 
 with into epics, and the epigrammatist, overpaid for 
 his point, becomes voluminous and dull. This work, 
 however, is by no means deficient in liveliness ; and 
 the object of the writer being to give an insight into 
 the interior of public offices in France to sketch the 
 manners and modes of life of official persons, and throw 
 a light upon all the various wheels, from the prime 
 
94 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 minister down to the clerk, by which the machine of 
 government in that country is carried on his book 
 derives an interest, independent of its pleasantry, from 
 the curiosity with which everything relating to French 
 politics is sought after at present. 
 
 It is, indeed, a matter of no inconsiderable interest 
 to watch the progress of the excitement that now 
 pervades all France, and to speculate as to the probable 
 consequences that may result from it. On the great 
 question whether our neighbours are ever likely to 
 attain rational liberty the symptoms at present ex- 
 hibited among them afford quite as much grounds 
 for hope as for fear. The magnificent subscription for 
 the family of General Foy, the enthusiasm which has 
 spread through all classes in favour of the Greeks, to 
 assist whose cause there are Comites Philhelleniques 
 established in almost every town ; the sensitive alarm 
 with which such events as the disgrace of M. Montlosier 
 and the appointment of the Bishop of Strasbourg to be 
 tutor to the young Prince are viewed these, and many 
 other such indications of popular feeling, seem to prove 
 that there is a right spirit abroad through France, and 
 that the people take that lively interest in public affairs 
 which alone insures the honesty and efficacy of a 
 government, by making every man in the community 
 a sentinel on its movements. 
 
 In the general courage and fairness of their legal 
 tribunals one of which has been honest enough to 
 draw down upon itself a rebuke from Eoyalty, while 
 another, in the case of the descendants of La Chalotais 
 against the Etoile, has left a decision upon record 
 worthy of the pages of Fenelon we find that best and 
 only pledge against the abuse of laws which lies in the 
 integrity and impartiality of those who administer 
 them. The sympathy with which the Chamber of 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 95 
 
 Peers has lately entered ihto the views of the people 
 upon a subject, too, where it could be least expected 
 from them, the rights of primogeniture speaks strongly 
 for the liberal spirit of that body ; as the eloquence 
 which they displayed on that occasion, and the triumph 
 they gained, speak no less strongly for their talents 
 and power. The speeches, or rather essays, delivered 
 by MM. Pasquier, Mole, de Barante, and de Broglie, 
 exhibit a clearness and strength of argument, a range 
 and depth of views, which but few of our noble 
 thinkers could rival. From the discourse of the Due 
 de Broglie which, it is no mean praise to say, was 
 the best that this important occasion called forth we 
 cannot resist the temptation of giving the following 
 extract, which, besides affording a specimen of the 
 noble orator's powers, is interesting, as containing the 
 bold and candid opinions of so enlightened a foreigner 
 upon the institutions of Great Britain : 
 
 C'est aussi la ma reponse a d'autres orateurs, dont 
 j'honore les vues, mais dont je ne partage point les chimeres ; 
 a d'autres orateurs qui, eblouis et comme enchantes par 
 1'exemple d'un pays voisin, revent en ce moment la possibi- 
 lite d'instituer en France, non pas une noblesse de cour ou 
 de province, mais une aristocratie libre et fiere, puissante et 
 majestueuse, protectrice eclairee des libertes populaires. 
 
 Les temps en sont passes. Desormais toutes les classes 
 de la nation fran^aise sont egalement e'mancipees ; que Ton 
 tourmente la population en tout sens, on n'en fera plus sortir 
 ni clients ni patrons ; on n'en fera plus sortir que des magis- 
 trats et des citoyens. Si c'est la un mal ou un bien, je 
 laisse chacun le decider selon qu'il Ten tend : quant a moi, j'en 
 suis fier, et j'en rends graces au ciel. II y a des choses 
 d'ailleurs qui ne se font ni a la main ni apres coup. 
 
 Oui, je le sais, le droit de primogeniture existe en Angle- 
 terre ; il y existe plus dur, plus injuste cent fois que la loi 
 actuelle ne nous le propose ; tous les bien-fonds vont a 
 
96 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 1'aine, tons sans exception : les puines n'ont de ressources 
 qu'une Eglise riche jusqu'a la profusion, jusqu'au scandale ; 
 que 1'armee, ou les grades s'achetent et se vendent ; que 
 des sinecures sans nombre et sans mesure \ qu'une foule de 
 postes lucratifs dans les colonies ; que 1'Inde, ou si long- 
 temps cinquante millions d'hommes ont ete livres en pature 
 a la rapacite des exacteurs. Oui, je le sais, la distinction des 
 rangs en Angleterre est conservee avec une exactitude poin- 
 tilleuse et pedantesque; le gouvernement depuis plusieurs 
 siecles y appartient a peu pres exclusivement a un petit 
 nombre de grandes families, qui, rangees sous des etendards 
 differents, se disputent et se transmettent le pouvoir, selon 
 le vent de 1'opinion qui domine ; tous les details de Tad- 
 ministration sont devolus a une vaste corporation de gentils- 
 hommes, qui, sous les noms de juges de paix, de grands jurys, 
 font tout, decident de tout, disposent de tout gratuitement, 
 j'en tombe d'accord, mais aussi anranchis de tout controle, 
 exempts de toute responsabilite positive. Et pourtant j'ai 
 hate de le declarer hautement : quelque prejuge qui s'eleve 
 au premier abord contre un tel ordre de choses, 1'aristocratie 
 anglaise honore 1'humanite ; c'est un imposant phenomene 
 dans le monde et dans 1'histoire ; associee de tout temps aux 
 interets du peuple, elle n'a jamais cess6 de revendiquer les 
 droits du moindre citoyen aussi courageusement que les 
 siens propres ; elle a ouvert la route ou la nation marche 
 aujourd'hui; elle a coui-u les memes chances, defendu la 
 meme cause, combattu le meme combat. Depuis cent cin- 
 quante ans que la victoire est gagnee, elle n'a ni devie ni 
 degenere ; elle a sans cesse accueilli dans son sein toutes les 
 superiorites qui se sont elevees ; une heureuse emulation, 
 digne fruit des institutions libres qu'elle a fondees, s'est 
 maintenue dans les hauts rangs ; 1'aristocratie anglaise est 
 encore aujourd'hui 1'elite de 1' Angleterre, de cette Angle- 
 terre elle- meme qui tient le premier rang parmi les peuples 
 libres. 
 
 Another strong ground of hope for the political ad- 
 vancement of our neighbours is the activity and talent 
 of their periodical press. It is impossible for a nation 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 97 
 
 to go a-sleep over its liberties, that has such daily 
 flappers in its ears as the Courrier Fran$ais and the 
 Journal des Debats, the latter of which is, perhaps, 
 the best conducted journal not excepting even our 
 own admirable Times in Europe. The conformation, 
 too, and character of the Opposition which these two 
 papers represent, is of a nature particularly favourable 
 to the diffusion of sound constitutional views con- 
 sisting, as it does, of two distinct parties, one of which 
 supports the Charte upon monarchical principles, while 
 the other maintains it upon more democratic and re- 
 volutionary grounds. A rational balance of opinion is 
 thus preserved between them, and the public mind 
 saved from either of those extremes to which an 
 Opposition purely Koyalist, or purely Democratic, might 
 force it. 
 
 To these promising circumstances in the political 
 condition of France there are others, of a nature at 
 least equally discouraging, to be opposed. Among 
 these must be reckoned a no less essential consideration 
 than the character of the people themselves, whose 
 appetite for novelty, fed as it has been so abundantly 
 for the last half-century, will hardly allow them to rest 
 at the right point when they have found it, and whose 
 readiness to be excited by trifles requires a considerable 
 deduction to beonade from the value and trustworthiness 
 of their zeal upon important concerns. When we see 
 enthusiasm pouring itself out upon frivolous objects 
 like the thunder-cloud parting with its contents to a 
 kite we lose one of the tests by which its importance 
 on affairs of more moment can be estimated. The reve- 
 ries of Animal Magnetism and Somnambulism have 
 already, we believe, supplanted in Paris the disquisi- 
 tions on the droit d'ainesse, and the cry against the 
 Jesuits ; and the cures performed by young ladies in 
 
 H 
 
98 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 their sleep (the magnetic power enabling them, in 
 that state, to see into the interior of their patients l ) 
 have excited sensation and discussion enough to attract 
 to them the solemn notice of the Academic de Medecine. 
 4 Faire serieusement les choses fdvoles,' is nearly as 
 much a characteristic of the French now as it was in 
 the days of Montesquieu ; and, from this habit of theirs 
 of doing foolish things with a grave face, we should be 
 in great danger of being deceived, were we to measure 
 their sense of the importance of a business by the 
 seriousness and earnestness with which they set about 
 it. This sort of fantastic solemnity is particularly ob- 
 servable in those writers among them who set up for 
 broachers of new systems or theories. M. Azais, who, 
 satisfactorily to himself, proves that Man is but a 
 fortuitous excrescence, a mere ' developpement spontane 
 d'une mousse ' M. Beyle, who sees, in the working of 
 the human passions, nothing more than a process of 
 crystallisation, and who would say of a young lady, when 
 she first falls in love, that ' her heart begins to crystal- 
 lise,' M. de Monville, who insists that the world, 
 and all it contains, is composed of four different sorts 
 of little triangular-pyramidical-shaped molecules, with 
 four equal faces, all these sages, and many more 
 of the same profundity that might be mentioned, 
 maintain their respective theories with a gravity and 
 
 1 This miraculous application of the powers of magnetism to 
 medical purposes has, of course, superseded the eau magnetisee of 
 MM. Mesmer and Deleuze, which used formerly to work such won- 
 ders. Some of these somnambulists have equally the power of 
 scrutinising their own interior ; and M. Puyse'gur, one of the great 
 upholders of the mystery, gives an account of a girl who, during her 
 magnetic slumber, saw four large worms gnawing her heart. She 
 prescribed for herself accordingly ; and, as M. Puysegur assures us, 
 got rid of the worms. It is only among a people long worked upon 
 by priestcraft that such juggling as this could have the smallest 
 chance of success. 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 99 
 
 earnestness which show the importance that vanity can 
 attach to its own whims, and prove that what would 
 pass for but an indifferent joke in England, may, in 
 the hands of an ingenious Frenchman, be promoted 
 into philosophy. Almost a natural consequence of this 
 habit of treating trifles seriously is the far more 
 dangerous error of viewing important matters as trifles ; 
 and, when we see so many instances of both these 
 tendencies among our neighbours, it is impossible not 
 to fear that the same false standard may be applied by 
 them to politics, that the habit of extracting self- 
 glorification from everything (like the projector of 
 Laputa, who extracted sunbeams out of cucumbers) 
 may incapacitate them from understanding real glory, 
 and that the same vanity which, at one time, makes 
 such parade of the shadow of liberty, may, at another 
 time, be equally ready, for its own triumph, to sacrifice 
 the substance. 
 
 Another great obstacle to the advancement of free 
 principles in France is that revived spirit of fanaticism 
 of which the Court is the soul and centre, and which, 
 by bringing into play some of the worst features of the 
 Catholic faith, draws down disgrace upon this religion, 
 both in France and elsewhere, and not only embarrasses 
 the friends of liberty in that country, but affords its 
 enemies a new pretext for oppressing their fellow- 
 countrymen in this. We have no doubt that the 
 greater portion of the intelligent people of France re- 
 gard these advances of bigotry and Ultramontanism l 
 
 1 In the controversy, to which this state of things has given 
 rise, between the Ultramontanists on one side and the champions 
 of the liberties of the Galilean Church on the other, we find not a 
 few instances of that unfairness which is so common a charac- 
 teristic of theological disputes. For example, Bossuet, in his 
 Defence of the Orthodoxy of the Galilean Church, has said, that, 
 even if the Declaration of 1682 were out of the question, the prin- 
 
 H 2 
 
ioo FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 with disgust. But the spirit of Jesuitism, once put in 
 motion, is not so easily checked ; like the landcrab y 
 it will make its way through all obstacles ; and a people 
 who see established among them, under the sanction of 
 the Government and the Church, a Society l whose stock 
 in trade consists of Plenary Indulgences, and whose 
 members are required, as their sole qualification, to re- 
 peat punctually ' a Pater and Ave par jourj must be 
 indebted more to their own good sense than to the 
 wisdom or good intentions of their Government, if they 
 do not retrograde in freedom even faster than they have 
 advanced till, like their rulers, living only in the 
 past, they come to resemble those people mentioned by 
 Dante, whose faces were turned backwards, and who, 
 accordingly, saw nothing but what was behind them ! 
 
 Almost equally mischievous with this ecclesiastical 
 interference is the direct personal influence which, not- 
 withstanding the interposition of ministerial agency, 
 the monarch still continues to hold over the minds of 
 the whole community, and which must long, we fear, 
 prevent the French from attaining that abstract and 
 constitutional notion of the Royal power, upon which 
 
 ciples on which it was founded, would nevertheless remain unshaken 
 and uncensured : ' Abeat ergo declaratio manet inconcussa et cen- 
 surae omnis expers prisca ilia sententia Parisiensium.' Of this 
 sentence M. de la Mennais, and other Ultramontane writers who 
 quote it, omit all but the first three words ' Abeat ergo declaratio r 
 as if Bossuet had said and meant, Away, then, with the declara- 
 tion I ' 
 
 The Bishop of Hermopolis, in his late exposition of the state of 
 ecclesiastical affairs, has evidently endeavoured to weaken the force 
 of this Antipapal document; saying of it <Que Louis XIV lui 
 donna en quelque sorte une existence lgale, non que ce grand roi 
 voulut en faire un point de doctrine, mais parce qu'il dut penser 
 qu'une declaration approuve par tous les eveques avait qiielqiie cliose 
 de respectable.' 
 
 1 La Propagation de la Foi. 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. ,,,,,-, i 9 i 
 
 not only the theory but the practice of a government 
 like theirs depends. To the mind of a Frenchman, the 
 idea of a king always presents itself in the pompous 
 form and attitude of that portrait of Louis XIV. at 
 Versailles, under which is so ar>propriately inscribed, 
 * Le Roi gouverne par lui-meme ; ' and the language of 
 many of their political writers at this day shows how 
 wholly the safety and convenience of the doctrine of 
 ministerial responsibility is misunderstood by them. 
 The vanity, indeed, of the whole nation makes common 
 cause with the vanity of the sovereign ; and they could 
 more easily dispense with a king altogether, than retain 
 him on a reduced allowance of that prostration which, 
 from habit, it has become a sort of second nature in 
 them to pay. As long as this old ' Grand Monarque ' 
 feeling exists, it must stand considerably in the way of 
 .all advances towards a free and manly tone of political 
 thinking. We have quite enough of such deference to 
 the corporeal part of Royalty among ourselves ; but in 
 France the monarch, in person, meets you everywhere. 
 His wishes enter into the concoction of every public 
 measure ; and there is not a public institution that is 
 not warped by this habitual inclination towards his will ; 
 just as the women of the Grand Turk's seraglio, from 
 their habit of leaning towards their lord, are said to 
 grow crooked on the side at which the Sultan sits. 
 
 The author of the work which has led us into these 
 few general observations, gives the following explana- 
 tion of his motives and design in writing it : 
 
 J'ai voulu, dans les lettres que je publie, tracer en riant 
 tine sorte de Cours d' administration. 
 
 Le libraire les a fait impriiner. parce qu'il les croit amu- 
 santes ; moi, parce que je les crois utiles. 
 
 L'administration envahit tout ; les administrateurs pul- 
 lulent j et pourtant les quatre-vingt-dix-neuf centiemes de 
 
.102 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 la population ignorent completement quelle est la nature de 
 cette force niotrice qui, nous poussant, a coups d'ordon- 
 nances, de reglemens et d'arretes, nous contraint a marcher 
 droit sur la grande route de 1'obeissance. 
 
 C'est une etude a faire : soyons moutons, je le veux bien ; 
 marchons docilement et en troupeaux, puisqu'il y a necessite 
 a produire de la laine, surtout puisqu'il faut paitre, et paitre 
 dans les champs permis ; mais, moutons observateurs, sachons 
 au moins quelle longueur ont les houlettes de nos bergers ; 
 quand et pourquoi ils lancent contre nous leurs chiens 
 devoues ; et, s'il est de notre destinee d'etre tondus, appre- 
 nons du moins Tart de brouter opportunement, et de beler 
 f d propos. 
 
 Elle est innombrable la foule de gens qui paient leur& 
 impots et qui ignorent quelle est la puissance chargee d'ouvrir 
 leur bourse de gre ou de force ; ils ne savent pas le moins 
 du monde par qui est mise en jeu cette grande machine ou 
 vont s'engloutir des portions de leur argent dans des trous 
 appeles douane, octroi, impdt fonder, portes et fenetres, 
 patente, timbre, loterie, &c. ; ce sont autant de casse-cous dont 
 ils ne connaissent point la profondeur. Qui les y pousse ? 
 Peu leur importe : ils savent de pere en fils qu'il y faut 
 tomber, voila tout. Leurs devoirs militaires, civils et poli- 
 tiques, ils les remplissent sous 1'empire de la meme ignorance. 
 
 N'apercevez-vous pas qu'il y a derriere tout cela des 
 ministres, des directeurs et des commis^ des prefets, des 
 procureurs du roi, des gendarmes et des coinmissaires de 
 police 1 ? N'est-il pas a propos d'apprendre comment ces 
 bergers-la se comportent ? de savoir comment ils nous 
 parquent, nous marquent et nous comptent? Yous sentez 
 qu'il peut y en avoir de sorciers, ou plutot de donneurs de 
 sorts ; on en peut rencontrer qui derobent le lait des brebis, 
 qui leur tondent la laine sur le dos, et coupent meme le cou 
 a quelques agneaux. 
 
 J'ai voulu faire connaitre 1'importance, la faineantise, la 
 cupidite et 1'egoi'sme de la plupart de ces bergers ; mais, au 
 lieu de monter en chaire et d'affubler la critique de la robe 
 noire et du bonnet carre, je 1'ai habillee a la legere. 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 103 
 
 In proceeding to sketch the manner and habits of 
 official personages, he begins, in due order, with the 
 Minister, and describes to us all that is characteristic 
 in his house and establishment. During the revolu- 
 tionary times, it was not unusual to convert old convents 
 into places of residence for the Ministers. But this 
 profane usurpation no longer exists. The religious 
 corporations having resumed their rights, these houses 
 are now restored to their former purposes ; holy water 
 has purified away all official stains ; the bureaux have 
 been regenerated into cells and confessionals; and, 
 where the chiefs of finance and diplomacy brandished 
 their unholy pens, some well-fed congregationist, like 
 the hero of the Lutrin, now 
 
 Chante les Oremus, fait des processions, 
 Et repand a grands flots les benedictions. 
 
 The following picture of an unlucky Minister, who, 
 after superintending the construction of a new mansion 
 for himself and suite, is just as he has completed it 
 to his heart's content dismissed, affords a lesson on 
 the mutability of ministerial affairs, which might well 
 make some of the new- dwellers of Downing Street 
 tremble in their tenements : 
 
 Cette restitution, aux congregations, des domaines que IB 
 service de Tetat avait envahis, a conduit a la necessity des 
 constructions, necessite ruineuse pour les budgets, surtout 
 pour les contribuables, mais tres-profitable aux architectes 
 des ministeres. Dans ces cas frequens, le plan de construc- 
 tion est ordinairement trace par le ministre en place, qui 
 travaille, en cela, pour son successemv Ceci fournirait 
 matiere & une excellente com^die. II faut voir avec quel 
 soin son Excellence recommande 1'antichambre, la salle a 
 manger, le petit salon, le grand salon, et 1'escalier derobe. 
 Jusqu'& ce que le plan soit bien arrete, les affaires d'e" tat sont 
 mises a 1'arriere. Madame est consultee, et prevoit aussi 
 
104 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 pour les aises de la femme du prochain ministre. Le grand 
 jour la fatigue : les carreaux du boudoir seront en verre 
 depoli. Elle tient a communiquer avec ses enfans sans tra- 
 verser les grands appartemens 1 Yite, un escalier en coli- 
 magon est perce dans le petit corps de logis. II faut que la 
 nourrice et la femme de chambre aient deux appartemens 
 voisins. C'est 1'affaire d'une aile a ajouter au batiment du 
 nord. Les magons ont fini, la menuiserie et la serrurerie 
 sont achevees, les peintures sont seches et ne donnent plus 
 d'odeur; le demenagement a commence. Arrive la fatale 
 ordonnance qui nomme le successeur : il n'a rien a apporter 
 que son bonnet de nuit ; son predecesseur a pense a tout. 
 
 He then describes, with some liveliness, the mansion 
 of his excellence : 
 
 Avant de loger les bureaux, il faut loger le ministre et 
 sa suite. Cela exige tout un hotel. La porte est cochere, 
 cela va sans dire : a droite et a gauche sont plantes des sup- 
 ports qui datent de 1793, et qui, depuis cette epoque, ont 
 regu des lampions en Thonneur de tous les gouvernemens ; 
 car les lampions ne se sont point encore avises d'avoir 
 d'opinion : ils brulent pour tout le monde. Au-dessus de 
 cstte porte courent ordinairement quelques vieilles sculp- 
 tures ; souvent des Hercules avec leurs massues ; quelquefois 
 des Libertes qu'on a depuis decoiffees, conceptions repu- 
 blicaines que Ton doit a des sculpteurs dont le ciseau converti 
 produit aujourd'hui des Saint Jean-Baptiste et des apotres. 
 Dans quelque coin de la corniche, on distingue les restes 
 d'une inscription en lettres rouges, que le temps a insultees ; 
 1'ceil a bientot complete leurs contours, et lit avec facilite ces 
 mots : Propriete nationale cb vendre. On entre, et Ton voit, 
 attenant au massif de la porte, un petit pavilion, de nouvelle 
 construction, qui est destine au logement du suisse : ce pa- 
 vilion se compose de deux pieces par has, et de deux cham- 
 brettes a 1'etage superieur ; il y a la de quoi loger le suisse 
 et sa femme. 
 
 La cour est spacieuse : cinquante carrosses y tiennent & 
 Taise. La, un brin d'herbe ne s'aviserait pas de demander 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 105 
 
 1'hospitalite au petit intervalle qui separe deux paves: il 
 serait & 1'instant foule par un pied de cheval ou de solliciteur. 
 L'herbe a de 1'instinct, et n'ose pousser que dans la cour d'un 
 hopital ou d'une bibliotheque. 
 
 The feelings of a dismissed Minister on leaving his 
 official residence that moment, when 
 
 Soul and body rive not more at parting 
 Than greatness going off, 
 
 are touched upon with suitable pathos ; and the occupa- 
 tions of the fallen functionary on the night previous to 
 his decampment are thus described : 
 
 Un feu des plus actifs a ete allume dans le cabinet du 
 ministre ; il s'y est enferme avec son secretaire intime. L& 
 tous deux passent une partie de la nuit a faire une revue 
 generale des cartons et des papiers. Cette operation est im- 
 portante ; elle a ses regies et ses principes. On fait trois 
 tas : papiers inutiles ; papiers a einporter ; papiers & bruler. 
 
 On range parmi les papiers inutiles les vues d' ameliora- 
 tions et les pro jets d' economic. On laisse toujours cela a son 
 suceesseur. 
 
 Les papiers a emporter se composent de rapports confi- 
 dentiels sur le personnel, et principalement de notes secretes. 
 On n'a dit que la verite, mais alors on etait paye pour cela, 
 et il ne faut pas se faire d'ennemis gratis. On emporte 
 encore, et cela tres-soigneusement, des protestations faites au 
 ministre en place par M. le due, par madame la duchesse. 
 On ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver, et ces temoignages-la, 
 dans une autre occasion, serviront de points d'appui. Enfin 
 on emporte certains travaux d'ensemble, ouvrage de quelque 
 bon commis, oil sont analysees toutes les ressources du minis- 
 tere, et qui pourront, au besoin, aider a la critique de 1'ad- 
 ministration du nouveau ministre. 
 
 On brvile une multitude de petites situations, de petits 
 tats qui mettraient trop promptement le suceesseur au cou- 
 rant du travail ; on brule la minute d'un discours inedit de 
 
io6 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 son excellence a la chambre des deputes ; on brule un projet 
 de reglement sur le rappel a Pordre, le manuscrit d'une 
 petite brochure sur les inconveniens des chartibres parlantes, 
 une foule de documens ou les circonstances nouvelles sem- 
 blent faire ressortir des contradictions; on brule enfin des 
 demandes de places et des denonciations. La flamme s'elance 
 de tous cotes : c'est un feu d'enfer. 
 
 Voila comme un ministre disgracie met de 1'ordre dans 
 ses papiers. II a fini. Cinq heures du matin viennent de 
 sonner. Son Excellence tombe sur le canap6 du cabinet 
 particulier, et, pour la premiere fois, le duvet de son double 
 coussin lui semble dur. Pendant deux heures, elle se re- 
 toui'ne sur le dos, sur 1'estomac, sur les flancs gauche et droit 
 pour chercher le sommeil ; elle allait dormir lorsqu'arrive le 
 reveil-matin que voici : 
 
 Louis, par la grace de Dieu, &c. (Suit 1'acceptation de 
 la demission.) 
 
 Louis, par la grace de Dieu, &c. (Suit la nomination du 
 nouveau ministre.) 
 
 La partie officielle du Moniteur a appris au monde bien 
 des desastres ; mais jamais elle n'en a fait retentir aux 
 oreilles d'un ministre de plus epouvantables que ceux qu'il 
 trouve dans ces ordonnances de remplacemens. Combien 
 ont lu le vingt-neuvieme bulletin d'un oail sec, qui ont senti 
 leurs larmes couler pour un nom mis a la place du leur. 
 On apprend sans fremir 1'aneantissement de cent cinquante- 
 mille hommes, mais la perte de cent cinquante mille francs 
 se peut-elle supporter ? 
 
 II est sept heures du matin. Le ministre a deja relu 
 deux fois les deux ordonnances. Ce n'est qu'un protocole, 
 et cependant chaque mot, chaque virgule, fournit a son me- 
 contentement le sujet d'un long commentaire. II y a long- 
 temps qu'il ne s'impose aucune contrainte devant son secre- 
 taire intime. II s'explique a peu pres en ces termes sur 1'une 
 et 1'autre ordonnance, en forcant le Moniteur, qu'il inutile 
 entre ses doigts, a subir les mille tortiu-es dont son ame est 
 dechiree : 
 
 ' Nous avons ordonne ! Croirai-je jamais que ce soit le 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 107 
 
 roi qui ait ordonne cette injustice ? II fallait mettre, I 'in- 
 trigue a ordonne. Qu'en pensez-vous, monsieur? Ah, 
 Monseigneur ! Je sais d'ou part le coup ; il vient du Comte 
 que ma fermete incommode ; moi seul lui resistais au conseil ; 
 tons les autres saluent son avis. II n'y avait de tete que 
 sur mes epaules. Les sots n'ont pas vu qu'ils ne tenaient 
 que par moi ; il les fera sauter tous ; il les menage encore ; 
 mais une fois qu'il tiendra le budget. Croiriez-vous qu'il 
 tranche du diplomate 1 II m'a serre la main hier ; mais ma 
 destitution etait ecrite dans ses regards, et je 1'avais devinee. 
 Qui pourra, apres Monseigneur, supporter le fardeau d'un 
 ministere si important? Moi? j'en suis incapable: lisez 
 1'ordonnance : ma sante ne me permet pas. Quelle insultante 
 ironie ! Je vous demande si jamais je me suis mieux porte. 
 Ai-je rien dit, rien fait qui put faire soupgonner que je fusse 
 malade 1 M'a-t-on vu, pendant la session, interrompre mes 
 diners? N'en ai-je pas donne six par semaine? Certes, j'y 
 prechais d'exemple et ne faisais point, comme tant d'autres, 
 semblant de manger ; mais remarquez ceci ; ay ant agree la 
 demission. Yous me connaissez : m'avez-vous entendu quel- 
 quefois parler de demission? Jamais, Monseigneur. Ja- 
 mais : mon devouement etait tropconnu, trop eprouve; j'aurais 
 peri au poste ou la confiance du roi m'avait appele. Plutot 
 que de donner ma demission, on m'aurait arrache du minis- 
 tere, oui, monsieur, arrache en morceaux. Le courage de 
 Monseigneur est connu. Et c'est le president du conseil 
 des ministres qui se charge (montrant le Moniteur), vous le 
 voyez, ce n'est pas moi qui 1'invente, qui se charge d'executer 
 cette ordonnance ! Son nom n'est la que pour la forme. 
 Donne a Paris, au chdteau des Tuileries ! il fallait mettre : 
 donne rue d. . . . a Thotel du comte. Au surplus, c'est a 
 tort que je m'offenserais ; cette seconde ordonnance justifie 
 la premiere. Quand monsieur .... arrive au ministere, 
 il est clair que je ne saurais y demeurer. Vous connaissez 
 sans doute les titres de mon successeur ? Monseigneur. . . . 
 Eh ! quine les connait pas? ils datent de 93, de la Conven- 
 tion et du Conseil des cinq cents ; voue ensuite au Directoire, 
 le premier consul en a herite, puis Napoleon, puis le 
 
io8 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 gouvernement royal, puis encore Napoleon, puis encore le 
 gouvernement royal.' 
 
 Cette biographie impromptu du successeur a soulage le 
 cceur de son Excellence ; pendant ce discours, le Moniteur 
 s'est change, sous ses doigts, en une boule parfaite ; elle 
 echappe aux mains de son Excellence, qui, se trouvant ainsi 
 sans occupation, retombe dans un acces de tendresse pour son 
 secretaire in time. 
 
 1 En quittant le ministere, je compte,' lui dit-elle, ' au 
 nombre de mes chagrins les plus cuisans, celui que j'eprouve 
 a me separer de vous. Je vous ai manage un abri. Voici 
 votre nomination de chef de bureau : elle est datee d'hier. 
 (Avec un soupir.) J'etais encore ministre ! ' 
 
 The following receipt for making sinecures might 
 have been of use to some former Ministers of our own. 
 
 Vous me demanderez ce que c'est qu'un secretaire general 1 
 Cette designation presente a 1'esprit une sorte de factotum 
 qui tient la plume pour tout ; c'est precisement le contraire : 
 le secretaire general ne tient la plume pour rien ; son metier 
 est de contresigner. Par exemple, le ministre prend un 
 arrete, fait une instruction, ou adresse une circulaire a ses 
 #gens ; il signe ces documens. Eh bien ! le secretaire general 
 atteste que la signature apposee par le ministre est en effet 
 la signature du ministre. Je me suis toujours demande 
 pourquoi on avait borne la cette espece de legalisation ; car 
 vous concevez que, si la signature du ministre a besom d'etre 
 certifiee veritable, la meme necessite semble se presenter pour 
 la signature du secretaire general ; or, en considerant que ce 
 dernier certificat aurait lui-meme besoin d'etre certifi6 par un 
 cleuxieme secretaire general, il faut reconnaitre qu'on a ap- 
 plique la le commencement d'un plan qui conduirait droit 
 au systeme des infinis. Je suis etonne qu'on 1'ait arrete en 
 si bon chemin, car il offi-ait le moyen le plus sur, et le moins 
 .sujet a critique, de creer des suiecures; il etait du moins 
 consequent dans toutes ses parties, avantage que n'ont pas 
 tous les plans ministeriels. 
 
 Some characteristic traits of Napoleon are given ; 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 109 
 
 and the praise bestowed upon him in this and in other 
 recent publications shows that the injunction under 
 which his name so long lay in France has at last been 
 taken off, and that his memory begins to enter into 
 the full possession of its rights. To a ruler who, like 
 him, took the thinking department all upon himself, 
 nothing was wanting but men who could work ; and the 
 value which he attached to such downright machines 
 of business is well exemplified in the following 
 anecdote : 
 
 Ces chefs de division etaient la piece essentielle, la prin- 
 cipale roue d'engrenage de la machine administrative ; ils 
 recevaient, en premier ordre, la force motrice et la comnmni- 
 quaient a toutes les parties. L'utilit6 de ces excellens 
 ouvriers etait bien connue du chef du gouvernement. Son 
 impatience de savoir, ses questions soudaines, directes et 
 positives, changeaient en une torture les jours de travail de 
 ses ministres. Avant de monter en voiture, ils se char- 
 geaient de renseignemens, de notes et de chiflres ; ils emprun- 
 taient le secours de petits 'calepins, de petits agendas, oil la 
 prevoyance la plus ingenieuse inscrivait succinctement des 
 reponses a toutes les questions possibles. Ces pauvres 
 ministres apprenaient cela par coeur, le matin, le soir; 
 c'etaient leurs racines grecques; mais le malheur voulait 
 souvent que, forts sur la legon de la veille, ils fussent ques- 
 tionnes sur celle du lendemain. Ils restaient courts. 
 
 Parmi les chefs de division se trouvaient souvent des 
 homines distingues, dont de bonnes etudes avaient prepare 
 les esprits & tous les genres de succes. Jetes, par les circon- 
 stances, dans I'administration, qui ofire de frequens moyens 
 de faire ressortir les avantages d'un bon jugement, d'une 
 redaction prompte, lucide et concluante, d'une discussion 
 serree et analytique, ceux-la ne tardaient pas a etre remarques 
 par Napoleon ; ils etaient appeles pres de lui toutes les fois 
 que le ministre repondait de travers. Lorsque le chef de 
 division satisfaisait coui-amment et sans hesitation aux vives 
 interrogations de Napoleon, il revenait ordinairement des 
 
i io FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 Tuileries avec le ruban de la legion d'honneur, ou la dignite 
 de conseiller d'Etat. C'etait la, madame, un des dedom- 
 magemens de ce regne de fer : quaiid un homme avait du 
 talent, chef, sous-chef ou commis, dans quelque rang obscur 
 que la fortune 1'eut place, Napoleon, de son bras herculeen, 
 le saisissait par les cheveux, le posait sur un piedestal, et 
 disait : Voila ma creature. 
 
 Cette disposition de Napoleon a elever le talent qui lan- 
 guissait dans les bureaux, fut un jour bien voisine de tomber 
 a faux. Le trait est assez comique pour etre rapporte. 
 
 Si nous comptions quelques sujets de merite parmi nos 
 chefs de division, vous devez bien penser que le destin capri- 
 cieux ne nous epargnait pas non plus ce qu'on appelle tres- 
 communenient les ganaches. Mais il est de ces ganaches qui 
 ont leur talent propre, leur aptitude speciale, et que souvent 
 un homme superieur suppleerait mal dans la partie technique 
 qu'elles ont 1'habitude de pratiquer. 
 
 M. X. etait chef de division, sous le ministere du due de 
 F. Ce M. X., homme de cinquante ans environ, etait honnete 
 et grand travailleur ; mais son travail se bornait a recevoir, 
 de tous les points de 1'Europe et de la France, des etats de 
 situation qu'il depouillait, dans la vue d'etablir combien de 
 soldats etaient presens sous les armes, combien en conge, 
 combien aux hopitaux. Cette occupation constante avait 
 fait de M. X. une mecanique a additions; il additionnait 
 ses bataillons au bureau, dans la rue, a table, au lit; ses 
 reves et ses cauchemars redemandaient a sa femme epou- 
 vantee une compagnie egaree, une escouade perdue ; il melait 
 ses chifires et ses colonnes a ses communications meme 
 d'amitie ou de simple politesse et vous aurait volontiers in- 
 corpore pour porter au grand complet le regiment ou il lui 
 manquait un homme. M. X. avait en outre la memoire des 
 lieux ou etait situe chaque corps de troupes : sa tete etait un 
 veritable livret d' emplacement. 
 
 Le developpement de Tun de ces vastes projets qui ebran- 
 laient le monde conduisant Napoleon a jeter les bases d'une 
 nouvelle organisation militaire, il travailla pendant plusieurs 
 jours avec le due de F., homme d'un sens droit, d'une raison 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. m 
 
 eclairee, mais dont la memoire n'avait rien de comparable a 
 elle de M. X., qui etait, dans ce genre-la, une espece de 
 Lemazurier. Les seances commengaient a devenir labo- 
 rieuses pour le due de F., attendu que Napoleon demandait 
 incessamment ou etait le depot du 45% du 54% du io8 e , et 
 que le pauvre due, a chaque nouvelle question, feuilletait, 
 tournait, et retournait 1'eiiorme dictionnaire dont 1'avait 
 charge M. X. ' Je crois, dit avec timidite le due harasse, que 
 la presence de M. X., chef de la division du mouvement des 
 troupes, pourrait etre ici utile a Yotre Majeste. Faites-le 
 venir.' 
 
 A ces mots, un officier d'ordonnance part, arrive au 
 ministere, emballe le pauvre M. X., 1'amene aux Tuileries, 
 et le lance dans le cabinet de Napoleon. Toute autre me- 
 moire que celle de M. X. eut ete troublee de ce mouvement 
 et de cette presentation ; rien ne pouvait alterer la sienne. 
 ' Bonjour, monsieur ; ou sont les trois premiers bataillons du 
 48 1 A Eatisbonne Le quatrieme 1 A Ancone, armee 
 d'ltalie. Le cinquieme 1 A Vittoria, 4 e corps de 1'armee 
 d'Espagne. Et son depot? Ostende. Presens sous les 
 armes 1 3,455. Hopitaux ? 223. Les conges ? 44. De- 
 taches 1 Deux compagnies du cinquieme. Aux eaux 1 
 
 -3- 
 
 A ce dialogue, dont 1'epreuve s'etendit immediatement a 
 plusieurs corps, avec la meme rapidit^ dans les questions, et 
 le meme aplomb dans les repliques, Napoleon reste frappe 
 d'etonnement. II tire a part le due de F. ' Vous avez la, 
 lui dit-il, un homme extraordinaire.' Puis, se tournant vers 
 M. X. : ' Vous pouvez vous retirer ; vous aurez de mes 
 iiouvelles. Monsieur le due de F., reprend alors Napo- 
 leon, vous me proposerez demain M. X. pour la place de 
 conseiller d'Etat. Je prie Yotre Majeste de me permettre 
 de lui faire observer que cela n'est point possible. Com- 
 ment ? M. X. n'a que des chiffres dans la t6te ; il ne 
 saurait pas rediger un rapport. Pour etre conseiller d'Etat 
 . . . Eh bien done ! je lui en fais le traitement.' Le bon 
 M. X. avait douze mille francs d'appointemens comme chef 
 de division ; cette seance lui en valut vingt-quatre mille. 
 
H2 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 Ces scenes etaient frequentes aux temps ou tons les bras 
 ne suffisaient point au travail et a 1'activite qu'exigeaient les 
 colossales entreprises du gouvernement/ 
 
 The Commis or Clerks appear to be the class of 
 official persons with which this painter of 'moeurs 
 administratives ' is best acquainted having been him- 
 self, it seems, one of that operative body. Accordingly 
 he describes, with much feeling, the scantiness of their 
 salaries and the superabundance of their work ; the 
 perpetual alarm in which they are kept by rumours of 
 retrenchment, and the never-ending trouble which the 
 motions for papers and amendments of the Opposition 
 inflict upon them. Benjamin Constant, it appears, has 
 as many official maledictions showered upon him in 
 Paris as Mr. Hume has in London. 
 
 Je sais bien que les amendemens m'ont mis sur les dents. 
 M. B. C., auquel on conteste la qualite de Frangais, et qui 
 vient de partir pour trouver quelque bonne preuve capable 
 de clore la bouche a ses adversaires, m'a fait, durant toute 
 une session, passer la vie la plus abominablement laborieuse. 
 Je vous declare, a raison de 1'interet que je porte a mes 
 anciens camarades, que je fais des vceux bien sinceres pour 
 qu'il soit declare etranger, archi-etranger. 
 
 To the great relief, however, of the Clerks, as well 
 as of the Ministers, the last elections have reduced the 
 ranks of the Opposition to a very manageable number, 
 and the Bureaux are now enjoying comparative repose. 
 
 Ce mot ^opposition cause a juste titre I'effroi des em- 
 ployes. II m'a coute tant de peines et de fatigues, que ses 
 cinq syllabes agitent encore tous mes nerfs. On a donne de 
 bien vilaines figures aux diables, aux demons et aux sorciers ; 
 Topposition est plus laide que tout cela : on la voit dans les 
 bureaux, telle que Yirgile a depeint la Renommee : 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 113 
 
 Monstrum horrendmn, ingens, cui quot sunt corpore plumse, 
 
 Tot vigiles oculi subter (mirabile dictu), 
 
 Tot linguae, totidem ora sonant, tot surrigit aures. 
 
 Ceptendant, le dernier trait, 
 Tot linguae, totidem ora sonant, 
 
 tombe tout-a-fait a faux : grace aux dernieres elections, 
 Topposition a perdu plus de quatre-vingts langues : la voila 
 presque muette. Si j'etais encore commis, je ferais des 
 voeux pour qu'elle devint sourde, et qu'elle fut bientot re- 
 duite, comme les eleves de 1'abbe Sicard, a ne plus s'exprimer 
 que par signes. 
 
 The same convenient views of economy on which 
 our own Government has sometimes proceeded, in 
 sweeping away whole swarms of unfortunate clerks, 
 while they left the great consumers of the public treasure 
 uncurt ailed, by a single shilling, of their spoil, are 
 frequently adopted and acted upon by the Ministers of 
 our neighbours, to whom, indeed, we seem to have 
 afforded an 'exemplar vitiis imitabile' throughout. 
 This favourite mode of retrenchment is thus pleasantly 
 exposed : 
 
 Des deputes sont montes a la tribune, et, & 1'occasion de 
 la discussion du budget, Font fait retentir des phrases que 
 voici, et que je n'invente point ; je copie le Moniteur : 
 
 ' Partout d'enormes appointemens, des frais de bureaux 
 immenses, des ARMEES DE COMMIS, surchargent le tr6sor et 
 insultent a la misere publique. Les homines de plume 
 continuent & ecraser 1'etat et a encombrer les administra- 
 tions.' 
 
 Cette sortie, fidelement reproduite par tous les journaux 
 du lendemain, est le triste avant-coureur d'une prochaine 
 organisation. Elle a porte Tefiroi dans le coeur des hommes 
 de plume. Chacun cherche autour de soi s'il a quelque 
 motif de reforme, et tremble d'en rencontrer de trop plau- 
 sibles. Celui-ci, par exemple, se rappelle qu'il a un cousin 
 
 I 
 
IH FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 qui a etc sous-prefet de 1'empire ; cet autre, une soeur qui fut 
 marchande de modes d'une reine dechue. L'un s'accuse en 
 secret d'avoir plaisante une phrase de journal ministeriel ; 
 1'autre, d'avoir ete prendre sa demi-tasse au cafe Lemblin. 
 Tous enfin, en mangeant leur pain sec et en se desalterant au 
 pot a Teau de ministere, craignent d'insulter ct la misere 
 publique ; ils voudraient se dissimuler qu'ils appartiennent a 
 quelque bataillon de ces armees de commis qui surchargent le 
 tresor. 
 
 Le ministre a donne un de ces diners de cinquante 
 converts ou le fumet du chevreuil et la vapeur de la truffe 
 reunissent les suffrages et forment les majorites. II a con- 
 voque pour le soir meme deux directeurs et le secretaire 
 general. Tous quatre sont deja dans le cabinet de travail. 
 * Messieurs, dit Son Excellence, la Chambre crie contre la 
 bureaucratie ; je dois donner 1'exemple d'une grande reforme 
 parmi les employes: il me faut 12 0,000 francs d'economie. 
 Helas ! Monseigneur, vous voulez done mettre a la porte 
 soixante commis a 2 ,000 francs ? Combien sont-ils ? Six 
 cents. Arrangez-vous comme vous le voudrez, il faut en 
 renvoyer un sur dix. Soixante personnes, cela fera bien des 
 rnecontens. Renvoyez done quatre chefs de bureau, huit 
 sous-chefs et vingt-huit commis ; frappez les gros appointe- 
 mens, et vous ferez mes 120,000 francs avec quarante per- 
 sonnes au lieu de soixante ; cela est philanthropique.' 
 
 La base du travail est ainsi arr^tee. II n'est venu & la 
 pensee d'aucun de ces quatre messieurs qui touchent ensemble 
 270,000 francs, qu'en prenant a la lettre le conseil de Son 
 Excellence, ils obtiendraient 120,000 francs d'economie, con- 
 serveraient encore 150,000 francs, et n'auraient personne a 
 reformer. 
 
 Among other tender ties between the electors and 
 the elected, for which the French are indebted to their 
 imitation of us, those small services, vulgarly called 
 jobs, which Ministerial members are in the habit of 
 performing for their constituents, have not, it appears, 
 been overlooked ; but, on the contrary, are considered 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 115 
 
 as among the chief blessings of a Eepresentative Govern- 
 ment. Places in the tobacco department are particu- 
 larly in request among the electors. 
 
 Remarquez que le systeme representatif restaure a donne 
 aux deputes une importance qu'ils n'avaient point sous 
 1'empire : leur vote fait les destinees des ministres. Les 
 ministres tiennent le pouvoir ; c'est bien le moins que leur 
 omnipotence accorde des faveurs et des graces a ceux qui, 
 par le jeu d'une boule, peuvent affaiblir ou detruire cette 
 toute-puissance. Un grand nombre des electeurs provin- 
 ciaux n'ignorent pas cette source de credit des deputes 
 aupres des ministres, et, dans les choix qu'ils font, accordent, 
 par un calcul de localite, leurs suffrages a quelques-uns de 
 ces notables qui ne connaissent dans toute la France que leur 
 departement. 
 
 Ces deputes-la portent dans le cceur 1'enthousiasme de 
 I'arrondissement et le fanatisme de la commune. Leur 
 petite ville n'attend d'eux ni opposition, ni discours, ni 
 amendemens : elle en espere des pas et des demarches ; ils 
 sont de ceux auxquels on dit : 
 
 II faut des actions et non pas des paroles. 
 
 Vous ne sauriez croire jusqu'a quelle profondeur de convic- 
 tion ils sont penetres de ce cote d'utilite de leur mandat. A 
 peine debarques a Paris, les petitions leur pleuvent, et ils en 
 forment de vastes dossiers ou ils prennent soin d'inscrire les 
 noms du directeur, du chef de bureau, du sous-chef et du 
 commis que cela regarde. L'un sollicite la construction d'un 
 petit pont ; Tautre, la percee d'un chemin vicinal. Plusieurs 
 veulent faire des directeurs, des inspecteurs et des maitres de 
 poste; quelques-uns, que nous envoient les departemens a 
 tabac, aspirent a porter leurs concitoyens a tous les emplois 
 que les contributions indirectes ont crees a la suite de cette 
 plante, comme controleurs speciaux de culture, garde-maga- 
 sins, inspecteurs, sous-inspecteurs et chefs de fabrication. 
 
 Under the ancient monarchy of France, all public 
 appointments those of Judges among the rest were 
 
 i 2 
 
n6 FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 
 
 sold by the Crown. 1 This monstrous abuse, which 
 Montesquieu pays monarchy the ill compliment of 
 thinking necessary to it, no longer exists ; as our 
 author says, c Le Eoi vous nomme pour rien, et les 
 Ministres vous destituent gratis.' But if we may be- 
 lieve his statements though public officers no longer 
 buy their places, they continue still, as grossly as ever, 
 to sell the duties of them : and for this spirit of 
 cupidity and venality which, according to him, pervades 
 every class of society in France, he thus satisfactorily 
 accounts. 
 
 Le dirai-je pourtant? la corruption de nos moeurs ad- 
 ministratives a peut-etre une deplorable excuse dans Texempla 
 des jeux de fortune que nos revolutions leur ont presentes. 
 II faut en convenir : entre les deux epoques de 1789 et de 
 1815, c'est-a-dire pendant trente ans, des evenemens extraor- 
 dinaires ont aventureusement deplace toutes les sources 
 des richesses territoriales, commerciales et industrielles. 
 Chacun a pu, au moins une fois, y emplir son broc, comme 
 aux vastes fontaines que le luxe des anniversaires erige a la 
 soif populaire, ou ce succes est reserve au plus fort et au plus 
 adroit. Ces continuels spectacles d'opulences improvisees, 
 ces soudaines elevations de fortunes de cinq minutes, ont 
 repandu dans les membres du corps social une fievre d'or 
 et d'argent qui inegalise et accelere encore ses pulsations, 
 Cette fievre s'est surtout attaquee a 1'administration qui, 
 
 1 By an official account given to Colbert in 1664, it appeared that 
 the number of places in the two departments of Finance and Justice 
 was upwards of forty-five thousand, of which the salaries amounted 
 to more than eighty millions of livres. These offices were all sold, 
 and the money produced by the sale was part of the revenue. 
 Each of these offices carried with it an exemption from taxes ; each 
 new creation, therefore, diminished the permanent resources of the 
 state. The current price of the whole of these offices, at that time, 
 amounted to four hundred and nineteen millions, or about thirty 
 millions sterling. History of Europe, from the Peace of Utrecht. 
 By Lord John Kussell. See this very clever work, p. 213, for the 
 attempt made by Colbert to reform this abuse. 
 
FRENCH OFFICIAL LIFE. 117 
 
 toujours exposee aux rappels, aux reformes, aux retraites, 
 aux conges illimites et a tons les genres de disgraces que les 
 ministres ont inventes, cherche a la hate a se creer des bien- 
 4tres pendant ses courts instans d'activite. 
 
 It is humiliating to be obliged to confess that the 
 same grasping avidity for gain, the same demoralising 
 spirit of speculation which is here described as hurrying 
 away all classes in France, has, from causes similar in 
 their operation, become but too much the characteristic 
 of Englishmen. What the Revolution and its sudden 
 changes of property are said to have done in that coun- 
 try, the Bank Eestriction Act and its consequences 
 have assuredly effected here. A perpetually fluctuating 
 currency has turned commerce into a game of chance ; 
 and, from a nation of gamblers, only the morals of a 
 gambler are to be expected. 
 
 We shall here close our notice of this work with 
 the expression of our sincere wish that France may be 
 half as successful in obtaining the blessings of our form 
 of government, as she has evidently been in copying its 
 corruptions and defects. 
 
 ANNE SOLJSYN. 1 
 
 [MARCH 1827.] 
 
 OUR readers, we think, on looking at the title of this 
 article, will be inclined to exclaim, like the gentleman 
 
 1 1. Anne Soleyn: A Dramatic Poem. By the Kev. H. H. 
 Milman, Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford. 8vo. 
 London. John Murray, Albemarle Street. 1826. 
 
 2. Anne Boleyn: A Tragedy. By Henry Montague Grover, 
 St. Peter's College, Cambridge. 8vo. London. Longman, Kees, 
 Orme, Brown, and Green. 1826. 
 
 [Moore refers to this article in his Diary several times, and 
 definitely under date February 6-11, 1827.] 
 
ii8 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 in the well-known ghost story, when he saw the super- 
 numerary apparition : ' Heavens ! there are two of 
 them ! ' We know not whether the fate of this unfor- 
 tunate queen, affecting as it is in history, has ever 
 before supplied a theme to the Tragic Muse ; but, if 
 not, the omission is now amply made up ; and it is 
 perhaps as an atonement for having refused Henry VIII. 
 one Anne Boleyn, 1 that Oxford and Cambridge now 
 club to furnish the world with two. 
 
 Though Anne Boleyn is not expressly named among 
 the Keformers of the English Church, it is evident that 
 both Protestants and Catholics consider her as nearly 
 entitled to that rank, by the zeal with which they con- 
 tinue to dispute about her history and character. The 
 Catholics, with Cardinal Pole and Father Sanders at 
 their head, have represented her as a young lady of the 
 most light and unscrupulous morality, whose education 
 in gallantry began, from her earliest years, in France, 
 and who not only was the mistress of Henry VIII. 
 before she became his wife, but had been the mistress 
 of Wyatt the poet 2 before she devolved to the king. 
 Not content with this estimate of Anne herself, they 
 extend the same charitable view to all her relations. 
 Her mother, Lady Boleyn, is accused also of an undue 
 degree of intimacy with Henry ; and at a date fixed so 
 conveniently as to make it probable, they think, that 
 Anne may have been his child. The eldest daughter, 
 too, Miss Mary Boleyn, who, they say, first succeeded 
 her mother in the royal favour, is allowed by these 
 scandalous chroniclers no other credit than that of 
 
 1 ' Oxford alone, and Cambridge (says Hume) made .some diffi- 
 culty.' 
 
 2 See, for some remarks on her supposed amour with Wyatt, 
 Memoirs of the Court of Henry tlie Eighth, by Mrs. A. T. Thomson a 
 work of much good sense, impartiality, and research. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 119 
 
 having served as a warning to her young sister, by 
 yielding to the monarch with a degree of facility which 
 the other learned from her fate not to imitate. 
 
 The Protestant writers, on the other hand, describe 
 the whole race of Boleyns as the most moral and ex- 
 emplary personages imaginable. The education of 
 Anne at the French Court they hold to have been no 
 less useful to her morals than people of all religions 
 allow it to have been to her toilette. Mr. Turner, 
 indeed, one of the most recent, as well as most Pro- 
 testant historians of this period, after descanting on 
 the piety and virtue of Anne's great protectress, the 
 Queen of Navarre a lady, by the by, who wrote a 
 book too naughty for any other lady to read and 
 having mentioned that the princess had always a Bible 
 in her hands, says enthusiastically, ' This will account 
 for the attachment which Anne Boleyn afterwards 
 displayed for the Divine Volume and the Keformed 
 opinions, and will tend to make the impartial mind 
 discredit the slanders that attempt to depict her as a 
 vulgar hackney of depravity, in the sweetest and most 
 beauteous season of the female life, the usual spring- 
 time of every virtuous feeling and nobler purpose ! ' 
 
 Eespecting the conduct of Anne Boleyn after her 
 marriage, there is the same variance of opinion and 
 testimony between the two creeds. While one party 
 supposes her to have been eternally occupied in low 
 intrigues with her servants, Norris, Weston, and 
 Smeaton, the other represents her as closeted with the 
 Keformer, Latimer, consulting for the interests of the 
 new faith, and planning measures for the protection of 
 those Protestant merchants who had just then opened 
 a lucrative trade in the importation of Bibles. 1 
 
 1 See, in Strype, her letter on this subject to Cromwell. 
 
120 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 This religious difference respecting Anne Boleyn 
 has not been confined solely to her moral qualities, but 
 influences also the descriptions which the respective 
 parties have left us of her person. According to the 
 Reformed taste, she was the very perfection of loveli- 
 ness ; or, if any blemish (such as the brownness of her 
 complexion and ' certain small moles ' here and there) 
 might be pointed out, they were in her rather graces 
 than blemishes, and might be numbered among 
 
 Those fair defects that best conciliate love. 
 
 Viewed by the old light, however, she wears a very 
 different aspect ; her beauty, like that of Dido in the 
 shades, appears ' per umbram obscuram,' while every 
 defect is brought out in the fullest relief. To a good 
 Catholic's eye her complexion seemed to be yellow, as 
 if from jaundice ; she had ' a gag tooth, six fingers on 
 one hand, and a tumour under her chin ! ' In addition 
 to this choice catalogue of charms, a French medical 
 writer professes to have discovered that she was (like 
 the monstrous busts we sometimes see of Ceres and 
 Diana) multimammia. With the utmost gravity, too, 
 he suggests that, as she had six fingers on her hand, it 
 is probable that she had the same superfluity of toes 
 upon her foot ! elle avait peut-etre egalement six 
 doigts au pied. 9 (Dictionnaire des Sciences Medicales. ) 
 In answer to all this, the Protestant stoutly denies the 
 six fingers, though he owns she had, on one of her 
 fingers, a ' supplemental nail.' So far, however, he 
 contends, from being a blemish, this superfluous nail 
 was rather an ornament than otherwise ; being, as the 
 biographer of Wyatt describes it, 'so small, by the 
 report of those that have seen her, as the woorkmaster 
 seemed to leave it an occasion of greater grace to her 
 hand, which, with the tip of one of her other fingers, 
 
ANNE SOLEYN. 121 
 
 might be, and was usually, by her hidden, without any 
 the least blemish to it.' 
 
 In the curious metrical Histoire d'Anne Boleyn, 
 written, it is thought, by a contemporary, and pub- 
 lished lately from a manuscript in the Bibliotheque du 
 Eoi, we find the following verses, which tell quite as 
 much for the coquetry of the fair queen as her 
 beauty : 
 
 S'elle estoit belle et de taille elegante, 
 Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, 
 Lesquelz sgavoit bien conduyre a propos 
 En les tenant quelquefoys en repos ; 
 Aucunefoys envoyant en message 
 Porter du cueur le secret tesmoignage. 
 
 Much as her form seduced the sight, 
 
 Her eyes could even more surely woo ; 
 And when and how to shoot their light 
 
 Into men's hearts, full well she knew. 
 For, sometimes, in repose, she hid 
 Their rays beneath a downcast lid ; 
 And then, again, with wakening air, 
 
 Would send their sunny glances out, 
 Like heralds of delight, to bear 
 
 Her heart's sweet messages about. 
 
 Among the historians who recount the loves of 
 Henry VIII. we have met with none not even Miss 
 Benger who dwells upon them with such romantic 
 fondness as Mr. Turner, the amiable author of the 
 history of the Anglo-Saxons. This gentleman, in a 
 volume just published, has taken the Defender of the 
 Faith under his especial protection, and endeavoured to 
 vindicate his memory from the ' slanders and revilings ' 
 Tinder which, in his opinion, it has too long lain. In 
 this chivalrous enterprise Mr. Turner professes himself 
 
122 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 to be actuated by a sincere alarm at those c advocates 
 of Komish supremacy who aspire to build once more 
 the Papal monarchy in Europe, or who may expect to- 
 share in the dignities and comforts that would flow to 
 many from its re-possessioned establishments.' How 
 far Mr. Turner's quarto is likely to prevent these 
 alarming persons from ' re-possessioning their esta- 
 blishments ' remains to be seen. Voltaire who was. at 
 all events, no Catholic says that Henry was 'tyran 
 dans son gouvernement, comme dans sa famille,' and 
 that <il merite 1'execration de la posterite.' This,, 
 however, is far from Mr. Turner's view of the matter ; 
 and, though unable to make out any good defence for 
 his hero on the article of wives, the conclusion he 
 comes to on his general conduct is, that there ' was not 
 a sovereign in Europe that, circumstanced as he was,, 
 would have acted otherwise than he did, except as to 
 his queens.' Even ' as to his queens,' too, there are 
 certain traits in the amatory character of the monarch 
 that delight and dazzle the imagination of his sage 
 historian prodigiously. Among others, the constancy 
 with which he clung to Anne during the tedious pro- 
 cess of buying up the consciences of the divines of 
 Europe, is thus tenderly put by Mr. Turner. ' Perhaps 
 the annals of affection or of civil history will hardly 
 furnish another instance of a king's constancy for a 
 beautiful subject lasting nearly six years, in patient 
 waiting for the nuptial tie.' Anne, too, comes in for 
 her share of praise on this score. c It 'may, indeed, be 
 questioned if biography can furnish a parallel of another 
 young lady, of merely gentle birth, resisting for six 
 years the seductive agencies that were surrounding her, 
 when her lover was a king.' Sometimes, however, he 
 seems to doubt whether the Whig principle of resistance 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 123 
 
 to tyrants was quite so strong in Anne as to justify all 
 this praise ; witness the following exquisite passage : 
 ' As far as the fashion of the day, the usual guide and 
 rule of those who live most conspicuously in a court 
 and a metropolis, or a desire of coinciding with the 
 king's opinions could influence Anne Boleyn, she was 
 likely to have been as pliant as the plumage of her 
 head-dress to the solicitations and aspirations of a royal 
 and interesting admirer.' l If this ' interesting admirer ' 
 could have contented himself with the pliancy of poor 
 Anne's head-dress, without proceeding to experiments 
 upon the head itself, we should have felt much more 
 sympathy with Mr. Turner's gallant description of his 
 courtship. 
 
 Lest it should be supposed, however, from what we 
 have said, that this amiable historian has, in his zeal 
 for No-Popery and Henry VIII., attempted to palliate 
 any of the family murders of his hero, we must, in 
 justice to him, extract the following passage, as a proof 
 not only of the horror with which he contemplates Anne 
 Boleyn's fate, but of the sprightly and elegant style in 
 which that horror is expressed by him : ' To consign 
 the long-beloved wife of his bosom, the selected object 
 of his caresses, for whom he had braved and defeated 
 popes, priests, sovereigns, slander, hatred, treason, and 
 peril, to a violent, public, and defaming death ; and by 
 a signature, written in the very apartments where he 
 had feasted upon her smiles ; listened, delighted, to 
 her merry chit-chat, and danced, enraptured with her 
 grace, in all her fearless and unforeseeing gaiety ; 
 ordering the "little neck," which he had so often 
 admired and caressed, to be cut asunder by the but- 
 
 1 P. 475. 
 
124 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 chering strokes of a common executioner, was an act 
 better suited to an Othello, to a relentless Moor, or to 
 a turbaned Turk ! ' 
 
 The famous love-letters of Henry to Anne Boleyn 
 form another topic, on which the tastes of Protestants 
 and Catholics differ very materially ; the delicacy of 
 the latter being much shocked by these productions, 
 while the former regard them as patterns of princely 
 love-making. Dr. Lingard stops short in quoting one 
 of these letters, unwilling to contaminate his page 
 with the rest of it. The Catholic biographer of Car- 
 dinal Pole declares that there are some expressions in 
 them, ( below even the coarseness of Thames Street 
 gallantry ; ' while Mr. Turner, who forgives, as we have 
 seen, the Queen of Navarre's naughty tales, in considera- 
 tion of her laudable leaning to Lutheranism pro- 
 nounces the letters of Henry VIII. to be ' models of 
 respectful love' 'congenial billets,' 'genuine speci- 
 mens of an honourable affection, expressed in the easy 
 language of true feeling and good sense ; reflecting 
 credit upon his mind as a man, and his heart as a king.' 
 Such are the extremes into which partisans, on both 
 sides, fling themselves, and such the absurd spirit which 
 is now at work everywhere, which is driving that ex- 
 cellent Catholic, Mr. Butler, to illustrate his doctrine 
 of Transubstantiation, by the mysterious intermixture 
 of quassia with beer, 1 and which urges that super- 
 
 1 In condemning the rashness of that Protestant oath which 
 declares the doctrines of Transubstantiation, &c., to be idolatrous, 
 Mr. Butler asks (as an illustration of the temerity of their swearing 
 that there is no transference of substance into the sacrament), 
 ' What would the Barons of the Exchequer have said of a person 
 who, on a late trial for the adulteration of beer, had sworn that no 
 quassia had been infused into it, and had afterwards confessed, on 
 cross-examination, that he took what he said upon trust, and had 
 never examined the composition ? ' 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 125 
 
 excellent Protestant, Dr. Southey, to accuse the Catho- 
 lics of the present day of believing that the devil, once 
 upon a time, held a candle to St. Dominic, and so awk- 
 wardly as to singe his own paw. 1 
 
 But to come to our tragedies. The chief objection 
 to the story of Anne Boleyn, as a dramatic subject, is 
 that between her coronation and her execution, the two 
 periods on which the interest or peripetia of the action 
 hinges, there elapsed an interval of three years, a period 
 somewhat too long for even our latitudinarian notions 
 with respect to the annihilation of time and space on 
 the stage. To get over this difficulty, Mr. Grover, 
 who begins with his heroine from the date of her 
 marriage, slides in a little note between the second and 
 third acts, to say ' There is a lapse of three years from 
 this act to the next following one, where the history 
 is renewed at the period of Anne's decline in Henry's 
 favour.' Not content with this chronological advertise- 
 ment, he prefaces the third act with a long rhyming- 
 address, apologising for his breach of the unities. This 
 address he puts into the mouth not of a beef-eater, as 
 would have been English and natural but of the god 
 Mercury, who has no other connexion, we fear, with 
 Mr. Grrover's play than that which his ' jus in animas 
 defunctorum et damnatorum ' gives him. This deity, 
 descending in 'loud thunder,' thus addresses the 
 audience : 
 
 1 See the Vindicice Ecclesice Aiiglicance. Dr. Lingard having 
 endeavoured to get rid of some of these anile tales, which his 
 brother doctor has raked up against the Papists, by discrediting 
 the authority of Osbern, on whose testimony many of them rest, 
 Dr. Southey, in reply, exclaims rhetorically and triumphantly, No, 
 Sir, the ship St. Peter, bearing for its flag the keys and triple 
 crown in a field gules, is not to escape by throwing Osbern over- 
 board, as if he were the Jonas for whose only offence the storm has 
 overtaken her.' 
 
126 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 'Tis noisy travelling this. God bless us ! 
 Did ever mortal hear so great a clatter 1 
 I wish to heavens the good folks of Parnassus 
 Would not make such a noise about the matter ; 
 Stirring the Gods to anger and debate 
 About a thing of very little weight. 
 But here I am, thank heaven ; and now 
 To you, sweet ladies, beg to make my bow 
 And then proceed to tell you why I'm here, 
 From Helicon's fair spring a messenger, &c. &c. 
 
 In these couplets, it will be perceived, there is not 
 the usual compromise of one line for sense and the 
 other for the rhyme ; on the contrary, nonsense usurps 
 both, and rhyme is little thought of between them. 
 The blank verse of Mr. Grrover, though much more 
 pregnant with meaning, dispenses with metre as uncere- 
 moniously as his couplets do with rhyme. Frequently, 
 indeed, be seems to think, with a certain philosophic 
 dramatist of our times, that^ prose broken up, and 
 pointed like verse, ought to satisfy all reasonable 
 people quite as well as poetry. For instance : 
 
 But how did end 
 This story ? 
 
 Queen Catherine. The king, confirm'd of the truth 
 Of the appeal, held himself free of the Moor \ 
 Who was dismiss'd, unharm'd in honour, 
 To his own kingdom ; the heroic lover 
 Linger'd of his wounds ; and, being first married 
 To her for whom he perish'd, shortly died. 
 
 It is said of that admirable actor and worthy man, 
 the late Mr. Kemble, that he would frequently, from 
 the babit of declaiming, talk blank verse in conversation, 
 as unconsciously as the Bourgeois Grentilhomme talked 
 prose ; and one of his theatrical friends used to imitate 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 127 
 
 him in the act of addressing a beggar, to whom he had 
 just given a penny, in the following heroics : 
 
 Kemble. See that thou hast a penny, 
 
 Beggar. (Looking into his hand) I have, sir. 
 
 Kemble. (Turning to his friend) Banister ! 
 
 It is not often that I do these things, 
 
 But when I do, I do them handsomely. 
 
 Much the same sort of blank verse abounds in every 
 page of Mr. Grrover's tragedy. For example 
 
 The King is with Sir Richard CoomLe, and waits 
 To hear the death of poor Sir Thomas More. 
 
 In the management of his plot, Mr. Grrover is not 
 more successful than in his dialogue. The only addition 
 to historical facts that he has hazarded, is founded upon 
 one of those imprudent speeches to her attendants, 
 which formed the grounds of accusation against the 
 unfortunate queen. It being stated in the depositions, 
 that Anne had once bantered her servant Weston on 
 his love for a certain kinswoman of hers, this mistress of 
 Weston is, in the play, converted into a Lady Margaret 
 Lee, who, having 
 
 stooped 
 
 To trust his honour in the shadows gray 
 
 Of the still lawns, 
 
 is afterwards deserted by her seducer. In the height 
 of her despair, she makes an offer of herself to a ' ro- 
 mantic country gentleman,' named Gradsden, whose 
 proposals she had often before rejected ; and this 
 Arcadian squire, though acquainted with her mishap, 
 accepts her as joyfully as if nothing had happened. 
 
 We have some faint recollection of a late traveller 
 on the continent, who tells us, that, having heard some 
 foreigner praised as a * most excellent country gentle- 
 
128 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 man,' felt a strong curiosity to see this pattern of con- 
 tinental squires, and, on paying him a visit, found him 
 in a high garden-turret, dressed in a pea-green coat, 
 and playing on a guitar. That Mr. Grrover's beau-ideal 
 of a country gentleman is somewhat similar, may be 
 perceived by the following extract from a scene, where 
 Squire Gradsden is discovered with his sister : 
 
 Gadsden. Here, sister, is the spot I have design'd 
 To build this fane of my idolatry. 
 Here shall the tablet, with the name emboss'd 
 Of Margaret, honour'd ! Margaret, ever dear ! 
 Be planted ; and about, to guard the spot 
 From the loose rompings of the vagrant winds, 
 These guards shall stand ; and round their russet trunks 
 Bear a rich screen of jessamine and rose. 
 Beneath their shade and shelter I may pass 
 The tedium of dull life ; and, here redlining, 
 Speak of my love to thee. 
 
 In this tender moment, his ' honour'd Margaret y 
 arrives tells him of her adventure with the perfidious. 
 Weston offers herself to him such as she is, ' for better.. 
 for worse,' and is thus carried off in triumph by the 
 6 romantic country gentleman.' 
 
 Gadsden. Most gratefully I take regard so pure ; 
 And in this friendship will raise up a flame, 
 So Heaven consenting, shall illume the land 
 With the pure light of love ; to be a beacon 
 For faithful hearts to go by. Come, Margaret, 
 I must bear off my prize : take you my arm ; 
 Sister, you the other. [Exeunt, 
 
 We should do injustice, however, to this Cambridge 
 poet, as well as to ourselves, who thus take the trouble 
 of reviewing him, did we allow our readers to form their 
 opinion of his talents solely upon the impression which 
 
ANNE SOLEYN. 129 
 
 these unfavourable extracts must have left. Wonderful 
 as it may seem, after such specimens, it is yet true 
 that there is a considerable portion of cleverness and 
 dramatic power in his play. Though never reaching, 
 as may be supposed, the higher flights of talent, he has 
 the merit very rare in this ambitious age of but 
 seldom aiming at them. The efforts of genius itself 
 become painful, when too visibly efforts ; and, even in . 
 those who are most successful in their pursuit of 
 beauties, it is a tiresome fault to be always pursuing 
 them : 
 
 Yous avez de 1'esprit ; c'est chose tres certaine : 
 
 Mais vous courez apres Clnnene 
 
 Comme si vous n'en aviez pas. 
 
 Worst of all, however, are those the far larger class 
 in whom the ambition to shine is unaccompanied 
 by the power ; whose efforts but serve to render their 
 weakness more obvious, and to whom that description 
 of mental impotency is applicable, 'multum cupiit, 
 nihil potuit.' To neither of these classes of writers 
 does Mr. Grrover belong ; while he wants the genius 
 that justifies the ambition of the one, he is also with- 
 out the pretension that brings ridicule on the failures of 
 the other. 
 
 In the dialogue of this play, the more level and 
 ordinary style of our early dramatists is often success- 
 fully imitated ; and, now and then, even their more 
 elevated tone is caught. The following scene, where 
 Jane Seymour attempts to describe the intoxication of 
 heart which she feels at the discovery of the king's 
 love for her, is, for the most part, very gracefully 
 written : 
 
 Enter LADY EOCHFORD and JANE SEYMOUR. 
 Lady Rochford. It is a sweet reprieve from toiling plea- 
 sure, 
 
1 30 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 To breathe thus undisturb'd the silent breeze. 
 And the still sky and solemn-feeling moon 
 Wake in my thought the sense of childish years ; 
 When I did love to play beneath her beam. 
 
 Jane Seymour. I have no sense of by-gone happiness. 
 The present scenes surround and fill my bosom ; 
 And every movement seems to bring new joy. 
 The soft breath of the air, perfumed with spring, 
 And charged with sounds half dying, half reviving, 
 In sinking cadences of broken harmony, 
 AVrap all my heart as in a lovely vision. 
 Sure 't was by moonlight, and in the sweet sound 
 Of falling waters, or what other music 
 Nature doth make, that men first learn'd to love. 
 
 Lady Rockford. Soh ! the sweet spirit moves my lovely 
 
 Jane ; 
 
 These rhapsodies betray the latent fire, 
 Which burns within ; but, ah ! beware. 
 What, now, if I should guess the kindling sun, 
 Which warms your spirits into this quick commotion ? 
 
 Jane Seymour. I ne'er could name the name. Th' un- 
 stable light, 
 
 Not yet bound in its sphere, lives in all regions, 
 And has ta'en no form. 
 
 Lady Rochford. But, when 't is fixed, 
 
 'T will rise as high as is the Royal Sun : 
 Is 't not so, sweet Jane 1 
 
 Jane Seymour. Indeed, I know not ; 
 
 My mind is not advised by my heart 
 Of its true bias ; therefore I pray excuse me. 
 
 We shall give one more extract from a scene be- 
 tween Henry and Anne ' in the State apartment, where 
 the Queen is confined.' Historians tell us that Anne 
 imputed her miscarriage, on this occasion, to the un- 
 happiness which she had felt at the discovery of the 
 king's love for her maid. Her answer, in the following 
 scene, to Henry's reproaches on the subject, is, we think, 
 natural and pathetic : 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 131 
 
 Enter KING HENRY. 
 
 King Henry. What, 'fore God, woman ! how's the Queen ? 
 
 Lady. So please your Highness, but indifferent well. 
 
 King Henry. Indeed ! make way ; and bid the groom 
 Prepare our horses, we would ride alone. 
 What Anne ; how fares the Queen 1 
 We would have wished more welcome in this meeting, 
 And bade our consort hail with better seeming, 
 If she had been more favour'd of high Heaven ; 
 And brought the chief hope of our royal breast, 
 The heir we had look'd for. 
 
 Queen Anne. My Lord ! my Lord ! 
 
 King Henry. Tore God, this puling passion ill beseems, 
 I say it ill beseems King Henry's wife ; 
 The blessing of just Heaven shines not on thee, 
 And this miscarriage dims my royal crown. 
 Is there no other meet employ to suit thee, 
 Whose brows are circled with the crown of state ; 
 But, like a wilful girl of schooling years, 
 You must consult and crave to satisfy 
 This inward grovelling spirit of romance 1 
 Thou hadst a precious charge, which charge was mine ; 
 Not only mine, but my kingdom's; and 't is lost; 
 Gone from us by thy wayward fantasies, 
 Unqueenly and not fitting your estate. 
 
 Queen Anne. It is true. Most gracious Sovereign, 
 Bear with me while I speak. My heart o'erflows, 
 And your reproaches bring the keenest pains 
 Of all I suffer. But, ah ! my Lord, 
 When was your Queen other than such a one 
 As draws this chastening from your- royal lips ? 
 Did ever, ere the crown had pres^'d these brows ; 
 Ere to this giddy eminence, where thy bounty 
 Hath placed your Queen ; or from her humble happiness 
 That Queen was sever'd by your royal favour; 
 Did ever Anne, the favour'd Anne of Henry, 
 Disguise from him the workings of her bosom, 
 
 K 2 
 
1 32 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 Or hide the quick throbs of an anxious heart ? 
 
 My Lord, I own my frailty on this point ; 
 
 I do confess a wounding arrow strikes me, 
 
 Strikes that same anxious heart, and shakes my frame. 
 
 G-ood gracious Heaven ! through the open windows, 
 
 Where looks thy mercy forth upon thy creatures, 
 
 Be thou my comfort in this hour of sorrow ; 
 
 Hold up the broken spirit of my heart, 
 
 That I may bear me meekly ! Oh ! Henry, hadst thou 
 
 Felt but the tithe part of the tithe of woe, 
 
 That hath fall'n on the heart of thy true servant 
 
 Indeed, my Lord, I wander, but my tongue 
 
 Will utter it since that sad hour, the saddest 
 
 Of my lost life, wherein my failing sight 
 
 Met the dread proof of thy forgetfulness ; 
 
 Thou wouldst still pity with so warm a heart, 
 
 That in the very impulses of nature 
 
 Thy natural love would turn again to its channel, 
 
 And I be blest again. But I am faint ; 
 
 I pray you, good my gracious Sovereign, 
 
 Forgive my unguarded speech. 
 
 In proceeding now to notice the play or ' dramatic 
 poem' of Mr. Milman we think it right to mention 
 that, in a preface prefixed by Mr. Grover to his tragedy,, 
 it is more than hinted that the coincidence between 
 himself and Mr. Milman, in their choice of a subject, 
 was not altogether accidental : 
 
 The following drama (says Mr. Grover) was written by 
 me in the months of January and February, 1823 ; and was 
 shortly afterwards, at the instance of a friend, put into Mr. 
 Murray's hands for publication, who informed me that it 
 was consigned to some person for perusal. It was returned, 
 however, with a polite intimation that, in consequence of the 
 recent failure of some poem by Lord Byron, the public taste 
 did not seem disposed towards works of the sort : and, in 
 plain terms, that it was not convenient to Mr. Murray to- 
 publish it. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 133 
 
 This circumstance and other engagements have since 
 taken me from the purpose of immediate publication ; but I 
 always entertained the intention, at some time, of revising 
 and correcting those crudities of composition which I am 
 aware the play must possess, and then to publish it. 
 
 That intention has been accelerated by the publication of 
 Mr. Milman's dramatic poem on the same subject ; which I 
 heard of, for the first time, late in last August. On perusing 
 that work, with the curiosity with which one looks for diver- 
 sities of thought on the same subject, I was surprised to find 
 in it a series of resemblances, both in the plot and expressions, 
 to those of my own poem. 
 
 With respect to these alleged resemblances in the 
 language of the two plays, we have not, we confess, been 
 able to trace them. Those who are at all acquainted 
 with the general style of Mr. Milman, will not require 
 to be told how totally different is the unpretending 
 and somewhat slip-shod gait of Mr. Grover from the 
 lofty and grandisonant march of the professor of poetry 
 of Oxford. The language of tragedy, according to 
 Aristotle, should be nothing more than a selection and 
 skilful collocation * of the language of every-day life. 
 This definition which seems to exclude from the true 
 style of tragedy all the ornament and artifices of poeti- 
 cal diction has been but little attended to by our 
 modern dramatists, and by none less than by Mr. Mil- 
 man, who, whatever else may be the merits of his 
 writings (and we are by no means inclined to under- 
 value them), condescends but rarely to the natural or 
 familiar, and, like the inhabitants of Les Landes, seems 
 always most at home upon stilts. With our neighbours 
 the French, who have no such thing as a poetical 
 
 1 To collocation, indeed, much more than to selection, the ancient 
 writers trusted for the dignity of their style ; as Dionysius Hali- 
 carnass has well shown, Tre 
 
134 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 language, at least since the time of their early poets, 
 the adoption of this rule of the Stagirite is a matter of 
 necessity, not choice. But the pedantic rigour with 
 which they exclude certain words from tragedy l shows 
 how willingly they would establish for it a privileged 
 order of phrases, if they could. One of their dramatists, 
 still living, undertook, some time since, to write a 
 tragedy, of which Charles le Bel was to be the subject. 
 A serious difficulty, however, presented itself. As this 
 monarch, among other violent financial expedients, had 
 recourse to an alteration of the coin of the realm, it 
 was necessary that the word ' monnoie ' should be in- 
 troduced into the dialogue ; and this, the poet feared, 
 was impossible. He consulted the most enlightened 
 and liberal critics, but they all, with one voice, de- 
 clared against the unauthorised word, and he was at 
 length obliged to give up his subject. Mr. Milman is 
 hardly less select and aristocratic in his vocabulary, 
 and often prefers the trouble of going round by a peri- 
 phrasis to the degradation of encountering any of the 
 6 populace of phrase ' on the straight road. For in- 
 stance, the plebeian word f spit ' is awkwardly evaded 
 by him : 
 
 I pray'd my way 
 
 Through mocking men to find thee. Some did spurn me, 
 
 Did almost void their rheum on me. 
 
 And, in one of the early scenes, where Anne Boleyn 
 orders her almoner to dispose of all the luxuries of her 
 
 1 Virgil is said by his critics to have avoided certain words, as 
 too plebeian. Servius supposes that the periphrasis by which he 
 describes the stork in the Georgics, ( Candida venit avis, longis 
 invisa colubris,' was for the purpose of avoiding the common name 
 of that bird. Scaliger, too, represents him as equally fastidious 
 about the name of the cormorant ; but this is a mistake, for the 
 word ' mergus ' is more than once used by him. 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 135 
 
 own table, rather than allow her to want the means of 
 succouring the indigent, we have the following pompous 
 circumlocution, which reminds one of the language in 
 which Apuleius describes the simple process of getting 
 dinner ready, ' prandium fabricatur : 9 
 
 Go, coin those wines, barter for homelier cates 
 Those candied superfluities. 
 
 In the arrangement of the story, Mr. Milman has 
 been much more skilful than his competitor ; nor do we 
 observe any of that ' series of resemblances in the plot,' 
 to which the latter gentleman, in his Preface, alludes. 
 The only invention, as we have seen, upon which Mr. 
 Grrover ventures, is in the instance of Lady Margaret 
 and her unfortunate ' country gentleman,' which, though 
 silly enough, is at least harmless. But we doubt 
 whether the fiction, which Mr. Milman has engrafted 
 upon history, can be regarded as equally innocent or 
 pardonable. Not only has he conjured up a Jesuit 
 some years before that Religious Society was in exist- 
 ence, but he has evoked this personage for the purpose 
 of loading both him and the faith to which he belongs 
 with the chief odium and guilt of Anne Boleyn's murder. 
 Availing himself of the mystery in which the destruction 
 of all the records of the Trial has left the confession of 
 Mark Smeaton with respect to the guilt of the Queen, 
 Mr. Milman supposes this perjured testimony to have 
 been wrung from Smeaton by the arts of a Jesuit, to 
 whom he gives the name of Angelo Caraffa, and who, 
 having assisted in kindling up the imagination of the 
 young musician into a romantic passion for his Royal 
 mistress, succeeds at length in persuading him into the 
 monstrous belief that there is no other way of saving 
 either her life or soul but by falsely accusing her of 
 adultery, and declaring himself the partner of her guilt ! 
 
136 ANNE SOLEYN. 
 
 Mr. Milman, it is true, in his Preface, takes 
 care to intimate that this highly-coloured portraiture 
 of Catholic fanaticism is not intended to minister to the 
 No-Popery prejudices of the day, and has expressed a 
 hope that he shall 6 be considered as writing of former 
 times alone.' But knowing the tactics of his cloth and 
 his party, in bringing the Past to bear upon the 
 Present, we cannot help suspecting that the Catholic 
 Question had some little share in his poetical inspira- 
 tions, and that to apply the words of Dr. Johnson, in 
 speaking of the Tragedy of Cato ' they who affect to 
 think that the Church is in danger may also affect to 
 think that a Play will preserve it.' 
 
 At the beginning of the drama, we find the young 
 minstrel Smeaton introduced, for the first time, into 
 the presence of the Queen, and putting her Eoyal 
 patience to the proof by singing a Theological Song, of 
 no less than 144 lines in length, entitled, ' The Pro- 
 testant's Hymn to the Virgin.' This extraordinary 
 hymn, setting out on the presumption that the Virgin 
 might expect the same sort of adoration to which she 
 had been hitherto accustomed from the Papists, tells 
 her fairly, in the first verse, 
 
 To mortal name our jealous souls deny 
 The incommunicable meed of Deity. 
 
 The singer then proceeds to call her 'lowliest, as 
 loveliest of mortal maids,' and continues in the same 
 strain of pious compliment, 
 
 Thee, therefore, lovelier far we deem, 1 
 Than eye may see or soul may dream 
 
 1 On this subject, * de pulchritudine B. Marias Virginis,' we beg 
 leave to recommend to Mr. Milman 's notice a treatise, written by 
 Nicolaus Susius, a Jesuit, in which the peculiar complexion 
 ((nr6xpoos, or, wheat-coloured) attributed to the Virgin by Nice- 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 137 
 
 still protesting, however, strongly against her claims to 
 adoration, and, throughout the whole canticle, mixing 
 together piety and familiarity, in a way that very much 
 reminds us of a picture which a well-known French 
 Duke exhibits to his friends, as a proof of the high 
 antiquity of his family, where one of his ancestors is 
 represented as taking off his hat to the Virgin, while 
 a label, issuing from the Virgin's mouth, makes her 
 say, ' Couvrez-vous, mon cousin.' Mr. Milman 6 se 
 couvre ' in the presence most Protestantly. 
 
 Having thus adverted to a few of what we think 
 the weak points of Mr. Milman's work, it is with plea- 
 sure we turn to the brighter part of his disk, and render 
 justice to the numerous beauties, both of language and 
 of thought, which abound in this, as in every other, 
 production of his pen. His Jesuit is a powerful per- 
 sonage and, though as much given to cursing as the 
 Defender of the Faith was to swearing, curses well and 
 irom his heart. Sometimes, indeed, his invocations to 
 Hell smell overmuch of sulphur as for instance : 
 
 The game is won ere play'd ! 
 It fires beyond our hopes, the sulphurous train 
 Flames up, they're hurl'd aloft, but not to Heaven. 
 Wake, Hell ! and lift thy gates ; and ye, that tenant 
 The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit, 
 Th' abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness, 
 Where that most damning sin, the damning others, 
 With direst, most remorseless expiation, 
 Howls out its drear eternity, arouse 
 The myriad voices of your wailing ; loud 
 As when the fleshly Luther, or the chief 
 Of his cursed crew have one by one gone down 
 To tread your furnace chambers ! Rise ! prepare 
 The throne of fire, the crown of eating flames ! 
 
 phorus, Epiphanius, and other ecclesiastical writers, is learnedly 
 inquired into and explained. 
 
I 3 8 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 The scenes between this fanatic and Gardiner are 
 written with no common power; and the following 
 extract may give some idea of the vigour with which 
 the poet has embodied the spirit of Jesuitism in this 
 character : 
 
 Angela. Now hear me, Prelate, glut thine ear with tidings, 
 For there are dark and deep delved plots, that scape 
 Even Gardiner's lynx-eyed sight thy soul shall laugh. 
 The Queen 'the Boleyn the false harlot heretic 
 She's in our toils lost, doom'd 
 
 Gardiner. I know the King 
 Is fallen away to a new lust, and hates 
 Where once he doted. But her death ! 
 
 Angela. What ! versed 
 
 In courts like Gardiner, and not know how close 
 Death waits upon the blasting hate of Kings 1 
 I tell thee, she shall die die on a scaffold ! 
 Die branded like a base adulteress ! 
 Die like a heretic the Church's foe ! 
 Die unabsolved, unhousel'd die for ever ! 
 
 Gardiner. Ay, but her blameless life ; the love she wins- 
 By subtle sorcery from every rank. 
 
 Angela. Blameless ! an heretic avow'd, proclaim'd 
 The nursing mother of Apostasy ! 
 Heap crime on crime, load all her soul with blackness, 
 Make her name hideous to the end of time ; 
 Yet is she not, to a true son of the Church, 
 More odious, more abominable all sins 
 Are in that one ! Adultery, murder, nought 
 Is wanting but desire or meet occasion, 
 And the loose heart gives way. 
 
 Gardiner. But this Jane Seymour 
 Is of no better brood. 
 
 Angela . What reck we who 
 
 Or what she is, she shall give place t' another, 
 Another still, till the fierce flame burns out, 
 And shame, remorse, and horror, all the furies 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 139 
 
 That howl and madden round the guilty bed, 
 Seize on the abject Monarch ! He shall lick 
 The dust beneath our feet, and pay what price 
 The Church ordain, for tardy reconcilement. 
 
 Gardiner. Brother, draw near ! thy speech hath bodied 
 
 forth 
 What hath come floating o'er my secret thought. 
 
 Angela. And own'st thou not Heaven's manifest inspira- 
 tion 1 
 
 Gardiner. So thou wilt bring to pass what Gardiner left 
 In unaccomplish'd vision ! Man of men, 
 What fame shall wait, what canonising glory 
 On sainted Angelo. 
 
 Angela. While Stephen Gardiner 
 
 Must sink into the baser rank. Oh ! fear not, 
 Nor jealously mistrust me, lest I cross 
 Thy upward path : I have forsworn the world, 
 Not with the formal oaths that burst like flax, 
 But those that chain the soul with triple iron. 
 Earth hath no guerdon I may covet, none 
 I may enjoy. Thou, Stephen Gardiner, 
 Shalt rule submissive prelates, peers and kings, 
 Loftiest in station, as in mind the mightiest ; 
 And a perpetual noon of golden power 
 Shall blaze around thy lordly mitred state. 
 I 'm girt for other journeys : at that hour, 
 When all but crown'd the righteous work, this Isle 
 Half bow'd again to the Holy See, I go 
 Far in some savage land unknown, remote 
 From civilised or reasonable life, 
 From letters, arts where wild men howl around 
 Their blood-stain'd altars to uplift th' unknown, 
 Unlawful Crucifix : I go to pine 
 With famine ; waste with slow disease ; the loathing 
 And scorn of men. And when thy race is run, 
 Thou, Winchester, in marble cemetery, 
 Where thy cathedral roof, like some rich grove, 
 Spreads o'er, and all the walls with 'scutcheons blaze, 
 
140 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 Shalt lie. While anthem'd choirs and pealing organs, 
 
 And incense clouds, and a bright heaven of lamps, 
 
 Shall solemnise thy gorgeous obsequies ; 
 
 O'er my unsepulchred and houseless bones, 
 
 Cast on the barren beach of the salt sea, 
 
 Or arid desert, where the vulture flaps 
 
 Her dreary wings, shall never wandering priest 
 
 Or bid his beads or say one passing prayer. 
 
 Thy memory shall live in this land's records 
 
 While the sea girds the isle ; but mine shall perish 
 
 As utterly as some base beggar's child 
 
 That, unbaptised, drops like abortive fruit 
 
 Into unhallow'd grave. 
 
 Gardiner. Impossible ! 
 
 Home cannot waste on such wild service minds 
 Like thine, nor they endure the base obedience. 
 
 Angela. Man of this world, thou know'st not those who 
 
 tread 
 The steps of great Ignatius, those that bear 
 
 The name of Jesus and his Cross. I've sunk 
 For ever title, rank, wealth even my being ; 
 
 And, self-annihilated, boast myself 
 
 A limb, a nameless limb, of that vast body 
 
 That shall bespread the world, uncheck'd, unbraced, 
 
 Like God's own presence, everywhere, yet nowhere 
 
 Th' invisible control, by which Rome rules 
 
 The universal mind of man. On me 
 
 My Father's palace gates no more shall open, 
 
 I own no more my proud ancestral name, 
 
 I have no property even in these weeds, 
 
 These coarse and simple weeds I wear ; nor will, 
 
 Nor passion, nor affection, nor the love 
 
 Of kindred touch this earth-estranged heart. 
 
 My personal being is absorb'd and dead. 
 
 Thou think'st it much with cilice, scourge, and fast 
 
 To macerate thy all too pamper'd body, 
 
 That thy sere heart is seal'd to woman's love, 
 
 That child shall never climb thy knees, nor call thee 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 141 
 
 His father : On the altar of my God 
 I've laid a nobler sacrifice, a soul 
 Conscious it might have compass'd empire. This 
 I've done ; and in no brief and frantic fit 
 Of youthful lust ungratified in the hour 
 Of disappointed pride. A noble born 
 Of Home's patrician blood, rich, letter'd, versed 
 In the affairs of men ; no monkish dreamer 
 Hearing Heaven's summons in ecstatic vision. 
 God spoke within this heart but with the voice 
 Of stern deliberate duty, and I rose 
 Resolved to sail the flood, to tread the fire 
 That's nought to quench all natural compunction, 
 To know nor right nor wrong, nor crime nor virtue, 
 But as subservient to Home's cause, and Heaven's. 
 I've school'd my haughty soul to subtlest craft, 
 I've strung my tender heart to bloodiest havoc, 
 And stand prepared to wear the martyr's flames 
 Like nuptial robes ; far worse, to drag to the stake 
 My Mend, the brother of my soul if thus 
 I sear the hydra heads of heresy. 
 
 The following scene between Henry and Anne will 
 enable the reader to compare, more immediately, Mr. 
 Milman's mode of treating the subject with that of his 
 Cambridge competitor, Mr. Grover. The Queen, it 
 should be stated, had just been solicited by Cranmer to 
 intercede with Henry in behalf of three venerable 
 Carthusians, who, for refusing to acknowledge the 
 King's supremacy, had been condemned to death. 
 
 Queen. My Liege, 
 
 I have been sued to be a suppliant 
 For those that, fall'n beneath thine high displeasure 
 
 King. 'Sdeath ! ye Ve our answer as I pass'd but now 
 Jane Seymour was set on t' entreat our mercy ; 
 We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied 
 
142 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 At every step with the old tedious tale 
 Art answer'd 1 
 
 Queen. What I am I owe your Grace, 
 
 And in most deep humility confess it \ 
 But being as I am, your Grace's wife, 
 I knew not that my maid's rejected prayer 
 Precluded further speech 
 
 King. Why, how now, wayward ! 
 
 Your maid I good truth, Sir Thomas Boleyn's daughter's 
 Right nobly served. I'd have- you know, proud woman, 
 What the King gives the King may take away 
 Who raised up one from dust may raise another. 
 Look to thyself, I say thou may'st have cause ; 
 Look, and be wise be humble. For your Grace 
 We've business in our Council not a word 
 Our Queen's our subject still. 
 
 Queen (alone}. And this is he, 
 
 The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly 
 Where met the splendour of all courts ! When Europe 
 Sent its three Sovereigns to that golden field, 
 Which won all eyes with liberal noble bearing ? 
 Which charni'd all ears with high and gracious speech? 
 Which made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth 
 But English Henry 1 by his pattern all 
 Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their language, 
 And he that most resembled England's King 
 Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he, 
 That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet, 
 Making the air melodious with his words 1 
 So fearful to offend, having offended 
 So fearful of his pardon, not myself 
 More jealous of my maiden modesty ; 
 The bridegroom of my youth, my infant's Father ! 
 Ah ! me, my rash and inconsiderate speech, 
 My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature 
 This shame upon mine head : he'll turn, he'll come 
 My prodigal back to mine heart if not, 
 I'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven 
 
ANNE BOLEYN. 143 
 
 His faithful wife ; then let him cast me from him, 
 
 Spurn, trample me to dust the foe, the stranger, 
 
 That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty, 
 
 Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own oracle, 
 
 To love where most he's hated. I will live 
 
 On the delicious memory of the past, 
 
 And bless him so for my few years of bliss, 
 
 My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach ; 
 
 I'll be as one of those sweet flowers, that crush'd 
 
 By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it, 
 
 And breathes in every step its richest odours. 
 
 We shall add but one more extract the speech of 
 Anne Boleyn, when, having landed at the Tower, she is 
 about to enter her prison. The touch of pathos at the 
 conclusion is peculiarly happy : 
 
 Kingston (to the Guard). Advance your halberds. 
 
 Queen. Oh ! sir, pause one look, 
 
 One last long look, to satiate all my senses. 
 Oh ! thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged 
 With the faint amber of the setting sun, 
 Where one by one steal forth the modest stars 
 To diadem the sky : thou noble river, 
 Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks 
 With gentle downfall, and around the keels 
 Of those thy myriad barks makest passing music : 
 Oh ! thou great silent city, with thy spires 
 And palaces, where I was once the greatest, 
 The happiest I, whose presence made a tumult 
 In all your wondering streets and jocund marts : 
 But most of all, thou cool and twilight air, 
 That art a rapture to the breath ! The slave, 
 The beggar, the most base down-trodden outcast, 
 The plague-struck livid wretch, there's none so vile, 
 So abject, in your streets, that swarm with life 
 They may inhale the liquid joy Heaven breathes 
 They may behold the rosy evening sky 
 
144 ANNE BOLEYN. 
 
 They may go rest their free limbs where they will : 
 
 But I but I, to whom this summer world 
 
 Was all bright sunshine ; I, whose time was noted 
 
 But by succession of delights -- Oh ! Kingston, 
 
 Thou dost remember, thou wert then Lieutenant. 
 
 'Tis now how many years 1 my memory wanders 
 
 Since I set forth from yon dark low-brow'd porch, 
 
 A bride a monarch's bride King Henry's bride ! 
 
 Oh ! the glad pomp, that burn'd upon the waters 
 
 Oh ! the rich streams of music ,that kept time 
 
 With oars as musical the people's shouts, 
 
 That call'd Heaven's blessings on my head, in sounds 
 
 That might have drown'd the thunders -- I've more need 
 
 Of blessing now, and not a voice would say it. 
 
 This speech, though elegant as a poetical exercise, 
 is both too long and too laboured for the situation of 
 the speaker ; nor do we see much in it that would 
 induce us to regret its reduction to the more natural, 
 as well as more dramatic limits, of the last few simple 
 exclamations of Iphigenia : 
 
 'Iw lit) ! 
 
 Atoe TS ^eyyoc, ertpov 
 
 "Erepov atoiva, 
 
 Kcu palpal' oiKi]ao}JLV. 
 
 Xalpe fjioij fyiXov <f)aog I 
 
 Oh, light of day ! Oh firmament of Jove ! 
 
 Another life I seek another world 
 
 Must be my dwelling now dear Light, farewell ! 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 145 
 
 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 1 
 [OCTOBER 1827.] 
 
 THERE is no subject that we would sooner recommend 
 to any male or female author, in distress for a topic, 
 than a History of the Private Theatres of Europe. It 
 has been said of Gribbon, that his work is ' like the 
 great whirlpool of Norway, which sucks into its eddy 
 bears, whales, ships, and everything that comes within 
 any possible reach of its engulfing streams ; ' and 
 this, after all, in much humbler walks of literature 
 than that of Gribbon, is the grand secret of book- 
 making. To find a subject which is either capable, or 
 may be made so by a little management, of pressing all 
 other possible subjects into its service, is the grand 
 desideratum to which the quarto-monger and the man 
 of many volumes should aspire. Bayle, we know, con- 
 trived, in his ' Thoughts on the Comet', to make the 
 world acquainted with his thoughts on every other 
 existent topic, from Jesuits and Jansenists, and the 
 Peace of Nimeguen, to Crusades, Demons, and the ever 
 memorable Bishop of Condom. Berkeley has converted 
 his Essay on Tar Water to purposes no less omnigenous 
 and incongruous ; the principles of attraction and 
 repulsion, the story of Isis and Osiris, the Anima 
 Mundi of Plato, and the Doctrine of the Trinity, all 
 administered to the reader through the somewhat 
 nauseous medium of Tar Water. 
 
 With much less abuse of the privilege of discursive- 
 ness than has been assumed by either of those two 
 
 1 The Private Theatre of Kilkenny, with Introductory Observations 
 on other Private Theatres in Ireland, before it was opened. 4to. pp. 
 134- 1825. 
 
 L 
 
146 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 celebrated sceptics, 1 the author of a History of Private 
 Theatricals might interweave with his subject, not only 
 an account of the rise and progress of the drama in 
 the different countries of Europe, but by availing him- 
 self of the splendid names which have, from time to 
 time, illustrated the annals of Private Theatres, he 
 might, with perfect relevancy, branch out into such a 
 rich variety of anecdote and biography, as few subjects 
 even among the best adapted for this sort of literary 
 Macedoine could furnish. By a converse of the pro- 
 position, c all the world's a stage,' he might, with little 
 difficulty, succeed in making his ' stage all the world.' 
 
 Among the ancient Greeks there are, we believe, 
 no traces of private theatrical performances ; and the 
 reason may be, that as, in the eyes of that enlightened 
 people, no stigma attached itself to the profession of 
 an actor, the wealthy and high-born might indulge, 
 not only with impunity but with honour, in their taste 
 for the practice of that art on the boards of the public 
 theatres. ' It was allowed,' says Montaigne, c to persons 
 of the greatest quality to follow the profession of the 
 stage in Greece.' The testimony of Livy to the same 
 point is decisive : speaking of the tragic actor, Aristo, 
 he says, ' Huic et genus et fortuna honesta erant, nee 
 ars, quia nihil tale apud Grsecos pudori est, ea 
 deformabat.' Some of the greatest dramatic poets of 
 Greece, ^Eschylus, Sophocles, and Aristophanes, thought 
 it not unbecoming to take a part in the representation 
 of their immortal works ; nor did the fellow-countrymen 
 and contemporaries of Demosthenes feel themselves 
 disgraced by having a great actor, Aristodemus, their 
 representative at the Court of Philip. 
 
 1 ' That all the arguments of Berkeley (says Hume), though 
 otherwise intended, are, in reality, merely sceptical, appears from 
 this, that they admit of no answer, and produce no conviction.' 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 147 
 
 This high appreciation of the ministers of the 
 Dramatic Muse was worthy of the taste and liberal 
 feeling of such a people. If the interpreters of the 
 oracles of the gods derived a character of sacredness 
 from their very task, those who gave utterance to the 
 written spells of genius might with equal justice 
 participate in the homage paid to genius itself. 
 
 Far different was the estimation in which actors 
 were held among the Eomans. Their profession was 
 pronounced by the law to be infamous, 1 and no person 
 of free birth was to be found among its members. The 
 pathetic address of Laberius, the Koman knight, on 
 being forced by Caesar to appear on the public stage, is 
 well known : 
 
 Twice thirty years I've borne a spotless name, 
 But foul dishonour brands, at length, my brow ; 
 
 From home this morn a Koman knight I came, 
 And home a jester I'm returning now. 
 
 Ah, would that I had died, ere men could say, 
 
 He has outlived his honour by a day. 2 
 
 Where such ignominy was attached to the practice 
 of acting in public, it was natural that the taste for 
 theatrical personation, which is sure to spring up in all 
 
 1 The defence which a writer in the Memoires de VAcademie at- 
 tempts to set up for the illiberal law of the Komans, is mere sophis- 
 try : < Les Comediens n'etoient reputes infames a Home que par le 
 vice de leur naissance, et non pas a cause de leur profession ; et si 
 elle n'eut 6te exercee que par des hommes libres, ils auroient eu 
 autant de respect que leur art en merite.' Whether the law pro- 
 nounced the profession itself to be infamous, or attained the same 
 end by allowing none but infamous persons to practise it, makes 
 assuredly no difference in the real state of the case. 
 
 2 ' Ego, bis tricenis annis actis sine nota, 
 Eques Romanus ex lare egressus meo, 
 Domum revertar mimus : nimirum hoc die 
 Uno plus vixi mihi quam vivendum fuit.' 
 r 2 
 
148 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 cultivated communities, should seek a vent for its 
 indulgence in private performances. Accordingly, we 
 find that there was a species of satirical drama, called 
 Atellanse or Exodia, in which the free and noble youths 
 of Rome not only took delight to perform, but, with 
 the true spirit of aristocratic exclusiveness, reserved 
 the right of appearing in such dramas wholly to them- 
 selves ; nor would suffer them, as Livy tells us, ' to be 
 polluted by common histrions.' 
 
 On the arrival of dramatic poesy among the Italians, 
 it was in private theatres and, for a long period, in 
 private theatres only that any advances in the culti- 
 vation of the art were made. The slow growth, indeed, 
 of this branch of literature in that country, and the 
 few fruits of any excellence which it has even yet put 
 forth, would seem to warrant the conclusion to which 
 the French critics have long since come, that the 
 Italians are not, any more than their great ancestors, 
 a dramatic people. It is certain that their literature 
 had produced its brightest and most desirable wonders 
 before even the ordinary scenery and decorations of a 
 theatre were introduced among them ; and the poetry 
 of Dante and Petrarca, and the prose of Boccaccio, had 
 carried their beautiful language to its highest pitch of 
 perfection, near a century and a half before a single 
 play in this language was attempted. Nothing can, 
 indeed, more strongly prove how little dramatic ideas 
 or associations were afloat in the time of Dante, than 
 that he should have ventured to call his shadowy and 
 awful panorama of Hell, Heaven, and Purgatory a 
 < Comedy.' 
 
 During all this interval, from the time of the great 
 triumvirate of the fourteenth century to near the close 
 of the fifteenth, an occasional representation of a play 
 of Plautus or Terence, with now and then a drama, 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 149 
 
 written in the same language, by some academician of 
 Siena, 1 and acted, or rather recited, by himself and 
 his brethren, were the only signs of life that the 
 dramatic muse of Italy exhibited. At length, towards 
 the end of the fifteenth century, the poet and scholar 
 Politian so bepraised during his lifetime, and so 
 wholly unread almost ever since presented his country- 
 men with the first native Italian tragedy ; 2 and the 
 Orfeo was acted before Lorenzo the Magnificent, amid 
 the acclamations of all the wits and beauties of Florence. 
 What an audience might not imagination conjure 
 up at a private performance of the Orfeo ! ' Who is 
 he, with the princely air and manly form, 3 to whose 
 remarks Lorenzo de Medici listens with such deference ?' 
 ' It is the all-accomplished Lord of Mirandola, the 
 phenix of the wits of his age, to whom every science, 
 every art, every language is familiar, but upon whose 
 young brow the seal of death is already fixed, as the 
 astrologers have already pronounced that he will not 
 pass his thirty-second year.' 4 ' And that child, with 
 
 1 The academicians of Siena were long famous for their thea : 
 trical exhibitions. The Intronati of that learned city played the 
 ' Amor Costante ' of the Archbishop Piccolomini before Charles V., 
 when he visited Siena in 1536; and the Ortensio ' of the same 
 archiepiscopal dramatist was performed by them before Cosmo I., 
 in 1560. 
 
 2 La premiere tragedie qui parut sur le Theatre, en bon style, 
 et avec quelqne idee d'une action regulierement conduite, est 
 1'Orphee de Ange Politien.' Ginguere. Doctor Burney traces the 
 origin of the Italian Opera to the Orfeo. 
 
 3 < H etoit le plus bel homme de son siecle il avoit la mine 
 haute, la taille extraordinaire.' Varillas, Histoire Secrete de la 
 Maison de Medicis. 
 
 4 < Les Astrologues dresserent 1'Horoscope du Prince de la Miran- 
 dole, et trouverent deux choses remarquables ; 1'une, qu'il ne met- 
 troit pas la derniere main & son ouvrage centre eux, et 1'autre, qu'il 
 ne passeroit pas 1'sige de trente-deux ans. Us lui envoyerent signi- 
 fier cet arret, dont il se mocqua. Mais 1'evenement justifia leur 
 prediction.' Varillas. 
 
150 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 the cardinal's hat in his hand, whose red shoes and 
 robes proclaim him already a counsellor of the Pontiff? ' 
 6 In that boy you see the future Leo the Tenth, 1 the 
 destined ornament of the Papacy, its first and its last.* 
 ' But him yonder, with the neck a little awry ; 2 with 
 that portentous nose and purblind eyes ? ' 3 ' 'Tis 
 Politian himself, the author of the tragedy ; and she, 
 that fair maid, to whom he has just handed a Greek 
 extempore, which she reads with the same facility with 
 which it was written, is the beautiful and learned 
 Alessandra Scala herself a distinguished private 
 actress, as the verses of Politian, on her performance of 
 the Electra of Sophocles, testify. 4 With how little 
 success the poet woos her may be collected from his 
 extempore : 
 
 Ka/)7rov epol TroQiovn, av rt' avftta. fyvXXa. TE jjiovr'ov 
 Awp?7, orjpaivovff* orn /ittr^v iroj'eu). 
 
 To teach me, that in hopeless suit 
 
 I do but waste my sighing hours, 
 Cold maid, whene'er I ask for fruit, 
 
 Thou givest me nought but leaves and flowers.' 
 
 The example set by Politian was soon followed ; 
 and, an Italian comedy being still a desideratum, the 
 want was, not long after, supplied by Cardinal Bibbiera, 
 whose clever but licentious comedy, the Calandra, was 
 honoured with no less distinguished a place of repre- 
 sentation than the private apartments of Leo the Tenth 
 
 1 Leo was nominated a cardinal in his thirteenth year. 
 2 Sed quid te cruciat, reflexa colla 
 Si interdum gero ? Polit. 
 
 3 ' Facie nequaquam ingenua et liberali, ab enormi prgesertim 
 naso, subluscoque oculo perabsurdo.' Paul. Jov. 
 
 4 There are several poems in praise of this lady among the works 
 of Politian ; and there is also an answer of hers, which consider- 
 ing that it is Greek is very modest and unassuming. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 151 
 
 at the Vatican. 1 Gay times ! when cardinals wrote 
 ' right merrye ' farces, and popes were their audience. 
 Had Leo contented himself with the classic indulgences 
 of this world, without opening a mart for indulgences 
 in the next, Luther would have wanted his best card, 
 and the papacy might have remained a little longer 
 unshaken. 
 
 The illusions of scenic decoration which had been 
 first introduced, it is said, by Pomponius Lsetus, in a 
 play performed by his scholars at Eome 2 were at this 
 period not only universally brought into play, but 
 assisted by all that splendour and pageantry in which 
 the luxurious prelates and nobles of Italy delighted. 
 Among the givers of these dramatic fetes, the Dukes 
 of Ferrara shone pre-eminent, and Hercules I. was the 
 author of an Italian translation of the Mena3ehmi, 
 which was acted at Ferrara in 1486. Ariosto furnished 
 the design for the theatre of the court, which stood on 
 the spot now occupied by the Chiesa Nuova ; and 
 ' such.' says Gibbon, ' was the enthusiasm of the new 
 arts, that one of the sons of Alfonso I. did not disdain 
 to speak a prologue on this stage.' 3 
 
 But, among all the amateur actors of this period, 
 he of whom the lovers of private theatricals have most 
 reason to be proud is the great Nicholas Machiavel, 
 he, the mighty searcher of courts, who stripped the 
 leaves off the sceptre of tyrants, and showed the naked 
 iron underneath. This author of the profoundest book 
 ever written was not only a comic writer of first-rate 
 power, but a comic actor, whose mimicry made car- 
 
 1 Baldastarre Peruzzi is said to have painted the scenery for 
 this representation at the Vatican. 
 
 2 By some the invention of painted scenes is attributed to 
 Cardinal Kiario, nephew of the unprincipled Sixtus IV. 
 
 3 Antiquities of the House of Brunswick. 
 
152 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 dinals and popes (as he himself expresses it) ' smascel- 
 larsi della risa.' How delightedly might a historian of 
 private theatres dwell on all the details of the corre- 
 spondence between Gruicciardini l and Machiavel, re- 
 specting the plan of the former to induce his friend to 
 visit him at Modena, by getting up a representation of 
 the c Mandragora,' for his amusement. The supper of 
 Machiavel at Florence, with the cantatrice, la Barbera ; 
 his proposals to her to accompany him to the carnival 
 at Modena, and his anxiety for her assistance in the 
 cast of his comedy, all these little details derive a 
 preciousness from the reputation of the men concerned 
 in them, and from that charm which genius communi- 
 cates to everything connected with its name. 
 
 Nor was it only among the profane ones of the 
 world that this rage for private acting diffused itself. 
 Even the recesses of the monastery and the convent 
 were not sacred from the * soft infection,' and the mask 
 of Thalia was often found in the same wardrobe with 
 the cowl and the veil. The wit of Plautus was not 
 thought too coarse for the lips of the monks of S. 
 Stefano, 2 and even the fair nuns of Venice were allowed 
 to pour forth their souls in tragedy. 3 As might be 
 expected, however, some of these sequestered young 
 actresses showed a disposition to convert their fictitious 
 loves into real ones, and an order was accordingly issued 
 prohibiting all such performances in convents, ' per 
 1'indecenza della rappresentazione e delle maschere,' 
 and restraining the poor stage-struck nuns, in future, to 
 the innocent indulgence of a dull oratorio. 
 
 1 The historian, who was then Governor of Modena. 
 
 2 There is a published translation of the Asinaria of Plautus, 
 which, as appears from the title-page, was * rappresentata nel monas- 
 tero di S. Stefano in Venezia, 1528.' 
 
 3 Addison speaks of the theatrical amusements of the nuns at the 
 time when he visited Venice, 1701. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 153 
 
 As this passion for private acting increased, new 
 inventions and new luxuries were devised, to give a zest 
 to the pursuit. The theatrical dilettanti of Vicenza, 
 not content with their temporary stage in the Palazzo 
 della Ragi one, applied to their brother academician, 
 Palladio, to furnish them with the design of a theatre, 
 worthy of the classic objects of their institution; c ad- 
 dattata ai loro geniali esercizi, fra quali v'era quello 
 delle tragiche rappresentazioni.' In the beautiful 
 structure which he planned for them was performed, in 
 the year 1 585, the tragedy of (Edipus ; and the interest 
 of the representation was, we are told, most touchingly 
 increased by the circumstance of the sightless king 
 being played by Luigi Grroto, the ' blind man of Adria,' 
 as he was called, himself a dramatic poet of no ordinary 
 celebrity and power. 
 
 But it was not alone amid the pomp of a ducal hall 
 or surrounded by the forms of Palladian architecture 
 that these worshippers of the drama indulged their 
 devotions. That fine canopy, which the evening sky of 
 Italy affords, not unfrequently formed their only theatre. 
 For pastoral subjects, such as the Aminta and the 
 Pastor P^ido, the natural scenery of gardens and groves 
 was thought to be the most appropriate ; and vestiges 
 of one of these rural theatres, in which the sweet dia- 
 logue of Ariosto and Tasso was recited by the ' donne ' 
 and ' cavalieri ' of old, might, till very lately, be traced 
 in the garden of the Villa Madama at Eome. 
 
 It is not within the scope of our present design to 
 do more than merely intimate the many interesting 
 details, into which a more extended research on this 
 subject would lead. To the brilliant names, therefore, 
 already mentioned, as having thrown a lustre over the 
 annals of private acting, we shall content ourselves with 
 adding a few more, as they occur to our recollection, 
 
154 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 without attending very much to form in the enumera- 
 tion, or dwelling, at any great length, on the peculiar 
 merits or histories of the personages. 
 
 Lorenzo de Medici, on the marriage of his daughter 
 Maddalena, wrote a sacred drama called ' S. Giovanni 
 e S. Paolo,' which was performed in his palace by hi& 
 own children. 
 
 Cinthio, the novelist, to whom Shakespeare was in- 
 debted for some of his stories, had a private theatre, 
 we are told, in his own house, where the most celebrated 
 of all his own tragedies, 'Orbacche,' was performed, 
 with splendid scenic decorations, before Hercules II., 
 Duke of Ferrara. 
 
 About the same period, Luigi Cornaro, vivacious 
 celebrity having not yet, we presume, taken to mea- 
 suring his wine by ounces gave a dramatic fete under 
 his own roof, at which one of the plays of L'Anguillara 
 was performed. 
 
 Chiabrera, misnamed the Pindar of Italy, was one 
 of a classic society at Kome, called 6 the Humourists/ 
 who devoted themselves (says Muratori) ' to the com- 
 .position and performance of beautiful and ingenious 
 comedies.' The Sala, in which their meetings were 
 held, still existed in the time of Muratori. 
 
 Beolco, one of the academic fraternity of the Infiam- 
 mati, is said, by the historian of Padua, to have sur- 
 passed Plautus in composing comedies, and Roscius in 
 representing them. The talent, indeed, of this Infiam- 
 mato for acting, was thought worthy of being com- 
 memorated, even on his fcomb : ' Nullis in scribendis 
 agendisque comcediis, ingenio, facundia, aut arte, 
 secundo.' 
 
 Salvator Eosa was, it appears, a comic actor of 
 infinite vivacity ; and his personation of Formica, and 
 of the Coviello of the ancient farces, is said to have 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 155 
 
 thrown the Immortal city into convulsions of gaiety. 1 
 Another Neapolitan painter, of much less celebrity, 
 Andria Belvedere, was, about the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century, at the head of a society of theatrical 
 amateurs at Naples, and diffused such a zeal for the 
 drama among his fellow-citizens, that (says M. Amaury 
 Duval) 2 Ton vit plusieurs seigneurs, par amour pour 
 cet art, elever dans leurs palais des theatres particuliers.' 
 
 The Duke Annibale Marchase, who resigned his 
 government of Salerno in the year 1740, and retired to 
 the monastery of the holy fathers of the Oratory at 
 Naples, 3 is said to have written his sacred dramas for 
 the private theatre of that holy retreat, from whose 
 performances the Oratorio, or Scriptural opera, derives 
 both its origin and name. 
 
 Coming down to a still later period, we find the 
 ' Serse' of Bettinelli acted, for the first time, in a private 
 theatre at Verona ; the principal character of the piece 
 being performed by the Marquis Albergati, who was, 
 himself, the author of various comedies, and so accom- 
 plished an actor that Groldoni says of him, ' non vi era 
 in Italia comico ne dilettante chi rappresentasse al pari 
 di lui gli eroi tragici e gli amorosi nelle commedie.' 
 
 Lastly, we have Alfieri, the great boast of the 
 Italian stage, performing in his own Antigone at Rome, 
 with the beautiful and majestic Duchess of Zagarolo, 
 establishing afterwards his little theatre on the Lungo 
 d'Arno, near the Ponte S. Trinita, at Florence, where 
 he acted successively the parts of Filippo, Carlo, and 
 
 1 See Lady Morgan's lively account of these exhibitions in her 
 life of this painter. 
 
 2 Memoires sur le Royaume de Naples. Belvedere was followed 
 by Amenta, the comic poet, who died in 1719. ' Comnae Belvedere,' 
 says M. Duval, ' il faisoit jouer chez lui ses propres pieces par des- 
 amateurs qu'il avoit formes a 1'art du Theatre.' 
 
 3 IS Oratorio de' PP. di 8. Filippo Neri. 
 
156 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 Saul, in his own plays ; and, finally, taking his leave 
 for ever of the boards at the feast of the Illumination at 
 Pisa, where, says the poet, ' ebbi la pueril vanagloria 
 di andarvi, e la recitai per una sola volta, e per 1'ultima, 
 la mia diletta parte del Saul, e la rimasi, quanto al 
 teatro, morto da Ke.' 
 
 In France, as well as in Italy, it was on the boards 
 of private theatres that the first glimmerings, the 
 6 primus oriens,' of the drama appeared. The only 
 difference was, that in Italy, as we have seen, the 
 originators of the art were scholars and nobles, while in 
 France they were humble bourgeois and priests. ' C'est 
 a la lettre,' says Suard, ' que Ton peut dire que notre 
 comedie naquit dans le sein de 1'Eglise.' l Excited by 
 the example of those religious shows, which, in the 
 fourteenth century, were exhibited in different parts of 
 Europe by the pilgrims who had returned from the 
 Holy Land, some pious citizens of Paris formed them- 
 selves into a society (on the model of the Christian 
 theatre, instituted by Gregory .Nazianzene) for the 
 purpose of improving upon these rude spectacles. 
 Having established a sort of theatre at St. Maur, near 
 Vincennes, they there continued for some time to attract 
 audiences of the faithful, and even to wean away crowds 
 of good Christians from less amusing places of devotion. 
 
 Voltaire, who has thought proper, in an unusual fit 
 of charity, to vindicate the scriptural dramas of this 
 period from the charges of absurdity brought against 
 them, assures us that they were performed with a 
 solemnity not unworthy of their sacred subjects ; ' il y 
 avait,' he says, ' sur le theatre beaucoup plus de pompe 
 et d'appareil que nous n'en avons jamais vu. La 
 troupe bourgeoise etait composee de plus de cent acteurs 
 
 1 Melanges de Litterature. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 157 
 
 independamment des assistans, des gagistes, et des 
 machinistes.' 
 
 The priests, naturally becoming a little jealous of 
 these showy competitors, thought it the safest policy at 
 length to court an alliance with them. The hours of 
 prayer were altered so as to suit those of the theatre ; 
 reverend pens volunteered to dramatise new subjects 
 from the Scriptures ; and priests not only became 
 managers of this devotional theatre, but condescended 
 without scruple to appear as actors on its stage. It 
 was not long, however, before this union between the 
 Church and the drama was dissolved ; and it is perhaps 
 on the principle of family quarrels being invariably the 
 most violent that actors and priests have continued on 
 such deadly terms of hostility ever since. 
 
 The drama, being thus disengaged from religion, 
 soon ' stooped its wing ' towards an humbler and more 
 congenial region, and in the affairs of this world found 
 its most legitimate quarry. A society of private actors, 
 styling themselves * Enfans sans soucy,' was instituted 
 about the beginning of the reign of Charles VI., and 
 still nourished, after an interval of a hundred years, in 
 the time of Marot, the poet. The professed object of 
 their representations which were called Sotties, or 
 Sottises, and answered probably to our idea of farces 
 was to satirise good-humouredly the manners and 
 vices of the age, and particularly those of the classes 
 always most obnoxious, the nobility and higher clergy. 
 
 The most brilliant period of this merry fraternity 
 was under the gentle reign of Louis XII., who had the 
 good sense to tolerate their sallies, even when directed 
 against himself. To judge from Marot's description of 
 them this charming French poet having apparently 
 lived much in their society they were, in general, 
 young men of wealth and condition, and must have 
 
158 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 contributed, in no small degree, to prepare the way for 
 the birth of a regular theatre in France. 
 
 During the long interval that elapsed between these 
 rude beginnings and the sudden maturity of the drama 
 in the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the 
 Muse of Tragedy sprung at once, full-armed, from the 
 brain of Corneille, all the essays in this department of 
 literature were confined to the private theatres and 
 universities. The plays acted in the colleges of Paris 
 were a source of constant irritation to the higher 
 powers ; and we find decrees without end, not only 
 from the principals of the university, but from the 
 Parliament, forbidding (particularly at the annual 
 return of the Fete des Kois) the representation of any 
 4 farces, momeries, ni sottises,' among the students. 
 The reason given for these anti-dramatic interferences 
 was one which, in all times and in all countries, has 
 teen made the pretext for the incursions of power upon 
 intellect : ' La precaution etoit d'autant plus neces- 
 saire, que les exemples du passe faisoient craindre, que, 
 dans ces jeux folatres, on ne s'emancipat a parler con- 
 tre le gouvernement, et contre les premieres personnes 
 de 1'Etat.' l 
 
 Sometimes these collegiate performances were made 
 the medium of theological satire ; as in the instance 2 of 
 a comedy played at the College of Navarre, in which 
 Marguerite de Valois (on account of the supposed 
 leaning of that celebrated Princess towards the Kefor- 
 mation) was represented under the shape of a fury of 
 hell, a piece of priestly pleasantry for which, on a com- 
 plaint to the King, the learned amateurs were forthwith 
 cast into prison. 
 
 Few names of any distinguished celebrity appear 
 
 1 Histoire de V Universite de Paris, torn. i. p. 191. 
 
 2 Another instance may be seen in Bayle, art. Schorus. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 159 
 
 among the private actors of this period ; but there is 
 one worth whole millions of university pedants, who 
 will be read as long as racy language, attaching egotism, 
 and philosophy without pretension, have any charms 
 for mankind. ' I played,' says Montaigne, c the chiefest 
 parts in the Latin tragedies of Buchanan, Gruerente, 
 and Muretus, that were presented in our College of 
 Guienne, with very great applause ; wherein Andreas 
 Groveanus, our principal, as in all other parts of his 
 undertaking, was, without comparison, the best of his 
 employment in France, and I was looked upon as one 
 of the chief actors. 'Tis an exercise that I do not dis- 
 approve in young people of condition, and have since 
 seen our Princes, by the example of the ancients, in 
 person handsomely and commendably perform these 
 services.' 
 
 It was in the year 1552 that the first regular 
 tragedy, the Cleopatre of lodelle, made its appearance 
 in France. Having been first acted before the King at 
 the Hotel de Eeims, it was afterwards performed by 
 the author and his friends at the College of Boncour. 
 4 I was there present myself (says Pasquier), in com- 
 pany with the great Turnelus. All the actors were 
 men of name, and Remy de Belleau and Jean de la 
 Peruse played the principal parts.' 
 
 Of the merit of the dramatic pieces that succeeded 
 this first attempt almost all of which, as Suard tells 
 us, were performed ' sur des theatres particuliers ' 
 the reader may form some idea from a specimen or two 
 of their plots and dialogue. In the tragedy of 'La 
 Force du Sang,' the heroine, Leocadie not having, as 
 yet, the fear of the unities before her eyes is seduced 
 in the first act of the play, confined in the fourth, and 
 steps forth, the mother of a fine seven-year-old boy, in 
 the fifth. In another tragedy, founded on the loves of 
 
160 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 Dido and -ZEneas, by Scuderi (a wretched pretender, 
 who was by a Court cabal set above Corneille), the 
 Trojan hero, during his scene with the enamoured 
 Queen in the cave, having bethought him of the state 
 of the weather, walks forth to see whether it has cleared 
 up, and returns saying, 
 
 Madame, il ne pleut plus votre Majeste sort 1 
 
 From the time of Louis XIV. downward, the annals 
 of private theatres afford a still more ample field for 
 discursiveness and research. Amidst the projects of 
 ambition and the plots of bigotry, through all the war 
 of priests, philosophers, economists, and courtiers, down 
 to the very brink of that Eevolution towards which all 
 were hurrying, we find the practice of private acting 
 prevalent throughout, and enlisting under its gay 
 banner almost every name that high station, genius, or 
 misfortune, has rendered celebrated. 
 
 The private theatre of Madame Maintenon, on a 
 night when ( Esther ' or c Athalie ' was performed, affords, 
 in itself, a gallery of historical portraits, where our 
 attention is equally divided between the audience and 
 the poet between Louis and his sanctified mistress on 
 one side, and Racine, prostituting his fine genius to 
 their bigotry and vanity, 1 on the other. Imagination 
 carries us through the rehearsals of these honourable 
 performances ; we see the actor Baron courteously 
 keeping down his powers to the level of those of his 
 amateur pupils ; we see Racine himself giving instruc- 
 tions to his Athalie, the fair Madame de Caylas, with 
 whose ' soavita e 1'altre grazie,' we are told by an eye- 
 witness, 2 he was so captivated. In 1702, a few years 
 
 1 The allusions in the Esther to Madame de Montespan and the 
 He vocation of the Edict of Nantes, are an eternal disgrace to 
 Racine. 
 
 8 The Abate Conti, who translated the Athalie into Italian. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 161 
 
 after the death of Racine, when this consummate tragedy 
 was acted before the King, the part of Josabat was per- 
 formed by the Duchesse de Bourgogne, and that of 
 Abner by the accomplished and dissolute Duke of 
 Orleans, afterwards Regent. 
 
 In the subsequent reign we find another Duke of 
 Orleans, the grandson of the Regent, and the father of 
 Egalite., distinguishing himself by his superior talents 
 as a comic actor. 1 Besides his various performances at 
 Bagnolet where, till the sale of this chateau, he main- 
 tained a regular theatrical establishment we trace him 
 acting in the ' Philosophe Marie ' at St. Cloud, and 
 afterwards before Mesdames de France, in the now 
 ruined chateau of Bellevue. The piece performed on 
 the latter occasion was ' Les Trois Cousines,' the Due 
 de Chartres, as he was then, acting Delorme, and 
 Madame de Pompadour taking the part of Collette ; 
 and when this adroit mistress of the monarch, looking 
 earnestly at her royal lover, sung the words, 
 
 Mais pour un amant cheri 
 Tromper tuteur ou mari, 
 La bonne aventure, &c., 
 
 6 one may easily guess ' (says Colle, who relates the 
 circumstance) ' what was passing in the minds of all 
 the audience at the moment.' 
 
 The details of the fetes given by this dramatic 
 Duke of Orleans at Villers-Cotteret, of the comedies in 
 which he performed there with Madame de Montesson 
 and Mesdames de Segur and Barbantane, and of the 
 love that sprung up out of these festivities with Ma- 
 dame de Montesson, to the great grief of his former 
 fellow-actress and mistress, Marquise, all this gossip of 
 
 1 ' C'est le plus excellent acteur,' says Colle, 'etle plus vrai, que 
 j'aie vu.' 
 
 M 
 
1 62 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 the day may be found in Colle, and other writers, and 
 would not a little enliven the chapter on royal green- 
 rooms, in such a history of private theatricals as we 
 have suggested. 
 
 But, however amusing these ducal exhibitions may 
 have been, some of the performances that took place, 
 at the same period, in circles less elevated by rank, 
 were far more interesting ; and the little theatre of 
 Voltaire at Paris, where he performed the part of 
 Cicero, in his own ; Kome Sauvee,' calls up associations 
 in the minds of all lovers of genius, before which the 
 splendour of Bagnolet and St. Cloud fades into nothing. 
 6 When this great man (says Condorcet) repeated the 
 beautiful lines in which Cicero excuses his own love of 
 fame, 
 
 Remains, j'aime la gloire, et ne veux point m'en taire, &c., 
 
 the character and the actor seemed one; and the 
 delighted auditory almost doubted 'whether it was 
 Cicero or Voltaire that stood before them, avowing and 
 pleading for this weakness of great minds.' The 
 tragedian Le Kain, whose splendid talents, by the way, 
 Voltaire first discovered and brought into notice, 
 having by chance seen him acting among a company of 
 amateur tradesmen, 1 thus speaks of the performance of 
 Cicero by his patron : ' I think it is not possible that 
 any one could be more true, more pathetic, or more 
 enthusiastic than M. de Voltaire' in this part.' 
 
 So strong, indeed, was Voltaire's fancy for private 
 acting that, wherever he went, a theatre seemed always 
 a necessary adjunct to his establishment. His plays at 
 Femey, and his gay suppers of a hundred covers after- 
 
 1 See the whole of this anecdote in Le Rain's interesting 
 account of his acquaintance with Voltaire, given by Condorcet, 
 vol. ii. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 163 
 
 wards, attracted company, we are told, from a distance 
 of twenty leagues round. When at Berlin, he used to 
 indulge his dramatic propensity by performing tragedy 
 with the brothers and sisters of the King ; and, during 
 his residence at Paris, a large room above his own 
 apartment was converted into a theatre, in which he 
 made his nieces act with Le Kain. 
 
 While the philosopher of Ferney assumed the 
 buskin with such success, the citizen of Greneva, it 
 appears, attempted the same accomplishment, and 
 failed ; not even Madame d'Epinay could make any- 
 thing of an actor of him. * Malgre ma betise et ma 
 gaucherie,' he says, in his Confessions, ( Madame d'Epi- 
 nay voulut me mettre des amusements de la Chevrette, 
 chateau pres de Saint-Denis, appartenant a M. de 
 Bellegarde. II y avoit un theatre ou Ton jouoit sou- 
 vent des pieces. On me chargea d'un role que 
 j'etudiais six mois sans relache, et qu'il fallut me souffler 
 d'un bout a 1'autre, a la representation. Apres cette 
 epreuve, on ne me donna plus de role.' It was, per- 
 haps, jealousy of the superior talents of Voltaire in this 
 line that impelled Kousseau to inveigh so violently 
 against the plays of Ferney. 
 
 To these few notices of the state of private acting 
 in the reign of Louis XV. may be added the account 
 given by Marmontel of the performances at the house 
 of M. de la Popliniere, the rich financier, at Passy ; 
 as also the details of the magnificent fetes given at 
 Pantin, by the Opera-dancer, Mademoiselle Guimard, 
 for whose superb theatre some of the 'Proverbes 
 Dramatiques ' of Carmonlet were written. Nor should 
 the historian pass over in silence the theatre of M. 
 Trudaine, on whose boards 'Les Accidents, ou les 
 Abbes,' a piece considered by Colle, its author, too 
 licentious to be printed with his other works, was yet 
 
 M 2 
 
1 64 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 thought innocent enough to be acted in the presence 
 of two bishops one of them holder of the Feuille des 
 Benefices. ' There was also, I think,' says Colle, ' a 
 third bishop there, whose name I forget, but of the 
 other two I am certain.' 
 
 In the subsequent reign the Court gave the tone in 
 acting, as in all other sorts of amusements. Never was 
 there a more flowery path to ruin than that of the 
 unfortunate Marie Antoinette ; nor is it possible to 
 read of the festivities of Marly and of the Little Trianon 
 without shuddering to think of the dreadful tragedies 
 that followed. The practice, so prevalent at that 
 period, of throwing ridicule upon all established insti- 
 tutions (a fate for which established institutions had 
 to thank their own corruption and folly), was, with 
 most short-sighted levity, adopted at Court ; and one 
 of the favourite amusements of the Queen and her gay 
 companions was to parody the sittings of the Parliament l 
 in a sort of mock-heroic pantomime, one of the princes 
 playing the part of President, and the beau Dillon, 
 Besenvald, &c., representing ludicrously the other 
 personages. It was on one of these occasions that the 
 role of Procureur-General was sustained by a youth, 
 who little then foresaw the destiny that awaited him ; 
 who, instrumental in the formation of two great 
 Kepublics, has survived, it is true, the brief glory of 
 the one, but has lived to receive an immortal reward in 
 the universal gratitude and homage of the other. 
 
 To these pantomimes succeeded ballets, and such 
 jeux de societe as ' La Peur ' and ' Decampativos ; ' the 
 former a sort of dumb show in which the actors put on 
 the appearance of dying and coming to life again, and 
 the latter a more refined species of Blindman's Buff. 
 To such an excess did these royal persons carry their 
 
 1 Segues Memoirs. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 165 
 
 love of sport and mount ebankism that the Comte 
 d'Artois his present Majesty Charles X. actually 
 took lessons, for some time, in rope-dancing from 
 Placido and the celebrated Little Devil. 1 
 
 At length, tired both of ballets and Blindman's 
 Buff, these royal play-fellows aspired to regular acting; 
 and to the Queen it was a relief from the representa- 
 tion of Royalty to act the soubrettes in the ' Gageure 
 Imprevue ' and the ' Devin du Village.' It was not, 
 however, without a struggle with some parts of her 
 family that she was allowed to indulge in this favourite 
 pursuit. The brother of the King would not suffer 
 Madame to act ; and the King himself, in order to dis- 
 courage what he considered an indecorous proceeding, 
 is said to have hissed the royal debutante the first 
 night. From what has transpired, indeed, of the 
 merits of her Majesty's acting, there is little doubt 
 that the great majority of the audience must have 
 been ' de 1'avis de 1'aspic,' as well as the King. But 
 royalty, ' quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia vertit,' is sure 
 of applause, and the only honest opinion hazarded at 
 the time is that which Madame Campan as well as 
 Montjoie has recorded: 'II faut avouer que c'est 
 royalement mal joueV 
 
 Of the history of the German drama we profess to 
 know little; but from the time of Reuchlin, the 
 earliest writer and actor of plays in the academies of 
 Germany, down to Schiller, whose sole experiment in 
 the way of acting seems to have been still more un- 
 
 1 M. le Comte d'Artois, qui par sa taille, sa jeunesse, et ses 
 graces naturelles, est fait pour reussir dans tous les exercices du 
 corps, a ambitionne aussi la gloire de danser sur la corde. II a pris 
 longtemps en silence, et dans le plus grand secret, des lemons du Sieur 
 Placide et du Petit Diable.' Jfemoires Secrets pour servir, c., 
 torn, xv! p. 182. 
 
1 66 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 fortunate than that of Rousseau, 1 we have no doubt 
 that a sufficient contribution of materials towards a 
 History of Private Theatres might be found. 
 
 In England the drama, in its rise and progress, has 
 followed pretty nearly the same course as in France. 
 The sacred comedy, or mystery, was its first essay, and 
 showmen and priests the earliest actors. From the 
 church, too, after a similar sort of divorce, the his- 
 trionic art passed to universities and schools in the 
 former of which it flourished to a very late period, 
 while in the later some relics of it even still remain. 
 6 (rammer Grurton's Needle,' the production of a 
 Bishop of Bath and Wells, and the first approach to 
 anything like a regular comedy in our language, was 
 acted at Christ's College, Cambridge, in the year 1522. 
 About forty years afterwards, both Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge represented plays before Queen Elizabeth, in 
 English as well as in Latin ; and a drama composed 
 by a learned Doctor of Divinity of Cambridge had 
 the honour, we are told, of putting his Majesty King 
 James I. fast to sleep. 
 
 Warton is of opinion that, to these early collegiate 
 representations, the dramatic taste of the nation was, 
 in no small degree, indebted for its improvement ; nor 
 must some share of the merit be denied to another 
 class of private actors, the Gentlemen of the Inns of 
 Court, who, both by writing and acting, conduced 
 considerably to the same object. John Roos, a student 
 of Gray's Inn, and afterwards serjeant-at-law, wrote a 
 comedy which was acted in the hall of the society in 
 
 1 Schiller acted, while at the University, in a piece played 
 before the Duke of Wirtemberg. * II choisit le Drame de Clavigo, de 
 Goethe, et s'y reserva le principal role. Ce ne fut point pour lui 
 une occasion de succes ; il se montra fort gauche etfort empech^.' 
 Vie de Schiller. * 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 167 
 
 1511 ; and the Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex, the^ first 
 specimen of a heroic play in our language, was per- 
 formed by the students of the Inner Temple, in the 
 year 1561, before Elizabeth at Whitehall. 
 
 We have seen that, in Italy and France, the culti- 
 vation of the histrionic art among amateurs of rank 
 and station had prevailed long before the establishment 
 of public actors. But in England mercenary stage- 
 players existed from a very early period, and most of 
 the entertainments we read of at court and at the 
 houses of nobility were evidently performed by persons 
 of this description. From the very infancy, indeed, of 
 the drama, there appears to have been a regular 
 company of actors attached to the court, both in 
 England and Scotland, and the only entertainments 
 of a theatrical nature, in which royal and noble 
 personages themselves condescended to appear, were 
 those allegorical pageants and pomps with which it 
 was the custom to celebrate all solemn occasions. 
 
 These costly shows, becoming gradually more refined 
 and dramatic, assumed, at a later period, a more 
 elevated character under the name of masques, and, 
 calling incident and beautiful poetry to their aid, have 
 been enshrined imperishably in our literature, by the 
 pens of Jonson and Milton. 1 
 
 It was in the reigns of James I. and his successor 
 that these splendid creations attained their highest 
 perfection. ' Thus magnificently constructed,' observes 
 GrifFord, ' the Masque was not committed to ordi- 
 nary performers. It was composed, as Lord Bacon 
 says, for princes, and by princes it was played. The 
 
 1 The Arcades of Milton was performed by the children of the 
 Countess Dowager of Derby, at her seat, Harefield Place ; and the 
 Comus, says Johnson, ' was presented at Ludlow, then the residence 
 of the Lord President of Wales, in 1634, and had the honour of 
 being acted by the Earl of Bridgewater's sons and daughters.' 
 
168 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 prime nobility of both sexes, led on by James and his 
 Queen, took upon themselves the respective characters ; 
 and it may be justly questioned whether a nobler 
 display of grace, and elegance, and beauty was ever 
 beheld than appeared in the masques of Jonson. The 
 songs in these entertainments were probably intrusted 
 to professional men ; but the dialogue, and above all 
 the dances, which were adapted to the fable, and 
 acquired without much study and practice, were 
 executed by the Court themselves.' 
 
 It would be by no means an unamusing or un- 
 instructive task to collect such particulars as are 
 recorded of these rich and fanciful spectacles, on which 
 the Veres, the Derbys, the Bedfords, the Cliffords, the 
 Arundels, and other historical names, reflect such lustre. 
 In Jonson's Masque of Blackness, the Queen, and the 
 ladies Suffolk, Derby, Emngham, Herbert, &c., per- 
 sonated the parts of Moors, and had, as we are informed 
 by Sir Dudley Carleton, ' their faces and arms, up to 
 the elbows, painted black.' ' But it became them,' 
 adds the learned Secretary, ' nothing so well as their 
 own red and white.' In the Masque of Oberon, Sir 
 John Finnet tells us, 'the little Duke Charles (Charles 
 I.) was still found to be in the midst of the fairy 
 dancers.' The ' Hue and Cry after Cupid,' as performed 
 at Lord Haddington's marriage, 1608, transcended in 
 expensiveness even the ever memorable fete this year 
 at Boyle Farm having cost the eleven noblemen and 
 gentlemen concerned in it ' 300^. a man.' l 
 
 The last attempt made to revive this species of 
 entertainment was in the reign of Charles II., when 
 the two future Queens, Mary and Anne, assisted by 
 many of the young nobility of both sexes, performed a 
 masque, called ' Calisto,' written by Crowne, and the 
 
 1 Lodge's Illustrations, vol. iii. p. 343. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 169 
 
 unfortunate Duke of Monmouth appeared among the 
 dancers. Evelyn thus speaks of this representation : 
 * Saw a comedy at night at Court, acted by the ladies 
 only ; amongst them, Ladv Mary and Anne, his R. H.'s 
 two daughters, and my dear friend Mrs. Blagg, who, 
 having the principal part, performed it to admiration.' 
 
 From that time we hear no more of such courtly 
 pageants in England ; though, within these few years, 
 .a taste for performances somewhat similar seems to 
 have sprung up in some of the courts on the continent, 
 where spectacles founded on the stories of Ivanhoe and 
 Lalla Rookh have been got up with a splendour which 
 e/en the masques of our ancient kings could hardly 
 parallel. In the ' Divertissement ' from Lalla Rookh, 
 performed at the Court of Berlin in 1822, the present 
 Emperor and Empress of Russia played the parts of 
 Feramorz and Lalla Rookh ; the Duke of Cumberland 
 personated Abdallah, the father of the royal minstrel ; 
 and the other characters in the tableaux, selected from 
 the poem, were represented by the Princes and Prin- 
 cesses of Prussia, and by the most distinguished persons 
 of the court and society of Berlin. 1 
 
 "We should have mentioned that during the reign of 
 Oliver and his saints, when stage-plays in public were 
 so strictly prohibited, there were, besides the enter- 
 tainments set on foot by Sir William Davenant at 
 Rutland House, occasional representations of plays at 
 the houses of the nobility ; and Holland House, among 
 its other memorable associations, is particularly men- 
 tioned as having been used for this purpose. These 
 performances, however, though clandestine, or at least 
 connived at by the ruling powers, cannot fairly be 
 
 1 ' Lalla Roukh, Divertissement mele de Chants et de Danses, 
 execute au Chateau Royal de Berlin, le 27 Janvier, 1822, c. &c. 
 avec 23 planches coloriees.' 
 
1 70 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 classed under the head of private theatricals ; their 
 object being to give relief to the unemployed players, 
 who chiefly, if not exclusively, performed on these 
 occasions. The same remark applies to what is called 
 the 'private' theatre of Davenant Mr. Malone, we 
 believe, having no authority for asserting, that in the 
 pieces at Eutland House ' no stage-player performed.' 
 
 From the time of Charles II. till near the end of 
 the last century, the Theatre de ftociete of England 
 affords but little, as far as we know, that is interesting. 
 In the Memoirs of Lord Orford we find, under the date 
 1751, the following curious notice: 'The /th was 
 appointed for the Naturalisation Bill, but the House 
 adjourned to attend at Drury Lane, where Othello was 
 acted by a Mr. Delaval and his family, who had hired 
 the theatre on purpose. The crowd of people of fashion 
 was so great that the footmen's gallery was hung with 
 blue ribands.' 
 
 The performances at the Duchess of Queensberry's,. 
 for the amusement of the royal personages of Leicester 
 House, are only memorable, we believe, for having 
 enabled the favourite, Lord Bute, to display his fine 
 legs (of which he was so proud) in the gay character 
 of Lothario. We might next pass in review the 
 theatricals of Winterslow, where no less an actor on the 
 stage of life than the late Charles Fox ccelestis hie in 
 dicendo vir played Horatio in the ' Fair Penitent,' and 
 Sir Harry in ' High Life Below Stairs.' At Holland 
 House, too, Mr. Fox played Hastings to the 'Jane 
 Shore ' of the beautiful Lady Sarah Bunbury. 
 
 Kichmond House presents another patrician theatre 
 of the bygone times, whose attractions, on one occa- 
 sion, shortened the solemn sittings of the Senate, and 
 brought Mr. Pitt himself (to use his own words on 
 another occasion) ' under the wand of the enchanter.' 
 If the anecdote be true, which attributes to that festive 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 171 
 
 evening the glory of having collected Pitt, Fox, and 
 Sheridan together in one hackney-coach of which 
 hackney-coach, it might well be said, ' sideraque alta 
 trahit ' it is an event that, among the memorabilia of 
 private theatres, is deserving of special and emphatic 
 record. 
 
 We have thus hastily, and, we rather fear, tire- 
 somely, put together the few particulars relating to 
 private theatres that have fallen within the range of 
 our research. It is now time, we feel, to take a little 
 notice of the volume which has been the innocent cause 
 of all this causerie, and which, though not intended, 
 we believe, for circulation beyond the members of the 
 institution to which it refers, appeared to us to warrant, 
 by its connexion with the general history of the drama, 
 the use that we have made of it. 
 
 The city of Kilkenny, where the performances com- 
 memorated in this volume were continued annually, 
 with but few interruptions, from the year 1802 to 1819, 
 possesses some ancient claims on the reverence of all 
 lovers of the drama. The celebrated Bale, whose tra- 
 gedy of Pammachius was acted at Christ's College, 
 Cambridge, in 15 44, inhabited for some time, as Bishop 
 of Ossory, the palace of Kilkenny; and two of his 
 sacred comedies, or mysteries, were, as he himself tells 
 us, acted at the market-cross in that town. c On the 
 xx daye of August was the Ladye Marye, with us at 
 Kilkennye, proclaimed Queen of England, etc. The 
 yonge men in the forenone played a tragedye of " God's 
 Promises in the Old Lawe," at the market-crosse, with 
 organe-plaingis and songes, very aptely. In the after- 
 none, again, they played a comedie of " Sanct Johan 
 Baptiste's Preachings, of Christe's Baptisynge, and of 
 his Temptacion in the Vildernesse." ' l 
 
 1 TJw Vocation of John Sale. 
 
172 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 From that period till the middle of the last century, 
 Ireland furnishes but few materials for a history of the 
 stage, public or private. So slow, indeed, was the 
 progress of the drama in that country, that, in the year 
 1600, when England had been for some time enjoying 
 the inspirations of Shakespeare's muse, we find the old 
 tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex, the first rude essay of 
 the art, represented before Lord Montjoy at the Castle 
 of Dublin. It was, indeed, about the same period when, 
 as we have said, the taste for private acting reappeared 
 in England, that a similar feeling manifested itself 
 among the higher ranks of society in Ireland ; and in 
 the year 1759 a series of amusements of this kind took 
 place at Lurgan, in the County of Armagh, the seat of 
 that distinguished member of the Irish parliament, 
 William Brownlow. c To this meeting,' says the editor 
 of the volume before us, in his introduction, 6 the stage 
 is indebted for the popular entertainment of Midas. 
 It was written upon that occasion by one of the com- 
 pany, the late Mr. Kane O'Hara, and originally consisted 
 of but one act, commencing with the fall of Apollo 
 from the clouds. The characters in the piece were 
 undertaken by the members of the family and their 
 relatives, with the exception of the part of Pan, which 
 was reserved by the author for himself. Many additions 
 were made to it before its introduction to the public, 
 and, among others, the opening scene of " Jove in his 
 Chair," as it is now represented.' 
 
 To these representations succeeded, in 1760, a sort 
 of theatrical jubilee at Castletown, the residence of the 
 Right Hon. Thomas Conolly, where, after the perform- 
 ance of the ' First Part of Henry IV.,' an epilogue was, 
 it appears, spoken by Hussy Burgh afterwards Baron 
 of the Exchequer one of the most accomplished men 
 that the Bar of Ireland has ever produced. In the 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 173 
 
 year 1761, the Duke of Leinster opened his princely 
 mansion at Cartown to a series of entertainments of 
 the same description ; and, in a list of the characters 
 of the Beggar's Opera, which was one of the pieces 
 performed on this occasion, we find, among a number 
 of other distinguished names (Lord Charlemont, Lady 
 Louisa Conolly, &c.), the rather startling announcement 
 of ' Lockit by the Eev. Dean Marly.' l This worthy 
 pendant to the Bibienus of the Court of Leo X. spoke 
 also a prologue on the same occasion, written by him- 
 self, the concluding lines of which are as follows : 
 
 But when this busy mimic scene is o'er, 
 All shall resume the worth they had before ; 
 Lockit himself his knavery shall resign, 
 And lose the gaoler in the dull divine. 
 
 Among the most interesting of the other perform- 
 ances recorded in this volume are those got up in the 
 year 17/4, at the seats of Sir Hercules Langrishe and 
 Mr. Henry Flood, where the two celebrated orators, 
 Grrattan and Flood, appeared together on the stage, 
 and, in personating the two contending chieftains, 
 Macbeth and Macduff, had a sort of poetical foretaste 
 of their own future rivalry, ' belli propinqui rudimenta.' 
 We find the name of Mr. G-rattan again connected with 
 private theatricals in the year 1776, when, after a 
 representation of the Masque of Comus at the country 
 seat of the Eight Hon. David La Touche. an epilogue 
 from the pen of Mr. Grattan was spoken the only 
 copy of verses, we believe, that this illustrious son of 
 Ireland is known to have written. The verses of great 
 statesmen are always sure to be objects of curiosity, 
 even when, like those of Cicero, they have no other 
 recommendation than their badness. Some specimens 
 
 1 Afterwards Bishop of Waterford. 
 
174 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 of the poetry of Mr. Burke have lately been given to 
 the world, and those who complain of his being too 
 poetical in his prose will perhaps be consoled by find- 
 ing him so prosaic in his poetry. Pope says, with 
 perhaps rather an undue pride in his heart, that ' the 
 corruption of a poet is the generation of a statesman ; ' 
 if so, Burke must have been far gone in decomposition 
 when he wrote such verses. The epilogue of Mr. 
 Grrattan, however, contains some lively and fluent lines, 
 and our readers, we presume, will not be displeased to 
 see a few of them here : 
 
 Hist ! hist ! I hear a dame of fashion say, 
 
 Lord, how absurd the heroine of this play ! 
 
 A god of rank and station was so good 
 
 To take a lady from a hideous wood, 
 
 Brought her to all the pleasures of his court, 
 
 Of love, and men, and music the resort ; 
 
 Bid mirth and transport wait on her command ; 
 
 Gave her a ball, and offer'd her his hand ; 
 
 And she, quite country, obstinate and mulish, 
 
 Extremely fine, perhaps, but vastly foolish, 
 
 Would neither speak, nor laugh, nor dance, nor sing, 
 
 Nor condescend, nor wed, nor anything. 
 
 ****** 
 
 But, gentle ladies ! you'll, I'm sure, approve 
 Your sex's triumph over guilty love ; 
 Nor will our sports of gaiety alarm you ; 
 These little bacchanals will never harm you ; * 
 Nor Comus' wreathed smiles ; and you'll admire, 
 Once more, true English force and genuine fire ; 
 Milton's chaste majesty Arne's airy song, 
 The light note tripping on Allegro's tongue ; 
 While the sweet flowing of the purest breast, 
 Like Milton tuneful, vestal as his taste, 
 
 1 The Masque was acted by children. 
 
PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 175 
 
 Calls Music from her cell, and warbles high 
 The rapturous soul of song and sovereign ecstasy. 
 
 We shall not further pursue the enumerations which 
 this volume supplies of the various amateur perform- 
 ances that preceded those of Kilkenny except to 
 remark that, in the list of the actors at Shane's Castle 
 in 1785, there occurs one name, which, in the hearts 
 of all true Irishmen, awakens feelings which they can 
 hardly trust their lips to utter Lord Edward Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 With the theatricals of Kilkenny expired the last 
 faint remains of what may be called the Social Era in 
 Ireland. ' Adieu, Societe ! ' was the lively dying- 
 speech of one of the fellow-conspirators of Berton, 
 when about to submit his neck to the guillotine ; and 
 4 Adieu, Societe ! ' might, with the same ' tragical mirth,' 
 have been ejaculated by Ireland at the period of the 
 Union. To such times as we have been describing 
 to such classic and humanising amusements has suc- 
 ceeded an age of bitter cant and bewildering controversy. 
 Instead of opening their mansions, as of old, to such 
 innocent and ennobling hospitalities, the Saint-Peers 
 of the present day convert their halls into conventicles 
 and conversion shops. Where the theatre once re- 
 echoed the young voices of a Grrattan and a Flood, the 
 arena is now prepared for the disputations of the 
 Reverend Popes and Maguires. The scenes of Otway 
 and Shakespeare have given way to the often- announced 
 tragedies of Pastorini, and even farce has taken its last 
 refuge in Sir Harcourt Lees. 
 
 We have only to add that this curious volume, 
 which will, one day or other, be a gem in the eyes of 
 the bibliomaniac, contains portraits of all the most 
 distinguished members of the Theatrical Society of 
 
1 76 PRIVATE THEATRICALS. 
 
 Kilkenny, Mr. Grrattan, Mr. Thomas Moore, 3 Mr. 
 James Corry, &c., &c. There is also prefixed to the 
 work a portrait of the founder of the society, the late 
 Mr. Eichard Power, followed by a tribute to the high 
 qualities of that excellent man, from ' one of the best 
 and warmest hearts ' (says the editor of the work) y 
 6 united with, perhaps, the finest talents that Ireland 
 ever produced.' 2 From this just and eloquent eulogy 
 we give the following short extract : 
 
 It was truly said of him, that * he never made an enemy 
 or lost a friend ' and in a country distracted by civil and 
 religious discord a man could not be found, of any sect or 
 party, who felt unkindly towards him. Yet this popularity 
 was not earned by the compliances of a timid or assenting 
 character; he had a benevolent disposition, which made it 
 pleasure to him to make others happy, and he shrunk from 
 giving pain almost with the same instinct that men shrink 
 from suffering it. This made him prompt to approve, and 
 slow to censure; indulgent to error, and encouraging to 
 merit ; yet there was something about him that repelled and 
 rebuked whatever was sordid or mean j and, when firmness 
 was required, his integrity was uncompromising, and hi 
 courage not to be shaken. 
 
 1 This, as well as the allusion to Lalla Rookh on a previous 
 page, is merely a mystification of Moore's to conceal the 
 authorship of the article ; in which object, however, he was not 
 successful. In his Diary of November 1827 (vol. v. p. .239) he 
 records the receipt of a letter from Corry, inclosing one he had 
 just got from the Chief Justice Bushe, on the subject of my article 
 in the Edinburgh, "Private TJieatricals.' 1 '' ' The following is an ex- 
 tract : ' So much curious information, conveyed in a manner so 
 fascinating, leaves little doubt as to that hand which nullum qttod 
 tetigit non ornavit, at least only as much as Erasmus felt when, after 
 reading a work of his times, he exclaimed, " Atit Morus, aut 
 diabolus." ' ED. 
 
 2 The person alluded to as the writer of the Eulogy is, we have 
 reason to believe, the able and eloquent Chief Justice Bushe. Note 
 by Moore. 
 
177 
 
 GERMAN RATIONALISMS 
 
 [SEPTEMBER 1831.] 
 
 IT is, we think, high time for the welJ-paid champions 
 of orthodoxy in this country to awake from the digni- 
 fied slumbers in which it is their delight to indulge, 
 and to take some notice of those incursions into their 
 sacred territory which the theologians of Germany 
 have been so long permitted, without any repulse, to 
 make. We are assured by Shakespeare, that 
 
 Dainty bits 
 Make rich the ribs, but bankerout the wits ; 
 
 nor could we ask a much more pregnant proof of this ' 
 fact than the striking contrast which exists between 
 the poor, active, studious, and inquisitive theologians 
 of Germany, and the sleek, somnolent, and satisfied 
 
 1 i. The State of Protestantism in Germany, being the Substance 
 of Four Discourses preached before the University of Cambridge. By 
 the Rev. Hugh James Rose, B.D. Second edition, enlarged. 8ve, 
 London, 1829. 
 
 2. An Historical Enquiry into the probable Causes of the Rationa- 
 list Character, lately predominant in the Theology of Germany. By 
 E. B. Pusey, M.A., Regius Professor of Hebrew in the University 
 of Oxford. 8vo. 1828. 
 
 3. An Historical Enquiry, fyc. Part the Second; containing an 
 Explanation of the Views misconceived by Mr. Rose, and further 
 Illustrations. By E. B. Pusey. 1830. 
 
 4. Six Sermons on the Study of the Holy Scriptures, preached 
 before the University of Cambridge in tlie years 1827 and 1828; to 
 which are annexed Two Dissertations ; the first on the Reasonableness 
 of the Ortlwdox Views of Christianity, as opposed to the Rationalism 
 of Germany ; the second on Prophecy, with an original Exposition of 
 the Booh of Revelation, showing that the whole of tliat remarkable 
 Prophecy has long ago been fulfilled. By the Rev. S. Lee, B.D., 
 D.D., Professor of Arabic in the University of Cambridge. 8vo, 
 1 8:0. 
 
1 78 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 divines of the Church of England. The priests of 
 Egypt, we are told, abstained from drinking the water 
 of the Nile because they found it too fattening ; the 
 Pactolus of the Church also fattens, but it is not 
 abstained from ; and the consequence is, that our 
 portly sentinels slumber on their posts, while the lean 
 theologues of Halle and Grottingen carry away all the 
 glory of the field. 
 
 Among the lower ranks, indeed, of the English 
 clergy, that sharpener of the wits, poverty, is not 
 wanting. But so strict is the watch kept over their 
 orthodoxy by their superiors, and so promptly does the 
 episcopal eye, awake only to innovation, mark out for 
 reproof and punishment every movement of free inquiry 
 , by which the general compromise of belief throughout 
 the Church may be disturbed, that the few among those 
 lower expectants of patronage, who have either learning 
 or leisure for theological disquisitions, think it most 
 prudent not to enter into them ; and accordingly, on 
 all the great questions agitated by the Grerman Ration- 
 alists, a 'sacred silence,' like that which Basil and 
 others of the Fathers tell us was maintained, respecting 
 her dogmas, by the Primitive Church, reigns with 
 almost equal profoundness throughout that hallowed 
 domain which reposes within the fence of the Thirty- 
 nine Articles. 
 
 It is the opinion, indeed, of the Rev. Mr. Rose, 
 whose work on Rationalism is now before us, that to 
 the want of a regular Episcopacy, like that of the 
 English Church, as well as to the absence of those 
 curbs upon the restiveness of private judgment, which 
 a compulsory subscription of certain Articles of Faith 
 imposes, the very erratic course into which Germari 
 theology has extravagated is, in a great measure, to be 
 attributed. In this respect he says, ' there is a marked 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 179 
 
 difference between our Church and these Protestant 
 Churches/ We are inclined to doubt, however, whether 
 that implicit acquiescence in a common symbol of 
 faith which diffuses so halcyon a calm over the surface 
 of our Church Establishment has not been brought 
 about by appeals to far more worldly feelings than Mr. 
 Kose would willingly admit to exist in his reverend 
 brotherhood ; and we find ourselves strengthened not a 
 little in this view of the matter by having observed 
 that, in proportion as the Church has become more rich 
 and powerful, less of the ' old leaven of innovations ' 
 has mixed perceptibly with the mass ; so that, by a 
 result which sounds more miraculous than it really is, 
 our establishment has gone on improving in Unity 
 in proportion as it has more and more abounded in 
 Pluralities. 
 
 With respect to the efficacy of Confessions of Faith 
 in producing uniformity of belief, it may safely be 
 asserted, that no formula of this nature has ever been 
 constructed, out of which easy and pliant consciences 
 could not find some plausible loophole of escape. 
 Among the Germans themselves subscription has, we 
 believe, been always required to what they call the 
 Symbolic Books in the Lutheran Church, and to the 
 Heidelberg Catechism in the Eeformed Churches. In 
 the former of these two professions of faith an opening 
 was indeed left, of which the free- thin king divines of 
 Germany have most abundantly availed themselves, 
 and to which Mr. Eose imputes the blame of having 
 been one of the main inlets through which the flood of 
 heresy, that has, if we may so say, un christianised their 
 Church, found admission. Their Symbolic Books, he 
 says, were subscribed ' only in as far as they agree 
 with Scripture a qualification which obviously bestows 
 on the ministry the most perfect liberty of believing 
 
 N 2 
 
i8o / GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 and teaching whatever their own fancy may suggest.' 
 In attributing, however, to this elastic c quatenus ' in 
 the creed of the Lutherans so much of that perilous 
 matter which has been introduced into their Church, 
 the reverend gentleman must, we think, have forgotten 
 the Sixth Article of those he himself has subscribed ; 
 sanctioning virtually, as it appears to us, the same 
 latitude of interpretation and dissent. c Holy Scripture,' 
 says this article, ' contains all things necessary to salva- 
 tion ; so that whatever is not read therein, nor may be 
 proved thereby, is not to be required of any man to be 
 believed as an article of faith, or to be thought requisite 
 or necessary to salvation.' 
 
 It was, indeed, under the shelter of tMs commodious 
 clause that the Jortins, Claytons, Blackburnes, &c., of 
 other times, when the Church of England was perhaps 
 less afraid of the consequences of dissent, and certainly 
 less furnished with the means of purchasing conformity, 
 were left unmolested in their bishoprics, prebends, and 
 rectories, to indulge in their own heterodox notions, 
 and enjoy at once the comforts of preferment and 
 luxuries of dissent. 1 Times are, however, in this 
 respect much altered. We should like to see the 
 actually existing Eector of St. Duns tan in the East, 
 who would so far risk his chance of a stall as to venture 
 upon Jortin's rash avowal, that ' there are Propositions 
 contained in our Liturgy and Articles which no man 
 
 1 It is thought that Jortin had somewhat more than a leaning 
 towards Arianism. (See a Letter addressed to Gilbert Wakefield, 
 inserted in his Memoirs, i. 376.) That he was, at all events, not 
 orthodox on this subject, may be seen from a passage in his Tracts, 
 where he goes so far as to declare, that they who uphold the ortho- 
 dox doctrine respecting the Trinity must be prepared to assert 
 that Jesus Christ is his own Father and his own Son.' The con- 
 sequence will be so,' he adds, 'whether they like it, or whether they 
 like it not.' 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 181 
 
 of common sense among us believes.' Even that 
 enigmatic production (the work, it is said, of one 
 Vigilius, a contentious bishop of Tapsus), which passed 
 under the name of the Athanasian Creed, is to be in- 
 cluded, if we may believe a late learned archbishop, in 
 the same inviolable circle of reverential silence, by 
 which all established and subscribed symbols are to be 
 surrounded. The same tranquillising effects which the 
 power of patronage has so long produced in our political 
 system, the hope of preferment has even more success- 
 fully accomplished in the ecclesiastical branch of our 
 constitution ; and, as a hot and headlong loyalty has 
 long been the , sole title to any favours from the state, 
 so a blind and uninquiring orthodoxy is the one 
 ' narrow way ' that leadeth to all good things in the 
 Church. Woe unto the young divine who, like the 
 accomplished author of the ' History of the Jews,' dares 
 to reason, however unpretendingly and sensibly, upon 
 matters of religious concernment ! on him will the 
 Theological Eeviews, monthly and quarterly, pour the 
 vials of their wrath, and on him the golden gates of 
 preferment will, as sure as he lives, be shut. 
 
 Very different from all this, and, it must be owned, 
 bordering on the opposite extreme, is the state of such 
 matters in Germany. The immediate effect of the Ee- 
 formation upon the clergy of that country was to render 
 them at once poor l and polemical to despoil them of 
 
 1 Neither has time nor long possession improved their condition 
 in this respect. The richest member of the Church of Hanover,' 
 says a modern traveller, ' the Abbot of Loccum, who was formerly a 
 Prince of the Empire, is said not to enjoy, including all his little 
 privileges (such as the inhabitants of Loccum being obliged to 
 maintain his horses and wash his linen), more than 6,000 thalers, 
 or i,oooZ. per year.' The same intelligent traveller gives the 
 following account of the celebrated University of Gottingen : The 
 whole expense of this university (and, compared with other German 
 
1 82 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 their princely abbeys and bishoprics, and give them the 
 choice of about fifty new creeds instead. The history 
 of the Reformers themselves of the course of intolerance 
 into which these assertors of the right of private judg- 
 ment at once plunged the various standards of infalli- 
 bility set up by them, substituting (as has been often 
 remarked) l a plurality of Popes for the one whom they 
 had renounced all this is but too freshly present to the 
 memories of those who study the strange history of 
 Human Faith. Nor can we conceive a much more 
 curious chapter of that history, as illustrating the ten- 
 dency there is in the human mind to oscillate from one 
 extreme to another, than would be furnished by a full 
 inquiry into the process by which the Church of Ger- 
 many has been brought to its present state ; by which 
 a people who once carried their notions of inspiration 
 so far as not only to maintain that every syllable of the 
 Hebrew Bible, even to its vowel points, was inspired , 
 but also to insist upon having it believed that their 
 own Symbolic Books were every one of them dictated 
 by the Holy Spirit, has been at length brought to en- 
 tertain a system of theology, which discards inspiration 
 from the Scriptures altogether makes Reason the sole 
 test and arbiter of Faith, and, by divesting Christianity of 
 
 universities, it is magnificently endowed), for books, salaries of pro- 
 fessors, buildings, and all other expenses, is somewhat more than 
 n,oooZ. per year a sum about equal, probably, to the incomes of 
 four heads of houses at one of our universities.' Accordingly, as he 
 adds, * Gottingen has no good things to bribe its younger members 
 to a continued adherence to taught opinions. There is no warm 
 and well-lined stall of orthodoxy. They believe according as they 
 discover truth, and not according to the prebends and fellowships 
 which reward a particular faith.' 
 
 1 Luther himself, indeed, seems to have been the first utterer of 
 this sarcasm. On stepping into the carriage with Pomeranus, who 
 was about to introduce him to the Pope's nuncio, he said laugh- 
 ingly, * Here sit the Pope of Germany and Cardinal Pomeranus.' 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 1*83 
 
 all claims to the supernatural and miraculous, robs her 
 of the strong ground on which she has hitherto rested 
 her lever. 
 
 The task of tracing the causes which led to this 
 singular revolution has, on a limited scale, been under- 
 taken by Mr. Pusey, in two of the volumes before us ; 
 and until he, or some other writer equally strong in 
 Grerman lore, but somewhat more gifted, it might be 
 wished, with ease and lucidness of style, shall do full 
 justice to the subject, we content ourselves thankfully 
 with the sketch which he has so ably and with so truly 
 a Christian spirit given us. 
 
 The fierce divisions of the Grerman Reformers 
 among themselves, and the polemical spirit which was 
 thereby engendered, converting the zeal which ought to 
 have actuated them, in defence of their common cause, 
 into bitter and unmitigated virulence against each 
 other, were, it cannot be doubted (though Mr. Pusey 
 passes lightly over this true fountain-head of the 
 mischief), the original source of those abuses and 
 corruptions of theology, which the warfare of neigh- 
 bouring creeds is always sure to generate ; and which, 
 in this instance, by making Christianity subservient to 
 the passions and purposes of party, had the effect of 
 gradually lowering her divine character, and placing 
 her on ground where she was within easy reach of her 
 enemies. Among the causes to which this result is to 
 be attributed, one of the most fatal, confessedly, was 
 the erroneous view which the early Reformers took of 
 the doctrine of inspiration, 1 and the forced modes of 
 
 1 That the warning, however, has been thrown away, is proved 
 by such declarations as the following : ' After all, the Bible is the 
 inspired word of God, and we do well to lean to the advocates of 
 plenary inspiration ; for there is no end to latitude and incertitude, 
 there is no knowing where to stop if you once admit that a single 
 particle is uninspired.' Grant's English Cltwch. 
 
1 84 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 interpreting the Scriptures to which it drove them. 
 Having laid it down that every word and syllable of 
 the text was dictated by the Holy Spirit, it became 
 incumbent upon them, of course, to endeavour to re- 
 concile with this unwise hypothesis all those inaccu- 
 racies in minor points of detail which might be 
 remarked in the Sacred Volume ; and which, under a 
 more qualified theory of inspiration, might have been 
 safely left without any such effort at defence. In thus 
 claiming, however, for the least important parts of the 
 text the same authority as for the most essential and 
 vital, they rashly grounded both on the same evidence, 
 and exposed their character for authenticity to one com- 
 mon risk. 
 
 During the desolating period of the Thirty Years' 
 War, the ' Protestant party-spirit ' (as Mr. Pusey styles 
 it), which had from the very first been sufficiently 
 strong, increased in virulence, and, while it prolonged 
 the duration of that struggle, aggravated all its miseries. 
 The only branches of theology then cultivated were those 
 that ministered to the factious spirit of the day, till, at 
 last, the page of Scripture was referred to but as a sort 
 of armoury, from whence the weapons of the respective 
 combatants were to be furnished. Hence arose a vain 
 and verbal school of divinity or, as one of their own 
 better divines characterised it, 'an armed theology, 
 pointed with mere thorns of logic ' to the utter neglect 
 both of Christian practice, and of the enlightened know- 
 ledge which should be the handmaid of Christian truth. 
 Ignorant of history, of sound Biblical criticism, of all 
 those branches, in short, of learning from which a 
 prepared champion of the Faith draws his resources of 
 defence, the divines of Germany were, on the first 
 approaches of scepticism, taken by surprise; those 
 Scriptural proofs, founded chiefly upon scholastic 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 185 
 
 subtleties, which they had found so potent against each 
 other, fell powerless before the common foe, and they 
 were at last compelled to submit to a compromise with 
 the infidel even more ruinous than defeat. 
 
 As a counteraction to this cold, fleshly, and formal 
 theology, a sect had arisen to which the appellation 
 of Pietists was given, whose original object it was to 
 re-awaken, throughout the Christian world, some of 
 those moral and devotional feelings which the sub- 
 tleties of the schools had nearly extinguished, and to 
 call back Religion from the regions of the head to her 
 own humble and natural home in the heart. But the 
 system of these religionists, however amiable their 
 professed doctrines, contained within itself, from the 
 first, the seeds of abuse. Their devotional fervour soon 
 abated into hypocrisy; their pretensions to internal 
 illumination and divine impulses afforded a pretext 
 to the fanatic for every license of heresy ; and in the 
 disgrace thus brought upon the professors of Pietism 
 the interests of genuine piety itself suffered. Among 
 the practices which this sect held to be illicit were 
 laughing, card-playing, and dancing ; and the remarks 
 made by Mr. Pusey upon this part of their creed may 
 be read, perhaps, with advantage by some of our 
 modern pietists : 
 
 The degree of value, however, attached to the abstinence 
 from amusements, whose character is derived solely from 
 their influence upon each individual (the so-called acta^opa), 
 became a source both of self-deception and of breaches of 
 Christian charity ; a deflection invariably occurring as soon 
 as the abstinence is regarded as being in itself a Christian 
 duty. A legal yoke is then substituted for Christian free- 
 dom arid things, in the first instance acknowledged by the 
 party itself to be of subordinate importance, become the tests 
 of Christian progress. It thus became common to exclude 
 
1 86 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 from the communion persons known to have danced or to- 
 have played at cards. 1 The great object, lastly, of the early 
 school, the promotion of practical living Christianity around 
 them, became a mere external duty, and being consequently 
 pursued mechanically, alienated, too often, instead of winning 
 to the Gospel. 
 
 It will be perceived from what we have here stated, 
 that it was by no means from any want of religious zeal 
 but from the wrong channels through which that zeal 
 was directed, and the infinite varieties and whims of 
 opinion into which the right of private judgment wan- 
 toned, that the public mind in Germany came, at last, to 
 lose all standard of orthodoxy, and to be at the mercy of 
 every ' wind of doctrine ' by which poor human reason 
 was ever yet ' carried about.' So entirely, indeed, had 
 they exchanged the substance of Christianity for the 
 shadow, that the Bible itself, the professed oracle of all,, 
 was in reality but rarely consulted by any. The 
 orthodox teachers had substituted their own scholastic 
 theology for that of the Scriptures ; and ' many very 
 diligent students of theology,' says Spener, ' who readily 
 followed the guidance of their preceptors, and so were 
 well versed in other portions of theology, and held 
 diligently lectures on Thetica, Antithetica, Polemica, 
 and the like, had never in their life gone through a 
 single book of the Bible.' Of the utter neglect, indeed, 
 into which the study of the Bible had fallen, among 
 this earliest Protestant people, towards the beginning 
 of the eighteenth century, some idea may be formed 
 from the fact that, at the great fair of Leipsic, at that 
 
 1 It is an amusing instance of the excesses that arise on both 
 sides, from the mutual reaction of two religious sects, that, on one 
 occasion, when an edict excluding card-players from their commu- 
 nion was issued by the pietists, a formula of prayer for success at 
 cards was immediately published by one of the orthodox preachers.- 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 187 
 
 period, in not one of the booksellers' shops was either 
 Bible or Testament to be found. 
 
 It is not wonderful that, in a country where religion 
 was left thus wild and unfenced, intersected by so many 
 various cross-ways of doctrine, and without any fixed 
 frontier of faith, the inroads of sceptics should, on their 
 first appearance, be successful, and at once ' win their 
 easy way.' To the introduction and study of the works 
 of the English freethinkers, Toland, Tindal, Collins, 
 &c., Mr. Pusey attributes the first strong impression 
 that was made upon the already fragile outworks of 
 Grerman faith ; and he might have added that the title 
 alone of Toland's famous book, ' Christianity not Mys- 
 terious ; a treatise showing that there is nothing in the 
 Gospel contrary to reason, or above it, and that no 
 Christian doctrine can be properly called a mystery,' 
 contains within it the germ of all that system of Ra- 
 tionalism which the Germans afterwards adopted. The 
 flattering reception, indeed, which this bold innovator 
 met with at the Courts of Hanover and Berlin, after 
 having been chased out of society for his opinions in 
 his own country, affords a stronger proof, perhaps, than 
 any that Mr. Pusey has produced, of the state of ripe- 
 ness for the reception of anti-Christian doctrines to 
 which all classes of German society had at that period 
 been quickened. This avowed author of a book which 
 had, in England, undergone the singular criticism of 
 being presented as a public nuisance by the Grand 
 Jury of Middlesex, found himself in Hanover so ho- 
 noured by the Electress Dowager and her family as even 
 to be presented by these illustrious persons with gold 
 medals and pictures of themselves on his departure ; 
 and at Berlin, where the Queen noticed him with pe- 
 culiar favour, he was allowed to hold a conference in 
 her Majesty's presence with the learned Beausobre, the 
 
1 88 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 acknowledged object of which, on Toland's part, was to 
 call in question the authenticity of the books of the 
 New Testament. 
 
 To the still more direct encouragement, backed also 
 by his own personal example, which the great Frederick 
 held out to all apostles of infidelity, a more than due 
 share of weight has been allotted among the causes that 
 have occurred to bring the Protestantism of the land of 
 Luther so low ; the truth being that such royal in- 
 stances of irreverence and scepticism as were exhibited 
 by Frederick and his philosophical grandmother, 1 are to 
 be classed rather among the results than the causes of 
 this singular revolution, which had been in full pro- 
 gress long before either of them existed, and the real 
 seeds of which are to be sought as far back as the 
 Eeformation itself. In the extreme opinions and doc- 
 trines to which that great outbreak of the human mind 
 gave vent, and the strong reaction which, after a long 
 course of intolerance, they provoked, lies the whole 
 solution of the phenomena which the Church of Ger- 
 many has exhibited, the explanation of every phasis 
 through which the ' inconstant moon ' of her faith has 
 passed. To this reaction alone was it owing that the 
 busy spirit of strife and dogmatism among her sects 
 was succeeded by the dangerous calm of indifference 
 and scepticism, that the neglect and contempt of human 
 learning which had prevailed under the influence of 
 Spener and his followers, was displaced by the over- 
 fastidious Biblical criticism and daring inquisitiveness 
 
 1 This princess declined the offer of religious counsel in her last 
 hours, saying < Laissez-moi mourir sans disputer.' It is also told 
 of her that, on seeing one of her dames d'Jionneur weeping by her 
 "bedside, she said, ' Ne me plaignez pas, car je vais a present satis- 
 faire ma curiosite sur les principes des choses que Leibnitz n'a 
 jamais pu m'expliquer.' 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 189 
 
 of the learned school of Michaelis ; while (most fatal 
 change of all) from the heights of that lofty theory of 
 inspiration which had led her divines to see the dic- 
 tates of the Spirit in every syllable of the Old and New 
 Testament, they descended at last to the opposite and 
 deadly extreme of rejecting inspiration from the Scrip- 
 tures altogether. This last mortal blow to the authority 
 of the sacred volume was the result, it is evident, of a 
 sort of compromise between religion and philosophy, in 
 which the former, pressed by the reasonings of her 
 adversary, and already half in his interests, consented 
 to give up whatever there was of supernatural in the 
 grounds on which she stood, for the sake of securing to 
 herself his aid in the conservation of what remained ; 
 while, on the other hand, the philosopher, thus im- 
 prudently propitiated by the sacrifice of all that had 
 shocked him in the popular faith, saw no longer any 
 objection to assuming the name of Christian ; but, on 
 the contrary, rejoiced in. having thus ready formed to 
 his hand a grand scheme of moral instruction, by 
 which, purified as it now appeared to him of alt super- 
 fluous alloy, the true happiness of mankind, both here 
 and hereafter, might be advantaged. 
 
 Such, as far as we have been able briefly to trace it, 
 combining our own views with those of the writers 
 before us, is the history of the rise, progress, and ulti- 
 mate results of the system called Eationalism in Grer- 
 many. It is right to add that, in the opinion of Mr. 
 Pusey and others conversant with the subject, this 
 school of theology has within these few years experienced 
 a check, and is at present on the decline. How far 
 this opinion may be correct we know not ; but, in a 
 work published very lately at Altona, entitled ' Fort- 
 setzung der Keformation,' we perceive that the author, 
 who is one of the superintendents of the Lutheran 
 
190 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 Church in Hanover, still claims for the Rationalists, if 
 not superiority of numbers, a decided preponderance in 
 intellectual force and literary acquirement. 
 
 Of the general objects and character of the school, 
 some idea may be formed from the sketch we have 
 given ; but the different degrees and varieties of their 
 heterodoxy can only be learned by a perusal of their 
 works. The fundamental principles of Eationalism we 
 take to be these : That human reason, or the reasoning 
 faculty, is the sole arbiter as to what is to be received 
 as truth, and what is to be rejected as error, by the 
 human mind ; that facts recognised by sense or con- 
 sciousness form the materials on which the reasoning 
 faculty is to be exercised ; that human belief is then, 
 and then only, reasonable, when the degree of assent 
 given to any proposition is in exact proportion to the 
 degree of evidence presented to the mind of the 
 inquirer. 
 
 The Rationalist goes on to affirm that one of the 
 most important among the facts to which experience 
 bears its testimony is this, that the phenomena of 
 Nature are so linked to each other that the whole, as 
 presented before the human spectator, constitutes a 
 series invariably uniform. Every phenomenon is found, 
 if it can be examined, to be connected with something 
 antecedent ; every change indicates a previous change, 
 and the precedent and the consequent are always seen 
 to bear the same uniform and reciprocal relation. 
 Hence the Rationalist concludes that the government 
 of this world is conducted in every instance, not by an 
 immediate but by an intermediate agency ; or at least 
 l>y an agency of which the manifestations always ap- 
 pear to be intermediate, and to be regulated by the 
 same unvarying laws. 
 
 In subscribing to this conclusion, the Rationalist 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 191 
 
 considers that he is not acting an optional part, but 
 merely listening with attention to what he deems the 
 primary and indisputable revelation of Nature and of 
 (rod ; to doubt which, he contends, would be an out- 
 rage against his own being, and an act of infidelity 
 towards its author. When the history of a long ex- 
 tended series of miracles is placed before the Rationalist, 
 he replies that narratives of a similar kind are to be 
 found among every people whose understandings are 
 uninformed and uncultivated ; nay, that the existence 
 and the belief of such narratives are the inseparable 
 result of that state of mind in which the knowledge of 
 the operations of nature is as yet limited and super- 
 ficial ; while, on the contrary, to one who is largely 
 conversant with the facts and laws of the natural world, 
 no fact adequately attested has ever yet been brought 
 in which these laws have been departed from ; and 
 further, that even if what might appear to be an in- 
 stance of this kind could be adduced, of which the 
 evidence might seem to be irrefragable, still, all ana- 
 logy, and the history of past errors on this subject, 
 would enforce the conclusion that this apparent de- 
 viation was only apparent, and that the solution must 
 be sought in our yet inadequate acquaintance with all 
 the parts of the process, and our inability to detect the 
 intermediate links of the chain by which such pheno- 
 menon is united to the regular laws of the universe. 
 
 If, then, continues the Rationalist, I am required 
 to receive as true a history of a series of miraculous 
 interventions suspending the accustomed laws of Nature, 
 and this on the attestation of men of uncultivated 
 minds, I am required also, at the same time, to admit 
 that there has been a strange subversion of the order of 
 Nature ; that an incomprehensible change has taken 
 place in the human mind, and a still more incompre- 
 
192 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 hensible change in the divine government. I must 
 believe that, whilst man was in knowledge and reason 
 a child, he had attained to an accuracy of attention, a 
 comprehensiveness of research, an extent of knowledge, 
 which is now found to belong to the human mind only 
 after it has been developed by a long series of edu- 
 cation, and has appropriated to itself ail that the ob- 
 servation of ages has accumulated. I must believe 
 that man was competent to judge of variations before 
 experience had taught him to expect uniformity ; to 
 become an acute observer and a trustworthy witness of 
 exceptions before he had learned the rule. On the 
 other hand, I must believe that God has changed his 
 mode of governing the world ; that his administration 
 was not then, as now, intermediate, but immediate 
 that it was a succession of divine interventions ; that 
 it was a suspension of the natural, and a substitution 
 of the supernatural. In a word, I must believe that 
 while the human mind was in a state of childhood it 
 had attained to more than the maturity of manhood, 
 and that the government of Grod was then parallel to 
 what are now the dreams of intellectual childhood. 
 
 It is easy to perceive that principles such as these, 
 consistently pursued, would conduct to the total re- 
 jection of whatever is supernatural in the Judaical and 
 Christian revelations ; nor does the Eationalist evade 
 this rejection ; on the contrary, he attempts to defend 
 it ; and a very large proportion of the works already 
 published by the advocates of the system consist of 
 observations, philological, philosophical, historical, and 
 critical, on the books of the Old and New Testament, 
 evidently intended to diminish the reader's confidence 
 in the inspiration of the sacred writers, in the mira- 
 culous events they relate, in their divine authority and 
 infallible truth. 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 193 
 
 Of the dangerous consequences of such an irruption 
 into the pages of Holy Writ by a body of men learned 
 and acute, sincerely honest, as of many of them it must 
 be accorded, in this their bold chase after truth, but 
 still unprepossessed with any of that feeling, as to the 
 sacrednesT of their subject, which might insure from 
 them at least delicacy, if not reverence, in handling it, 
 there requires but little reflection to bring before us 
 the whole startling extent. In pursuance of their plan 
 of rejecting all that is supernatural in the Christian 
 history, they apply themselves, of course with peculiar 
 diligence, to explaining away the miracles of the New 
 Testament ; and how familiarly and even coarsely some 
 of them grapple with this task may be seen from a 
 specimen of the manner in which Paulus, one of their 
 most celebrated theologians, has executed it. On the 
 miracle of the tribute-money and fish he says : 6 What 
 sort of a miracle is it which is commonly found here ? 
 I will not say a miracle of about twelve or twenty 
 groschen (2s. 6d.), for the greatness of the value does 
 not make the greatness of the miracle. But it may be 
 observed that as, first, Jesus received, in general, sup- 
 port from many persons (Judas kept the stock, John 
 xii. 6) in the same way as the Rabbis frequently lived 
 from such donations ; as, secondly, so many pious 
 women provided for the wants of Jesus ; as, finally, the 
 claim did not occur at any remote place, but at Caper- 
 naum, where Christ had friends, a miracle for about a 
 dollar would certainly have been superfluous.' The 
 miracle of Christ walking upon the water, the same 
 theologian gets rid of by resolving it into a mistransla- 
 tion of the words sjrl rrjy flaXacroT/p, which he asserts 
 ought to be rendered not ' on the sea,' but c by or near 
 the sea.' 
 
 Among the modes of interpretation adopted by the 
 
194 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 Rationalists for the purpose of shaping to their own 
 hypothesis the events and doctrines recorded in the 
 Gospel, one of the most favourite, as being one of the 
 most convenient, is the theory of accommodation, a 
 theory which, in supposing Christ and his apostles to 
 have adapted themselves, in much of what they said 
 and did, to the religious and national prejudices of the 
 persons whom they addressed, throws a commodious 
 sort of ambiguity round their actions and sayings, under 
 the cover of which any difficulty that stands in the way 
 of any commentator may with ease be explained away. 
 Against this hypothesis, as made use of by Semler and 
 others, Mr. Eose enters his protest with considerable 
 indignation ; but we may be allowed to say, in passing, 
 'that by none of the German theologians not even by 
 Professor Van Hemert, who seems to have escaped Mr. 
 Rose's multifarious research has this theory of accom- 
 modation been ever carried to a much more astounding 
 length than by the right reverend author of the ' Divine 
 Legation,' in his view of the numerous compliances 
 with popular prejudice and superstition to which the 
 Almighty, as he thinks, condescended, when (to use the 
 bishop's own extraordinary words) ' it pleased the God 
 of Heaven to take upon himself the office of chief 
 magistrate of the Jewish Republic.' 
 
 But, whatever irreverence some of these rationalising 
 critics may have been guilty of, and however that most 
 headlong of coursers, Hypothesis, may have carried 
 them (as it does all who mount it) away, there seems 
 to be but one opinion as to the unwearied industry, 
 deep learning, and, we will add, conscientious purpose, 
 of the greater number of these recluse and laborious 
 scholars ; nor does it appear to us to be denied, in any 
 quarter, that among the questions which they have 
 raised relative to the divine character of Scripture 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 195 
 
 some frivolous, some startling, some merely ingenious 
 there have been also some which not only claim the 
 earnest consideration of our own learned divines, but 
 are well worthy the attention of all reflecting Christians. 
 
 Among this latter class of their lucubrations must 
 be ranked the question respecting the origin of the 
 three first Gospels a question in which no less impor- 
 tant a point is involved than whether these three 
 Evangelical narratives are really the composition of the 
 writers whose names they bear ; or whether they are 
 not merely transcriptions or translations of some docu- 
 ments relative to the life of Christ which had previously 
 existed. The remarkable instances that occur in them 
 of close verbal agreement, not only in places relating to 
 the discourses and parables of Christ, but in passages 
 containing no more than a mere narrative of facts, afford 
 such strong proofs of the existence of an original docu- 
 ment a TrpcoTsvayyeXiov, either in Greek or Aramaic 
 from which two, at least, out of the three Evangelists 
 must have copied their details, that it is now, we be- 
 lieve, not even attempted to be denied that there must 
 have existed some such source ; and the main point of 
 discussion at present, is, whether it was from a Gospel 
 composed by one of these Evangelists that the two 
 others copied theirs ; or whether, as the German critics 
 suppose, all the three were alike indebted for their 
 materials to some common documents, which they 
 found already in circulation, and from which they com- 
 piled their narratives. 
 
 This discovery, for so it may be called, of the 
 biblical critics of Germany, was first made known in 
 this country some years since by a translation, from the 
 pen of the Bishop of Peterborough, of the elaborate 
 work of Michaelis, in which the question was put forth. 
 That a discussion affecting, in its results, even the 
 
 o 2 
 
196 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 claims of the Gospels in question to inspiration, and 
 supported, on the heterodox side, by such an array of 
 erudition and criticism, should not have drawn forth 
 from our beneficed theologians some counteracting 
 effort, can only be accounted for by that spell of ' rich 
 repose ' which, as we have said, hangs over all ; and 
 renders them, as long as they can prevail upon Hetero- 
 doxy to keep the peace within their circle, indifferent 
 as to what gambols she may indulge in out of it. It 
 was, indeed, not without good reason that Boileau 
 placed the dwelling of the goddess of Sloth in the rich 
 Abbaye of Citeaux where the light of JReforme had 
 never penetrated. The question of the three Gospels 
 was again returned upon the hands of the hard-working 
 and hard-named scholars of Germany the Schleier- 
 machers, Bretschneiders, &c. and with the exception, 
 if we recollect right, of Archdeacon Townson's Dis- 
 courses on the Gospels, and a stray, contemptuous 
 notice or two from the young candidates for livings 
 that conduct some of the Theological Eeviews, not a 
 single response on the subject has breathed from any of 
 those oracles to which we lay-readers of divinity are 
 taught to look for instruction. 
 
 Nor has this arisen from any want of a taste for 
 authorship among the members of the Episcopal bench, 
 one of whom has been even engaged very innocently, 
 we acknowledge in disturbing with his single voice 
 that unanimity so dear to the Church, by upholding 
 the I John, v. 7, which everybody else rejects ; and 
 doubting the authenticity of Milton's ' Christian 
 Doctrine,' which everybody else believes. Another 
 right reverend author, to whose enlightened candour, 
 erudition, and literary tastes we shall always be among 
 the first to pay willing homage, has amused his classic 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 197 
 
 leisure by composing two very interesting works on the 
 writings of Tertullian and Justin Martyr; from the 
 former of which our profane memories have carried 
 away the following short and playful anecdote, related, 
 as the bishop tells us, in Tertullian's Treatise, ' De 
 Virginibus Velandis : ' A female, who had somewhat 
 too liberally displayed her person, was thus addressed 
 by an angel in a dream (cervices, quasi applauderet, 
 verberans) 'Elegantes,' inquit, 'cervices et merito 
 nudae ! ' This is all very well, and very harmless, but, 
 in the meantime, while our bishops are thus culling 
 flowers from the Fathers, such momentous questions 
 as we have above alluded to, involving vitallv, it cannot 
 be denied, the nearest interests of Christianity as 
 troubling with doubt the very spring-head from which 
 that ' Fount of Life ' flows remain unsifted and almost 
 untouched ; while such humble inquirers after truth 
 as ourselves are left wholly at the mercy of these inde- 
 fatigable Grermans (who will write, and whom we cannot 
 help reading), without any aid from our own established 
 teachers of the truth, to enable us to detect their so- 
 phistries, or sound the shallows of their learning. 
 
 The policy of silence, however inglorious, was no 
 doubt sufficiently safe, as long as the ignorance of the 
 German language, prevailing throughout this country, 
 rendered the heresies of the Wegscheiders and Fritzsches 
 a * sealed fountain ' to most readers. But this state of 
 things no longer exists. The study of German is be- 
 coming universal ; translations multiply upon us daily, 
 and we may soon expect to see our literary market 
 glutted with rationalism. Nor is it only on the shelves 
 of theology we shall have to encounter its visitations, 
 for it can take all shapes ' mille habet ornatus.' It 
 has, before now, lurked in a fable of Lessing, won its 
 
198 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 way in the form of a religious essay by Schiller, 1 and 
 glimmered doubtfully through the bright mist of the 
 6 Allemagne ' of Madame de Stael ; while a late ratio- 
 nalising geologist among ourselves has contrived to 
 insinuate its poison into a history of the primitive 
 strata. 
 
 Among the very few works this subject has as yet 
 called forth are those which have been selected for the 
 groundwork of this article, and whose contents we shall 
 now proceed briefly to notice. We have already stated 
 that the chief object of Mr. Rose's publication is to 
 prove that to the want of an episcopal church establish- 
 ment like that of which he is himself an aspiring 
 minister the decline, and all but fall, of Grerman 
 Protestantism is to be attributed. From this view of 
 the matter Mr. Pusey ventures to differ. He thinks it 
 possible that a Christian Church may exist without the 
 constitution, liturgy, or articles of the Church of Eng- 
 land, and does us the honour among other examples to 
 cite the Church of Scotland. He is of opinion that 
 the superintendents in the Lutheran Church are not 
 very dissimilar from the bishops in the Church of Eng- 
 land ; and he believes, on sufficient grounds, that sub- 
 scription to the Symbolic books is universally required, 
 the qualification to which Mr. Rose so much objects, 
 being, he thinks, of comparatively recent introduction, 
 and very partially adopted. He therefore, with a far 
 more comprehensive view of his subject than could be 
 expected from an eye long accustomed, like Mr. Rose's, 
 to rest upon the bench of bishops as its origin, deduces 
 the gradual deterioration of the Protestant spirit in 
 Germany to causes, some of them even anterior to the 
 formation of Protestant communities into a Church, 
 
 1 The Jftnding of Moses a little essay, full of eloquence and 
 rationalism. 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 199 
 
 and most of them, we should ourselves add, too deep 
 and strong for any form of church discipline whatever 
 to have controlled. This use of his reasoning powers 
 by the Oxford professor could not do otherwise than 
 give mortal offence to Mr. Kose, both because he is 
 himself (in more senses than one) an anti-rationalist, 
 and because he foresaw danger therefrom to his own 
 much-loved theory. Accordingly, without loss of 
 time or anger, he sends forth a reply to Mr. Pusey, 
 which, for ill temper and unfairness for the prodigal 
 use of what Warburton calls c hard words and soft argu- 
 ments ' has few parallels that we know of in the range 
 even of theological controversy. For lack of seemlier 
 modes of warfare, he has even resorted to that cry of 
 ' heresy ' in which the defeated champions of State doc- 
 trines have always a sure resource ; and, in the face 
 not only of declarations, but of sound proofs of Christian 
 orthodoxy, on the part of Mr. Pusey, more than inti- 
 mates that the historian of Rationalism is himself a 
 Rationalist. To this attack Mr. Pusey has replied, in 
 a second volume on the state of German Protestantism, 
 and in which, with a style much improved and stores 
 of learning still unexhausted, he develops still further 
 his own views of this important subject ; and answers 
 the cavils and insinuations of his angry assailant with 
 a degree of dignity, firmness, and imperturbable ur- 
 banity which cannot fail to inspire his readers with 
 the sincerest admiration. 
 
 Of the thick octavo volume of Professor Lee, the 
 only portions that come within the scope of our present 
 notice are his ' Dissertation on the Views and Principles 
 of the Modern Eationalists of Germany,' and his criti- 
 cisms on two distinguished ornaments of that school 
 Bertholdt and Gesenius. That Professor Lee is a very 
 learned person, we are not inclined to doubt ; but he 
 
200 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 would make but a sorry figure, we suspect, in the hands 
 of the theologians of Halle. For his Chaldaic we have, 
 of course, infinite respect ; but must confess, that, were 
 we to judge him by his English, it would be with some 
 difficulty we should keep out of our heads that unlucky 
 French couplet 
 
 Peut-tre, en latin, c'est un grand personnage, 
 Mais, en frangais, c'est un/ &c. &c. 
 
 In this gentleman's criticisms on the Christologia 
 Judceorum of Bertholdt, it gives us no very promising 
 notion of his familiarity with the works of the author 
 whom he pretends to criticise to find him avowing his 
 inability to cite Bertholdt's interpretation of the fifty- 
 second and fifty-third chapters of Isaiah ; and this for 
 the very simple and intelligible reason that he did not 
 know where to find it. Out of this difficulty we think 
 it but charitable to help the learned Professor, by 
 referring him as well to a distinct essay of Bertholdt 
 on the subject, as to the third part of this writer's 
 treatise, De Ortu Theologice Hebrceorum, at the end of 
 which Mr. Lee will find the interpretation he seeks. 
 
 We have, however, a much graver charge than this 
 of ignorance to bring against the Professor if, indeed, 
 ignorance be not equally his excuse in both cases 
 which is, that, in his strictures upon the commentary 
 of Dr. Gesenius on Isaiah, he has, in one instance, 
 totally misrepresented the opinions of that learned 
 commentator ; and this injustice is the less excusable, 
 as, in the novelty and boldness of the German's theories, 
 there may be found abundance of heterodox points to 
 attack, without thus falsely charging him with any 
 others. 
 
 In his observations on the fifty-second and fifty- 
 third chapters of Isaiah, Gesenius contends, in opposition 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 201 
 
 to the general opinion of Christians of all ages, and of 
 many among the Jews themselves, that these passages 
 cannot be interpreted as a direct prophecy of the 
 Messiah ; and having proved, as he thinks, by a series 
 of elaborate arguments, that the commonly received 
 interpretation is to be rejected, he next enters into an 
 inquiry as to the interpretation that ought to be 
 substituted in its place. The conclusion he comes to 
 at last is, that, in those passages where the Prophet 
 speaks of the Servant of the Lord, he had in view not 
 any one particular person, past, present, or future, but 
 the body or aggregate of the prophets of the Lord 
 collectively considered ; in other words, the Prophetic 
 Order, which he thus personifies, describing their 
 wrongs and their hopes as the wrongs and hopes of an 
 individual, lamenting the long series of suffering, 
 insult, and persecution they had endured, and looking 
 forward with confidence to their future vindication and 
 "triumph. 
 
 With the arguments by which Dr. Gesenius en- 
 deavours to sustain this hypothesis we have no concern 
 at present, except to say that they appear to us, on the 
 whole, strained and unsatisfactory. Such, however, is 
 his deliberate view of the prophecy, and he has declared 
 it as explicitly as words can speak. In the face of all 
 this, Professor Lee having taken pains, as he with 
 much simplicity tells us, to ' ascertain ' exactly the 
 opinion of Gesenius comes forward and attributes to 
 him an interpretation of the passage totally different 
 from that which he has thus plainly and distinctly 
 enounced. ' The servant of the Lord here mentioned,' 
 says Mr. Lee, c is, according to Gesenius 's comment, the 
 Prophet Isaiah.' Now, not only is it the fact that this 
 interpretation is not that of Gesenius, but it will be 
 .seen that Gesenius himself has taken great pains to 
 
202 GERMAN RATIONALISM. 
 
 prove that the passage cannot be applied to Isaiah ; 
 and for proof of this we refer to his work, where various 
 interpretations of the passage, and its applications to 
 Uzziah, Hezekiah, Josiah, Isaiah, and Jeremiah, are 
 successively examined and rejected (Part Second, p. 
 
 171). 
 
 We should be inclined to consider this misrepresen- 
 tation as merely a blunder of ignorance, had not Mr. 
 Lee turned it to such triumphant account in taunting 
 and exulting over his brother doctor. 1 He pursues, 
 indeed, his fancied triumph through several pages r 
 talking of ' the marvellous inconsistency of Isaiah 
 suffering death by martyrdom, and yet enjoying long 
 life as a reward ; ' and exclaiming exultingly, ' I should 
 like to know how this servant of God could know that 
 he was to become a martyr for the sins of the Jews.' 
 This triumph of the professor, resembling as it doe& 
 that of another valorous personage of whom we are 
 told, ' He made the giants first, and then he killed 
 them,' would be merely ridiculous were there not strong 
 reasons for suspecting that there is full as much of un- 
 fairness as of ignorance at the bottom of it. 
 
 We have already ventured to criticise the learned 
 Chaldaist's English ; we will now say a word about hi& 
 German. In a passage immediately following that 
 which we have above referred to, Gesenius says, c Die 
 Kede des Propheten wechselt mit der Eede des Jehova 
 so ab, dass LII. 13 15 Jehova zu reden fortfahrt, wie 
 in dem Vorgehenden : LIU. I Der Prophet redet, und 
 zwar communicativ in Namen seines Standes.' The 
 meaning of this, according to our humble apprehension, 
 is as follows : ' Jehovah and the prophet speak here 
 
 1 Mr. Lee, among his many titles, counts that of D.D. of the 
 University of Halle, an honour for which, as he himself boasts, he 
 was indebted to this very Dr. Gesenius whom he thus disfigures. 
 
GERMAN RATIONALISM. 203 
 
 alternately. Thus, at the end of the fifty-second 
 chapter, it is Jehovah who continues to speak, as in 
 the foregoing verses ; but in the beginning of the fifty- 
 third chapter, it is the prophet who speaks, communi- 
 catively indeed (or in the manner of one who is holding 
 communication with others), and in the name of his 
 order.' We shall now give Mr. Lee's translation of the 
 passage: 'The speaking of the prophet is here so 
 changed for that of Jehovah that, chapter LII. 15, 
 Jehovah continues to speak as in the preceding context : 
 in LIII. I, the Prophet communicates in the name 
 proper for his own station? 
 
 Having given these few specimens of Mr. Lee's 
 capacity for the task he has undertaken, we shall now 
 dismiss him, with a sentence which he himself has 
 applied to poets, 1 but which strikes us as not altogether 
 inapplicable to some prosers : 'It is greatly to be re- 
 gretted that learned geniuses do not make themselves 
 better informed on these subjects.' 
 
 1 Note on Milman's History of the Jews, p. 146. 
 
 ['Told Murray, on his asking me had I seen the mention of 
 Milman in the last Edinburgh (my own article), that I was myself 
 the author of that article, and authorised him to tell Milman so in 
 confidence. Murray asked M. had he any suspicion who wrote that 
 article ; and on Milman's answering, "Not the least," " Could you 
 at all have suspected our friend Moore of such an article ? " 
 " Moore ! " exclaimed Milman. "No, no ; I know Moore to be very 
 multifarious, but I don't think he has yet got to German theology." 
 It was with some difficulty that, when I myself assured him that it 
 was mine, I could get him to believe that I was serious.' Diary of 
 Thomas Mooi'e, October 14, 1831. (Vol. vi. p. 226.)] 
 
204 
 
 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 1 
 
 [APRIL 1834-] 
 
 were beginning to fear that the good old race of 
 etymologists and antiquarians were all extinct ; and 
 most sincerely should we have lamented their loss. 
 For, next to the fairy tales of our childhood, in nothing 
 have we ever half so much delighted as in the lucubra- 
 tions of these grave twisters of words these searchers 
 after syllables through the vast night of time. When, 
 sometimes, with the industrious and truly learned 
 historian of Manchester, we have gone roaming in 
 quest of Celtic roots (which seem to have the fecunda- 
 ting effect of those of the mandrake upon a certain 
 class of brains), and, by their aid, lighted upon the 
 agreeable, though rather startling intelligence, that 
 there existed sheriffs of the County of Wilts in the time 
 of Julius Caesar ; 2 when, by the same means, we have 
 discovered that the Briton who invited Caesar to this 
 island was the unworthy son of no less honest citizen 
 than the Chancellor of Albury College, in, or near 
 London, 3 our delight, on finding ourselves so much at 
 home with the Eoman conqueror and his co tempo- 
 raries, was far too lively to let us pause upon any 
 sceptical doubts, or think on how small a modicum of 
 monosyllables the whole vision rested. 
 
 But, of all the grave freaks of erudition, the sober 
 
 1 2 he Round Towers of Ireland; or, The Mysteries of Freemasonry, 
 of Sabaism, and of Buddhism, for tlie first time unveiled. ' Prize 
 Essay ' of the Royal Irish Academy, enlarged, and embellished with 
 numerous illustrations. By Henry O'Brien, Esq., A.B. 8vo. 
 London, 1834. 
 
 2 Specimen of an Etymological Vocabulary, tyc. p. 89. 
 
 3 P. 177- 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 205 
 
 antics of archaeology, that have, at times, diverted us, 
 those of the gallant and venerable champion of Irish 
 Antiquity, General Vallancey, assert the strongest 
 claims to our recollection and gratitude. The exceed- 
 ing complacency with which he detects an ancient 
 Punic gentleman speaking good Irish, in one of 
 Plautus's plays ; his modest suggestion, whether a gold 
 collar, which had been picked up out of a turf-bog, in 
 the County of -Limerick, might not be the actual 
 Breastplate of Judgment the Urim and Thummim of 
 the Jews ; l the conclusion he comes to, that the Iro- 
 quois Indians of North America must be the very same 
 people as the Irish, because the former call the sun 
 Grounhia, and the later call him 2 Grian ; and, not to 
 enumerate too many such dazzling speculations at once, 
 his discovery that Ossian was the Messiah, and St. 
 Patrick the Devil ; 3 these, and a number of other such 
 erudite fancies, which are to be found in the same an- 
 tiquarian's writings, we should have cited as unrivalled 
 flights in this peculiar walk of research, had we not 
 met with the ingenious and precious volume which 
 forms the subject of this article. 
 
 So long had Vallancey been accustomed to look at 
 his beloved Ireland through an orientalizing medium, 
 that she grew, at last, to be as completely an Eastern 
 island, in his eyes, as if (like the Casa Santa which angels 
 wafted, we are told, from Galilee to Loretto) the Green 
 Isle had in times past been transported from the Sea 
 
 1 Collectanea, No. 13. 
 
 2 Vindication of the Ancient History of Ireland, p. 395. 
 
 3 His (St. Patrick's) name was Succat. He said he was come to 
 preach the doctrine of the great prophet Oishan (the Messiah) ; but 
 the Magi, wishing to keep up their authority and religion, then 
 declared, if Nian, i.e., Oishin, was come, then he, Succat, must be 
 Pater ah, that is, the Devil, and from hence his name Patric.' Vind. 
 251. 
 
206 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 of Oman, or some other such summer quarters, and 
 dropped, much to its discomposure, in the cold com- 
 fortless Atlantic. That there exist strong traces of an 
 Oriental origin in the language, character, and monu- 
 ments of the Irish people, no fair inquirer into the 
 subject will be inclined to deny. Vallancey himself, 
 indeed, began with this moderate view of the matter ; 
 and his first works, relating to Ireland, abound with 
 materials of knowledge, which must always render them 
 valuable to her historians and antiquaries. But by dint 
 of reading and writing for ever on the same theme, by 
 labouring constantly at his favourite parallel between 
 the Easterns and the Irish, he at last worked himself 
 into a state little short of monomania on the subject. 
 Not content with merely deriving the Irish nation from 
 the ancient Chaldaeans, Persians, Scytho-Iberians, or 
 whatever other name he chose to give to their pro- 
 .genitors, he seems, at last, to have almost persuaded 
 himself that the offspring has changed but little on the 
 way, and that the Irish continue to be good Chaldseans, 
 Persians, Scytho-Iberians, &c., to this very day. 
 
 Not only does he often quote vernacular Irish writers 
 as good authorities respecting Eastern affairs, but even 
 intimates that they know much more of the matter 
 than the Easterns themselves; and the reason alleged 
 by him for questioning the authenticity of the Phoe- 
 nician history attributed to Sanchoniathon is, that it 
 differs in some particulars respecting the Gabiric myste- 
 ries from what Irish History has, it seems, recorded on 
 the same recondite topic. The point at issue between 
 Sanchoniathon and the Irish is thus, with ludicrous 
 gravity, laid down by the learned General : 
 
 This I venture to say, from comparing the Irish history 
 of the Cabiri with the Phoenician; for example, why should 
 Ouranus, the Heavens, marry his sister Ge, the Earth, and 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 207 
 
 "bring forth, ist, Ilus, who is called Cronus ; 2nd, Betylus ; 
 3rd, Dagon, who is Siton, or the god of corn ; and 4th, Atlas ; 
 because in the Irish story, Aoran, the ploughman, marries Ge 
 or Ce, the Earth, and the first ploughing brings forth Ilus, 
 weeds, stones, oats, &c., &c. 
 
 That we should have despaired of ever finding an- 
 other such antiquarian one so rich in absurdity will 
 hardly be deemed wonderful. But 'the thing that 
 hath been is that which shall be;' and the cycle of 
 human absurdity, if it does not, like the Periodic year 
 of the Stoics, bring back the same man to say the same 
 foolish thing, brings round others, at least to say it for 
 him. Not only in the work on the ' Round Towers,' 
 now before us, but also in another extraordinary pro- 
 duction, entitled ' Nimrod,' as remarkable for its eccen- 
 tricity as for its omnigenous erudition, there occur 
 speculations respecting Ireland and her past history, 
 which even Vallancey might wish his own ; and which 
 show clearly that to write about that country almost as 
 much unsettles the wits of people as to legislate for it. 
 
 Taking up the notion that Ulysses, in the course of 
 the various voyages attributed to him, passed some 
 time in Ireland, ' I am strongly of opinion,' says the 
 author of Nimrod, c that Ulysses is the original Pa- 
 tricius of Ireland, celebrated in the style of a Saint, as 
 Hercules, Perseus, and Triptolemus were at Antioch, 
 and afterwards throughout Christendom, under the 
 name of Georgius, the seventh champion.' Having 
 thus satisfied himself that Ulysses was St. Patrick, he 
 arrives, with equal ease, at the conclusion that Penelope 
 was St. Bridget, 1 and informs us that her famous distaff 
 
 1 The Greeks had a custom, long retained by the Athenians, of 
 carrying, each new year, to their neighbour's house, an olive branch 
 surrounded with wool, and called Eires-Ione, the Dove's-brancJitvith 
 Wool ; and these yearly visits, I conceive, are nearly akin to those 
 
208 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 is still preserved in the Island of Berkerry. Among 
 his reasons for concluding that Ulysses was St. Patrick 
 are the following : ' Ulysses, during his detention in 
 Aiaia, was king of a host of swine ; and Patrick, during 
 a six years' captivity in the hands of king Milcho or 
 Malcho, was employed to keep swine. Ulysses flou- 
 rished in Babel, and St. Patrick was born at Nem-Turris, 
 or the Celestial Tower : the type of Babel, in Irish my- 
 thology, is Tory Island, or the Island of the Tower.' 
 
 Whether it is supposed by this learned gentleman 
 that the poet Homer ever visited Ireland, we cannot 
 very clearly make out ; but that some of Homer's near 
 relatives were once quartered there is evidently his 
 opinion. 'At the time of St. Patrick's landing,' he 
 says, ' Niul of the nine hostages was King of Ireland ; 
 but I strongly suspect the fable of his hostages origi- 
 nated in Homer's name being supposed to mean a 
 hostage, and that the nine hostages are nine Homers, 
 or successions of Homeridse, from Niul the Learned.' * 
 The Irish might well afford to spare one Ossian to Mac- 
 pherson, when they were so well supplied with Homers. 
 The fabulous cave, in the province of Ulster, called 
 St. Patrick's Purgatory, he supposes to be the fosse dug 
 by Ulysses as mentioned in the Odyssey ; and his mode 
 of accounting for the name of Ulster, on this suppo- 
 sition, is not a little ingenious. < The fossa Patricii,' 
 he says, ' was in the province called Ulidia, Oylister, 
 or Ulster, which seems to me to be Ulyssis Terra. 1 
 
 mentioned by Suidas in 'Kl. Now, the Celts of Britain or Armo- 
 rica, in France, have the like custom of going with the mistletoe to 
 each other's doors at the new 'year, crying, "au gui 1'an neuf." 
 That the branch with wool relates to the distaff of Penelope, or St. 
 Bridget, I think probable from Homer's line, 
 
 AUT^ 5' IGTOV vtycuvoi frr' yXfKTpa) jSe/Jauta.' 
 
 Nimrod, vol. ii. p. 662. 
 1 P. 639- 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 209 
 
 We cannot, even thus passingly, advert to this very 
 singular work without expressing seriously our regret 
 that such rich and varied stores of scholarship, so much 
 refined ingenuity and industrious zeal, should have been 
 employed in researches which but longsomely and 
 laboriously lead to nothing, and speculations little 
 more sound than are a sick man's dreams. 
 
 We have now to ascend, even still higher, the cloud- 
 capt regions of Antiquarianism, in order to arrive at 
 Mr. O'Brien, who sits supreme in his vocation ' sedet 
 altus Olympo ' overtopping even the old Pelion, 
 Vallancey himself. Though this gentleman's present 
 labours refer chiefly to that most fertile source of 
 wonderment and conjecture, the Irish Round Towers, 
 the remote date of these venerable structures throws 
 open so wide a play-ground to the fancy, that he must 
 be a puny Milesian who could not, like Sir Callaghan 
 O'Brallaghan, ' people ' the whole space between ' with 
 his own hands.' The original essay, of which the 
 volume before us is an enlargement, obtained one of 
 the prizes proposed by the Eoyal Irish Academy, in the 
 year 1832, for the best essay on the subject of the 
 Round Towers of Ireland. Conceiving himself alone 
 to be in the secret of the birth, parentage, and bringing 
 up of these Towers, Mr. O'Brien naturally felt aggrieved 
 by the decision of the Council, which adjudged the 
 principal prize to another, and, as he thought, unduly 
 favoured competitor ; and a correspondence ensued in 
 consequence between him and some of the officers of 
 the Academy, which is now laid before the public in the 
 Preface to the present work. 
 
 Mr. O'Brien's anxiety for the preservation of his 
 great secret respecting the Towers seems to have haunted 
 him even to the very eve of its disclosure, as appears 
 from the following note, addressed by him to a brother 
 
210 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 antiquarian, Mr. Godfrey Higgins, the author of ' The 
 Celtic Druids : ' 
 
 May 2, 1833. 
 
 Dear Sir, I hope you will not feel displeased at the 
 frankness of this question which I am about to propose to 
 you, viz., have you any objection to show me, in the manu- 
 script before you send to print, the terms in which you speak 
 of me, in reference to those points of information which I 
 intrusted to your confidence such as the ancient names of 
 Ireland, and their derivation, the towers and founders, 
 dates, &c. ? 
 
 Should you think proper to consent to this feeling of 
 anxiety on my part, I shall be most willing to share with 
 you those other ' points ' which I exclusively retain. To the 
 full extent you shall have these, &c. 
 
 Mr. Higgins' answer to the above note follows, and 
 from this document it transpires that the Eound Towers 
 were not Mr. O'Brien's only secret, but that he also 
 knew something about the Indian god, Buddha, which 
 he was no less anxious to keep concealed from the ears 
 of the profane. 
 
 May 3, 1833. 
 
 My dear O'Brien, ;You may be perfectly assured I shall 
 print nothing which I have learned from you without ac- 
 knowledging it. But I have really forgotten what you told 
 me, because I considered that I should see it in print in a 
 few days. Any thing I shall write on the subject will not 
 be printed for years after your books have been before the 
 public. You did not tell me the name of Buddha, but I 
 told it you, that it was Saca or Saca-sa, which I have already 
 printed a hundred times, and can show you in my great 
 quarto, when you take your tea with me, as I hope you will 
 to-morrow. Sir W. Betham told me of the Fire Towers 
 being * * * * last night, at the Antiquarian Society. 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 G. HIGGINS. 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 211 
 
 It will be seen from this that Mr. Higgins who, 
 being an antiquarian himself, ought to have known 
 better had not only promulgated, before the 'time 
 was ripe,' the ineffable name Saca-sa, but had even 
 blabbed, at a learned rout, the great secret of the 
 Eound Towers. Not to subject ourselves to a charge 
 of similar imprudence, we have thrown, as the reader 
 sees, a modest veil of asterisks round the mystery, being 
 resolved (for our own parts at least) to keep Mr. 
 O'Brien's secret religiously and faithfully. We may be 
 told that already it is all in print, but publishing is not 
 always divulging ; and we would almost pledge our- 
 selves that the secret of this book will be nearly as safe 
 in the hands of its respectable publishers, Messrs. 
 Whittaker & Co., Ave Maria Lane, as in Mr. O'Brien's 
 own breast. 
 
 Before we part, however, with his great mystery, we 
 must say a word or two as to his boast of being himself 
 the first promulgator of it. On the contrary, General 
 Vallancey, from whom he has had most of his learned 
 vagaries at second hand, is, in this instance also, bis 
 provider; that imaginative General having drawn 
 frequent parallels between the Muidhr of the Irish and 
 the Mahadeva of the Hindus, between the emblem 
 called Dia Teibith by the former, and the mystic 
 Bahva of the latter. In the remarkable work, too, 
 called ' Nimrod,' which we have just cited, and which 
 lias been before the public some years, Mr. O'Brien 
 will find this great discovery, which he so grandly 
 proclaims to be ' now for the first time revealed,' stated 
 quietly, in a single sentence, with as much sang froid 
 as if it was no discovery at all. ' They are fire-temples ' 
 (says the author of 'Nimrod') ' and ithyphallic Nim- 
 rodian towers.' The contrast, indeed, between a self- 
 satisfied Englishman and a self-satisfied Irishman could 
 
212 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 not be better illustrated than by the juxtaposition of 
 this short, pithy assertion, with the following lo tri- 
 umphe of Mr. O'Brien : < Will this be considered the 
 vapouring of conceit ? Is it the spouting of self- 
 sufficient inanity ? Let the heartless utilitarian, un- 
 able to appreciate the motives which first enlisted me 
 in this inquiry, and which still fascinate my zeal at an 
 age when, did not my love for truth and the rectifi- 
 cation of my country's history, rise superior to the 
 mortification of alienated honour, I should have flung 
 from me letters and literature in disgust, and betaken 
 myself an adventurer for distinction as a soldier let 
 such, I say, conceal within himself his despicable 
 worldly-mindedness, and leave me unmolested, if un- 
 rewarded, to posterity.' (P. 130.) 
 
 Again, in commemorating Persia as the builder of 
 the Irish Eound Towers, he exclaims : ' This was the 
 moment of Persia's halcyon pride, this the period of 
 her earthly coruscation : to this have all the faculties 
 of my ardent mind been addressed ; and while, in the 
 humble consciousness of successful investigation, I 
 announce its issue to have far exceeded my hopes, I 
 shall avail myself of the industry of preceding inquirers 
 to throw light upon the intervals of value which in- 
 tervene.' (P. 178.) 
 
 We have also another remark to venture with re- 
 spect to one of the engravings with which Mr. O'Brien 
 has decorated his book. We recollect, in Sir Walter 
 Scott's Life of Dryden, where he mentions the compli- 
 ment intended by Tonson to King William, in having 
 the features of ^Eneas, in all the prints to Dryden's 
 Virgil, made to resemble those of the monarch, the 
 illustrious biographer tells us that the engraver con- 
 trived ' to aggravate the nose of ^Eneas into a sufficient- 
 resemblance to the hooked promontory of the Deliverer's 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 213 
 
 countenance.' In a similar manner we suspect that 
 Mr. O'Brien's engraver has been induced to accommo- 
 date the Tower of Clondalkin to his learned employer's 
 theory. We say no more : norunt fideles. 
 
 In most of his general views Mr. O'Brien follows 
 implicitly, as we have said, in the steps of Vallancey. 
 With that great mixer-up of nations he conceives the 
 dhaldaeans to have been among the earliest colonists of 
 Ireland, supplying this colony from his own pure fancy, 
 with an order of priests called Borades, by whom the 
 Scythian Druids that succeeded them were instructed, 
 he says, in' all sorts of knowledge. Like Vallancey, 
 too, he seems well disposed to make the most of the 
 Irish in the way of antiquarianism, by converting them 
 into a number of other people, besides Chaldseans, such 
 as Etrurians, Hindus, Pishdadians, Egyptians, etc. 
 
 The famous traveller, Bishop Pococke, on visiting 
 Ireland after his return from the East ? was much 
 struck, as a letter of his own informs us, with ' the 
 amazing conformity ' he observed between the Irish 
 and the Egyptians ; and a wag of the present day has 
 pointed out a mark of affinity between the two nations, 
 which, to our minds, is quite as satisfactory as any 
 that Bishop Pococke himself could suggest. It runs 
 thus : 
 
 According to some learn'd opinions, 
 
 The Irish once were Carthaginians ; 
 
 But, judging from some late descriptions, 
 
 I'd rather say they were Egyptians. 
 
 My reason's this : the Priests of Isis, 
 
 When forth they march'd, in grand array, 
 
 Employ'd, 'mong other strange devices, 
 A Sacred Ass to lead the way. 
 
 And still the antiquarian traces, 
 
 'Mong Irish lords, this Pagan plan ; 
 
 For still in all religious cases 
 
 They put Lord R n in the van. 
 
214 THE HOUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 It is no doubt in consequence of this particular 
 origin of his countrymen that Mr. O'Brien assures us 
 the Egyptian name Osiris ought to be written, in the 
 proper Milesian manner, O'Siris, like O'Grorman Mahon, 
 or O'Brien. 
 
 By Shaw, Jones, and other African travellers, we 
 have been furnished with vocabularies of the language 
 spoken by the people of Mount Atlas ; and the close 
 resemblance which not only their language, but also some 
 of their national customs, bear to those of the people of 
 Ireland, are remarked strongly by Jones. Their man- 
 ner particularly of crying out the Ulalu, or, as they 
 read it, ' Wiley, wiley, wogh, wogh,' over the dead, and 
 their exclamations, ' Why did you die ? ' are described 
 by this traveller as strikingly Irish. 1 Whatever grounds 
 there may be for these representations, we ourselves 
 once heard a Moorish gentleman, who has been many 
 years resident in England, relate a circumstance so 
 curiously coincident with the accounts of these tra- 
 vellers that we feel ourselves tempted to repeat it 
 briefly here. Being, for a short time, on a visit to 
 Ireland, and happening to stop one day at the post- 
 office of a small country town to inquire for letters,, 
 he heard with surprise a language sounding in his ears,, 
 whose tones for a moment made him believe himself in 
 his own country. It was the conversation, in Irish, of 
 some poor people who had thronged to look at him, and 
 resembled remarkably, he said, the language of the 
 Brerebbers, or African mountaineers ; a language which, 
 by some writers, is said to be a corruption of the an- 
 cient Punic or Numidian. 
 
 1 Shillensis populus eundem quern Arabes, Judasi, et Hiberni 
 habent ritum mortem amicorum deplorandi, vociferando Wiley! 
 wiley ! wogh ! wogh ! &c. terrain in ordine pulsantes, sculpentes 
 vultum et evellentes crines suos, dicendo woe! woe! cur mortuua 
 es 1 woe ! woe ! ' Jones, Dissertatio de lingua Shillensi. 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 215 
 
 A version which we have heard of this anecdote 
 represents our Moorish friend as saying that he under- 
 stood these people, and could converse with them ; but 
 our memory does not authorise us in venturing so far. 
 Here, however, is a scent for Mr. O'Brien, by following 
 which all Mauritania may be transported to Connaught, 
 or vice versa, just as it may suit his purpose. If we 
 are to believe Jones, these original Irish of Mount 
 Atlas are already all dressed for the occasion ; as they 
 wear, it seems, exactly the same sort of kilt, or phi la- 
 beg, which used to be worn by the ancient Hibernians, 
 and which we of Scotland have inherited from them. 1 
 Already the site of Carthage is signalised, not only 
 by the Irish gentleman from that city, who figures in 
 Plautus, but by those good cakes, spotted over with the 
 seeds of poppy, coriander, and saffron, which are, to 
 this day, known in Dublin by the Oriental name of 
 baran breac. 2 Under the auspices of Mr. O'Brien, the 
 empire of the Nemedi, or Numidians, may be restored ; 
 and who knows but he may even resuscitate that famed 
 c Mauritanian Eepublic ' by a pretended proclamation 
 from which poor Sir Kobert Wilson was once so well 
 hoaxed in his early, fraternising days ? 
 
 Having said so much of Mr. O'Brien, we feel that 
 we are bound to let him speak a little for himself; and 
 shall, therefore, through the remainder of this article, 
 treat the reader to our author's ipsissima verba. Per- 
 ceiving how extensive is his acquaintance with all the 
 Eastern dialects, we were for some time doubtful as 
 to which of them his own style principally follows ; 
 but the information which he himself affords on this 
 
 1 'Habitus eorum similis est Hibernico, involvunt enim sese 
 lodicibus, vel lickseeas duabus ulnis largis et 3 vel 4 longis : mu- 
 lieres Hlbernicarum more liberos humeris circumferunt.' Ib. 
 
 2 Ledwick, Letter to Governor Pownal. 
 
216 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 point relieves us from our uncertainty. After some 
 remarks on the use of the initial letter E in the Persico- 
 Hibernian language, he proceeds thus : 
 
 '' ' The prefixing of this letter, in both instances of its occur- 
 rence, whether we regard the Eastern or Western hemi- 
 sphere (i.e., Persia or Ireland), was neither the result of 
 chance, nor intended as an operative in the import of the 
 term. It was a mere dialectal distinction appertaining to the 
 court language of the dynasty of the times, and, what is 
 astounclingly miraculous, retains the same appellation, with 
 literal precision, unimpaired, unadiilterated, in both countries, 
 up to the moment in which I write. 
 
 Palavhi is the appellation of this courtly dialect in. Persia, 
 and Palahver is the epithet assigned to it in Ireland ; and 
 such is the softness and mellifluence of its exchanting tones, 
 and its energy also, that to soothe care, to excite sensibility, 
 or to stimulate heroism, it may properly be designated as 
 'the language of the Gods.' (P. 121.) 
 
 The specimens of the Palahver, or Court language, 
 which we are about to exhibit must be considered, we 
 presume, as of the most refined kind ; though we con- 
 fess our own learned researches would have suggested 
 to us the Phoenician term, Phudge, as the most fitting 
 and appropriate for them. Speaking of the various 
 types and epithets under which woman and her attri- 
 butes have been described in all the various mythologies 
 of antiquity, he says : 
 
 Of all those various epithets, however vitiated by time, or 
 injured by accommodation to different climates and lan- 
 guages, the import intact and undamaged is still preserved 
 in the primitive Irish tongue, 1 and in that alone; and with 
 that fertility of conception whereby it engendered all myths, 
 and kept the human intellect suspended by its verbal phan- 
 tasmagoria, we shall find the drift and the design, the type 
 
 1 The Italics throughout are all Mr. O'Brien's own. 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 217 
 
 and the thing typified, united in the ligature of one appella- 
 tive chord, which, to the enlightened and the few, presented a 
 chastened, yet sublime and microscopic, moral delineation ; 
 but, to the profane and the many, was an impenetrable 
 night, producing submission the most slavish and mental 
 prostration the most abject ; or, wherever a ray of the equi- 
 voque did happen to reach their eyes, perverted, with that 
 propensity which we all have to the depraved, into the most 
 reckless indulgence and the most profligate licentiousness. 
 
 (P. 212.) 
 
 The names given to goddesses, he tells us, are to be 
 taken in a double meaning, as referring equally to love 
 and astronomy, thus : 
 
 From Astarte ('Aorapr?/), the Greeks formed Aster ('AOTJ/JO), 
 a star, thereby retaining but one branch of this duplicity. 
 The Irish deduced from it the well-known endearment, 
 Astore ; and I believe I do not exaggerate when I affirm, 
 that in the whole circuit of dialectal enunciations, there exists 
 not another sound calculated to convey to a native of this 
 country so many commingling ideas of tender pathos and of 
 exalted adventure as this syllabic representation of the lunar 
 deity. (P. 213.) 
 
 In exposing some error of his great precursor, 
 Vallancey, he thus eloquently characterises him : 
 
 This is but an item in that great ocean of incertitude in 
 which that enterprising etymologist had, unfortunately, been 
 swallowed up. Having perceived, by the perusal of the 
 manuscripts of our country, that there must have been a 
 time when it basked in the sunshine of literary superiority ; 
 yet unable tangibly to grapple with it, having no clue into the 
 origin of its sacred repute, or the collateral particulars of its 
 date, nature, or supporters, he was tossed about by the 
 ferment of a parturient imagination, without the saving 
 ballast of a discriminating faculty. (P. 254.) 
 
 After amassing proofs of his theory from mythology 
 
218 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 and etymology, our author next draws, for the same 
 purpose, upon theology; and having proved, to his 
 own satisfaction, that all the knowledge derived by 
 Moses from the Egyptians respecting the Creation, the 
 Deluge, and the Fall, was learned by the latter from 
 the Pish-de-danaan ancestors of the Irish, he comes to 
 the conclusion that the Jewish legislator, though 
 'talented and otherwise highly favoured,' was wholly 
 ignorant of the real meaning of what the Egyptians 
 had taught him ; and this ignorance he conceives (if 
 we rightly understand the following paragraph) to 
 have arisen solely from the unlucky circumstance of 
 Moses never having learned Irish : 
 
 But though it is undeniable, from their symbols, that the 
 Egyptians must have been well apprised of the constitution 
 of those rites, yet am I as satisfied as I am of my physical 
 motion that the folding of that web, in which they were so 
 mystically doubled, was lost to their grasp in the labyrinths of 
 antiquity. 
 
 Moses, therefore, could not have learned from the Egyp- 
 tians more than the Egyptians themselves had known. He 
 related the allegory as he had received it from them ; and it 
 is, doubtless, to his ignorance of its ambiguous interpretation, 
 accessible only through that language in which it was origin- 
 ally involved, that we are indebted for a transmission so 
 essentially Irish. (P. 281.) 
 
 Another source of theological error, which he traces 
 equally to a want of knowledge of the Irish, is the 
 false interpretation given, as he thinks, to the opening 
 verses of the Gospel of St. John, and more particularly 
 to the word Logos, the true meaning of which is to be 
 sought, not in Greek, but in Irish : 
 
 Having asserted that the preliminary part was inalienably 
 Irish, I now undertake to prove a radical misconception, 
 nay, a derogation from the majesty of the Messiah, to have 
 
THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 219 
 
 crept into the text, in consequence of its having been trans- 
 lated by persons unacquainted with that language ! The 
 term logos, which you render word, means to an iota the 
 spiritual flame log, or logh, being the original denomina- 
 tion. The Greeks, who have borrowed all their religion from 
 the Irish, adopted this also from their vocabulary ; but its 
 form not being suited to the genius of their language, they 
 fashioned it thereto by adding the termination os, &$Jtog1ios. 
 -(P. 484.) 
 
 There is still much more of this rich and rare 
 matter, every page, indeed, would afford specimens of 
 it ; nor is there any lack, as we have seen, of that sort 
 of Irish eloquence, which, like the old Appian Way, 
 holds on its course for some time prosperously, and 
 then loses itself in a bog. We have also a good deal 
 of the sort of etymology described in the following 
 French epigram : 
 
 Alfana vient d' equus sans doute : 
 Mais il faut avouer aussi, 
 Qu'en venant dela jusqu'ici, 
 II a bien chang6 sur sa route.' 
 
 But, however our own foiblesse for such specula- 
 tions might tempt us to select a few more samples, we 
 suspect that by this time our readers have had quite 
 enough of them. 
 
 It can hardly be necessary, we trust, to say, that to 
 no deficiency whatever of reverence for the high and 
 authentic claims of Ireland to antiquity, nor to any 
 want of deep interest in her history, is the light tone 
 we may seem to have indulged, in the preceding re- 
 marks, to be attributed. If some more ardent than 
 judicious among her champions have erred through 
 excess of zeal, and brought ridicule on a good cause by 
 the extravagance of their advocacy, there are some, 
 
220 THE ROUND TOWERS OF IRELAND. 
 
 on the other hand, who have succeeded in shedding 
 over her past times and records that steady light which 
 alone distinguishes the bounds of truth from those of 
 fiction. By the work of the late venerable librarian of 
 Stowe, the authenticity of the Irish chronicles is placed 
 beyond dispute, and the essay of Mr. Dalton on the 
 religion, learning, arts, and government of Ireland, 
 abounds with research on these several subjects, alike 
 creditable to his industry and his judgment. Let us 
 hope that the same service which these and other 
 sensible Irishmen have achieved for their country's 
 ancient history will be effected also for the modern, 
 by the work which is now expected from Mr. Moore. 1 
 
 1 Another mystification, like Sonthey's mention of his own name 
 in The Doctor, in order to, conceal the authorship of the article. The 
 following entry in Moore's Diary, under date May 5, 1834, authen- 
 ticates it as his : A column of extract in The Times from my 
 article on " The Round Towers," given as from an able and lively 
 article in the last Edinburgh? (Vol. vii. p. 31.) ED. 
 
A LETTER 
 
 TO THE 
 
 ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN 
 
 AKEAET5TO2 
 
 AMI20O2 
 
 ^EscHYL. Agamemnon. 
 
 [Originally published in 1810.] 
 
A LETTBE. 
 
 'THOUGH the late resolutions of your committee in 
 Dublin 1 seem intended to be final upon the subject of 
 the Veto, let us hope that a question so vitally connected 
 with the freedom, peace, and stability of the Empire 
 may not be dismissed with such hasty and absolute 
 decision. The discussion has hitherto been carried on 
 with a degree of warmth and passion which, however 
 creditable to the feelings of those engaged in it, has 
 certainly tended but little to the improvement of their 
 reasoning powers. Indeed, it is but an abuse of 
 language to dignify with the name of discussion either 
 the proceedings or the writings to which the question 
 has hitherto given rise. Those orators and authors 
 who live but by nattering your prejudices, having 
 found that you look to but one point of the compass 
 for argument, have set in from that quarter with a 
 regular trade-wind of declamation, which neither your 
 Bishops, your friends, nor common sense have been 
 able to withstand. In this state of the question, it 
 requires no ordinary share of indifference to the taunts 
 and suspicions of the illiberal, the misinterpretations 
 of the ignorant, and the cold-blooded rancour of the 
 bigoted, to stand forth as the advocate of this required 
 concession, and to urge it as the sole, the necessary 
 sacrifice, by which you are to deserve the liberties 
 which you demand. Inadequate as I am to this under- 
 
 1 March 2, 1810. 
 
224 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 taking, and entering the lists, like David, in armour 
 ' which I have not proved,' I am yet conscious of bring- 
 ing an honesty of feeling to the task, a zeal for my 
 country's honour, and an ardent wish for her liberties, 
 which entitle me to attention at least, though they 
 should fail in producing conviction. 
 
 The first point which naturally comes under con- 
 sideration, in a subject where the interests of religion 
 are concerned, is the conduct of your bishops; and here 
 at the outset we meet with that insurmountable fact 
 (which your lay-theologians would so willingly throw 
 into the shade), that, in the year 1799, four metro- 
 politans and six prelates professed themselves willing, 
 as the price of Catholic emancipation, to concede to 
 the Government a control upon the appointment of 
 your bishops, and signed a formal document to that 
 effect. This stipulated basis of negotiation, so solemnly 
 agreed to by ten of your spiritual magistrates, has been 
 since retracted ; and the defence resorted to by those 
 who think it necessary to apologise for the conduct of 
 these prelates, and explain away the awkwardness of 
 the retractation, wears so strongly the features of 
 Jesuitical evasion that I blush for its parents and 
 adopters. c It was a moment of panic,' they tell us, 
 c in which these venerable men were surprised ; and na 
 stipulation, extorted in such circumstances, could 
 possibly be meant or considered as binding.' Observe, 
 however, the dilemma in which this document of 1799 
 has involved the opposers of the Veto. If the bishops 
 were right in making this concession, if, acquainted, as 
 they must be intimately, with the essentials of your 
 faith and the interests of your hierarchy, they yet saw 
 nothing in the proposed pledge which was likely to 
 violate or endanger either, then the principal argu- 
 ment against the Veto must, of course, fall point- 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 225 
 
 less to the ground. But if, on the contrary, they were 
 false in their trust, if, believing (as their lay masters 
 would have them believe) that the measure was deeply 
 injurious to the Church, so large a portion of your 
 dignified clergy were driven by fear or seduced by 
 emolument to sign what they considered the death- 
 warrant of their faith, then, I ask, would not your 
 rulers be justified in suspecting the integrity of these 
 men, and in asking for some guard against the appoint- 
 ment of persons so ineligible, in the event of your 
 becoming co-partners in the Constitution? Could they, 
 who had failed in faith, be expected to prove steady in 
 politics ? or would not the same hands which had sur- 
 rendered your Church to the Government in like 
 manner surrender that Government to the enemy ? 
 Such is the alternative to which we are forced, by those 
 violent charges and insidious vindications with which 
 the members of your episcopacy have been assailed: 
 the less upright and trustworthy they make your 
 bishops appear, the more fully do they justify the 
 Grovernment in demanding some security against the 
 appointment of such persons in future. 
 
 But the characters of these venerable men are a 
 sufficient answer to so gross an imputation. It is 
 worse than insult to suspect that, if they had perceived 
 in the measure any one of those ruinous results so 
 boldly and fancifully predicted by your orators, they 
 could have lapsed, for a moment, through motives of 
 fear or ambition, into such an act of spiritual treason, 
 such a recreant abandonment of their ministry. It is 
 quite impossible; and we are therefore warranted in 
 considering those anti-catholic terrors in which the 
 Veto is arrayed as the dreams of ignorant, though 
 perhaps well-meaning alarmists, who, if they could be 
 prevailed upon to adopt the philosophy of Panurge, 
 
 Q 
 
226 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 and c fear nothing but danger,' would be much more 
 respectable in their panic, and might be somewhat 
 more easily relieved from it. 
 
 The second occasion which called forth the senti- 
 ments of your bishops was the clamour excited in the 
 year 1808, when your parliamentary friends, upon the 
 authority of this document and the corroborating 
 information of Dr. Milner, declared that, in the event 
 of your full emancipation, a negative control upon 
 the nomination of your bishops would be vested, as a 
 pledge of security, in the Crown. The effect which 
 this proposal produced upon the Parliament and people 
 of England must be remembered with a mixture of 
 pleasure and regret, for the brightness of its promise 
 and the shortness of its duration. The hopes of your 
 friends were kindled into confidence ; the fears of the 
 timid and the doubts of the conscientious were allayed 
 and satisfied by this liberal compromise; and the 
 champions of intolerance saw, with dismay, the last 
 dark barrier of exclusion disappearing. But transient 
 indeed was this lucid interval. In the very act of 
 curing the folly of your adversaries you were suddenly 
 seized with the infection yourselves ; and the senseless 
 cry of c The church is in danger ' was just dying away 
 upon the lips of Protestants, when it was caught up by 
 Catholics, and echoed with emulous vociferation. 
 
 The laity were the first to give the alarm ; the 
 proposed concession was denounced as an act of apostasy; 
 and your friends, not less than your enemies, were 
 charged with a design to overturn the Catholic religion 
 in Ireland ; Dr. Milner was degraded from an apostle 
 into a hireling, and your bishops were called upon, with 
 the most indecorous menaces, to disavow the conciliatory 
 spirit r which he had imputed to them. And here, let 
 me ask, can anyone suppose for an instant that Dr. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 227 
 
 Milner, the acknowledged agent of your hierarchy (with 
 whose sentiments, upon every bearing of the question, 
 he must have made himself intimately conversant), is 
 it rational to think that he would have ventured even 
 to hint at an arrangement which he considered in the 
 last degree unwelcome to the feelings and principles of 
 his constituents? It is not to be imagined; and, though 
 I am but little inclined to argue from Dr. Milner's 
 consistency, being of opinion that there is, in this right 
 reverend scholar, a certain irresponsible unsteadiness of 
 judgment, which not even his studies of Cabbasutius 
 and Thomasinus l have been heavy enough to ballast 
 sufficiently, it is impossible, I think, not to see, in his 
 conduct upon this occasion, a conclusive proof that the 
 great body of your prelates was by no means averse 
 from the concession of a negative to the Crown. 
 
 The alarm, however, was gone abroad, a rash and 
 unreasoning laity were taught to see perils and mischiefs 
 in the measure, which had escaped the eyes of those 
 most interested and best informed upon the subject. 
 The decisions of the ignorant are always violent, in 
 proportion to their erroneousness ; furiosa res est in 
 tenebris impetus; not a whisper of argument was 
 heard ; not a single link of the drag-chain of reason 
 was suffered to retard the down-hill precipitancy of 
 passion, nor could the tried and active fidelity of years 
 protect your friends from the ungenerous charge of 
 
 1 Two favourite authors of Dr. Milner. I confess I am un- 
 grateful enough to wish that, before Dr. Milner did us the honour 
 of visiting Ireland, he had consulted his friend Cabbasutius for 
 some of those canons which so wisely forbid ecclesiastics to travel. 
 He will find something to this purpose in p. 591 of the Notitia 
 Ecelesiastica, and also amongst the Canons of the Concilium 
 JSudense, the 64th of which complains that it was the practice of 
 clergymen 'tarn turpiter quam damnabiliter per terram saepius 
 evagari.' Cabbasut. Not. Eeclesiast. p. 476, 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 having prevaricated with your interests and conspired 
 against your faith. In the midst of this ferment a 
 general meeting of your prelates was assembled, and I 
 question much if they did not perceive, in the insolent 
 tone with which the laity dictated to them, more 
 danger to the peace and unity of your church than 
 centuries of Government interference could threaten. 
 Let us see, however, the result of this synod. Did they 
 retract or condemn the principle of their former con- 
 cession ? Did they, in any way, authorise those alarms 
 for the safety of your religion which had been so indus- 
 triously circulated among the laity? Did they intimate, 
 even in the remotest manner, that this proposed price 
 of your complete disenthralment was incompatible with 
 their doctrine, discipline, or principles ? By no means* 
 They merely passed a resolution (in which they were 
 perhaps justified by the ferment of the public mind at 
 the moment) that it was inexpedient to alter the 
 existing mode of nomination not dangerous, observe, 
 nor heterodox, nor anti-Catholic, nor any of those 
 sanbenito l epithets, in which your orators still clothe 
 the measure, but simply inexpedient; and, as if not 
 content with this virtual admission of the perfect com- 
 patibility of a Veto with the Catholic faith and disci- 
 pline, they voted the thanks of the synod to Dr. Milner, 
 to that very Dr. Milner who had just answered for their 
 friendliness to the measure, and whose representation of 
 their sentiments respecting it they had been so menac- 
 ingly called upon by the laity to disavow. Such, after 
 all, was the extent of the palinode which your clamours 
 extorted from the bishops in 1808. They acknowledged 
 the representative services of Dr. Milner, thus sanction- 
 
 1 The name of the garment worn by those who were con- 
 demned by the Inquisition ; ' more properly (says Townsend) saw 
 lendito,' 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 229 
 
 ing the principle of that concession which he had 
 offered in their names, and, instead of entrenching 
 themselves behind any of those pertinacious objections 
 by which some persons would willingly shut out con- 
 ciliation for ever, they merely took shelter (and rather 
 from their flocks than their rulers) behind the light and 
 surmountable fence of inexpediency, an obstacle which, 
 as it was raised in deference to the infatuation of the 
 laity, awaits but the return of their good sense to show 
 its untenable futility. 
 
 I am not aware that I have assumed too much, in 
 the dispositions which I here attribute to your prelates, 
 throughout the entire discussion of the Veto ; and yet 
 this is the measure, thus virtually approved by them, 
 thus formally conceded at first, and at last rather 
 reserved than retracted, which the wrong-headed poli- 
 ticians amongst you, in contempt of their spiritual 
 guides, have branded as impious, deadly, and apostatical ; 
 this is the condition of your liberties, for his luminous 
 enforcement of which Lord Grrenville is now grossly 
 and ungratefully calumniated, as a sophisticator of your 
 cause and a conspirator against your religion : and this 
 is the pledge to whose pretended inexpediency the 
 bigoted and the factious would not hesitate to sacrifice 
 the freedom of Ireland, and the harmony of the whole 
 empire, more wicked in their folly than that people of 
 antiquity, 1 who set a fly upon an altar, and sacrificed an 
 ox >to it! 
 
 In addition to the implied acquiescence of your 
 prelates (implied, I think, satisfactorily, from the fore- 
 going review of their conduct), when we know that the 
 vicars apostolical of England have all, with the excep- 
 tion of the consistent Dr. Milner, expressed themselves 
 
 1 Mentioned by Aelian, and alluded to by Addison in his Free- 
 liolder. 
 
230 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 favourable to the proposed arrangement, we cannot but 
 feel indignant at the audacity of those lay pamphleteers, 
 who still officiously interfere with the jurisdiction of 
 your hierarchy, and persist in arraigning, as ruinous 
 and impious, a measure which its spiritual judges have 
 acquitted of all but inexpediency. At the same time > 
 it must be confessed that the disposition which the 
 laity have shown, in encroaching upon the province of 
 their clergy in this question, and presuming to know 
 their duties much better than themselves, is, in com- 
 mon life, but too frequently the characteristic of our 
 countrymen, who would, most of them, much rather let 
 their own affairs run to ruin than incur the least 
 suspicion of being ignorant of those of their neighbours. 
 To this disinterested activity, this supererogating spirit 
 (so worthy of an c insula sanctorum* like ours), we are 
 indebted, I doubt not, for much of that solicitude 
 'which your laity insist upon feeling for the honour and 
 safety of the hierarchy. There are many, however^ 
 whose opposition to the measure is founded upon 
 deeper and less innocent motives. Queen Elizabeth^ 
 as we are told by Secretary Walsingham, distinguished 
 Papists in conscience from Papists in faction; and, 
 however little she. may deserve, in general, to be cited 
 as a precedent in such cases, I believe we shall but da 
 justice to the opposers of the Veto if we divide them 
 into the same two classes. To the Anti-Vetoists in 
 conscience, therefore to those whose apprehensions, 
 however' groundless, are at least sincere, and many of 
 whom, without examining the subject themselves, have 
 merely taken up those ready-made terrors, of which 
 your orators keep such a constant supply I shall, with 
 deference, submit a few considerations, which may 
 soften, if they do not remove, those objections which 
 have been considered so formidable; and, as arguments- 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 231 
 
 on this side of the question are strangers to your ears, I 
 cannot doubt that your ears will receive them hospitably. 
 With respect to the supremacy of the Pope, it has 
 not, I believe, been asserted, even by those who possess 
 most facility of assertion, that his interference in the 
 nomination of bishops, any farther than the form of 
 recognition, or his exercise of an appellatory jurisdiction 
 upon matters relating to discipline, are, in any degree, 
 necessary to the existence or purity of a Catholic 
 hierarchy. Indeed, the example of the Grallican 
 church, 1 so long free and so long illustrious, sufficiently 
 proves the full compatibility of liberty with reverence, 
 of independence with orthodoxy. From the conflict 
 which her enlightened divines maintained against the 
 pretensions of Rome your religion rose purer and 
 firmer than it had stood for many ages before; and 
 those slavish notions of Papal authority, which had 
 been taken up in times of darkness, and clung to 
 during the storm of the Reformation, 2 were cast off as 
 
 1 'Why a man may not be a Romanist without being a Papist, 
 in Ireland as well as in France, I can see no reason. We know 
 that the Gallican Church has long been emancipated from the 
 thraldom of the Roman Pontiff.' Campbell's Survey of the South of 
 Ireland, in 1775- 
 
 2 The advances which the Church and Court of Rome were 
 making towards purity of doctrine and practice, when they were 
 checked by the turbulent burst of the Reformation, are strongly 
 acknowledged by Hume in the following curious passage, which 
 (according to Towers) is to be found only in the first edition of his 
 History, printed at Edinburgh in 1754: 'It has been observed 
 that, upon the revival of letters, very generous and enlarged senti- 
 ments of religion prevailed throughout all Italy, and that, during 
 the reign of Leo, the Court of Rome itself, in imitation of their 
 illustrious prince, had not been wanting in a just sense of freedom. 
 But when the enraged and fanatical reformers took arms against 
 the Papal hierarchy, and threatened to rend from the Church at 
 once all her riches and authority, no wonder she was animated with 
 equal zeal and ardour in defence of such ancient and valuable 
 possession.' 
 
232 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 insulting alike to piety and common sense. The 
 deposing power of the Pope, his personal infallibility, 
 and all those absurd attributes, 1 which degraded the 
 Church much more than they elevated the Pontiff, were 
 then indignantly rejected from your belief, and con- 
 signed to that contemptuous oblivion from which even 
 the malicious industry of your enemies has been unable 
 to call them up in judgment against you. To Launoi, 
 one of the ablest advocates of the Grallican Church, your 
 religion owes her release from much of that legendary 
 superstition, 2 which sat like a nightmare upon her 
 bosom, and filled her dreams with monsters : and in the 
 works of the able Chancellor Grerson we find, mingled 
 with his vindication of the rights of the Church, 3 some 
 
 It is remarkable, that a similar spirit of political improvement 
 had been manifested by some of the governments of Europe, when 
 the French Kevolution frightened them back into all their ruinous 
 old errors. 
 
 In corroboration of the foregoing passage from Hume, I beg to 
 refer the reader to Whitaker's Vindication of Mary Queen of Scots 
 (vol. iii. pp. 2, 50), where he will find the same effects imputed to 
 the intemperance of the Keformers, and an honourable tribute to 
 the Catholics of that period, upon the subject of forgery, ' which 
 (says he), I blush for the honour of Protestantism while I write it, 
 seems to have been peculiar to the reformed.' Page 2. 
 
 1 It was an assertion of Innocent III. that the Pope is as much 
 greater than the Emperor as the sun is greater than the moon ; ' 
 which modest pretension became, afterwards, a part of the common 
 law, and set a wise glossator upon the following interesting calcu- 
 lation : ' Cum terra sit septies major luna, sol autem octies major 
 terra, restat ergo ut pontificalis dignitas quadragesies septies sit 
 major regali.' 
 
 2 See, among others, his treatise De Commentitio Lazari et 
 Maximini et Marthae in Provinciam Appulsit ; in reading which, 
 and similar works of this author, we regret to think that it should 
 ever have been necessary to exert courage and ingenuity in the 
 refutation of such puerile absurdities. 
 
 3 In some of his ideas about the right of resistance to Popes, he 
 was thought, indeed, at that time, to have ventured too far ; as in 
 the passage, ' Casus multi esse possunt, in quibus aliquis se gerens 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 233 
 
 of those pure principles of political freedom, 1 which his 
 country afterwards so grandly, though intemperately 
 asserted, and which, however their animation may be 
 suspended at present by the strong grasp of military 
 power, have too much vitality, I think, to expire 
 altogether beneath the pressure : like those tables of 
 science which Shem is said to have taken with him 
 into the ark, they are preserved, I trust, to enlighten 
 mankind, when the present deluge of despotism shall 
 have 6 abated from off the earth.' 
 
 While the religion of England was Catholic, the 
 same guards against Papal encroachment were adopted 
 under her wisest sovereigns ; and it was in the reign of 
 Edward III., that patriotic monarch who first spiritedly 
 filled up the rude outline of the British Constitution, 
 that the statutes of PraBmunire and Provisors were 
 enacted, for the utter exclusion of the Pope from all 
 matters of ecclesiastical discipline. Can Catholics then 
 wonder that Protestants should be unwilling to endanger 
 their establishments by the least infusion of an influence 
 which Catholics themselves have so invariably pro- 
 nounced to be mischievous ? Nay, though Protestants 
 should be inclined to try the experiment, would not 
 Catholics blush to re-enter the temple of the Constitution 
 which their own hands first built, and from which they 
 have been so long excluded, with that badge of eccle- 
 siastical servitude about their necks, which, in laying 
 the foundations of the fane, they declared to be un- 
 worthy of its precincts ? Could they bear to resemble 
 
 pro Papa, et pro tali habitus ab Ecclesia, poterit a subdito licitd vel 
 occidi, vel incarcerari,' &c. &c. Tom. secund. in Regulis jtforalibus 
 tit. De Praeceptis Decalogi. 
 
 1 In the famous passage (Adversus Adulatores, considerat. 7), 
 which King James quotes, with such horror, in his Defence of the 
 Rights of Kings, against Cardinal Perron. 
 
234 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 those children of the Jews l who took back into Israel 
 the language they had learned in bondage, and thus 
 mix the Ashdod, the jargon of slavery, with their own 
 old, native dialect of liberty ? The Catholics of Eng- 
 land seem to feel upon the subject as they ought ; and, 
 by the readiness which they have shown to exchange 
 the rescripts and bulls of Rome 2 for the blessings of a 
 free Constitution, they prove themselves worthy de- 
 scendants of those founders of British liberty who, with 
 all their reverence for the spiritual authority of the 
 Pope, thought freedom too delicate a treasure to be 
 exposed unnecessarily to his influence, and accordingly 
 sheltered it round with Provisors and Prsemunire, like 
 that fenced-in pillar at Delphi, 3 which not even priests 
 might touch. 
 
 But neither by France nor by Catholic England 
 was the interference of Rome more effectually excluded 
 than by Ireland herself during the times of her native 
 monarchy. However far the learned Usher may have 
 carried his hypothesis with respect to the religion of 
 the early Irish, the testimonies which he cites abun- 
 dantly prove that, to as late a period as the twelfth 
 century, the Pope had not exercised a legatine authority 
 in Ireland, nor taken any share in the election of her 
 bishops or archbishops ; and how little inclined your 
 ancestors of those days were to abide by a Papal decision, 
 
 1 ' And their children spoke half in the speech of Ashdod, and 
 could not speak the Jews' language, but according to the language 
 of each people.' Neliemiah xiii. 23, 24. 
 
 2 ' I do not, of course, mean that these instruments should be 
 altogether excluded, as there may occur some questions of internal 
 discipline upon which a reference to the See of Home would be 
 necessary. But even this degree of intercourse should be subjected 
 to some such regulations as Sir John Cox Hippisley has proposed 
 in his pamphlet. 
 
 3 Erected on the spot which they called the 6^a\bs yaias. 
 Pausan. c. 16. See Musgrave Upon the Ion of Euripides. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 235 
 
 even in matters of canonical regulation, appears by 
 their obstinate dissent from the Komish observance of 
 Easter a schism in which they were encouraged by 
 some of your most celebrated Saints, whose anti- 
 canonical boldness is, however, sufficiently justified by 
 their canonization. 
 
 When declaimers, therefore, appeal to your passions 
 upon the danger of disturbing a hierarchy which is 
 6 the only undestroyed monument of your ancient 
 grandeur,' you should remember that at the period to 
 which alone they can refer in this allusive retrospect to 
 former greatness, your hierarchy was quite as inde- 
 pendent of Eome as the advocates of your liberties 
 would wish to make it now ; l and that this Papal in- 
 terference which some persons consider so essential, and 
 to which you are the only people in the world subjected 
 at present, far from being a relic of grandeur or glory, 
 is but the base remnant of that anomalous proscription 
 which so long made you aliens in your own land, and 
 which drove you to seek in a spiritual alliance abroad 
 some shelter from the storm of a temporal tyranny at 
 home. 
 
 It was not till the Eeformation had added religious 
 schism to the differences already existing between 
 these countries that Ireland was effectually thrown 
 
 1 At one period, they seem to have elected their bishops accord- 
 ing to the mode which was practised at Alexandria as early as the 
 time of Saint Mark the Evangelist a model which, I think, would 
 satisfy anyone but Cabbasutius. ' Alexandriae a Marco Evange- 
 lista usque ad Heraclium et Dionysium Episcopos, Presbyteri 
 semper unum ex se electum in excelsiori gradu collocatum Episco- 
 pum nominabant.' Hieronym. Epi-gt. ad Evagr. 
 
 In the tenth century, as Campion informs us, the monarch of 
 Ireland was allowed the exercise of a Veto. ' To the Monarch, 
 besides his allowance of ground and titles of honours, and other 
 privileges in jurisdiction, was granted a negative on the nomina- 
 tion of bishops at every vocation.' Book i. c. 15. 
 
236 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 into the arms of Rome ; and from that period down 
 to the accession of his present Majesty the events of 
 every succeeding reign have served but to draw the tie 
 more closely. Indeed, nothing could be more natural 
 than that the members of a persecuted religion should 
 turn for support, for counsel and consolation, to the 
 visible head of that faith for which they were suffering 
 that they should find some relief to their wounded 
 pride in the patronage of a prince who had long been 
 formidable, and whose throne seemed to stand upon 
 the line which separates this world from the next, 
 illuminated strongly by the glories of both that, pos- 
 sessing no political rights which foreign interference 
 could injure, they should unreservedly abandon their 
 church to his guidance, and find a charm in this 
 voluntary obedience to him which consoled them for 
 their extorted submission to others. All these feelings 
 were as natural and just as the causes that produced 
 them were monstrous and iniquitous. But those causes 
 exist no longer : a tyranny, which disgraced alike the 
 inflictors and the sufferers, has gradually given way 
 before the light of liberality and conviction, and its 
 last slow lingering vestige is about, I trust, to vanish 
 for ever ; but surely it is worse than absurdity to expect 
 that the precautions and prejudices adopted upon both 
 sides during that dark season of mutual ill-will should 
 now be surrendered by one of the parties, while they 
 are cautiously kept in full force by the other, and that 
 Protestants should throw away the last fragment of the 
 penal sword, while the Papal stiletto is still in the 
 hands of Catholics : it is folly to expect, and insult to 
 ask it ! The subjection of your church to the Pope 
 was the consequence of your political misfortunes ; and, 
 even granting that the continuance of this yoke is 
 consistent with the freedom which you ask for (a 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 237 
 
 position which you yourselves have, in all times and 
 countries, denied), yet, by unnecessarily preserving 
 such a memorial of your former alienation, you per- 
 petuate the remembrance of times which it is the 
 interest of all parties to forget ; you withhold that 
 reciprocity of sacrifice which alone makes reconcilement 
 satisfactory ; and you take all its grace from the gift of 
 liberty by ungenerously declaring that you distrust the 
 giver. In short, it shows an ignorance of the common- 
 est feelings of human nature to suppose that the present 
 possessors of the State would willingly admit you to a 
 share upon such very unequal terms, or that as long as 
 you cling close to the Court of Rome you can be 
 cordially embraced by the British Constitution. 
 
 Again, therefore, I appeal to that love of liberty 
 which is native to you as Irishmen, and avowed by you 
 as Catholics ; l and I ask whether you can think, 
 without shame and indignation, that for a long period 
 you have been the only people in Europe (with the 
 exception of a few petty States in the neighbourhood of 
 the Pope) who have sunk so low in ecclesiastical 
 vassalage as to place their whole hierarchy at the 
 disposal of the Eoman Court ? Can you patiently 
 reflect that the humiliating doctrine of Caietanus,. 
 ' servam esse ecdesiamj which the divines of France so 
 boldly and successfully combated, 2 has been admitted 
 
 1 Among many examples which might be adduced to prove that 
 a warm zeal for the Roman Catholic religion is consistent with the 
 best feelings and principles of political liberty, we may mention 
 the very interesting instance of the Dalecarlians, who, though they 
 chiefly assisted Gustavus to shake off the tyranny of the Danes, 
 were among the first to oppose his reformation of their ancient 
 religion. See Sheridan's Revolution of Sweden, p. no, where we 
 may trace a strong similarity to the Irish character through the 
 description which he gives of the turbulent, but generous nature of 
 these hardy mountaineers. 
 
 2 See particularly Launoi's Letters- 
 
238 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 and acted upon in Ireland alone, and that the title 
 under which Pope Adrian affected to transfer this 
 kingdom to Henry II., 1 though treated by your an- 
 cestors with the contempt which it deserved, 2 has been 
 almost justified by the voluntary submission with which 
 you have since surrendered the only rights that were 
 left you to his successors ? If you felt, upon these 
 reflections, as lovers of liberty ought, you would rejoice 
 in the opportunity which now so brightly presents 
 itself, of regaining at the same moment your political 
 and ecclesiastical freedom ; of proving to your fellow- 
 countrymen that the yoke, which you assumed as 
 Catholics, was but a kind of counterbalance to the 
 fetter which hung upon you as citizens ; and that the 
 same emancipating touch which bursts the links of the 
 latter will for ever release you from the degradation of 
 the former. 
 
 Let me add, too, that as revenge was naturally 
 among the motives which sweetened your alliance with 
 a prince whom your persecutors feared and detested, it 
 becomes you to beware lest those whom you now ask 
 
 1 This title might be sent after the famous deed of gift from 
 Constantine to Pope Silvester, which Ariosto tells us is to be found 
 in the moon. 
 
 Questo era il dono (se pero dir lice) 
 Che Constantino al fawn Silvestro fece. 
 
 I am aware that to certain lay controversialists I shall not appear 
 quite orthodox in quoting Ariosto, whom their great annalist, 
 Baronius, has styled ' vulgaris poeta ille,' in his indignation against 
 the bard, for having borrowed from the Legends his curious story 
 of Isabella and the Moor. See La Cerda, upon the 7th book of the 
 Aeneid. * Ita scilicet patet secta plagiariorum,' &c. 
 
 2 In the same manner, Paul IV. in the time of Mary, took upon 
 him to erect Ireland into a kingdom, with pompous references, for 
 his authority, to the saints, &c.; upon which Archbishop Usher 
 says, 'Paul need not make all that noise, and trouble the whole 
 Court of Heaven with the matter.' 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 239 
 
 to confide in you should suspect that a wilful perse- 
 verance in this connexion is actuated by some remains 
 of that vindictive spirit under whose embittering in- 
 fluence it first was formed. The Greeks had the 
 feeling and good taste to exclude from the architecture 
 of their temples those figures of female slaves called 
 Caryatides, because (as it is well expressed by a writer 
 upon the art) they would be ' monuments of vengeance 
 in an asylum of mercy ' l how much more importantly 
 then are you called upon to imitate this tasteful gen- 
 erosity of the Greeks, and to shrink from profaning, 
 with the least trace of revengeful feeling, that free 
 sanctuary of reconcilement to which you are invited ! 
 
 I shall be told, of course, that, in the instances 
 which I have adduced of France 2 and of the early times 
 of England 3 and Ireland, the religion of the State was 
 Catholic; and that, therefore, the interests of your 
 Church might be safely entrusted to the consciences of 
 those who governed, without the protective interference 
 of the Pope. Before we examine into the soundness of 
 
 1 'Vindictae monumenta in asylo misericordiae.' Aldrich's 
 Architecture. 
 
 2 The famous declaration of the liberties of the Gallican Church, 
 contained in the four propositions of the bishops, in 1682, which 
 the learned Bossuet was the most active in promoting, and which 
 (as a Roman Catholic divine of these countries tells us) went so 
 far as : to pronounce the sovereign pastor fallible even in his dog- 
 matic decisions of faith ' (Reeve's Christian Church'), has been 
 lately revived, in its full extent, by that greatest of all statesmen 
 and warriors, Buonaparte. 
 
 3 Doctor Bramhall thus states the liberties of the Roman 
 Catholic Church of England : When the kings of England owned 
 the Pope's spiritual authority, his decrees had no force of laws 
 without the confirmation of the king. The Kings of England 
 suffered no appeals to Rome out of their kingdoms, nor Roman 
 legates to enter their dominions without their licence, and declared 
 the Pope's bulls to be otherwise void.' Just Vindication of the 
 Church of England, vol. i. 
 
240 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 this objection, I must urge somewhat farther a point to 
 which I have already adverted, and entreat of you to 
 consider whether a Protestant government is not abun- 
 dantly warranted in its suspicion of Papal influence 1 by 
 the jealous apprehension with which Eoman Catholic 
 sovereigns have at all times endeavoured to control and 
 resist its inroads ; and whether you are not guilty of 
 something worse than charlatanry in recommending to 
 others, as harmless and even salutary, what you have 
 constantly rejected as unnerving and poisonous your- 
 selves. If this influence be baneful under monarchs of 
 your own religion, it must work with tenfold virulence 
 where the government is of an opposite faith; and 
 where, to the restless spirit of intrigue, the strong as- 
 cendency over conscience, and the alienating claims of 
 a spiritual allegiance 2 which render it so formidable in 
 the former case, are added the diversity of interests, 
 the warmth of anti-heretical zeal, and the ambition of 
 proselytism, which must invariably actuate it in the 
 latter. 
 
 1 I have purposely refrained from urging the very obvious 
 argument with which the present state of the Continent has sup- 
 plied my predecessors on this side of the question ; partly because 
 the prelates have given up this point themselves, and admitted the 
 necessity, in the existing state of Europe, of a temporary interrup- 
 tion of their dependence upon the Holy See ; and chiefly because 
 my arguments are meant to go the much greater length of proving 
 that, in all possible times and circumstances, this subjection to 
 Rome is degrading and mischievous. 
 
 2 The dangers of such an allegiance are thus forcibly enumera - 
 ted by a writer who, however irreverently blind to the beauties of 
 religion, had the quickest of all eyes in detecting and smiling at 
 its abuses : La difficulte de saroir a quel point on doit obeir a 
 ce souverain etranger, la facilite de se laisser seduire, le plaisir de 
 secouerun joug naturel pour en prendre un qu'on se donne soi- 
 meme, 1'esprit de trouble, le malheur des temps, n'ont que trop 
 souvent port6 des ordres entiers de Religieux a servir Rome contre 
 leur patrie.' Siecle de Louis XIV. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 241 
 
 With respect to the distinction between spiritual 
 and temporal power, by which you endeavour to re- 
 concile your submission to the Pope with the free 
 discharge of your duties as subjects and citizens, it is 
 a security, which the history of all the religions of the 
 world too fully justifies a legislature in refusing to trust 
 to implicitly. It would be happy, indeed, for man- 
 kind, if this line between the spiritual and the temporal 
 had always been definitively and inviolably drawn ; l 
 for the experience both of past and present times 
 proves, that the mixture of religion with this world's 
 politics is as dangerous as electrical experiments upon 
 lightning though the flame comes from heaven, it 
 can do much mischief upon earth. Entangled, however, 
 as the interests of Churches and States have become, 
 from the frailty, ambition, and worldliness of man- 
 kind, it is hardly possible to detach them fairly or 
 satisfactorily ; and, therefore, refine away, as you will, 
 the spiritual authority of the Pope, there will still 
 remain combined with it, in its purest state, many 
 gross particles of temporal power, which it is the duty 
 of a wise and free government to counteract by every 
 effort consistent with the consciences of its subjects. 
 
 But, to return to the objection of those who main- 
 tain that, though the supremacy of the Pope may 
 be reduced to a mere titular existence, where the 
 monarch is of the Roman Catholic faith, and, therefore, 
 
 1 The taint which religion always takes from the least contact 
 of temporal power, is observable even in that part of the progress 
 of Mahometanism which we trace through the gradual compilation 
 of the Koran. In the second chapter of this book it is said that 
 * all those who believe in God and the last day, shall have their 
 reward with the Lord ; ' but as the sect became dominant, it also 
 grew intolerant and monopolising, and this liberal tenet is revoked 
 in succeeding parts of the Koran, chap. Ixiv., c. 
 
 K 
 
242 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 equally interested with his subjects in the preservation 
 of its strength and purity ; yet this interposing shield 
 of papal protection becomes necessary, where the 
 government wields an opposite creed, recommended 
 and enforced by every art of seduction and power. In 
 the first place, experience is decidedly against this 
 assumption ; and we need but refer to the examples of 
 Prussia and Kussia, where your Church has, with safety, 
 entrusted the appointment of her bishops to a Lutheran 
 prince, and a schismatic autocrat, 1 to prove that even 
 in arbitrary states, 2 where the rights of the subject lie 
 more within the reach of the sovereign than they can 
 ever be placed by the British constitution, your religion 
 may defy alike the pressure of power and of opinion, 
 
 1 The pontifical oath was altered, by the Empress of Eussia's 
 desire, in the year 1783,' when Mohilhow was erected into an arch- 
 bishopric, and a prelate, of Catherine's nomination, received the 
 pall from Pius VI. In this new form of oath (which, since 1791, 
 has been wisely adopted by the bishops and archbishops of Ireland), 
 the words 'Hereticos persequar et impugnabo,' which excited such 
 alarm in Doctor Duigenan and others, are omitted. See the ponti- 
 fical rescript in Dr. Troy's Pastoral Address, 1793. Tne reader will 
 find, in the 4th chapter of Historical and Philosophical Memoirs of 
 Pius VI., an unfair, perhaps, but certainly amusing account of the 
 disputes between Catherine and His Holiness, relative to this arch- 
 bishopric of Mohilhow. The circumstances which led to the 
 alteration of the ancient oath are thus detailed : ' Archetti, the 
 Pope's nuncio, being questioned relative to the kind of oath which 
 the prelate would be expected to take, answered that he must 
 swear not to tolerate heretics and schismatics. He was bluntly 
 told that his instructions betrayed a want of sense and reflection, 
 and that it was ridiculous to impose upon a subject the obligation 
 of persecuting those who lived under the same sovereign as him- 
 self, &c. &c., pp. 32, 33. 
 
 2 ' The Calvinistic states of the United Provinces regulated 
 their conduct, with respect to their subjects of the Koman commu- 
 nion, on similar principles. The nomination even of a cur6 (or 
 parish priest) was certified by the arch-priest to the provincial 
 magistrate, and, if objected to, another was appointed.' Sir John 
 Cox Hippisley On tlie Catholic Question. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 243 
 
 and flow on, like Arethusa, untinged by the mass of 
 heterodoxy around it. 1 
 
 It requires, indeed, but little range of history to 
 teach us, that, however a difference of religion may 
 have exasperated the feuds of mankind, it has seldom 
 been of itself the sole originating motive of hostility. 
 The power connected with creeds is always much more 
 obnoxious than their errors, and Faith may wear her 
 mantle of any hue she likes as long as she is not sus- 
 pected of hiding a sceptre under it. So little, in gene- 
 ral, have states and sovereigns been guided in their 
 movements by mere spiritual considerations, that we 
 find them, as worldly policy dictates, combining in such 
 motley alliances of creeds, as seem almost to realise 
 the rambling dreams of scepticism. We see the Cross 
 united with the Crescent against Christians ; we find 
 Catholics assisting Protestants to cast off a Catholic 
 yoke, 2 and, still more extraordinary, perhaps, within a 
 very few years, we have seen papal badges about the 
 necks of British dragoons, 3 as a reward for having de- 
 fended the Pope, in his own capital, against Papists. 
 Indeed, through all the difficulties with which the Court 
 of Eome had to struggle, during the warning events 
 
 1 Belle Aretkuse, ainsi ton onde foHunee 
 Roule au seinfurieux d'AmpMtrite etonnee, 
 Un critftal tovjours pur, et des flots toujours clairs, 
 Que jamais ne corrompt 1'amei'tume des mers. 
 
 LA HENRIADE. 
 
 2 Thus Innocent XI. assisted the great champion of Protestant- 
 ism, William, with the money of the Church against the papist 
 prince, his father-in-law. Indeed, so little were the interests of 
 the Church considered, in this instance, that when James sent the 
 Earl of Castlemaine, Ambassador Extraordinary to Home, to make 
 submission of the Crown of England to the Pope, the Court of Eome 
 received him with repulsive coldness, and refused him a cardinal's 
 hat, which the king solicited for Father Petre. 
 
 8 The 1 2th, or Prince of Wales's Light Dragoons. 
 B 2 
 
244 ^ LETTER TO THE 
 
 which preceded the French revolution, her chief con- 
 solations and aids were administered by heretics and 
 schismatics ; and while the Emperor Joseph, the Grand 
 Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Naples, were weaken- 
 ing and degrading the Pontiff by every species of en- 
 croachment and insult ; while France, the eldest child 
 of the Church, was already preparing ' images of revolt 
 and flying off,' the King of Sweden was on a visit of 
 friendship at Borne, the great Frederick maintained a 
 cordial intercourse with the Holy See, and protected 
 its best supporters, the Jesuits, in his dominions ; while 
 Catherine, beside the interest which she evinced towards 
 her Roman Catholic subjects in White Russia, proposed, 
 and, I doubt not, with much sincerity, to establish a 
 Concordat between the Greek and Latin churches. 1 
 
 Having satisfied ourselves, therefore, that a mere 
 difference in creeds is, of itself, insufficient to provoke 
 hostility, without an adequate mixture of political con- 
 siderations, let us consider whether it would be the 
 interest of the British G-overnment, after admitting you 
 to a full participation of the constitution, to follow up 
 the boon by attacking or undermining your religion, 
 
 1 There is nothing which excites more regret than the failure 
 of every effort like this, towards reconciling the great schisms of 
 the Christian world. The forbearance of Melanchthon and others, 
 at the Keformation, in admitting several points as adiaplwra, 
 ought to have led to a more cordial adjustment of differences, 
 instead of adding to the many absurd quarrels of mankind the pre- 
 posterous instance of a "helium adiaphoristicum. The speculations 
 of the Eirenists, too, for reconciling the Protestant and Catholic 
 churches, were all put an end to by the bull Unigenitus. The plan 
 which Fabricius proposed for this desirable object, may be found in 
 Heidegger's Life of that able professor, at the end of his Works. 
 It is impossible, however, to read the sarcasms against popery, in 
 the Ihidides Catholicus of Fabricius (published under the assumed 
 name of Ferrarius), without suspecting that he was but indif- 
 ferently qualified for the dispassionate duties of an arbitrator 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 245 
 
 and thus cancelling the only security which they can 
 have for the morals of the people with whom they have 
 shared so valuable a deposit. The very statement of 
 such a supposition is, I think, a sufficient exposure of 
 its absurdity. 4 Eeligion (says Montesquieu), though 
 false, is the only guarantee we can have for the probity 
 of men ; ' and can you seriously think that the power 
 which you are asked to vest in the Crown, will be pre- 
 meditatedly employed towards the extinction of this 
 guarantee ? or that the religion, which alone has made 
 you trustworthy, will be conspired against as soon as 
 the trust has been confided to you ? 
 
 That there are some persons, even in these reasoning 
 times, who are ignorant and weak enough to dread and 
 hate your Church, who would, for ever, exclude you 
 from all political rights, and who, as long as your in- 
 terests are separate from their own, would feel a plea- 
 sure in loosening your moorings of rectitude, and cast- 
 ing you adrift into those vices and irregularities which 
 might give them some pretext for wronging and tor- 
 menting you that there are a few such malicious 
 bigots, I acknowledge with shame and astonishment c 
 but to suppose that even those very persons, in the 
 event of your becoming incorporated with them in the 
 state and embarked in a complete identity of interests, 
 should be so blind to their own safety as to weaken the 
 restraints of that religion, to which alone they have to 
 trust for the integrity and good faith of their co-partners, 
 or so wanton as to vitiate this fountain of your morals 
 at the risk of tainting the whole atmosphere of the con- 
 stitution to suppose such a perversion of the com- 
 monest dictates of policy, is to imagine a mixture of 
 profligacy and bigotry, which I should hesitate in attri- 
 buting even to Mr. Perceval. 
 
 The great King of Prussia, whose hatred to all 
 
246 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 possible creeds l will not be questioned by the believers 
 in Barruel and Kobinson, far from indulging this 
 malignity at the expense of his subjects and himself, 
 thus speaks in justifying the cordial protection which 
 he afforded to the Jesuits in Polish Prussia and Silesia : 
 4 1 have a million and a half of Catholics among my 
 subjects, and it is of consequence to me that they 
 should be brought up strictly and uniformly in the 
 religion of their forefathers.' But it is superfluous to 
 refer to such philosophical authority, for a policy 
 obvious to the least reasoning capacities ; the very 
 instinct of self-preservation would suggest it to the 
 most brainless politician, and I doubt whether even 
 my Lord Castlereagh would not lose all the pleasure 
 which he takes in the practice of corruption, if he 
 had the slightest suspicion that he endangered himself 
 by it. 
 
 When alarmists, therefore, try to persuade you that 
 this concession will be fatal to your faith ; that it is 
 but a barter of spiritual treasures for a few temporal 
 advantages, and that, as the eagle took the tortoise 
 into the sky in order to break it, so your sect is to be 
 elevated only for the purpose of destroying it tell 
 them that you have too high a value for liberty, and 
 too strong a reliance upon the stability of your Church 
 to be scared from the proffered enjoyment of the one, 
 by vague or visionary alarms about the other ; that 
 you are inspired with a manly and well-grounded con- 
 fidence, that the character which you have earned, 
 while aliens from the state, will insure a respect for 
 your consciences when allied with it ; and that the 
 religion which has made you worthy of the constitu- 
 
 1 A truly Protestant prince, according to Bayle's definition of 
 the term : Je suis Protestant (says this sceptic), car je protest 
 centre toutes les religions.' 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 247 
 
 tion, will be cherished and supported as the best means 
 of keeping you so. Tell them, that even should these 
 liberal views be fallacious, you can yet rely for the 
 safety of your faith upon those ordinary principles of 
 self-interest, which prevent the merchant, who trusts 
 half his stock to another, from making a knave of his 
 partner, or teaching him to betray and plunder him. 
 Tell them, in fine, as your best and ultimate security, 
 that you depend upon the strength of the religion itself, 
 which has for ages taken root in the hearts of Irish- 
 men, which, like our beautiful arbutus, is native to the 
 soil, and having lived so green through the long winter 
 of persecution, will neither be checked in its growth, 
 nor weakened in its stem, by those blossoms which the 
 warm sun of freedom will bring out on it ! 
 
 Among the lesser and more lightly urged objections 
 to the Veto, there is one which it is really refreshing to 
 meet, after the anile prejudices and terrors which I 
 have been combating ; because it shows some of that 
 wakeful jealousy of power which is so becoming in 
 suitors for the fair hand of Liberty, and which your 
 other arguments against the measure would by no 
 means encourage us in attributing to you. c The con- 
 cession of the negative,' we are told, ' would increase 
 the power of the Crown, and that therefore it is the 
 interest of the whole country that it should not be 
 granted.' It does not seem, however, to have been 
 taken into consideration by the proposers of this 
 objection, that the complete enfranchisement of so 
 large a portion of the empire would so considerably 
 widen the basis of the legislature, as to form more 
 than a counterbalance to this additional weight of the 
 executive ; and that if the constitution were now in its 
 perfect equilibrium (which ' ne aniculse quidem exist i- 
 
248 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 mant ' i ), such an accession of force to one part of 
 the system would require, perhaps, some proportional 
 control to be vested in the other. But it is not the 
 power, which comes boldly in the shape of prerogative, 
 that the people of these countries have chiefly to dread 
 at present, and the exercise of a Veto would be so 
 personally the act of the king, so individually exposed, 
 and of such undivided responsibility, that few monarchs 
 would risk an unpopular or arbitrary use of it. 
 
 I may be told, indeed, that the constitutional 
 negative of the Crown has been got rid of by the 
 insidious mediation of influence, and that the same 
 pioneer may smooth the way to the appointment of 
 your hierarchy, by procuring the recommendation of 
 such persons only as are likely to coincide with the 
 politics of the Court, 2 and thus preventing the un- 
 gracious ultimatum of a negative. Against this kind 
 of danger under the present system, I must candidly 
 own that I see but little security. Until a thorough 
 reform shall have purified the constitution from that 
 all-pervading corruption which threatens to change its 
 very nature, nothing that comes within its sphere can 
 hope to escape the contagion. That jealousy, perhaps, 
 with which you must always regard the too close 
 approaches of your clergy to the Court, may, for some 
 time, avert their political seduction ; but I dare not 
 answer for the best or wisest of them, if too long ex- 
 posed to those bewildering temptations, so meretri- 
 
 1 Cicero, De Divinat. lib. 2, 15. 
 
 2 This apprehension of a political abuse of the royal inter- 
 ference was felt by the framers of the I2th canon of the 8th 
 council of Constantinople in the year 869, which condemns such 
 elections of bishops as have been procured * per versutiam et 
 tyrannidem principum.' See an able treatise, De lAbertat. Eccles. 
 Galilean., by M. C. S. lib. iii. c. 7, p. 123, where a misconception of 
 Dominus de Marca upon this subject is corrected. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 249 
 
 ciously and shamelessly employed by the Government. 
 It is impossible, however, that this state of things can 
 last ; the people of England demand a reform, and 
 what they steadily demand cannot long be refused to 
 them. Think, then, what incentives there are, at this 
 moment, for a generous neglect of all minor obstacles, 
 in your grand pursuit of that rank in the state which 
 alone can empower you to serve the constitution; which 
 alone can enable you to appear among the regenerators 
 of that system, which statesmen of your own faith first 
 gloriously founded, and to repay those friends who are 
 now struggling for your liberty, by nobly assisting them 
 to perfect their own. The very infusion of such a new 
 untainted spirit cannot fail to produce reanimation and 
 vigour ; and your courage will rival the gallantry of 
 that youth who courted his mistress at the moment 
 when she was dying of the plague, and ' clasping the 
 bright infection in his arms,' 1 restored her to health 
 and beauty by his caresses. 
 
 I had intended to have adverted, somewhat more 
 particularly, to the manner in which many of your 
 writers have treated this subject ; but, having proved 
 (to my own conviction, at least), that their arguments 
 and alarms are equally groundless, it is unnecessary 
 to call upon their manes any further, or disturb that 
 oblivion into which I must very soon follow them. 
 
 To your conduct between this and the discussion of 
 the question in Parliament, your friends all look with 
 considerable anxiety. Having pleaded your cause with 
 unexampled perseverance, and succeeded in clearing 
 away those gross calumnies, 2 which had so long inter- 
 
 1 Somewhere in Darwin, who took this interesting story (as I 
 believe he acknowledges) from a very curious poem by Vincentius 
 Fabricius, which may be found in the Miscellanea Guriosa, an. 2. 
 
 2 The reader will find some of the most ridiculous of these 
 
250 A LETTER TO THE 
 
 cepted the genuine light of your character, they saw 
 with pleasure the moment approaching when your 
 merits and rights were to be recognised, and their toils 
 and sacrifices repaid. They observed that even the 
 most timid and scrupulous, looking back to the long 
 and dreary quarantine which you had so patiently 
 performed off the harbour of the constitution, were 
 beginning to lay aside their fears and prejudices, and 
 preparing to admit you with confidence and cordiality. 
 To see, suddenly, a blight thrown over such prospects 
 was painful enough from any quarter ; but to see that 
 blight proceed from yourselves, was of all disappoint- 
 ments the most unexpected and mortifying. With a 
 precipitancy which might have afforded some apology 
 for your error, if a perseverance in folly did not rob 
 you even of that excuse, you disavowed every favour- 
 able disposition attributed to you, and by falsifying 
 your best friends, almost justified your worst adversaries. 
 I have already, however, sufficiently dwelt upon the 
 rash inconsistency of this conduct, and shall now only 
 implore that, while there is yet time, you may regain 
 the ground which you have lost, and win back the con- 
 fidence which you have forfeited. The Protestants 
 fear to entrust their constitution to you as long as you 
 remain under the influence of the Pope; and your 
 reason for continuing under the influence of the Pope 
 is that you fear to entrust your Church to the Protes- 
 tants. Now, I have shown, I trust, in the preceding 
 
 accusations in The Character of a Papist's Belief, by the Archbishop 
 of York in 1 762, written for a Lady to preserve her from the 
 dangers of Popery.' Among other articles of the creed, which he 
 imputes to them, is the following : ' That Christ is the Saviour of 
 men only, but of no women ; for that women are saved by St. Clare 
 and Mother Jane.' Surely, surely, such old women as the Arch- 
 bishop (and I could point out many a one of the sisterhood at 
 present) are scarcely worthy of more respectable mediators. 
 
ROMAN CATHOLICS OF DUBLIN. 251 
 
 pages, that their alarm is natural, just, and well founded; 
 while yours is unmeaning, groundless, and ungenerous. 
 It cannot, therefore, be doubted by which of you the 
 point should be conceded. The bigots of both sects 
 are equally detestable; but if I were compelled to 
 choose between them, I should certainly prefer those 
 who have the Constitution on their side. 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 DUBLIN, April 21, 1810. 
 
M. P. 
 
 OR 
 
 THE BLUE-STOCKING 
 
 IN THREE ACTS 
 
The lines distinguished by inverted commas were omitted in the 
 representation. 
 
 [The eight songs marked with a star were reprinted by the 
 Author in the ninth volume of his Poetical Works, at the pages 
 indicated,] 
 
PBEFACE 
 
 I gave this piece to the theatre, I had not the least 
 intention of publishing it ; because, however I may have 
 hoped that it would be tolerated upon the stage, among 
 those light summer productions which are laughed at for a 
 season and forgotten, I was conscious how ill such fugitive 
 trifles can bear to be embodied into a literary form by pub- 
 lication. Among the motives which have influenced me to 
 alter this purpose, the strongest, perhaps, is the pleasure 
 I have felt in presenting the copyright of the dialogue to 
 Mr. Power, as some little acknowledgment of the liberality 
 which he has shown in the purchase of the music. The 
 opera, altogether, has had a much better fate than I ex- 
 pected ; and it would, perhaps, have been less successful in 
 amusing the audience, if I had songe serieusement a lesfaire 
 rire. But, that the humble opinion which I express of its 
 merits has not been adopted in complaisance to any of my 
 critics, will appear by the following extract from a letter 
 which I addressed to the licenser, for the purpose of pre- 
 vailing upon him to restore certain passages, which he had 
 thought proper to expunge as politically objectionable : * You 
 will perceive, sir, by the true estimate which I make of my 
 own nonsense, that, if your censorship were directed against 
 bad jokes, &c., I should be much more ready to agree with 
 you than I am at present. Indeed, in that case, the una litura 
 would be sufficient.' I cannot advert to my correspondence 
 with this gentleman without thanking him for the politeness 
 
2 S 6 
 
 and forbearance with which he attended to my remon- 
 strances ; though I suspect he will not quite coincide with 
 those journalists who have had the sagacity to discover 
 symptoms of political servility l in the dialogue. 
 
 Among the many wants which are experienced in these- 
 times, the want of a sufficient number of critics will not, I 
 think, be complained of by the most querulous. Indeed, 
 the state of an author now resembles very much that of 
 the poor Laplander in winter, who has hardly time to light 
 his little candle in the darkness, before myriads of insects 
 swarm round to extinguish it. In the present instance, 
 however, I have no reason to be angry with my censurers ; 
 for, upon weighing their strictures on this dramatic baga- 
 telle against the praises with which they have honoured 
 my writings in general, I find the balance so flatteringly in 
 my favour, that gratitude is the only sentiment which even 
 the severest 2 have awakened in me. 
 
 To Mr. Arnold, the proprietor of the English Opera, I 
 am indebted for many kindnesses and attentions ; and 
 though we have differed so materially in our opinions of 
 this piece, those who know the side which he has taken in 
 the dispute, will easily believe that it has not very much 
 embittered my feelings towards him. 
 
 The music, which I have ventured to compose for the 
 opera, owes whatever little dramatic effect it may possess 
 to the skilful suggestions and arrangements of Mr. Horn ; 
 and I only fear that the delicacy with which he has re- 
 
 1 This extraordinary charge was, I believe, founded upon the 
 passage which alludes to the Kegent ; and if it be indeed servility 
 to look up with hope to the Prince, as the harbinger of better days 
 to my wronged and insulted country, and to expect that the friend 
 of a Fox and a Moira will also be the friend of liberty and of Ireland 
 if this be servility, in common with the great majority of my 
 countrymen, I am proud to say I plead guilty to the charge. 
 
 2 See the very elaborate criticisms in Tlie Times of Tuesday, 
 September 10, and in The Examiner of Sunday, September 15. 
 
257 
 
 framed from altering the melodies, or even the harmonies 
 which I attempted, may have led him into sanctioning 
 many ungraceful errors in both, which his better taste and 
 judgment would have rejected. 
 
 To the performers I am grateful for more than mere 
 professional exertions ; there was a kind zeal amongst them, 
 a cordial anxiety for my success, which, I am proud to hear, 
 has seldom been equalled. 
 
 THOMAS MOOKE. 
 
 BURY STREET, ST. JAMES'S: 
 October 9, 1811. 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONS. 
 
 SIR CHARLES CANVAS. 
 CAPTAIN CANVAS. 
 HENRY DE ROSIER. 
 MR. HARTINGTON. 
 LEATHERHEAD. 
 DAVY. 
 
 LA FOSSE. 
 LADY BAB BLUE. 
 MADAME DE ROSIER. 
 Miss SELWYN. 
 Miss HARTINGTON. 
 SUSAN. 
 
 Peasants, 
 
ACT I. 
 
 SCENE I. The Beach Boats coming to land. 
 
 BOAT-GLEE.* 
 
 THE song, that lightens the languid way, 
 
 When brows are glowing, 
 
 And faint with rowing, 
 Is like the spell of Hope's airy lay, 
 To whose sound thro' life we stray. 
 The beams that flash on the oar awhile, 
 
 As we row along thro' waves so clear, 
 Illume its spray, like the fleeting smile 
 
 That shines o'er Sorrow's tear. 
 
 Nothing is lost on him, who sees 
 
 With an eye that Feeling gave ; 
 For him there's a story in every breeze, 
 
 And a picture in every wave. 
 Then sing, to lighten the languid way ; 
 
 When brows are glowing, 
 
 And faint with rowing : 
 'Tis like the spell of Hope's airy lay, 
 To whose sound thro' life we stray. 
 
 ISir CHARLES CANVAS, Lady BAB BLUE, Miss HAK- 
 TINGTON, Miss SELWYN, and DAVY, land from the 
 boat. 
 
 Lady B. What a charming clear morning ! I pro- 
 test we might almost see the coast of France. Run, 
 Davy, and fetch my telescope. 
 
 * This Boat-Glee is reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 390. 
 s 2 
 
260 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Davy. I wool, my lady. [Exit DAVY to boat.~\ 
 
 Sir Charles. Ay, do, Davy, the French coast is a 
 favourite view of mine. 
 
 Miss Selwyn. I thought, Sir Charles, your views 
 lay nearer home. 
 
 Sir Charles. Hem, a hit at me for staying at home 
 while my brother is abroad fighting the enemy (aside). 
 Why, really, madam, if all the brains of the country 
 were to be exported through the Admiralty and the 
 War-office, you would have none left for home consump- 
 tion. No, no, a few of us must stick to old England, 
 or her politics and fashions would be entirely neglected, 
 and the devil would get amongst the Ministers and the 
 tailors. 
 
 Miss Hartington. You suppose then, Sir Charles, 
 that our politics and our fashions may be safely en- 
 trusted to the same hands. 
 
 Sir C. Certainly, madam ; there is nothing like us 
 for leading either the ton or the opposition, for turning 
 out either an equipage or an administration; and 
 equally knowing on the turf and the hustings, if a 
 favourite horse breaks down, or a new patriot bolts ; we 
 can start you fresh ones at the shortest notice. 
 
 Miss S. Your brother, however, seems to think, 
 Sir Charles, that on the quarter-deck of a British man- 
 of-war he may make himself at least as useful to his 
 country as if he passed all his time between a barouche- 
 box and the Treasury bench. 
 
 Sir C. That plaguy brother of mine is never out of 
 her head (aside). Why, as to my brother, Miss Selwyn, 
 my brother, in short, madam, if my brother had not 
 been in such a hurry to come into the world, but had 
 waited decently, like me, till his mother was married, 
 he would not only have saved the family some blushes, 
 but would have possessed, of course, the title, the 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 261 
 
 fortune, and all those cogent little reasons which I now 
 have for keeping this head of mine out of gun-shot, and 
 employing it in the home department at your service. 
 
 Miss S. His want of feeling upon this misfortune 
 of his family is quite odious. We must not stay to 
 listen to him (to Miss HARTINGTON). Believe me, Sir 
 Charles, you mistake the mode of recommending your- 
 self, if you think to amuse by this display of levity 
 upon a subject in which a parent's honour and a brother's 
 interests are so very deeply and delicately concerned. 
 The rude hand of the world will be ready enough to 
 lift the veil, without requiring your aid in the exposure. 
 [Exeunt Miss HART, and Miss SELWYN. 
 
 Sir C. Ay, this now comes of talking facetiously 
 upon grave subjects. 'Tis the way in the House, though, 
 always ; Adam Smith and Joe Miller well mixed, that's 
 your parliamentary style of eloquence. But what's our 
 old Polyhymnia about here ? [turning to Lady BAB, 
 who during this time has got the telescope and is 
 looking towards the sea.~] 
 
 Lady B. Well, positivelyj this is a most miraculous 
 telescope. There there he is again. 
 
 Sir C. May I ask what your ladyship has found out ? 
 
 Lady B. Something black and red, Sir Charles, 
 that is moving on the coast opposite, which my fond 
 fancy persuades me may be one of the great French 
 chemists. There, there he goes again, the dear man ! 
 the black must be his face, and the red his night-cap. 
 What wonderful discoveries he may be making at this 
 moment ! 
 
 Sir 0. Not more wonderful than you are making 
 yourself, I think, old lady ! 
 
 Lady B. Come here, Davy, and try what you can 
 observe. Your eyes have not suffered in the cause of 
 science, like mine. 
 
262 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Davy. Why, noa, not much ; and ecod ! sometimes 
 of an evening I can see twice as much as other folk. 
 Like your Highland witches, I have a sight to spare. 
 
 Sir C. (aside). I never yet knew a learned lady that 
 did not delight in having a booby to show off upon. 
 Whether it be in the shape of servant, lover, or husband,, 
 these curious copies of Sappho generally have a calf- 
 skin at their backs. 
 
 Davy (looking through the glass). What colour 
 did you say a chemist was, my lady ? 
 
 Lady B. (smiling). Why, rather of the dingy 
 than otherwise ; the dark, sober tinge of the laboratory.. 
 As my friend Dr. 0' Jargon often says to me ' Your 
 ignorant people, madam, have an objection to dirt, but 
 / know what it is composed of, and am perfectly recon- 
 ciled to it.' And so he is, good man ! he bears it like 
 a philosopher. 
 
 Davy. By gum ! I see it now, sailing away to wind- 
 ward like smoke. 
 
 Lady B. Sailing ! you blockhead ! 
 
 Davy. Ees, and if you had not tould me 'twas a 
 chemist, I could have sworn 'twas a great collier from 
 Newcastle. 
 
 Lady B. Ha ! plenty of the carbonic, however ! 
 But, pray, Sir Charles, what has become of my niece 
 and Miss Hartington ? 
 
 Sir C. Just paired off, madam, as we say at St. 
 Stephen's, and left me in silent admiration of the ease 
 with which your ladyship's vision can travel to the 
 coast of France, while the eyes of this unlettered rustic 
 can reach no farther than the middle of the Channel. 
 
 Davy. Well, come, to be half seas over is quite 
 enough for any moderate man. 
 
 Lady B. Hold your familiar tongue, and follow 
 me. Sir Charles, shall we try and find the young 
 ladies ? 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 263 
 
 Sir C. With all my heart ; though, I assure your 
 ladyship the humour in which Miss Selwyn adjourned 
 the debate made me rather fear that I was put off till 
 this day six months. 
 
 Lady B. There are some of my sex, Sir Charles, 
 like certain chemical substances, it is impossible to 
 melt them, because they fly off in vapour during the 
 process. My niece, I confess, is of this fly-away nature ; 
 while /, alas ! am but too fusible. Come, Davy, bring 
 the telescope safely after me. 
 
 [Exeunt SIR C. and LADY B. 
 
 Davy. I wool, my lady (looking after her). What 
 a comical thing your laming is ! Now, here am I, as 
 a body may say, in the very thick on't. Nothing but 
 knowledge, genus, and what not, from morning till 
 night, and yet, dang it, somehow, none of it sticks to 
 me. It wouldn't be so in other concarns. Now in a 
 public house, for instance, I think I could hardly be 
 among the liquors all day without some of them finding 
 their way into my mouth. But here's this laming 
 tho' I be made a kind of accomplice in it by my lady, 
 I am as innocent of it all as the parson of our parish. 
 
 SONG-. DAVY. 
 
 Says Sammy, the tailor, to me, 
 
 As he sat with his spindles crossways 
 'Tis bekase I'm a poet, you see, 
 
 1 That I kiver my head with green baize ! ' 
 So says I, ' For a sample I begs,' 
 
 And I'm shot if he didn't produce, sir, 
 Some crossticks he wrote on his legs, 
 And a pastern ode to his goose, sir. 
 Oh this writing and reading ! 
 
 'Tis all a fine conjuration, 
 Made for folks of high breeding, 
 
 To bother themselves and the nation ! 
 
264 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 There's Dick, who sold wine in the lane-, 
 
 And old Dickey himself did not tope ill ; 
 But politics turned his brain. 
 
 And a place he call'd Constantinople. 
 He never could sit down to dine, 
 
 But he thought of poor Turkey, he said, sir ; 
 And swore, while he tippled his wine, 
 
 That the Porte was ne'er out of his head, sir. 
 Oh this writing and reading ! &c. 
 
 The grocer, Will Fig, who so fast 
 
 Thro' his ciphers and figures could run ye, 
 By gum ! he has nothing, at last, 
 
 But the ciphers to show for his money. 
 The barber, a scollard, well known 
 
 At the sign of the wig hanging from a tree, 
 Makes every head like his own, 
 
 For he cuts them all up into geometry ! 
 Oh this writing and reading ! &c. 
 
 SCENE II. An Apartment at Mr. HAETINGTON'S. 
 
 Enter Miss SELWTN and Miss HARTINGTON. 
 
 Miss Hart. My dear Miss Selwyn, I am so happy 
 for once to have you quietly in my father's house. We 
 never should have got so intimate in London. 
 
 Miss Selwyn. In London ! oh never. What with 
 being at borne to nobody in the morning, and being at 
 home to everybody in the evening, there is no such 
 thing as intimacy amongst us. We are like those 
 ladies ^of Bagdad in the ' Arabian Nights,' who enter- 
 tained strangers in their illuminated apartments, upon 
 condition that they would not ask to know anything 
 further about them. 
 
 Miss Hart. But I had almost forgot Sir Charles 
 Canvas. 
 
Jf.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 265 
 
 Miss S. Nothing so likely to slip out of one's 
 memory, my dear. 
 
 Miss Hart. I am quite happy to hear you say so, 
 as I rather feared Sir Charles was a lover of yours. 
 
 Miss S. And so he unfortunately is. He loves me 
 with a sort of electioneering regard for the influence 
 which my fortune would give him among the free- 
 holders. In short, he canvasses my heart and the 
 county together, and for every vow expects a vote. 
 
 Miss Hart. I had always supposed till now that 
 Captain Canvas was the elder of the two. 
 
 Miss S. You were right, my dear : he is older by 
 a, year than Sir Charles. But their father, the late 
 baronet, having married his lady privately in France, 
 Captain Canvas was born before their marriage was 
 avowed, and before the second solemnisation of it, 
 which took place publicly in England. Though no 
 one doubts the validity of the first union, yet the diffi- 
 culty, indeed the impossibility of proving it from the 
 total want of witness or document, has been taken 
 advantage of by Sir Charles to usurp the title and 
 fortune, while his brave and admirable brother is care- 
 lessly wandering over the ocean, with no fortune but 
 his sword, no title but his glory ! 
 
 Miss Hart. I am not at all surprised at the warmth 
 with which you speak of Captain Canvas. I knew him 
 once very well (sighs). 
 
 Miss S. Very well, did you say, Miss Hartington ? 
 
 Miss Hart. Oh no not indeed scarcely at all. 
 I meant merely that I had seen him. He was the 
 friend of poor De Eosier (aside). 
 
 Miss S. That sigh that confusion yes yes I 
 see it plain she loves him too (aside). 
 
 [Mr. HARTINGTON'S voice heard without. 
 
 Miss Hart. My father's voice, what a lucky relief ! 
 
266 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 I am so happy, my dear Miss Selwyn, in the oppor- 
 tunity of introducing you to my father. You must 
 not be surprised at the oddity of his appearance ; he is 
 just now setting out upon one of those benevolent 
 rambles, for which he dresses himself like the meanest 
 of mankind ; being convinced that in this homely garb 
 he finds an easier access to the house of misfortune,, 
 and that proud misery unburdens her heart more freely 
 for him who seems to share in her wants, than for him 
 who ostentatiously comes to relieve them. 
 
 Enter Mr. HARTINGTON, meanly dressed. 
 
 Miss Hart. Dear father, my friend, Miss Selwyn. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I fear, Miss Selwyn, I shall alarm you 
 by these tatters. Fine ladies, like crows, are apt to be 
 frightened away by rags. 
 
 Miss S. When we know, sir, the purpose for which 
 this disguise is assumed, it looks brighter in our eyes- 
 than the gayest habiliments of fashion ; for when 
 charity 
 
 Mr. Hart. Nay, nay, child, no flattery. You have 
 learned these fine speeches from your aunt, Lady Bab,, 
 who is, if I mistake not, what the world calls a Blue- 
 Stocking. 
 
 Miss S. In truth, sir, I rather fear my aunt has 
 incurred that title. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Yes, yes ; I knew her father ; he was a 
 man of erudition himself, and, having no son to inherit 
 his learning, was resolved to lay out every syllable of it 
 upon this daughter, and accordingly stuffed her head 
 with all that was legible and illegible, without once 
 considering that the female intellect may possibly be 
 too weak for such an experiment, and that, if guns were 
 made of glass, we should be but idly employed in 
 charging them. 
 
M.F., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 267 
 
 Miss S. And would you, then, shut us out entirely 
 from the light of learning ? 
 
 Mr. Hart. No, no; learn as much as you please, 
 but learn also to conceal it. I could even bear a little 
 peep at the blue-stockings, but save me from the woman 
 who shows them up to her knees ! 
 
 Miss Hart. Nay, father, you speak severely. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Perhaps I do, child, and lose my time 
 in the bargain. But here, make Miss Selwyn welcome, 
 while I go to my bureau to fill this little ammunition- 
 pouch (shewing a small leather purse) for my day'& 
 sport among the cottages. Oh money ! money ! let 
 bullionists and paper-mongers say what they will, the 
 true art of raising the value of a guinea is to share it 
 with those who are undeservedly in want of it ! \_Exit. 
 
 Miss S. (looking after him). Excellent man ! 
 
 Miss Hart. But were you not a little shocked by 
 the misery of his appearance ? 
 
 Miss S. Oh I not at all. He seems to me like one- 
 of those dark clouds that lay between us and the moon 
 last night gloomy and forbidding on its outward 
 surface, but lined with the silver light of heaven 
 within ! 
 
 DUET. Miss SELWYN and Miss HARTINGTON. 
 
 'Tis s\veet to behold, when the billows are sleeping, 
 Some gay-colour'd bark moving gracefully by ; 
 
 No damp on her deck but the even-tide's weeping, 
 No breath in her sails but the summer-wind's sigh. 
 
 Yet who -would not turn, with a fonder emotion, 
 To gaze on the life-boat, tho' rugged and worn, 
 
 Which often hath wafted, o'er hills of the ocean, 
 The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn ? 
 
268 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Oh ! grant that of those, who, in life's sunny slumber, 
 Around us, like summer-barks, idly have play'd, 
 
 When storms are abroad, we may find, in the number, 
 One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid ! 
 
 [Exeunt. 
 
 Sir Charles (speaking without). Miss Selwyn ! your 
 aunt has despatched me to say that (enters) Miss 
 Selwyn ! Miss Selwyn ! This saucy heiress avoids me 
 as if I was a collector of the income-tax. I see how it 
 is ; she has the impudence to dislike me without asking 
 her aunt's consent negatives me without a division. 
 But I'll have her yet I'll marry her (as I got into 
 Parliament) for opposition's sake. Snug house this 
 of her friend. Miss Hartington's. Her father, I hear, 
 a rich banker. I rather suspect too that little Tory is 
 somewhat taken with me. She listened to everything 
 I said as attentively as a reporter. Well, egad ! in 
 case I should fail in the one, I think I may as well 
 make sure of the other. Two strings to my bow, as 
 Lord Either-Side says in the House. But who have we 
 here ? 
 
 Enter Mr. HAIITINGTOX. 
 
 Oh! some poor pensioner of the family, I suppose. 
 One, too, who must have got his pension upon very 
 honest terms, for his coat is evidently not ivorth 
 turning. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Some troublesome visitor, that I must 
 get rid of (aside). 
 
 Sir C. Pray, my good friend, is there any one at 
 home? 
 
 Mr. Hart. No, sir. 
 
 Sir C. I thought his friends were out by his look- 
 ing so shabby (aside). And you, sir, I presume, are a 
 quarterly visitor to this family, or monthly, perhaps, 
 or weekly ; the Treasury, I know, pays quarterly. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 269 
 
 Mr. Hart. It is true, sir, I am dependent upon the 
 master of this house for all the comfort and happiness 
 I enjoy. 
 
 Sir C. I knew it, at the first glance I knew it. Let 
 me alone for the physiognomy of placemen and pen- 
 sioners from the careless smile of the sinecure holder 
 to the keen forward-looking eye of the reversionist. 
 This fellow may be useful to me (aside). And what 
 are the services, pray, which you render in return to 
 your benefactor ? 
 
 Mr. Hart. The smile, sir, which his good actions 
 always leave upon my cheek, and the sweet sleep which 
 he knows I enjoy, after witnessing the happy effects of 
 his charity, are ample repayment to him for the utmost 
 efforts of his benevolence. 
 
 Sir C. Then, upon my soul, he is more easily paid 
 than any of those / have ever had dealings with. I 
 could smile bright or sleep heavy ; but the guineas, 
 being both bright and heavy, were always preferred to 
 my smiling and sleeping. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I shall be kept here all day by this 
 troublesome coxcomb (aside). Your pardon, sir, I 
 have some business to transact for Mr. Hartington. 
 
 Sir C. Stay, my fine fellow, just one minute. How 
 should you like to have an opportunity of serving your 
 benefactor, and receiving the thanks of this honourable 
 house for your good offices ? 
 
 Mr. Hart. Everything that concerns Mr. Harting- 
 ton, sir, is as dear to me as my own immediate 
 interests. 
 
 Sir. C. Exactly what we say of Great Britain in the 
 House. ' Everything that concerns Great Britain is as 
 
 dear to me (mimicJdng) .' But, I say, my old 
 
 pensioner, you know the boarding-house down street ? 
 (Mr. H. nods his head). Good feeding there, by the 
 
270 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 bye commons fit for Lords ; only that the bills are 
 brought in too early in the session. But call upon me 
 there to-morrow or next day, and I'll employ you in 
 some way that may be useful to you. In the mean- 
 time, as old Hartington seems to have a few amiable 
 oddities about charity and so forth, you can tell him, if 
 you have an opportunity, that / too have a wonderful 
 taste that way. Oh ! you smile, sir, do you ? Well, 
 then, to show you that I have, here's (takes out his 
 purse) yet stay just wait till my friends come into 
 power, and, as I think you love tippling, I'll get you 
 made a gauger, you dog ! 
 
 Mr. Hart. Keep your patronage, sir, for those who 
 want it, and, above all, for those who deserve it. The 
 master of this house is, thank Heaven ! the only patron 
 / require. Let but my conduct meet with his appro- 
 bation, and I may look up, with hope, to that highest 
 of places, which the power of monarchs cannot give, 
 nor the caprices of this world deprive me of. [Exit. 
 
 Sir C. Well said, old boy ; though, for the soul of 
 me, I cannot imagine what is the place he alludes to. 
 'Tis not in the Red-Book, I'm sure. But no matter 
 he may be useful in delivering a billet-doux for me to 
 Miss Hartington. Cursed troublesome things those 
 billet-doux ! When I'm Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 I mean to propose a tax on them (mimicking some 
 public speaker). 'Mr. Chairman! I move that all 
 love-dealings shall be transacted upon stamps. Soft 
 nonsense, sir, upon a one-and-sixpenny ; when the 
 passion is to any amount, an eighteen-pen'orth more ; 
 and a proposal for marriage No, curse it, I'll not 
 
 lay anything additional upon marriage. It never came 
 under the head of luxuries, and is quite tax enough in 
 itself. [Exit. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 271 
 
 SCENE III. Another Apartment in Mr. HARTINGTON'S 
 House. 
 
 Enter Miss HARTINGTON. 
 
 Miss Hart. How long this loitering girl is away ! 
 my heart sickens with anxiety for her return. It can- 
 not surely be De Rosier whom I saw at the library; 
 and yet his features, air, manner, altogether scarcely 
 leave a doubt upon my heart. Oh, De Rosier ! What 
 strange caprice of fortune can have lowered thy station 
 in life so suddenly? And yet, wealth was not the 
 charm that attracted me, nor could riches shed one 
 additional grace upon that which is bright and esti- 
 mable already. 
 
 SONG-.* Miss HARTINGTON. 
 
 When Leila touch'd the lute, 
 
 Not then alone 'twas felt, 
 But, when the sounds were mute, 
 
 In memory still they dwelt. 
 Sweet lute ! in nightly slumbers 
 Still we heard thy morning numbers. 
 
 Ah ! how could she, who stole 
 
 Such breath from simple wire, 
 Be led, in pride of soul, 
 
 To string with gold her lyre ? 
 Sweet lute ! thy chords she breaketh ; 
 Golden now the strings she waketh ! 
 
 But where are all the tales 
 
 Her lute so sweetly told ? 
 In lofty themes she fails, 
 
 And soft ones suit not gold. 
 Rich lute ! we see thee glisten, 
 But, alas ! no more we listen ! 
 
 * Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 389. 
 
272 M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Enter SUSAN. 
 
 Well, dear Susan, what news ? 
 
 Susan. Why, you see, miss, I went to the circulating 
 library, and as I forgot the name of the book you bid 
 me get, I thought I would ask for one of my own 
 choosing. So, says I, ( Sir, Miss Hartington sent me 
 for the " Comical Magazine," with the blue and red cuts 
 in it ; ' upon which he blushed up, and 
 
 Miss Hart. Who blushed ? Tell me, is it he ? Is 
 it, indeed, Mr. De Eosier ? 
 
 Susan. La ! miss, there's no comfort in telling you 
 a story ; you are always in such a hurry to get at the 
 contents of it. 
 
 Miss Hart. Nay, but, my dear Susan ! 
 
 Susan. Well, if you will have it all at once, it is 
 he it is the same elegant young Mr. De Rosy, who 
 used to walk by the windows in London to admire you, 
 and there he is now behind the counter of that library, 
 with a pen stuck in his beautiful ear, and his nice white 
 hands all over with the dust of them dirty little story- 
 books. 
 
 Miss Hart. There's a mystery in this which I can- 
 not account for. I did indeed hear from one who knew 
 him well that he depended upon precarious remittances 
 from France ; but ' then 
 
 ' Susan. Lord, miss ! your emigrants are always 
 purcarious people, though, indeed, to give the devil his 
 due, Mr. De Eosy is as little like one as may be ; for, 
 I purtest and wow, he speaks English almost as well as 
 myself ; and he used to give a pound-note as prettily 
 as if he had been a banker's clerk all his life-time. 
 
 ' Miss Hart. He has given you money, then, 
 Susan? 
 
 ' Susan. Once in a way, miss. A trifle or so. And, 
 
M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 273 
 
 God knows ! I earned it well by answering all his trouble- 
 some questions about who were your visitors, and who 
 you liked best, and whether you ever talked of him after 
 the night he danced with you at the ball. 
 
 6 Miss Hart. That night ! The only time I ever 
 heard his voice ! And, did he seem to know you to- 
 day, Susan ? ' 
 
 Susan. Indeed, miss, I made believe not to know 
 him ; for I have lived too long among my betters not 
 to larn that it is bad taste to go on knowing people 
 after they have come into misfortune. But when I told 
 him you sent me for the ' Comical Magazine,' with the 
 blue and red cuts in it, la ! how he did blush and stare ! 
 
 Miss Hart. What a taste must he impute to rne ! 
 It would be imprudent, perhaps cruel, to go there my- 
 self, and yet I feel I cannot resist the inclination. Give 
 me the catalogue, Susan, and in a quarter of an hour 
 hence bring my walking dress to the drawing-room. 
 (Goes out reading the catalogue.) * Fatal Attachment.' 
 ' Victim of Poverty.' Heigho ! [Exit. 
 
 Susan. Ay Heigho ! indeed. It must be a very, 
 very stout, hardy love that will not take cold when the 
 poverty season sets in, for it is but too true what some 
 fine poet has said, that c When Poverty comes in at the 
 door, Love flies out of the window.' 
 
 SONG.* SUSAN. 
 
 Young Love lived once in an humble shed, 
 
 Where roses breathing, 
 
 And woodbines wreathing 
 Around the lattice their tendrils spread, 
 As wild and sweet as the life he led. 
 
 His garden flourished, 
 
 For young Hope nourish'd 
 
 * Keprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 385. 
 T 
 
274 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 The infant buds with beams and showers ; 
 But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed, 
 And not even Love can live on flowers. 
 
 Alas ! that Poverty's evil eye 
 Should e'er come hither, 
 Such sweets to wither ! 
 The flowers laid down their heads to die, 
 And Hope fell sick, as the witch drew nigh. 
 She came one morning, 
 Ere Love had warning, 
 
 And raised the latch, where the young god lay 
 ' Oh, oh ! ' said Love, ' is it you ? good bye ; ' 
 So he oped the window, and flew away ! 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. A Circulating Library. 
 
 Enter LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Leath. Bless me ! Bless me ! Where is this fine 
 gentleman, my shopkeeper ? Idling his time, I war- 
 rant him, with some of the best-bound books in the 
 shop. Ah ! 'Tis a foolish thing for a scholar to turn 
 bookseller, just as foolish as it is for a jolly fellow to 
 turn wine-merchant ; they both serve themselves be- 
 fore their customers, and the knowledge and the wine 
 all get into their own heads. And your poets too I 
 extraordinary odd fish ! only fit to be served up at the 
 tables of us booksellers, who feed upon them, as the 
 dogs fed upon poor Rumble's Pegasus. 
 
 SONG. LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Robert Rumble, a poet of lyric renown, 
 
 Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 Was invited to dine with a 'Squire out of town, 
 
 With his hey scribble hy scribble ho ! 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 275 
 
 His nag had a string-halt, as well as -his lyre, 
 So he mounted and rode to the house of the 'Squire, 
 Who was one of those kind-hearted men, that keep hounds 
 -Just to hunt off the vermin from other men's grounds, 
 With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 
 The huntsman that morning had bought an old hack, 
 
 Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 To cut up as a delicate lunch for the pack, 
 
 With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 But who can describe Robert Rumble's dismay, 
 When the 'Squire, after dinner, came smirking to say, 
 That, instead of the dog-horse, some hard-hearted wag 
 Had cut up, by mistake, Robert Rumble's lean nag, 
 
 With his hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 
 But ' Comfort yourself,' said the 'Squire to the Bard, 
 
 Hey scribble hy scribble, ho'! 
 4 There's the dog-horse still standing alive in the yard,' 
 
 With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 Then they saddled the dog-horse, and homeward he set, 
 So suspiciously eyed by each dog that he met, 
 That you'd swear, notwithstanding his cavalry airs, 
 They suspected the steed he was on should be theirs. 
 
 With my hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 
 Arrived safe at home, to his pillow he jogs, 
 
 Hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 And dreams all the night about critics and dogs, 
 
 With his hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 His nag seem'd a Pegasus, touch'd in the wind, 
 And the curs were all wits, of the true Cynic kind, 
 Who, when press'd for a supper, must bite ere they sup, 
 And who ate Robert Rumble's poor Pegasus up, 
 
 With a hey scribble hy scribble, ho ! 
 
 Why, De Rosier ! Mr. De Rosier ! I say 
 Enter HENRY DE ROSIEB, with a book in his hand. 
 Leath. What is the meaning of all this, sir ? 
 
 T 2 
 
276 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING, 
 
 What have you been about ? Do you mean to ruin 
 me? 
 
 De Ros. I ask pardon, sir. I have been just look- 
 ing over the last new publication to see if it be fit for 
 the young ladies of the boarding-school. 
 
 Leath. Which is as much as to say, sir, that you 
 would sooner ruin me than the young ladies of the 
 boarding-school ! I am ashamed of you. 
 
 De Ros. I really thought, sir, I had done every- 
 thing that 
 
 Leath. Done, sir ? everything's imdone, sir ; and I 
 shall be so myself very soon. Here's books to go out, sir, 
 and they won't walk of themselves, will they ? Here's 
 Tricks upon Travellers, bespoke by Mrs. Kingwell, 
 who keeps the Bed Fox ; and there's the Road to Ruin 
 for the young Squire, that sets off for London to-night. 
 Here are parcels too to go by the coach ; Ovid's Art of 
 Love, to be left at the Transport Office ; and the Lady 
 of the Lake, to be delivered at the Lying-in Hospital. 
 
 De Ros. We have had a new subscriber this morn- 
 ing, sir ; Miss Hartington. 
 
 Leath. (Bustling among the books on the counter). 
 So much the better hope she's a good one reads 
 clean and neat won't double down the corners, or 
 favour us with proof impressions of her thumbs. Come ; 
 put these volumes back in their places. Lord ! Lord ! 
 how my customers ill-use my books ! Here's nothing 
 but scribbling in the Lives of the Poets ; and, dear me, 
 the World all turned topsy-turvy by Miss Do-little ! 
 There's our best set of Public Characters have been 
 torn to pieces at the Good-natured Club; and, bless 
 me ! bless me ! how the Wild Irish Girl has been 
 tossed and tumbled by Captain O'Callaghan ! There, 
 that will do ; now mind you don't stir from this till 
 I come back ; I am just going to remind neighbour 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 277 
 
 Eumble that he forgot to pay for the Pleasures of 
 Memory ; and then I have to step to the pawnbroker's 
 up street to redeem the Wealth of Nations, which poor 
 Mr. Pamphlet popped there for a five-and-sixpenny 
 dollar. Bless me ! bless me ! how my customers ill- 
 use my books ! [Exit. 
 De Ros. There is some little difference between this 
 and the gay sphere I moved in, when Miss Hartington's 
 beauty first disturbed my mind ; when through the 
 crowded world I saw but her alone, and felt her in- 
 fluence even where she was not. Well, the short dream 
 is over! the support of a beloved mother must now 
 sweeten the toil to which I am destined ; and he but 
 little deserves the smile of Fortune who has not the 
 manliness to defy her frown. Besides, Heaven has 
 blessed me with that happy imagination which retains 
 the impressions of past pleasure, as the Bologna-stone 
 treasures up sunbeams ; and the light of one joy 
 scarcely ever faded from my heart before I had some- 
 how contrived to illuminate its place with another. 
 
 SONGr.* HENRY DE HOSIER. 
 
 Spirit of joy ! thy altar lies 
 
 In youthful hearts, that hope like mine, 
 And 'tis the light of laughing eyes 
 
 That leads us to thy fairy shrine. 
 There if we find the sight, the tear, 
 
 They are not those to sorrow known, 
 But breath so soft and drops so clear, 
 
 That Bliss may claim them for her own. 
 Then give me, give me, while I weep, 
 
 The sanguine hope that brightens woe, 
 And teaches even our tears to keep 
 
 The tinge of rapture while they flow. 
 
 * Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 388. 
 
278 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 The child who sees the dew of night 
 
 Upon the spangled hedge at morn, 
 Attempts to catch the drops of light, 
 
 But wounds his finger with the thorn. 
 Thus oft the brightest joys we seek 
 
 Dissolve, when touch'd, and turn to pain ; 
 The flush they kindle leaves the cheek, 
 
 The tears they waken long remain. 
 But give me, give me, while I weep, 
 
 The sanguine hope that brightens woe, 
 And teaches even our tears to keep 
 
 The tinge of rapture while they flow. 
 
 (Looking out.} 'Tis Miss Hartington herself, and this 
 way she comes. How shall I avoid her? Yet no;., 
 since hope is fled, come, honest pride, to my relief, and 
 let me meet my fate unshrinkingly. I must not, how- 
 ever, seem to know her ; nor let her, if possible, re- 
 cognise me. [He retires to the counter.. 
 
 Enter Miss HAKTINGTON and SUSAN. 
 
 Miss Hart. Yes; there he is. How altered from 
 the lively, fashionable De Kosier ! 
 
 Susan. I told you, miss, what a figure he cuts ; 
 but I'm glad to see /he has taken the black pen out of 
 his ear. 
 
 Miss Hart. I surely ought to acknowledge him : 
 he will think me proud and cold if I do not. Mr. de 
 Kosier 
 
 Susan. Mister, indeed. La ! miss, you would not 
 Mister a shopkeeper, would you? Let me speak to 
 him. Young man ! 
 
 Miss Hart, (drawing Susan back). Hush, Susan, 
 for Heaven's sake. 
 
 De Ros. (coining forward). Is there any book,, 
 madam, you wish me to look out for you ? 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 279 
 
 Miss Hart. No, sir ; but 
 
 De Eos. On this shelf, madam, lie the French 
 [Memoirs, which are, of course, not unknown to you 
 
 Miss Hart. They are very interesting, but 
 
 ' De Ros. Oh, most particularly so (turning away 
 from her, and talking rapidly). While history shows 
 us events and characters as they appeared on the grand 
 theatre of public affairs, these Memoirs conduct us into 
 the green-room of politics, where we observe the little 
 intrigues and jealousies of the actors, and witness the 
 rehearsal of those scenes which dazzle and delude in 
 representation. 
 
 6 Susan. Ah ! he wouldn't have talked politics to her 
 so when he was a gentleman (aside). 
 
 ' Miss Hart. It was not for this purpose, Mr. de 
 Rosier, that 
 
 De Ros. Oh, your pardon, madam ; then perhaps 
 you prefer the poets here (pointing to another shelf). 
 
 Susan. Lord, no, young man ! She hates poverty 
 and all its kin, I assure you. 
 
 Miss Hart. I desire that you will be silent, Susan ; 
 he will think that we come to sport with his misfor- 
 tunes. 
 
 De Ros. The few English poets who have worshipped 
 Love (he looks at Miss Hartington, and both become 
 confused). 
 
 Susan. Oh ho ! 
 
 De Ros. I must not forget myself (aside). I was 
 saying, madam, that the few English poets who have 
 worshipped Love seem so coldly ignorant of his power 
 and attributes that the shrine which they raised to 
 him might be inscribed, like the famous altar at Athens, 
 ' to the unknown (rod.' ' Cowley here, and Donne 
 (taking down two books\ are the chief of these un- 
 enlightened idolaters' far from wishing us to feel 
 
280 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 what they write, they appear very unwilling that we 
 should even understand it ; and having learned from 
 mythology that Love is the child of Night, they visit 
 upon the son all the coldest obscurity of the parent. 
 There is nothing less touching than these quibbling, 
 pedantic lovers, who seem to think that their mistresses, 
 like the Queen of Sheba, are to be won by riddles.' 
 
 Miss Hart. I perceive that he is determined not to 
 acknowledge me ; yet, if he could but know what is 
 passing here (laying her hand, on her heart) at this 
 moment, he would not, perhaps, regret that fate has 
 disturbed the balance between us ; since just as much 
 as fortune has sunk on his side, I feel that love has 
 risen on mine. 
 
 Susan. La ! come away, miss ; I'm sure it can't be 
 proper things he's saying to you ; for I never heard 
 such rigmarole words in my born days. 
 
 De Ros. But here is a poet born in a softer clime, 
 who seems to breathe the true temperature of affection, 
 the air of that habitable zone of the heart, which is 
 equally removed from the bright frost-work of sentiment 
 on one side and the tainting meridian of the senses on 
 the other. 
 
 TRIO.* Miss HARTINGTON, SUSAN, and DE ROSIER. 
 
 To sigh, yet feel no pain, 
 
 To weep, yet scarce know why ; 
 To sport an hour with Beauty's chain, 
 
 Then throw it idly by ; 
 To kneel at many a shrine, 
 
 Yet lay the heart on none ; 
 To think all other charms divine, 
 
 But those we just have won 
 This is love careless love 
 Such as kindleth hearts that rove. 
 
 * Keprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 387. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 281 
 
 To keep one sacred flame 
 
 Thro' life, nncMU'd, unmoved; 
 To love, in wintry age, the same 
 
 That first in youth we loved ; 
 To feel that we adore 
 
 To such refined excess, 
 That tho' the heart would break with more, 
 
 We could not live with less 
 This is love faithful love 
 Such as saints might feel above ! 
 
 END OF THE FIEST ACT. 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE. Part of the Race-Ground. 
 
 Crowd of PEASANTS, HAWKERS, &c., among whom are 
 DAVT and LA FOSSE. 
 
 SONG-. DAVT and Chorus of Peasants. 
 
 Come, lads, life's a whirligig ; 
 
 Round we whisk 
 
 With a joyous frisk, 
 
 And till death stops the turn of our twirligig. 
 Merry go round's the life for me. 
 
 You, standing surly there, 
 
 You, with the curly hair, 
 
 Dick, that's laughing here, 
 
 Tom, that's quaffing here, 
 
 You too, my gipsy lass, 
 
 Spite of your lips, alas ! 
 
 All must give up this world of glee. 
 
282 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Then come, lads, life's a whirligig ; 
 
 Round we whisk 
 
 With a joyous frisk, 
 And till death stops the turn of our twirligig. 
 
 Merry go round's the life for me. 
 Time's short but we'll have our fun of it ; 
 
 Life a race is, 
 
 That tries our paces, 
 And, when Mirth makes a good run of it, 
 
 Devil may take the hindmost for me. 
 
 Lads that love filling bowls, 
 
 Girls that have willing souls, 
 
 Those can soothe the way, 
 
 Roll life smooth away. 
 
 While there's a glass to drink, 
 
 While there's a lass to wink, 
 
 Who would give up this world of glee 1 
 So come, lads, life's a whirligig, &c., &c. 
 
 Davy. Come, lads, the races are just nigh to begin. 
 There's John Bull going up the hill. Two to one on 
 John Bull. Dang it ! that's my favourite horse (looking 
 out). 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, certainly ; that Bull is vare pretty 
 horse. 
 
 Davy. Just look how noble-minded he steps. Old 
 Monsieur here must be taken in for a bit of a bet, I 
 think (aside). Come, boys ! Oh, zounds ! (looking 
 out) here's my old litter of a lady, as she calls -herself; 
 and now shall I be tied behind her all day, and not get 
 a sight of John Bull or Cronyhotontollygos. But I say, 
 lads, stand before me a little mayhap, as she ha'nt 
 got her tellumscope, she'll not spy me out. * (They 
 stand round him.) 
 
 Enter Lady BAB and Miss SELWYN. 
 Miss S. Nay, my dear aunt 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 283. 
 
 Lady B. I tell you, miss, my resolution is fixed 
 'pon my word, I believe you think I am like a moveable 
 pulley in mechanics, to be twirled about just as it suits 
 your fancy. 
 
 Miss S. Oh madam! if you did but see Captain 
 Canvas, so unlike his brother ! 
 
 Lady B. I don't care for that, miss ; I never did 
 see him, nor never will that's categorical. 
 
 Davy (behind). She says she won't see me 
 
 Lady B. And as I perceive by your reveries, young 
 lady, that you think there is some chance of his arriving 
 here, I will give positive orders that he shall not be ad- 
 mitted ; no, not even within the penumbra of my roof. 
 Where's that fool Davy? 
 
 Davy. Here, my lady (coming forth from the 
 crowd, who all run off laughing, except the French- 
 man). 
 
 Lady B. Why, what's all this, sir ? . 
 
 Davy. Why, my lady, you see, I ware only giving 
 
 a piece of my advice to this poor outlandish mounseer 
 
 here, not to let the knowing chaps trick him out of his 
 
 half-pence at the races. 
 
 La Fosse (advancing with bows). Oui, my lady ; 
 
 Jean Bull 
 
 Davy. Hush, mon! (putting his hand on his 
 'mouth}. 
 
 Lady B. Eun home, fellow, instantly, and tell the 
 servants that if a gentleman of the name of Captain 
 Canvas should call, he is to be told that we have given 
 orders not to admit him. Captain Canvas, mind, Sir 
 Charles's brother ; and then return hither instantly to 
 attend me to the Stand-House. Fly. 
 
 Davy. I fly, my lady. (He beckons to LA FOSSE to 
 follow him, and exit.) 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, certainly, but I cannot fly. 
 
 [Exit after Davy. 
 
284 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Lady B. I'll teach you, miss, what it is to fall in 
 love without consulting your relations. I declare the 
 young ladies of the present day shock me. Quite re- 
 versing the qualities of what we chemists call the 
 perfect metals, they are anything but ductile, and most 
 shamefully combustible. It was very different in my 
 time. 
 
 Miss S. Nay, do not, dear aunt, take example by 
 those times, when marriage was a kind of slave-trade, 
 and when interest carried her unfeeling commerce even 
 into the warm latitudes of youth and beauty. No, let 
 Love banish such traffic from his dominions, and let 
 Woman, mistress of her freedom, resign it only with 
 her heart ! 
 
 SONG-. Miss SELWTN. 
 
 Dear aunt ! in the olden time of love, 
 
 "When women like slaves were sptirn'd, 
 A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove, 
 
 To be teased by a fop, and return'd : 
 But women grow wiser as men improve, 
 
 And tho' beaux like monkeys amuse us, 
 Oh ! think not we'd give such a delicate gem 
 As the heart, to be play'd with or sullied by them ; 
 
 No dearest aunt ! excuse us. 
 
 We may know by the head on Cupid's seal 
 
 What impression the heart will take ; 
 If shallow the head, oh ! soon we feel 
 
 What a poor impression 'twill make. 
 Tho' plagued, Heaven knows ! by the foolish 
 
 Of the fondling fop who pursues me, 
 Oh ! think not I'd follow their desperate rule, 
 Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool ; 
 
 No dearest aunt ! excuse me. 
 
 Enter Sir CHARLES, in a hurry. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 285 
 
 Sir C. Ladies ! ladies ! ladies ! you'll be too late I 
 you'll be too late. 
 
 Lady B. What ! have the races begun, Sir 
 Charles? 
 
 Sir C. Begun ? yes, to be sure they have begun ; 
 there's the high-blooded horse Regent has just started, 
 and has set off in such a style as promises a race of 
 glory ! 
 
 DAVY enters. 
 
 ' Lady B. Bless me ! I wouldn't lose it for the world. 
 Here, blockhead (to Davy) take this volume out of my 
 pocket, 'tis Professor Plod's c Syllabus of .a Course of 
 Lectures upon Lead,' and much too heavy to walk up 
 hills with. (Gives him a large book.) Now, Sir 
 Charles. 
 
 * Sir C. Come, madam, you'll be delighted ; I am 
 but just this moment come from the House (I mean 
 the Stand-House), where the knowing ones take different 
 sides, you understand, according as they think a horse 
 will be in or out ; but upon this start they are all nem. 
 con., and the universal cry from all sides is Regent 
 against the field ! Huzza ! Huzza ! ' [Eoseunt. 
 
 Davy. I say, Mounseer, Mounseer (calling on LA 
 FOSSE). I must follow the old one now, but do you, 
 you see, come up behind the Stand-House by-and-bye, 
 just as if you had no concarn you know, and you and I 
 will have a snug bet upon Cronyhotontollygos. 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! oui, certainly, sure, good master 
 Davy. Dam rogue ! he want to get at my money, but 
 pardi ! he as well look for brains in an oyster. Ah ! 
 my money be all gone vid my cookery ! every ting but 
 my poor tabatiere here (pauses, and looks with interest 
 at his snuff-box). Ah, mon cher maitre ! you vas fond 
 of my cookery, and I vas grand artiste in dat vay, to 
 
:286 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 be sure ; but now, by gar, I am like to de barber widotit 
 customer, I have not even one sheephead to dress. My 
 lady, Madame de Eosier, eat noting at all, young Mon- 
 sieur de Rosier eat little or noting, and moi, pauvre 
 moi ! I eat little and noting, just as it happen. Ah ! 
 de Revolution destroy all de fine arts, and eating among 
 de rest ! [Retires. 
 
 Enter Captain CANVAS. 
 
 Capt. C. Faithless, faithless sex! your hearts are 
 like the waves, that keep no trace of us when we have 
 left them ; another love soon follows in our wake, and 
 the same bright embrace is ready for it. My letter 
 apprized her of my return, and yet here, instead of a 
 smiling welcome, I find her doors are shut against me. 
 Brother ! brother ! I could resign to you with ease the 
 rank and fortune to which I am entitled ; nay, even 
 the brand of illegitimacy I could smile at ; but to see 
 you thus bear away from me the dearest object of my 
 affections is more than even this tough sailor's heart 
 can endure. My poor departed messmate ! like thine, 
 alas I has been my fate in love; like thine, too, be my 
 destiny in death ! 
 
 SONG-. Captain CANVAS. 
 
 When Charles was deceived by the maid he loved, 
 
 We saw no cloud Ms brow o'ercasting, 
 But proudly he smiled, as if gay and unmoved, 
 
 Tho' the wound in his heart was deep and lasting ; 
 And often, at night, when the tempest roll'd, 
 
 He sung, as he paced the dark deck over, 
 * Blow, wind, blow ! thou art not so cold 
 
 As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover ! ' 
 
 Yet he lived with the happy and seem'd to be gay, 
 Tho' the woutid but sunk more deep for concealing; 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 287 
 
 And Fortune threw many a thorn in his way, 
 
 Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling ! 
 
 And, still by the frowning of Fate unsubdued, 
 He sung, as if sorrow had placed him above her, 
 
 * Frown, Fate, frown ! thou art not so rude 
 
 As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover I ' 
 
 At length his career found a close in death, 
 
 The close he long wish'd to his cheerless roving, 
 For Victory shone on his latest breath, 
 
 And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. 
 But still he remember'd his sorrow and still 
 
 He sung, till the vision of life was over 
 ' Come, death, come ! thou are not so chill 
 
 As the heart of the maid that deceived her lover ! ' 
 
 I must find out De Kosier. They told me, at his former 
 lodgings in town, that he had retired hither for his 
 health. Pray, friend, can you direct me to the house 
 of Mr. Leatherhead, the bookseller ? 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! oui, sare, yes, vare well indeed ; 
 dat is vare my young master is bound up in a shopman 
 {aside). 
 
 Capt. C. Does a gentleman of the name of De 
 Rosier lodge there ? 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, sare, he lodge there in the shop. 
 
 Capt. C. The shop? 
 
 La Fosse. Yes, sare, in de shop, pon de bookshelf, 
 vat you call 
 
 Capt. C. Oh ! I understand you, always among the 
 books. I know De Rosier is of a studious turn. He 
 does not then see much company, I suppose ? 
 
 La Fosse. Pardon, monsieur, all de young ladies 
 of dis place make visit to him exactement as they come 
 out of de water. 
 
 Capt. C. Indeed. 
 
288 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 La Fosse. Oh ! yes, he have de name of all de- 
 pretty little girl down in von book. 
 
 Gapt. C. Happy De Hosier! who can thus trifle 
 away your time in those light gallantries which require 
 so little expenditure of feeling to maintain them, and 
 for which the loose coin of the senses is sufficient, with- 
 out drawing upon the capital of the heart, while I 
 
 oh, Harriet Selwyn ! what a rich mine of affection have 
 you slighted ! 
 
 La Fosse. Dis way, sare. [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE II. The Circulating Library. 
 Enter SUSAN and DE EOSIER. 
 
 Susan (looldng at a bank-note). Well I purtest,. 
 sir, you are quite yourself again, and if you had but 
 a three-corner hat on you now, you'd be just as much a 
 gentleman as ever. 
 
 De Ros. Come then, now, my good Susan, do tell 
 me what are those little favourable symptoms, which 
 you think you have discovered for me in your mistress. 
 
 Susan. Why in the first place, she says so often 
 you are not worth thinking of, that it is very plain she 
 thinks of nothing else. And then she is as jealous of 
 you 
 
 De Ros. Nay, Susan, there you mock me; jealous 
 of me ! these books are my only mistresses ; and fashion- 
 able ones' they are, I grant, for they circulate through 
 half the town. 
 
 Susan. These books indeed ! No, no, Mr. De Kosey ; 
 for all you look so modest, we have found out the lady 
 in the cottage down the lane, so we have. She that 
 was smuggled over to you, you know, from France. 
 
 De Ros. My mother, by all that is excellent ! (aside) 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 289 
 
 and she is jealous of me, is she ? Did she trace me to 
 the cottage herself? What does she say of it ? tell me, 
 tell me quick, dear Susan (with impatience). 
 
 Susan. Well, if ever I saw anything so audacious ! 
 he does not even deny it, hasn't even the vartue to tell 
 a lie about it. I'll be hanged if I don't now believe 
 every word they said about you last night at the tea- 
 party. 
 
 De Ros. Why, what did they say, good Susan ? Oh, 
 happiness unexpected ! (aside.) 
 
 Susan. They said you had as many wives as the 
 great Cram of Tartary; that your Lady in the lane 
 was a French Duchess or thereabouts, that smuggled 
 herself over to you in a large packing-case, purtending 
 to be crockery-ware pretty crockery, indeed ! 
 
 De Ros. This discovery gives me new life ; jealous of 
 me! 
 
 Susan. There, if he isn't quite proud of the dis- 
 covery ! oh rakery ! rakery ! but I'll go and tell it all 
 to my mistress. Lord ! Lord ! what will the times 
 come to, when Duchesses are sent about, like other 
 brittle ware, in packing-cases ? [Exit SUSAN. 
 
 De Ros. Jealousy ! thou shadow from Love's form, 
 which still the darker falls the warmer light he moves in 
 her heart has felt thee, then. Happy, happy De Rosier ! 
 it may be folly perhaps to feel so happy, but Wisdom 
 herself can do no more ; and there is nothing in life 
 like that sweet philosophy, which softens all that is 
 painful, and enhances all that is pleasant, by making 
 the best of the one, and the most of the other. [Exit. 
 
 Enter LEATHEKHEAD. 
 
 Leath. (calling). Mr. De Eosier ! Why, De Eosier, 
 I say. If this young Frenchman keeps me bawling 
 after him this way, I shall split my voice into two, like 
 
 u 
 
290 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Orator Puff, of the Debating Society, whose eloquence 
 is a happy mixture of bubble and squeak, and who 
 begins all his sentences in the garret, and ends them 
 in the cellar (mimicking}. 
 
 SONG-. LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, 
 
 The one squeaking thus, and the other down so ; 
 In each sentence he utter'd he gave you your choice, 
 For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. 
 Oh ! oh ! Orator Puff, 
 One voice for one orator's surely enough. 
 
 But he still talk'd away, spite of coughs and of frowns, 
 So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, 
 That a wag once, on hearing the orator say 
 1 My voice is for war,' ask'd him, ' Which of them, pray 1 ' 
 Oh ! oh ! &c. 
 
 Reeling homewards, one evening, top-heavy with gin, 
 And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the Crown, 
 
 He tripp'd near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, 
 
 ' Sinking Fund ' the last words as his noddle came down. 
 Oh! oh! &c. 
 
 1 Good Lord ! ' he exclaim'd, in his he-and-she tones, 
 ' Help me out help me out I have broken my bones ! ' 
 ' Help you out ! ' said a Paddy who pass'd, l what a bother ! 
 Why, there's two of you there ; can't you help one another ? ' 
 Oh ! oh ! &c. 
 
 Oh ! you are here, sir, are you ? 
 
 Enter DE HOSIER, with printed sheets in his hand. 
 
 Leath. So, so ! a specimen of my new printing-press. 
 A bright thought of mine, Mr. Thing-o-me, wasn't it, 
 eh? 
 
 De Ros. Oh ! excellent, sir (laughing). 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 291 
 
 Leath. I think so. Poet Rumble here must have 
 sent to London, if I couldn't print for him. 
 
 De Ros. Oh ! most inconvenient, sir : his Pindarics 
 must have gone by the waggon, and his Epigrams by 
 the long heavy coach. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Leath. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Damn the fellow, I believe he 
 is laughing at my printing-press (aside). But- let's 
 see ; how goes on my new compositor ? 
 
 De Ros. Why, pretty well, sir ; he generally puts 
 one word in place for another, which, in poetry like 
 Mr. Rumble's, does not make much difference. Indeed, 
 as in the militia, the substitute is always a better man 
 than the principal, so here in the line I mean Mr. 
 Dactyl's line, sir ; you'll excuse me. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Leath. Curse the grinning puppy ! I wish the types 
 were down his throat, large Roman letters and all 
 (aside). 
 
 De Ros. Allow me to give you an instance or two, 
 sir, of your printer's happy deviation from the copy 
 (reads). ' The dear and fragrant sigh of infancy,' he 
 has converted into a ' dire and flagrant sign of in- 
 famy : ' c sweets of morning.' he has turned into ' suits 
 of mourning ; ' and ' haunted by all the mellow dreams 
 of Horace ,' he has made ' hunted by all the melo-drames 
 of horses. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 Leath. Ha ! ha ! Impudent rascal ! how merry he is ! 
 but I'll teach him to take liberties with the press, the 
 Jacobin ! He'd give his eyes to go to the races, I know 
 he would ; but I'll not let him, I'll go there myself to 
 spite him. I'll give him a job, too, that my gentleman 
 won't like (aside) . Here you, Mr. Scholar, here's some 
 books to go to Lady Bab Blue's library, and you must 
 take and arrange them for her. 
 
 De Ros. What ! I, sir ? 
 
 Leath. Yes, you, sir ; and leave the porter to look 
 
 TJ 2 
 
292 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 after the shop. She is a lady of learning, they say, and 
 ought to have a critic to wait on her. Happy to re- 
 commend you for that situation. She might like to 
 have a reviewer on her establishment, fifty pounds a 
 year and the run of the kitchen. Sorry to part with you 
 but (all this time Leatherhead is at the counter 
 arranging the books\ 
 
 Enter Capt. CANVAS and LA FOSSE. 
 
 Capt. C. (staring at seeing De Rosier). De Rosier ! 
 for heaven's sake, what is the meaning 
 
 De Ros. Hush ! and I'll tell you all presently. 
 
 Leath. Who is that, eh ? 
 
 De Ros. Merely a gentleman, sir, who wishes to see 
 our catalogue. 
 
 Leath. And who is that foreign-looking thief, that 
 stands grinning at you there ? 
 
 De Ros. Oh ! that, sir, is What shall I say to 
 get a few moments' explanation with Canvas ? (aside). 
 That, sir, is a French man of letters, who having 
 heard of your new printing-press, is come to engage 
 with you as a translator (retires to the back of the 
 stage with Capt. C.) 
 
 Leath. Translator ! himself an original quite : I 
 must talk to him though. Servant, sir. Well acquainted, 
 I'm told, with the learned tongues ? 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! he have heard of my cookery 
 (aside) Oui certainly, sare, dress the tongue a 
 merveille, and de sauce ! by gar you would eat your 
 fader with it. 1 
 
 Leath. Eat my father ! what the devil does he 
 mean ? 
 
 La Fosse. You like it, sare, done English way ? 
 
 1 A cette sauce-l on mangeroit son p&re. 
 
 L'Almanach des Gourmands. 
 
M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 293 
 
 Leath. Yes, yes, done into English, to be sure ; and 
 let it be something that will go down, you know. 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! pardi, he will go down fast enough 
 (laying his hand on his stomach). Den, sare, I can 
 make you de finest nick-nack out of noting at all. 
 
 Leath. How well he understands the art of author- 
 ship ! (aside). 
 
 La Fosse. Hash up de old ting like new 
 
 Leath. Right book-making ! 
 
 La Fosse. Vid plenty salt 
 
 Leath. Attic bravo ! 
 
 La Fosse. Vare much acid 
 
 Leath. Satiric excellent ! 
 
 La Fosse. And den de little someting varm and 
 piquante for de ladies 
 
 Leath. Oh ! it will do it will do (throiving his 
 arms round La Fosse) I am so lucky to meet you. 
 But let's see (looks at his watch), have you any ob- 
 jection, sir, to walk towards the race-ground? We 
 may talk of these matters on the way. 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, sure, certainly ; tho' pardi, sare, 
 your conversation give me appetite enough widout de 
 walk. 
 
 Leath. Oh ! you flatter me, sir. 
 
 La Fosse. Apres vous, monsieur. 
 
 [Exeunt ceremoniously. 
 
 Capt. CANVAS and DE HOSIER come forward."] 
 
 Capt. C. But why did you not answer my letter, 
 and acquaint me with this fall of your fortunes ? 
 
 De Ros. The truth is, my dear Canvas, I have such 
 an aversion to letter-writing, that I have sometimes 
 thought the resolution of Sir Phelim O'Neal, never to 
 answer anything but a challenge, was the only peaceable 
 
294 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 way of getting through life. But let us. not talk of 
 misery love is our only theme. 
 
 Capt. C. And that way lies my misery. Oh ! if I 
 could but see the faithless girl once more, I'd take a 
 last, an eternal farewell ! fly to my ship, forget the 
 very name of woman and, like the Doge of Venice, 
 marry myself to the sea. 
 
 De Ros. Her aunt, Lady Bab, you say, has for- 
 bidden you the house ? 
 
 Capt. C. Positively excludes me. 
 
 De Ros. Heaven send she may do me the same 
 favour ! ' But though her ladyship is not at home to 
 Love, she seldom refuses the visits of Learning, an ac- 
 quaintance whom she treats ceremoniously, not being 
 on very familiar terms with him ; ' there lie my letters 
 of introduction to her presence ('pointing to a parcel 
 on the counter). 
 
 Capt. C. What ! those books ? 
 
 De Ros. Yes, those books, 'which are as ivelcome 
 and about as useful to her ladyship as an opera-glass 
 to a South-Sea islander.' 
 
 Capt. C. But what did you say of an introduction 
 to her presence ? 
 
 De Ros. Why, simply, that my master has inflicted 
 upon me the honour of carrying that parcel to Lady 
 Bab's library, and if you have the least ambition for 
 the employment, I will depute it to you with all my 
 soul ; happy if, like other great men, I may be the 
 means of making the fortune of my deputy, and if 
 carrying out books should prove as profitable to you as 
 keeping books has been to many others. 
 
 Capt. C. 'Tis an excellent thought; I thank you 
 from my heart for it. 
 
 De Ros. You are not serious, Canvas ? 
 
 Capt. C. Never was more serious in my life. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 295 
 
 De Ros. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Why, what will your ship's 
 company think of you, when they hear you have turned 
 bookseller and stationer ? 
 
 Capt. C. No matter, it will give me an opportunity 
 of seeing her once more, and of returning into her 
 hands this long-loved picture, whose colours, though 
 fleeting, have not faded like her affections. 
 
 De Ros. Very pretty, 'faith ! But I think I could 
 match it. Where the deuce? (searching his pockets, 
 and then going to a corner of the library) Oh ! here 
 it is hid under the Baisers of Dorat covered, as it 
 ought to be, with a whole volume of kisses ! (produces 
 a miniature). There, I have . as little right to that 
 copy, as any other man but myself has, in my opinion, 
 to the original. It was done by my friend Crayon, 
 from his own miniature of Miss Hartington, and 1 ran 
 away with it. Prometheus had the image, when he 
 stole the flame, but I, being provided with the flame 
 (laying his hand on his heart}, stole the image. 
 
 Capt. C. (looking at his own miniature). How 
 many ghosts of departed promises haunt those faithless 
 lips ! 
 
 De Ros. (looking at his}. And how many little 
 unfledged hopes lie nestling in that dimpled smile ! 
 
 DUET. Capt. CANVAS and DE ROSIER. 
 
 Capt. C. Here is the lip that betray'd, 
 
 De Ros. Here is the blue eye that wann'd ; 
 
 Capt. C. Lips for bewildering made ! 
 
 De Ros. Eyes for enamouring form'd ! 
 
 Both. While on her features I gaze, 
 
 And trace every love-moulded line. 
 Capt. C. Memory weeps o'er the days 
 
 When I fancied her faithfully mine. 
 De Ros. Hope bids me dream of bright days, 
 
 And fancy her faithfully mine. 
 
296 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 De Ros. Here is the glance that inspired 
 Capt. C. Here is the blush that deceived ; 
 De Ros. Glances too wildly admired ! 
 Capt. C. Blushes too fondly believed ; 
 Both. While on her features, &c., &c. 
 
 De Ros. But come, if you mean to be my deputy, 
 there is no time to lose. Give me your coat. 
 
 Capt. C. What ! must I 
 
 De Ros. Of course, my dear fellow (taking off Capt. 
 C.'s coat) ; though the lady herself is as blue as indigo, 
 your coat need not be of the same livery with her 
 stockings. 
 
 Capt. C. Where do you mean to hide my uniform ? 
 
 De Ros. Here, behind this large History of Eng- 
 land ; and I believe it is the first time that anything 
 naval has ever been kept out of sight by an English 
 historian. Now put on this apron. Does Lady Bab 
 know you ? 
 
 Capt. C. Never has seen me. 
 
 De Ros. So much the better. I have no doubt 
 she will be taken with your scientific appearance and 
 you may tell her you are versed in the Cannon Law, 
 you know. Now for the books. ' God help you, if she 
 should take a fancy to read any of these folios to you. 
 
 6 Capt. C. I should never stand that. Like a re- 
 probate Quaker, I should be soon read out of the 
 meeting. 
 
 ' De Ros. 1 There, there's a hat for you, and now 
 be off. 
 
 Capt. C. Thanks, dear De Eosier; it is consoling 
 to think, that though Love should break off one arm 
 of Hope's anchor, there is yet another left for Friend- 
 ship, upon whose hold my heart may rely. [Exit. 
 [During this scene, Capt. C. puts on De Rosier ' 
 shop-jacket, into the pocket of which De Rosier 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 297 
 
 had, at the end of the duet, put his own 
 
 miniature. Capt. C., when about to change, 
 
 lays his miniature on the counter. 
 
 De Ros. Poor Canvas ! Let me see (approaching 
 
 the counter). Hey-day ! what's this ? By all that's 
 
 perplexing, he has left his mistress's miniature behind 
 
 him, and taken away mine with him in his pocket. 
 
 Hollo ! hollo ! (calling after him). It is too late to 
 
 catch him, and this exchange of mistresses may be fatal 
 
 to us both. But away with apprehension ! I will not, 
 
 this day, let one dark thought come near me. Oh 
 
 woman ! woman ! who is there would live without the 
 
 hope of being loved by thee ? 
 
 SONGr. DE EOSIER. 
 
 When life looks lone and dreary, 
 
 What light can dispel the gloom 1 
 When Time's swift wing glows weary, 
 
 What charm can refresh his plume 1 
 'Tis Woman, whose sweetness beameth 
 
 O'er all that we feel or see ; 
 And if man of heaven e'er dreameth, 
 
 'Tis when he thinks purely of thee, 
 Oh, Woman ! 
 
 Let conquerors fight for glory, 
 
 Too dearly the meed they gain ; 
 Let patriots live in story 
 
 Too often they die in vain. 
 Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em, 
 
 This world can offer to me 
 No throne like Beauty's bosom, 
 
 No freedom like serving thee, 
 Oh, Woman ! 
 
 {Exit. 
 
298 M,P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 SCENE III. MADAME DE HOSIER'S Cottage. 
 
 Enter LA FOSSE. 
 
 La Fosse. Diable t'emporte, you big bookseller 
 vid your tongues and your bacon and apres tout 
 after all his Bacon turn out to be an old dead Chan- 
 celier. Morbleu ! and ven I tell him I vas Cook, by 
 gar, he begin beat me, as I do de young live pig to 
 make him tender. Ah ! here is my maitresse and 
 vat de devil old beggar-man she got vid her ? 
 
 Enter Madame DE HOSIER and Mr. HARTINGTON. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I am afraid, my poor man, those 
 rude servants must have hurt you. 
 
 Mr. Hart. They might have hurt me, madam, had 
 you not kindly opened your door and admitted me. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I am sure their master, whoever he 
 may be, would have punished them for their rudeness, 
 if he had seen them. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I do not know that, madam ; there is 
 such congeniality in the pursuits of modern masters 
 and their servants, that we can hardly expect more 
 civilization from the amateur coachman than from the 
 professor. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. You seem to want refreshment ; sit 
 down, and you shall have something. (He sits down.) 
 Here, La Fbsse, bring this poor man some cold meat. 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, my lady. Ah ! dat is the way all 
 my cookery goes (aside and exit). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. You have seen better days, I doubt 
 not. 
 
 Mr. Hart. And so have you, lady, if rightly I can 
 conjecture from those manners, which, like the orna- 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 299 
 
 ments of a fallen capital, may be traced long after the 
 pillar, on which it stood, is broken. 
 
 Enter LA FOSSE (bringing in a tray with cold 
 meat, <&c.) 
 
 La Fosse. Here is de little beef for him. Ah ! if 
 ma pauvre maitresse had de larder so large as her 
 heart, de ugly malady of starving would be soon 
 banish from the world like the small-pock (lays it on 
 the table, and exit). 
 
 Mr. Hart. My words seem to affect you, lady. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I know not why they should ; 'tis 
 but a languor of spirits arising from ill-health. 
 
 Mr. Hart, (at the table, while she is standing 
 forward). I see it, 'tis the heart's ill-health the pang 
 of honest pride struggling with poverty. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. (turning round). Nay. prithee, eat, 
 my good man. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Thanks, lady, I am quite refreshed 
 (rises) ; and now, forgive me if I ask, how long you 
 may have felt this illness under which you suffer. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Not very long; and, in truth, so 
 many have been my hours of health and cheerfulness, 
 that I feel as if I had already shared my full proportion 
 of blessings, and can thank Heaven for the balm that 
 has been at the top of my cup, even while I drain the 
 bitterness that lies at the bottom. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Patience ! how thy smile adorns 
 adversity ! (aside). You may think it presumptuous, 
 madam, that one so poor and humble as I am should 
 venture to prescribe a remedy for the languor that 
 oppresses your spirits ; but 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Alas ! my good man ! 'tis far beyond 
 the reach of art even more refined than yours. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Pardon me, lady. During the wander- 
 
300 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 ing life I have led among the poor and wretched, and 
 the various sicknesses of heart and spirits which I have 
 met with, I have frequently witnessed the efficacy of 
 one simple medicine, which, if delicately administered, 
 seldom fails to remove at least a part of the pressure 
 under which the patient languishes. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Some village charm, I doubt not 
 but I must indulge the poor old man (aside). 
 
 Mr. Hart. There is a portion of it in this small 
 bag ; 'tis what the old philosophers looked for in 
 crucibles, and what the modern ones think they have 
 found in paper-mills. Too large a dose of it is apt to 
 make the head giddy ; and in some temperaments it 
 produces a restless itching in the hands, which requires 
 a constant application of the medicine to that part. 
 When this symptom breaks out in certain ranks of life, 
 the operation of the drug has been found to be ruinous 
 to the Constitution. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. (smiling). It seems to be rather a 
 desperate remedy you recommend me. 
 
 Mr. Hart. No, lady, you may take it safely. When 
 prescribed by ' friendship or ' humanity for the relief of 
 those we ' esteem or ' compassionate, it is then indeed 
 a precious balsam, whose cordial not only refreshes the 
 heart of him who takes, but whose fragrance long 
 lingers on the hand of him who administers it. 
 There, open it when I am gone, and before it is ex- 
 hausted you shall be furnished with a fresh supply. 
 
 Enter LA FOSSE hastily. 
 
 La Fosse. Oh madam ! madam ! here is a gentle- 
 man have driven himself and his carriage into de ditch, 
 and de coachman and de rest of the inside passenger 
 have been pull out of de window. 
 
 Mad. de Eos. Is there anyone hurt ? 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 301 
 
 La Fosse. Only de gentleman's head a little crack, 
 I believe mais le voici here he is come. 
 
 Enter Sir Charles CANVAS. 
 
 Sir C. Curse that awkward post ! caught in the 
 fore wheel and spilt me off the dickey. Just the way 
 in the House, though, when a Member arrives at apost, 
 he always vacates his seat immediately. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I hope, sir, you have not suffered 
 any serious injury. 
 
 Sir C. Not much, ma'am, head a little out of order, 
 as we say all owing to the spirit of my leaders 
 Greys, madam fine creatures. Your Greys make 
 excellent leaders in Opposition coaches. Ah ! my old 
 ganger- that-is-to-be, how d'ye do? Don't remember 
 me, eh ? 
 
 Mr. Hart. Oh ! yes, sir ; you call yourself Sir 
 Charles Canvas. (Madame de Rosier starts, and looks 
 earnestly at Sir Charles.) 
 
 Sir C. Call myself! damn the fellow doubts my 
 claim, I suppose (aside). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. It cannot surely be the same ! 
 (aside.) 
 
 Sir C. I say, my old boy, I have a little job for 
 you Do you like jobs ? no getting on without them 
 I shall want you, in a day or two, to deliver a letter for 
 me to Miss Hartington. 
 
 Mr. Hart. To Miss Harting 
 
 Sir C. Mum I have every reason to suspect that 
 little Tory has taken a fancy to me. 
 
 Mr. Hart. To you, sir ! (with contemptuous sur- 
 prise). 
 
 Sir C. To me, sir! yes, sir to me, sir to Sir 
 Charles Canvas, Bart., M.P., son and heir to the late 
 Sir William Canvas, of Hun thorough Hall, Cornwall. 
 
302 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. It is indeed the same the eldest 
 son of my dear friend, Lady Canvas (aside). 
 
 Sir C. And, between ourselves, it is not impossible 
 but the measure of an Union might be carried. 
 However, say nothing about the matter at present, 
 as I am just now candidate in another quarter ; but if 
 I don't like the state of the poll, damme but I'll out, 
 and be returned Member for Hartington (slapping 
 Mr. H. on the back}. 
 
 Mr. Hart. This fellow's impudence is intolerable 
 (aside). But are you then so sure, sir, of being ac- 
 cepted by Miss Hartington ? 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! no doubt of it women can't refuse. 
 They'd never do for the House couldn't say no for 
 the lives of them but mum, my old fellow, that's all, 
 and call upon me to-morrow at the boarding-house. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I have no doubt, Sir, that the compli- 
 ment which you intend Miss Hartington will be felt 
 by her exactly as it deserves (significantly) ; and be 
 assured, no effort of mine shall be wanting to impress 
 her with a proper understanding of its value. [Exit. 
 
 Sir C. Well said, my old boy. (Madame de 
 Rosier approaches.) Ask pardon, madam, a little 
 secret committee with my honourable friend in frag- 
 ments here. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Not so secret, Sir Charles, as to 
 prevent me from discovering that I have the honour of 
 receiving under my roof the son of one of my best and 
 earliest friends, Lady Canvas. 
 
 Sir C. Oh ! you knew my mother, madam ; an 
 excellent woman, as women go, certainly. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I knew her in Paris, when she was 
 married, and was the only friend to whom she entrusted 
 it ; we were in the same hotel together when you were 
 born. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 303 
 
 Sir C. The devil ! she mistakes me for my eldest 
 brother ; I don't quite like this (aside}. You are 
 wrong, madam ; my mother was not exactly what you 
 call married, you know, till she came to England. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Pardon me, Sir Charles, I was pre- 
 sent at the ceremony. 
 
 Sir C. Present! I'm ruined like a lost Bill- 
 negatived, thrown out, and sent to the pastry-cook's 
 (aside). Yet stay, I'm safe yet, one witness won't do 
 no, no, 'twon't do, madam (turning round to Mad. de 
 Rosier, he is caught round the neck by La Fosse, to 
 whom, during Sir CSs speech aside, Mad. de Rosier 
 had whispered something). 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! my dear little Master Canvas , 
 bless my soul, how vare often I have pinch you little 
 ear, when you not dis high, and you squawl and squawl, 
 and vish me at de .devil ! 
 
 Sir C. I'm sure I wish you there now with all my 
 heart what shall I do ? (aside). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. This faithful old servant, Sir Charles, 
 was likewise at your mother's wedding. 
 
 Sir C. And what infernal I say, madam, what 
 strange fate has brought you both here ? 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Upon my return to France last year, 
 I found that my husband the Comte de Rosier was 
 dead, that his money had been all embezzled, and his 
 estates confiscated; my dear son Henry (whom you 
 may have seen at the library) was the only comfort left 
 me, and upon his industry we now depend for our 
 humble, yet sufficient maintenance. 
 
 Sir C. So, so, the young emigrant at the library 
 I have it (aside). Your son's name, you say, is Henry 
 de Rosier ? (takes out his tablets, and writes). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Yes, sir. 
 
 SirC. Aged? 
 
304 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. About one-and- twenty. 
 
 Sir C. 'Aged one and twenty middle size fair 
 complexion,' (writing). 
 
 La Fosse. Ah de brave homme ! he mean to 
 patronage my young master ! 
 
 Sir C. Grlad to have the particulars; must send 
 information to the Alien Office immediately. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. For heaven's sake, Sir Charles, what 
 is it you mean ? 
 
 Sir C. Your son Henry, madam a very suspicious 
 character must be got rid of unpleasant office for 
 me but must do my duty. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. My unfortunate boy ! what can he 
 have done ? 
 
 Sir C. Nothing overt, as yet, perhaps, but quite 
 enough to be suspected of being suspicious. ' Doctor 
 Shuffle-bottom and some dowagers of distinction have 
 long had their eyes on him, he has been caught laugh- 
 ing at a novel of Voltaire's, and has even been seen to 
 yawn over a loyal pamphlet of Doctor Shuffle-bottom's 
 an incendiary quite ! 
 
 ' Mad de Ros. Oh, sir ! I will answer with my life 
 that, whatever imprudence my Henry may have been 
 guilty of, his heart is in the right ; his heart is always 
 in the right. 
 
 ' Sir C. Very likely but we politicians have nothing 
 to do with the heart must send him off and that 
 ugly old sinner there with him.' Shall go now, and 
 write to the Alien Office. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. (kneeling). For pity's sake, Sir 
 Charles ! by the memory of your dear mother, I entreat 
 you. 
 
 Sir C. I have her now (aside). As to that, madam, 
 though always rigid in my public duties, yet when so fair 
 a petitioner humbly sheiveth, I am as easily moved as 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 305 
 
 the question of adjournment (raises her) and there 
 is one condition upon which I consent to let your son 
 remain safely behind his counter. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Name it, sir, name it. 
 
 Sir C. Simply this that you never betray to man, 
 woman, or child, the secret of my mother's marriage in 
 Paris. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Though ignorant of your motive, Sir 
 Charles, most willingly do I promise (trample with- 
 out) and here is my poor Henry himself. 
 
 Sir C. Does he know it ? 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I have never mentioned it to him. 
 
 Sir C. Mum then that's all. 
 
 Enter DE EOSIEK. 
 
 De Ros. I have stolen one moment from business to 
 tell my dear mother of my happiness What ! in tears, 
 mother ! and Sir Charles Canvas here ? What is the 
 meaning of this ? 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Nothing, Henry ; we were merely 
 
 talking of some old (Sir Charles shows the tablets 
 
 secretly to her, and checks her). This gentleman, I 
 mean, has met with jan accident at our door, and it has 
 alarmed me. 
 
 De Ros. There is some mystery in this, which must 
 be explained to me. La Fosse! (La Fosse nods signi- 
 ficantly toivards Sir Charles, and exit). Sir Charles ! 
 I perceive plainly that your intrusion is the cause of 
 this embarrassment, and, notwithstanding my respect 
 for your eldest brother, Captain Canvas, whom I have 
 the honour to call my friend, and of whose title and 
 fortune you have (I will not say how generously) 
 possessed yourself 
 
 Mad. de Ros. This then was the motive Oh, 
 Henry ! (She is going towards him, when Sir Charles 
 
3o6 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 seizes her hand, and reads the tablets in an under- 
 voice to her.) - 
 
 Sir C. ' Aged twenty-one middle size fair com- 
 plexion ' 
 
 De Ros. Come, madam, you must not stay here 
 to be insulted. Another time, Sir Charles, I shall 
 know the meaning of your conduct. I did think, sir, 
 that you modern men of fashion, when coming to a 
 domestic sanctuary like this, could leave your arrogance 
 at the club, and your vulgarity at the race-ground ; but 
 I find that, in the circle of social life, you are as 
 misplaced as monkeys in a flower-garden, having just 
 strength enough to trample on what is delicate, and 
 just wit enough to ruin what is beautiful. 
 
 [Exeunt MAD. DE KOSIER and HENRY. 
 
 Sir C. Hear him! hear him,! That young gentle- 
 man has a taste for oratory would cut a figure upon 
 a Turnpike Bill. Flatter myself, however, I have 
 muzzled the principal witness 'and my brother, a 
 careless fellow, will never think of sifting the matter 
 when he returns, but pocket the affront, and away to 
 sea again.' As to fighting, my young Mr. Emigrant 
 (for you seemed to give notice of a motion to that 
 effect), before 7 fight, I must consult my constituents, 
 as I hold it unpatriotic to do anything without their 
 instructions. [Exit. 
 
 SCENE IV. An Antechamber at Lady BAB BLUE'S. 
 
 Lady BAB, and Capt. CANVAS in his disguise, arrang- 
 ing the booJcs in a large bookcase. Miss SELWYN 
 and DAVY, the latter a little tipsy. 
 
 Lady B. Come hither, you stupid Davy, and assist 
 this young man to arrange the books. Foh, fellow! 
 your breath smells like hydrogen. 
 
M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 307 
 
 Davy. Hydergin gin gin (hiccups) Ecod, so it 
 was gin, sure enough. How well the old toad knows 
 the smell of it ! (aside). 
 
 Lady B. (to Davy). Here, put up these two 
 volumes of Sallust. That is the Jugurthine, and that 
 the Cataline. 
 
 Davy, (spelling the letters on the back). T, 0, M, 
 Tom, C, A, T, Cat, Tom Cat. Come, I guess now, that's 
 something deuced comical, (spells the other). T, O, M., 
 J, U, Gr, Tom's Jug. Ah ! that's the laming, after 
 all. 
 
 Capt. C. One word with her will be sufficient. 
 Miss Selwyn ! Miss Selwyn ! (apart to Miss S.). 
 
 Miss S. Grood Heavens! is it possible? Captain 
 Canvas ! 
 
 Capt. C. Be not alarmed, madam I come not to 
 interrupt your happiness, by disputing my brother's 
 claim to that inheritance, which Miss Selwyn is so 
 worthy and so willing to share with him I come 
 merely to return this picture into your hands, and 
 (what I cannot think you will regret) to bid you fare- 
 well for ever ! [He returns to the bookcase. 
 
 Miss S. What can he mean ? ' Worthy and willing 
 to share his brother's fortune!' My picture, too, re- 
 turned! (opens it) Yet no no can I believe my 
 eyes ? It is it is Miss Hartington. Oh ! this accounts 
 for her confusion when I mentioned his name, her 
 sighs when she acknowledged that she knew him. 
 False, cruel man! to insult me thus with the display of 
 her love-gifts. But I'll Oh ! that his brother were 
 here now I could even do my heart a violence to be 
 revenged of him. 
 
 Lady B. Why, what are you about, young man ? 
 (to Capt. Canvas, who has been employed at the book- 
 case). You are mixing up my science with all sorts of 
 
 x 2 
 
308 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 rubbish. Here's Thoughts upon Gravity on the same 
 shelf with Broad Grins ; and as I live ! Sir Isaac 
 Newton in the corner with Betsy Thoughtless! 
 
 Enter Sir CHARLES. 
 
 Sir C. Oh, dear ladies ! I have had the saddest 
 tumble off my dicky exactly such as happened to me 
 last spring you recollect immediately after the snows 
 and the Parliament had dissolved away, and the new 
 Ministers were just budding into patronage and 
 majorities. 
 
 Miss S. Dear Sir Charles, you alarm me beyond 
 expression (affecting anxiety about him). 
 
 Sir C. ' Dear Sir Charles ! ' Ho ! ho ! She begins 
 to trim, I find (aside). 
 
 Capt. C. (behind). Perfidious girl ! 
 
 Lady B. and Miss S. (on each side of Sir C.). No 
 material hurt, I hope ? 
 
 Sir (7. Not much head a little discomposed but 
 it was this that saved me (striking the wown of his 
 hat). The crown is the best friend to us M.Ps., after 
 all. But don't be alarmed, ladies, I am not so ill but 
 that I shall be able to attend you to the lottery at the 
 library ; and afterwards, if you will allow me, to Miss 
 Hartington's card-party. 
 
 FINALE TO THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 Lady BAB BLUE, Miss SELWYN, Captain CANVAS, ] Sir 
 C. CANVAS, and DAVY. 
 
 Capt. C. The last gleam of hope is vanish'd now, 
 Misery's night surrounds me. 
 
 / 
 
 1 Captain Canvas, during this Finale, must keep as far back as 
 possible and appear carefully to avoid the eyes of Sir Charles. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 309 
 
 Davy. I could read mighty well, if they'd j ust show me how, 
 
 But this printing like quite confounds me. 
 Miss S. The pain in your head, is it better ? oh tell. 
 Capt. C. The pain in my heart who can tell $ 
 Sir C. C. Pretty well it may swell. 
 Davy. I can spell very well F, E, double L. 
 
 Miss S. Think, if aught should harm thee, 
 
 How it would alarm me. 
 Capt. C. Patience ! arm me, 
 
 Let not anger warm me. 
 Miss S. How I should deplore thee ! 
 
 Tenderly weep o'er thee ! 
 Capt. C. None will e'er adore thee 
 
 With the love / bore thee : 
 
 Oh ! -happier, happier he, 
 
 Whose heart is cold to thee. 
 Miss S. 
 
 Ladv B. Oh ! ha PP^' ha PP y we > 
 jj j Thy safe return to see. 
 
 Sir C. C. I'm happy, ma'am, to see 
 Your kind concern for me. 
 
 Can Falsehood then boast of her power to destroy, 
 And not even blush o'er the ruins of joy? 
 Can hearts leave the load-star they used to obey, 
 And not even tremble in turning astray ? 
 (DAVY, who lias been fixing books upon the shelves, 
 lets a large parcel of them , at this moment, fall 
 about his ears.) 
 Davy. Dang it ! what a clatter ! 
 
 How my head they batter ! 
 Capt. C. Booby ! what's the matter ? 
 How the books you scatter ! 
 Lady B. See ! you awkward lout, 
 
 My ancients thrown about ; 
 My wits all tumbling from above ! 
 Davy. If larning be about 
 
 As hard inside as out, 
 'Twould soon get thro' my skull, by Jove ! 
 
3io M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Capt. C. \ 
 
 & I Farewell farewell to hope, joy, and love ! 
 MissH. } 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
 ACT III. 
 SCENE.- -The Circulating Library. 
 
 Lady BAB BLUE, Sir CHARLES CANVAS, Miss SELWYN, 
 Miss HARTINGTON, SUSAN, and a motley group of 
 persons are discovered attending the drawing of 
 a lottery, which LEATHERHEAD is busied about 
 behind the counter. Various prizes are lying 
 upon the counter. 
 
 SONG, EECITATIVE, DUET, CHORUS, &c. 
 
 SONG. 1 SUSAN. 
 
 A Lottery, a Lottery, 
 In Cupid's court there used to be, 
 Two roguish eyes 
 The highest prize 
 In Cupid's scheming Lottery ; 
 And kisses too, 
 As good as new, 
 
 Which were not very hard to win, 
 For he, who won 
 The eyes of fun, 
 Was sure to have the kisses in. 
 Chor. A Lottery, &c. 
 
 This Lottery, this Lottery, 
 In Cupid's court went merrily, 
 
 1 Vol. ix. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 311 
 
 And Cupid play'd 
 
 A Jewish trade 
 In thin his scheming Lottery ! 
 
 For hearts, I'm told, 
 
 In shares he sold 
 To many a fond believing drone, 
 
 And cut the hearts 
 
 In sixteen parts 
 So well, each thought the whole his own ! 
 
 Ghor. A Lottery, a Lottery, 
 
 In Cupid's court there used to be, 
 
 Two roguish eyes 
 
 The highest prize, 
 In Cupid's scheming Lottery. 
 
 KECITATIVE and SONGK LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen Gentlemen and Ladies Go not to 
 
 Cupid's court ; 
 For (whatever the young woman may say) 'tis a place of very 
 
 bad resort. 
 
 AIK. 
 
 But mine is the Lottery hasten to me ; 
 Here's scissors and satires, as sharp as can be : 
 Here's a drawing of Cork here's a cork-screw for wine, 
 Here are pills for the cough and here's Gibbon's ' Decline ; ' 
 Here's a bright carving-knife here's a learned Review 
 Here's an Essay on Marriage, and here's a Cuckoo. 
 
 CHOEUS. 
 
 Our Lottery our Lottery 
 
 Ye youths and maidens, come to me ! 
 
 'Tis ne'er too late 
 
 To try your fate 
 In this our lucky Lottery. 
 
312 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Leath. Thanks, ladies and gentlemen, for your at- 
 tendance this evening ; hope for your patronage, 
 madam (to Lady Bab) Have everything in your way 
 6 that has appeared since Nebechudnezzar's work upon 
 Grasses Clever book that, ma'am. 
 
 ' Lady Bab. I cannot say that I have ever seen it. 
 
 ' Leath. 'Pon my soul, nor I ' (aside). Have got a 
 new printing press, ma'am ; would be glad to have some 
 of your Flights of Fancy. Wish you could be prevailed 
 upon to try your hand at a battle. Wonderful taste 
 for battles now, ma'am. 
 
 Lady B. No wonder, sir, when those indulgent 
 critics, the Park guns, stand always ready to report the 
 merits of such performances. 
 
 Leath. Ha! ha! ha! Very sharp, ma'am, very sharp. 
 If you please to step this way, ma'am, I'll give you a 
 sight of my typographicals. [They retire. 
 
 Miss Hart. I look in vain for De Eosier. What 
 can be the meaning of his absence? (aside). 
 
 Sir. C. (who is all this time paying his court to 
 Miss Selwyn, and is repulsed by her in all his 
 advances). Nay, my dear Miss Selwyn, ' you change 
 sides as quick as an Union Member;' just now at your 
 own house you were so kind to me ! I declare it quite 
 intoxicated me. 
 
 Miss S. Did I intoxicate you, Sir Charles ? The 
 Spartans, too, occasionally made their slaves drunk ; but 
 'twas from anything but love for them, I assure you. 
 
 Sir C. What a tongue she has ! But 111 cough her 
 down when we're married (aside). 
 
 Miss Hart. I suppose, Sir Charles, you know that 
 your brother is arrived. 
 
 Sir C. My brother ! impossible madam impos- 
 sible. He would not leave his ship to be made First 
 Lord of the Treasury. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 313 
 
 Miss Hart. But to be made Lord of Love's Treasury! 
 (looking archly at Miss Selwyn, and then addressing 
 her). Come, my dear, you can tell us, perhaps, whether 
 Captain Canvas is arrived. 
 
 Miss S. How insultingly she triumphs over me ! 
 (aside). Eeally, Miss Hartington, Time makes such 
 changes in mind as well as features, that it is possible 
 I may have seen Captain Canvas without being able to 
 persuade myself that it was the same I had known 
 formerly. 
 
 Miss Hart. I'll send to the hotels to inquire after 
 him. Perhaps he may be prevailed upon to join our 
 card-party this evening. Sir Charles, you have no 
 objection to see your brother at my house ? 
 
 Sir C. Me, madam ! objection, madam! (confused). 
 Afraid to meet the eyes of my brother ! Damned bad 
 sign symptoms of a rotten Borough here, I fear (lays 
 his hand on his heart)mu$t brazen it out though (aside). 
 Oh no, Miss Hartington, not the least objection. My 
 brother is well aware of the hopelessness of his claims, 
 and will be happy, of course, to find that the title, 
 though it has slipped off the higher branch, has settled 
 upon such a promising twig as your humble servant. 
 
 Miss Hart. Oh ! very well. Susan ! (beckons Susan, 
 and exit with her). 
 
 Lady Bab (coming forward with Leatherhead, 
 and giving him a letter). Y ou will be amused and 
 edified by that letter 'tis from my friend, Doctor 
 O'Jargon, the great Irish chemist, and you may read it 
 at your leisure. 
 
 Leath. Ma'am, you do me honour. 
 
 Lady Bab. Come hither, niece (to Miss Selwyn) ; 
 I want to speak with you upon a matter of much 
 importance to me. 
 
314 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Miss S. This eternal marriage with Sir Charles! 
 (aside). 
 
 Lady Bab. I want to ask your advice upon a grand 
 literary scheme I have in view. 
 
 Miss S. Heaven be praised ! Even her literature is 
 a relief (aside). 
 
 Lady Bab. You must know I have been, for some 
 time past, employed in writing a chemical poem upon 
 Sal Ammoniac. 
 
 Miss S. Upon sal ammoniac ? 
 
 Lady Bab. Yes, my dear, a poem upon sal ammo- 
 niac in which, under the name of the Loves of Ammo- 
 nia, I have personified this interesting alkali, and 
 described very tenderly all the various experiments 
 that have been tried on her. 
 
 Miss S. This is what has been called f enlisting 
 poetry under the banners of science,' dear aunt. 
 
 Lady Bab. Exactly so. And now look on that 
 venerable Chamberlain of the Muses there. 
 
 Leath. What the devil are they staring at me for ? 
 (aside). 
 
 Lady Bab. That man, humble as he stands there- 
 unconscious, as yet, of the glory that is intended him 
 that man shall I select for the high honour of introduc- 
 ing my Ammonia to the literary world. 
 
 Miss S. Happy man ! 
 
 Lady Bab. And I will go home this instant and 
 write him such an epistle on the subject as will electrify 
 him. 
 
 Miss S. I have no doubt it will. 
 
 Lady Bab. Sir Charles I had nearly forgot but 
 there is a paper which I have had in my pocket for you 
 all day (giving him a letter). It concerns the subject 
 nearest your heart. Farewell we meet at Miss Har- 
 tington's assembly. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 315 
 
 Leath. Give me leave, my lady (showing her out). 
 
 Lady Bab (to Leath.). Man! man! thou little 
 knowest the honour and glory to which thou wilt be 
 sublimated. 
 
 [Exit LADY BAB, LEATHERHEAD showing her off. 
 
 Sir C. Let's see what the old lady has given me 
 here (reads) ' Most scientific Madam ! ' Hey-day ! 
 'tis a letter, addressed to herself, and signed Cornelius 
 0' Jargon, Professor of Chemistry. ' Most scientific 
 Madam ! I need not tell your ladyship that my illus- 
 trious counti^yman, the Honourable Mr. Boyle, was 
 the father of Chemistry, and brother to the Earl of 
 Cork.' What the devil have I to do with the father 
 and uncles of Chemistry ? I, that am in such a hopeful 
 genealogical way myself ! And this, she said, was ' the 
 subject nearest my heart ! ' (tearing the letter). What's 
 to be done ? If my brother is arrived, and Madame de 
 Rosier should find out that my threats against her son 
 were mere bluster, 'tis all over with me. What shall I 
 do? I'll try bribery, I will. They are poor, and a 
 bribe will certainly stop their mouths. 'Besides, it 
 will keep my hand in, and make me a more saleable 
 article myself in future,' * for nothing breaks a man in 
 for taking bribes so effectually as giving them. [Exit. 
 
 Miss 8. (who had been occupied among the books 
 at the back of the stage). Alas ! who can wonder at the 
 choice I have made ? Even had Captain Canvas no 
 other qualities to adorn him, the very fame of his 
 heroism would be sufficient to interest me. For we 
 women, the simplest and tenderest of us, love to fly 
 about a blaze of celebrity, even though we receive but 
 little warmth from it ; and the sage and the hero are sure 
 of us, whenever they condescend to be our suitors. Not 
 
 1 I forget the words that are substituted for these in represen- 
 tation. 
 
3i6 M.F., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 that we have much concern with either their valour or 
 their wisdom, for our pride is to produce the very 
 reverse of those qualities which we admire in them ; to 
 see the orator mute, the hero humbled, and the philo- 
 sopher bewildered. 
 
 SONG-. 1 Miss SELWYN. 
 
 Oh ! think, when a hero is sighing, 
 
 What danger in such an adorer ! 
 What woman can dream of denying 
 
 The hand that lays laurels before her ? 
 No heart is so guarded around, 
 
 But the smile of a victor will take it ; 
 No bosom can slumber so sound, 
 
 But the trumpet of glory will wake it. 
 
 Love sometimes is given to sleeping, 
 
 And woe to the heart that allows him ! 
 For, ah ! neither smiling nor weeping 
 
 Have power, at those moments, to rouse him. 
 But, though he were sleeping so fast, 
 
 That the life almost seem'd to forsake him, 
 Believe me, one soul-thrilling blast 
 
 From the trumpet of glory would wake him ! 
 
 SCENE II. The Outside of the Circulating Library. 
 
 Enter LEATHERHEAD (bowing off, as if returned from 
 seeing the ladies to their carriage). 
 
 Leath. Charming notion she has of books ! and of 
 booksellers too, I flatter myself. She wouldn't have been 
 half so civil to me, though, if my fine French shopman 
 had been in the way. That fellow's young impudent 
 face took off all the attention of the women from me. 
 But I've got rid of him, packed him off, ' and he may 
 1 Vol. ix. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 317 
 
 now starve like a wit and a gentleman, as he pretends 
 to be ' (takes out the letter Lady BAB gave him). Ha ! 
 ha ! ha ! Bless her old tasty heart ! Only think of 
 her giving me a letter from an Irish chemist and drug- 
 gist to amuse myself with. Let's see (putting on his 
 spectacles). 
 
 SUSAN enters from behind. 
 
 Susan. I can't think what has become of Mr. de 
 Rosy. My poor mistress was quite in a fright at not 
 seeing him here. Oh ! there's the old grumpus him- 
 self 
 
 Leath. (reads). ' / am determined that you shall 
 marry my niece.' 1 Eh ! what ! Impossible it's a 
 mistake. ' / am determined that you shall marry my 
 niece. The girVs heart is set against it ' Oh ! of 
 course ; ' but, like the copper and zinc in a voltaic 
 battery, the more negative she becomes, the more posi- 
 tive she'll find me. Come early this evening to Miss 
 HARTINGTON'S, and all shall be settled. 1 Oh! 'tis a 
 mistake a mistake. She gave me the wrong letter. 
 Susan. Pray, sir, may Mr. de Rosy be in the shop ? 
 Leath. No, young woman, he's packed off,- gone to 
 (turning away from her, wholly occupied with the 
 subject of the letter) marry Miss Selwyn, a rich 
 heiress ! Oh, it's a hoax, a mere hoax. 
 
 Susan. So it is a hoax indeed, if he told you he 
 was going to marry any such thing. La ! sir, he is not 
 one of your marrying sort. 
 
 Leath. And yet she said something about honour 
 and glory that were in store for me 
 
 Susan. But in earnest, good Mr. Leatherhead, what 
 is become of the young man ? 
 
 Leath. Gone to the dogs, I tell you, kicked into the 
 streets. Don't perplex me about him. 
 
3i8 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Susan. Ah ! you hard-hearted old monster ! But 
 I will pester you. Kicked into the streets ! Well, in 
 spite of the crockery duchess, I declare I could almost 
 cry for him. And has the poor dear young man, then, 
 nothing to live upon ? 
 
 Leath. (reading}. ' Copper and zinc. 1 
 
 Susan. Copper ! Mercy on me ! I'll go tell my 
 mistress this instant. Who would have thought it ? 
 
 [Going out, is met by DAVY. 
 
 Davy. Why, Susan, how plump you come up again 
 a body ! I say (apart to Tier), just wait a minute or 
 two here, now do'ee : I ha' gotten a letter to gie to the 
 old book chap here, and then I have something you 
 know (cunningly} I have, indeed : come, now do'ee 
 wait, good girl. I say, Mr. Leatherhead, here be a 
 letter for you from Lady Bab Blue. 
 
 Leath. What ! another letter ! (anxiously}. 
 
 Davy. Ah ! you may well say another and another. 
 Nothing but write, write, and them pistles fas she calls 
 them) going off from morning till night. Ecod, she 
 spells such a power of words in the day, that I only 
 wonder how the poor old alphabet holds out with 
 her. 
 
 Leath. Bless me ! I'm in such a fluster I can hardly 
 read a line (reads}. ' Dear Sir ! I have made up my 
 mind completely since I saw you, and my Ammonia, 
 that treasure for which so many proposals have been 
 made, shall be put immediately into your hands' 
 Ammonia her niece's name I shall go wild. c Her 
 beauties have hitherto been the delight only of a 
 private circle; but I have no doubt that upon her 
 appearance in public she will draw the whole world 
 to your shop.' Oh I damn the shop ; I'll shut that up 
 immediately ; I'll throw my wig at the stars ; I'll 
 (capering about). 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 319 
 
 Davy. Why, the old chap is beside himself, for 
 sartain. 
 
 Leath. ' You, doubtless, are well acquainted with 
 the history of this volatile creature? Volatile ! oh ! 
 no matter for that : this volatile creature, Ammonia, 
 vulgarly called Sal by the apothecaries.' Her niece 
 called Sal by the apothecaries ! What the devil does 
 she mean ? Oh ; I suppose a pet name which her 
 friend the Irish druggist has for her ; but Til always 
 call her Ammonia, Ammonia, my dear Ammonia (throws 
 his arms round Susan). 
 
 Susan. La ! Mr. Bookseller, one would think you 
 want me for an apprentice, you bind me so fast to 
 you 
 
 Leath. Let me see what more : ' As I can imagine 
 your impatience to possess this treasure, call upon 
 me this evening at Miss Harrington's, and it shall be 
 made your own. 1 Just what she said in the other 
 note. Yes, yes, I'll go, I'll go (parades the stage 
 consequentially). Oh, Leatherhead ! Leatherhead ! thou 
 wert born under a lucky asterisk ! Show me a brother 
 type out of Paternoster Row that could smuggle him- 
 self into the copyright of an heiress of two-and-twenty 
 so neatly ! 
 
 Davy. Well I'll be shot if there isn't something in 
 this laming that turns every parson's head that's at all 
 concarn'd with it, and I believe what the politician at the 
 ale-house said was true, that the war, and the taxes, and 
 the rest of the mischief, all comes of your devilish 
 Greek and Latin. I say, Mr. Leatherhead, what 
 answer am I to take back to my lady ? 
 
 Leath. Answer ? Tell her that I'm all rapture and 
 astonishment that I am stark staring with wonder, 
 like three notes of admiration and that I'll marry 
 her niece in the twinkling of a semi-colon. 
 
320 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Davy. Marry her what ? 
 
 Leath. Marry her what ? Her niece, puppy my 
 volatile, but valuable Ammonia ! (half aside). 
 
 Davy. What! you? 
 
 Susan. What! you? (both laughing at him) . 
 
 Leath. Yes, I, sir yes, I, ma'am What the devil 
 are you laughing at ? (strutting from one to the 
 other.) 
 
 LAUGHING TEIO. 
 SUSAN, DAVY, and LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Leath. Girl, dost thou know me ? 
 
 Sus. & Dav. Oh ! what a wooer ! 
 Leath. Slave ! thou'rt below me ! 
 
 Sus. & Dav. This wig will undo her. 
 Leath. Oh ! curse your grinning ! 
 
 Sus. & Dav. This lock so winning ! 
 Leath. Ma'am, if you giggle thus, 
 
 And treat my wig ill thus, 
 
 I'll let you shortly know who am I. 
 Sus. & Dav. A handsome lover this ! 
 Leath. You sha'n't get over this; 
 
 Sus. & Dav. This laugh will end me quite : 
 Leath. Pray heaven send it might ! 
 
 Sus. & Dav. Ho, ha, ha, hah ! hah, ha ! 
 
 How the fool makes me laugh ! 
 
 Oh ! I shall die ! 
 
 Leath. But you shall weep for this fun by-and-by. 
 
 [Exeunt severally. 
 
 SCENE III. MADAME DE HOSIER'S Cottage. 
 Enter DE EOSIER and LA FOSSE. 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! de barbare ! vat ! he turn you out 
 vidout one penny ! 
 
MP., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 321 
 
 De Ros. Yes, La Fosse, dismissed me from his 
 paltry service, without even a hint at the remuneration 
 which he agreed to give me, and I would starve sooner 
 than ask him. 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! oui, starve yourself a la bonne 
 heure But your poor moder ! 
 
 De Ros. Yes, yes, my mother ! Something must 
 be done instantly ; the little sum we brought with us 
 hither is exhausted, and Heaven only knows whither I 
 shall now turn for a supply. 
 
 La Fosse (looking at his snuff-box.) Ah, you 
 little snuff-box! I have hold fast by you long time, 
 when all my oder little articles were pressed into de 
 service of this grumbling tyran here (hand on the sto- 
 mach) I did tink de conscription would come to you 
 at last. 
 
 De Ros. What do you say, La Fosse ? 
 
 La Fosse. Indeed, I vas cracking joke bad enough, 
 monsieur, upon my poor old tabatiere here, and I vil 
 go dis moment to the jeweller's, and try what I can 
 make of him. 
 
 De Ros. To the jeweller's ? 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, sare, to sell this little box, which 
 your good father gave me, and make the best use of his 
 present by comforting his vife and child. 
 
 De Ros. My kind old man ! I have never treated 
 you as you deserved, and so it is, alas ! with many humble 
 hearts, neglected, perhaps slighted, during our pros- 
 perous moments, but which, when the darkness of 
 adversity arrives, come forth like the sweet night- 
 plant, and reproach us only by the fragrance they 
 breathe over our path, for the rudeness, with which we 
 have, perhaps, trodden down their leaves in the sun- 
 shine. Keep my father's present, old man ; I will not 
 hear of your parting with it. 
 
 y 
 
322 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 La Fosse. Pardon, monsieur, but if I continue tak- 
 ing snuff out of silver, while my friend is in want of 
 von shilling, may my gentleman -like rappee be turned 
 into blackguard, and every pinch go the wrong way. 
 
 -De Ros. My faithful La Fosse ! But here comes 
 my mother ; she must not know the extent of our dis- 
 tresses. Women should be like those temples of old, 
 from which words of ill omen were carefully kept 
 away. 
 
 Enter MADAME DE KOSIER. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. M} r dear Henry ! what is to become 
 of us? 
 
 De Ros. Become of us ? oh ! everything that is good 
 and happy. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. You are always so sanguine, Henry ! 
 
 De Ros. And why should I not, dearest mother ? I 
 have hitherto steered so safely by the star of Heaven's 
 providence, that even while 'tis clouded, I trust to its 
 guidance cheerfully ! 
 
 La Fosse. Ah ! dat is brave boy ! and here is to your 
 good health (taldng a pinch of snuff \ A votre sante, 
 mon petit bon homme ! 
 
 Mad. de Ros. But what is your present plan ? 
 
 De Ros. The money I am to receive from old 
 Leatherhead will support us during my short interval 
 of idleness, and I know a thousand situations, in which 
 willing industry, like mine, is sure to meet with em- 
 ployment. In a soil like this, which liberty has ferti- 
 lised, the very weakest shoots of talent thrive and 
 nourish ! 
 
 SONG. 1 DE EOSIER. 
 
 Tho' sacred the tie that our country entwineth, 
 . And dear to the heart her remembrance remains, 
 Yet dark are the ties where no liberty shineth, 
 And sad the remembrance that slavery stains. 
 
 1 Reprinted in Moore's Poetical Works, ix. 394. 
 
M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 323 
 
 Oh thou ! who wert bom in the cot of the peasant, 
 
 But diest of languor in Luxury's dome, 
 Our vision, when absent our glory, when present, - 
 
 Where thou art, Liberty ! there is my home. 
 
 Farewell to the land where in childhood I wander'd ! 
 
 In vain is she mighty, in vain is she brave ! 
 Unblest is the blood that for tyrants is squandered, 
 
 And Fame has no wreaths for the brow of the slave. 
 But hail to thee, Albion ! who meet'st the commotion 
 
 Of Europe, as calm as thy cliffs meet the foam ; 
 With no bonds but the law, and no slave but the ocean, 
 
 Hail, Temple of Liberty ! thou art my home. 
 
 [Exit. 
 
 Mad, de Ros. Alas ! La Fosse, he little knows the 
 cruel perplexity in which I am placed the injured son 
 of Lady Canvas is, I find, his friend ; and if iny Henry 
 were aware of our powers of righting him, his generous 
 nature would forget every personal consideration, and 
 expose him to all the enmity with which that unfeeling 
 Sir Charles threatened him. 
 
 La Fosse, (who has been all this time in a reverie 
 about his snuff-box, and not attending to her.) I do 
 not like to lose my good rappee, either. 
 
 Mad. de Eos. Oh ! that we had the means of flying 
 from this unlucky place, where every thing conspires to 
 perplex and agitate me. 
 
 La Fosse. If I could find de little something to 
 put it in (aside). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. What are you meditating, La Fosse ? 
 Does anything occur to you ? 
 
 La Fosse. Oui, my lady, it occur to me that my 
 rappee have not de true relish out of silver. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. (turning away). Trifling old man ! 
 
 La Fosse. And if I could find something (looking 
 round). Ah ! I have de thought. My lady ! where did 
 
 r 2 
 
324 M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 you put that little bag the old beggarman did give you 
 to-day ? 
 
 Mad. de Ros. I know not where I threw it, and I 
 must say, La Fosse, that, painfully occupied as my mind 
 is, it is cruel to trifle with me thus (sits down, much 
 agitated). 
 
 La Fosse (still looking about). Pardon, my lady. 
 Ah ! 3e voila (finds it). Come here, you little bag, I 
 vil do you an honneur you little dream of (starts and 
 lets the bag fall). Diable ! vat is I see ? 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Why do you start, La Fosse ? 
 
 La Fosse. Start ? Pardi, I have seen the ghost of a 
 fifty-pound note, looking as fresh and alive as if he just 
 walk out of Threadneedle Street. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. What do you mean ? 
 
 La Fosse. It cannot be real, mais, I will touch 
 (takes up the note). By gar, it is as substantial a fifty 
 as ever Monsieur Henri Hase stood godfather for (shows 
 it to her). 
 
 Mad. de Ros. All-blessing Providence ! this is thy 
 agency. Fly, La Fosse, seek your master, and tell him 
 what kind Heaven has sent us. 
 
 La Fosse. I will, my lady ; and I will pray by the 
 way, that every poor and honest fellow may find as 
 lucky a bag to put his tabac in. [Exit. 
 
 Mad. de Ros. Mysterious stranger ! Now I feel the 
 meaning of his words. Thou art, indeed, a medicine 
 for many ills (addressi7ig the money), blest, if thou wert 
 not the cause of still more ; but oh ! how many a heart 
 thou corruptest, for the very few to which thou givest 
 comfort ! [Exit. 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 32$ 
 
 SCENE IV. The Street. 
 Enter Sir CHARLES CANVAS, dressed for the Evening. 
 
 Sir C. 'Tis too true this brother of mine is arrived. 
 Yes, yes, he thinks to throw me out comes to petition 
 against the sitting member, but it won't do : he'll find 
 me as sedentary as the Long Parliament (looking 
 out). Isn't that my ragged friend coming this way ? 
 The very fellow to manage the bribery business for me. 
 Nothing like an agent a middle-man upon these oc- 
 casions, for your bribe ought never to descend from too 
 great a height, but be let down easily into the pocket. 
 
 Enter Mr. HARTJNGTON. 
 
 Ah ; how do you do, old boy ? how d'ye do ? The very 
 man I wanted to meet. 
 
 Mr. Hart. This everlasting fool (aside). 
 
 Sir C. I dare say now, my friend, old Hartington 
 has so often employed you as a sort of journeyman in 
 his works of charity, that your hand falls as natu- 
 rally into a giving attitude as that of a physician into 
 a taking one. 
 
 Mr. Hart. The art of giving, sir, is not so very 
 easily learned. It requires so much less exertion of 
 thought to throw away than to give, that no wonder 
 this short cut to a reputation for generosity should be 
 generally preferred by the indolent and fashionable. 
 
 Sir C. A plague on this fellow's moral tongue. 
 What an excellent dinner-bell 'twould make in the 
 House ! (aside). But, I say, my old fellow, my reason 
 for asking is, that I have a little charitable job upon 
 hands myself, which must be managed, you know, in a 
 
326 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 delicate way, and in which I mean to employ you as 
 my proxy. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I have wronged him then, and coxcombs 
 may have hearts (aside). 
 
 Sir C. You know the cottage where I met you to- 
 day : fine woman that ! rather passee, to be sure ; and 
 so is her purse, I fear exchequer low, you understand 
 me. 
 
 Mr. Hart. She is poor, sir, but evidently has been 
 otherwise ; and of all the garbs in Poverty's wardrobe, 
 the faded mantle of former prosperity is the most 
 melancholy ! 
 
 Sir C. So it is quite like a collar of last year's cut 
 exactly, and I have, therefore, resolved to settle a small 
 annuity upon that lady for her life. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Generous young man ! what disinterested 
 benevolence ! 
 
 Sir C. You shall go this instant and settle the 
 matter with her : all I ask in return is that she will 
 (to-night, if possible) pack up all her moveables, not 
 forgetting the old black-muzzled Frenchman, and be 
 off to some remote corner of the island, where even the 
 Speaker's warrant can't reach her. 
 
 Mr. Hart. But wherefore this strange condition, 
 Sir Charles ? 
 
 Sir C. Why, you must know that respectable lady 
 has a little secret of mine in her custody ; and as 
 women make but tender-hearted gaolers, I am afraid 
 she might let it escape some fine morning or other. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Ha ! all is not right here (aside). Cer- 
 tainly, Sir Charles I shall, with all my heart, nego- 
 tiate this business for you; but it is necessary, of 
 course, that I should be better acquainted with the 
 particulars. 
 
 Sir C. True, and the fact is (remember the Gangers' 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 327 
 
 List, old boy,) the fact is, I have just come into a 
 large fortune, which my eldest brother most incon- 
 veniently thinks he has a right to, and this lady and 
 her servant are in possession of certain circumstances 
 which um in short, they must be got out of the 
 way you understand me. 
 
 Mr. Hart. I understand you now (warmly), though 
 weak enough at first to believe that Selfishness could, 
 for an instant, turn from her own monstrous idol, to 
 let fall, even by chance, one pure offering on the altar 
 of Benevolence ! 
 
 Sir C. Heyday ! here are heroics ! why, what the 
 devil do you mean, rny old speechifier ? 
 
 Mr. Hart. I mean, fool ! that your own weak tongue 
 has betrayed to me the whole trumpery tissue of your 
 base, unnatural machinations, which if I do not unravel 
 to their last thread before I sleep, may my pillow never 
 be blessed with the bright consciousness of having done 
 what is right before man and heaven ! 
 
 Sir C. Mr. Hartington, fellow, shall know of this 
 insolence. 
 
 * Mr. Hart. Mr. Hartington, sir, despises, as J do, 
 the man, however highly placed, who depends upon the 
 venality of others for the support of his own injustice, 
 and whose purse, like packages from an infected country, 
 is never opened but to spread contamination around it ! 
 
 Sir C. Why, thou pauper ! thou old ragamuffin ! 
 that look'st like a torn-up Act of Insolvency, how 
 darest thou speak thus to a man of family and a 
 Senator ? Venture but to breathe another syllable in 
 this style, and I'll show you such a specimen of the 
 accomplishments of a gentleman as shall (advancing 
 close to Mr. Hartington in a boxing attitude, when 
 De Rosier, who has entered behind during this last 
 
328 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 speech, steps between them, and turns away Sir (7.'s 
 arm). 
 
 De Ros. Hold, sir ! Is this your bravery ? 'Twas 
 but just now I found you insulting a woman, and now 
 I iind your valour up in arms against a poor defenceless 
 old man ! Gro go I said that you should account to 
 me for your conduct; but there are persons, Sir 
 Charles, who, like insects that lose their sting in wound- 
 ing, become too contemptible for our resentment, even 
 in the very act of offending us. 
 
 Sir C. Was there ever an M.P. so treated ? If this 
 is not a breach of privilege, then is the Lex Parlia- 
 menti a mere flourish a flim-flam ! Damme I'll send 
 them both to the Tower (aside). 
 
 Mr. Hart. Your pretensions, sir 
 
 Sir C. Order ! order ! spoke twice spoke tivice 
 Curse me if I stay any longer to be harangued by this 
 brace of orators. Better get off with a whole skin, though 
 (aside). Gentlemen, my sedan-chair is in waiting to 
 take me to Miss Hartington's, where if you, sir, have 
 anything further to say to me (advancing stoutly to 
 De Rosier), you will find me all the evening Safe 
 enough in that daren't show his nose there (aside). 
 
 Mr. Hart. One word before 
 
 Sir C. No no you'll excuse me, your attacks 
 upon me already have been so very much out of order 
 that they force me to throw myself on the protection of 
 the Chairman Chair ! Chair ! Chair ! 
 
 [Exit, calling his chair. 
 
 Mr. Hart. This conspiracy must be sifted to the 
 bottom. The lady of the cottage shall come to my 
 house this evening. Young gentleman, I thank you 
 for your interference ; and I pray you, let me know to 
 whom I am indebted for it. 
 
 De Ros. To one as penniless as yourself, old man ! 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 329 
 
 Mr. Hart. Another claim upon me I Kind heaven ! 
 what luck thou hast thrown in my heart's way since 
 morning ! (aside). And may I ask, sir, whither you 
 were now going ? 
 
 De Ros. To any place but home, ( there poverty 
 awaits me, and the forced smile, which those we love 
 put on, when they would hide their wants and sorrows 
 from us.' 
 
 Mr. Hart. Come then with me, and share my 
 humble meal. 
 
 De Ros. What, thine, poor man ! no no yet 
 False pride ! thou struggles! now, but I will tame thee 
 (aside). Yes willingly, my friend, most willingly, and 
 the more rude our fare, the truer foretaste it may give 
 of the hard lot that heaven prepares for me. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Come, then, and the first toast over our 
 scanty beverage shall be, ' May the blessing sent from 
 the poor man's meal be always the sweetener of the 
 cup at the rich man's banquet ! ' [Exeunt. 
 
 SCENE V. An Antechamber at Mr. HAETINGTON'S. 
 
 Enter LEATHERHEAD. 
 
 Leath. Not come yet ! how my old heart beats ! I 
 think this suit of my friend the poet's does charmingly 
 (admiring his dress) binding remarkably neat 
 frontispiece (putting his hand to his face) rather worn 
 out, I confess, but when wdl gilt by the heiress's gold, 
 why, a tolerable good family copy of ' the Whole Duty 
 of Man.' Hist ! here comes the old lady. What shall 
 I be doing ? looking over the books ? no curse it 
 that's too much of the shop. She shall find me in 
 raptures over the last letter she sent me (reads it with 
 ridiculous gesticulations}. 
 
330 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 Enter Lady BAB. 
 
 Lady Bab. Ay there he is happy man ! quite 
 saturated with the idea of getting my MS. into his 
 hands. T perceive, Mr. Leatherhead, that you are 
 pleased with the thoughts of possessing my Am- 
 monia. 
 
 Leath. Pleased, ma'am ? I am astonished, ma'am 
 it has made me wild, ma'am turned me upside down, 
 like a Hebrew spelling-book, ma'am. 
 
 Lady Bab. I knew the effect it would have upon 
 him (aside). You will find, I trust, sir, that notwith- 
 standing the volatility of my subject, and the various 
 philosophic amours in which Ammonia is engaged (he 
 starts), I have taken care that no improper warmth 
 should appear upon the surface, but that the little of 
 that nature which does exist, should be what we 
 chemists call latent heat. 
 
 Leath. Ay, true, your ladyship mentioned in your 
 letter that she was a little volatile, but, bless your 
 heart ! that is of no sort of consequence, it will only make 
 herself and me the more fashionable. 
 
 Lady Bab. You are not perhaps aware, Mr. Leather- 
 head, of the discoveries that have lately been made 
 respecting Ammonia. 
 
 Leath. Discoveries ! oh no here comes the secret 
 of my getting her some faux-pas of Miss's, I suppose 
 (aside). Why no my lady, I am not though I con- 
 fess when you said the philosophers were about her, I 
 did feel a little alarm, for your philosopher, my lady, is 
 a devilish dangerous sort of fellow. 
 
 Lady Bab. Oh ! not at all dangerous, except when 
 an explosion takes place. 
 
 Leath. Mercy on me ! the morals of your women 
 of quality ! (aside). But, with submission, my lady, 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 331 
 
 what may the discoveries be that have lately been 
 made about Miss Ammonia ? 
 
 Lady Bab. Miss Ammonia ! how well he keeps up 
 the personification ! (aside). It has been found that a 
 lively, electric spark 
 
 Leath. A spark ! ay I guessed how it was (aside). 
 
 Lady Bab. Has produced a very interesting effect 
 upon Ammonia. 
 
 Leaih. I don't doubt it (aside). And pray, my 
 lady, where did this lively spark come from ? 
 
 Lady Bab. From the battery, sir. 
 
 Leath. From the battery, ay ! some young artillery 
 officer, I suppose. But it can't be helped second-hand 
 book a blot or two on the cover but high-priced in 
 the catalogue so better for me than a new one (aside). 
 
 Lady Bab. What do you think the world will say 
 of it? 
 
 Leath. Say of it, my lady ! Ah, I dare say they'll be 
 severe enough upon it. 
 
 Lady Bab. Nay, there I differ with you. To 
 expose anything so delicately brilliant to the rigours of 
 criticism, would be what is called putting a rainbow 
 into a crucible ! 
 
 Leath. Well, I hope not, but I say, my lady, I think 
 I have some reason to expect that, in the money 
 arrangements between us 
 
 Lady Bab. Well, sir ? 
 
 Leath. Why, that some additional consideration 
 will be made to me for the little flaw in Miss's 
 character 
 
 Lady Bab. Flaw, sir ! give me leave to tell you, sir, 
 that the character of Ammonia has been kept up from 
 beginning to end. 
 
 Leath. Oh, I dare say, pains enough taken to keep 
 it up, but patching seldom does, and you confess your- 
 
332 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 self that your niece is rather you know (putting his 
 finger to his nose). 
 
 Lady Bab. My niece, man ; what do you mean ? 
 
 Leath. Oh ! I don't mean to say that it makes any 
 difference, but you own yourself that your niece has 
 been rather a comical sort of a young lady. 
 
 Lady Bab. My niece comical! I am thunder- 
 struck : explain yourself, dotard, this instant. 
 
 Leath. Lord bless your ladyship's heart, don't be in 
 a passion, for, notwithstanding all this, I'll marry her in 
 a jiffey. 
 
 Lady Bab. Marry her ! 
 
 Leath. Yes, without saying one word more of her 
 flaws or of her comicalness. 
 
 Lady Bab. I see how it is : his brain is turned with 
 the thoughts of being my publisher (aside). Explain, 
 idiot, if you can, the meaning of all this. 
 
 Leath. The meaning ! Oh ! for shame, my lady ; 
 isn't here the letter you gave me in the shop so slily, 
 pretending it came from a great Irish druggist ? (she 
 snatches it from him and reads it.) And here the 
 other, brought to me not an hour ago, in which you tell 
 me that I am to have miss this very evening, and that 
 her name is Ammonia, though she is vulgarly called 
 Sal by the apothocaries. Oh, my lady ! 
 
 Lady Bab. I understand the blunder now ; and this 
 is the cause of the brute's raptures after all, instead of 
 triumphing, as I fondly imagined, in the possession of 
 my glorious manuscript. But I'll be revenged of him. 
 Here, Davy, kick that impertinent bookseller out of the 
 house. 
 
 Davy. I wool, my lady. 
 
 Lady B. And teach the vulgar bibliopolist to know 
 how superior is the love of the nine Muses to that which 
 is felt for mere mortal young women the former being 
 
M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 333 
 
 a pure empyreal gas the latter (to say no worse of it), 
 mere inflammable phlogiston ! [Exit. 
 
 Davy. I wool, my lady. I'll teach him all that in 
 no time (gets between Leatherhead and the door). 
 
 Leath. I'm all in a panic (aside). By your leave, 
 young man. 
 
 Davy. Noa, you don't go in such a hurry ; you 
 come here, you know, to marry the young lady, and it's 
 I, you see, that's to perform the ceremony, only instead 
 of miss's hand, you are to have my foot, you under- 
 stand me. 
 
 Leath. One word before you proceed. I don't 
 much mind for myself, but I have got on a poor poet's 
 best blue breeches. 
 
 Davy. Don't tell me of a poet's blue breeches. I 
 must do as mistress bid me. But come, you shall have 
 a fair chance at starting too ; there now (gives room 
 for him to run past him). 
 
 Leath. Bless me, bless me! that a bookseller should 
 be obliged to carry a large impression of Footers Works 
 behind him ! [Runs off, and DAVY after him. 
 
 SCENE VI. Lighted-up Apartments with folding 
 doors, within which are discovered Lady BAB, Sir 
 CHARLES, Miss SELWYN, and Captain CANVAS at 
 cards, Miss HARTINGTON standing by them. 
 
 Enter DE KOSIER. 
 
 De Ros. Where am I? It seems to me like a dream 
 of enchantment, and as if this strange old man were 
 the magician that called it up. He bid me wander 
 fearlessly through these splendid apartments, and he 
 would soon be with me. I have seen nothing as I 
 passed along but rich sparkling lamps and vases 
 
334 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 breathing with flowers ; and I have heard, at a distance, 
 the sounds of sweet voices, that recall to me the times 
 when I was gayest and happiest. (During this speech 
 Miss Hartington has come forward, and is now close 
 behind him unobserved.) Yes, Emily Hartington, 
 'twas in scenes like these I first beheld that endearing 
 smile, first listened to the tones of that gentle voice, 
 which must never again charm my ear. 
 
 Miss Hart. Mr. De Kosier I 
 
 De Ros. (starting). Heavens ! do I dream, or is it 
 indeed Miss Hartington ? Pardon this intrusion, madam, 
 but 
 
 Miss Hart. Oh, call it not intrusion, there is not, in 
 this world, one more welcome (takes his hand). Yet, 
 my father coming, and this company assembled, how 
 can I ask him to remain ? (aside). 
 
 De Eos. Allow me to retire, madam ; I have been 
 led into this awkwardness by a poor, but venerable old 
 man, who is, I suppose, a menial of this house, and who 
 invited me (hesitating) 
 
 Miss Hart. He has come with my father. How 
 strange, but oh how happy ! (aside). Then you must 
 stay I insist upon your staying. 
 
 De Rosier (turning away, but affected by her 
 kindness). No, no, dear Miss Hartington ! 
 
 Sir G. (who during the few last words has come 
 forward ; De Rosier still keeps his head turned away). 
 What, Miss Hartington, can anyone be so stoical as to 
 resist your solicitations ? Perhaps the gentleman is 
 going to another party, a change of party is often 
 very refreshing. 'I rat sometimes in that way myself.' 
 
 Miss Hart. I must not let him perceive my agita- 
 tion (aside). Perhaps, Sir Charles, you will be more 
 successful in prevailing upon him. [Retires. 
 
 Sir C. Ma'am, I'll second your motion with all my 
 heart, though after you I can hardly hope to Pray 
 
M.R, OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 335 
 
 (tapping De Rosier on the shoulder, who turns 
 frowningly. ) 
 
 De Ros. Well, sir ! 
 
 Sir C. The devil ! this hectoring young emigrant, 
 oh my nerves ! (aside). Ah ! took the hint, I see, and 
 came after me, but you observe there are ladies here, 
 and I'd rather put it off till to-morrow morning if you 
 please, or the morning after, or any time in the course 
 of the winter. 
 
 De Ros. Make your mind easy, sir, there is not the 
 least danger I assure you, of our ever being antagonists, 
 unless by some fatality / should grow so feeble and 
 defenceless as to tempt you to become the aggressor. 
 
 [Turns away and retires. 
 
 Sir C. Thank you, sir, very kind indeed. What 
 the devil right has this vapouring shopman to be here ? 
 Must turn him out must turn him out enforce the 
 Standing Order for the exclusion of strangers. ( Turns 
 round to look at Captain Canvas and Miss Selwyn, 
 who have been all this time employed in an ex- 
 planation about the miniature, which appears to end 
 amicably.) What! my brother so close with Miss 
 Selwyn ! um, this won't do (advances to them, and 
 seems anxious to get him away from her). I say, 
 my dear Captain, most happy of course to see you back 
 from sea, but give me leave to tell you that, in this 
 quarter I am the duly elected representative, while 
 you are (with contempt) 
 
 Capt. C. What, sir ? (firmly). 
 
 Sir C. Oh, simply the returning officer, and, a 
 word in your ear (apart), as you have been so unlucky 
 here, I think you had better try Old Sarv.m yonder 
 (pointing to Lady Bab). 
 
 Capt. C. Brother! you have robbed me of every 
 worldly advantage, and Heaven, for its own wise 
 purpose, seems to favour your usurpation ; but here I 
 
336 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 have a claim (taking Miss Selwyris hand) acknow- 
 ledged warmly and faithfully, which never, never, while 
 I have life, will I resign. 
 
 Lady Bab. Why, niece, are you mad ? or can you 
 seriously mean, miss, to degrade the standard blood of 
 the Blues by this base alloy of illegitimacy and poverty ? 
 
 Miss S. You know already, madam, what I think 
 of the claims of Sir Charles (Sir G. advances smirking 
 towards her), that they are surpassed in hollowness only 
 by his heart (Sir C. returns to his former place, dis- 
 appointed). Captain Canvas has been, indeed, un- 
 fortunate ; but though Love is often as blind as Fortune, 
 and sometimes even puts on the bandage of that 
 goddess, in this instance he sees with his own warm 
 unerring eyes, and turns from the adopted changeling 
 of Fortune, to acknowledge the true genuine inheritor 
 of his soul (giving her hand to Capt. Canvas). 
 
 Miss Hart. How perfectly my own feelings, if I could 
 but dare to utter them ! (aside). But, see, my father ! 
 
 Sir C. Odso I'm quite happy have long wished 
 to know your father, Miss Hartington ! Thrown out 
 in the other must canvas here (aside) 
 
 Miss Hart. I shall have much pleasure in intro- 
 ducing you to him. 
 
 Enter Mr. HARTINGTON, in his own dress. 
 
 Mr. Hart. Now for the crowning of this sweet day's 
 task! (aside). 
 
 Miss Hart, (leading Sir C. to him). Father! Sir 
 Charles Canvas. 
 
 Mr. Hart, (turning round). Your humble servant, 
 sir (Sir C. starts, and sneaks off, Mr. H. following 
 him). What ! do you turn away from me ? the c old 
 pensioner, 1 your ' gauger-that-is-to-be ? ' Go, go, weak 
 man. When fools turn engineers of mischief, the 
 
M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 337 
 
 recoil of their own artillery is the best and surest 
 punishment of their temerity. Captain Canvas ! you 
 are welcome ; we must soon call you by another title ; 
 though heraldry can furnish none so honourable as that 
 which the brave man earns for himself. Mr. De 
 Rosier, forgive me for the embarrassment I must have 
 caused you, by so unprepared an introduction among 
 strangers. And, daughter I I have two more guests for 
 your assembly, whom this gentleman (pointing to Sir 
 (7.), I have no doubt, will recognise with no less 
 pleasure than he exhibited upon being presented to me. 
 Come, madam (leads in Madame de Rosier and La 
 Fosse). 
 
 Sir C. So, so, I see 'tis all over with me (aside). 
 Mr. Hart. This lady and her servant were present 
 at the marriage of the late Lady Canvas, and will have 
 much satisfaction, I doubt not, in being introduced to 
 the rightful heir of the family, Captain Sir William 
 Canvas. 
 
 Mad. De Ros. (addressing herself to Capt. C.). I 
 am happy, sir, that it is in my power to pay a tribute 
 to the memory of my friend, by doing justice to the 
 rights of a son, whom, I know, she loved most 
 tenderly. 
 
 La Fosse, (running up to Capt. C.). Ah ! den 
 it is your ear I have pinched so often Grot bless my 
 soul ! 
 
 Lady Bab. So then, I find you are not Sir Charles 
 Canvas after all ? 
 
 Sir C. No, ma'am, nothing but plain Charlie 
 Canvas, Esq., to which you may add M.P. till the next 
 dissolution. 
 
 Lady Bab. I declare that alters the result mate- 
 rially ; and I begin to think it would not be altogether 
 wise to trust my niece's fortune to you; for though you 
 
 z 
 
338 M.P., OR THE BLUE-STOCKING. 
 
 are a lively, mercurial fellow, yet we chemists know 
 that gold, when amalgamated with quicksilver, be- 
 comes very brittle, and soon flies. 
 
 Sir C. So then, there's an end to all my dignities ; 
 and now that I am decidedly out, it is high time for 
 me to resign. Brother, I wish you joy, and my lords 
 and gentlemen (ladies and gentlemen, I mean), for any 
 other little delinquencies I have been guilty of, I must 
 only throw myself on the mercy of the House. 
 
 Mr. Hart, (coming forward with a miniature, 
 which has, since his last speech, been given to him, 
 with some dumb-show explanation, by Miss Selwyn 
 and Capt. Canvas). Daughter! (with assumed 
 severity}, here is a circumstance, which requires serious 
 explanation. 
 
 Miss Hart. My father ! 
 
 Mr. Hart. You gave this miniature of yourself to 
 Mr. de Eosier ? 
 
 Miss Hart. What ! I ? Oh ! never. Mr. de Rosier 
 (appealing to him) 
 
 De Ros. No, madam, you did not give it. I confess 
 with shame 
 
 Mr. Hart. Come, children, your friends here have 
 let me into a secret about you ; you love each other, 
 and I rejoice, sir, that my daughter's heart has anti- 
 cipated mine in doing justice to your merits. Take 
 her, and be happy ; and may the events of this day be 
 long remembered as a source of hope to the injured, 
 and of warning to the unjust, of kindly omen to the 
 faithful in love, and of sweet solace to the patient in 
 adversity ! 
 
M.P., OR THE SLUE-STOCKING. 339 
 
 FINALE. 
 
 DE ROSIER, Capt. CANVAS, Miss SELWYN, Miss 
 HARTINGTON, and CHORUS. 
 
 DE HOSIER. 
 
 How sweet the day hath ended ! 
 Ne'er yet has sun descended 
 
 Leaving bliss 
 
 So dear as this 
 To gild the dreams of night. 
 
 Chorus. How sweet the day hath ended ! &c. 
 
 Captain CANVAS and Miss SELWYN. 
 
 The bright star yonder 
 As soon can wander 
 
 As I from thee, 
 
 As thou from me. 
 
 Chorus. How sweet the day, &c. 
 
 Miss HARTINGTON. 
 Hope's rose had nearly perish'd, 
 No breath its budding cherish'd ; 
 
 But one hour 
 
 Hath waked the flower 
 In Love's own tenderest light ! 
 
 Chorus. How sweet the day, &c. 
 
 z2 
 
THE 
 
 CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
[This Fragment is now first printed from two manuscript 
 books of Moore's, written in a hand so extremely minute, and with 
 such complicated interlineations and corrections as to have proved 
 decipherable only with the greatest difficulty, and with the aid of 
 a powerful magnifying glass. The intrinsic merit of this unfinished 
 romance proves, however, amply to warrant the time and labour spent 
 upon it. It has all the grace and sparkle of one of the romances of 
 Voltaire, and a sunny radiance of wit and poetry glancing over it 
 that make us regret its premature close, like that of a brief day of 
 sunlight passing abruptly into night.] 
 
CHAPTER L 
 
 THE BLANKET. 
 
 6 WHAT news from the Khalif ' s army ? ' asked the young 
 student. His question was addressed to a grave old 
 politician, whom he found seated beside him under a 
 portico of the 'college Al Mostanseriah, at Bagdat. 
 
 ' Gloomy enough, sir,' answered the other. Our 
 troops are flying in all directions from the Tartar 
 general Holagu.' 
 
 ' And what mean then those rejoicings through the 
 city ? ' 
 
 fc They are for our last defeat, sir, which the Khalif 's 
 minister declares, as he values his honour and his place, 
 was no defeat at all, but a victory. He has accordingly 
 ordered the inhabitants of Bagdat to rejoice, which 
 they are now at this moment doing with the worst 
 grace imaginable.' 
 
 c How wise are the descendants of Abbas ! ' thought 
 the youtli to himself; 'they seem to think that For- 
 tune, like the moon, can be released from her eclipse 
 by the rude clangour of senseless rejoicing.' 
 
 4 But,' he resumed, ' the Tartar will soon be at your 
 gates. Does not the Khalif mean to arm the inhabi- 
 tants ? ' 
 
 ' Allah forbid ! ' replied the old gentleman, who be- 
 longed to the established order of the Sonnites ; ' we 
 should then be indebted for our safety to those heretics 
 
344 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 the Shiites. You are evidently a stranger, young man, 
 or you would know better than to suppose we would 
 trust one hair of our orthodox heads to a set of infidels 
 who disbelieve the blessed Chapter of the Blanket.' 
 The student upon this wished the pious Sonnite a good 
 evening, and retired to his apartments. 
 
 The name of this youth was C . He had left 
 
 Europe under the banner of the Saint-King Louis, and 
 had done honour to the red branch upon his shield 1 at 
 the battles of Mansurah and ,the Ashmun, in the latter 
 of which that monarch was himself taken prisoner. But 
 when St. Louis, having purchased back his sacred per- 
 son at a price which few kings have ever been worth to 
 their subjects, concluded peace with Azzodin Aijbec 
 and returned to France, young C , who had some- 
 what more taste for learned pursuits than his brother 
 Crusaders could in general boast, resolved to visit the 
 schools of the East, and to exchange the pious task of 
 murdering heathens for the somewhat more useful one 
 of studying and improving by them. 
 
 On entering his apartment he found his faithful 
 servant Diarmid stretched at full length over a large 
 sheet of mathematical figures, which the young scholar 
 had drawn that morning with his tutor, and slumbering 
 almost as sound among the triangles as the Egyptian 
 kings under their pyramids. 
 
 ' These Tartars, Diarmid, will, I fear, interrupt my 
 studies.' 
 
 ' And my sleep, sir,' said Diarmid, rubbing his eyes, 
 4 which is a much more weighty consideration. I was 
 in hopes that we had done with battles and sieges, and 
 that your valour and my prudence had quite sufficiently 
 distinguished themselves ; but here we are again in the 
 
 1 It was my intention to make my hero an Irishman, but, 
 I believe, I should have given up this idea. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 345 
 
 very midst of troubles. Ah, sir ! 'tis a sad thing to go 
 to one's bed at night with the expectation of being 
 waked by a battering-ram in the morning, and 
 having your head and your slumbers broken together; 
 to catch one's death going out in a shower of arrows, 
 or ' 
 
 6 Put up those books,' said C , interrupting him, 
 
 ' and meet me early in the morning at Masud's villa.' 
 
 This villa was a little rural retreat on the banks of 
 the Tigris which belonged to Masud, his venerable pre- 
 ceptor, and to which the youth often fled for coolness 
 during the sultry nights of that climate. 
 
 The sun was now setting, and the modest Arabian 
 jasmines, which had kept their odours to themselves all 
 day, were just now beginning to let the sweet secrst 
 out, and to make every passing breeze their confidante. 
 To some minds the hour of sunset brings a feeling of 
 sadness, and doubtless a Laplander may well be allowed 
 to look a little pensive on such an occasion. But this 
 
 was not one of C 's weaknesses, if we may judge by 
 
 the gaiety with which he now rowed his boat down the 
 Tigris. Not that there was anything at this moment to 
 make him particularly lively ; but he had ever possessed 
 that happy kind of imagination which retains the im- 
 pressions of past pleasure, as the Bologna stone trea- 
 sures up sunbeams ; and the light of one joy had 
 scarcely time to fade from his heart before he was sure 
 to find some means of kindling it up with another. 
 
 He was now arrived in sight of the little villa of 
 Masud, and the mild moonlight which fell upon every 
 object, becalmed the whole scene into such beautiful 
 repose, as gave a tone of softness even to the wild 
 spirits of C . 
 
 Not far beyond this villa was the palace of the 
 Emir Al Omera, the most favourite counsellor of the 
 
346 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 Khalif, and chosen, like all other favourite counsellors, 
 for his zeal and courage in recommending measures 
 which he knew his master had fully determined in his 
 own mind already. But the chief point upon which 
 this Emir prided himself, was the superior excellence 
 of his seraglio and library ; and, to do him justice, it 
 was agreed on all hands that there was not in all 
 Bagdat a more beautiful collection of women and books. 
 So fastidious was he in these kinds of vertu, that he 
 rejected all but maidens and originals, and would have 
 nothing to say to either widows or translations. 
 
 It was rumoured indeed, in the best-informed circles 
 of Bagdat, that the Emir's love was worth about as 
 much as his learning ; that he was more of a Platonist 
 in his seraglio than in his library ; and that he con- 
 tented himself with merely admiring the varieties of 
 illumination in the eyes of his mistresses and the 
 margins of his manuscripts, without troubling himself 
 with any further research into either. But, however 
 this might be, he had built, for the reception of both, 
 a most splendid palace upon the banks of the Tigris, 
 and never did its graceful columns and light-springing 
 arches throw a softer shade over the bosom of the 
 
 river than on this very evening as the boat of C 
 
 approached it. But whither is the youth directing his 
 course? He has already passed the humble villa of 
 Masud, and is now gliding under the shadow of the 
 sycamore trees, which hang from the lofty terrace of 
 Al Omera's seraglio. Is it the beauty of the evening 
 which tempts him so far ? or is he about to study the 
 fair planet Venus which is just now shining with that 
 half-retired disc which astronomers tell us is the most 
 engaging of all her attitudes ? 
 
 Before these questions can be answered with cer- 
 tainty we must return to some events which are left 
 
A FRAGMENT. 347 
 
 not im designedly behind us. Dante says that in going 
 up a hill the hinder foot should always be the firmer, 1 
 and assuredly in the uphill work of beginning a nar- 
 rative, the hind-foot of the story cannot be too firmly 
 planted. 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 THE NOWROWZ. 
 
 OUR student loved not only learning, but everything 
 else that a young man ought to love ; and accordingly 
 from the very first evening which he passed in the 
 neighbourhood of the palace, he could dream of nothing 
 but the various sorts of treasures which it contained ; 
 Aristotles in Greek, and Sapphos of all languages ; 
 books of magic, and looks of enchantment, leaves never 
 turned, and lips never breathed upon, so haunted his 
 fancy with their different kinds of charms, that fre- 
 quently in his sleep, he would confuse them together, 
 and imagine that he beheld some white-shouldered 
 Circassian, with nothing but a manuscript to cover her 
 beauties, like that lady in Boileau, 2 whose petticoat 
 was made out of three College Theses written upon 
 satin. 
 
 One morning during the Nowrowz or festival of the 
 spring, having risen with the sun and walked into the 
 gay green lawn which sloped from the cottage to the 
 river, he observed upon the grass, which was still wet 
 with the night-dew, the prints of a foot so small and 
 beautiful, that he could have sworn it belonged to 
 
 1 ' II pi6 dietro il piu fermo.' 
 
 2 Madame Tardieu. 
 
348 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 some spiritual being, had he not known how seldom 
 your immortals leave any traces of themselves behind. 
 Surprised at this phenomenon, he followed the direction 
 of the footsteps, and could trace them up close to the 
 windows of a summer-house where he often studied 
 when the nights were warm ; from thence they returned 
 and continued by the side of the river till they were 
 lost at the entrance of a deep dark wood which ex- 
 tended along the banks of the Tigris, between Masud's 
 lawn and the gardens of the Emir. In a fancy like 
 that of the young student, this was more than sufficient 
 to engender a thousand vague imaginations, and though 
 doubtless a Hercules may be judged from the foot with 
 somewhat more certainty than a Venus, yet could he 
 not help building on this very slight foundation, so 
 faultless a superstructure of grace and beauty as no 
 foot in this world ever yet supported, except that 
 perhaps of the easel of an Apelles. 
 
 ' Beware ' (said his man Diarmid, who found him 
 examining these footprints), ' beware, sir, of what you 
 are about ; there are certain demons in this country so 
 diminutive, that whenever they are inclined to pass for 
 anything human (being unable to take a whole corpse 
 to themselves like your portly European devils), they 
 are obliged to content themselves with animating only 
 particular parts of it ; and it depends entirely upon 
 their whim and propensities whether they will rail at 
 you as a tongue, pick your pockets as a hand, snore in 
 your ears as a nose, or do anything else that any other 
 member is capable of. That virtuous and much-tempted 
 philosopher, Essophi, whenever he unlocked and entered 
 his study, used to see a white hand suspended over his 
 writing-desk, which would instantly let fall the pen at 
 his approach, and vanishing leave him a half-finished 
 love-letter from a succubus, scrawled crossways over his 
 
A FRAGMENT. 349 
 
 most orthodox orisons. In like manner the Persian 
 poet Massala was haunted wherever he went by a pair 
 of bright blue eyes, which kept constantly staring at 
 him during his moments of composition, till at length 
 he was advised one day to write an ode in their praise, 
 upon which these blue demons disappeared and never 
 troubled him afterwards. Now who knows, sir, but 
 that these footmarks which you are tracing may belong 
 to some peripatetic little demon, who has taken it into 
 his head to become a foot for your bewilderment? 
 They swarm chiefly in seraglios, because there is a 
 certain ' 
 
 At the word ' seraglios ' the heart of C was 
 
 awakened from the reverie in which it had continued 
 during the whole of this demonological harangue. He 
 cast one look towards the wood into which the foot 
 seemed to have entered, and leaving Diarmid, as usual, 
 to finish his speech by himself, he flew to his chamber, 
 and taking up a Euclid endeavoured to forget, among 
 the legs of triangles, the impression which the sight of 
 this footstep had made upon him. 
 
 ' It is certain,' said he, after a few hours' study, as 
 if fully convinced by the demonstrations of his author, 
 ' it is certain that there must be some communication 
 between our lawn and the gardens of the Seraglio.' 
 This point being decided, he resumed his Euclid, and 
 every page he turned proved to him more and more 
 that he ought not to let that night pass over without 
 endeavouring to unravel the mystery of the footmark. 
 
 Accordingly when all was dark and quiet, when 
 Masud had extinguished his study-lamp, and Diarmid 
 lay dreaming that his body and members were let out 
 in lodgings to families of little devils, he stole across 
 the lawn to that part of the wood at which his pursuit 
 in the morning had terminated. It was a clear moon- 
 
350 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 light night, but the trees were so thick and tangled, 
 and stood up in such bigoted array against the least 
 innovation of light, that he could neither find a path 
 nor make one, but was obliged to contend every inch of 
 his way with the branches, till, wearied and disheartened 
 by the difficulties of the progress, he began to think 
 that Diarmid was in the right, and that nothing under 
 the rank of a demon was privileged to pass through 
 such horrors. Just at this moment he felt something 
 like a path beneath his feet, and at the same instant 
 heard a strain of music as sudden as if he had touched the 
 spring which was to set its melody in motion. The 
 music soon ceased, but the path seemed to continue be- 
 fore him, and never did ignorance rush into an argument 
 more boldly, than he flew through this unseen opening 
 without once thinking whither it would lead him. He 
 had not run far when the music began again, but the 
 sounds appeared to come from behind him, which was 
 not only a mysterious, but a provoking circumstance, 
 as it invited him back into all the horrors he had just 
 been so happy at having surmounted. 
 
 During the pause which this dilemma occasioned, 
 he thought the strain came nearer to the place where he 
 stood, nor could he help feeling, if not awed, yet 
 certainly a little serious at the approach of sounds, 
 which seemed to him, at that moment, somewhat more 
 than mere mortal minstrelsy. 
 
 [It is a proof surely of the spiritual nature of music, 
 that it is the only art pure enough from earthly associa- 
 tions to be ranked among the pleasures or pursuits of a 
 supernatural being. A rhyming ghost or a painting 
 ghost is a thing not known in the science of pneumatics, 
 while the idea of a spirit wakening the stillness of night 
 with some of Heaven's own native melodies, is at least 
 
A FRAGMENT. 351 
 
 as reconcilable to imagination and taste, as the hymning 
 of cherubs round the throne of the Divinity.] 1 
 
 In a few minutes the sounds were heard no more, a 
 quiet rustling of the branches succeeded, and a figure 
 rushed precipitately by him. He endeavoured, but in 
 vain, to seize the object as it passed, and it was equally 
 in vain that he flew in pursuit of it, for he soon learned 
 by the dying away of the footsteps on his ear, that it 
 had either outrun him, or, what was more probable, 
 that he himself had struck into a different path. Hour 
 after hour did he struggle through this labyrinth, till 
 at length a friendly vista opened upon him, and he 
 found himself upon the banks of the river, not a 
 hundred yards from the lawn which he had left. 
 
 [And the sun was up shining, and Masud was up 
 studying (while shame on the boy and his wanderings 
 in the dark !), he had been neither the warmer for the 
 one, nor the wiser for the other.] 2 
 
 It was some consolation, however, to remember that 
 in the effort which he made to catch this invisible 
 musician, he had touched a hand, which was at least a 
 match for the foot, and which perfectly relieved him 
 from all the alarms he had felt with respect to the 
 spirituality of the object. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IT was indeed no spirit whose footstep the youth had 
 seen, whose lute he had heard, and whose hand he had 
 touched. It was the lovely and learned Haluta, the 
 
 1 Moore has erased this passage in the MS. 
 
 2 Erased in the MS. 
 
352 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 best rarity in the Emir's collection, and marked in his 
 catalogue at the same price with that curious copy of 
 the Koran which had the stains of Mahomet's holy 
 pigeon upon every leaf of it. 1 Her father, a school- 
 master of Lesbos, having no son to inherit his learning, 
 resolved to lay out every syllable of it upon his daughter, 
 and accordingly filled her mind with all that was legible 
 and illegible, without once considering that the poor 
 girl's intellect might possibly be too weak for such an 
 experiment, and that if guns were made of glass we 
 should be but idly employed in loading them. She 
 advanced in beauty as rapidly as in learning, and her 
 tongue and her eyes grew daily more eloquent ; but 
 alas ! she had no one either to listen to her or look at 
 her, which was a sad state of insulation for a creature 
 so charged and so excited ; till at length an artful old 
 Athenian, who was familiar in her father's house, and had 
 long speculated upon the young learner's beauties, took 
 her into the corner one day, and gravely asked her 
 opinion upon the possibility of accommodating matters 
 between the Greek and Latin churches. This first 
 appeal to her learning and judgment was a dawn of 
 new light upon the proud soul of Haluta. After a 
 little blushing and faltering, her voice and her brow 
 became elevated, her arms waved in the air, and her 
 bright eyes shone with self-complacency, while she 
 proved to him as rationally as the Pope himself could 
 have done, that while the monosyllable ex stood in the 
 place of the monosyllable per, there could be neither 
 peace nor harmony in the Christian world. 
 
 During the whole of this display the Athenian sat 
 
 1 This is enumerated among the treasures of Fadladeen, the 
 Chamberlain, in Lalla RookJi : His Koran, too, supposed to be 
 the identical copy between the leaves of which Mahomet's favourite 
 pigeon used to nestle.' ED. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 353 
 
 in silent attention, neither minding one syllable of her 
 discourse, nor losing one motion of her person. Such 
 audience was irresistible ; accordingly in three days 
 after she eloped with him from her father's house, 
 happy in the sacrifice of home and character to the 
 only man in the world who had taste enough to appre- 
 ciate her intellectual advantages. 
 
 This man was an Epicurean, but not of that simple 
 old sect which held pleasure to be the only good, be- 
 cause it considered good to be the only pleasure : he 
 was rather one of those modern heretics of the Garden, 
 who retain all that is voluptuous in the system with as 
 little of the morality attached to it as possible, and who 
 still keep pleasure in possession of the throne, though 
 they reduce her body-guard of virtue to almost nothing. 
 We may easily suppose then the kind of bias which 
 the morals of Haluta received during the honeymoon 
 moments of their intercourse, but short indeed were 
 those moments and theoretical their delights. He soon 
 even ceased to consult her about the Greek and Latin 
 churches ; there was no longer any inspection of her 
 eyes, no longer any patience under her harangues ; and 
 if it were not that her chamber had an echo and a look- 
 ing-glass, she would have forgotten the whole force of 
 her voice and her beauty. 
 
 About this time a woman-merchant arrived in 
 Lesbos, who had long been employed by the Emir Al 
 Omera to buy him up everything curious in that line 
 which he could meet with. The fame of the Emir's 
 other propensity had of course reached the erudite 
 Haluta, and the idea of passing into possession of a con- 
 noisseur, who had for some years enhanced the prices 
 of love and learning, by draining the market of all the 
 best beauties and books, was too flattering to be sur- 
 mounted. One morning, therefore, while the Epicurean 
 
 A A 
 
354 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 was employed in lecturing upon a thinly-robed statue 
 of Venus, and demonstrating that such was the drapery 
 which a philosopher hung over pleasure, more trans- 
 parent and easy than the cumbrous folds of the vestal, 
 and more tasteful and decent than the unreserved 
 nakedness of the Bacchante, Haluta, who thought her 
 presence unnecessary where nothing but the theory of 
 pleasure was concerned, stole away very quietly to the 
 woman-merchant, and in the course of a few days was 
 shipped off to the coast of Asia, with a cargo such as 
 King Solomon would have valued more than all the 
 navy of Tarshish ever brought him. 
 
 She had now been near a year in the seraglio, and 
 had never seen her proprietor, who was too much 
 occupied by the alarming events of the times, to admit 
 of a moment's indulgence in either of his favourite 
 pursuits. To the same cause the nymphs of the seraglio 
 were indebted for much more freedom and gaiety than 
 ever they had been suffered to enjoy ; and indeed 
 throughout all Bagdat, there appeared that growing 
 licence, that impatience of control, which, like the 
 relaxation of discipline aboard a ship that is in danger, 
 so often arises in troubled times, from the fears of the 
 Government and the desperation of the people. 
 
 In one of those midnight rambles which the negli- 
 gence of her guards allowed her, Haluta had reached 
 the lawn of Masud's villa, and observing a light at a 
 distance, stole cautiously towards it. The windows of 
 the summer-house were open, and by a lamp which 
 burned upon the table she could discover a youth 
 leaning thoughtfully over a volume, which he seemed 
 to have just that instant closed, but which he had 
 evidently left for the purpose of becoming better 
 
 acquainted with it. The beauty of C 's face and 
 
 form was such as no eye could look at carelessly, and 
 
A FRAGMENT. 355 
 
 we may imagine how it must have bewildered the heart 
 of a girl who had never till this moment seen anything 
 better than her ugly, old, theoretical Epicurean and her 
 still more theoretical guardians of the seraglio. 
 
 The book was resting upon a helmet, which he had 
 for some time devoted to that peaceful purpose ; and 
 the gravity of the student's-robe he wore but ill ac- 
 corded with the chivalrous air of his person and the 
 gallant animation of his eye. 
 
 Haluta gazed till it was no longer safe to stay ; and 
 then sighing, hurried back to the loveless chambers of 
 the seraglio, printing, as she went, those memorable 
 footsteps which awakened, next morning, such a spirit 
 of research in the young student. 
 
 The adventure of the wood has already been related, 
 and notwithstanding the rapidity with which she then 
 fled from her pursuer, she had courage enough on the 
 following day to venture into the same maze, and take 
 the chance of a similar encounter. Indeed it was not 
 so much from timidity that she delayed throwing 
 herself into his arms, as from that wish which is some- 
 times felt by us poor mortals, to linger as long as we 
 can on the outskirts of happiness, and make the 
 approaches to joy, like the avenue of a tasteful villa, 
 not straight and direct, but gradual, winding and 
 diversified. 
 
 It was little more than mid-day when Haluta, for 
 the third time, directed her way towards Masud's lawn. 
 The heat was excessive, every eye that could afford it 
 was shut up in sleep, and there was at that moment not 
 a man of fashion awake in all Bagdat. The only sounds 
 that interrupted the stillness as she passed with languid 
 step over the lawn, was now and then a half-suppressed 
 laugh from a distant group of girls, who were taking 
 
 AA2 
 
356 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 advantage of that hour of repose to bathe in the waters 
 of the Tigris. 
 
 She saw there was no one now in the pavilion ; but 
 a kind of instinct whispered her to try the dark walk 
 of limes upon the right ; she knew not whither it led, 
 and therefore there must be something interesting at 
 the end of it. A shady walk, and a reserved beauty, 
 are among the gentlest mysteries that a man can have 
 to explore; and the best of it is, they may be explored 
 together. But in the present case the limes had all 
 the modesty to themselves ; as Haluta could scarcely 
 be called a reserved beauty. This path opened into a 
 small glade, in the middle of which was a little lake 
 that reflected the full splendours of noon, while the 
 verdure around it slept coolly under the shadow of the 
 encircling trees. The source of the lake was a fountain, 
 hid almost in plane-trees, from which the water stole 
 with a clear but loitering current, as if half afraid to 
 encounter the bold sunshine that wantoned over the 
 
 lake. By the side of this fountain lay C in a light 
 
 summer sleep, with his cheek resting against the cold 
 marble ; whose paleness strikingly contrasted to the 
 dark and manly bloom of his complexion. Haluta's 
 heart, agitated alike by apprehension and hope, beat 
 high with anticipation, while with a trembling hand 
 she wrote the following lines upon a tablet, and hung 
 them from a vase which stood close to his resting- 
 place : 
 
 He that was content to look 
 At the moonlight in the brook 
 To reward his humble view 
 Saw the brook and moonlight too, 
 While the proud aspiring elf 
 Who would view the moon herself, 
 Fell into the brook before him 
 Ere he saw the moonlight o'er him. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 357 
 
 Dost thou love a smile of joy ? 
 Seek it in the fountain, boy ! 
 Look not up, or thou shalt miss 
 Present smile and future bliss. 
 
 The rustling sound caused by Haluta in placing 
 these verses had somewhat loosened the bonds of sleep 
 round the young student ; and she had scarcely time to 
 escape into the lime-tree walk behind him, when the 
 young student awoke. His first movement upon seeing 
 the tablets, was anxiously to look round for the writer 
 of them; but she was too well shaded within the 
 foliage for even her bright eyes to betray her ; and, as 
 soon as she perceived that he had read the verses, and 
 that, obeying almost unconsciously their mandate, he 
 leaned down over the watery mirror, with a palpitating 
 heart she stole from her concealment, and, stepping 
 upon the plinth of a column behind him, looked fondly 
 over his head into the basin, with one of those perfect 
 smiles, which blend all that passion has of warmth 
 with all that beauty has of brilliancy. 
 
 The youth started with astonishment, and was on 
 the point of forgetting the warning of the verses, when 
 Haluta, gently laying her hand upon his head, with a 
 voice sweet as the song of promise, repeated these 
 words : 
 
 Look not up, or thou shalt miss 
 Present smile and future bliss ! 
 
 Then, flying through the lime-tree walk, like an 
 antelope, scarce touched the grass of the lawn, and was 
 once more in the gardens of the seraglio. 
 
 6 Oh Plato ! ' (exclaimed the student as he returned 
 thoughtfully to the summer-house), ' if, as thou hast 
 told us, whatever we behold of good or lovely in this 
 world be but the shadow or the reflection of something 
 
358 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 that is above us, let the features I have just seen be 
 the exemplar of all my ideas, and as I gaze upon the 
 passing stream of life, let that bright face for ever lean 
 over my shoulder ! ' 
 
 Haluta, in the meantime, had exulted to think how 
 refinedly she had graduated that feeling of interest, 
 which it was her pride to have excited in the heart of 
 the young student ; he had now traced her footstep, 
 touched her hand, heard the sound of her voice, and 
 seen the reflection of her eyes, and though in these four 
 first degrees of the scale she had not followed exactly 
 the old classical climax of love, yet we must suppose 
 that she meant to be more correct as she proceeded ; 
 and indeed, that very night, so impatient was she to 
 learn the effects of her morning apparition, that though 
 there shone not a star in the sky, and the winds sung 
 their war-whoop in the woods, yet she contrived to 
 reach the little light upon the lawn ; and felt neither 
 storm nor gloom, while she gazed through the windows 
 of the summer-house. It was with pleasure she saw 
 that he no longer appeared careless and composed, nor 
 was vanity wanting to tell her the source of the sigh 
 that stole from his lips, and the passion that languished 
 in his looks. His ponderous Aristotle now stood upon 
 the shelf, and, [much as she had been taught to respect 
 the physics of the Stagirite, she thought the restless 
 fire whicn was in the eyes of the youth at this moment, 
 a more luminous comment on the laws of Nature than 
 all that the philosophers of antiquity could supply. 1 ] 
 Upon the table before him was a scroll, which he occa- 
 sionally touched with a pencil, and then, starting from 
 his seat, walked hastily about the chamber, as if dis- 
 satisfied with the scroll, and the pencil, and all around 
 
 1 This passage is erased in the MS. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 359 
 
 him. The door of the summer-house was open, and 
 Haluta already stood upon the threshold ; her curiosity 
 could hold out no longer, and as soon as he had re- 
 turned to his seat, she stole quietly behind him, and 
 saw (what a triumph for her heart!) that it was a 
 portrait of herself that occupied him, that he was en- 
 deavouring to embody the bright vision which he had 
 seen in the morning, and to catch some resemblance 
 of that warm smile, whose reflection had, like Greek 
 fire, burned through the very waters of the fountain. 
 
 ' Is that like me ? ' said the nymph archly, over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 6 Oh no, nor is anything else in this world,' replied 
 the youth, as he cast himself in impassioned bewilder- 
 ment at her feet. 
 
 The monks of St. Basil, at the opposite side of the 
 river, were singing their midnight panagium, as the 
 youth pronounced these words, and the same monks 
 had nearly finished their matin service, before Haluta 
 could find it in her heart to return among the eunuchs 
 of the seraglio. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE SILVER VEIL. 
 
 WE can now account for the course which C 
 
 steered on that moonlight evening, when we left him 
 in his boat gliding rapidly past the palace of the Emir. 
 His meetings with Haluta were not always practicable 
 at the summer-house ; for Masud, being an astronomer, 
 often sat up at night to study all kinds of celestial 
 conjunctions, which made it unsafe for lovers to come 
 
360 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 together in his neighbourhood ; and Diarmid was one 
 of those awkward allies, whose interference in such 
 cases is much more to be dreaded than solicited, while 
 his wit, at least as mischievous as it was nimble, would 
 be as misplaced in a love-affair as a monkey in a flower- 
 garden. It had become necessary, therefore, to seek 
 some other rendezvous, and there is no deity whose 
 votaries are more easily accommodated with a place of 
 worship than those of Love. 
 
 About a mile below the Emir's palace stood the 
 ruins of an old nunnery, whose abbess, according to 
 tradition, had suddenly disappeared one night and was 
 never after seen, but in a large crystal mirror, which 
 she had had the vanity to hang up in her own apart- 
 ment, and in which (said the legend), for many a day 
 after, she appeared to stand pale and disfigured, beside 
 the image of every person who looked in it. The sister- 
 hood did not long survive this supernatural crystalliza- 
 tion of their abbess, and the walls were left to solitude 
 and decay. For a short time indeed they were taken 
 possession of by a few speculating monks, who thought 
 to establish there one of those regular stages, at which 
 Christian pilgrims used to set up at night, and start 
 afresh with relays of absolution in the morning; but 
 the situation did not answer for such a design ; and the 
 building had again been untenanted and desolate when 
 
 C selected it as the scene of his meetings with 
 
 Haluta. The ruins of religion became thus the asylum 
 of love, reversing the fate of those pious old beauties, 
 who begin by being shrines of love, and generally end 
 by breaking down into tabernacles. 
 
 It was hither that C directed his course, and as 
 
 he landed from the boat, he saw a lamp gleaming 
 through the arches, which he knew to be Haluta's, and 
 flew to it as naturally as the winged lover of the glow- 
 
A FRAGMENT. 361 
 
 worm when she lights him through the gloom of night 
 to her embraces. He pronounced her name as he 
 approached, and the girl rushed forwards to meet him, 
 but she had just time to reach his arms, when she fell 
 trembling and breathless between them ; and as he 
 caught the lamp which had nearly fallen from her hands, 
 he could see by its light that the paleness of terror was 
 upon her cheeks. 
 
 ' Let us fly from this place,' were the only words 
 she could articulate; and when the youth with an 
 assuring caress bid her calm her fears and explain to 
 him the cause of them, a look of earnest supplication 
 and a motion of her hand towards the river were all the 
 reply she seemed able to give him. There was therefore 
 
 no time to delay or hesitate, and though C had 
 
 rather a taste for danger, it was one of the very few 
 amusements which he did not like women to partake 
 with him ; accordingly he raised the trembling Haluta 
 in his arms, and placiog her in the boat, rowed back 
 towards the palace of the Emir. They had scarcely put 
 off from the bank, when a harsh and confused noise like 
 the clanging of brass, with murmurs of voices, seemed 
 to come from a distant wing of the building, and as he 
 followed a winding of the river, which led to a fuller 
 view of the ruins, he could see the windows of that 
 part which had originally been a chapel illuminated at 
 regular intervals with flashes of strong blue light. Sur- 
 prised at these appearances, and impatient to know 
 what Haluta had witnessed, the youth now laid aside 
 his oars, and taking her head upon his bosom, en- 
 deavoured to smile away her terrors, and win her into 
 telling what had happened. Like water sleeping safe 
 under the lee of the land, is a woman when protected 
 by the man whom she loves. Haluta gradually recovered 
 her breath and her courage, and while their boat lay 
 
362 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 idly floating among the moonbeams, thus proceeded to 
 satisfy his curiosity, not without a shudder now and 
 then, as she caught, through the interposing trees, a 
 glimpse of that blue light which still flashed through 
 the arches of the ruin. 
 
 'Thou knowest, my love, that the followers of 
 Al Mokanna, the wonderful prophet of the silver veil, 
 who disappeared in the 163rd year of the Hegira, have 
 long looked to his return upon earth as their signal of 
 vengeance on the enemies of his sect, and as a harbinger 
 of ruin to the proud race of the Abassides. This 
 avenger is come, he is now within the walls of that ruin. 
 Nay, smile not, incredulous boy ! but hear me. Curiosity 
 so far surmounted my terrors, that I stole to a window 
 of the chapel, where Al Mokanna now celebrates his 
 mysteries. I have seen the veil of silver which hides 
 the insufferable radiance of his countenance. I have 
 beheld the white banners of his chiefs. At this moment 
 they stand around the caldron, whose blue fires you 
 have seen reflected through the ruins, and swear to 
 avenge the heroes who fell beside their prophet in 
 Khorassan. I have heard the awful sound of his voice. 
 I have seen the cup of blood go round. I have seen 
 Oh Grod ! I have seen such rites as my heart sickens 
 to remember, but never, never can forget.' 
 
 While she spoke these words, her voice faltered with 
 agitation, the scenes which she described seemed to rise 
 again before her, and she hastily hid her eyes in the 
 bosom of her companion, who, though he knew the 
 warmth and wildness of her imagination too well to 
 rely implicitly upon its colouring, yet could not help 
 feeling his curiosity awakened by the earnestness of 
 belief with which she related these wonders. They had 
 now reached a small gate under the terrace of the 
 seraglio gardens, which opened immediately upon the 
 
A FRAGMENT. 363 
 
 river and led to the baths of the black eunuchs. Here 
 they found a female slave waiting for Haluta, and no 
 sooner had he placed her safe within the gate, and 
 made those little compacts and arrangments which 
 lovers generally sign and seal at parting, than he jumped 
 into his boat and rowed rapidly back towards the ruins. 
 
 He was well aware that this revival of Al Mokanna, 
 and those ceremonies in the chapel, to which the fancy 
 and credulity of Haluta had given such a tinge of 
 romantic horror, would prove to be no more than one of 
 those gross impostures which spring up so thick in the 
 rank soil of Oriental fanaticism. If the world's best 
 religion comes from the East, its worst superstition is 
 derived thence also, as in the same quarter of the 
 heavens arises the sunbeam that cherishes the flower 
 and the chilling wind that nips it. Though conscious 
 of all this, and expecting to meet with little more 
 than the juggling of knavery or the nonsense of en- 
 thusiasm, yet as he approached the ruins, there was a 
 solemnity in the scene which, added to the mystery 
 thrown over the meetings of these fanatics, impressed 
 his mind with that vague kind of awe to which 
 scepticism itself is not always inaccessible. The light 
 from the chapel was now become so dim as scarcely to 
 be visible, and, as he passed through the arches into a 
 long corridor which led to the opening where Haluta 
 had seen all she described, the deep silence which 
 reigned throughout the building made him fear that 
 the prophet and his followers had dispersed, and that he 
 should lose the opportunity of witnessing their orgies. 
 
 At this moment a faint flash of light appeared at 
 the end of the corridor, and he hastened to avail him- 
 self of the opening which it betrayed ; but all was 
 darkness and silence within, except just where the fire 
 of the caldron was giving its last hectic gleam, he 
 
364 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 could discover the figure of a man leaning over it, and 
 endeavouring to read a large scroll by its light. His 
 dress was singular and grotesque, but as the blaze fell 
 upon his countenance the youth could perceive that it 
 was a face of no common stamp, that it was one of 
 those proof impressions from the hand of Nature, in 
 which the lines are all vivid, deep and vigorous, and every 
 touch pregnant with original mind. While he paused 
 to consider whether he should interrupt this solitary 
 student, some fragments of the wall upon which he 
 stood gave way, and, crumbling into the chapel, startled 
 the stranger, who, looking anxiously round, put his 
 hand to the white feathered helmet which he wore, and 
 let a veil of silver fall suddenly over his features. At 
 the same moment the last light of the caldron expired, 
 and all was dark and still as the grave. Not a breath, 
 not a sound betrayed the retreat of the false Al 
 Mokanna, and Connal l having at least ascertained for 
 Haluta that the face of the prophet, though of very 
 good temporal materials, had nothing of that dazzling 
 spirituality which she imagined, hastened back to his 
 boat, not without a slight malediction upon those mid- 
 night apostles, who had thus deprived him of more 
 pleasure in this world than he could venture to take 
 their security for in the next. 
 
 The day-break was near, and as he returned towards 
 the villa of Masud, nodding ' per arsin et thesin ' over 
 his oar, he could not help reflecting between sleeping and 
 waking, upon the many baleful purposes to which the 
 very best things of this life are perverted. 'How 
 excellent ' (said he with a yawn), are the uses of 
 religion and chemistry, but how knavish are the preten- 
 sions of the priest and the alchemist, and how pitiable 
 
 1 The name is here written in full in the MS. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 365 
 
 are the dupes who stand gaping with expectation, till 
 the one shall make gold out of lead, and the other 
 turn sots into angels ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE ANNIVERSARY. 
 
 THOUGH the people of Bagdat had been assured every 
 day by their rulers that they were the freest, wisest, 
 and happiest people in the world, yet some doubts upon 
 the subject had lately got amongst them, and now that 
 the conqueror Holagu was at their gates, the very 
 wisest of them began to suspect that they were neither 
 free, nor wise, nor prosperous. 
 
 This Holagu was one of those extraordinary agents 
 of Providence to whom the Deity, from time to time, 
 appears to have delegated his powers, of producing as 
 well as destroying, of blessing as well as of blasting. 
 He had already overrun a great part of Asia, spreading 
 fear and desolation through the worn-out dynasties of 
 the East, and though still as he broke the old fetters of 
 a people, he took care to forge them another set of his 
 own manufacture, yet the very change was refreshing, 
 and the new chains had a brightness and polish, which 
 made them feel smooth and portable after the filthy 
 rust of the old ones. His last exploit, before he turned 
 his arms against Bagdat, was the utter extirpation of 
 the impious Prince of the Ismaelians (the Old Man of 
 the Mountains), so formidable from the guilty devotion 
 of his followers, and the ease with which he could 
 command the life of the most guarded potentate. 
 
366 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 What a blessed era of diplomacy it must have been 
 when at every Court there were accredited assassins, 
 who usually made the point of a poniard their ulti- 
 matum ! Kocneddin, the last chief of the assassins, 
 was routed from all his fortresses by the irresistible 
 Holagu, to the no small relief of some poor Christian 
 princes, whose piety and fears had doomed them to the 
 double subjection of bribing the Pope for their salvation 
 hereafter, and purchasing from Eocneddin their exist- 
 ence here. To a conqueror like this, whose arms and 
 whose arts made him formidable to the oppressor and 
 welcome to the oppressed, Bagdat had nothing to 
 oppose but a doting and an obstinate old Khalif, a weak, 
 corrupt, and bigoted ministry, and a people disunited, 
 degenerate and rebellious. 
 
 The Mahometans were at this time divided into 
 Sonnites and Shiites, the former of whom, being the 
 orthodox and established sect, claimed a right of course 
 to trample down the latter, and as long as able and 
 learned Shiites could be excluded by any means from 
 the offices of state, it was no matter how many foolish 
 Sonnites got into them ; from which it resulted that 
 the Government was just as silly as it was orthodox, 
 while the people were driven to be rebels as well as 
 heretics. It is a striking fact, but not very hard to 
 be accounted for, that, as the parts of a magnet cut 
 through the axis are observed to repel or avoid each 
 other, so different sects of the same religion are 
 always found to be most actively at variance, and a 
 Christian and a Turk have much better chance of 
 agreeing than a Sonnite and a Shiite, or a Nestorian and 
 a Eutychite. 1 
 
 1 ' A Protestant and a Catholic ' was the original reading, for 
 which an Arian and an Athanasian ' was substituted ; that also 
 giving way to the third and final reading of the text. ED. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 367 
 
 The Tartar chief was well apprised of these dissen- 
 sions, which he smiled at as a philosopher, and profited 
 by as a conqueror, and it was even believed that the 
 folly of the Khalif 's ministers, who acted as a kind of 
 recruiting-party for the enemy, had driven into his 
 interest some of the wisest and best men of Bagdat. 
 Nassireddin, the illustrious mathematician and astro- 
 nomer, had lately disappeared, and was supposed to 
 be in the camp of Holagu. Hosamoddin Torantai, 
 the terrible Hosamoddin Torantai, whom . everybody 
 spoke of, but no one acknowledged to have seen, per- 
 vaded all Bagdat with a secret and omnipresent in- 
 fluence, for which nothing but the agency of the devil 
 could satisfactorily account, and whatever machination 
 of darkness or clanger was discovered, his name still 
 proved to have been the mighty spell that evoked it. 
 
 While the public mind was thus rent and agitated, 
 and every hour new omens and rumours of peril from 
 without and treason from within alarmed the fears 
 of the weak and superstitious, there was not an old 
 woman in Bagdat who did not double her number of 
 prayers and ablutions, and grow holier and sweeter than 
 ever she was before. In the midst of this tribulation 
 arrived the nineteenth anniversary of the Khalif 's acces- 
 sion to the throne of the Abassides, a day whose celebra- 
 tion had long been a subject of melancholy ridicule to 
 those who saw nothing throughout his reign but disgrace, 
 oppression, and imbecility. Of all the extortions, how- 
 ever, by which this Khalifate had been distinguished, 
 the exaction of merriment at the present crisis, when 
 there was hardly one genuine smile in circulation, was 
 certainly the unfairest that could possibly be levied. 
 
 ' It was' (as one of the satirists of that day remarked) 
 ' like calling upon a man for a song when he was under 
 the hands of the tooth-drawer.' There was no evading 
 
368 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 it however: the anniversary must be kept with re- 
 joicing, and orders were given to the several Emirs, 
 Imaums, &c., &c., to suppress all insurrectionary sighs, 
 and to see that no face was lengthened below the 
 orthodox standard. Among other ceremonies of the 
 day, the chief merchants of the city were invited to a 
 sumptuous banquet by the Vizier, who, having assured 
 them in the course of a loyal and figurative speech that 
 his gracious master, Al Mostasem Billah, was ' the nut- 
 meg of comfort and rose of delight,' begged leave to 
 trouble them, in the name of the said rose and nutmeg, 
 for the small sum of five hundred dinars, just to meet the 
 extraordinary exigencies of the times. The ease with 
 which the rich fools of that city and other cities have 
 allowed themselves to be melted down into the coffers 
 of royalty, has led some curious philosophers to suspect 
 that Moses must have made use of aqua regia when 
 he dissolved the golden calf of the Israelites. To 
 crown the glories of this memorable day the Khalif's 
 chief poet and secretary had prepared a few hundred 
 of neat, sharp, epigrams, which were stuck upon arrows 
 and shot into the enemy's camp (like that pointed 
 Philippic of old directed to the right eye of the Mace- 
 donian), and it was supposed in the first circles that 
 Holagu could not possibly survive them. The doctors 
 of the Sonna were, of course, not idle upon this oc- 
 casion ; indeed who ever saw them idle when a prince 
 was to be flattered, a heretic damned, or a good feast 
 attended ? Many of the mosques were thrown open to 
 strangers, and discourses in honour of the day delivered 
 by the leading sectaries, which gave C an oppor- 
 tunity of hearing two of their most celebrated Sonnites, 
 whose eloquence was said to have the power of keeping 
 even the Khalif awake. 
 
 He found, however, that curses against the Shiites 
 
A FRAGMENT. 369 
 
 were the most stimulating figures of rhetoric, with 
 which these orators embellished their harangues. ' It 
 is true,' said one of them, ' that these heretics hold 
 faith in the Koran ; but then they impiously deny that 
 it is uncreated and eternal, thus derogating from the 
 dignity of that sacred book, by supposing that, like 
 other books, it must have had an author ! It is granted 
 that they believe in one Grod and his prophet, but then 
 have they not embraced the vile opinion of the Mota- 
 galites, that though Grod knoweth all things, it is not by 
 his knowledge he knoweth them, but by a method of 
 knowing which he possessed long before his knowledge 
 existed ? ' Such were the rational differences of opinion 
 for which the people thought it worth while to cut 
 each other's throats. c Merciful prophet ! ' exclaimed a 
 second, 6 can a reprobate without a hair on his chin 
 ever hope for the kisses of a Houri ? Can the unwashed 
 toes of a Shiite ever pass the sharp bridge into Paradise ? 
 No, certainly my friends ! I have heartfelt satisfaction 
 in informing you that the learned Griafar Effendi has 
 succeeded in proving by no less than seventy passages 
 in the Koran that the whole race of Shiites will be 
 damned to all eternity ! ' 
 
 This language, it must be owned, was not of the 
 most festal complexion, and indeed, between the au- 
 thorized arrogance of one party, and the hidden, but 
 combustible indignation of the other, it was dreaded 
 by many that this day of rejoicing would have but a 
 sad and sanguinary termination. The sun, however, had 
 gone down without witnessing anything worse than the 
 smiles of those who lived by slavery, and the frowns of 
 a few who would die to get rid of it. The calm and 
 solitude of the streets seemed to promise a night of 
 
 more than usual tranquillity, when C stole out 
 
 from the college of Al Mostanseriah in order to attend 
 
 B B 
 
370 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 the appointment which he had made with Haluta on 
 the night of her alarm in the ruins of the nunnery. 
 His heart was bent upon a much sweeter pursuit than 
 the intriguing of courtiers and the wrangling of 
 sectaries, when in passing by a mosque in a retired part 
 of the city, he heard a murmur like that of an agitated 
 multitude when the first breath of discord begins to 
 put its waves into motion. The licence of the day 
 encouraged him to enter, and the confusion of the 
 assembly with which he mingled would at all events 
 have secured him from observation. An interval of 
 silence succeeded, and he found that this sensation was 
 produced by the oratory of a Sonnite doctor, who sur- 
 passed his preaching predecessors of the morning, as 
 much in virulence of feeling as in splendour of abili- 
 ties, and who breathed in eloquence worthy of angels a 
 spirit of persecution which would disgrace the fiends. 
 
 Never had it entered into C 's head that genius 
 
 could be at the same time so bright and so mischievous. 
 The audience alternately listened and murmured, as 
 their taste was charmed or their passions excited ; nor 
 did their admiration of the orator's manner divert them 
 in the least from their attention to his matter, for the 
 graces of his style were such as are felt without being 
 considered ; the force of the appeal was acknowledged 
 at the same moment that its beauty was admired, and 
 those chains which the Grellic deity of eloquence is 
 represented to have hung between his lips and the ears 
 of his auditors, were in this case such rapid conductors 
 of conviction, that the flash and the shock were felt at 
 the same instant. At length the fire of fanaticism rose 
 to its height, a sympathy of madness spread over the 
 crowd ; every scimitar, as if by signal, leaped from its 
 scabbard, and. the whole assembly rushed from the 
 mosque, shouting, ' Vengeance on the accursed Shiites ! ' 
 
A FRAGMENT. 371 
 
 The orator who had aroused them was at their head, 
 
 and, as he passed the place where C stood, the 
 
 youth thought that he could recognise the very same 
 features which he had seen by the light of the caldron 
 on the night of Haluta's adventure in the ruins. It 
 might, he felt, be imagination, but still the face was of 
 that singular character, which it was impossible to 
 forget or confound with any other, and though it was 
 now more agitated by passion than when he had ob- 
 served it in the chapel, yet its expression was height- 
 ened without being altered, and the same spirit now 
 guided the storm, which had before hung brooding 
 over the calm. He did not, however, give his mind 
 time to discuss the probability of the idea, but, escap- 
 ing as well as he could from the bigoted crowd, and 
 sending a look full of scorn and indignation after them, 
 as they hurried away ripe for all the horrors which 
 fanatical fury can invent, he resumed the course from 
 which he had been diverted, and in a short time found 
 himself in the arms of Haluta. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY. 
 
 WE have hitherto spoken of the loves of C and 
 
 Haluta, as if love had really a considerable share in 
 their intercourse : but those who know the difference 
 between gallantry and attachment are well aware how 
 little expenditure of affection is necessary to the main- 
 tenance of the former kind of feeling, and that the 
 loose coin of the senses is quite sufficient for the pur- 
 pose, without encroaching upon the capital of the heart. 
 
 B B 2 
 
372 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 Haluta indeed mingled (as women generally do) a 
 more sentimental degree of interest with the bewilder- 
 ment which the young Christian produced ; but ambi- 
 tion had too great a share in her soul, for even Love 
 himself to possess it exclusively, and though the soften- 
 ing society of the seraglio, and the luxurious accom- 
 plishments which she learned there, had given to her 
 thoughts a certain tone of tenderness, which her ad- 
 venture with C was every way calculated to cherish, 
 
 yet she had never for an instant lost sight of that proud 
 elevation to which learning and intellect seemed to 
 raise her above the mere vegetating beauties of her sex, 
 and the only time that the Emir, in his few visits to 
 the seraglio, did her the honour of selecting her from 
 the lovely group, she had nearly got into disgrace by 
 asking him in an unlucky moment, whether he knew 
 how to calculate the almuten of a nativity. Even with 
 
 C , who was not so easily puzzled, her astronomical 
 
 knowledge was sometimes rather unseasonably intro- 
 duced, and more than once he had the mortification to 
 find that himself was not the only ascendant that 
 occupied her. 
 
 On the night, however, at which we have just 
 arrived, whether from a vague presentiment that their 
 joys would be soon interrupted, or from a loyal desire 
 to celebrate the anniversary by those best of all possible 
 feux de joie, which are lighted up in the eyes of beauty, 
 she received him with even fonder enthusiasm than on 
 the first evening of their intercourse, and the learning 
 of past times, and the pain of future ones, were all 
 forgotten in the fall happiness of the present. Before 
 they parted, she pointed to a ring, the stone of which 
 had just broken to pieces upon her finger, and said, 
 ' When I was a child, in my father's house, a magician 
 gave me this ring, in which he had set a precious 
 
A FRAGMENT. 
 
 373 
 
 drop that fell from a tree of stone in the grotto of 
 Antiparos. This gem he had constellated with won- 
 derful skill, and it was destined, he told me, to fly to 
 pieces the moment I should taste the highest bliss ! of 
 which my heart is capable. Farewell,' said she sadly, 
 6 1 have now seen my happiest moment ! ' 2 
 
 It was long after midnight when C returned 
 
 towards Bagdat. The streets which had been so solitary 
 during the evening, were now swarming with busy and 
 baleful animation, while the noise of arms, the moving 
 to and fro of torches, the shouts of triumph, and now 
 and then the yell of despair, most direfully announced 
 to him, as he approached, the spirit of fury that was 
 abroad. Shocked by the contrast which these horrors 
 presented to the scene of romantic endearments which 
 he had left, and indifferent, as far as humanity would 
 allow him, to the fate of either of the conflicting 
 parties, C was hastening home with all the bed- 
 ward propensity of a man who had been too happy to 
 do anything but sleep upon his happiness, when a party 
 of fugitive Shiites rushed by him in all the consterna- 
 tion of flight and discomfiture, some of them falling 
 faint with the wounds they had just received, yet 
 anxiously looking back while they fell, as if they 
 dreaded what followed them still worse than death. 
 Not even this spectacle, distressing as it was, could 
 tempt the youth to swerve from his drowsy neutrality, 
 till, on going a little further, he beheld an unfortunate 
 man, whom by his red turban he knew to be a Shiite, 
 almost overpowered beneath the swords of four able- 
 bodied believers in the Sonna. All the blood of the 
 knight was roused at the cowardly unfairness of this 
 
 1 ' Happiest feeling ' was the original reading. 
 
 2 The original reading, which is erased, stood as follows : ' I 
 have now passed the bright meridian of my existence I ' 
 
374 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 encounter : without waiting to invoke one saint in the 
 calendar, he flew to the aid of the red-turbaned warrior, 
 and soon made his antagonists feel the vigour of a 
 young Christian polemic. The heretic, finding himself 
 reinforced, returned to the charge most manfully, and 
 two of the Sonnites fell beneath their united prowess. 
 But just as the remaining two were on the point of 
 surrendering, a stone, which was flung either from a 
 window, or from a sling in the distant crowd, laid the 
 
 brave Shiite breathless upon the ground, and left C 
 
 to continue the combat single-handed. He was not, 
 however, dismayed, though, by the resurrection of one 
 of his former adversaries, the odds against him were 
 now seriously increased ; but placing himself before the 
 body of his prostrate ally, he wielded his weapon with 
 such irresistible activity, that in a short time he dis- 
 persed the three Islamite confederates. He who had 
 ventured upon the experiment of rising again to the 
 contest, soon found it more prudent to return to his 
 state of repose, and the other two fled towards a mob 
 which was collecting at a distance. 
 
 There was now no time to be lost ; the Sonnites were 
 
 assembling in all directions, and as C had none of 
 
 the zeal of those martyrs who have died for opinions 
 which they did not understand,, he thought he had 
 risked quite enough in the cause of Shiitism, and was 
 preparing to secure his retreat, but, not deeming it 
 altogether heroic to leave his wounded on the field, at 
 the mercy of the enemy, he stooped to examine the 
 state of the poor overthrown heretic, and had the satis- 
 faction to find that he was little more than stunned by 
 the blow, and that there was still life enough in his 
 heart to bid defiance to all the curses of the orthodox. 
 
 The bravery of the man had so interested C , 
 
 that this discovery made him sincerely happy, and 
 
A FRAGMENT. 375 
 
 though the Shiite was not of the most portable stature, 
 yet the zeal of humanity, and the urgency of the 
 moment, gave nerve to the arms of the youth, and 
 wings to his feet, and having placed the helpless sectary 
 upon his shoulders, he flew with him through a retired 
 street, which presented itself, till they were quite be- 
 yond the reach of the multitude. Here, laying down 
 his burden beneath the porch of a mosque, where some 
 wanderers of the night had left a burning torch, he 
 proceeded to wipe off the blood and dust from the 
 face of the Shiite, and, upon viewing him more closely, 
 he beheld, to his unspeakable astonishment, the very 
 same countenance which had already twice haunted him 
 with its almost supernatural expression, that coun- 
 tenance, which on the evening before, he had seen 
 lighted up with fanatical rage against the very sect 
 in whose cause he had now found him combating so 
 heroically. 
 
 We sometimes meet with not only faces, but events, 
 which, though conscious that it is the first time they 
 could possibly have occurred to us, yet we cannot help 
 feeling as if they had already passed before us in some 
 dream, or been anticipated by a kind of second-sight 
 power of the imagination, exactly in the way they are 
 then really presented to us. 
 
 The impression upon C 's mind, however, was 
 
 something more than this mere fanciful recollection, 
 and the circumstances already connected with these 
 extraordinary features were too striking and wonderful, 
 he thought, not to leave an infallible remembrance of 
 them. At the same time the strange inconsistency of 
 the characters under which this singular personage had 
 appeared, seemed to him such a monstrous and irrecon- 
 cilable mystery, that he almost judged it safer to dis- 
 trust the very evidence of his senses than to surrender 
 
376 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 his reason to the belief of such unaccountable contra- 
 dictions. While his mind was engaged in these re- 
 flections, the Shiite had gradually recovered himself, 
 and, after laying his hand for a short time across his 
 forehead, as if to recollect the events of the night, he 
 looked up in the face of the youth, who hung in silent 
 watchfulness over him, and, with an eye that seemed 
 versed in the various cipher of the human countenance, 
 surveyed his features for a moment, and then hastily 
 made an effort to rise. When he found himself upon 
 his knees, he turned solemnly towards the East, where 
 the first light of the sun was just beginning to appear, 
 and, raising his sword, which he had held fast during the 
 whole of the adventure, thrice laid the blade across his 
 breast, and thrice extended it towards Heaven, pro- 
 nouncing each time some words of invocation or prayer, 
 
 which he muttered in a tone too low for C to 
 
 distinguish their meaning. This ceremony being 
 ended, he rose, but it was evident that the conflict of 
 the night had exhausted even the vigour of his powerful 
 frame, and that the effort which he now made to move 
 with a rapid step was merely the impatience of a 
 sanguine spirit unaccustomed to be checked by the 
 infirmity of the machine that carried it, and indignantly 
 endeavouring to rise above the weakness of mortality. 
 
 C , upon perceiving this, though awed and almost 
 
 repelled by his looks, respectfully followed, and offered 
 the assistance of his arm, which this proud and mys- 
 terious man seemed mortified to think he must either 
 accept, or lie fainting and exposed upon the pathway. 
 Before, however, he consented to entrust himself to the 
 youth, he again looked long and intensely at him, as if 
 to take the last soundings of his soul before he embarked 
 his fate upon its faith for ever. 
 
 The young man blushed, and not because his heart 
 
A FRAGMENT. 377 
 
 was ashamed of being read (for there were few of a fairer 
 type and character), bat because this hesitation implied 
 a doubt of which his generous nature deeply felt the 
 injustice. The result of the scrutiny however, was 
 confidence. The Shiite took his arm with a readiness 
 which resembled cordiality, and they proceeded along 
 their way in silence. 
 
 The sun had risen, but the quarter of the city 
 through which they passed was but little frequented, 
 and the few persons whom they met were of that un ob- 
 serving class of mankind, who are too much occupied 
 with their own little parts upon the stage of life to 
 have any leisure or inclination for becoming spectators 
 of others. They accordingly continued their way in 
 silence, till they reached the gate of a simple mansion, 
 
 which was known to C to have been the mansion 
 
 of the celebrated scholar Nassireddin, who had lately 
 deserted from the service of the Khalif, and gone over 
 to the enemy with the whole force of his library. Here 
 the Shiite stopped, and looking anxiously round him, 
 unlocked a little door beside the gate, and beckoned to 
 
 the youth to follow him. Though C 's heart knew 
 
 as little of fear as those who live beneath the line know 
 of frost and snow, yet it was not without a feeling of 
 awe that he heard the door close after him, and found 
 himself alone with a person, in whose manner, looks 
 and conduct, there was something so grand, so por- 
 tentous and inexplicable. They passed through the 
 house into one of those delightful gardens, in which the 
 pious and contemplative Orientals love to pass their 
 hours of thought and devotion, and where the incense 
 of prayer and the breath of flowers ascend to heaven 
 most sweetly together. The spirit of the morning 
 played freshly among the blossoms, and the air seemed 
 to breathe new life into the Shiite, who suddenly turning 
 
378 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 round, demanded in a solemn voice, c Young stranger ! 
 who art thou ? ' 
 
 A few very modest words were sufficient to satisfy 
 this inquiry ; what the diffidence of the relator sup- 
 pressed the discernment of the hearer supplied, and 
 
 when C said that he had fought and that he had 
 
 studied, the gallantry of his air and the intelligence of 
 his eye abundantly testified that he had done neither 
 in vain. 
 
 When he had finished his short and simple history, 
 the Shiite, after a few moments' pause, addressed him 
 thus : ' To say that you have saved my life, young man, 
 would be to wrong that star of destiny which was born 
 with me, and which must light me through many such 
 scenes of danger ere the mission upon which I am sent 
 shall be accomplished. With gratitude, however, do 
 I acknowledge the promptitude with which you gave 
 assistance through that passing cloud of weakness which 
 came over me, and the confidence I am about to repose 
 in you is the first and noblest return that ever I can 
 make for such a service. Though a stranger, you 
 scarcely require to be told that the days of Bagdat 
 are almost numbered, and that the moment is at hand 
 when the proud rulers and profligate citizens must pay 
 the full penalty of their crimes and corruptions. The 
 would-be sages of this world may sigh over the ruin 
 of her throne, the extinction of her schools, and the 
 bloody profanation of her temples ; but to him who 
 has well observed the fated vicissitudes of all things, 
 who has traced the whole length of that mystic chain 
 of which creation and destruction still form the alter- 
 nate links, to him the declension of glories that have 
 been is but the dawn of a new and a better era, and he 
 sees in the fragments of fallen empires but the precious 
 materials of brighter and more harmonious systems. 
 
A FRAGMENT. 379 
 
 As the deluge that sweeps away and the earthquake 
 that rends asunder are the terrible agents that have en- 
 riched our earth with the mountains in magnificent 
 swell, and the smiling cultivation of the valley, so by 
 the convulsions of the moral world, the powers of the 
 human mind are roused, exalted and diversified ; and that 
 man does not ill perform the ends of his being (however 
 he may be mistaken by the short-sighted multitude) 
 who assists in ameliorating the crisis of that chaos from 
 whose anarchy order and beauty are destined to arise.' 
 
 Observing that the youth was startled at this sen- 
 timent, he said : ' Such thoughts, however, are far 
 beyond the ken of the uninitiated, and at this moment 
 a private feeling presses upon my heart, for which the 
 grander views of my soul must be for awhile forgotten 
 or postponed. I have a treasure within these walls 
 which few eyes have ever beheld, and of which, though 
 my heart can feel, my tongue cannot tell the value. 
 In the dreadful scenes through which it is my lot to 
 pass, the thought of this object and the dangers to 
 which it is exposed, is the only spell that unnerves 
 my arm, and dries up the very fount of enterprise 
 within me. In a few days the fate of Bagdat will be 
 awfully decided, and when once that direful storm is 
 abroad which my spirit hath collected and my arm 
 must guide, who shall answer for the safety of the trea- 
 sured form, in which the only pure hopes of my life are 
 deposited ? Who can be assured that while I wander 
 upon my ministry of terror, some faithless hand may 
 not violate this privacy and steal away the sole dear 
 gem of my existence ? 
 
 ' Young stranger, the voice of my genius whispers 
 me that thou art the person destined to shelter this 
 flower from the storm, and oh I if fidelity be the soul 
 of knighthood, and if the fulness of confidence be the 
 
380 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 sweetest triumph of the generous heart, come and 
 behold what a blessing I entrust to thee, and then 
 own how amply I repay what thou hast done for me.' 
 Having said this, he walked towards the door of a 
 retired oratory, which hung over a bright little stream 
 at the end of the garden, like that cool place of silence 
 and prayer which the poet Hafiz loved, beside the 
 waters of Rosaabad. 
 
 The youth, with a heart all prepared for wonders, 
 followed till they arrived at the entrance of this fairy 
 mansion, when the Shiite turning round, made a sign 
 to him to pause, while he himself gently lifted the 
 
 latch and looked in ; he then beckoned to C- and 
 
 they both stole on tiptoe into the oratory. During those 
 very few moments the youth could employ in consider- 
 ing the nature of the treasure about to be exhibited to 
 him, a variety of conjectures had floated before his 
 fancy, but he concluded at length, that the language 
 of the Shiite was symbolical, and that this gem of his 
 existence, this 6 flower,' this ' depository of his hopes,' 
 must be some magic secret, some talisman, perhaps, 
 imbued with the beams of that star which he had said 
 was twinned with him by destiny, or perhaps was a 
 phial of that concentrated essence of life, every drop of 
 which was supposed by the Arabian enchanters to have 
 the power of adding a century to man's existence. Nor 
 did he quite mistake. It was indeed a talisman which 
 heaven had filled with brighter and purer influences 
 than ever the stars could shed. It was indeed that 
 concentrated balm of our being, whose spirit is purity, 
 whose taste is love, and which more than prolongs 
 existence by sweetening it. It was a young and 
 beautiful girl reclining in that calm sleep which 'is 
 seldom slept but by children or by angels. Yet the 
 day-dress which she wore, and the appearance of the 
 
A FRAGMENT. 381 
 
 sofa, upon which she seemed to have only thrown her- 
 self for a momentary slumber, looked rather like the 
 wakeful preparation of one who dreaded surprise. Her 
 hair, which had escaped from the silken net that bound 
 it, fell in dark waves over her neck, which glimmered 
 through it here and there like moonlight through an 
 almond grove. Her lips were half opened, with a kind 
 of speaking air, as if slumber had overtaken them in 
 the midst of some sweet sentence, and though her eyes 
 were shut, yet their light still lingered over her features 
 as in those summer nights of the North, where the 
 sky at eve hardly feels the absence of the sun, whose 
 brilliancy is only softened, not lost, by his setting. 
 
 She appeared to be about seventeen, that fresh and 
 lovely age, which when Hebe herself hath passed, she is 
 near being no longer Hebe ; and in every part of her 
 form there lay a thousand slumbering graces, which 
 awaited but the motions of her waking to give them 
 animation and to bring them into play. It was but a 
 
 moment, however, that C was permitted to look 
 
 upon these inanimate beauties, which even in the ab- 
 sence of consciousness seemed to blush of themselves 
 at the gaze to which they were exhibited. Twice did 
 the Shiite wave his hand before the youth could under- 
 stand that it was meant as a signal to depart ; at 
 length, scarcely venturing to breathe, they both stole 
 back into the garden. 
 
 c Oh tell me ' (exclaimed the youth), when they 
 were at some little distance from the oratory, 'tell 
 me ' 
 
 But the Shiite repressed his impatience and said : 
 ' The morning is far advanced, the multitudes of 
 Bagdat are abroad ; even now it is not without risk that 
 thou wilt leave these suspected walls; but return hither 
 at nightfall and all shall be explained to thee. Come 
 
382 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 not unless thy heart is ready to shed its last blood for 
 her who now slumbers within that oratory.' 
 
 As he spoke these words they arrived at the outer 
 gate of the mansion. Without allowing a moment for 
 
 reply he hastily unlocked the door, and C , as if 
 
 awakened from an eventful dream, found himself once 
 more in the streets of Bagdat. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THEEE had been bloodshed in many parts of the city 
 during the night, and though in every instance the 
 Sonnites were the aggressors, yet as the Shiites had 
 shown a rather over-presumptuous inclination to de- 
 fend themselves, the fault was of course all laid upon 
 them, and the minister declared that nothing better 
 could be expected from men who disbelieved the 
 Chapter of the Blanket. In order to quiet the appre- 
 hensions of the loyal, it was announced by an official 
 bulletin in the morning, that the Khalif had slept very 
 soundly during the whole of these unnatural distur- 
 bances, and he was waited upon accordingly with 
 numerous congratulations upon the powers of sleeping 
 which Providence had given him, and the dignity with 
 which he could repose amidst the clamours and dis- 
 sensions of his subjects. The Khalif 's ministers, too, 
 were not a little pleased at the timely respite which 
 this commotion gave them from the troublesome criti- 
 cism of an oppressed people ; though indeed it was 
 not the first time that they had profited by this kind 
 of diversion, for like cuttle-fish they could only hope to 
 escape by darkening impurely the waters around them ; 
 and though the people of Bagdat were a thinking 
 
A FRAGMENT. 383 
 
 people (at least, though they thought themselves a 
 thinking people), yet there were not a few amid a sober 
 set of citizens, who could play the fool at a minute's 
 warning, with perfect satisfaction to their rulers. 
 
 * It is true,' (said the Vizier in his last annual 
 speech upon prosperity), ' it is true that we have lost 
 an army or two by the unfair attacks of that abortion 
 Holagu, who, contrary to the practice of all well-bred 
 generals, will not even give us a clue to his tactics, or 
 a chance of beating him ; but to make up for this I am 
 happy to congratulate the good people of Bagdat upon 
 the brilliant success which has crowned the Khalif's 
 arms in the late attack upon a caravan of European 
 pilgrims, whom our brave troops surprised in the 
 middle of their evening service, and put to death in the 
 coolest and most soldier-like manner. Thirty Christian 
 corpses, not to mention as many witch-shells, wigs, and 
 prayer-books, are among the spoils of this memorable 
 enterprise, in consideration of which it is the will of 
 the sovereign Khalif, that the general who performed 
 this important service shall be called, styled, and 
 accounted a hero, not only by himself and his whole 
 family, but by all the well-affected citizens of Bagdat, 
 during the term of said hero's natural life.' 
 
 Eejoicings took place for the destruction of the 
 caravan, and this speech of the Vizier's was very much 
 admired. It was resolved that the new-made hero 
 should be sent to chastise the insolence of the upstart 
 Holagu. Upon another occasion these wise ministers 
 of the Khalifate had succeeded in diverting the public 
 attention, by inflicting the bastinado on a worthy natu- 
 ralist who had taken the liberty of objecting to a certain 
 breed of rats to which the Khalif was supposed to have 
 a very strong predilection, and which at all events he 
 had suffered to propagate so abundantly, that not only 
 
384 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 the palace, but all Bagdat, was overrun with them. 
 The naturalist in question not only objected to these 
 animals, but even suggested a mode by which the entire 
 race could be extirpated easily. The whole court took 
 alarm, and the Iinaum Kossy was ordered, at the peril of 
 his place, to write a book forthwith in defence of the 
 rats, and to prove that the holes which they made in 
 the palace were of the greatest possible use to the 
 building. The naturalist was rash enough to answer 
 the Imaum. The Imaum replied by a smart bastinado, 
 and the twenty-first stroke convinced the naturalist 
 that the rats were the most amiable and serviceable 
 creatures in the world. 
 
 The events of the preceding night were already 
 beginning to be forgotten, though the sun had hardly 
 passed his meridian resting-place. The courtiers and the 
 eunuchs were recovering their courage, the doctors of the 
 Sonna were regaining their appetite and spirits, and the 
 Khalif himself was near relapsing into the pious belief 
 that he reigned over a most happy and united people, 
 
 when C proceeded to the little villa of Masud, on 
 
 the Tigris, to take a long farewell of Masud and the 
 library, and prepare for his new and interesting charge, 
 which now occupied every thought of his soul. He was 
 met by his servant Diarmid, whose heart he truly re- 
 joiced by desiring- him to prepare for leaving Bagdat that 
 evening. This poor fellow, ever since his arrival in the 
 city, had from motives of safety assumed the Arabian 
 habits, but the difficulties in which this disguise in- 
 volved him on the preceding night, had not only put 
 him quite out of conceit with his costume, but had 
 quickened his migratory instincts amazingly, and he 
 heard the intelligence of their departure with delight. 
 
 'Only think, sir,' said he, relating the adventures 
 of the night to his master, ; I was seized in returning 
 
A FRAGMENT. 385 
 
 to the college by two of those unchristianlike fellows, 
 called Sonnites, who, thrusting their torches in my face, 
 said they could tell by the colour of my nose that I was 
 in the habit of mixing wine with my water, which 
 showed that I was a Shiite, a damnable Shiite. In 
 vain did I protest that I was no such thing, that I 
 always took my wine as pure and unmixed as I could 
 get it, and that the child unborn was not more innocent 
 of spoiling good liquor with water than I was. This 
 seemed but to make those Mohametan dogs more angry, 
 and they began to lay about me with their burning 
 brands so unmercifully that I had every prospect of 
 being lighted up into an auto-da-fe immediately. I 
 had nothing now left me but to run for it, so off I set 
 with this pair of pious persecutors at my heels, till, as 
 good luck would have it, at the turning of a corner I 
 saw the door of an old Nestorian convent open, and, 
 rushing in without ceremony, gave the slip to my 
 enlightened pursuers. Here I found an old monk, who, 
 perceiving I was frightened and breathless, pointed 
 kindly to a little bed in the corner where I might rest 
 and recover from rny alarms. This was exactly what I 
 wanted, and I had just begun to doze very comfortably 
 when a noise in the street startled me. " Mother 
 of Grod!" exclaimed I, "what's that?" "Oh, ho!" 
 says the Nestorian, " is that your creed ? Mother of 
 God, indeed! here is a pretty blasphemer, truly, to 
 insult our sacred walls with such expressions. Mother 
 of Grod, indeed ! Out of my doors this instant, vile 
 follower of Cyril ! " in saying which he thrust me forth 
 into the street, muttering something about Judas and 
 the Council of Ephesus, which was all as comprehensible 
 to me as so much Hebrew. I was now again left at the 
 mercy of all the various believers of Bagdat, and the 
 worst of it was 1 had lost my way. In short, sir,' said 
 
 c c 
 
386 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET: 
 
 he, seeing that his master grew impatient of the story, 
 ' I might have wandered till now, or been put even 
 more roughly through my catechism by some of these 
 amiable religionists, if I had not met with a com- 
 passionate fellow, who, without asking whether I was 
 Turk or Christian, took me home to his house and gave 
 me shelter and protection till morning. He told me 
 when I was leaving he belonged to the sect of the 
 Schoubaat, who think they are as wise as the Shiites or 
 Sonnites, and by his own showing are as ignorant fools 
 as either.' 
 
 It was not without a feeling of tender regret that 
 
 C took leave of the quiet little study where he 
 
 had passed so many hours of calm communion with the 
 silent spirits of the departed wise and good. Perhaps 
 by him who truly loves books those moments of in- 
 tellectual repose which he has enjoyed in their company 
 are remembered with a better, a more unalloyed pleasure 
 than all his brilliantest hours of intercourse with the 
 gay, the wise, the witty, or even the beautiful. He 
 could not help too thinking (notwithstanding the 
 chivalrous and romantic sentiment with which he now 
 devoted himself to the service of another), he could not 
 help thinking with many an anxious sigh upon the 
 fate to which poor Haluta might be doomed amidst 
 the ruin and confusion that hung over Bagdat. He 
 had never loved her, but there is something in the 
 recollection of pleasures as well as of dangers which 
 seldom fails to attach us to those who have shared them 
 with us, and there was a wild enthusiasm in the cha- 
 racter of this extraordinary woman, which the very 
 thought of the errors it might lead her into was sufficient 
 to render strongly interesting. 
 
 His armour was brightened up for the first time 
 since he had bathed it in Saracen blood at the battle of 
 
A FRAGMENT. 387 
 
 the Ashmim^ And as he put it on he prayed that, for 
 her in whose cause he wore it, his heart might be chaste 
 as his arm was strong, and that selfish passion should 
 never tempt him to forget that the purest and gentlest 
 duties of chivalry were the disinterested service of the 
 fair, and the unpresuming protection of the innocent. 
 He had taken it for granted, without exactly knowing 
 why, that the sleeper in the oratory was the daughter 
 of the Shiite. Her youth, and the age of her mys- 
 terious protector, who had already passed the summer 
 of manhood, had but little of the air of those sighing 
 veterans who seem to think that the evening sun of life 
 sets most comfortably upon the bosom of a youthful 
 Thetis all led him to conclude what his heart too 
 perhaps rather wished, that the smile of parental love 
 was the warmest she had ever encountered. It was 
 dusk when he hastened towards the mansion of Nasser- 
 eddin, and having ordered Diarmid to wait for him in 
 some quarter of the neighbourhood, he soon found out 
 the little gate which had made such an impression on 
 his memory, and which had led him the night before 
 to as beautiful a vision as ever played round the ivory 
 portals of sleep. He had not stood there very long 
 when he perceived a remarkable figure passing back- 
 wards and forwards on the opposite side of the street, 
 and, as well as he could distinguish through the dusk, 
 looking towards him now and then rather anxiously, 
 apprehensive lest he might betray the haunt of his 
 mysterious acquaintance. He passed on, but the 
 figure which he had noticed followed him, and it was 
 not till they came within a few paces of each other 
 that he perceived it was the Shiite himself, who had 
 been upon the watch for him. The youth now threw 
 aside the cloak that hid his shining armour, which the 
 Shiite observing, approached him and said : c Welcome, 
 
 c c 2 
 
3 88 THE CHAPTER OF THE BLANKET. 
 
 knight : in this habit thou art most welcome ; that 
 garb inspires a sacred confidence which I trust its 
 young wearer will never betray. There is a pledge of 
 purity in the white plume of a Christian knight, which 
 blood may steep, but dishonour never tinges. In an 
 hour or two hence thou must fly with my Amera from 
 Bagdat to a retreat I have chosen which she will point 
 out.' 
 
 [Cetera desuntJ] 
 
LETTERS. 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 LETTER I. 1 
 
 On receiving a letter and some books. 
 
 [1811.] 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, I am just about to step into the 
 mail for a week's absence from town, and have only 
 time to say that I have received your letter, which I 
 have read with gratitude and admiration. How you, 
 who write so much in public, can afford to write so 
 well in private, is miraculous. I shall take your books 
 with me, and hope to tell you all I think and feel 
 about them at Beckenham. 
 
 Bury Street, Monday Evening. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 On Mr. Moore's Opera o/l/.P., or The Blue-stocking ; 
 Mr. Leigh Hunt's Feast of the Poets, fyc. 
 
 [Post-mark, 1811.] 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, It was my intention upon receiv- 
 ing the last letter with which you favoured me, to 
 answer it by a visit, and that immediately ; but I was 
 hurried oif to the country by the sickness of a friend ; 
 and since my return I have been occupied in a way 
 that makes me very unfit society for you, namely, 
 in writing bad jokes for the galleries of the Lyceum. 
 
 1 The italics in all the following letters are the writer's own. 
 
392 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 To make the galleries laugh is in itself sufficiently de- 
 grading, but to try to make them laugh and fail (which 
 I fear will be my destiny) is deplorable indeed. The 
 secret of it however is, that, upon my last return from 
 Ireland, in one of those moments of weakness to which 
 poets and their purses are too liable, I agreed to give 
 Arnold a piece for the summer, and you may perceive 
 by the lateness of my appearance, with what reluctance 
 I have performed my engagement. 
 
 It will no doubt occur to you, upon reading the first 
 page of this note, that the whole purport of it is to ask 
 for mercy ; but the kind terms in which you have 
 spoken of some things I have written, make me too- 
 much interested in your sincerity to ask for, or ivish, 
 the slightest breach of it. I have no doubt that in 
 this instance you will treat me with severity, and I am 
 just as sure that, if you do, I shall have deserved it. Only 
 say that you expected something better from me, and 
 I shall be satisfied. 
 
 I must (though late) thank you for your last Reflec- 
 tor. The poem to which you were good enough to direct 
 my attention interested me extremely ; there is nothing 
 so delightful as those alternate sinkings and risings, 
 both of feeling and style, which you have exhibited in 
 those verses, and you cannot think how gracefully it 
 becomes the high philosophy of your mind to saunter 
 now and then among the flowers of poetry. Do in- 
 dulge her with a few more walks, I beseech you. 
 
 I am afraid you look upon me as a bad politician, 
 or you would likewise have bid me read the fine article, 
 entitled (if I recollect right) 'A Ketrospect of Public 
 Affairs.' It is most ably done ; but you write too well 
 for a politician, and it is really a pity to go to the 
 expense of fulminating gold, when common gunpowder 
 serves the purpose just as well. 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 393 
 
 I shall not call upon you now till I have passed the 
 ordeal ; but till then, and ever, believe me, my dear 
 Sir, 
 
 Yours with much esteem, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Bury Street, Saturday. 
 
 The fragment which Carpenter told you I had for 
 the Reflector was wickedly political. Some of the allu- 
 sions have now lost their hold, but you shall see it, and 
 perhaps something may, with your assistance, be yet 
 made of it. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 On M.P., or The Blue-stocking. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, I have not the least fear that you 
 will make any ungenerous use of the anxiety which I 
 express with respect to your good opinion of me. I 
 dare say you have read in The Times of yesterday the 
 very well-written, and (I confess) but too just account 
 which they give of the shooting of my fooVs-bolt on 
 Monday. The only misrepresentation I can accuse them 
 of (and that I feel very sensibly) is the charge of Royal- 
 ism and courtiership which they have founded upon 
 my foolish clap-trap with respect to the Regent ; this- 
 has astonished me the more, as the Opera underwent a 
 very severe cutting from the Licenser for a very opposite 
 quality to courtiership, and it is merely lest you should 
 be led into a mistake (from the little consideration you 
 can afford to give to such nonsense) that I trouble you 
 with this note. 
 
 If the child's plea, ' I'll never do so again,' could 
 soften criticism, I may be depended upon from this 
 moment for a most hearty abjuration of the stage, and 
 
394 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 all its heresies of pun, equivoque, and claptrap : however 
 humble I may be in other departments of literature, I 
 am quite conscious of being contemptible in this. 
 Yours, my dear Sir, very truly, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 27 Bury Street, Wednesday. 
 
 Did you receive a note I sent you about a week 
 ago? 
 
 LETTER 1Y. 
 
 On the Feast of the Poets ; Lord Moira, fyc. 
 
 [Post-mark, August 1812.] 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, I am sorry to find by your Ex- 
 aminer of last Sunday that you are ill, and I sincerely 
 hope, both for the sake of yourself and the world, that 
 it is not an indisposition of any serious nature. I have 
 very often since I left town had thoughts of writing to 
 you ; not that I had anything to say, but merely to 
 keep myself alive In your recollection, till some lucky 
 jostle in our life's journey throws us closer together 
 than we have hitherto been. It is not true, however, 
 that I have had nothing to say to you, for I have to 
 thank you for your poem in the Reflects, which I 
 would praise for its beauty, if my praises could be thought 
 disinterested enough to please you but it has won my 
 heart rather too much to leave my judgment fair play ; 
 and the pleasure of being praised by you makes me in- 
 capable of returning the compliment : all that I can tell 
 you is, that your good opinion of me in general is paid 
 back with interest tenfold, and that my thoughts about 
 you are so well known to those I live with, that I have the 
 pleasure of finding you acknowledged among them by no 
 other title than ' Moore's Friend.' I suppose you have 
 heard that I suddenly burst upon my acquaintances last 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 395 
 
 spring, in the new characters of husband and father, 
 and I hope you will believe me, when I say that (though 
 my little intercourse with you might have made such a 
 confidence impertinent on my side) I often wished to 
 make you one of the very few friends who knew the 
 secret of my happiness, and witnessed my enjoyment of 
 it. I rather think, too, that if you were acquainted 
 with the story of my marriage, it would not tend to 
 lower me from that place] which I am proud to believe 
 I hold in your esteem. I have got a small house and 
 large garden here in the neighbourhood of Lord Moira's 
 fine library, and feel happy in the consciousness that I 
 have indeed ' mended my notions of pleasure,' and that 
 I am likely, after all, to be what men like you approve. 
 Mrs. Moore and I have been for these ten days past 
 on a visit to our noble neighbour, who is at length pre- 
 paring for an old age of independence, by a manly and 
 summary system of retrenchment. He has dismissed 
 nearly all his servants, and is retiring to a small house in 
 Sussex, leaving his park and fine library here to solitude 
 and me. How I have mourned over his late negoti- 
 ation ! A sword looks crooked in water, and the weak 
 medium of Carlton House has given an appearance of 
 obliquity even to Lord Moira ; but both the sword and 
 he may be depended on still at least I think so. 
 
 I was very much flattered by your taking some 
 doggerel of mine out of the Morning Chronicle some 
 months since, called c The Insurrection of the Papers.' 
 I don't know whether you saw ' The Plumassier ' about 
 the same time. It was mine also, but not so good. I 
 hope next year, when I have got over a work I am 
 about, to help you with a few shafts of ridicule in the 
 noble warfare you are engaged in, since I find that you 
 have thought some of them not unworthy your notice. 
 
 With best regards to Mrs. Hunt and your little 
 
396 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 child, for whom I could supply a companion picture, 
 I am, my dear Sir, 
 
 Most truly yours, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 Wednesday. 
 
 I shall take the liberty of paying the postage of 
 this, lest it might not be received at the Office. 
 
 LETTER Y. 
 
 On Mr. Hunt's Imprisonment ; Lord Moira, fyc. 
 
 Kegworth, Leicestershire, Thursday. 
 [February 1813.] 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, I was well aware that, on the first 
 novelty of your imprisonment, you would be over- 
 whelmed with all sorts of congratulations and con- 
 dolences, and therefore resolved to reserve my tribute 
 both of approbation and sympathy, till the gloss of your 
 chains was a little gone off, and both friends and starers 
 had got somewhat accustomed to them. If I were now 
 to tell you half of what I have thought and felt in your 
 favour during this period, I fear it would be more than 
 you know enough of me to give me credit for ; and I 
 shall therefore only say in true Irish phrase and spirit, 
 that my heart takes you by the hand most cordially, 
 and that I only wish heaven had given me a brother 
 whom I could think so well of and feel so warmly about. 
 I hope to be in London in about four or five weeks, 
 when one of my first visits shall be to Horsemonger 
 Lane, and I trust I shall find your restrictions so far 
 relaxed as to allow of my not merely looking at you 
 through the bars, but passing an hour or two with you 
 in your room. 
 
 I have long observed, and (I must confess) wondered 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 397 
 
 at your retenue about Lord Moira, and have sometimes 
 flattered myself (forgive me for being so vain, and so 
 little just, perhaps, to your sense of duty) that a little 
 regard for me was at the bottom of your forbearance, 
 for you have always struck me as one whom Nature 
 never destined ' accusatoriam vitam vivere,' and who, 
 if you were to live much among us Lilliputians of this 
 world, would soon find your giant limbs entangled with 
 a multitude of almost invisible heart-strings ; but be 
 this as it may, I must acknowledge (with a candour 
 which is wrung from me) that Lord Moira's conduct 
 no longer deserves your approbation, and when I say 
 this, I trust I need not add, that it no longer has mine. 
 His kindnesses to me of course I can never forget, but 
 they are remembered as one remembers the kindnesses 
 of a faithless mistress, and that esteem, that reverence, 
 which was the soul of all, is fled. His though tfulness 
 about me, indeed, remained to the last, and in the 
 interview which I had with him immediately on his 
 coming down here after his appointment, he said that, 
 though he had nothing sufficiently good in his Indian 
 patronage to warrant my taking such an expensive 
 voyage, yet it was in his power, by exchange of 
 patronage with Ministers, to serve me at home, and 
 that he meant to provide for me in this way : to which 
 I answered, with many acknowledgments for his 
 friendship, that ' I begged he would not take the 
 trouble of making any such application, as I would 
 infinitely rather struggle on as I am, than accept of 
 anything under such a system.' I must add (because 
 it is creditable to him), that this refusal, though so 
 significantly conveyed, and still more strongly after- 
 wards by letter, did not offend him, and that he con- 
 tinued the most cordial attentions to us during the 
 remainder of his stay. I know you will forgive this 
 
398 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 egotism, and would perhaps trouble you with a little 
 more of it, if the unrelenting post-time were not very 
 nearly at hand. 
 
 From yours ever, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 LETTER VI. 
 
 Mayfield Cottage, Monday Evening. 
 [Post-mark, August 1813.] 
 
 MY DEAR HUNT, 
 
 I hope you see my friend Lord Byron often ; one of 
 the very few London pleasures I envy him, is the visit 
 to Horsemonger Lane now and then. 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 LETTER VII. 
 
 On the Story of Rimini. 
 
 Mayfield Cottage, March 7, 1814. 
 
 MY DEAR HUNT, I do forgive you for your long 
 silence, though you have much less right to be careless 
 about our non-intercourse than I have. If I knew as 
 little about you and your existence as you know of 
 me, I should not feel quite so patient under the priva- 
 tion, but I have the advantage of communing with you 
 for a very delightful hour every Tuesday evening : of 
 knowing your thoughts upon all that passes, and of 
 exclaiming ' right ! bravo ! exactly ! ' to every senti- 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 399 
 
 merit you express ; whereas, from the very few signs of 
 life I give in the world, you can only take my existence 
 for granted, as we do that of the' 
 
 little woman under the hill, 
 Who, if she's not gone, must live there still. 
 
 However I do forgive you, and only wish I could pay 
 you back a millesimal part of the pleasure which, in 
 various ways, as poet, as politician, as partial friend, 
 you have lately given me. Your ' Eimini ' is beautiful, 
 and its only faults such as you are aware of, and pre- 
 pared to justify : there is that maiden charm of origin- 
 ality about it that 'integer, illibatusque succusj which 
 Columella tells us the bees extract ; that freshness 
 of the living fount, which we look in vain for in the 
 bottled -up Heliconian of ordinary bards ; in short, it 
 is poetry and notwithstanding the quaintnesses, the 
 coinages, and even affectations, with which, here and 
 there 
 
 I had just got so far, my dear Hunt, when I was 
 interrupted by a prosing neighbour, who has put every- 
 thing I meant to say out of my head ; so, there I must 
 leave you, impaled on the point of this broken sentence, 
 and wishing you as little torture there as the nature of 
 the case will allow. I have only time to say again, 
 that your poem is beautiful, and that, if I do not 
 exactly agree with some of your notions about versifi- 
 cation and language, the general spirit of the work has 
 more than satisfied my utmost expectations of you. If 
 you go on thus you will soon make some of Apollo's 
 guests sit 'below the salt.' The additions to this latter 
 poem are excellent, and the lines on Music at the end 
 are full of beauty. 
 
 There are many of the lines of 'Eimini' that 'haunt 
 me like a passion.' I don't know whether I ought to 
 
400 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 own that these are among the number I quote from 
 memory : 
 
 The woe was short, was fugitive, is past ! 
 The song that sweetens it may always last. 
 
 I am afraid you will set this down among your regular, 
 sing-song couplets ; to me it is all music. 
 
 Is it true that your friend Lord B. has taken to the 
 
 beautifully 'mammosa' Mrs. ? Who, after this, 
 
 will call him a ' searcher of dark bosoms ? ' Not a word 
 to him, however, about this last question of mine. 
 Ever, my dear Hunt, most faithfully yours, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 I hope to deliver my mighty work into Longman's 
 hands in May, but of course it will not go to press till 
 after the summer. 
 
 LETTER VIII. 
 
 Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, January 21, 1818. 
 
 MY DEAR HUNT, Having the opportunity of a frank, 
 I must write you a line or two to thank you for your 
 very kind notices of me, and still more to express my 
 regret that in my short and busy visits to town, I had 
 not the happiness, to which I looked forward, of passing 
 at least one day with you and your family. I am 
 always so thrown ' in medias res ' when I go to London, 
 that I have never a minute left for anything agreeable ; 
 but my next visit will, I hope, be one of pleasure, and 
 then you are sure to be brought in among the ingre- 
 dients. For the cordiality with which you have praised 
 and defended me, I am, I assure you, most deeply 
 grateful ; and though less alive, I am sorry to say, both 
 to praise and blame than I used to be, yet coming from 
 a heart and a taste like yours, they cannot fail to touch 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 401 
 
 me very sensibly. You are quite right about the con- 
 ceits that disfigure my poetry ; but you (and others) are 
 quite as wrong in supposing that I hunt after them 
 my greatest difficulty is to hunt them away. If you 
 had ever been in the habit of hearing Curran converse 
 though I by no means intend to compare myself with 
 him in the ready coin of wit yet, from the tricks which 
 his imagination played him while he talked, you might 
 have some idea of the phantasmagoria that mine passes 
 before me while I write. In short, St. Anthony's temp- 
 tations were nothing to what an Irish fancy has to 
 undergo from all its own brood of Will-o'-th' wisps and 
 hobgoblins. 
 
 I was sorry to find that Cobbett found such a sturdy 
 defender in your correspondent of last week ; indeed, 
 I am grieved to the heart at many things I see among 
 the friends of liberty, and begin to fear much more 
 harm from the advocates of the cause than from its 
 enemies. You, however, are always right in politics ; 
 and if you would but keep your theories of religion and 
 morality a little more to yourself (the MANIA on these 
 subjects being so universal and congenital, that he who 
 thinks of curing it is as mad as his PATIENTS), you would 
 gain influence over many minds that you unnecessarily 
 shock and alienate. I would not say this of you in 
 public (for I cannot review my friends), but I say it to 
 you thus privately, with all the anxious sincerity of 
 a well-wisher both to yourself and the cause you so 
 spiritedly advocate. I intended to have written you a 
 long letter, but the post-belle (an old woman whom I 
 employ for that purpose) is ringing her alarum below, 
 and I must finish. 
 
 My best regards to Mrs. Hunt. 
 
 Yours very faithfully, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 D D 
 
402 LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 LETTER IX. 
 
 Sloperton Cottage, Devizes, October 10, 1818. 
 
 MY DEAR HUNT, I intended that a letter from me 
 should accompany your copy of the seventh number of 
 my ' Melodies ' ; but I rather think, from your paper of 
 Sunday last, that Power has had the start of me ; and I 
 only write now to get a little credit from you for my 
 intentions, which in general, indeed, are the best things 
 about me, but which, unfortunately, the matter-of-fact 
 people of the world are never satisfied with. As you 
 have imagination, however, as well as heart, I shall leave 
 you to fancy all the kind things I have felt towards you 
 during the long, long time I have passed in saying 
 nothing whatever about them ; and I am the more 
 inclined just now to trust a good deal to your imagina- 
 tive power, as I am disabled from writing much from a 
 slight strain in my shoulder which I received the night 
 before last when the world was near being a bad poet 
 out of pocket by the upsetting of a carriage in which I 
 was returning from Bowood. 
 
 Shall you be in London about the latter end of 
 November ? I hope to be there about that time, and 
 we must meet ; for I have much to say to you, much 
 to give and receive sympathy about. I suppose that 
 you have heard of the calamity that has befallen me 
 through the defalcation of my deputy at Bermuda, who 
 has made free with the proceeds of two or three ships 
 and cargoes deposited in his hands, and I am likely to 
 be made responsible for the amount. You will, it is 
 most probable, have an opportunity of returning my 
 prison visits ; as, if it comes to the worst, the Rules 
 must be my residence. However (as I have just written 
 to Lord Byron), Unity of Place is one of Aristotle's 
 
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT. 403 
 
 Rules, and, as a poet, I must learn to conform to it. 
 By-the-bye, he has made many inquiries about you in 
 his two last letters to me, and I should be glad to hear 
 from you before I write to him again. I hope you will 
 like my Irish Melodies better than you liked Lalla 
 Rookh. 
 
 You were right about the verses to Sir H. Lowe. 
 Yours, my dear Hunt, very truly, 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 LETTER X. 
 
 Paris, August 20, 1821. 
 
 MY DEAR HUNT, I take the opportunity of a frank 
 to send you a hasty line of acknowledgment for your 
 kind mention of me. I was indeed most happy to see 
 the announcement of your recovery, for public as well 
 as private reasons for, though you have right good 
 auxiliaries, there is but one Richmond in the field 
 after all. 
 
 This is a very delightful place to live in, and if I 
 was not obliged to stay in it, I should find the time 
 pass happily enough ; for were 
 
 Ev'n Paradise itself my prison, 
 Still I should long to leap the crystal walls. 
 
 Your friend Mr. Bowring and I were rather unlucky in 
 our attempts to meet, but we did meet at last, and I 
 liked him exceedingly. 
 
 D D 2 
 
404 DUEL WITH JEFFREY. 
 
 THE LATE DUEL. 
 
 To the Editor of The Morning Post. l 
 
 SIR, Though I am conscious how little the affair 
 in which I have been lately engaged can merit a 
 moment's attention from the public, yet, as some pains 
 have been taken to misrepresent the motives and the 
 manner of it, I hope I shall be forgiven for addressing 
 a few words to you upon the subject. In the first place 
 the quarrel is not to be considered as literary. Though 
 by no means indifferent to the decrees of criticism, I 
 am aware that they are not to be reversed by an appeal 
 to the pistol. The review, however, which Mr. Jeffrey 
 had written, appeared to me to contain more personality 
 than criticism ; to impute to me motives for publica- 
 tion which my heart disclaims and detests, and to assail 
 me altogether, much more as a man than as a writer. 
 Conceiving, therefore, that in the present state of 
 manners) no gentleman can hold such language towards 
 another with impunity, I returned a contradiction to 
 the assertions of Mr. Jeffrey, in terms too plain to be for 
 a moment misunderstood, and the meeting, of which 
 the public has heard, was the consequence. 
 
 With respect to the ridiculous story about the load- 
 ing of the pistols, I shall only say, in addition to the 
 declaration of our seconds, who are men not likely to 
 prefer the safety of a friend to his honour, that any 
 person who takes the trouble of inquiring at Bow Street 
 will learn that the pistol which the officer took from me, 
 was found, upon examination, to be regularly loaded ; 
 though from some accident in the carriage of the pistols 
 to town, that of Mr. Jeffrey was without a ball, and 
 that the discovery of this circumstance was made a 
 
 1 Morning Post., Monday, August 18, 1806. 
 
LETTER TO MRS. SHELLEY. 405 
 
 ground for detaining my pistols a day or two after the 
 magistrate had consented to restore them. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c., &c., 
 
 T. MOORE. 
 
 Bury Street, St. James's, August 16, 1806. 
 
 TO MBS. SHELLEY 
 
 ON RECEIPT OF HEE COLLECTED EDITION OF SHELLEY'S POEMS- 
 
 April 17, 1839. 
 
 I am quite ashamed of not having acknowledged 
 sooner your precious and welcome present, precious 
 doubly, as Shelley's work and your gift. I have a horror 
 of sitting down to write, and in that respect, at least> 
 am fierement poete, always on my feet. Villainous 
 pun ! but I have not time to make a better, and so- 
 you must forgive me. I forget whether I told you 
 that I am also embarked in a Collective Edition, and 
 am just now employed in pruning my juvenilities (cruel 
 operation !) for the Press. In looking over these young 
 things (which I had almost entirely forgot) I find my- 
 self alternately chuckling over what's good in them,, 
 and wondering and cursing at what is bad. 
 
 I do not think of being in town before the middle 
 of May, but hope to find you then well and flourishing. 
 
 Yours ever, 
 
 T. MOORE. 
 
NOTES 
 
 FOR 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON 
 
 (Printed from the original MS.) 
 
[The following paragraphs are derived from a quarto manuscript 
 book of Moore's, partly in pencil, partly in ink, containing in his 
 minutest hand, and with innumerable corrections and interline- 
 ations that render it almost indecipherable, a mass of extracts, 
 memoranda, and rough notes, on the cover of which he has written,. 
 Chiefly Keferences for my Byron. T. MOORE.'] 
 
NOTES FOR LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 B.'s DISLIKE to company and love of solitude, common 
 to persons with very lively imaginations, and who 
 have not the power of giving their fancy vent in 
 conversation. 
 
 The stagnation of Byron's talent during his married 
 life. Had he sunk into a good husband, would have 
 lost his subsequent and finest things. For such wonders 
 a great price must be paid, and one cannot have the 
 tame and the grand together. 
 
 B. disposed to fall gently into the ways of those he 
 lived with to respect what they respected. Would 
 have followed to a certain degree the standard set up 
 for character in England, but ill-used and chased as he 
 was from its society, he became irritated, and, placed 
 out of the reach of these social influences, degenerated. 
 
 The praise he gives me in his letters is so evidently 
 the result rather of his good nature and affection than 
 his judgment, that I have the less scruple in laying it 
 before the world. 
 
 Lord B.'s modesty his looking up to all the men 
 he lived with mention this in talking of his praises of 
 me. 
 
 His slowness in discovering his talent for humorous 
 poetry. 
 
4io NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 The wonderful power his mind showed in being 
 able to concentrate itself upon great subjects in the 
 midst of such society as he kept in Italy applicable 
 chiefly to Kavenna. 
 
 I always anticipated opposition from Lady Byron, 
 &c., about the Memoirs, and could easily perhaps have 
 braved it, but was not prepared to expect his sister, all 
 Ms friends, &c. 
 
 The freedom of spirit against religion all did very 
 well in Voltaire's time, before the grand experiment 
 was tried; but since the Revolution it has become 
 rather mauvais ton, and of late, fortunately perhaps 
 for the world, literature has gone rather on the other 
 tack. 
 
 Avow my having endeavoured to dissuade him from 
 the connexion with Hunt. Had myself refused to join 
 him in a journal, because I thought he ought to stand 
 alone. Had often asked me to join him in undertakings, 
 but I never would. 
 
 Excited himself, evidently, by reading on the sub- 
 jects he was employed about. 
 
 Who is M. S. Gr., to whom one of the early poems is 
 .addressed ? 
 
 To ask Hobhouse or Kinnaird or Drury if they 
 know who are the boys mentioned in ; Childish Recol- 
 lections,' Lycus, Euryalus, &c. 
 
 Must write to Rees to get me Anecdotes of Lord 
 Byron, published by Knight and Lacy in 1825. 
 
 People are deceived by the sound into rating the 
 sense far above its value. Translation exposes this. 
 Read Homer in Madame Dacier. 
 
 Byron, the first very great poet who did not range 
 himself on the right side of human things. 
 
 Inquire of Drury and others whether there exists 
 any copy of that private edition of Lord B.'s early 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 411 
 
 poems, which he had printed before he published them 
 in 1 807, and to which he alludes in a note on ' Childish 
 Recollections.' 
 
 Inquire of Drury about Hobhouse's poems, published 
 while he was abroad. There were some of Lord B.'s 
 in the volume. 
 
 His parody on the speech from the ' Medea ' on 
 the summit of the Cyaneans, a strong proof of the 
 strange mixture of the sublime and ridiculous in his 
 mind. 
 
 B.'s great love for Lord C. lay entirely in his recol- 
 lection and fancy he did not see enough of him to 
 have these cooled by collisions of opinion, by ' trouble- 
 some sincerity,' as he himself calls it, and all those little 
 rubs and shocks which the best friends, who live much 
 together, must experience from each other. 
 
 Must get Sheppard's Devotions, in which there is 
 a letter from B. Must see also in Dr. Clarke's Remains 
 what he says of him. 
 
 Scrope Davies' sending to ask the loan of B.'s pistols 
 to shoot himself. Answer he should be very happy, 
 but that the pistols were great favourites of his, and 
 he was afraid that they would be taken as a deodand. 
 
 What was the exact period of his love for Miss 
 Chaworth ? It could not have been ' during the year 
 he passed in Notts away from college,' for though he 
 speaks of 6 a violent though pure passion ' at that time, 
 he says that the object of it is dead. 
 
 The change of my style not so much in deference to 
 my critics as to my subject. In treating of politicians 
 or political subjects, one may venture to excite a little 
 the imagination of the reader by occasional flights, but 
 when a poet like Lord Byron is the subject, so many 
 images remembered and derived from his Works occur 
 to the mind of the reader, that it would be both 
 
4 i2 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 presumption and bad policy to intrude one's own med- 
 dling images. 
 
 Must see the reviews of the Hours of Idleness at 
 the end of 1808 and beginning of 1809, OrUical 9 
 Monthly, and particularly the Eclectic, in which there 
 was a personal attack on B. (as he mentions in his first 
 letter to Dallas), written, as he supposed, by a reverend 
 doctor in theology. It is evident that B. was flattered 
 by being thus attacked, and still more by the thought 
 that it was a clergyman who did it. The comparison, 
 too, between himself and the bad Lord Lyttelton evi- 
 dently tickled that peculiar vanity of his, which made 
 him delight in being thought worse than he was. 
 
 There could not be a worse preparation for marriage 
 than Byron's preceding life. Had never known any 
 domestic connexions, no regularity of a home, none of 
 that deference to women and that respect for their good 
 qualities which a youth passed among female relatives 
 inspires. The women he had been intimate with all of 
 the worst kind ; even what he called love having been 
 squandered on worthless and corrupt persons then 
 marrying a woman so rigidly the opposite of all he had 
 been accustomed to who brought virtue in its least 
 agreeable form a pedant in goodness, precise and cold 
 in all her tastes and habits. 
 
 Inquire about the edition of his Hours of Idleness 
 which contains the verses to the Duke of Dorset, quoted 
 by Madame de Belloc. 
 
 Confess myself too much under the influence of 
 attachment and admiration to be able to sit in judgment 
 upon his character. Besides, I myself (whatever I may 
 have heard) never saw or experienced anything from him 
 that was not, &c., &c. 
 
 The general impression left upon us by B.'s Works 
 is a sense of power power wantoning, as it were, in 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 413 
 
 the excess of its own strength, and too versatile in its 
 operations to produce any one simple and durable feel- 
 ing in our hearts. Vivacity, gloom, tenderness, sar- 
 casm, succeed each other too rapidly for the current of 
 ordinary feeling to follow them ; we wonder without 
 sympathising ; and the very power of the artist leads us 
 to doubt the sincerity of the man. That diversity of 
 character, which dramatists represent through fictitious 
 personages, Byron assumed himself; and he was either 
 the villain, the enthusiast, the lover, or the jester, 
 according as the wantonness of his omnipotent genius 
 suggested. This the great secret of his whole course, 
 his descents as well as his flights, exuberant power 
 throwing itself out in all directions. B. the first poet 
 that ever mixed these incongruities. Ariosto, whom he 
 originally intended to make his model in ChUde Harold 
 (and failed), was altogether different. 
 
 The two Journals exhibiting the turn of his thoughts 
 and habits at two such very different periods of his life, 
 and in such different scenes the one in the first blaze 
 of his fame in London, &c., &c. 
 
 Egoism almost invariably a characteristic of men 
 of genius. Their mental resources make them inde- 
 pendent of others. Besides, their imagination is with 
 difficulty satisfied : everything combines to throw them 
 back on themselves. Have, in general, been homeless 
 animals. 
 
 Whatever deduction may be made from Lord B.'s 
 generosity in his praise of me from the consideration of 
 how little he had to dread from my rivalry, the same 
 cannot be said of his enthusiasm about Scott, whom he 
 had every reason to consider a dangerous rival. 
 
 Dependence upon others is the great source of social 
 affection. Men of great genius, who are independent of 
 
414 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 external resources, who love solitude, and generally live 
 in a state of abstraction, are in every respect unfit for 
 domestic life. 
 
 The true province of poetry is to embellish and 
 dignify this life, and shed a light over the future, and 
 the poet who employs his art in blackening and degrad- 
 ing human nature, and throwing the darkness of eternal 
 death over the prospect before us, runs counter to the 
 purposes of his high calling. Byron could not help 
 shedding these glories as he went, in spite of the general 
 perverseness of his intention. The light escaped, in 
 spite of him, at every instant. 
 
 Another consideration is that superior natures have 
 almost invariably taken the bright side of things. As 
 we see in ordinary life that it is generally the least 
 enlarged minds that are most ready to find fault and be 
 fastidious, so it is in the views taken of the world by 
 the poetic observer and the mere grumbler. There 
 may be a tinge of sadness in the admiration which the 
 former feels, but there is no malignity or depreciating 
 spirit. The ton moqueur was never yet the tone of a 
 lofty genius, and it was what alone, perhaps, prevented 
 Voltaire from being a great man. Even he avoided it 
 in his loftiest efforts. The doubter may be conscien- 
 tious, but the scoffer never. 
 
 In general the lives of poets have but little to do 
 with their works their habits, affections, peculiarities, 
 are but faintly reflected in them. We therefore seldom 
 feel much interest in them. In B.'s case, however, it is 
 altogether different . He has not left a scrap of writing 
 upon which he did not stamp an image of himself. 
 
 B.'s scene with Lady Blessington the B.'s near 
 their departure lying on the sofa while they were at 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 415 
 
 dinner burst out a-crying. Lady B., fearing that he 
 might be ashamed of it, saying, ' One is often in that 
 sort of mood, when one cannot help crying from ner- 
 vousness/ ' Nervousness ! ' angry that she should think 
 it arose from anything but feeling. 
 
 Lord Holland expostulating with Lord B. on the 
 line about Lord Carlisle 
 
 The paralytic puling of Carlisle, 
 
 as an attack upon a personal misfortune. 6 What, good 
 Grod ! do you mean to say he is actually paralytic, and 
 me of all men [looking down at his foot] to attack 
 such an infirmity. I'll alter it instantly ' (or, ' I'll 
 apologise instantly ' query ? the satire, I believe, had 
 been then suppressed). However, that evening some 
 attack appeared on Lord B., in the Courier, I believe, 
 and next day he said to Lord H. : 'It is now out of the 
 question ; I cannot after this retract anything, as the 
 fellows would triumph over me.' Must ask Lord H. 
 about this. 
 
 The Eebellion at Harrow three claimants for the 
 mastership Evans, Mark Drury, and Butler. Wild- 
 man at the head of the party for M. Drury. A boy 
 telling him ' Byron ' (who was at first inclined to Evans) 
 ' will not join because he will not act second to any one, 
 but you can secure him by giving up the leadership to 
 him.' W. did so, and Byron placed himself at the head 
 of the party. B. was never pupil to Butler, though he 
 lived in the house with him. Butler sending his invita- 
 tions according to the usual form at the end of a term 
 considered always as a sort of Koyal command. B.'s 
 answer that he could not dine with him. Butler after- 
 wards questioned him before the boys on the subject 
 
416 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 whether he had anyone coming to dine with him? 
 ' No.' ' You must have some reason, Lord B.' ' I 
 have.' 'What is it?' 'Why, if you, Dr. Butler, 
 should happen to pass through my part of the county 
 when I was at Newstead, I certainly should not ask, 
 you to dine with me, and therefore feel that I ought 
 not to dine with you.' 
 
 Lord Delaware one of his pets at Harrow. W. 
 thinks his passion for him, Clare, Dorset, and Wing- 
 field was very much their being brother nobles. W., 
 being a monitor, one day had put Delaware on his list 
 for punishment. B. coming up to him, said, ' W., I find 
 you have got Delaware on your list ; pray don't lick 
 him.' ' Why not ? ' ' Why, I don't know, except that 
 he is a brother peer ; but pray don't,' &c. W. did. 
 
 It was the grating of the window in Butler's hall 
 that B. pulled down. 
 
 Mrs. B., arriving from Aberdeen with B. and Mary 
 Gray, asking at the toll-bar whether there was not a 
 nobleman's estate near whose was it ? 'It was Lord 
 Byron's, but he is dead.' ' And who is the heir now ? ' 
 ' They say it's a little boy that lives at Aberdeen.' 
 ' This is him,, God bless him ! ' said Mary Gray, turning 
 to the child and kissing him. Mrs. B. then stayed at 
 Newstead, while Byron was put under the care of 
 Lavender at Nottingham. Lavender's method was, 
 filling his hands full of oil and rubbing the foot with it 
 for a long time, and then twisting it round and screwing 
 it up in a wooden machine. Byron in great pain. 
 Rogers, who was employed at this time to read Latin 
 with him (read Virgil and Cicero), said, ' My lord, I 
 don't feel comfortable at having you sitting opposite 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 417 
 
 me there, in such pain as you must be.' ' Never mind, 
 Mr. Rogers, you shall not see any signs of it in me/ 
 His quizzing Lavender, who was an ignorant quack ; 
 writing down letters in all sorts of forms, and asking 
 Lavender what language it was ; and Lavender, wishing 
 to appear to know, would say it was - . On Lord 
 B.'s being in the neighbourhood after his return from 
 abroad, he bid some one tell Eogers that, beginning- 
 from a certain line which he mentioned in Virgil, he 
 could recite twenty lines on, which he remembered having 
 read with Rogers while he was suffering the most dread- 
 ful pain. When B. came of age, there was a ball given 
 and an ox roasted. Hanson danced at the ball. Byron's 
 system of starvation began early ; sweating himself 
 down; had himself buried in the manure-bed, and 
 remained three-quarters of an hour; walking up the 
 hill in a great-coat. Was never at any expense ; the 
 girls (his harem) all in service about him ; was remarked 
 to have been like his grand-uncle in this, who kept a 
 woman, but made her work very hard. 
 
 Mrs. B. lived at Southwell while B. was in London 
 and at Harrow ; during this time Newstead let to Mr. 
 Clay (?) and to Lord Grey de Ruthyn, who had it 
 some time. When B. came home from Harrow he used 
 to have a bed at Lord Grey's and board with Mrs. 
 Nealy in the yard. B. sent down a girl from St. 
 James's Street ; the consultation of Mrs. Fletcher about 
 her with my informant ' a nice, modest-looking girl.' 
 This girl wheedled B. out of a (Nottingham) lace gown 
 of his mother's, one of the relics he had preserved ; the 
 other relics were a muif and a work-bag. 
 
 The melancholy letters of B. from abroad used to 
 make his mother cry. Mrs. B. died in a fit of passion 
 about the bills of the upholsterer, Brothers. Was 
 sitting on her bed when the fit seized her; her death 
 
 E E 
 
418 NOTES FOR MOORES 
 
 very speedy. B. did not arrive till she was a corpse. 
 His mother's waiting-woman, in passing at night by 
 the room where the body was, found that B. was sitting 
 with it in the dark; went and expostulated with him. 
 He burst into tears, and said, ' Oh, Mrs. - , I had 
 but one friend in the world, and I have lost her.' 
 Hobhouse and he quarrelled once (before the voyage), 
 and Hobhouse went off to town. B. boxing with Rush- 
 ton during his mother's funeral. 
 
 Byron's habit of carrying little pocket-pistols while 
 a boy. This passion in some degree hereditary, for Sir 
 S. Warren related that once when he dined with the old 
 Lord, there was a case of pistols placed on the table. 
 
 The neighbourhood all thought it would be a match 
 between B. and Miss Chaworth. She, Miss Munday, 
 (afterwards Duchess of Newcastle) and B. used to be 
 always riding and playing together. 1 
 
 B. used often to show old Murray the place he had 
 prepared for him, B. himself, and the dog. Old Murray, 
 on Wildman's mentioning the subject (from somebody 
 joking with the old man about it), said, in answer to 
 Wildman's question, ' whether it was still his wish to 
 "be buried there ? ' 'I have been thinking of that, sir, 
 and if I was sure my lord would not be put there, I 
 must say that I wouldn't like to be with the dog alone.' 
 
 Never would visit any of the neighbouring gentle- 
 men ; very close with respect to expenditure. 
 
 The page that came down from Lady Lamb's 
 doubt among the servants whether it was a boy or girl. 
 
 Wildman's account of Cameron at Madame D s ; 2 
 
 the first night B. saw her ; his going away with her ; 
 
 1 The second sentence is erased in the MS. 
 
 2 This name is illegible in the MS. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 419 
 
 redeemed her from D l for 100 guineas. Break- 
 fasted with B. afterwards out at . The separate 
 
 "beds B. always had with women. fi Tell Miss Cameron 
 to come down.' Wildman's surprise. 
 
 There was an execution on Newstead by Brothers, 
 the upholsterer, in 1810 for 1,500^. A notice being 
 pasted on the house, old Murray, fearing to take it 
 down, yet feeling for the dignity of the house, pasted 
 some brown paper over it. 
 
 There were four skulls placed upon light pedestals 
 in Byron's study found at the same time with the cup 
 skull. B. alludes to this in one of his letters to Dallas. 
 
 The private play at Mr. Leacroft's at Southwell; 
 acted Penruddock and Tristram Fickle ; the dining-room 
 at Leacroft's fitted up as a theatre. See his Prologue, 
 which he spoke himself, in his Poems. Colonel Lightfoot, 
 of the Forty-fifth, one of the actors. Dr. Pigot another, 
 and the two Miss Leacrofts. One of the latter married 
 to Captain Oakes, Glocestershire. The epilogue, in 
 which there were good-humoured portraits of all the 
 actors, written by Beecher and spoken by Byron. 
 Heports that it was satirical, and that they were all to 
 be taken off; previous rehearsal, in which it was to be 
 heard and withdrawn if thought wrong. B.'s suppres- 
 sion of his mimicry, in consequence of which the actors 
 themselves entreated it might be preserved. His 
 Doming out with the imitation on the night. 
 
 The first publication of B. was for private circula- 
 tion, Fugitive Pieces. Beecher's poetical expostulation 
 on the licentiousness of some of the pieces. B.'s ready 
 
 1 This name is illegible in the MS. 
 K E 2 
 
420 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 concurrence in his view of it. Embarrassed about the 
 copies he had sent out ; recalled them, and Beecher saw 
 the whole of the impression burned, except the copy he 
 has in his possession, and, I believe, another which was 
 sent to too great a distance to be recalled. This was in 
 1 806. The burning took place immediately on the day 
 of his correspondence with Beecher, which, according to 
 the date of Byron's poem, was November 26,1806. He 
 immediately then set about printing another edition ,. 
 in order to substitute copies for those which he had 
 withdrawn from his friends. This impression was about 
 100, and was printed the beginning of 1807, but never 
 published. Almost immediately after followed the 
 publication of the Hours of Idleness, which went into 
 a second edition, the title Hours of Idleness being 
 omitted, and the volume called merely Poems, Original 
 and Translated. This second edition was dedicated to 
 Lord Carlisle. 
 
 B. saying to Miss Pigot : c I don't know how it is, 
 I sing a great deal better to your playing than to other 
 people's.' ' That's because I play to your singing, while 
 others make you sing to their playing.' 
 
 Being one day out of spirits, Beecher represented to 
 him all the advantages he possessed, among other things 
 6 a mind that placed him above the rest of mankind.' 
 ' Ah ! ' he said, ' if this [laying his hand on his head] 
 places me above the rest of mankind, this [pointing 
 to his foot] places me far, far below them.' 
 
 Captain Leacroft's expostulating with him on his 
 attentions to his sister some threats of calling him 
 out. Byron ready to meet him. Afterwards, on con- 
 sulting Beecher, resolved never to go near the house 
 again, and firmly kept his resolution. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 421 
 
 B.'s habit of answering his correspondents imme- 
 diately gave to his letters all the aptitude and freshness 
 of replies in conversation. 
 
 His peculiarity in not being able to describe any- 
 thing that he had not actually seen. What he saw, he 
 embellished ; but he must have seen it, could not 
 imagine it. Difference between this and those persons 
 whose imagination deals best with what they have not 
 seen ; whom, from their love of truth, facts chill, be- 
 cause they cannot depart from them, and consequently 
 cannot elevate them. 
 
 Must see the file of the Morning Chronicle at the 
 beginning of 1816 on the subject of B.'s separation 
 from Lady B. 
 
 It was natural that such times should produce such 
 a poet as Byron. The revolutionary spirit of the day 
 was as much embodied in him poetically as it was in 
 Napoleon politically and militarily. 
 
 Hobhouse's account of the storm in which B. and 
 Shelley were so nearly lost on the Lake. Shelley wishing 
 to die shortly and easily, going down and sitting on the 
 great trunk and holding by the rings ; the contest 
 between them. B. insisting that he would endeavour 
 to save Shelley, and Shelley refusing. At length B., 
 by threatening to go down with him, prevailed on him 
 to let go the rings, and tied S. and himself together by 
 a handkerchief, I think. S. as brave as a lion, H. 
 says. 
 
 Lord B. a poet through every moment of his exist- 
 ence. The avowals (or rather imputations) of his own 
 wickedness which people took au pied de la lettre 
 
422 . NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 were but shadows of poetry passing over his imagina- 
 tion, and, as it were, reflected in his conversation. 
 
 As B. showed much of the man in the boy, he also 
 continued afterwards to show the boy in the man ; and 
 an inspired schoolboy was what he more than anything 
 else gave one the idea of. The intellect and passions 
 of the man showed themselves prematurely in the boy : 
 and the folly and fanfaronade of the boy mixed with 
 the understanding of the man. 
 
 B.'s attempt at Ariostoism in the first cantos of 
 Childe Harold a failure ; easier to introduce touches of 
 pathos or sublimity in a work generally comic than 
 to descend from the grave and grand to the light or 
 humorous. 
 
 Success at the University requires undivided atten- 
 tion to its studies. A lively and versatile mind thirst- 
 ing for general information will not apply itself in this 
 manner, but will wander in all directions ; and hence 
 generally the dullest most succeed there. 
 
 Such a combination of contrary powers always at 
 work, could the brain have stood it long? The only 
 sign of monomania his passion to be thought bad. 
 
 What produced in Byron's poetic characters the in- 
 consistent union of ' one virtue with a thousand crimes ' 
 arose from his combining in these fanciful creations the 
 generous qualities he really possessed with the bad ones 
 he wished to pass for having. 
 
 What all think (bad as well as good) he uttered 
 the shadows that pass through other people's minds he 
 fixed and embodied. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 423 
 
 Nor was it in the creations of his fancy only that 
 this versatility and love of variety showed itself; one 
 of the most pervading mishaps of his life may be traced 
 to the same fertile source. The pride of personating 
 every description of character, evil as well as good, 
 influenced, as we have seen, but too much of his con- 
 duct ; and as in his poetry, his own experience of the 
 ill-effects of passion was made to furnish materials to 
 his imagination, so in action his imagination supplied 
 most of the dark colouring under which this pride of 
 appearing all things, dark as well as bright, so often 
 led him to disguise his true aspect from the world. 
 To such a perverse length, indeed, did he sometimes 
 carry this fancy for self-defamation, that if, as he him- 
 self in moments of depression supposed, there was any 
 tendency to derangement in his mental faculties, on 
 this point alone could it be pronounced to have showed 
 itself. In the early part of my acquaintance with him, 
 when he most gave way to this humour (it was ob- 
 servable afterwards, when the world joined in his own 
 opinion of himself, he rather shrunk from the echo), I 
 have known him, when a little under the influence of 
 wine, as we have sat together after dinner, to fall 
 seriously into one of these dark and self-accusing moods, 
 and throw out hints of his past life and its deeds, with 
 an air of mystery designed evidently to evoke curiosity 
 and interest. He was, however, too promptly alive to 
 the least approaches of ridicule not to see that gravity 
 was becoming somewhat of an effort of politeness on 
 the part of his hearer, and from that time he never 
 again tried this sort of romantic mystification upon me. 
 From what I have known, however, of his experiments 
 in this way upon more impressible listeners, I have 
 little doubt that to produce effect at the moment there 
 is hardly any crime so dark of which in the excitement 
 
424 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 of this acting upon the imagination of others, he would 
 not hint that he had been guilty ; and it has sometimes 
 occurred to me that the real secret cause of his lady's 
 separation from him, round which herself and her legal 
 advisers have thrown such a formidable mystery, may 
 after all have been nothing more than some dramatic 
 trial of his own fancy and of her credulity, some in- 
 vention in the dramatic guise of confession of undefined 
 horrors meant merely to mystify, his temptation to 
 such tricks being increased by the precise character of 
 his hearer ; but which the lady, unluckily for both, so 
 little understood him as to take seriously. 
 
 From the time of our first meeting there seldom 
 elapsed a day that Lord Byron and I did not see each 
 other, and our acquaintance ripened into intimacy and 
 friendship with a rapidity of which I have seldom seen 
 an example. I was, indeed, lucky in all the circum- 
 stances attending my first introduction to him. In a 
 generous nature like his the pleasure of repairing an 
 injustice would naturally give an additional stimulus 
 to any partiality I had the good fortune to inspire him 
 with ; while the manner in which I had sought this 
 reparation, free as it was from resentment, anger, or 
 defiance, left nothing painful to remember in the trans- 
 actions between us, no compromise or concession that 
 could wound self-love, or take away from the grace of 
 that frank friendship to which he at once so cordially 
 and unhesitatingly admitted me. I was also not a little 
 fortunate in forming my acquaintance with him before 
 his success had yet reached its meridian burst, before 
 the triumphs that were in store for his genius had 
 brought the world all in homage round him. and among 
 the splendid crowds that courted his society, even 
 claims far less humble than mine could have had but a 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 425 
 
 feeble chance of fixing his regard. As it was, the new 
 scene of life that opened upon him with his success, 
 instead of detaching us, as it might have done, from 
 each other, only multiplied our opportunities of meeting 
 and increased our intimacy. In that society where his 
 birth entitled him to move, circumstances had already 
 placed me, notwithstanding mine ; and when, after the 
 appearance of Childe Harold, he came to mingle with 
 the world, the same persons who had been my intimates 
 and friends became his : our visits were mostly to the 
 same places, and in the gay and giddy round of a 
 London spring we were (as in one of his own letters he 
 expresses it) ' embarked in the same Ship of Fools 
 together.' 
 
 But at the time when we first met his position in 
 the world was most solitary. Even those coffee-house 
 companions who, before his departure from England, 
 had served him as a sort of substitute for more worthy 
 society, were either relinquished or had disappeared, and, 
 with the exception of three or four associates of his col- 
 lege days (to whom he appeared very strongly attached), 
 Mr. Dallas and his solicitor seemed to be the only 
 persons whom even in their very questionable degree he 
 could boast of as friends. Though too proud to complain 
 of this singularity in his lot, it was evident that he felt 
 it, and that this sort of cheerless isolation to which his 
 youth had been abandoned, was, on entering into man- 
 hood, one of the chief sources of that resentful disdain 
 of the world which even his subsequent success in it 
 came too late to remove. The effect, indeed, which his 
 commerce with society afterwards hadj for the short 
 time it lasted, in softening and exhilarating his temper, 
 showed how fit a soil his heart would have been for the 
 growth of all the kindlier feelings, had but a little of 
 this sunshine of the world's smiles shone on him earlier. 
 
 A 
 
426 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 At the same time, in all such speculations as to 
 what might have been, under other circumstances, his 
 character, it is always to be borne in mind that his 
 very defects were among the elements of his greatness,, 
 and that it was out of the struggle of the light of his 
 nature with its darkness that his mighty genius drew 
 its strength. A more genial and fostering introduction 
 into life, while it would doubtless have softened and 
 disciplined its mood, might have impaired its vigour,, 
 and the same influences that would have diffused 
 smoothness and happiness over his life, might have- 
 been fatal to its glory. In a short poem of his, which 
 appears to have been produced at Athens (as I find it 
 written in a leaf of the original MS. of Childe Harold, 
 and dated Athens, 1 8 1 1 ), there are two lines which, 
 though hardly intelligible as connected with the rest 
 of the poem, may, taken separately, be interpreted as 
 implying a sort of prophetic consciousness that out of 
 the wreck and ruin of his heart the immortality of his- 
 name was to arise. 
 
 We frequently, during the first months of our ac- 
 quaintance, dined alone together ; and having no Club 
 in common to resort to the Alfred being the only one 
 to which he at that period belonged, and I being a 
 member of none but Watier's, our dinners were either 
 at the St. Alban's or at his old haunt . Under- 
 standing me to have expressed a wish to belong to the 
 same Club with him, he good-naturedly lost no time in 
 proposing me as a candidate ; but the resolution I had 
 then nearly formed of leading in. future a country life 
 being at variance with this, I wrote to beg that he 
 would, for the present at least, withdraw the proposal. 
 
 During all this time, and through the succeeding 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 427 
 
 months of January and February, his poem of Childe 
 Harold was in progress through the press ; and to the 
 changes and additions which he made in the course of 
 printing, some of the most beautiful passages of the 
 work owe their existence. On comparing, indeed, his 
 first rough draught of the two Cantos with the poem as 
 we have it at present, we are made sensible of the power 
 which true genius possesses, not only of surpassing- 
 others, but of improving on itself. . . . There were 
 also in the poem, as first written, several stanzas full 
 of direct personality, and some degenerating into a 
 style even more familiar and ludicrous than that of the 
 description of a London Sunday, which still disfigures 
 the first Canto. 
 
 In thus mixing up the light with the serious, it was 
 the design of the poet to imitate Ariosto. But it is far 
 easier to rise with grace and effect from the level of 
 a story generally familiar into an occasional burst of 
 pathos or splendour than to interrupt a prolonged tone 
 of solemnity by any descent into the ludicrous or the 
 light. 1 In the former case the transition may soften or 
 elevate, but in the latter it almost invariably shocks ; 
 for the same reason, perhaps, that a touch of pathos 
 or high feeling in comedy has a peculiar charm, while 
 the intrusion of comic scenes into tragedy, however 
 sanctioned among us by habit and authority, rarely 
 fails to offend. The noble poet was himself convinced 
 of the failure of the experiment, and in none of the 
 succeeding cantos of Childe Harold repeated it. 
 
 It is a scepticism whose sadness ' calls far more for 
 pity than blame, and through whose very doubts is 
 discernible an inborn warmth of piety, which they 
 have been able to obscure, but not to chill, and which 
 
 1 Vide u<pra, p. 422. 
 
428 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 even under this cloud is worth all the cold, shallow 
 belief of the dignities in religion who as little reason as 
 they feel. 
 
 At the same time with Childe Harold he had three 
 other works in progress through the press. . . . The 
 note upon the . . . poem which had been the hasty 
 origin of our acquaintance was withdrawn in this 
 edition, and a few words of explanation substituted, 
 which, before they were committed to the press, he 
 had the kindness to submit to my perusal. But as my 
 sole object had been the satisfaction of my own feelings, 
 without any view whatever to a public atonement, I 
 attended but little to the terms of the explanation, and 
 have since wholly forgotten them. 
 
 In the month of January, the whole of the two 
 cantos of Childe Harold being printed off, some of the 
 poet's friends, and among others Mr. R. and myself, were 
 so far favoured as to be indulged with a perusal of the 
 sheets. In adverting to this period in his memoranda 
 Lord B. mentioned, as one of the discouraging omens that 
 preceded the publication of this poem, that some of the 
 literary friends to whom he had shown it expressed 
 doubts of its success, and that o<ie of them had told 
 him ' it was too good for the age.' Whoever may have 
 pronounced this opinion (and I am, I fear, the person 
 that must plead guilty to it), the age has, it must be 
 owned, most triumphantly refuted the imputation upon 
 its taste which the remark implied. 
 
 ANCESTORS OF LORD B. 
 
 A biographer, to do justice to Lord B. in the manner 
 he himself would have wished, should certainly not omit 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 429 
 
 to notice the antiquity of the family from which he 
 descended. Among his strongest feelings was that of 
 his rank and ancient descent. The first poem in his 
 Hours of Idleness, written in 1 803, when he was fifteen 
 years of age, contains a proud enumeration of some of 
 the heroes of his race. Old Eobert, John of Horiston, 
 &c. (Must inquire into all these the old pictures at 
 Newstead some still remaining ' Little Sir John with 
 the great beard.') Some story thought to be connected 
 with the images on the panels at Newstead, as on all of 
 them there is the head of a female, with a Moor on one 
 side, and generally a Christian on the other, gazing at 
 her. As some of Byron's ancestors served in the Holy 
 Wars, as he says in the poem just alluded to : 
 
 Proudly to battle 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 these groups are supposed to allude to some of the 
 adventures that befel them. 
 
 Byron standing before the tomb of Gralileo, with 
 Kogers, in the Santa Croce, at Florence (where there 
 are also the tombs of Machiavelli, Michael Angelo, &c.), 
 said : ' I have a pleasure in looking upon that monu- 
 ment he was one of us ' (meaning noble). 
 
 BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 Born January 22, 1788 Dallas says at Dover, the 
 inscription on the urn says in London. Mdme. de Belloc 
 (on what authority ?) represents him as born ' dans une 
 terre de sa mere, a 30 milles d' Aberdeen.' Dr. Ewing, 
 of Aberdeen, in quoting to me the authority of Byron's 
 nurse, Mary Gray, says her impression was that he was 
 born in London, for she understood that the celebrated 
 
430 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 Dr. William Hunter, accoucheur in London, attended 
 his mother on the occasion. Dr. Ewing tells me the 
 Aberdeen people are much inclined to claim him as a 
 native. He used sometimes to speak of himself as 
 Scotch. 
 
 His name of Gordon was that of his mother (Miss 
 Gordon ), and assumed in compliance with a condition 
 imposed by will on whoever should marry her. 
 
 He appears to have been sent when four years old 
 to a school at Aberdeen kept by Mr. Bower, from whose 
 day-book the following extract has been sent to me by 
 Mr. Grant, of Aberdeen, successor to the said school- 
 master, Mr. Bower : 
 
 George Byron Gordon, iQth November, 1792. 1793, paid 
 one guinea. 
 
 Mr. Bower's terms for reading (says my correspondent, 
 Mr. Grant) were five shillings per quarter, so that 
 young Byron must have been under his care about a 
 twelvemonth. On entering her son at this school Mrs. 
 Byron said to Mr. Bower, c I have sent him to you that 
 he may be kept in about,' from which Mr. Grant infers 
 that she already found it difficult to manage him. 
 From 1793 to 1795 Mr. Grant cannot trace him, but 
 supposes he may have been during that interval at 
 Banff Academy, or in the Highlands. In 1795 he 
 entered the Grammar School of Aberdeen, where he 
 remained till the summer of 1798. Mr. Grant had 
 examined the public catalogue of the school, and says 
 that his name does not appear after that period. 
 
 Must not forget Byron's consolation for his lameness 
 in the Greek proverb quoted in one of his letters. Can 
 Lardly, however, quote it, if I recollect the words 
 aright. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 431 
 
 Mrs. Shelley tells me she heard a heedless girl once 
 say to him, ' I think you have a little of the Scotch 
 accent.' ' Good Grod ! I hope not. I am sure I haven't. 
 
 I'd rather the whole d d country were sunk in the 
 
 ocean. I the Scotch accent ! ' 
 
 MRS. MUSTERS. 
 
 B. was a rough boy was two years younger than 
 herself she thought nothing of him was in love with 
 Musters at the time. Byron's hatred of dancing. 
 Scene at Matlock on her dancing with some person who 
 was unknown to her ; his saying pettishly, ' I hope you 
 like your friend.' A vulgar Scottish cousin some time 
 after coming up to him, Mib Chaworth retorted the 
 same phrase: 'I hope you like your friend.' Was 
 alarmed once by a ghost he saw at Newstead (this 
 at a later period) something indistinct he saw in the 
 dusk related by Mrs. Leigh, who was with him at the 
 time. B.'s quarrel with his mother at Southwell, each 
 thinking that the other meditated self-destruction, and 
 going round to the apothecaries to warn them against 
 supplying poison. 
 
 Asked her whether the hall at Annesley was the 
 oratory he mentions ? Said she supposed it might be. 
 Thinks it possible she might have said what he 
 mentioned in his Memoirs : ' What ! me care for that 
 lame boy ! ' 
 
 His mother had his nativity cast when he was very 
 young. Mrs. B. wished to pass for a single woman, but 
 the fortune-teller told her she was married, and had a 
 son who was lame that he would be in danger of being 
 poisoned before he came of age, and would be twice 
 married, his second wife to be a foreigner. 
 
 Passed six weeks at one time at Annesley while his 
 
432 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 mother was at Southwell. Used at first to go back ta 
 Newstead every night to sleep, saying he was afraid to 
 sleep at Annesley because he thought that the pictures 
 had taken a grudge to him on account of the duel, and 
 would come down from their frames. At last one 
 evening he said, ' I saw a bogle last night,' which when 
 the girls (Miss C. and her cousin) were puzzled to know 
 the meaning of, he repeated, ' I saw a bogle a ghost 
 and will not go home to-night.' From this time he 
 always slept there. Used to pass his time chiefly in 
 riding with Miss C. and her cousin, or in sitting doing 
 nothing, pulling his handkerchief, or in firing at a 
 door which opens on the terrace, and which still (Mrs. 
 M. says) has the marks of his bullets. (By-the-bye, 
 Miss JPigot told me that whenever he had nothing else 
 to say he would always say I, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10). 
 The only thing Mrs. Musters remembers to justify 
 the passage about her lover on his hasty steed was 
 their going up to the top of the hill together to see 
 the races at a distance. He was very fond of sitting 
 to hear her play the air of Mary Anne, a great favourite 
 of his partly on account of the name. Used to boast 
 of a locket he had that somebody had given him. Was 
 proud of his beauty : used to say, c I think I'm a good- 
 looking fellow.' 
 
 Appearance of B. at Cephalonia excited great 
 sensation. The figure of Tartar with his high feather 
 and his silver epaulets. B., while he retained his brig, 
 riding often by the Marina, or Parade, out to the point 
 opposite to the Gruardiana island people all trying to 
 get a glimpse of him. Used to put spurs to his horse 
 when any group of ladies appeared, and set off with his 
 attendants after him. Used sometimes afterwards to 
 ride attended by a Suliote in his picturesque costume. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 433 
 
 Mr. H. B. most in his confidence. His visit to Ithaca 
 and going to the Fountain of Arethusa with the resident. 
 Said, 4 If the Greek Government cannot pay me what I 
 have advanced, I will take land or some villages, and 
 collect the Suliotes and live as their landlord.' 
 
 Arrived at Argostoli August 6, 1823, in the brig 
 4 Hercules,' which he had freighted to convey himself 
 and stores. Gramba, H. Brown, Trelawney, and Dr. 
 Bruno, an Italian physician, on board the ship in the 
 harbour for four weeks. Despatched first H. Brown, 
 and shortly afterwards Trelawney, to get accurate in- 
 formation of Greece. Paid off the vessel, landed 
 stores, and took up his residence at Metaxata, a 
 pleasant village four miles and a half from Argostoli. 
 Continued till December 27, when he embarked for 
 Missolonghi. Received with respect waited on by 
 Colonel D. (?) who commanded in the absence of the 
 governor went to an evening party at Colonel D's. 
 Dined with the officers of the garrison made a short 
 speech on his health being drunk, with which he was 
 pleased. Asked Colonel D. very often if he had done 
 well, if he had acquitted himself properly, so little as 
 he was in the habit of public speaking. Dr. Kennedy's 
 intended lecture to a few friends on the truth of the 
 C. religion one of them mentioned it to B. his 
 expressing a wish to be present. c You know,' he said, 
 4 1 am reckoned a black sheep ; yet after all,' he con- 
 tinued, 4 not so black as the world believes me.' Said 
 he would convince Dr. Kennedy that if he had not faith 
 he had at least patience, and would listen throughout 
 the prescribed time (twelve hours) without interrupting 
 him. Lord B. said that he did not like to be called 
 an infidel, as it was 4 a cold and chilling appellation.* 
 
 F F 
 
434 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 The lecture was on a Sunday. The audience did not 
 hear Dr. K. through his twelve hours. I saw, says the 
 Doctor, that his lordship's patience was evidently at an 
 end, and that he wished to be a speaker, and no longer 
 a hearer. B. said that when he was young he went 
 regularly to church, read theological works, and was 
 particularly pleased with Barrow ; said that he was not 
 an infidel who denied the Scriptures and wished to 
 remain in unbelief ; that, on the contrary, he was very 
 desirous to believe, as he experienced no happiness in 
 having his religious opinions so unsteady and unfixed. 
 But he could not understand the Scriptures. Respected 
 those who conscientiously believed, but saw so many 
 who were Christians because they were paid for being 
 so, and from some other such motive which he found 
 out in them, that his reliance on the sincerity of their 
 believing was much shaken. To the similitude used 
 by Dr. K. of the potter and his clay, B. remarked that 
 he would certainly say to the potter, if he were broken 
 in pieces, ' Why do you treat me thus ? ' He also 
 observed that if the whole world were going to hell, he 
 would prefer going with them to going alone to heaven. 
 Byron astonishing the standers-by with his theological 
 knowledge (mentioning Barrow, Stillingfleet, &c.), 
 which Dr. K. questions, and contradicts the assertion 
 that went about that he himself was astonished at B.'s 
 knowledge. ' Lord Calthorpe was the first who called 
 me an atheist when we were at school at Harrow, for 
 which I gave him as good a drubbing as ever he got in 
 his life.' B.'s liveliness and affability. Speaking on 
 the utility of prayer, B. said to Dr. K. : ' Prayer does 
 not consist in the act of kneeling, nor in repeating 
 certain words in a solemn manner. Devotion is the 
 affection of the heart, and this I feel ; for when I view 
 the wonders of creation I bow to the majesty of Heaven, 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 435 
 
 and when I feel the enjoyments of life, health, and 
 happiness, I feel grateful to (rod for having bestowed 
 them upon me.' Had his sister's pocket-bible with 
 Mm, and read it continually. The thing that seemed 
 most to strike Byron (merely because it was poetical) 
 was Dr. K.'s idea that Satan's appearance before (rod 
 in Job must be taken literally. ' Lord B. again ex- 
 pressed how much the belief of the real appearance of 
 Satan to hear and obey the commands of (rod added to 
 his views of the grandeur and majesty of the Creator.' 
 B. did not attend any more of the meetings before 
 mentioned, and Dr. K. seemed to be glad of it, as the 
 remarks of B. (talking as he would be excited to do for 
 impression and effect) could be of little service to his 
 military hearers. The other conversations were with 
 B. alone. B.'s comparison of the witch-scene in Saul 
 with Groethe's devil (Mephistopheles), his opinion that 
 the former was, taking actors, circumstance, &c., into 
 account, the finest and most finished witch-scene ever 
 written or conceived. Groethe's, one of the finest and 
 most sublime specimens of human conceptions. The 
 anecdote of the man in the papers (which Dr. K. 
 mentioned to him), who one evening brought Gain in 
 his hand to a friend, and read some passages of it to 
 him, in which doubts of immortality and of justice 
 upon earth are expressed," and directed his attention 
 to what you had said. Next morning he shot himself. 
 Lord B. looked serious. This seemed to make a great 
 impression on B., and he frequently after recurred to 
 it. ' I do not reject the doctrines of Christianity, I 
 only want sufficient proofs.' A frequent question of 
 his, ' What, then, you think me in a very bad way ? ' 
 4 But,' answered he, ' I am now in a fairer way. I 
 already believe in predestination, which I know you 
 
 F F 2 
 
436 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 believe in, and in the depravity of the human heart in 
 
 general, and of my own in particular. Thus you see 
 
 there are two points in which we agree. I shall get at 
 
 the others by and by, but you cannot expect me to 
 
 become a perfect Christian at once.' Lady B., he said, 
 
 was a great person among the Socinians. Had had 
 
 many disputes with her upon religion, but on comparing 
 
 all points together, found that her religion was very 
 
 much the same with his own. Praised Shelley highly. 
 
 Lord B. on these occasions never let an opportunity for 
 
 a joke or pun escape, but still nothing in his manner 
 
 of levity, or a wish to mock at religion. Showed great 
 
 misgivings and unwillingness about going to Greece. 
 
 ' After all,' said he, ' it is my own indolence that makes 
 
 me dislike to move, for though I have been a sort of 
 
 wanderer on the earth, I have always quitted each 
 
 place of residence with some regret, from a dislike of 
 
 trouble and care, I suppose.' Byron had Southwood 
 
 Smith's book with him, and was much pleased with its 
 
 opportune [reference] to the ' shocking doctrine,' &c. 
 
 &c. 'I cannot decide the point,' said his lordship, 
 
 ' but to my present apprehension it would be a most 
 
 desirable thing could it be proved that ultimately all 
 
 created beings were to be happy. This would appear 
 
 to be most consistent with a Grod whose power is 
 
 omnipotent, and whose principal attribute is love. I 
 
 cannot yield to your doctrine of the eternal duration of 
 
 punishment ; this author's opinion is more humane^ 
 
 and I think he supports it very strongly from Scripture.' 
 
 The Doctor, of course, all for eternal damnation. Dr.. 
 
 Kennedy sent him the account of Rochester's death. 
 
 Had great contempt for the Greeks, and looked only to 
 
 their cause nil boni prater causam. 6 1 am nearly 
 
 reconciled to St. Paul, for he says there is no difference 
 
 between the Jews and the Greeks, and I am exactly of 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 437 
 
 the same opinion, for the characters of both are equally 
 vile.' Dr. K.'s grave proofs that he had mistaken the 
 meaning of the passage very amusing. The liberal 
 way in which he spoke of Hunt as a man of talents 
 and sincerity, and that he would not desert him. ' Do 
 you continue to read your Bible ? ' 'I do,' he said, 
 ' every day.' ' Do you add prayer to it ? ' 4 No,' he 
 said, * I am not so far advanced, and, as I said before, 
 you must give me time.' 
 
 Hearing of his daughter Ada being ill her complaint 
 .a determination of blood to the head a complaint, he 
 said, to which he himself was subject. His right eye 
 inflamed while at Cephalonia imputed it to having 
 j-ead a good deal of late. ' If I said anything dis- 
 respectful of Lady B. I am very much to blame. Lady 
 B. deserves every respect from me, and certainly 
 nothing could give me greater pleasure than a recon- 
 ciliation. (K. had expressed his hope to see this some 
 day or other). His bringing actresses to the house all 
 false. Had sent Hobhouse to her to know the cause of 
 her leaving him, who almost went down on his knees 
 to her. ' I am, and always have been, ready for a 
 reconciliation.' 
 
 No more tragedies, having so completely failed in 
 them, as they say. 
 
 Left his house at Metaxata on the eve of his 
 departure, and took up his residence at an English 
 .gentleman's. On the day he was to embark found him 
 reading Quentin Durward. He was, as usual, in good 
 .spirits. Left a donation for the school for Greek 
 females at Cephalonia. Dr. K.'s anger at the motto of 
 the Greek Telegraph. 
 
 From the time of his arrival till his death was the 
 happiest and brightest (Dr. K. says) of his life. He 
 was not writing any poem, nor engaged in any vice. 
 
438 NOTES FOR MOORE'S 
 
 He was kindly received, and had a prospect of glory 
 before him. He had expected not to be so well received. 
 It was while living on board the brig he made his trip 
 to Ithaca. Had some idea of going to Constantinople 
 to release some Greek captives. As to the danger, the 
 worst they could do was to put him in the Seven 
 Towers. 
 
 'You must have been highly gratified,' said a 
 Scottish gentleman who accompanied him from Ithaca, 
 4 by the classical remembrances,' &c. &c. ' You quite 
 mistake me,' said Lord B., ' I have no poetical humbug 
 about me. I am too old for that. Ideas of that sort 
 are confined to rhyme.' 
 
 ' Take care,' said a gentleman who was riding with 
 him, when they came to a difficult pass of the road, 
 ' take care, lest you fall and break your neck.' * I 
 should not like that,' said his Lordship, ' but should 
 this leg of mine be broken, of which I have not much 
 use, I should not mind, and perhaps I might get a 
 better.' 
 
 The woman who washed for him (at Cephalonia), a 
 soldier's widow, had a smart, genteel-looking girl, her 
 daughter, about fifteen, whom she occasionally sent to 
 his lordship's house with the linen. Lord B. noticed 
 this, and wrote to Wm. H. of the regiment, and 
 requested he would tell her mother not to send her 
 daughter any more. 'You know,' he said, 'what a 
 parcel of rascals my household is composed of, and I 
 should not like the poor girl to get any injury. And 
 don't fail,' he added, ' to let Dr. K. know this good 
 action of mine.' 
 
 Said that he came out to the islands prejudiced 
 against Sir T. Maitland's government of the Greeks. 
 ' But I have now changed my opinion. They are 
 such barbarians that, if I had the government of them, 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 439, 
 
 I would pave these very roads with them.' With the 
 officers who went out to him he used to jest, laugh, 
 smoke, and drink brandy-and-water and porter with 
 the best of them. 
 
 Had generally, he said, a sullen and ill-natured fit 
 every evening at eight o'clock ; used then to scold the 
 servants, &c., till the fit was passed. 
 
 Wrote letters from Nelasah to the Greek Grovern- 
 ment, warning them of the consequence of dissension, 
 &c. &c. Tribute to his strong and sound political views 
 by Count Delladicemo nothing fanciful, &c. &c., but 
 all correct and enlightened. His comfortless residence 
 at Missolonghi the household always in confusion 
 servants in different uniforms, just whatever they liked, 
 some very grotesque. 
 
 He said that when he and Hobhouse were together 
 in Albania, Hobhouse laid hold of a great quantity of 
 manuscript paper, which had fallen out of his portman- 
 teau, and asked what it was. On being told that it was 
 an account of B.'s early life and opinions, he persuaded 
 him to burn it, ' For,' said he, ' if any sudden accident 
 occur they will print it, and thus injure your memory.' 
 ' The loss,' he said, ' is irreparable.' 
 
 In hearing the different causes alleged for his sepa- 
 ration, he seemed amused at the falsehood and absurdity 
 of them. When he had heard all he said, ' The causes 
 were too simple to be soon found out.' 
 
 He used to say Trelawney was an excellent fellow 
 till his Lara and Corsair spoiled him by his attempt- 
 ing to imitate them. 
 
440 NOTES FOR LIFE OF BYRON. 
 
 Byron (Fletcher says in a letter to Dr. K.) used 
 while at Nivier, near Venice, to dismount from his 
 liorse when a procession was passing and fall on his 
 knees till it passed, and once gave a severe reproof to 
 his groom for not doing the same. 
 
 Fondness for alliteration. In fifth edition altering 
 
 For well had Conrad learn'd to awe the crowd, 
 changed to ' curb the crowd.' 
 
441 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 ABE 
 
 ABERDEEN, Lord, 15 
 
 Addison at Venice, 152, note ; his 
 
 Freeholder, 229, note 
 Adele de Senange, 79 
 ^Eschylus, his Agamemnon quoted, 
 
 221 
 
 Alfieri, 155 
 
 Almanack des Gourmands, quoted, 
 
 292, note 
 Amours of Daphnis and Chloe, 56, 
 
 Anacreon, paraphrase of the fifth 
 
 Ode of, 5 ; allusion to, 48 ; 
 
 Lord Thurlow's translations 
 
 from, 49 
 
 An ne Boleyn , 1 1 7- 1 44 
 Anthologia Hibernica, 2-6 
 Apuleius, quoted, 135 
 Arabian Nights, quoted, 264 
 Ariosto, his story of Isabella and 
 
 the Moor, 68 ; quoted, 238, note 
 Aristophanes, his Clouds, 39 
 Aristotle, on the language of 
 
 Tragedy, 133, 358; his Eules, 
 
 402 
 
 Athanasian Creed, the, 31, 181 
 Augustine, St., strange doctrine 
 
 of, 6 1 ; his City of God, 65 ; 
 
 his letters to women, 67 
 
 BA.CON, Lord, quoted, 167, 298 
 Bale, Bishop, 171 
 Balzac on Tertullian, 64 
 Barbeyrac, his treatise 'De la 
 
 morale des Peres,' 62 
 Basil, St., his Letter to a fallen 
 
 Virgin, 74 
 Bayle, his Thoughts on the Comet, 
 
 145 ; his definition of the term 
 
 Protestant, 246 
 
 CAS 
 Beaumarchais, his Figaro, quoted,. 
 
 19 
 
 Beggar's Opera, The, 173 
 
 Bel and the Dragon, 22 
 
 Berkeley, Bishop, his essay on Tar 
 Water, 145 
 
 Bertholdt, 200 
 
 Beza, retort of, 22 
 
 Bliicher, 12-14 
 
 Boccaccio, 148 
 
 Boileau, quoted, 49, 51, 103, 347 
 
 Bologna stone, the, 277, 345 
 
 Bossuet, quoted, 99, note 
 
 Boyd, Hugh Stuart, his Trans- 
 lation of Select Passages from; 
 the Fathers, 55-75 
 
 Bread-Fruit Tree, The, 17 
 
 Broglie, Due de, discourse of, 95 
 
 Buchanan's Elegy upon his Gout, 
 49, note 
 
 Bunbury, Lady Sarah, her per- 
 formance of Jane Shore, 170 
 
 Burke, verses by, 174 
 
 Burney, Dr., on the origin of the 
 Italian opera, 149, note 
 
 Busby, Dr., on Lord Thurlow's 
 Hermttda, 37 
 
 Bute, Lord, as Lothario, 170 
 
 Butler, Mr., on Transubstantia- 
 tion, 124 
 
 Byron, Lord, failure of a poem 
 by, 132 ; his visits to Leigh 
 Hunt in Horsemonger Lane 
 Gaol, 398 ; an amour of, 400 ; 
 his correspondence with Moore,. 
 402, 403 ; Notes for Life of,. 
 409-440 
 
 CANUTE, 21 
 Castlereagh, Lord, 246 
 
442 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 CHA 
 
 Chateaubriand, 76, 77 
 
 Ohiabrera, 154 
 
 Chillingworth, on the Fathers, 56 
 
 Chrysostom, St., his Third Ora- 
 tion on the Incomprehensible, 
 69 ; on the efficacy of prayer, 
 70 
 
 icero, quoted, 83, 162 ; verses 
 by, 173 ; quoted, 247, 248 
 
 Cinthio, 154 
 
 Clemens Alexandrinus, 62, 65 
 
 Oobbett, William, 401 
 
 Colle, licentious piece by, 163 
 
 Collier, Jeremy, 59 
 
 Columella, quoted, 399 
 
 Constant, Benjamin, 112 
 
 Cornaro, Luigi, 154 
 
 Corneille, 158 
 
 Cottin, Madame, 78, 82 
 
 Oowley, on Ovid's banishment, 
 45 ; his translations from Ana- 
 creon, 49 ; obscurity and quib- 
 bling pedantry of, 279 
 
 Cranmer, 141 
 
 Crowne, his Masque of Calisto, 
 168 
 
 Curran, 401 
 
 DANTE, quoted, 44, note; desig- 
 nation of his Divina Commedia, 
 148 ; quoted, 347 
 
 Darwin, quoted, 249 
 
 Davenant, Sir William, 169 
 
 Deuteronomy, quoted, 31 
 
 Donne, 279 
 
 Dorat, Les Baisers, 295 
 
 Dryden, his Annus Mirabilis, 
 quoted, 78 
 
 Duchesuois, Mademoiselle (the 
 actress), 78 
 
 EDINBURGH REVIEW, Contribu- 
 te, 33-220 
 Edward III., 233 
 Eldon, Lord, 12, 27, 44, 45, 49 
 Elizabeth, Queen, 78, 230 
 Euripides, his Iphigenia, quoted, 
 
 144 
 Exeter, Bishop of, 15, 29 
 
 FATHERS, the, 55-75 
 Fenelon on S ;, Basil's Letter to a 
 fallan Virgin, 74, 94 
 
 JOH 
 
 Fitzgerald, Lord Edward, 175 
 Flahaut, Comtesse de. See Souza, 
 
 Madame de 
 Flood, Henry, 173 
 Fox, Charles James, as an amateur 
 
 actor, 170 
 
 Frederick the Great, 188, 245 
 French Novels, 75-92 
 French Official Life, 92-117 
 
 GAMMER GURTON'S Needle, 166 
 Gardiner, Bishop, 138 
 Genlis, Madame de, 78, 91 
 Gesenius, Dr., on Isaiah, 200 
 Gibbon, his Decline and Fall, 145 ; 
 
 quoted, 151 
 
 Gifford on Masques, 167 
 Goethe, his Clavigo, 166, note 
 Goldoni on the Marchese Alber- 
 
 gati, 155 
 
 Grattan, verses by, 173-175 
 Gregory Nazianzen, St., 66; ex- 
 tracts from, 71 
 Grey, Lord, 16 
 
 Grover, H. M., his tragedy of 
 AnneBoleyn, 117, 125-133 
 
 HEPTAMERON, the, of Margaret of 
 Navarre, 119, 124 
 
 Heliodorus, his romance of Thea- 
 gines and Chariclea, 63 
 
 Henry VIII., 118, 121 ; his love- 
 betters to Anne Boleyn, 124 
 
 Higgins, Mr. Godfrey, 210 
 
 Holland, Lord, 41 
 
 Homer, 208 
 
 Horace, Lord Thurlow's transla- 
 tions from, 50 ; his familiar, 60 
 
 Hume, on Berkeley, 146, note; 
 curious passage in the first edi- 
 tion of his History, 231, note 
 
 Hunt, Leigh, Moore's letters to, 
 391-403 ; his Story of Rimini, 
 399 
 
 IRVING, EDWARD, 25, 30 
 
 JEFFREY, on Moore's review of 
 Lord Thurlow's poems, 35 ; 
 Moore's duel with, 404 
 
 Jerome, St., 67, note 
 
 Johnson, Dr., on Addisou's Cato. 
 136 
 
INDEX. 
 
 443 
 
 JON 
 
 PUS 
 
 Jonson, Ben, masques of, 168 
 Jortin, his leaning towards Arian- 
 ism, 1 80 
 Justin the Martyr, St., 57 
 
 KEMBLE, JOHN PHILIP, 126 
 Kilkenny theatricals, 171 
 Koran, the, 241, note, 352 
 
 LACTANTIUS, 73 
 
 La Fayette, Madame, 82, 91 
 
 Lalla Rookh, ' divertissement ' 
 from, 169 ; quoted, 352, note 
 
 Lamartine, verses by, translated 
 by Moore, 75, note, 76 
 
 Lamennais, 100 
 
 La Mothe le Vayer, his Hexame- 
 ron Rustique, 62, note 
 
 Lamp of St. Agatha, the, 6 
 
 Lapland sunset, 345 
 
 Lee, Professor, his Dissertation on 
 the German rationalists, re- 
 viewed, 199 sqq. 
 
 Leibnitz, 188, note 
 
 Le Kain, the tragedian, 162 
 
 Lessing, fable of, 192 
 
 Lingard, Dr., 124, 125, note 
 
 Linnseus, his classification of bats, 
 50 
 
 Livy, quoted, 146, 148 
 
 Lofty Lords, the, 20 
 
 Lorenzo de Medici, 149, 154 
 
 Louis XIV., 101 
 
 Louis, St., ransom of, 344 
 
 Lucan, quoted, 25, note, 36, note 
 
 Lucretius, quoted, 39 
 
 Luther, quoted, 29, 182, note 
 
 MACHIAVELLI, as a comedian, 151, 
 
 Mahomet, his holy pigeon, 352 
 
 Marguerite of Navarre, 158 
 
 Marie Antoinette, 164 
 
 Marot, Clement, 157 
 
 Martial, 60 
 
 Mary Queen of Scots, 78 
 
 Masques, 167 
 
 Menage, 42 
 
 Middletou's Inquiry into Miracles, 
 
 56, 59, note 
 Miguel, Don, 14 
 Milman, Dean, his Anne Boleyn, 
 
 117, 132-144; his History of 
 
 the Jews, 181 ; his surprise on 
 
 hearing that Moore was the 
 
 author of the article on German 
 
 Rationalism 203, note 
 Milner, Dr., 226 sqq. 
 Milton, epithet used by, 74; his 
 
 artillery in Paradise Lost, 78 ; 
 
 his Arcades and Comus, 167, 
 
 174; his Christian Doctrine, 196 
 Moira, Lord, 395, 397 
 Moliere, his Bourgeois Gentil- 
 
 homme, 126 
 
 Montaigne, quoted, 146, 159 
 Montesquieu, quoted, 98, 116, 245 
 Morgan, Lady, her Life of Salva- 
 
 tor Eosa, 155, note 
 Morpeth, Lord, 15 
 Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History, 
 
 quoted, 63 
 
 NAPOLEON, downfall of, 43 ; traits 
 of, 108-111 
 
 O'BRIEN'S Round Towers of Ire- 
 land, reviewed, 204-220 
 
 Origen, 66, 67, note 
 
 Ovid, quoted, 12 ; banishment of, 
 45 
 
 PANURGE, 93, 225 
 
 Philpotts, Henry, Bishop of Exe- 
 ter, 29-31 
 
 Pitt, William, 170 
 
 Plato, 357 
 
 Plautus, 152 
 
 Plotinus, 74 
 
 Politian, his Tragedy of Orfeo, 
 149 ; verses of, 150 
 
 Pompadour, Madame de, her per- 
 formance of the part of Collette 
 in Les Trois Cousines, 161 
 
 Pope, his Rape of the Lock, 59 ; 
 saying of, 174 
 
 Power, Eichard, 176 
 
 Poynder, Mr., 22 
 
 Prophet of the Silver Veil, the, 
 362 
 
 Prince Eegent, the, 12-14, 38, 53, 
 256, note 
 
 Princesse de Cleves, La, 91 
 
 Private Theatricals, 145-176 
 
 Pusey, E. B., his work on German 
 Rationalism reviewed, 183 sqq. 
 
444 
 
 INDEX. 
 
 RAB 
 
 RABELAIS, quoted, 93, 225 
 
 Racine, his Esther and Athal'ie, 
 160 
 
 Radcliffe romances, absurdity of, 8 
 
 Beflector, The, 392-394 
 
 Hose, Rev. Hugh James, his work 
 on German Protestantism re- 
 viewed, 177 sqq. 
 
 Round Towers of Ireland, 204- 
 
 220 
 
 Rousseau, his failure as an actor, 
 
 163 
 
 Russell, Lord John, his History of 
 Europe from the Peace of Utrecht, 
 quoted, 116, note 
 
 SAINT PATRICK, Ode to, 1 1 
 
 Saint Swithin, 1 1 
 
 Salmasius, 64 
 
 Salvator Rosa as a comic actor, 
 
 154 
 
 Schiller, his unsuccessful perform- 
 ance of Clavigo, 165, 166; re- 
 ligious essay by, 198 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter, his Life of 
 Dry den quoted, 212 
 
 Scuderi, ludicrous speech in his 
 tragedy of Dido and ^neas, 
 160 
 
 Shakespeare, quoted, 36, 51; in- 
 debted to Cinthio for some of 
 his stories, 154; quoted, 177 
 
 Shelley's Poems, 405 
 
 Shelley, Mrs., letter of Moore to, 
 
 405 
 
 Shenstone, quoted, 21, note 
 Silvester, Pope, 238, note 
 Smart, Sir George, 40 
 Sophocles, his Electra, 150, his 
 
 (Edipus, 153 
 South, quoted, 65 
 Southey, his Vindiciee Ecclesice 
 
 Anglicance, 125; his Doctor, 220, 
 
 WYA 
 
 Souza, Madame de, novels of, 75- 
 
 92 
 Stael, Madame de, 78 ; her Mle- 
 
 magne, 198 
 Stephen, Henry, 40 
 
 TERTITLLIAN, 62, 64 ; his treatise 
 De Virginibus Velandis, quoted, 
 197 
 
 Thurlow, Lord, Poems of, re- 
 viewed, 35-54 
 
 Toland, 187 
 
 Turner, Sharon, on Margaret, 
 Queen of Navarre, 119; his 
 defence of Henry VIII., 121, 
 124 
 
 ULYSSES, supposed identity of with 
 
 St. Patrick, 207, 208 
 Usher, Archbishop, 234, 238, note 
 
 VALLANCEY, 205-207 
 
 Varillas, quoted, 149, note 
 
 Veiled Prophet, the, 362 
 
 Venantius Fortunatus, 73 
 
 Ver-vert, 51 
 
 Vincentius Fabricius, curious poem 
 by, 249, note 
 
 Virgil, his lines on Rumour quoted, 
 113; his avoidance of certain 
 words, 134, note 
 
 Voltaire, on Henry VIII,, 122; 
 on the old Scriptural dramas, 
 156 ; his performance of the 
 part of Cicero, 162, his Siecle 
 de Louis XIV., quoted, 240, 
 note; his Henriade, quoted, 243, 
 note ; romances of, 304, 342 
 
 WARBTTRTON, quoted, 199 
 Wetherall, 23-25, 26 
 Whyte, Samuel (Moore's school- 
 master), Lines to, 5 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 118 
 
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 The Journal of Maurice de Guerin. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. By CHARLES READE, 
 
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 Peg Wofflngton. By CHARLES READE. 
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 Gastronomy as a Fine Art. By BRILLAT- 
 
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 Anecdotes of the Clergy. T. LARWOOD. 
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 LIBRARY EDITIONS OF NOVELS BY THE BEST AUTHORS, many Illustrated, 
 crown 8vo, cloth extra, 3s. 6d. each. 
 
 The Seamy Side. 
 Ten Years' Tenant. 
 
 By F. M. ALLEN. 
 
 The Green Bird. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 
 Philistia. The Tents of Shem. 
 
 Babylon For Maimie's Sake. 
 
 Strange Stories. The Devil's Die. 
 Beckoning Hand. This Mortal Coil. 
 In all Shades. The Great Taboo. 
 
 Dumaresq's Daughter. | Blood Royal. 
 The Duchess of Powysland. 
 
 By EI>WIN Ii. ARNOLD. 
 Phra the Phoenician. 
 
 By ALAN ST. AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 
 By Rer. S. BAKING GOULD. 
 Red' Spider. I Eve. 
 
 By W. BESANT fc J. RICE. 
 My Little Girl. By Celia's Arbour. 
 Case of Mr.Lucraft. Monks of Thelema. 
 This Son of Yulcan. 
 Golden Butterfly. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By WALTER BEN A NT. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. | Herr Paulus. 
 All in a Garden Fair 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 . For Faith and Freedom. 
 Dorothy Forster. j The Holy Rose. 
 Uncle Jack. | Arm or el of Lyon- 
 
 Childrenof Gibeon. j esse. 
 Sell of St. Paul's. I St. Katherine's by 
 To Call Her Mine. | the Tower. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 The Shadow of the Sword. | Matt. 
 A Child of Nature. | Heir of Linne. 
 The Martyrdom of Madeline. 
 God and the Man. I The New Abelard. 
 Love Me for Ever. Foxglove Manor. 
 Annan Water. I Master of the Mine. 
 
 By HALL CA1NE. 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 A Son of Hagar. | The Deemster. 
 WORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 Village Comedy. 1 You Play Me False. 
 
 By WILKIE COLLINS. 
 
 Armadale. 
 After Dark. 
 No Name. 
 Antonina. | Basil 
 Hide and Seek. 
 The Dead Secret. 
 Queen of Hearts. 
 My Miscellanies. 
 Woman in White. 
 The Moonstone. 
 Man and Wife. 
 Poor Miss Finch. 
 Miss or Mrs? 
 New Magdalen. 
 
 By DUTTON COOK. 
 Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By MATT CRIM. 
 Adventures of a Fair Rebel. 
 
 The Frozen Deap. 
 The Two Destinies. 
 Law and the Lady 
 Haunted Hotel. 
 The Fallen Leaves. 
 Jezebel's Daughter. 
 The Black Robe. 
 Heart and Science. 
 "I Say No." 
 Little Novels. 
 The Evil Genius. 
 The Legacy of Cain 
 A Rogue's Life. 
 Blind Love. 
 
 By WILLIAM 
 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 CITPLES. 
 
 By AL.PHONSE DAUDET. 
 
 The Evangelist ; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 Bv ERASMUS DAWSON. 
 
 The Fountain of Youth. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE. 
 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By J. LEITII DERWENT. 
 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By DICK DONOVAN. 
 
 Tracked to Doom. 
 
 By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. 
 
 Archie Lovell. 
 
 By G. MANVILLE FENN. 
 
 The New Mistress. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 
 Fatal Zero. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 
 Queen Cophetua. I A Real Queen. 
 One by One. | King or Knave? 
 
 Pref. by Sir BARTLE FRE RE. 
 Pandurang Hari. 
 
 By EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
28 
 
 &OOKS PUBLISHED BY 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 Robin Gray. I The Golden Shaft. 
 
 Loving a Dream. | Of High Degree. 
 The Flower of the Forest. 
 
 JBy E. GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. 
 The Fossicker. 
 
 By CECIL GRIFFITH. 
 Corinthia Marazion. 
 
 By TMOItBLAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 A Waif of the Plains. 
 A Ward of the Golden Gate. 
 A Sappho of Green Springs. 
 Colonel Starbottle's Client. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. Dust. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. Fortune's Fool. 
 Sebastian Strome. Beatrix Randolph. 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir A. HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By ISAAC HENDERSON. 
 Agatha Page. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 The Leaden Casket. | Self-Condemned. 
 That other Person. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By R. ASI1E ICING. 
 A Drawn Game. 
 "The Wearing of the Green." 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 
 lone. 
 
 Paston Carew. 
 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 
 Patricia Kemball. 
 
 Under which Lord? 
 
 "My Love I" 
 
 The Atonement of Learn Dundas. 
 
 The World Well Lost. 
 
 By HENRY W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. 
 Linley Rochford. 
 Miss Misanthrope. 
 
 Donna Quixote. 
 Maid of Athens. 
 Camiola. 
 
 The Waterdale Neighbours. 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 66 y 1>. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 Life's Atonement. Val Strange. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. A Model Father. 
 
 Old Blazer's Hero. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 Cynic Fortune. 
 Tha Way of the World. 
 
 By MURRAY & HERMAN. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 
 By HUME NISBET. 
 "Bail lipl" 
 
 By GEORGES OIINET. 
 A Weird Gift. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies, 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 By OUFDA. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 CeciKJastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 
 Tricotrin. | Puck. 
 Folle Farine. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. I Signa. 
 
 fll 
 
 laprax- 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 
 Shoes. 
 
 In a Winter City. 
 Aria:lne. 
 Friendship. 
 Moths. I Rufflno. 
 Pipistrello. 
 A Village Commune 
 Bimbi. | Wanda. 
 Frescoes. | Othmar. 
 In Maremma. 
 Syrlin.l Guilderoy. 
 Santa Barbara. 
 
 Princess 
 ine. 
 By MARGARET A. PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 In Peril and Privation. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 The Canon's Ward. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 By Proxy. 
 
 Hig 
 
 Talk of $he Town 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 The Burnt Million. 
 The Word and the 
 
 Will. 
 
 Sunny Stories. 
 PRICE. 
 I The Foreigners. 
 
 gh Spirits. 
 Under One Roof. 
 From Exile. 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 By E. C. 
 Valentina. 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival. 
 
 By RBCIIARD PRYCE. 
 Miss Maxwell's Affections. 
 
 By CHARLES READE. 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 The Double Marriage. 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 The Course of True Love. 
 The Autobiography of a Thief. 
 Put Yourself in his Place. 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals* 
 Hard Cash. Wandering Heir- 
 
 Peg Wofflngton. A Woman-Hater 
 ChristieJohnstone. A Simpleton. 
 Griffith Gaunt. Readiana. 
 Foul Play. The Jilt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 By Mr*. J. II. RIDDELL. 
 The Prince of Wales's Garden Party* 
 Weird Stories. 
 
 By F. \V. ROBINSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By W. CLARIS RUSSELL. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 Alone on a Wide Wide Sea. 
 
 By JOHN MAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 Bound to the Wheel. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 By KATHARINE SAUNDERS* 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 Gideon's Rock. I Heart Salvager 
 The High Mills. Sebastian. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, 2l4, PICCADILLY. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By LUKE SHARP. 
 In a Steamer Chair. 
 
 By HAWLEY SMART. 
 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By BERTHA THOMAS. 
 
 Proud Maisie. | The Violin-player. 
 
 By FRANCES E. TROLLOPJE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 Anne Furness. | Mabel's Progress. 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 
 THE PICCADILLY (3/6) NOVELS continued. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
 Marion Fay. Land-Leaguers. 
 
 Tha Way We Live Now. 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 
 By C. C. FRASER-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 The Bride's Pass. I Lady Bell. 
 Noblesse Oblige. | Buried Diamonds. 
 The Blackball Ghosts. 
 
 By MARK. TWAIN. 
 The American Claimant. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 A Soldier's Children. 
 
 CHEAP EDITIONS OF POPULAR NOVELS. 
 
 Post 8vo, illustrated boards, 2s. each. 
 
 By ARTEMUS WARI>. 
 
 Artemus Ward Complete. 
 
 By EDMOND ABOUT. 
 
 The Fellah. 
 
 By HAMILTON AIDE. 
 
 Carr of Carrlyon. | Confidences. 
 By MARY ALBERT. 
 
 Brooke Finchley's Daughter. 
 
 By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 
 Maid, Wife.or Widow? | Valerie's Fate. 
 
 By GRANT ALLEN. 
 Strange Stories. I The Devil's Die. 
 Philistia. This Mortal Coil. 
 
 Babylon. I In all Shades. 
 
 The Beckoning Hand. 
 For Maimie's Sake. | Tents of Shem. 
 The Great Taboo. 
 
 By ALAN ST.AUBYN. 
 A Fellow of Trinity. 
 By Rcr. S. BARING GOULD. 
 Red Spider. | Eve. 
 
 By FRANK. BARRETT. 
 Fettered for Life. 
 Between Life and Death. 
 The Sin of Olga Zassoulich. 
 Folly Morrison. {Honest Davie. 
 Lieut. Barnabas. A Prodigal's Progress. 
 Found Guilty. I A Recoiling Vengeance. 
 For Lovttf.nd Honour. 
 John Ford ; and His Helpmate. 
 By W. BESANT & .1. RICE. 
 
 The Shadow of the 
 Sword. 
 A Child of Nature. 
 God and the Man. 
 Love Me for Ever. 
 Foxglove Manor. 
 The Master of the 
 
 The Martyrdom of 
 Madeline. 
 Annan Water. 
 The New Abelard. 
 Matt. 
 The Heir of Linne. 
 Mine. 
 
 This Son of Vulcan. 
 My Little Girl. 
 CaseofMr.Lucraft. 
 
 By Celia's Arbour. 
 Monks of Thelema. 
 The Seamy Side. 
 
 Vnono'l 
 
 Golden Butterfly. Ten Years' Tenant. 
 Ready-Money Mortiboy. 
 With Harp and Crown. 
 'Twas in Trafalgar's Bay. 
 The Chaplain of the Fleet. 
 
 By WALTER BESANT. 
 Dorothy Forster. I Uncle Jack. 
 Children of Gibeon. | Herr Paulus. 
 All Sorts and Conditions of Men. 
 The Captains' Room. 
 All in a Garden Fair. 
 The World Went Very Well Then. 
 For Faith and Freedom. 
 To Call Her Mine. 
 The Bell of St. Paul's. 
 The Holy Rose. 
 
 By SIIELSLE Y BEAUCHAMP. 
 
 Grantley Grange. 
 
 By FREDERICK BOYLE. 
 
 Camp Notes. | Savage Life. 
 
 Chronicles of No-man's Land. 
 
 By BRET HARTE. 
 
 Flip. I Californian Stories. 
 
 Maruja. | Gabriel Conroy. 
 
 An Heiress of Red Dog. 
 The Luck of Roaring Camp. 
 A Phyllis of the Sierras. 
 
 By HAROLD BRYDGES. 
 
 Uncle Sam at Home. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 By HALL CAINJE. 
 
 The Shadow of a Crime. 
 
 A Son of Hagar. ) The Deemster. 
 
 By Commander CAMERON. 
 
 The Cruise of the "Black Prince." 
 By Mrs. LOVETT CAMERON. 
 Deceivers Ever. [ Juliet's Guardian. 
 
 By AUSTIN CLARE. 
 For the Love of a Lass. 
 
 By Mrs. ARCHER CLIVE. 
 Paul Ferroll. 
 Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife. 
 
 By MACLAREN COBBAN. 
 The Cure of Souls. 
 
 By C. ALLSTON COLLINS. 
 The Bar Sinister. 
 
 MORT. & FRANCES COLLINS. 
 Sweet Anne Page. | Transmigration. 
 From Midnight to Midnight. 
 A Fight with Fortune. 
 Sweet and Twenty. I Village Comedy. 
 Frances. | You Play me False, 
 
 Blacksmith and Scholar. 
 
BOOKS 
 
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 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By WILK1E COLLINS. 
 
 Armadale. j My Miscellanies. 
 
 After Dark. Woman in White. 
 
 No Name. The Moonstone. 
 
 Antonina. | Basil. ! Man and Wife. 
 Hide and Seek. Poor Miss Finch. 
 The Dead Secret. The Fallen Leaves. 
 Queen of Hearts. Jezebel's Daughter 
 Miss or Mrs ? The Black Robe. 
 
 New Magdalen. Heart and Science. 
 The Frozen Deep. "I Say No.' 
 
 Law and the Lady. 
 
 The Evil Genius. 
 
 The Two Destinies. I Little Novels. 
 Haunted Hotel. I Legacy of Cain. 
 A Rogue's Life. ! Blind Love. 
 
 By HI. J. COLOUHOUN. 
 Every Inch a Soldier. 
 
 By BUTTON COOK. 
 Leo. | Paul Foster's Daughter. 
 
 By C. EGBERT CRADDOCK. 
 Prophet of the Great Smoky Mountains. 
 
 By JB. Jl. CROKER. 
 Pretty Miss Neville. 
 A Bird of Passage. 
 Diana Harrington. 
 Proper Pride. 
 
 By WILLIAM CYPLES. 
 Hearts of Gold. 
 
 By ALPHONSE DAUDET. 
 The Evangelist; or, Port Salvation. 
 
 By JAMES DE MILLE. 
 A Castle in Spain. 
 
 By JT. LEITH DERWENT. 
 Our Lady of Tears. | Circe's Lovers. 
 
 By CHARLES DICKENS. 
 Sketches by Boz. I Oliver Twist. 
 Pickwick Papers. | Nicholas Nickleby. 
 
 By I>SK DONOVAN. 
 The Man-Hunter. | Caught at Last! 
 Tracked and Taken. 
 Who Poisoned Hetty Duncan? 
 The Man from Manchester. 
 A Detective's Triumphs. 
 In the Grip of the Law. 
 By -Urs. ANNIE ED WARDEN. 
 A Point of Honour, j Archie Lovell. 
 By M. BETHAM-ED WARDS. 
 Felicia. | Kitty. 
 
 By EDWARD EGGLESTON. 
 Roxy. 
 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD. 
 Bella Donna. I Polly. 
 
 Never Forgotten. | Fatal Zero. 
 The Second Mrs. Tillotson. 
 Seventy-five Brooke Street. 
 The Lady of Brantome. 
 By PERCY FITZGERALD 
 
 ami others. 
 Strange Secrets. 
 
 ALBANY DE FONBLANQUE. 
 Filthy Lucre. 
 
 By R. E. FRANCILLON. 
 Olympia. I Queen Cophetua. 
 
 One by One. King or Knave? 
 
 A Real Queen. | Romances of Law. 
 By HAROLD FREDERICK. 
 Seth's Brother's Wife. 
 The Lawton Girl. 
 
 Pref.br Sir BAR TUB FRERE. 
 JPandurang Hari. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By IIAIN FRISWELL. 
 One of Two. 
 
 By EDWARD GARRETT. 
 The Capel Girls. 
 
 By CHARLES GIBBON. 
 
 In Honour Bound. 
 Flower of Forest. 
 Braes of Yarrow. 
 The Golden Shaft. 
 Of High Degree. 
 Mead and Stream. 
 Loving a Dream. 
 A Hard Knot. 
 Heart's Delight. 
 Blood-Money. 
 
 Robin Gray. 
 Fancy Free. 
 For Lack of Gold. 
 What will the 
 
 World Say? 
 In Love and War. 
 For the King. 
 In Pastures Green. 
 Queen of Meadow. 
 A Heart's Problem. 
 The Dead Heart. 
 
 By WILLIAM GILBERT. 
 Dr. Austin's Guests. I James Duke. 
 The Wizard of the Mountain. 
 
 By ERNEST GLANVILLE. 
 The Lost Heiress. 
 
 By HENRY GREVILLE. 
 A Noble Woman. | Nikanor. 
 
 By JO BIN II A IS BE R TON. 
 Brueton's Bayou. | Country Luck. 
 
 By ANDREW HALLIDAY. 
 Every-Day Papers. 
 
 By Latly DUFFUS HARDY. 
 Paul Wynter's Sacrifice. 
 
 By THOMAS HARDY. 
 Under the Greenwood Tree. 
 By J. BERWICK HARWOOD. 
 The Tenth Earl. 
 
 By JULIAN HAWTHORNE. 
 Garth. Sebastian Strome. 
 
 Ellice Quentin. Dust. 
 Fortune's Fool. Beatrix Randolph. 
 Miss Cadogna. Love or a Name. 
 
 David Poindexter's Disappearance. 
 The Spectre of the Camera. 
 
 By Sir ARTHUR HELPS. 
 Ivan de Biron. 
 
 By HENRY HERMAN. 
 A Leading Lady. 
 
 By Mrs. CASHEL HOEY. 
 The Lover's Creed. 
 By Mrs. GEORGE HOOPER. 
 The House of Raby. 
 
 By TIGHE HOPKINS. 
 'Twixt Love and Duty. 
 
 By Mrs. HUNGERFORD. 
 A Maiden all Forlorn. 
 In Durance Yile. I A Mental Struggle. 
 Marvel. I A Modern Circe. 
 
 By Mrs. ALFRED HUNT. 
 Thornicroft's Model. I Self Condemned. 
 That Other Person. I Leaden Casket. 
 
 By JEAN INGELOW. 
 Fated to be Free. 
 
 By HARRIETT JTAY 
 The Dark Colleen. 
 The Queen of Connaught. 
 
 By MARK KK 12 SHAW. 
 Colonial Facts and Fictions. 
 
 By R. ASHE KING. 
 A Drawn Game. | Passion's Slave. 
 " The Wearing of the Green." 
 Bell Barry. 
 
CHATTO & WINDUS, 214, PICCADILLY. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By JOHN LEYS. 
 The Lindsays. 
 
 By E. LYNN LINTON. 
 Patricia Kemball. Paston Carew. 
 World Well Lost. "My Love!" 
 Under which Lord? lone. 
 The Atonement of Leam Dundas. 
 With a Silken Thread. 
 The Rebel of the Family. 
 Sowing the Wind. 
 
 By HENR>: W. LUCY. 
 Gideon Fleyce. 
 
 By JUSTIN MCCARTHY. 
 
 A Fair Saxon. I Donna Quixote. 
 
 Linley Rochford. Maid of Athens. 
 
 Miss Misanthrope. | Camiola. 
 
 Dear Lady Disdain. 
 
 The Waterdate Neighbours. 
 
 My Enemy's Daughter. 
 
 The Comet of a Season. 
 
 By AGNES MACDONELL. 
 
 Quaker Cousins. 
 
 KATHARINE S. MACCfcUOID. 
 
 The Evil Eye. | Lost Rose. 
 
 By W. H. MALLOCK. 
 
 The New Republic. 
 By FLORENCE MARRYAT. 
 
 Open! Sesame! | Fighting the Air. 
 A Harvest of Wild Oats. 
 Written in Fire. 
 
 By J. MASTERMAN. 
 Haifa-dozen Daughters. 
 By BRANDER MATTHEWS. 
 A Secret of the Sea. 
 
 By LEONARD MERR1CK. 
 The Man who was Good. 
 
 By JEAN MIDDLE MASS. 
 Touch and Go. | Mr. Dorillion. 
 
 By Mrs. MOLES WORTH. 
 Hathercourt Rectory. 
 
 By J. E. MUDDOCIt. 
 Stories Weird and Wonderful. 
 The Dead Man's Secret. 
 By D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. 
 A Model Father. Old Blazer's Hero. 
 Joseph's Coat. Hearts. 
 
 Coals of Fire. Way of the World. 
 
 Val Strange. Cynic Fortune. 
 
 A Life's Atonement. 
 By the Gate of the Sea. 
 A Bit of Human Nature. 
 First Person Singular. 
 
 Ky MURRAY and HERMAN. 
 One Traveller Returns. 
 Paul Jones's Alias. 
 The Bishops' Bible. 
 
 By HENRY MURRAY. 
 A Game of Bluff. 
 
 By ALICE O'HANLON. 
 The UnfQreseen, 1 Chance? or Fatt? 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By GEORGES OHNET. 
 Doctor Rameau. I A Last Love. 
 A Weird Gift. 
 
 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 
 Whiteladies. | The Primrose Path 
 The Greatest Heiress in England. 
 By Mrs. ROBERT O'REILLY. 
 Phoebe's Fortunes. 
 
 By OUIDA. 
 
 Held in Bondage. 
 
 Strathmore. 
 
 Chandos. 
 
 Under Two Flags. 
 
 Idalia. 
 
 CecilCastlemaine's 
 
 Gage. 
 Tricotrin. 
 Puck. 
 
 Folle Farine. 
 A Dog of Flanders. 
 Pascarel. 
 Signa. 
 Princess Naprax- 
 
 ine. 
 
 In a, Winter City. 
 Ariadne. 
 
 Two Little Wooden 
 Shoes. 
 
 Friendship. 
 
 Moths. 
 
 Pipistrello. 
 
 A Village Com- 
 mune. 
 
 Bimbi. 
 
 Wanda. 
 
 Frescoes. 
 
 In Maremma. 
 
 Othmar. 
 
 Guilderoy. 
 
 Ruffino. 
 
 Syrlin. 
 
 Ouida's Wisdom, 
 Wit, and Pathos. 
 
 MARGARET AGNES PAUL. 
 
 Gentle and Simple. 
 
 By JAMES PAYN. 
 
 200 Reward. 
 Marine Residence. 
 Mirk Abbey. 
 By Proxy. 
 Under One Roof. 
 High Spirits. 
 Carlyon's Year. 
 From Exile. 
 For Cash Only. 
 Kit. 
 
 The Canon's Ward . 
 Talk of the Town. 
 Holiday Tasks. 
 
 Bentinck's Tutor. 
 
 Murphy's Master. 
 
 A County Family. 
 
 At Her Mercy. 
 
 Cecil's Tryst. 
 
 ClyffardsofClyffe. 
 
 Foster Brothers. 
 
 Found Dead. 
 
 Best of Husbands. 
 
 Walter's Word. 
 
 Halves. 
 
 Fallen Fortunes. 
 
 Humorous Stories. 
 
 Lost Sir Massingberd. 
 
 A Perfect Treasure. 
 
 A Woman's Vengeance. 
 
 The Family Scapegrace* 
 
 What He Cost Her. 
 
 Gwendoline's Harvest. 
 
 Like Father, Like Son. 
 
 Married Beneath Him. 
 
 Not Wooed, but Won. 
 
 Less Black than We're Painted. 
 
 A Confidential Agent. 
 
 Some Private Views. 
 
 A Grape from a Thorn. 
 
 Glow-worm Tales. 
 
 The Mystery of Mirbridge. 
 
 The Burnt Million. 
 
 The Word and the Will. 
 
 A Prince of the Blood. 
 
 By C. L. PIRK1S. 
 Lady Lovelace. 
 
 By EDGAR A. POUS. 
 The Mystery of Marie Roat. 
 
 By E. c. PRICK:. 
 Yalentina. I The Foreigners, 
 
 Mrs. Lancaster's Rival, 
 Gerald, 
 
BOOKS PUBLISHED BY CHATTO & WINDUS. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 By CHARLES KEADE. 
 
 It is Never Too Late to Mend. 
 
 Christie Johnstone. 
 
 Put Yourself in His Place. 
 
 The Double Marriage. 
 
 Love Me Little, Love Me Long. 
 
 The Cloister and the Hearth. 
 
 The Course of True Love. 
 
 Autobiography of a Thief. 
 
 A Terrible Temptation. 
 
 The Wandering Heir. 
 
 Singleheart and Doubleface. 
 
 Good Stories of Men and other Animals. 
 
 Hard Cash. I A Simpleton. 
 
 Peg Woffington. | Readiana. 
 
 Griffith Gaunt. A Woman-Hater. 
 
 Foul Play. | The Jilt. 
 
 A Perilous Secret. 
 
 y Mrs. j. if. RIDELL. 
 
 Weird Stories. | Fairy Water. 
 Her Mother's Darling. 
 Prince of Wales's Garden Party. 
 Tha Uninhabited House. 
 The Mystery in Palace Gardens. 
 The Nun's Curse. | Idle Tales. 
 By F. W. ROI5INSON. 
 Women are Strange. 
 The Hands of Justice. 
 
 By .JAMES B1UNCIMAN. 
 Skippers and Shellbacks. 
 Grace Balmaign's Sweetheart. 
 Schools and Scholars. 
 
 By W. CLARK KUSSEI.L. 
 Round the Galley Fire. 
 On the Fo'k'sle Head. 
 In the Middle Watch. 
 A Voyage to the Cape. 
 A Book for the Hammock. 
 The Mystery of the "Ocean Star.'* 
 The Romance of Jenny Harlowe. 
 An Ocean Tragedy. 
 My Shipmate Louise. 
 GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. 
 Gaslight and Daylight. 
 
 By JOHN SAUNDERS. 
 Guy Waterman. | Two Dreamers. 
 The Lion in the Path. 
 By KATHARINE StUNDERS. 
 Joan Merryweather. I Heart Salvage. 
 The High Mills. | Sebastian. 
 Margaret and Elizabeth. 
 
 By GEOf*GK R. SIMS. 
 Rogues and Vagabonds. 
 The Ring o' Bells. 
 Mary Jane's Memoirs. 
 Mary Jane Married. 
 Tales of To-day. | Dramas of Life. 
 Tinkletop's Crime. 
 Zeph: A Circus Story. 
 
 By ARTHUR SKETCIILEY. 
 A Match in the Dark. 
 
 By HAWLKY SMART. 
 Without Love or Licence. 
 
 By T. "W. SPEIGHT. 
 The Mysteries of Heron Dyke. 
 The Golden Hoop. I By Devious Ways. 
 , &ef | Back to Life. 
 
 TWO-SHILLING NOVELS continued. 
 
 By R. A. STERNDALE. 
 The Afghan Knife. 
 
 By R. LOUIS STEVENSON. 
 New Arabian Nights. | Prince Otto. 
 BY BERTHA THOMAS. 
 Cressida. | Proud Maisie. 
 
 The Violin-player. 
 
 By WALTER THORNBUKY. 
 Tales for the Marines. 
 Old Stories Re-told. 
 
 T. AR-OLPHUS TROLLOPE. 
 
 Diamond Cut Diamond. 
 
 By F. ELEANOR TROLLOPE. 
 
 Like Ships upon the Sea. 
 
 Anne Furness. j Mabel's Progress. 
 
 By ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 
 
 Frau Frohmann. I Kept in the Dark. 
 
 Marion Fay. | John Caldigatc. 
 
 The Way We Live Now. 
 
 The American Senator. 
 
 Mr. Scarborough's Family. 
 
 The Land-Leaguers. 
 
 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 
 
 By JT. T. TROWRR1DGE. 
 FarnelPs Folly. 
 
 By IVAN TURGENIEFF, &c. 
 Stories from Foreign Novelists. 
 By MARK TWAIN. 
 A Pleasure Trip on the Continent. 
 The Gilded Age. 
 Mark Twain's Sketches. 
 Tom Sawyer. | A Tramp Abroad. 
 The Stolen White Elephant. 
 Huckleberry Finn. 
 Life on the Mississippi. 
 The Prince and the Pauper. 
 
 By C. C. FRASEIt-TYTLER. 
 Mistress Judith. 
 
 By SARAH TYTLER. 
 The Bride's Pass. I Noblesse Oblige. 
 Buried Diamonds. | Disappeared. 
 Saint Mungo'sCity. I Huguenot FamiFy. 
 Lady Bell. | Blackball Gho&ta. 
 
 What She Came Through. 
 Beauty and the Boast. 
 Citoyenne Jaqueline. 
 By Mrs. F. SI. W1,L,IATISON. 
 A Child Widow. 
 
 By J. S. WINTER. 
 Cavalry Life. | Regimental Legends 
 
 By II. F. WOOD. 
 The Passenger from Scotland Yard. 
 The Englishman of the Rue Cain. 
 
 By Lady WOOD. 
 Sabina. 
 
 EL1A PARKER WOOLLFY. 
 Rachel Armstrong; or, Love & Theology, 
 
 By EDMUND YATE. 
 The Forlorn Hope, j Land at Last, 
 Castaway. 
 
 AK0 69, 
 
 rRJTBR9, QRIAT 8AKBQK 
 
IS T.TJE "'* ~tr 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 BERKELEY 
 
 Return to desk from which borrowed. 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 JAN 22 1948 
 
 2?Feb '57TS 
 ca jj 
 
 REC'D U 
 
 JUL 3 
 
 
ttl53>134 
 
 
 301709 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
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