MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 
 
 LONDON BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO 
 ATLANTA SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. 
 
 TORONTO 
 
MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES LAMB 
 
 WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY 
 
 ALFRED AINGER 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED 
 
 ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON 
 
 i 908 
 
First Edition 1885 
 Reprinted 1890, 1897, 1908 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 IN addition to the Stories for Children with which it 
 opens, the present volume contains a selection from 
 various prose papers of Lamb's, printed in his lifetime, 
 but not collected into book-form until long after his death. 
 It was an enthusiastic lover of Charles Lamb in the 
 United States to whom is due the credit of searching 
 for and identifying his many outlying contributions to 
 periodical literature, and this gentleman has as yet received 
 scant justice from Lamb's editors in this country. 
 
 It was in the year 1863 that the late Mr. J. E. Babson 
 of Chelsea, U.S., began publishing in the pages of the 
 Atlantic Monthly Magazine a series of Lamb's papers 
 and essays that had remained apparently unrecognised 
 in the various magazines and newspapers where they 
 originally appeared. In prosecuting his researches Mr. 
 Babson afterwards received the assistance of Mr. Alexander 
 Ireland of Manchester, whose knowledge of the writings 
 of Lamb and Lamb's intimate friends is probably greater 
 than that of any other Englishman. The series was re- 
 issued by Mr. Babson at Boston in the following year, 
 under the title of " E liana, being the hitherto uncollected 
 writings of Charles Lamb." The volume was at once 
 reprinted in England, and, I believe, without any recog- 
 nition of its origin, or the labours of Mr. Babson. During 
 the twenty years that have elapsed, a few fresh pieces by 
 Lamb have been identified and added to Mr. Babson's 
 collection, and have appeared in various English editions. 
 The shorter prose papers in the present volume are there- 
 
 241442 
 
Vi INTRODUCTION. 
 
 fore, for the most part, from Mr. Babson's volume, but 
 in every case they have been compared with the originals 
 in Leigh Hunt's Periodicals, Hone's Tablebooks, and other 
 publications to which they were first contributed. 
 
 While gratefully acknowledging my obligation to Mr. 
 Babson, I have not been able to adopt his theory of the 
 responsibilities of an editor. " The admirers of Elia," he 
 boldly declares in the preface to his volume, " want to 
 possess every scrap and fragment of his inditing. They 
 cannot let oblivion have the least ' notelet ' or ' essay- 
 kin ' of his." I hope that I may still be reckoned among 
 the admirers of Elia, though I refuse assent to this pro- 
 position. The truth is, that every writer of mark leaves 
 behind him shreds and remnants of stuff, some of which 
 are characteristic and worthy of preservation, and some 
 are otherwise ; and it is, in my deliberate opinion, an 
 injustice to any such writer to dilute his reputation by 
 publishing every scrap of writing that he is known to 
 have produced, merely because the necessity of making 
 a choice may expose the editor to the risk of censure. 
 
 I have ventured, then, to omit some half dozen prose 
 pieces that have appeared in the recent editions of Lamb's 
 complete works. In the first place, there are among 
 these certain fragments, which were left fragments not 
 by accident, but because Lamb tired of his task or found 
 he had misconceived his powers. He began a story 
 called Juice Judkins, and wrote only a single chapter. 
 He began turning into prose, under the title of "The 
 Defeat of Time," Thomas Hood's graceful poem, the Plea 
 of the Midsummer Fairies, but left it half finished. He 
 once produced a weak string of conceits on an unsavoury 
 subject, called A Vision of Horns, of which he confessed 
 himself, in a letter to a correspondent, thoroughly ashamed, 
 and which it would have cut him to the quick to think 
 might be permanently associated with his name. Again, 
 most recent editions have included a letter of the poet 
 Thomson's, which Lamb had discovered in a newspaper 
 of the last century and published in the London Magazine. 
 
INTRODUCTION. Vll 
 
 As the letter has long ago been included in standard 
 biographies of Thomson (for instance, the one prefixed to 
 the Aldine Edition of his poems) there seems to be no 
 possible reason for reprinting it once more. A version 
 in prose of the story of Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedy, 
 Cupid's Revenge, and a farce, called The Pawnbroker's 
 Daughter, based upon one of Lamb's early essays in 
 Leigh Hunt's Reflector, I have also accepted the responsi- 
 bility of omitting. 
 
 In taking this course 1" have not acted merely upon 
 personal preference, but on a principle that I think may 
 be claimed as sound. I have not willingly excluded any 
 fragment, however short, which exhibited Lamb's peculiar 
 vein of humour or his unique faculty of criticism. No 
 lack of these will be found in the shorter papers here 
 given. I would point to the remarks on De Foe's 
 Secondary Novels and on Wordsworth's Excursion; to the 
 delightful autobiographical details in Captain Starkey; 
 to the comments on the acting of Miss Kelly and Dowton ; 
 to the amazing parody on a certain well-known style of 
 polite biography in the imaginary memoir of Listen ; to 
 the rare and almost Shakspearian vein of imagination in 
 the speculation on the Religion of Actors, with its wonder- 
 ful image of Munden "making mouths at the invisible 
 event ;" and lastly, to the noble tenderness of parts of the 
 letter to Southey, and, above all, to the pathetic words 
 upon the death of Coleridge. We should be the poorer 
 in our knowledge and appreciation of Charles Lamb 
 without these and other side-lights upon his mind and 
 character. 
 
 The two contributions to Godwin's Library for Children 
 which open the volume have been often reprinted since 
 their first appearance early in the century. The Story of 
 Ulysses was probably the first serious attempt to give 
 literary form to the finest of the world's fairy tales, for 
 the benefit of the young. In passing through Lamb's 
 hands the classic touch must inevitably have given place v/ 
 to the romantic, and it was therefore a gain, rather than 
 
Vlll INTRODUCTION. 
 
 the reverse, that he should have chiefly used the version 
 of George Chapman, whose fine Elizabethan cadence may 
 everywhere be traced. Perhaps the A dventures of Ulysses 
 may yet again one day be found among the standard 
 books of the nursery. It certainly seems a pity that 
 incidents, characters, and images that are part of the 
 current coin of the world's intercourse should not become 
 familiar in the years when imagination is keenest and 
 freshest. 
 
 I make no apology for printing Mrs. Leicester's School 
 as a whole. Three of the stories composing it are by 
 Charles Lamb, the others by his sister. He always 
 loyally upheld the superior value of his sister's contribu- 
 tion ; and indeed she exhibits in them qualities of 
 humour and observation quite as notable as any corre- 
 sponding gift of her brother's. " It is now several days," 
 wrote Walter Savage Landor to Crabb Kobinson in 1831, 
 " since I read the book you recommended to me Mrs. 
 Leicester's School and I feel as if I owed a debt in 
 deferring to thank you for many hours of exquisite 
 delight. Never have I read anything in prose so many 
 times over, within so short a space of time, as The 
 Father's Wedding -Day. Most people, I understand, 
 prefer the first tale in truth a very admirable one but 
 others could have written it. Show me the man or 
 woman, modern or ancient, who could have written this 
 one sentence * When I was dressed in my new frock I 
 J wished poor mamma was alive, to see how fine I was on 
 papa's wedding-day ; and I ran to my favourite station 
 at her bedroom door.' How natural in a little girl is 
 this incongruity this impossibility ! Richardson would 
 have given his Clarissa and Rousseau his Heloise to 
 have imagined it. A fresh source of the pathetic bursts 
 out before us, and not a bitter one. If your Germans 
 can show us anything comparable to what I have tran- 
 scribed, I would almost undergo a year's gurgle of their 
 language for it. The story is admirable throughout 
 incomparable, inimitable 1" 
 
INTRODUCTION. ix 
 
 Of course we recognise here Landor's well-known 
 accent of extravagant generosity, but he was not losing 
 his critical balance. And there are others of Mary 
 Lamb's stories that he might have instanced with 
 enthusiasm. The Young Mahometan, delightful for its 
 renewed memories of Blakesware House, abounds in 
 felicities of phrase. The little girl, spending lonely 
 hours in the library of the old mansion, finds a volume 
 called Mahometanism Explained, and greedily devours it. 
 " The book said that those who believed all the wonder- 
 ful stories which were related of Mahomet were called 
 Mahometans and True Believers; I concluded that I 
 must be a Mahometan, for I believed every word I read." 
 The child broods over her newly-discovered revelation, 
 and yearns that her near relatives should awake to the 
 truth. She becomes so feverish with excitement that 
 her mother comes to sleep in her room. " In the middle 
 of the night I could not resist the strong desire I felt to 
 tell her what preyed so on my mind. I awoke her out 
 of a sound sleep, and begged she would be so kind as to be 
 a Mahometan." This is exquisite; even more so are 
 the particulars that follow of the doctor who was called 
 in, to whom the case was, however, new, "he never 
 having attended a little Mahometan before." The 
 sagacious old doctor is not, however, baffled, but carries 
 off the young lady to spend a few days with himself and 
 his wife, that he may study the case at leisure. " In a 
 few days he fetched me away. His wife was in the 
 carriage with him. Having heard what he said about 
 her prescriptions, I expected, between the doctor and his 
 lady, to undergo a severe course of medicine, especially 
 as I heard him very formally ask her advice what was 
 good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after he had 
 handed me into the carriage. She studied a little while, 
 and then she said a ride to Harlow Fair would not be 
 amiss. He said he was entirely of her opinion, because it 
 suited him to go there to buy a horse." The Mahometan 
 fever, as the reader will anticipate, soon passes away. 
 
X INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It is the sweet humour of Steele and Goldsmith that 
 is here manifest, and the old-fashioned formality of some 
 of the writing, due to the example of Richardson and 
 his school, need be no obstacle to these stories keeping 
 their place among the cherished volumes of the nursery. 
 Mrs. Cowden Clarke tells us how she once heard Charles 
 Lamb address his sister, "with his peculiar mood of 
 tenderness beneath blunt, abrupt speech 'You must 
 die first, Mary.' She nodded with her little quiet nod 
 and sweet smile: 'Yes, I must die first, Charles.'" It 
 was ordered otherwise, as we know ; but in the history 
 of faithful love and duty, as well as in that of English 
 literature, there will be no survivorship. Should Charles 
 and Mary Lamb ever die from the memories of men, it 
 will be on the self-same day. 
 
 In bringing to a conclusion this collection of Lamb's 
 writings, to be followed, as I hope, by a uniform edition 
 of his correspondence, I have once more to thank the 
 many friends who have aided me by information and 
 suggestion, and notably Mr. Alexander Ireland, who never 
 wearies in the service of literary good-fellowship, and 
 whose great knowledge of Lamb's contemporaries has 
 been continually of advantage to me. 
 
 ALFRED AINGER. 
 
 TOE CASTLE, FORT- WILLIAM, 
 August 1885. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL . .1 
 
 The Sailor Uncle ..... 5 
 
 The Farmhouse . .15 
 
 The Changeling . . . . .22 
 
 The Father's Wedding-Day . .42 
 
 The Young Mahometan . . . .46 
 
 Visit to the Cousins . , . . .54 
 
 *The Witch Aunt . . . . .64 
 
 The Merchant's Daughter . . . .71 
 
 * First Going to Church . .75 
 *The Sea- Voyage ... .82 
 
 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES . . . .89 
 
 GUY FAUX . ... 180 
 
 ON THE AMBIGUITIES. ARISING FROM PROPER NAMES . 190 
 ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES . .192 
 
 THE GOOD CLERK, A CHARACTER . . . 200 
 
 THE REYNOLDS GALLERY ..... 207 
 WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION" .... 210 
 THEATRICAL NOTICES . . . 225 
 
 * The tales marked with an asterisk are by Charles Lamb ; 
 the others by his sister Mary. 
 
Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 FIRST FRUITS OF AUSTRALIAN POETRY . . . 235 
 
 THE GENTLE GIANTESS ..... 238 
 ON A PASSAGE IN "THE TEMPEST" . . 242 
 
 LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN WHOSE EDUCATION HAS 
 
 BEEN NEGLECTED ..... 246 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON . . 253 
 
 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. MUNDEN . . . 262 
 
 REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY .... 266 
 
 THE LAST PEACH . . . . . .271 
 
 THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT . . . 274 
 
 THE RELIGION OF ACTORS . . .281 
 
 THE MONTHS . . . . . .285 
 
 REMINISCENCE OF SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN . . 290 
 
 CAPTAIN STARKEY . . . . . 293 
 
 THE Ass . . . . . . .298 
 
 IN RE SQUIRRELS ...... 302 
 
 ESTIMATE OF DEFOE'S SECONDARY NOVELS . . 304 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF A LATE ROYAL ACADEMICIAN . 307 
 
 REMARKABLE CORRESPONDENT .... 315 
 
 THE HUMBLE PETITION OF AN UNFORTUNATE DAY . 318 
 MRS. GlLPIN RIDING TO EDMONTON . . . 320 
 
 SATURDAY NIGHT ...... 322 
 
 THOUGHTS ON PRESENTS OF GAME . . . 325 
 
 A POPULAR FALLACY, THAT A DEFORMED PERSON is A 
 
 LORD ....... 328 
 
 CHARLES LAMB'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY . . .331 
 
 LETTER OF ELIA TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. . . 333 
 
 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM . . 348 
 
 ELIA TO HIS CORRESPONDENTS .... 361 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE 365 
 
CONTENTS. Xlii 
 
 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, AND MISCELLANEOUS 
 VERSE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PKOLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S "REMORSE" . , . 367 
 
 PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S " ANTONIO " . . . 369 
 
 PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S " FAULKENER ". . . 371 
 
 EPILOGUE TO SHERIDAN KNOWLES' " WIFE " . . 372 
 
 To THOMAS STOTHARD, R.A. . . . . .373 
 
 To CLARA K. . . . . . ' .373 
 
 To MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR . . . 3/4 
 
 SAINT CRISPIN TO MR. GIFFORD .... 374 
 
 ON HAYDON'S PICTURE OF CHRIST'S ENTRY INTO JERU- 
 SALEM . . . . . . . 375 
 
 TRANSLATION . . . 375 
 
 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 To SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH .... 377 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE .... 377 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES . . . . .379 
 
 EPIGRAM WRITTEN IN THE LAST REIGN . . .379 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A SlGHT OF WALTHAM CROSS . 380 
 
 " ONE DIP" . .380 
 
 SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE 381 
 
MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL: 
 
 OR, 
 
 THE HISTORY OF SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, 
 
 RELATED BY THEMSELVES. 
 
 TO THE 
 
 YOUNG LADIES AT AMWELL SCHOOL. 
 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS, Though released from the 
 business of the school, the absence of your governess 
 confines me to Am well during the vacation. I cannot 
 better employ my leisure hours than in contributing to 
 the amusement of you, my kind pupils, who, by your 
 affectionate attentions to my instructions, have rendered 
 a life of labour pleasant to me. 
 
 On your return to school I hope to have a fair copy, 
 ready to present to each of you, of your own biographical 
 conversations last winter. 
 
 Accept my thanks for the approbation you were pleased 
 to express when I offered to become your amanuensis. 
 I hope you will find I have executed the office with a 
 tolerably faithful pen, as you know I took notes each day 
 during those conversations, and arranged my materials 
 after you were retired to rest. 
 
 I begin from the day our school commenced. It was 
 opened by your governess for the first time on the - 
 
2 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 day of February. I pass over your several arrivals on 
 the morning of that day. Your governess received you 
 from your friends in her own parlour. 
 
 Every carriage that drove from the door I knew had 
 left a sad heart behind. Your eyes were red with weep- 
 ing, when your governess introduced me to you as the 
 teacher she had engaged to instruct you. She next desired 
 me to show you into the room which we now call the 
 playroom. " The ladies, " said she, " may play and aniuse 
 themselves, and be as happy as they please this evening, 
 that they may be well acquainted with each other before 
 they enter the schoolroom to-morrow morning." 
 
 The traces of tears were on every cheek, and I also 
 was sad; for I, like you, had parted from my friends, 
 and the duties of my profession were new to me, yet I 
 felt that it was improper to give way to my own melan- 
 choly thoughts. I knew that it was my first duty to 
 divert the solitary young strangers ; for I considered that 
 this was very unlike the entrance to an old-established 
 school, where there is always some good-natured girl who 
 will show attentions to a new scholar, and take pleasure 
 in initiating her into the customs and amusements of the 
 place. These, thought I, havo their own amusements to 
 invent ; their own customs to establish. How unlike, too, 
 is this forlorn meeting to old schoolfellows returning after 
 the holidays, when mutual greetings soon lighten the 
 memory of parting sorrow. 
 
 I invited you to draw near a bright fire which blazed 
 in the chimney, and looked the only cheerful thing in 
 the room. 
 
 During our first solemn silence, which, you may re- 
 member, was only broken by my repeated requests that 
 you would make a smaller and still smaller circle, till I 
 saw the fireplace fairly enclosed round, the idea came 
 into my mind, which has since been a source of amusement 
 to you in the recollection, and to myself in particular has 
 been of essential benefit, as it enabled me to form a just 
 estimate of the dispositions of you, my young pupils, and 
 
DEDICATION. 3 
 
 assisted me to adopt my plan of future instructions to 
 each individual temper. 
 
 An introduction to a point we wish to carry, we always 
 feel to be an awkward affair, and generally execute it in 
 an awkward manner ; so I believe I did then ; for when 
 I imparted this idea to you, I think I prefaced it rather 
 too formally for such young auditors ; for I began with 
 telling you that I had read in old authors, that it was not 
 unfrequent in former times, when strangers were assembled 
 together, as we might be, for them to amuse themselves 
 with telling stories either of their own lives, or the 
 adventures of others. "Will you allow me, ladies," I 
 continued, " to persuade you to amuse yourselves in this 
 way ? You will not then look so unsociably upon each 
 other ; for we find that these strangers, of whom we read, 
 were as well acquainted before the conclusion of the first 
 story as if they had known each other many years. Let 
 me prevail upon you to relate some little anecdotes of 
 your own lives. Fictitious tales we can read in books, 
 and they were therefore better adapted to conversation in 
 those times when books of amusement were more scarce 
 than they are at present." 
 
 After many objections of not knowing what to say or 
 how to begin, which I overcame by assuring you how 
 easy it would be, for that every person is naturally 
 eloquent when they are the hero or heroine of their own 
 tale ; the Who should begin ? was next in question. 
 
 I proposed to draw lots, which formed a little amuse- 
 ment of itself. Miss Manners, who till then had been the 
 saddest of the sad, began to brighten, and said it was just 
 like drawing king and queen ; and began to tell us where 
 she passed last Twelfth-day ; but as her narration must 
 have interfered with the more important business of the 
 lottery, I advised her to postpone it till it came to her 
 turn to favour us with the history of her life, when it 
 would appear in its proper order. The first number fell 
 to the share of Miss Villiers, whose joy at drawing what 
 we called the first prize was tempered with shame at 
 
4 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 appearing as the first historian in the company. She 
 wished she had not been the very first : she had passed 
 all her life in a retired village, and had nothing to relate 
 of herself that could give the least entertainment; she 
 had not the least idea in the world where to begin. 
 
 " Begin," said I, "with your name, for that at present 
 is unknown to us. Tell us the first thing you can 
 remember; relate whatever happened to make a great 
 impression on you when you were very young ; and if you 
 find you can connect your story till your arrival here to- 
 day, I am sure we shall listen to you with pleasure ; and 
 if you like to break off, and only treat us with a part of 
 your history, we will excuse you, with many thanks for 
 the amusement which you have afforded us; and the 
 young lady who has drawn the second number will, I 
 hope, take her turn with the same indulgence, to relate 
 either all, or any part of the events of her life, as best 
 pleases her own fancy, or as she finds she can manage it 
 with the most ease to herself." Encouraged by this offer 
 of indulgence, Miss Villiers began. 
 
 If in my report of her story, or in any which follow, I 
 shall appear to make her or you speak an older language 
 than it seems probable that you should use, speaking in 
 your own words, it must be remembered that what is 
 very proper and becoming when spoken, requires to be 
 arranged with some little difference before it can be set 
 down in writing. Little inaccuracies must be pared 
 away, and the whole must assume a more formal and 
 correct appearance. My own way of thinking, I am 
 sensible, will too often intrude itself; but I have endea- 
 voured to preserve, as exactly as I could, your own words 
 and your own peculiarities of style and manner, and to 
 approve myself 
 
 Your faithful historiographer, 
 
 as well as true friend, 
 
 M. B. 
 
, MY 
 
 ELIZABETH VILLIEES. 
 
 MY father is the curate of a village church about five 
 miles from Amwell. I was born in the parsonage-house, 
 which joins the churchyard. The first thing I can 
 remember was my father teaching me the alphabet from 
 the letters on a tombstone that stood at the head of my 
 mother's grave. I used to tap at my father's study door ; 
 I think I now hear him say, " Who is there 1 What do 
 you want, little girl ?" "Go and see mamma. Go and 
 learn pretty letters." Many times in the day would my 
 father lay aside his books and his papers to lead me to 
 this spot, and make me point to the letters, and then set 
 me to spell syllables and words : in this manner, the 
 epitaph on my mother's tomb being my primer and my 
 spelling-book, I learned to read. 
 
 I was one day sitting on a step placed across the 
 churchyard stile, when a gentleman, passing by, heard 
 me distinctly repeat the letters which formed my mother's 
 name, and then say Elizabeth Villiers, with a firm tone, 
 as if I had performed some great matter. This gentle- 
 man was my uncle James, my mother's brother ; he was 
 a lieutenant in the Navy, and had left England a few 
 weeks after the marriage of my father and mother, and 
 now, returned home from a long sea- voyage, he was coming 
 to visit my mother no tidings of her decease having 
 reached him, though she had been dead more than a 
 twelvemonth. 
 
 When my uncle saw me sitting on the stile, and heard 
 me pronounce my mother's name, he looked earnestly in 
 my face, and began to fancy a resemblance to his sister, 
 
6 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 and to think I might be her child. I was too intent on 
 my employment to observe him, and went spelling on. 
 " Who has taught you to spell so prettily, my little maid?" 
 said my uncle. " Mamma," I replied ; for I had an idea 
 that the words on the tombstone were somehow a part of 
 mamma, and that she had taught me. "And who is 
 mamma 1 ?" asked my uncle. "Elizabeth Villiers," I 
 replied ; and then my uncle called me his dear little niece, 
 and said he would go with me to mamma ; he took hold 
 of my hand, intending to lead me home, delighted that 
 he had found out who I was, because he imagined it 
 would be such a pleasant surprise to his sister to see her 
 little daughter bringing home her long-lost sailor uncle. 
 
 I agreed to take him to mamma, but we had a dispute 
 about the way thither. My uncle was for going along 
 the road which led directly up to our house ; I pointed 
 to the churchyard, and said that was the way to mamma. 
 Though impatient of any delay, he was not willing to 
 contest the point with his new relation ; therefore he 
 lifted me over the stile, and was then going to take me 
 along the path to a gate he knew was at the end of our 
 garden ; but no, I would not go that way neither ; letting 
 go his hand, I said, " You do not know the way, I will 
 show you;" and making what haste I could among the 
 long grass and thistles, and jumping over the low graves, 
 he said, as he followed what he called my ivayward steps, 
 " What a positive soul this little niece of mine is ! I 
 knew the way to your mother's house before you were 
 born, child." At last I stopped at my mother's grave, 
 and pointing to the tombstone said, "Here is mamma !" 
 in a voice of exultation, as if I had now convinced him 
 that I knew the way best. I looked up in his face to 
 see him acknowledge his mistake ; but oh ! what a face 
 of sorrow did I see ! I was so frightened, that I have 
 but an imperfect recollection of what followed. I 
 remember I pulled his coat, and cried " Sir, sir !" and 
 tried to move him. I knew not what to do. My mind 
 was in a strange confusion ; I thought I had done some- 
 
THE SAILOR UNCLE. 7 
 
 thing wrong in bringing the gentleman to mamma, to 
 make him cry so sadly ; but what it was I could not tell. 
 This grave had always been a scene of delight to me. 
 In the house my father would often be weary of my 
 prattle, and send me from him ; but here he was all my 
 own. I might say anything, and be as frolicsome as 
 I pleased here; all was cheerfulness and good -humour 
 in our visits to mamma, as we called it. My father 
 would tell me how quietly mamma slept there, and that 
 he and his little Betsy would one day sleep beside 
 mamma in that grave; and when I went to bed, as I 
 laid my little head on the pillow, I used to wish I was 
 sleeping in the grave with my papa and mamma ; and in 
 my childish dreams I used to fancy myself there ; and it 
 was a place within the ground, all smooth, and soft, and 
 green. I never made out any figure of mamma, but still 
 it was the tombstone, and papa, and the smooth green 
 grass, and my head resting upon the elbow of my father. 
 
 How long my uncle remained in this agony of grief I 
 know not to me it seemed a very long time ; at last he 
 took me in his arms, and held me so tight that I began 
 to cry, and ran home to my father and told him that a 
 gentleman was crying about mamma's pretty letters. 
 
 No doubt it was a very affecting meeting between my 
 father and my uncle. I remember that it was the very 
 first day I ever saw my father weep that I was in sad 
 trouble, and went into the kitchen and told Susan, our 
 servant, that papa was crying ; and she wanted to keep 
 me with her, that I might not disturb the conversation ; 
 but I would go back to the parlour to poor papa, and I 
 went in softly and crept between my father's knees. 
 My uncle offered to take me in his arms, but I turned 
 sullenly from him, and clung closer to my father, having 
 conceived a dislike to my uncle because he had made my 
 father cry. 
 
 Now I first learned that my mother's death was a 
 heavy affliction ; for I heard my father tell a melancholy 
 story of her long illness, her death, and what he had 
 
8 MKS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 suffered from her loss. My uncle said what a sad thing 
 it was for my father to be left with such a young child ; 
 but my father replied, his little Betsy was all his comfort, 
 and that, but for me, he should have died with grief. 
 How I could be any comfort to my father, struck me 
 with wonder. I knew I was pleased when he played 
 and talked with me ; but I thought that was all goodness 
 and favour done to me, and I had no notion how I could 
 make any part of his happiness. The sorrow I now 
 heard he had suffered was as new and strange to me. I 
 had no idea that he had ever been unhappy ; his voice 
 was always kind and cheerful ; I had never before seen 
 him weep, or show any such signs of grief as those in 
 which I used to express my little troubles. My thoughts 
 on these subjects were confused and childish ; but from 
 that time I never ceased pondering on the sad story of 
 my dead mamma. 
 
 The next day I went, by mere habit, to the study 
 door, to call papa to the beloved grave ; my mind misgave 
 me, and I could not tap at the door. I went backwards 
 and forwards between the kitchen and the study, and 
 what to do with myself I did not know. My uncle met 
 me in the passage, and said, " Betsy, will you come and 
 walk with me in the garden?" This I refused, for this 
 was not what I wanted, but the old amusement of sitting 
 on the grave and talking to papa. My uncle tried to 
 persuade me, but still I said, " No, no," and ran crying 
 into the kitchen. As he followed me in there, Susan 
 said, "This child is so fretful to-day, I do not know 
 what to do with her." " Ay," said my uncle, " I suppose 
 my poor brother spoils her, having but one." This 
 reflection on my papa made me quite in a little passion 
 of anger, for I had not forgot that with this new uncle 
 SOITOW had first come into our dwelling; I screamed 
 loudly, till my father came out to know what it was all 
 about. He sent my uncle into the parlour, and said he 
 would manage the little wrangler by himself. When 
 my uncle was gone I ceased crying ; my father forgot to 
 
THE SAILOR UNCLE. 9 
 
 lecture me for my ill-humour, or to inquire into the cause, 
 and we were soon seated by the side of the tombstone. 
 No lesson went on that day ; no talking of pretty mamma 
 sleeping in the green grave ; no jumping from the tomb- 
 stone to the ground ; no merry jokes or pleasant stories. 
 I sat upon my father's knee, looking up in his face and 
 thinking, " How sorry papa looks," till having been 
 fatigued with crying, and now oppressed with thought, I 
 fell fast asleep. 
 
 My uncle soon learned from Susan that this place was 
 our constant haunt ; she told him she did verily believe 
 her master would never get the better of the death of 
 her mistress while he continued to teach the child to 
 read at the tombstone ; for though it might soothe his 
 grief, it kept it for ever fresh in his memory. The sight 
 of his sister's grave had been such a shock to my uncle, 
 that he readily entered into Susan's apprehensions ; and 
 concluding that if I were set to study by some other 
 means, there would no longer be a pretence for these 
 visits to the grave, away my kind uncle hastened to the 
 nearest market-town to buy me some books. 
 
 I heard the conference between my uncle and Susan, 
 and I did not approve of his interfering in our pleasure. 
 I saw him take his hat and walk out, and I secretly 
 hoped he was gone beyond seas again, from whence 
 Susan had told me he had come. Where beyond seas 
 was, I could not tell ; but I concluded it was somewhere 
 a great way off. I took my seat on the churchyard 
 stile, and kept looking down the road, and saying, "I 
 hope I shall not see my uncle again. I hope my uncle 
 will not come from beyond seas any more ;" but I said 
 this very softly, and had a kind of notion that I was in 
 a perverse ill-humoured fit. Here I sat till my uncle 
 returned from the market-town with his new purchases. 
 I saw him come walking very fast, with a parcel under 
 his arm. I was very sorry to see him, and I frowned 
 and tried to look very cross. He untied his parcel, and 
 said, "Betsy, I have brought you a pretty book." J 
 
10 
 
 turned my head away, and said, " I don't want a book ;" 
 but I could not help peeping again to look at it. In the 
 hurry of opening the parcel, he had scattered all the 
 books upon the ground, and there I saw fine gilt covers 
 and gay pictures all fluttering about. What a fine 
 sight ! All my resentment vanished, and I held up my 
 face to kiss him, that being my way of thanking my 
 father for any extraordinary favour. 
 
 My uncle had brought himself into rather a trouble- 
 some office ; he had heard me spell so well, that he 
 thought there was nothing to do but to put books into 
 my hand and I should read; yet notwithstanding I 
 spelt tolerably well, the letters in my new library were 
 so much smaller than I had been accustomed to ; they 
 were like Greek characters to me ; I could make nothing 
 at all of them. The honest sailor was not to be dis- 
 couraged by this difficulty ; though unused to play the 
 schoolmaster, he taught me to read the small print with 
 unwearied diligence and patience; and whenever he 
 saw my father and me look as if we wanted to resume 
 our visits to the grave, he would propose some pleasant 
 walk; and if my father said it was too far for the 
 child to walk, he would set me on his shoulder and say, 
 "Then Betsy shall ride!" and in this manner has he 
 carried me many, many miles. 
 
 In these pleasant excursions my uncle seldom forgot 
 to make Susan furnish him with a luncheon, which, 
 though it generally happened every day, made a constant 
 surprise to my papa and me, when, seated under some 
 shady tree, he pulled it out of his pocket, and began to 
 distribute his little store ; and then I used to peep into 
 the other pocket, to see if there were not some currant 
 wine there, and the little bottle of water for me; if, 
 perchance, the water was forgot, then it made another 
 joke, that poor Betsy must be forced to drink a little 
 drop of wine. These are childish things to tell of; and, 
 instead of my own silly history, I wish I could remember 
 the entertaining stories my uncle used to relate of his 
 
THE SAILOR UNCLE. 1] 
 
 voyages and travels, while we sat under the shady trees 
 eating our noontide meal. 
 
 The long visit my uncle made us was such an 
 important event in my life, that I fear I shall tire your 
 patience with talking of him ; but when he is gone, the 
 remainder of my story will be but short. 
 
 The summer months passed away, but not swiftly ; 
 the pleasant walks and the charming stories of my 
 uncle's adventures made them seem like years to me. 
 I remember the approach of winter by the warm great- 
 coat he bought for me, and how proud I was when I 
 first put it on ; and that he called me Little Red Riding 
 Hood, and bade me beware of wolves; and that I 
 laughed, and said there were no such things now ; then 
 he told me how many wolves, and bears, and tigers, and 
 lions he had met with in uninhabited lands that were 
 like Robinson Crusoe's island. Oh, these were happy 
 
 In the winter our walks were shorter and less frequent. 
 My books were now my chief amusement, though my 
 studies were often interrupted by a game of romps with 
 my uncle, which too often ended in a quarrel, because 
 he played so roughly; yet long before this I dearly 
 loved my uncle, and the improvement I made while he 
 was with us was very great indeed. I could now read 
 very well, and the continual habit of listening 'to the 
 conversation of my father and my uncle made me a 
 little woman in understanding ; so that my father said 
 to him, "James, you have made my child quite a 
 companionable little being ! " 
 
 My father often left me alone with my uncle ; some- 
 times to write his sermons ; sometimes to visit the sick, 
 or give counsel to his poor neighbours ; then my uncle 
 used to hold long conversations with me, telling me how 
 I should strive to make my father happy, and endeavour 
 to improve myself when he was gone. Now I began 
 justly to understand why he had taken such pains to 
 keep my father from visiting my mother's grave, that 
 
12 MRS. LEICESTER S SCHOOL. 
 
 grave which I often stole privately to look at ; but now 
 never without awe and reverence, for my uncle used to 
 tell me what an excellent lady my mother was ; and I 
 now thought of her as having been a real mamma, which 
 before seemed an ideal something, no way connected with 
 life. And he told me that the ladies from the Manor- 
 house, who sat in the best pew in the church, were not 
 so graceful, and the best women in the village were not 
 so good, as was my sweet mamma ; and that if she had 
 lived, I should not have been forced to pick up a little 
 knowledge from him, a rough sailor, or to learn to knit, 
 and sew of Susan, but that she would have taught me 
 all ladylike fine works, and delicate behaviour, and 
 perfect manners, and would have selected for me proper 
 books, such as were most fit to instruct my mind, and 
 of which he nothing knew. If ever in my life I shall 
 have any proper sense of what is excellent or becoming 
 in the womanly character, I owe it to these lessons of 
 my rough unpolished uncle ; for, in telling me what my 
 mother would have made me, he taught me what to wish 
 to be; and when, soon after my uncle left us, I was 
 introduced to the ladies at the Manor-house, instead of 
 hanging down my head with shame, as I should have 
 done before my uncle came, like a little village rustic, I 
 tried to speak distinctly, with ease and a modest gentle- 
 ness, as my uncle had said my mother used to do ; instead 
 of hanging down my head abashed, I looked upon them, 
 and thought what a pretty sight a fine lady was, and 
 how well my mother must have appeared, since she was 
 so much more graceful than these high ladies were ; and 
 when I heard them compliment my father on the admir- 
 able behaviour of his child, and say how well he had 
 brought me up, I thought to myself, " Papa does not 
 much mind my manners, if I am but a good girl ; but it 
 was my uncle that taught me to behave like mamma." 
 I cannot now think my uncle was so rough and un- 
 polished as he said he was, for his lessons were so 
 good and so impressive that I shall never forget them, 
 
THE SAILOR UNCLE. 13 
 
 and I hope they will be of use to me as long as I live. 
 He would explain to me the meaning of all the words he 
 used, such as grace and elegance, modest diffidence and 
 affectation, pointing out instances of what he meant by 
 those words, in the manners of the ladies and their 
 young daughters who came to our church ; for, besides 
 the ladies of the Manor-house, many of the neighbouring 
 families came to our church, because my father preached 
 so well. 
 
 It must have been early in the spring when my uncle 
 went away, for the crocuses were just blown in the 
 garden, and the primroses had begun to peep from 
 under the young budding hedgerows. I cried as if my 
 heart would break, when I had the last sight of him 
 through a little opening among the trees as he went 
 down the road. My father accompanied him to the 
 market -town, from whence he was to proceed in the 
 stage -coach to London. How tedious I thought all 
 Susan's endeavours to comfort me were. The stile 
 where I first saw my uncle came into my mind, and I 
 thought I would go and sit there, and think about 
 that day; but I was no sooner seated there, than I 
 remembered how I had frightened him by taking him 
 so foolishly to my mother's grave, and then again how 
 naughty I had been when I sat muttering to myself at 
 this same stile, wishing that he who had gone so far to 
 buy me books might never come back any more ; all my 
 little quarrels with my uncle came into my mind now 
 that I could never play with him again, and it almost 
 broke my heart. I was forced to run into the house to 
 Susan for that consolation I had just before despised. 
 
 Some days after this, as I was sitting by the fire with 
 my father, after it was dark, and before the candles were 
 lighted. I gave him an account of my troubled conscience 
 at the church-stile, when I remembered how unkind I 
 had been to my uncle when he first came, and how 
 sorry I still was whenever I thought of the many 
 quarrels I had had with Mm. 
 
14 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 My father smiled, and took hold of my hand, saying, 
 " I will tell you all about this, my little penitent. This 
 is the sort of way in which we all feel when those we 
 love are taken from us. When our dear friends are 
 with us, we go on enjoying their society, without much 
 thought or consideration of the blessing we are possessed 
 of, nor do we too nicely weigh the measure of our daily 
 actions we let them freely share our kind or our dis- 
 contented moods; and, if any little bickerings disturb 
 our friendship, it does but the more endear us to each 
 other when we are in a happier temper. But these 
 things come over us like grievous faults when the object 
 of our affection is gone for ever. Your dear mamma 
 and I had no quarrels ; yet in the first days of my lonely 
 sorrow how many things came into my mind that I 
 might have done to have made her happier. It is so 
 with you, my child. You did all a child could do to 
 please your uncle, and dearly did he love you; and 
 these little things which now disturb your tender mind, 
 were remembered with delight by your uncle ; he was 
 telling me in our last walk, just perhaps as you were 
 thinking about it with sorrow, of the difficulty he had 'in 
 getting into your good graces when he first came; he 
 will think of these things with pleasure when he is far 
 away. Put away from you this unfounded grief; only 
 let it be a lesson to you to be as kind as possible to 
 those you love; and remember, when they are gone 
 from you, you will never think you had been kind 
 enough. Such feelings as you have now described are 
 the lot of humanity. So you will feel when I am no 
 more, and so will your children feel when you are dead. 
 But your uncle will come back again, Betsy, and we 
 will now think of where we are to get the cage to keep 
 the talking parrot in, he is to bring home ; and go and 
 tell Susan to bring the candles, and ask her if the nice 
 cake is almost baked that she promised to give us for 
 our tea." 
 
THE FARMHOUSE. 15 
 
 At this point, my dear Miss Villiers, you tJiougktfit 
 to break off your story ', and the wet eyes of your young 
 auditors seemed to confess that you had succeeded in 
 moving tJieir feelings with your pretty narrative. It 
 now fell by lot to the turn of Miss Manners to relate her 
 story, and we were all sufficiently curious to know what 
 so very young an historian had to tell of herself. I 
 shall continue the narratives for tlie future in the order 
 in which they followed, without mentioning any of the 
 interruptions which occurred from the asking of questions, 
 or from any other cause, unless materially connected with 
 the stories. I shall also leave out the apologies with 
 which you severally thought Jit to preface your stories of 
 yourselves, though they were very seasonable in their 
 place, and proceeded from a proper diffidence, because I 
 must not swell my work to too large a size. 
 
 LOUISA MANNERS. 
 
 MY name is Louisa Manners ; I was seven years of age 
 last birthday, which was on the first of May. I re- 
 member only four birthdays. The day I was four years 
 old was the first that I recollect. On the morning of 
 that day, as soon as I awoke, I crept into mamma's bed, 
 and said, " Open your eyes, mamma, for it is my birth- 
 day. Open your eyes and look at me !" Then mamma 
 told me I should ride in a post-chaise, and see my grand- 
 mamma and my sister Sarah. Grandmamma lived at a 
 farmhouse in the country, and I had never in all my life 
 been out of London ; no, nor had I ever seen a bit of 
 green grass, except in the Drapers' Garden, which is near 
 my papa's house in Broad Street ; nor had I ever rode in 
 a carriage before that happy birthday. 
 
 I ran about the house talking of where I was going, 
 
16 MRS. LEICESTER S SCHOOL. 
 
 and rejoicing so that it was my birthday, that when I 
 got into the chaise I was tired, and fell asleep. 
 
 When I awoke, I saw the green fields on both sides 
 of the chaise, and the fields were full, quite full, of bright 
 shining yellow flowers, and sheep and young lambs were 
 feeding in them. I jumped, and clapped my hands 
 together for joy, and I cried out, " This is 
 
 " ' Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,' " 
 
 for I knew many of Watts's hymns by heart. 
 
 The trees and hedges seemed to fly swiftly by us, and 
 one field, and the sheep, and the young lambs, passed 
 away ; and then another field came, and that was full of 
 cows ; and then another field, and all the pretty sheep 
 returned ; and there was no end of these charming sights 
 till we came quite to grandmamma's house, which stood 
 all alone by itself, no house to be seen at all near it. 
 
 Grandmamma was very glad to see me, and she was 
 very sorry that I did not remember her, though I had 
 been so fond of her when she was in town but a few 
 months before. I was quite ashamed of my bad memory. 
 My sister Sarah showed me all the beautiful places about 
 grandmamma's house. She first took me into the farm- 
 yard, and I peeped into the barn ; there I saw a man 
 thrashing, and as he beat the corn with his flail, he made 
 such a dreadful noise that I was frightened, and ran away ; 
 my sister persuaded me to return ; she said Will Tasker 
 was very good-natured ; then I went back, and peeped at 
 him again; but as I could not reconcile myself to the 
 sound of his flail, or the sight of his black beard, we 
 proceeded to see the rest of the farmyard. 
 
 There was no end to the curiosities that Sarah had to 
 show me. There was the pond where the ducks were 
 swimming, and the little wooden houses where the hens 
 slept at night. The hens were feeding all over the yard, 
 and the prettiest little chickens, they were feeding too, 
 and little yellow ducklings that had a hen for their 
 mamma. She was so frightened if they went near the 
 
THE FARMHOUSE. 17 
 
 water ! Grandmamma says a hen is not esteemed a very 
 wise bird. 
 
 We went out of the farmyard into the orchard. Oh, 
 what a sweet place grandmamma's orchard is ! There 
 were pear-trees, and apple-trees, and cherry-trees, all in 
 blossom. These blossoms were the prettiest flowers that 
 ever were seen; and among the grass under the trees 
 there grew buttercups, and cowslips, and daffodils, and 
 blue-bells. Sarah told me all their names, and she said 
 I might pick as many of them as ever I pleased. 
 
 I filled my lap with flowers, I filled my bosom with 
 flowers, and I carried as many flowers as I could in both 
 my hands ; but as I was going into the parlour to show 
 them to my mamma, I stumbled over a threshold which 
 was placed across the parlour, and down I fell with all 
 my treasure. 
 
 Nothing could have so well pacified me for the mis- 
 fortune of my fallen flowers as the sight of a delicious 
 syllabub which happened at that moment to be brought 
 in. Grandmamma said it was a present from the red 
 cow to me because it was my birthday; aud then, 
 because it was the first of May, she ordered the syllabub 
 to be placed under the May-bush that grew before the 
 parlour-door, and when we were seated on the grass 
 round it, she helped me the very first to a large glass 
 full of the syllabub, and wished me many happy returns 
 of that day, and then she said I was myself the sweetest 
 little May-blossom in the orchard. 
 
 After the syllabub, there was the garden to see, and 
 a most beautiful garden it was; long and narrow, a 
 straight gravel walk down the middle of it ; at the end 
 of the gravel walk there was a green arbour with a bench 
 under it. 
 
 There were rows of cabbages and radishes, and pease 
 and beans. I was delighted to see them, for I never saw 
 so much as a cabbage growing out of the ground before. 
 
 On one side of this charming garden there were a 
 great many beehives, and the bees sung so prettily. 
 C 
 
18 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 Mamma said, "Have you nothing to say to these 
 pretty bees, Louisa T' Then I said to them 
 
 ' ' How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour, 
 And gather honey all the day from every opening flower." 
 
 They had a most beautiful flower-bed to gather it from, 
 quite close under the hives. 
 
 I was going to catch one bee, till Sarah told me about 
 their stings, which made me afraid for a long time to go 
 too near their hives ; but I went a little nearer, and a 
 little nearer every day, and before I came away from 
 grandmamma's, I grew so bold, I let Will Tasker hold 
 me over the glass windows at the top of the hives, to see 
 them make honey in their own home. 
 
 After seeing the garden, I saw the cows milked, and 
 that was the last sight I saw that day ; for while I was 
 telling mamma about the cows, I fell fast asleep, and I 
 suppose I was then put to bed. 
 
 The next morning my papa and mamma were gone. 
 I cried sadly, but was a little comforted at hearing they 
 would return in a month or two, and fetch me home. I 
 was a foolish little thing then, and did not know how 
 long a month was. Grandmamma gave me a little 
 basket to gather my flowers in. I went into the orchard, 
 and before I had half -filled my basket I forgot all my 
 troubles. 
 
 The time I passed at my grandmamma's is always in 
 my mind. Sometimes I think of the good-natured pied 
 cow that would let me stroke her while the dairy-maid 
 was milking her. Then I fancy myself running after 
 the dairy-maid into the nice clean dairy, and see the pans 
 full of milk and cream. Then I remember the wood- 
 house ; it had once been a large barn, but being grown 
 old, the wood was kept there. My sister and I used to 
 peep about among the faggots, to find the eggs the hens 
 sometimes left there. Birds' nests we might not look for. 
 Grandmamma was very angry once, when Will Tasker 
 brought home a bird's nest full of pretty speckled eggs 
 
THE FARMHOUSE. 19 
 
 for me. She sent him back to the hedge with it again. 
 She said the little birds would not sing any more if their 
 eggs were taken away from them. 
 
 A hen, she said, was a hospitable bird, and always 
 laid more eggs than she wanted, on purpose to give her 
 mistress to make puddings and custards with. 
 
 I do not know which pleased grandmamma best, when 
 we carried her home a lapful of eggs, or a few violets ; 
 for she was particularly fond of violets. 
 
 Violets were very scarce ; we used to search very care- 
 fully for them every morning round by the orchard hedge, 
 and Sarah used to carry a stick in her hand to beat away 
 the nettles ; for very frequently the hens left their eggs 
 among the nettles. If we could find eggs and violets too, 
 what happy children we were ! 
 
 Every day I used to fill my basket with flowers, and 
 for a long time I liked one pretty flower as well as another 
 pretty flower ; but Sarah was much wiser than me, and 
 she taught me which to prefer. 
 
 Grandmamma's violets were certainly best of all, but 
 they never went in the basket, being carried home, almost 
 flower by flower, as soon as they were found, therefore 
 blue-bells might be said to be the best, for the cowslips 
 were all withered and gone before I learned the true 
 value of flowers. The best blue-bells were those tinged 
 with red ; some were so very red that we called them red 
 blue-bells, and these Sarah prized very highly indeed. 
 Daffodils were so very plentiful, they were not thought 
 worth gathering unless they were double ones ; and butter- 
 cups I found were very poor flowers indeed, yet I would 
 pick one now and then, because I knew they were the 
 very same flowers that had delighted me so in the journey; 
 for my papa had told me they were. 
 
 I was very careful to love best the flowers which 
 Sarah praised most, yet sometimes, I confess, I have even 
 picked a daisy, though I knew it was the very worst 
 flower of all, because it reminded me of London, and the 
 Drapers' Garden ; for, happy as I was at grandmamma's, 
 
20 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 I could not help sometimes thinking of my papa and 
 mamma, and then I used to tell my sister all about 
 London ; how the houses stood all close to each other ; 
 what a pretty noise the coaches made ; and what a great 
 many people there were in the streets. After we had 
 been talking on these subjects, we generally used to go 
 into the old wood-house and play at being in London. 
 We used to set up bits of wood for houses ; our two dolls 
 we called papa and mamma ; in one corner we made a 
 little garden with grass and daisies, and that was to be 
 the Drapers' Garden. I would not have any other flowers 
 here than daisies, because no other grew among the grass 
 in the real Drapers' Garden. Before the time of hay- 
 making came, it was very much talked of. Sarah told 
 me what a merry time it would be, for she remembered 
 everything which had happened for a year or more. She 
 told me how nicely we should throw the hay about. I 
 was very desirous, indeed, to see the hay made. 
 
 To be sure, nothing could be more pleasant than the 
 day the orchard was mowed : the hay smelled so sweet, 
 and we might toss it about as much as ever we pleased ; 
 but, dear me, we often wish for things that do not prove 
 so happy as we expected ; the hay, which was at first so 
 green and smelled so sweet, became yellow and dry, 
 and was carried away in a cart to feed the horses ; and 
 then, when it was all gone, and there was no more to 
 play with, I looked upon the naked ground, and per- 
 ceived what we had lost in these few merry days. 
 Ladies, would you believe it, every flower, blue-bells, 
 daffodils, buttercups, daisies, all were cut off by the 
 cruel scythe of the mower. No flower was to be seen 
 at all, except here and there a short solitary daisy, that 
 a week before one would not have looked at. 
 
 It was a grief, indeed, to me, to lose all my pretty 
 flowers ; yet when we are in great distress, there is 
 always, I think, something which happens to comfort us ; 
 and so it happened now that gooseberries and currants 
 were almost ripe, which was certainly a very pleasant 
 
THE FARMHOUSE. 21 
 
 prospect. Some of them began to turn red, and as we 
 never disobeyed grandmamma, we used often to consult 
 together, if it was likely she would permit us to eat them 
 yet ; then we would pick a few that looked the ripest, and 
 run to ask her if she thought they were ripe enough to 
 eat, and the uncertainty what her opinion would be 
 made them doubly sweet if she gave us leave to eat 
 them. 
 
 When the currants and gooseberries were quite ripe, 
 grandmamma had a sheep -shearing. All the sheep 
 stood under the trees to be sheared. They were 
 brought out of the field by old Spot, the shepherd. I 
 stood at the orchard-gate and saw him drive them all 
 in. When they had cropped off all their wool, they 
 looked very clean, and white, and pretty, but, poor 
 things, they ran shivering about with cold, so that it was 
 a pity to see them. Great preparations were making all 
 day for the sheep-shearing supper. Sarah said a sheep- 
 shearing was not to be compared to a harvest -home, 
 that was so much better, for that then the oven was 
 quite full of plum-pudding, and the kitchen was very hot 
 indeed with roasting beef; yet I can assure you there 
 was no want at all of either roast-beef or plum-pudding 
 at the sheep-shearing. 
 
 My sister and I were permitted to sit up till it was 
 almost dark, to see the company at supper. They sat at 
 a long oak table, which was finely carved, and as bright 
 as a looking-glass. 
 
 I obtained a great deal of praise that day, because I 
 replied so prettily when I was spoken to. My sister 
 was more shy than me ; never having lived in London 
 was the reason of that. After the happiest day bed- 
 time will come! We sat up late; but at last grand- 
 mamma sent us to bed ; yet though we went to bed, we 
 heard many charming songs sung ; to be sure, we could 
 not distinguish the words, which was a pity, but the 
 sound of their voices was very loud, and very fine 
 indeed. 
 
22 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 The common supper that we had every night was very 
 cheerful. Just before the men came out of the field, a 
 large faggot was flung on the fire ; the wood used to 
 crackle and blaze, and smell delightfully ; and then the 
 crickets, for they loved the fire, they used to sing ; and 
 old Spot, the shepherd, who loved the fire as well as the 
 crickets did, he used to take his place in the chimney 
 corner ; after the hottest day in summer, there old Spot 
 used to sit. It was a seat within the fireplace, quite 
 under the chimney, and over his head the bacon hung. 
 
 When old Spot was seated, the milk was hung in a 
 skillet over the fire, and then the men used to come and 
 sit down at the long white table. 
 
 Pardon me, my dear Louisa, that I interrupted you 
 here. You are a little woman now to what you were 
 then ; and I may say to you, that though I loved to hear 
 you prattle of your early recollections, I thought I per- 
 ceived some ladies present were rather weary of hearing 
 so much of the visit to grandmamma. You may re- 
 member I asked you some questions concerning your papa 
 and mamma, which led you to speak of your journey 
 home ; but your little town-bred head was so full of the 
 pleasures of a country life, that you first made many 
 apologies that you were unable to tell what happened 
 during the harvest, as unfortunately you were fetched 
 home the very day before it began. 
 
 ANN WITHERS. 
 
 MY name you know is Withers, but as I once thought 
 I was the daughter of Sir Edward and Lady Harriot 
 Lesley, I shall speak of myself as Miss Lesley, and call 
 Sir Edward and Lady Harriot my father and mother 
 during the period I supposed them entitled to those 
 
THE CHANGELING. 23 
 
 beloved names. When I was a little girl, it was the 
 perpetual subject of my contemplation that I was an 
 heiress, and the daughter of a baronet ; that my mother 
 was the Honourable Lady Harriot; that we had a 
 nobler mansion, infinitely finer pleasure grounds, and 
 equipages more splendid than any of the neighbouring 
 families. Indeed, my good friends, having observed 
 nothing of this error of mine in either of the lives which 
 have hitherto been related, I am ashamed to confess 
 what a proud child I once was. How it happened I 
 cannot tell, for my father was esteemed the best bred 
 man in the country, and the condescension and affability 
 of my mother were universally spoken of. 
 
 " Oh, my dear friend," said Miss , " it was very 
 
 natural indeed, if you supposed you possessed these ad- 
 vantages. We make no comparative figure in the county, 
 and my father was originally a man of no consideration 
 at all ; and yet I can assure you, both he and mamma 
 had a prodigious deal of trouble to break me off this 
 infirmity when I was very young." " And do reflect for 
 a moment," said Miss Villiers, " from whence could pro- 
 ceed any pride in me a poor curate's daughter; at 
 least any pride worth speaking of; for the difficulty my 
 father had to make me feel myself on an equality with a 
 miller's little daughter who visited me, did not seem an 
 anecdote worth relating. My father, from his profession, 
 is accustomed to look into these things, and whenever 
 he has observed any tendency to this fault in me, and 
 has made me sensible of my error, I, who am rather a 
 weak-spirited girl, have been so much distressed at his 
 reproofs, that to restore me to my own good opinion 
 he would make me sensible that pride is a defect 
 inseparable from human nature ; showing me, in our 
 visits to the poorest labourers, how pride would, as he 
 expressed it, * prettily peep out from under their ragged 
 garbs.' My father dearly loved the poor. In persons 
 of a rank superior to our own humble one, I wanted not 
 much assistance from my father's nice discernment to 
 
24 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 know that it existed there ; and for these latter he would 
 always claim that toleration from me, which he said he 
 observed I was less willing to allow than to the former 
 instances. * We are told in Holy Writ,' he would say, 
 ' that it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a 
 needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of 
 heaven. Surely this is not meant alone to warn the 
 affluent; it must also be understood as an expressive 
 illustration, to instruct the lowly-fortuned man, that he 
 should bear with those imperfections, inseparable from 
 that dangerous prosperity from which he is happily 
 exempt.' But we sadly interrupt your story." 
 
 " You are very kind, ladies, to speak with so much 
 indulgence of my foible," said Miss Withers, and was 
 going to proceed, when little Louisa Manners asked, 
 "Pray, are not equipages carriages?" "Yes, Miss 
 Manners, an equipage is a carriage." " Then I am sure 
 if my papa had but one equipage I should be very proud ; 
 for once when my papa talked of keeping a one-horse 
 chaise, I never was so proud of anything in my life ; I 
 used to dream of riding in it, and imagine I saw my 
 playfellows walking past me in the streets." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Miss Manners," replied Miss Withers, 
 " Your young head might well run on a thing so new to 
 you; but you have preached a useful lesson to me in 
 your own pretty rambling story, which I shall not easily 
 forget. When you were speaking with such delight of 
 the pleasure the sight of a farmyard, an orchard, and a 
 narrow slip of kitchen-garden gave you, and could for 
 years preserve so lively the memory of one short ride, 
 and that probably through a flat uninteresting country, I 
 remembered how early I learned to disregard the face of 
 Nature, unless she were decked in picturesque scenery ; 
 how wearisome our parks and grounds became to me, 
 unless some improvements were going forward which I 
 thought would attract notice ; but those days are gone ! " 
 I will now proceed in my story, and bring you 
 acquainted with my real parents. 
 
THE CHANGELING. 25 
 
 Alas ! I am a changeling, substituted by my mother 
 for the heiress of the Lesley family ; it was for my sake 
 she did this naughty deed ; yet, since the truth has been 
 known, it seems to me as if I had been the only sufferer 
 by it; remembering no time when I was not Harriot 
 Lesley, it seems as if the change had taken from me my 
 birthright. 
 
 Lady Harriot had intended to nurse her child herself ; 
 but being seized with a violent fever soon after its birth, 
 she was not only unable to nurse it, but even to see it 
 for several weeks. I was not quite a month old at this 
 time, when my mother was hired to be Mrs. Lesley's 
 nurse she had once been a servant in the family her 
 husband was then at sea. 
 
 She had been nursing Miss Lesley a few days, when 
 a girl who had the care of me brought me into the 
 nursery to see my mother. It happened that she wanted 
 something from her own home, which she despatched 
 the girl to fetch, and desired her to leave me till her 
 return. In her absence she changed our clothes; then 
 keeping me to personate the child she was nursing, she 
 sent away the daughter of Sir Edward to be brought up 
 in her own poor cottage. 
 
 When my mother sent away the girl, she affirmed she 
 had not the least intention of committing this bad action; 
 but after she was left alone with us, she looked on me, 
 and then on the little lady-babe, and she wept over me, 
 to think she was obliged to leave me to the charge of a 
 careless girl, debarred from my own natural food, while 
 she was nursing another person's child. 
 
 The laced cap and the fine cambric robe of the little 
 Harriot were lying on the table ready to be put on : in 
 these she dressed me, only just to see how pretty her 
 own dear baby would look in missy's fine clothes. When 
 she saw me thus adorned, she said to me, " Oh, my dear 
 Ann, you look as like Missy as anything can be. I am 
 sure my lady herself, if she were well enough to see you, 
 would not know the difference." She said these words 
 
26 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 aloud, and while she was speaking, a wicked thought 
 came into her head how easy it would be to change 
 these children ! On which she hastily dressed Harriot 
 in my coarse raiment. She had no sooner finished the 
 transformation of Miss Lesley into the poor Ann Withers, 
 than the girl returned and carried her away, without the 
 least suspicion that it was not the same infant that she 
 had brought thither. 
 
 It was wonderful that no one discovered that I was 
 not the same child. Every fresh face that came into 
 the room filled the nurse with terror. The servants still 
 continued to pay their compliments to the baby in the 
 same form as usual, saying, how like it is to its papa ! 
 Nor did Sir Edward himself perceive the difference, his 
 lady's illness probably engrossing all his attention at the 
 time ; though, indeed, gentlemen seldom take much notice 
 of very young children. 
 
 When Lady Harriot began to recover, and the nurse 
 saw me in her arms caressed as her own child, all fears 
 of detection were over; but the pangs of remorse then 
 seized her ; as the dear sick lady hung with tears of 
 fondness over me, she thought she should have died with 
 sorrow for having so cruelly deceived her. 
 
 When I was a year old Mrs. Withers was discharged ; 
 and because she had been observed to nurse me with 
 uncommon care and affection, and was seen to shed many 
 tears at parting from me, to reward her fidelity, Sir 
 Edward settled a small pension on her, and she was 
 allowed to come eveiy Sunday to dine in the house- 
 keeper's room, and see her little lady. 
 
 When she went home, it might have been expected 
 she would have neglected the child she had so wickedly 
 stolen ; instead of which she nursed it with the greatest 
 tenderness, being very sorry for what she had done ; all 
 the ease she could ever find for her troubled conscience, 
 was in her extreme care of this injured child; and in 
 the weekly visits to its father's house she constantly 
 brought it with her. At the time I have the earliest 
 
THE CHANGELING. 27 
 
 recollection of her, she was become a widow, and with 
 the pension Sir Edward allowed her, and some plain 
 work she did for our family, she maintained herself and 
 her supposed daughter. The doting fondness she showed 
 for her child was much talked of; it was said she waited 
 upon it more like a servant than a mother ; and it was 
 observed its clothes were always made, as far as her 
 slender means would permit, in the same fashion, and 
 her hair cut and curled in the same form as mine. To 
 this person, as having been my faithful nurse, and to 
 her child, I was always taught to show particular civility, 
 and the little girl was always brought into the nursery 
 to play with me. Ann was a little delicate thing, and 
 remarkably well-behaved ; for though so much indulged 
 in every other respect, my mother was very attentive to 
 her manners. 
 
 As the child grew older, my mother became very 
 uneasy about her education. She was so very desirous 
 of having her well-behaved, that she feared to send her 
 to school, lest she should learn ill manners among the 
 village children, with whom she never suffered her to 
 play ; and she was such a poor scholar herself, that she 
 could teach her little or nothing. I heard her relate 
 this her distress to my own maid, with tears in her eyes, 
 and I formed a resolution to beg of my parents that I 
 might have Ann for a companion, and that she might be 
 allowed to take lessons with me of my governess. 
 
 My birthday was then approaching, and on that day 
 I was always indulged in the privilege of asking some 
 peculiar favour. 
 
 " And what boon has my annual petitioner to beg to- 
 day 1 ?" said my father, as he entered the breakfast-room 
 on the morning of my birthday. Then I told him of 
 the great anxiety expressed by Nurse Withers concerning 
 her daughter ; how much she wished it was in her power 
 to give her an education that would enable her to get 
 her living without hard labour. I set the good qualities 
 of Ann Withers in the best light I could, and in con- 
 
28 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 elusion, I begged she might be permitted to partake with 
 me in education, and become my companion. " This is 
 a very serious request indeed, Harriot," said Sir Edward ; 
 " your mother and I must consult together on the sub- 
 ject." The result of this conversation was favourable to 
 my wishes ; in a few weeks my foster-sister was taken 
 into the house, and placed under the tuition of my 
 governess. 
 
 To me, who had hitherto lived without any com- 
 panions of my own age except occasional visitors, the 
 idea of a playfellow constantly to associate with was 
 very pleasant ; and after the first shyness of feeling her 
 altered situation was over, Ann seemed as much at her 
 ease as if she had always been brought up in our house. 
 I became very fond of her, and took pleasure in showing 
 her all manner of attentions ; which so far won on her 
 affections, that she told me she had a secret intrusted to 
 her by her mother, which she had promised never to 
 reveal as long as her mother lived, but that she almost 
 wished to confide it to me, because I was such a kind 
 friend to her ; yet, having promised never to tell it till 
 the death of her mother, she was afraid to tell it to me. 
 At first I assured her that I would never press her to the 
 disclosure, for that promises of secrecy were to be held 
 sacred ; but whenever we fell into any confidential kind 
 of conversation, this secret seemed always ready to come 
 out. Whether she or I were most to blame, I know 
 not, though I own I could not help giving frequent hints 
 how well I could keep a secret. At length she told me 
 what I have before related, namely, that she was in 
 truth the daughter of Sir Edward and Lady Lesley, and 
 I the child of her supposed mother. 
 
 When I was first in possession of this wonderful 
 secret, my heart burned to reveal it. I thought how 
 praiseworthy it would be in me to restore to my friend 
 the rights of her birth ; yet I thought only of becoming 
 her patroness, and raising her to her proper rank; it 
 never occurred to me that my own degradation must 
 
THE CHANGELING. 29 
 
 necessarily follow. I endeavoured to persuade her to let 
 me tell this important affair to my parents : this she 
 positively refused. I expressed wonder that she should 
 so faithfully keep this secret for an unworthy woman, 
 who in her infancy had done her such an injury. 
 
 "Oh!" said she, "you do not know how much she 
 loves me, or you would not wonder that I never resent 
 that. I have seen her grieve and be so very sorry on 
 my account, that I would not bring her into more trouble 
 for any good that could happen to myself. She has 
 often told me, that since the day she changed us, she 
 has never known what it is to have a happy moment ; 
 and when she returned home from nursing you, finding 
 me very thin and sickly, how her heart smote her for 
 what she had done ; and then she nursed and fed me 
 with such anxious care, that she grew much fonder 
 of me than if I had been her own ; and that on the 
 Sundays, when she used to bring me here, it was more 
 pleasure to her to see me in my own father's house, 
 than it was to her to see you, her real child. The shy- 
 ness you showed towards her while you were very young, 
 and the forced civility you seemed to affect as you grew 
 older, always appeared like ingratitude towards her who 
 had done so much for you. My mother has desired me 
 to disclose this after her death, but I do not believe I 
 shall ever mention it then, for I should be sorry to bring 
 any reproach even on her memory." 
 
 In a short time after this important discovery, Ann 
 was sent home to pass a few weeks with her mother, on 
 the occasion of the unexpected arrival of some visitors to 
 our house ; they were to bring children with them, and 
 these I was to consider as my own guests. 
 
 In the expected arrival of my young visitants, and in 
 making preparations to entertain them, I had little leisure 
 to deliberate on what conduct I should pursue with regard 
 to my friend's secret. Something must be done, I 
 thought, to make her amends for the injury she had 
 sustained, and I resolved to consider the matter atten- 
 
30 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 tively on her return. Still my mind ran on conferring 
 favours. I never considered myself as transformed into 
 the dependent person. Indeed, Sir Edward at this time 
 set me about a task which occupied the whole of my 
 attention ; he proposed that I should write a little inter- 
 lude, after the manner of the French Petites Pieces ; and 
 to try my ingenuity, no one was to see it before the 
 representation, except the performers, myself, and my 
 little friends, who, as they were all younger than me, could 
 not be expected to lend me much assistance. I have 
 already told you what a proud girl I was. During the 
 writing of this piece, the receiving of my young friends, 
 and the instructing them in their several parts, I never 
 felt myself of so much importance. With Ann, my pride 
 had somewhat slumbered ; the difference of our rank left 
 no room for competition ; all was complacency and good- 
 humour on my part, and affectionate gratitude, tempered 
 with respect, on hers. But here I had full room to show 
 courtesy, to affect those graces, to imitate that elegance 
 of manners practised by Lady Harriot to their mothers. 
 I was to be their instructress in action and in attitudes, 
 and to receive their praises and their admiration of my 
 theatrical genius. It was a new scene of triumph for me, 
 and I might then be said to be in the very height of my 
 glory. 
 
 If the plot of my piece, for the invention of which 
 they so highly praised me, had been indeed my own, all 
 would have been well ; but unhappily I borrowed from a 
 source which made my drama end far differently from 
 what I intended it should. In the catastrophe I lost not 
 only the name I personated in the piece, but with it my 
 own name also ; and all my rank and consequence in the 
 world fled from me for ever. My father presented me 
 with a beautiful writing-desk for the use of my new 
 authorship ; my silver standish was placed upon it ; a 
 quire of gilt paper was before me. I took out a parcel 
 of my best crow quills, and down I sat in the greatest 
 form imaginable 
 
THE CHANGELING. 31 
 
 I conjecture I have no talent for invention ; certain it 
 is, that when I sat down to compose my piece, no story 
 would come into my head, but the story which Ann had 
 so lately related to me. Many sheets were scrawled 
 over in vain, I could think of nothing else; still the 
 babies and the nurse were before me in all the minutiae 
 of description Ann had given them. The costly attire of 
 the lady-babe the homely garb of the cottage-infant 
 the affecting address of the fond mother to her own 
 offspring then the charming equivoque in the change of 
 the children ; it all looked so dramatic ; it was a play 
 ready-made to my hands. The invalid mother would 
 form the pathetic, the silly exclamations of the servants 
 the ludicrous, and the nurse was nature itself. It is true, 
 I had a few scruples that it might, should it come to the 
 knowledge of Ann, be construed into something very like 
 a breach of confidence. But she was at home, and might 
 never happen to hear of the subject of my piece, and if 
 she did, why, it was only making some handsome apology. 
 To a dependent companion, to whom I had been so very 
 great a friend, it was not necessary to be so very particular 
 about such a trifle. 
 
 Thus I reasoned as I wrote my drama, beginning with 
 the title, which I called " The Changeling," and ending 
 with these words : The curtain drops, while the lady 
 clasps the baby in her arms, and the nurse sighs audibly. 
 I invented no new incident ; I simply wrote the story as 
 Ann had told it to me, in the best blank verse I was able 
 to compose. 
 
 By the time it was finished, the company had arrived. 
 The casting the different parts was my next care. The 
 
 Honourable Augustus M , a young gentleman of five 
 
 years of age, undertook to play the father. He was only 
 to come in and say, How does my little darling do to- 
 day ? The three Miss s were to be the servants ; 
 
 they too had only single lines to speak. 
 
 As these four were all very young performers, we 
 made them rehearse many times over, that they might 
 
32 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 walk in and out with proper decorum ; but the perform- 
 ance was stopped before their entrances and their exits 
 arrived. I complimented Lady Elizabeth, the sister of 
 Augustus, who was the eldest of the young ladies, with 
 the choice of the lady mother or the nurse. She fixed 
 on the former ; she was to recline on a sofa, and, affect- 
 ing ill health, speak some eight or ten lines, which began 
 with that I could my precious baby see ! To her 
 
 cousin Miss Emily , was given the girl who had 
 
 the care of the nurse's child ; two dolls were to personate 
 the two children ; and the principal character of the nurse 
 I had the pleasure to perform myself. It consisted of 
 several speeches, and a very long soliloquy during the 
 changing of the children's clothes. 
 
 The elder brother of Augustus, a gentleman of fifteen 
 years of age, who refused to mix in our childish drama, 
 yet condescended to paint the scenes; and our dresses 
 were got up by my own maid. 
 
 When we thought ourselves quite perfect in our several 
 parts, we announced it for representation. Sir Edward 
 and Lady Harriot, with their visitors, the parents of my 
 young troop of comedians, honoured us with their presence. 
 The servants were also permitted to go into a music- 
 gallery, which was at the end of a ball-room we had 
 chosen for our theatre. 
 
 As author and principal performer, standing before a 
 noble audience, my mind was too much engaged with 
 the arduous task I had undertaken, to glance my eyes 
 towards the music-gallery, or I might have seen two 
 more spectators there than I expected. Nurse Withers 
 and her daughter Ann were there ; they had been invited 
 by the housekeeper to be present at the representation 
 of Miss Lesley's play. 
 
 In the midst of the performance, as I, in the character 
 of the nurse, was delivering the wrong child to the girl, 
 there was an exclamation from the music-gallery of " Oh ! 
 it's all true ! it's all true ! " This was followed by a 
 bustle among the servants, and screams as of a person in 
 
THE CHANGELING. 33 
 
 an hysteric fit. Sir Edward came forward to inquire what 
 was the matter. He saw it was Mrs. Withers who 
 had fallen into a fit. Ann was weeping over her, and 
 crying out, " Miss Lesley, you have told all in the 
 play !" 
 
 Mrs. Withers was brought out into the ball-room ; 
 there, with tears and in broken accents, with every sign 
 of terror and remorse, she soon made a full confession of 
 her so-long-concealed guilt. 
 
 The strangers assembled to see our childish mimicry 
 of passion were witnesses to a highly-wrought dramatic 
 scene in real life. I had intended they should see the 
 curtain drop without any discovery of the deceit ; unable 
 to invent any new incident, I left the conclusion im- 
 perfect as I found it ; but they saw a more strict poetical 
 justice done ; they saw the rightful child restored to its 
 parents, and the nurse overwhelmed with shame, and 
 threatened with the severest punishment. 
 
 "Take this woman," said Sir Edward, "and lock her 
 up, till she be delivered into the hands of justice." 
 
 Ann, on her knees, implored mercy for her mother. 
 Addressing the children, who were gathered round her, 
 "Dear ladies," said she, "help me, on your knees help 
 me, to beg forgiveness for my mother." Down the 
 young ones all dropped even Lady Elizabeth bent on 
 her knee. " Sir Edward, pity her distress, Sir Edward, 
 pardon her!" All joined in the petition, except one 
 whose voice ought to have been loudest in the appeal. 
 No word, no accent came from me. I hung over Lady 
 Harriot's chair, weeping as if my heart would break ; 
 but I wept for my own fallen fortunes, not for my 
 mother's sorrow. 
 
 I thought within myself, "If in the integrity of my 
 heart, refusing to participate in this unjust secret, I had 
 boldly ventured to publish the truth, I might have had 
 some consolation in the praises which so generous an 
 action would have merited ; but it is through the vanity 
 of being supposed to have written a pretty story that I 
 
 D 
 
34 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 have meanly broken my faith with my friend, and unin- 
 tentionally proclaimed the disgrace of my mother and 
 myself." While thoughts like these were passing through 
 my mind, Ann had obtained my mother's pardon. 
 Instead of being sent away to confinement and the 
 horrors of a prison, she was given by Sir Edward into 
 the care of the housekeeper, who had orders from Lady 
 Harriot to see her put to bed and properly attended to, 
 for again this wretched woman had fallen into a fit. 
 
 Ann would have followed my mother, but Sir Edward 
 brought her back, telling her that she should see her 
 when she was better. He then led her towards Lady 
 Harriot, desiring her to embrace her child ; she did so, 
 and I saw her, as I had phrased it in the play, clasped in 
 her mother's arms. 
 
 This scene had greatly affected the spirits of Lady 
 Harriot ; through the whole of it, it was with difficulty 
 she had been kept from fainting, and she was now led 
 into the drawing-room by the ladies. The gentlemen 
 followed, talking with Sir Edward of the astonishing 
 instance of filial affection they had just seen in the 
 earnest pleadings of the child for her supposed mother. 
 
 Ann, too, went with them, and was conducted by her 
 whom I had always considered as my own particular 
 friend. Lady Elizabeth took hold of her hand and said, 
 " Miss Lesley, will you permit me to conduct you to the 
 drawing-room T' 
 
 I was left weeping behind the chair where Lady 
 Harriot had sat, and, as I thought, quite alone. A 
 something had before twitched my frock two or three 
 times so slightly I had scarcely noticed it ; a little head 
 now peeped round, and looking up in my face, said, 
 " She is not Miss Lesley !" It was the young Augustus ; 
 he had been sitting at my feet, but I had not observed 
 him. He then started up, and taking hold of my hand 
 with one of his, with the other holding fast by my 
 clothes, he led, or rather dragged me, into the midst of 
 the company assembled in the drawing-room. The 
 
THE CHANGELING. 35 
 
 vehemence of his manner, his little face as red as fire, 
 caught every eye. The ladies smiled, and one gentleman 
 laughed in a most unfeeling manner. His elder brother 
 patted him on the head, and said, " Your are a humane 
 little fellow : Elizabeth, we might have thought of this." 
 
 Very kind words were now spoken to me by Sir 
 Edward, and he called me Harriot, precious name now 
 grown to me. Lady Harriot kissed me, and said she 
 would never forget how long she had loved me as her 
 child. These were comfortable words; but I heard 
 echoed round the room, " Poor thing, she cannot help it 
 I am sure she is to be pitied. Dear Lady Harriot, 
 how kind, how considerate you are ! " Ah ! what a 
 deep sense of my altered condition did I then feel ! 
 
 "Let the young ladies divert themselves in another 
 room," said Sir Edward; "and, Harriot, take your new 
 sister with you, and help her to entertain your friends." 
 Yes, he called me Harriot again, and afterwards invented 
 new names for his daughter and me, and always called 
 us by them, apparently in jest ; yet I knew it was only 
 because he would not hurt me with hearing our names 
 reversed. When Sir Edward desired us to show the 
 children into another room, Ann and I walked towards 
 the door. A new sense of humiliation arose how could 
 I go out at the door before Miss Lesley? I stood 
 irresolute; she drew back. The elder brother of niy 
 friend Augustus assisted me in this perplexity ; pushing 
 us all forward, as if in a playful mood, he drove us indis- 
 criminately before him, saying, " I will make one among 
 you to-day." He had never joined in our sports before. 
 
 My luckless play, that sad instance of my duplicity, 
 was never once mentioned to me afterwards, not even 
 by any one of the children who had acted in it ; and I 
 must also tell you how considerate an old lady was at 
 the time about our dresses. As soon as she perceived 
 things growing very serious, she hastily stripped off the 
 upper garments we wore to represent our different cha- 
 racters. T think I should have died with shame if the 
 
36 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 child had led me into the drawing-room in the mummery 
 I had worn to represent a nurse. This good lady was 
 of another essential service to me ; for perceiving an 
 irresolution in every one how they should behave to us, 
 which distressed me very much, she contrived to place 
 Miss Lesley above me at table, and called her Miss 
 Lesley, and me Miss Withers \ saying at the same time 
 in a low voice, but as if she meant I should hear her, 
 "It is better these things should be done at once, then 
 they are over." My heart thanked her, for I felt the 
 truth of what she said. 
 
 My poor mother continued very ill for many weeks ; 
 no medicine could remove the extreme dejection of spirits 
 she laboured under. Sir Edward sent for the clergyman 
 of the parish to give her religious consolation. Every 
 day he came to visit her, and he would always take Miss 
 Lesley and me into the room with him. I think, Miss 
 Villiers, your father must be just such another man as 
 Dr. Wheelding, our worthy rector; just so I think he 
 would have soothed the troubled conscience of my repent- 
 ant mother. How feelingly, how kindly he used to talk 
 of mercy and forgiveness ! 
 
 My heart was softened by my own misfortunes and 
 the sight of my penitent suffering mother. I felt that 
 she was now my only parent ; I strove, earnestly strove 
 to love her; yet ever when I looked in her face, she 
 would seem to me to be the very identical person whom 
 I should have once thought sufficiently honoured by a 
 slight inclination of the head, and a civil " How do you 
 do, Mrs. Withers V 1 One day, as Miss Lesley was 
 hanging over her with her accustomed fondness, Dr. 
 Wheeldiug reading in a prayer-book, and, as I thought, 
 not at that moment regarding us, I threw myself on my 
 knees and silently prayed that I too might be able to 
 love my mother. 
 
 Dr. Wheelding had been observing me ; he took me 
 into the garden, and drew from me the subject of my 
 petition. 
 
THE CHANGELINtt. 37 
 
 "Your prayers, my good young lady," said he, "I 
 hope are heard ; sure I am they have caused me to adopt 
 a resolution which, as it will enable you to see your 
 mother frequently, will, I hope, greatly assist your pious 
 wishes. I will take your mother home with me to super- 
 intend my family. Under my roof, doubtless, Sir Edward 
 will often permit you to see her. Perform your duty 
 towards her as well as you possibly can. Affection is 
 the growth of time. With such good wishes in your 
 young heart, do not despair that in due time it will 
 assuredly spring up." 
 
 With the approbation of Sir Edward and Lady Harriot, 
 my mother was removed in a few days to Dr. Wheelding's 
 house. There she soon recovered ; there she at present 
 resides. She tells me she loves me almost as well as 
 she did when I was a baby, and we both wept at parting 
 when I came to school. 
 
 Here, perhaps, I ought to conclude my story, which I 
 fear has been a tedious one ; permit me, however, to say 
 a few words concerning the time which elapsed since the 
 discovery of my birth until my arrival here. 
 
 It was on the fifth day of that I was known to 
 
 be Ann Withers, and the daughter of my supposed nurse. 
 The company who were witness to my disgrace departed 
 in a few days, and I felt relieved from some part of the 
 mortification I hourly experienced. For every fresh 
 instance even of kindness or attention I experienced went 
 to my heart, that I should be forced to feel thankful 
 for it. 
 
 Circumstanced as I was, surely I had nothing justly 
 to complain of. The conduct of Sir Edward and Lady 
 Harriot was kind in the extreme ; still preserving every 
 appearance of a parental tenderness for me, but ah ! I 
 might no longer call them by the dear names of father 
 and mother. Formerly, when speaking of them, I used, 
 proud of their titles, to delight to say, " Sir Edward or 
 Lady Harriot did this, or this ;" now I would give worlds 
 to say, "My father or my mother." 
 
38 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 I should be perfectly unkind if I were to complain of 
 Miss Lesley indeed, I have not the least cause of com- 
 plaint against her. As my companion, her affection and 
 her gratitude had been unbounded ; and now that it was 
 my turn to be the humble friend, she tried by every 
 means in her power to make me think she felt the same 
 respectful gratitude which in her dependent station she 
 had so naturally displayed. 
 
 Only in a few rarely constituted minds does that true 
 attentive kindness spring up, that delicacy of feeling, 
 which enters into every trivial thing, is ever awake and 
 keeping watch lest it should offend. Myself, though 
 educated with the extremest care, possessed but little of 
 this virtue. Virtue I call it, though among men it is 
 termed politeness ; for since the days of my humiliating 
 reverse of fortune I have learned its value. 
 
 I feel quite ashamed to give instances of any deficiency 
 I observed, or thought I have observed, in Miss Lesley. 
 Now I am away from her, and dispassionately speaking 
 of it, it seems as if my own soreness of temper had made 
 me fancy things. I really believe now that I was mistaken ; 
 but Miss Lesley had been so highly praised for her filial 
 tenderness, I thought at last she seemed to make a parade 
 about it, and used to run up to my mother, and affect to 
 be more glad to see her than she really was after a time ; 
 and I think Dr. Wheelding thought so by a little hint 
 he once dropped. But he, too, might be mistaken, for 
 he was very partial to me. 
 
 I am under the greatest obligation in the world to 
 this good Dr. Wheelding. He has made my mother 
 quite a respectable woman, and I am sure it is owing 
 a great deal to him that she loves me so well as she does. 
 
 And here, though it may seem a little out of place, 
 let me stop to assure you, that if I ever could have had 
 any doubt of the sincerity of Miss Lesley's affection 
 towards me, her behaviour on the occasion of my coming 
 here ought completely to efface it. She entreated with 
 many tears, and almost the same energy with which she 
 
THE CHANGELING. 39 
 
 pleaded for forgiveness for my mother, that I might not 
 be sent away. But she was not alike successful in her 
 supplications. 
 
 Miss Lesley had made some progress in reading and 
 writing during the time she was my companion only; 
 it was highly necessary that every exertion should be 
 now made the whole house was, as I may say, in 
 requisition for her instruction ; Sir Edward and Lady 
 Harriot devoted great part of the day to this purpose. 
 A well-educated young person was taken under our 
 governess to assist her in her labours, and to teach Miss 
 Lesley music. A drawing-master was engaged to reside 
 in the house. 
 
 At this time I was not remarkably forward in my 
 education. My governess being a native of France, I 
 spoke French very correctly, and I had made some pro- 
 gress in Italian ; but I had had the instruction of masters 
 only during the few months in the year we usually passed 
 in London. 
 
 Music I never had the least ear for ; I could scarcely 
 be taught my notes. This defect in me was always par- 
 ticularly regretted by my mother, she being an excellent 
 performer herself, both on the piano and on the harp. 
 I think I have some taste for drawing; but as Lady 
 Harriot did not particularly excel in this, I lost so much 
 time in the summer months, practising only under my 
 governess, that I made no great proficiency even in 
 this my favourite art. But Miss Lesley, with all these 
 advantages which I have named, everybody so eager to 
 instruct her, she so willing to learn everything so new 
 and delightful to her, how could it happen otherwise 1 
 she in a short time became a little prodigy. What best 
 pleased Lady Harriot was, after she had conquered the 
 first difficulties, she discovered a wonderful talent for 
 music. Here she was her mother's own girl indeed she 
 had the same sweet-toned voice the same delicate finger. 
 Her musical governess had little now to do ; for as soon 
 as Lady Harriot perceived this excellence in her, she 
 
40 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 gave up all company and devoted her whole time to 
 instructing her daughter in this science. 
 
 Nothing makes the heart ache with such a hopeless, 
 heavy pain, as envy. 
 
 I had felt deeply before, but till now I could not be 
 said to envy Miss Lesley. All day long the notes of the 
 harp or the piano spoke sad sounds to me of the loss of a 
 loved mother's heart. 
 
 To have in a manner two mothers, and Miss Lesley 
 to engross them both, was too much indeed. 
 
 It was at this time that one day I had been wearied 
 with hearing Lady Harriot play one long piece of Haydn's 
 music after another to her enraptured daughter. We 
 were to walk with our governess to Dr. Wheelding's that 
 morning ; and after Lady Harriot had left the room, and 
 we were quite ready for our walk, Miss Lesley would not 
 leave the instrument for I know not how long. 
 
 It was on that day that I thought she was not quite 
 honest in her expressions of joy at the sight of my poor 
 mother, who had been waiting at the garden-gate near 
 two hours to see her arrive ; yet she might be, for the 
 music had put her in remarkably good spirits that 
 morning. 
 
 Oh, the music quite, quite won Lady Harriot's heart ! 
 Till Miss Lesley began to play so well, she often lamented 
 the time it would take before her daughter would have 
 the air of a person of fashion's child. It was my part 
 of the general instruction to give her lessons on this head. 
 We used to make a kind of play of it, which we called 
 lectures on fashionable manners : it was a pleasant amuse- 
 ment to me, a sort of keeping up the memory of past 
 times. But now the music was always in the way. The 
 last time it was talked of, Lady Harriot said her daughter's 
 time was too precious to be taken up with such trifling. 
 
 I must own that the music had that effect on Miss 
 Lesley, as to render these lectures less necessary, which 
 I will explain to you ; but first let me assure you that 
 Lady Harriot was by no means in the habit of saying 
 
THE CHANGELING. 41 
 
 things of this kind. It was almost a solitary instance ; 
 I could give you a thousand instances the very reverse 
 of this, in her as well as in Sir Edward. How kindly, 
 how frequently, would they remind me, that to me alone 
 it was owing that they ever knew their child ! calling 
 the day on which I was a petitioner for the admittance 
 of Ann into the house, the blessed birthday of their 
 generous girl. 
 
 Neither dancing, nor any foolish lectures, could do 
 much for Miss Lesley; she remained for some time 
 wanting in gracefulness of carriage; but all that is 
 usually attributed to dancing, music finally effected. 
 When she was sitting before the instrument, a resem- 
 blance to her mother became apparent to every eye. 
 Her attitudes and the expression of her countenance were 
 the very same. This soon followed her into everything ; 
 all was ease and natural grace ; for the music, and with 
 it the idea of Lady Harriot, was always in her thoughts. 
 It was a pretty sight to see the daily improvement in her 
 person, even to me, poor envious girl that I was. 
 
 Soon after Lady Harriot had hurt me by calling my 
 little efforts to improve her daughter trifling, she made 
 me large amends in a very kind and most unreserved 
 conversation that she held with me. 
 
 She told me all the struggles she had had at first to 
 feel a maternal tenderness for her daughter; and she 
 frankly confessed, that she had now gained so much on 
 her affections that she feared she had too much neglected 
 the solemn promise she had made me, Never to forget 
 how long she had loved me as her child. 
 
 Encouraged by her returning kindness, I owned how 
 much I had suffered ; and ventured to express my fears 
 that I had hardly courage enough to bear the sight of 
 my former friends under a new designation, as I must 
 now appear to them on our removal to London, which 
 was expected to take place in a short time. 
 
 A few days after this she told me in the gentlest 
 manner possible that Sir Edward and herself were of 
 
42 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 opinion it would conduce to my happiness to pass a year 
 or two at school. 
 
 I knew that this proposal was kindly intended to 
 spare me the mortification I so much dreaded ; therefore 
 I endeavoured to submit to my hard fate with cheerful- 
 ness, and prepared myself, not without reluctance, to 
 quit a mansion which had been the scene of so many 
 enjoyments, and latterly of such very different feelings. 
 
 ELTNOE FOKESTEK. 
 
 WHEN I was very young, I had the misfortune to lose 
 my mother. My father very soon married again. The 
 morning of ijie day on which that event took place, my 
 father set me on his knee, and as he often used to do 
 after the death of my mother, he called me his dear little 
 orphaned Elinor ; and then he asked me if I loved Miss 
 Saville. I replied " Yes." Then he said, this dear lady 
 was going to be so kind as to be married to him, and 
 that she was to live with us and be my mamma. My 
 father told me this with such pleasure in his looks, that 
 I thought it must be a very fine thing indeed to have a 
 new mamma ; and on his saying it was time for me to 
 be dressed against his return from church, I ran in great 
 spirits to tell the good news in the nursery. I found my 
 maid and the housemaid looking out of the window to 
 see my father get into his carriage, which was newly 
 painted; the servants had new liveries and fine white 
 ribands in their hats ; and then I perceived my father 
 had left off his mourning. The maids were dressed in 
 new coloured gowns and white ribands. On the table I 
 saw a new muslin frock trimmed with fine lace, ready for 
 me to put on. I skipped about the room quite in an 
 ecstasy. 
 
 When the carriage drove from the door, the house- 
 
THE FATHER'S WEDDING-DAY. 43 
 
 keeper came in to bring the maids new white gloves. 1 
 repeated to her the words I had just heard, that that 
 dear lady, Miss Saville, was going to be married to papa, 
 and that she was to live with us and be my mamma. 
 
 The housekeeper shook her head, and said, "Poor 
 thing ! how soon children forget everything ! " 
 
 I could not imagine what she meant by my forgetting 
 everything, for I instantly recollected poor mamma used 
 to say I had an excellent memory. 
 
 The women began to draw on their white gloves, and 
 the seams rending in several places, Ann said, " This is 
 just the way our gloves served us at my mistress's 
 funeral." The other checked her, and said "Hush !" I 
 was then thinking of some instances in which my mamma 
 had praised my memory, and this reference to her funeral 
 fixed her idea in my mind. 
 
 From the time of her death no one had ever spoken 
 to me of my mamma, and I had apparently forgotten 
 her; yet I had a habit, which perhaps had not been 
 observed, of taking my little stool, which had been my 
 mamma's footstool, and a doll which my mamma had 
 dressed for me while she was sitting in her elbow-chair, 
 her head supported with pillows. With these in my 
 hands, I used to go to the door of the room in which I 
 had seen her in her last illness ; and after trying to open 
 it, and peeping through the keyhole, from whence I could 
 just see a glimpse of the crimson curtains, I used to sit 
 down on the stool before the door, and play with my 
 doll, and sometimes sing to it mamma's pretty song of 
 "Balow my babe;" imitating as well as I could the 
 weak voice in which she used to sing it to me. My 
 mamma had a very sweet voice. I remember now the 
 gentle tone in which she used to say my prattle did not 
 disturb her. 
 
 When I was dressed in my new frock, I wished poor 
 mamma was alive to see how fine I was on papa's 
 wedding-day, and I ran to my favourite station at her 
 bedroom door. There I sat thinking of my mamma, and 
 
44 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 trying to remember exactly how she used to look ; because 
 I foolishly imagined that Miss Saville was to be changed 
 into something like my own mother, whose pale and 
 delicate appearance in her last illness was all that I re- 
 tained of her remembrance. 
 
 When my father returned home with his bride, he 
 walked upstairs to look for me, and my new mamma 
 followed him. They found me at my mother's door, 
 earnestly looking through the keyhole. I was thinking 
 so intently on my mother, that when my father said, 
 " Here is your new mamma, my Elinor," I turned round 
 and began to cry, for no other reason than because she 
 had a very high colour, and I remembered my mamma 
 was very pale ; she had bright black eyes, my mother's 
 were mild blue eyes ; and that instead of the wrapping 
 gown and close cap in which I remembered my mamma, 
 she was dressed in all her bridal decorations. 
 
 I said, " Miss Saville shall not be my mamma," and 
 I cried till I was sent away in disgrace. 
 
 Every time I saw her for several days, the same notion 
 came into my head that she was not a bit more like 
 mamma than when she was Miss Saville. My father was 
 very angry when he saw how shy I continued to look at 
 her; but she always said, "Never mind! Elinor and 
 I shall soon be better friends." 
 
 One day, when I was very naughty indeed, for I would 
 not speak one word to either of them, my papa took his 
 hat and walked out, quite in a passion. When he was 
 gone, I looked up at my new mamma, expecting to see 
 her very angry too ; but she was smiling and looking very 
 good-naturedly upon me; and she said, "Now we are 
 alone together, my pretty little daughter, let us forget 
 papa is angry with us, and tell me why you were peep- 
 ing through that door the day your papa brought me 
 home, and you cried so at the sight of me." " Because 
 mamma used to be there," I replied. When she heard 
 me say this, she fell a-crying very sadly indeed ; and I 
 was so very sorry to hear her cry so, that I forgot I did 
 
THE FATHER'S WEDDING-DAY. 45 
 
 not love her, and I went up to her and said, " Don't cry, 
 I won't be naughty any more, I won't peep through the 
 door any more." 
 
 Then she said I had a little kind heart, and I should 
 not have any occasion, for she would take me into the 
 room herself; and she rang the bell, and ordered the key 
 of that room to be brought to her ; and the housekeeper 
 brought it, and tried to persuade her not to go. But she 
 said, " I must have my own way in this ;" and she carried 
 me in her arms into my mother's room. 
 
 Oh, I was so pleased to be taken into mamma's room. 
 I pointed out to her all the things that I remembered to 
 have belonged to mamma, and she encouraged me to tell 
 her all the little incidents which had dwelt on my memory 
 concerning her. She told me that she went to school 
 with mamma when she was a little girl, and that I should 
 come into this room with her every day when papa was 
 gone out, and she would tell me stories of mamma when 
 she was a little girl no bigger than me. 
 
 When my father came home we were walking in a 
 garden at the back of our house, and I was showing her 
 mamma's geraniums, and telling her what pretty flowers 
 they had when mamma was alive. 
 
 My father was astonished ; and he said, " Is this the 
 sullen Elinor? what has worked this miracle?" "Ask 
 no questions," she replied, " or you will disturb our new- 
 born friendship. Elinor has promised to love me, and 
 she says, too, that she will call me 'mamma.'" "Yes, 
 I will, mamma, mamma, mamma," I replied, and hung 
 about her with the greatest fondness. 
 
 After this she used to pass great part of the mornings 
 with me in my mother's room, which was now made the 
 repository of all my playthings, and also my schoolroom. 
 Here my new mamma taught me to read. I was a sad 
 little dunce, and scarcely knew my letters. My own 
 mamma had often said, when she got better she would 
 hear me read every day, but as she never got better, it 
 was not her fault. I now began to learn very fast, for 
 
46 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 when I said my lesson well, I was always rewarded with 
 some pretty story of my mother's childhood ; and these 
 stories generally contained some little hints that were 
 instructive to me, and which I greatly stood in want of; 
 for, between improper indulgence and neglect, I had many 
 faulty ways. 
 
 In this kind manner my mother-in-law has instructed 
 and improved me, and I love her because she was my 
 mother's friend when they were young. She has been 
 my only instructress, for I never went to school till I 
 came here. She would have continued to teach me, but 
 she has not time, for she has a little baby of her own 
 now, and that is the reason I came to school. 
 
 MARGARET GREEN. 
 
 MY father has been dead nearly three years. Soon after 
 his death, my mother being left in reduced circumstances, 
 she was induced to accept the offer of Mrs. Beresford, an 
 elderly lady of Urge fortune, to live in her house as her 
 companion and the superintendent of her family. This 
 lady was my godmother, and as I was my mother's only 
 child, she very kindly permitted her to have me with her. 
 
 Mrs. Beresford lived in a large old family mansion ; 
 she kept no company, and never moved except from the 
 breakfast-parlour to the eating-room, and from thence to 
 the drawing-room to tea. 
 
 Every morning when she first saw me, she used to 
 nod her head very kindly, and say, "How do you do, 
 little Margaret V 1 But I do not recollect she ever spoke 
 to me during the remainder of the day : except, indeed, 
 after I had read the psalms and the chapters, which was 
 my daily task ; then she used constantly to observe that 
 I improved in my reading, and frequently added, "I 
 never heard a child read so distinctly." 
 
THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 47 
 
 She had been remarkably fond of needlework, and her 
 conversation with my mother was generally the history 
 of some pieces of work she had formerly done ; the dates 
 when they were begun, and when finished; what had 
 retarded their progress, and what had hastened their 
 completion. If occasionally any other events were spoken 
 of, she had no other chronology to reckon by, than in the 
 recollection of what carpet, what sofa-cover, what set of 
 chairs, were in the frame at that time. 
 
 I believe my mother is not particularly fond of needle- 
 work ; for in my father's lifetime I never saw her amuse 
 herself in this way; yet, to oblige her kind patroness, 
 she undertook to finish a large carpet which the old lady 
 had just begun when her eyesight failed her. All day 
 long my mother used to sit at the frame, talking of the 
 shades of the worsted, and the beauty of the colours 
 Mrs. Beresford seated in a chair near her, and, though 
 her eyes were so dim she could hardly distinguish one 
 colour from another, watching through her spectacles 
 the progress of the work. 
 
 When my daily portion of reading was over, I had a 
 taste of needlework, which generally lasted half an hour. 
 I was not allowed to pass more time in reading or work, 
 because my eyes were very weak, for which reason I was 
 always set to read in the large-print family Bible. I 
 was very fond of reading ; and when I could, unobserved, 
 steal a few minutes as they were intent on their work, I 
 used to delight to read in the historical part of the Bible; 
 but this, because of my eyes, was a forbidden pleasure ; 
 and the Bible never being removed out of the room, it 
 was only for a short time together that I dared softly to 
 lift up the leaves and peep into it. 
 
 As I was permitted to walk in the garden, or wander 
 about the house whenever I pleased, I used to leave the 
 parlour for hours together, and make out my own solitary 
 amusement as well as I could. My first visit was always 
 to a very large hall, which, from being paved with marble, 
 was called the marble hall. In this hall, while Mrs. 
 
48 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 Beresford's husband was living, the tenants used to be 
 feasted at Christmas. 
 
 The heads of the twelve Caesars were hung round the 
 hall. Every day I mounted on the chairs to look at 
 them, and to read the inscriptions underneath, till I 
 became perfectly familiar with their names and features. 
 
 Hogarth's prints were below the Caesars : I was very 
 fond of looking at them, and endeavouring to make out 
 their meaning. 
 
 An old broken battledore and some shuttlecocks, with 
 most of the feathers missing, were on a marble slab in 
 one corner of the hall, which constantly reminded me 
 that there had once been younger inhabitants here than 
 the old lady and her gray-headed servants. In another 
 corner stood a marble figure of a satyr ; every day I laid 
 my hand on his shoulder to feel how cold he was. 
 
 This hall opened into a room full of family portraits. 
 They were all in the dresses of former times : some were 
 old men and women, and some were children. I used 
 to long to have a fairy's power to call the children down 
 from their frames to play with me. One little girl in 
 particular, who hung by the side of a glass door which 
 opened into the garden, I often invited to walk there 
 with me, but she still kept her station one arm round 
 a little lamb's neck, and in her hand a large bunch of 
 roses. From this room I usually proceeded to the garden. 
 
 When I was weary of the garden I wandered over the 
 rest of the house. The best suite of rooms I never saw 
 by any other light than what glimmered through the tops 
 of the window-shutters, which, however, served to show 
 the carved chimney-pieces, and the curious old ornaments 
 about the rooms ; but the worked furniture and carpets 
 of which I heard such constant praises I could have but 
 an imperfect sight of, peeping under the covers which 
 were kept over them, by the dim light ; for I constantly 
 lifted up a corner of the envious cloth that hid these 
 highly-praised rarities from my view. 
 
 The bedrooms were also regularly explored by me, as 
 
THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 49 
 
 well to admire the antique furniture, as for the sake of 
 contemplating the tapestry hangings, which were full of 
 Bible history. The subject of the one which chiefly 
 attracted my attention was Hagar and her son Ishmael. 
 Every day I admired the beauty of the youth, and pitied 
 the forlorn state of him and his mother in the wilderness. 
 At the end of the gallery into which these tapestry rooms 
 opened, was one door which, having often in vain 
 attempted to open, I concluded to be locked ; and find- 
 ing myself shut out, I was very desirous of seeing what 
 it contained; and though still foiled in the attempt, I 
 every day endeavoured to turn the lock, which whether 
 by constantly trying I loosened, being probably a very old 
 one, or that the door was not locked but fastened tight 
 by time, I know not to my great joy, as I was one day 
 trying the lock as usual, it gave way, and I found myself 
 in this so-long-desired room. 
 
 It proved to be a very large library. This was indeed 
 a precious discovery. I looked round on the books with 
 the greatest delight. I thought I would read them every 
 one. I now forsook all my favourite haunts, and passed 
 all my time here. I took down first one book, then 
 another. 
 
 If you never spent whole mornings alone in a large 
 library, you cannot conceive the pleasure of taking down 
 books in the constant hope of finding an entertaining 
 book among them; yet, after many days, meeting with 
 nothing but disappointment, it becomes less pleasant. 
 All the books within my reach were folios of the gravest 
 cast. I could understand very little that I read in them, 
 and the old dark print and the length of the lines made 
 my eyes ache. 
 
 When I had almost resolved to give up the search as 
 fruitless, I perceived a volume lying in an obscure corner 
 of the room. I opened it. It was a charming print; 
 the letters were almost as large as the type of the family 
 Bible. In the first page I looked into I saw the name 
 of my favourite Ishmael, whose face I knew so well from 
 B 
 
50 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 the tapestry, and whose history I had often read in the 
 Bible. 
 
 I sat myself down to read this book with the greatest 
 eagerness. The title of it was Maho'metanism Ex- 
 plained. It was a very improper book, for it contained 
 a false history of Abraham and his descendants. 
 
 I shall be quite ashamed to tell you the strange effect 
 it had on me. I know it was very wrong to read any 
 book without permission to do so. If my time were to 
 come over again, I would go and tell my mamma that 
 there was a library in the house, and ask her to permit 
 me to read a little while every day in some book that 
 she might think proper to select for me. But unfortun- 
 ately I did not then recollect that I ought to do this : 
 the reason of my strange forgetfulness might be that 
 my mother, following the example of her patroness, had 
 almost wholly discontinued talking to me. I scarcely 
 ever heard a word addressed to me from morning to 
 night. If it were not for the old servants saying, " Good 
 morning to you, Miss Margaret ! " as they passed me in 
 the long passages, I should have been the greatest part 
 of the day in as perfect a solitude as Robinson Crusoe. 
 It must have been because I was never spoken to at all 
 that I forgot what was right and what was wrong, for I 
 do not believe that I ever remembered I was doing 
 wrong all the time I was reading in the library. A great 
 many of the leaves in Mahometanism Explained were 
 torn out, but enough remained to make me imagine that 
 Ishrnael was the true son of Abraham ; I read here that 
 the true descendants of Abraham were known by a light 
 which streamed from the middle of their foreheads. It 
 said that Ishmael's father and mother first saw this light 
 streaming from his forehead as he was lying asleep in 
 the cradle. I was very sorry so many of the leaves were 
 torn out, for it was as entertaining as a fairy tale. I 
 used to read the history of Ishmael, and then go and 
 look at him in the tapestry, and then read his history 
 again. When I had almost learned the history of Ishmael 
 
THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 51 
 
 by heart, I read the rest of the book, and then I came to 
 the history of Mahomet, who was there said to be the 
 last descendant of Abraham. 
 
 If Ishmael had engaged so much of my thoughts, how 
 much more so must Mahomet 1 His history was full of 
 nothing but wonders from the beginning to the end. 
 The book said that those who believed all the wonder- 
 ful stories which were related of Mahomet were called 
 Mahometans, and True Believers: I concluded that I 
 must be a Mahometan, for I believed every word I read. 
 
 At length I met with something which I also believed, 
 though I trembled as I read it. This was, that after we 
 are dead we are to pass over a narrow bridge, which 
 crosses a bottomless gulf. The bridge was described to 
 be no wider than a silken thread ; and it is said that 
 all who were not Mahometans would slip on one side of 
 this bridge, and drop into the tremendous gulf that had 
 no bottom. I considered myself as a Mahometan, yet 
 I was perfectly giddy whenever I thought of passing over 
 this bridge. 
 
 One day, seeing the old lady totter across the room, 
 a sudden terror seized me, for I thought how would she 
 ever be able to get over the bridge ? Then too it was 
 that I first recollected that my mother would also be in 
 imminent danger ; for I imagined she had never heard 
 the name of Mahomet, because I foolishly conjectured 
 this book had been locked up for ages in the library, 
 and was utterly unknown to the rest of the world. 
 
 All my desire was now to tell them the discovery I 
 had made ; for I thought, when they knew of the exist- 
 ence of Mahometanism Explained, they would read it, 
 and become Mahometans, to ensure themselves a safe 
 passage over the silken bridge. But it wanted more 
 courage than I possessed to break the matter to my 
 intended converts ; I must acknowledge that I had been 
 reading without leave ; and the habit of never speaking, 
 or being spoken to, considerably increased the difficulty. 
 
 My anxiety on this subject threw me into a fever. I 
 
52 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 was so ill that my mother thought it necessary to sleep 
 in the same room with me. In the middle of the night 
 I could not resist the strong desire I felt to tell her what 
 preyed so much on my mind. 
 
 I awoke her out of a sound sleep, and begged she 
 would be so kind as to be a Mahometan. She was very 
 much alarmed, for she thought I was delirious, which I 
 believe I was ; for I tried to explain the reason of my 
 request, but it was in such an incoherent manner that 
 she could not at all comprehend what I was talking 
 about. 
 
 The next day a physician was sent for, and he dis- 
 covered, by several questions that he put to me, that I 
 had read myself into a fever. He gave me medicines, 
 and ordered me to be kept very quiet, and said he hoped 
 in a few days I should be very well; but as it was 
 a new case to him, he never having attended a little 
 Mahometan before, if any lowness continued after he had 
 removed the fever, he would, with my mother's permis- 
 sion, take me home with him to study this extraordinary 
 case at his leisure ; and added, that he could then hold 
 a consultation with his wife, who was often very useful 
 to him in prescribing remedies for the maladies of his 
 younger patients. 
 
 In a few days he fetched me away. His wife was in 
 the carriage with him. Having heard what he said 
 about her prescriptions, I expected, between the doctor 
 and his lady, to undergo a severe course of medicine, 
 especially as I heard him very formally ask her advice 
 what was good for a Mahometan fever, the moment after 
 he had handed me into the carriage. She studied a 
 little while, and then she said, a ride to Harlow Fair 
 would not be amiss. He said he was entirely of her 
 opinion, because it suited him to go there to buy a horse. 
 
 During the ride they entered into conversation with 
 me, and in answer to their questions, I was relating to 
 them the solitary manner in which I had passed my 
 time ; how I found out the library, and what I had read 
 
THE YOUNG MAHOMETAN. 53 
 
 in the fatal book which had so heated my imagination 
 when we arrived at the fair ; and Ishmael, Mahomet, 
 and the narrow bridge vanished out of my head in an 
 instant. 
 
 Oh ! what a cheerful sight it was to me to see so 
 many happy faces assembled together, walking up and 
 down between the rows of booths that were full of showy 
 things ; ribands, laces, toys, cakes, and sweetmeats ! 
 While the doctor was gone to buy his horse, his kind 
 lady let me stand as long as I pleased at the booths, 
 and gave me many things which she saw I particularly 
 admired. My needle-case, my pincushion, indeed, my 
 work-basket and all its contents, are presents which she 
 purchased for me at this fair. After we returned home 
 she played with me all the evening at a geographical 
 game, which she also bought for me at this cheerful fair. 
 
 The next day she invited some young ladies of my 
 own age to spend the day with me. She had a swing 
 put up in the garden for us, and a room cleared of the 
 furniture, that we might play at blindman's buff. One 
 of the liveliest of the girls, who had taken on herself the 
 direction of our sports, she kept to be my companion all 
 the time I stayed with her, and every day contrived some 
 new amusement for us. 
 
 Yet this good lady did not suffer all my time to pass 
 in mirth and gaiety. Before I went home she explained 
 to me very seriously the error into which I had fallen. 
 I found that so far from Mahometanism Explained being 
 a book concealed only in this library, it was well known 
 to every person of the least information. 
 
 The Turks, she told me, were Mahometans, and that, 
 if the leaves of my favourite book had not been torn out, 
 I should have read that the author of it did not mean to 
 give the fabulous stories here related as true, but only 
 wrote it as giving a history of what the Turks, who are 
 a very ignorant people, believe concerning the impostor 
 Mahomet, who feigned himself to be a descendant of 
 Ishmael. By the good offices of the physician and his 
 
54 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 lady, I was carried home at the end of a month, perfectly 
 cured of the error into which I had fallen, and very much 
 ashamed of having believed so many absurdities. 
 
 EMILY BAETOK 
 
 WHEN I was a very young child, I remember residing 
 
 with an uncle and aunt who live in shire. I think 
 
 I remained there near a twelvemonth. I am ignorant of 
 the cause of my being so long left there by my parents, 
 who, though they were remarkably fond of me, never came 
 to see me during all that time. As I did not know I 
 should ever have occasion to relate the occurrences of my 
 life, I never thought of inquiring the reason. 
 
 I am just able to recollect that when I first went there 
 I thought it was a fine thing to live in the country, and 
 play with my little cousins in the garden all day long ; 
 and I also recollect that I soon found that it was a very 
 dull thing to live in the country with little cousins who 
 have a papa and mamma in the house, while my own 
 dear papa and inamma were in London, many miles away. 
 
 I have heard my papa observe, girls who are not well 
 managed are a most quarrelsome race of little people. 
 My cousins very often quarrelled with me, and then they 
 always said, " I will go and tell my mamma, cousin 
 Emily;" and then I used to be very disconsolate, because 
 I had no mamma to complain to of my grievances. 
 
 My aunt always took Sophia's part because she was 
 so young ; and she never suffered me to oppose Mary or 
 Elizabeth, because they were older than me. 
 
 The playthings were all the property of one or other 
 of my cousins. The large dolls belonged to Mary or 
 Elizabeth, and the pretty little wax dolls were dressed on 
 purpose for Sophia, who always began to cry the instant 
 I touched them. I had nothing that I could call my 
 
VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 55 
 
 own but one pretty book of stories; and one day, as 
 Sophia was endeavouring to take it from me, and I was 
 trying to keep it, it was all torn to pieces ; and my aunt 
 would not be angry with her. She only said, Sophia was 
 a little baby and did not know any better. My uncle 
 promised to buy me another book, but he never remem- 
 bered it. Very often when he came home in the evening 
 he used to say, " I wonder what I have got in my 
 pocket;" and then they all crowded round him, and I 
 used to creep towards him, and think, maybe it is my 
 book that my uncle has got in his pocket. But, no ; 
 nothing ever came out for me. Yet the first sight of a 
 plaything, even if it be not one's own, is always a cheer- 
 ful thing, and a new toy would put them in a good 
 humour for a while, and they would say, " Here, Emily, 
 look what I have got. You may take it in your own 
 hand and look at it." But the pleasure of examining it 
 was sure to be stopped in a short time by the old story 
 of " Give that to me again ; you know that is mine." 
 Nobody could help, I think, being a little out of humour 
 if they were always served so ; but if I showed any signs 
 of discontent, my aunt always told my uncle I was a little 
 peevish fretful thing, and gave her more trouble than all 
 her own children put together. My aunt would often say, 
 what a happy thing it was to have such affectionate child- 
 ren as hers were. She was always praising my cousins 
 because they were affectionate ; that was sure to be her 
 word. She said I had not one atom of affection in my 
 disposition, for that no kindness ever made the least 
 impression on me. And she would say all this with 
 Sophia seated on her lap, and the two eldest perhaps 
 hanging round their papa, while I was so dull to see them 
 taken so much notice of, and so sorry that I was not 
 affectionate, that I did not know what to do with myself. 
 Then there was another complaint against me; that 
 I was so shy before strangers. Whenever any strangers 
 spoke to me, before I had time to think what answer I 
 should give, Mary or Elizabeth would say, " Emily is so 
 
56 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 shy, she will never speak." Then I, thinking I was 
 very shy, would creep into a corner of the room, and be 
 ashamed to look up while the company stayed. 
 
 Though I often thought of my papa and mamma, by 
 degrees the remembrance of their persons faded out of 
 my mind. When I tried to think how they used to look, 
 the faces of my cousins' papa and mamma only came into 
 my mind. 
 
 One morning my uncle and aunt went abroad before 
 breakfast, and took my cousins with them. They very 
 often went out for whole days together and left me at 
 home. Sometimes they said it was because they could 
 not take so many children ; and sometimes they said it 
 was because I was so shy, it was no amusement to me to 
 go abroad. 
 
 That morning I was very solitary indeed, for they had 
 even taken the dog Sancho with them, and I was very 
 fond of him. I went all about the house and garden to 
 look for him. Nobody could tell me where Sancho was, 
 and then I went into the front court and called, " Sancho, 
 Sancho." An old man that worked in the garden was 
 there, and he said Sancho was gone with his master. 
 Oh ! how sorry I was ; I began to cry, for Sancho and I 
 used to amuse ourselves for hours together when every- 
 body was gone out. I cried till I heard the mail-coach- 
 man's horn, and then I ran to the gate to see the mail- 
 coach go past. It stopped before our gate, and a 
 gentleman got out, and the moment he saw me he took 
 me in his arms, and kissed me, and said I was Emily 
 Barton, and asked me why the tears were on my little 
 pale cheeks; and I told him the cause of my distress. 
 The old man asked him to walk into the house, and was 
 going to call one of the servants ; but the gentleman 
 would not let him, and he said, " Go on with your work, 
 I want to talk to this little girl before I go into the 
 house." Then he sat down on a bench which was in the 
 court, and asked me many questions ; and I told him all 
 my little troubles, for he was such a good-natured looking 
 
VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 57 
 
 gentleman that I prattled very freely to him. I told him 
 all I have told you, and more, for the unkind treatment 
 I met with was more fresh in my mind than it is now. 
 Then he called to the old man, and desired him to fetch 
 a post-chaise, and gave him money that he should make 
 haste, and I never saw the old man walk so fast before. 
 When he had been gone a little while, the gentleman 
 said, "Will you walk with me down the road to meet 
 the chaise, and you shall ride in it a little way along 
 with me." I had nothing on, not even my old straw 
 bonnet that I used to wear in the garden; but I did 
 not mind that, and I ran by his side a good way, till we 
 met the chaise, and the old man riding with the driver. 
 The gentleman said, "Get down and open the door," 
 and then he lifted me in. The old man looked in a sad 
 fright, and said " Oh ! sir, I hope you are not going to 
 take the child away ?" The gentleman threw out a small 
 card, and bid him give that to his master, and calling to 
 the post-boy to drive on, we lost sight of the old man in 
 a minute. 
 
 The gentleman laughed very much and said, "We 
 have frightened the old man, he thinks I am going to run 
 away with you ; " and I laughed, and thought it a very 
 good joke, and he said, "So you tell me you are very 
 shy;" and I replied, "Yes, sir, I am, before strangers." 
 He said, " So I perceive you are," and then he laughed 
 again, and I laughed, though I did not know why. We 
 had such a merry ride, laughing all the way at one thing 
 or another, till we came to a town where the chaise 
 stopped, and he ordered some breakfast. When I got 
 out I began to shiver a little, for it was the latter end 
 of autumn ; the leaves were falling off the trees, and the 
 air blew very cold. Then he desired the waiter to go 
 and order a straw hat and a little warm coat for me ; 
 and when the milliner came, he told her he had stolen a 
 little heiress, and we were going to Gretna Green in such 
 a hurry that the young lady had no time to put on her 
 bonnet before she came out. The milliner said I was a 
 
58 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 pretty little heiress, and she wished us a pleasant journey. 
 When we had breakfasted, and I was equipped in my 
 new coat and bonnet, I jumped into the chaise again as 
 warm and as lively as a little bird. 
 
 When it grew dark we entered a large city; the chaise 
 began to roll over the stones, and I saw the lamps ranged 
 along London streets. 
 
 Though we had breakfasted and dined upon the road, 
 and I had got out of one chaise into another many times, 
 and was now riding on in the dark, I never once con- 
 sidered where I was, or where I was going to. I put 
 my head out of the chaise window, and admired those 
 beautiful lights. I was sorry when the chaise stopped, 
 and I could no longer look at the brilliant rows of lighted 
 
 Taken away by a stranger under a pretence of a short 
 ride, and brought quite to London, do you not expect 
 some perilous end of this adventure 1 Ah ! it was my 
 papa himself, though I did not know who he was till 
 after he had put me into my mamma's arms, and told 
 her how he had run away with his own little daughter. 
 " It is your papa, my dear, that has brought you to your 
 own home." " This is your mamma, my love," they both 
 exclaimed at once. Mamma cried for joy to see me, and 
 she wept again when she heard my papa tell what a 
 neglected child I had been at my uncle's. This he had 
 found out, he said, by my own innocent prattle, and that 
 he was so offended with his brother, my uncle, that he 
 would not enter his house. And then he said what a 
 little, happy, good child I had been all the way, and that 
 when he found I did not know him, he would not tell 
 me who he was, for the sake of the pleasant surprise it 
 would be to me. It was a surprise and a happiness 
 indeed, after living with unkind relations, all at once to 
 know I was at home with my own dear papa and mamma. 
 
 My mamma ordered tea. Whenever I happen to like 
 my tea very much, I always think of the delicious cup of 
 tea mamma gave us after our journey. I think I see the 
 
VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 59 
 
 urn smoking before me now, and papa wheeling the sofa 
 round, that I might sit between them at the table. 
 
 Mamma called me Little Runaway, and said it was 
 very well it was only papa. I told her how we frightened 
 the old gardener, and opened iny eyes to show her how 
 he stared, and how my papa made the milliner believe 
 we were going to Gretna Green. Mamma looked grave, 
 and said she was almost frightened to find I had been 
 so fearless; but I promised her another time I would 
 not go into a post-chaise with a gentleman without ask- 
 ing him who he was : and then she laughed, and seemed 
 very well satisfied. 
 
 Mamma, to my fancy, looked very handsome. She 
 was very nicely dressed, quite like a fine lady. I held 
 up my head, and felt very proud that I had such a papa 
 and mamma. I thought to myself, " dear, my cousins' 
 papa and mamma are not to be compared to mine !" 
 
 Papa said, "What makes you bridle and simper so, 
 Emily ?" Then I told him all that was in my mind. 
 Papa asked if I did not think him as pretty as I did 
 mamma. I could not say much for his beauty, but I 
 told him he was a much finer gentleman than my uncle, 
 and that I liked him the first moment I saw him, because 
 he looked so good-natured. He said, "Well, then, he 
 must be content with that half praise; but he had 
 always thought himself very handsome." "0 dear!" 
 said I, and fell a-laughing, till I spilt my tea, and 
 mamma called me a little awkward girl. 
 
 The next morning my papa was going to the Bank to 
 receive some money, and he took mamma and me with 
 him, that I might have a ride through London streets. 
 Every one that has been in London must have seen the 
 Bank, and therefore you may imagine what an effect the 
 fine large rooms, and the bustle and confusion of people 
 had on me, who was grown such a little wondering rustic 
 that the crowded streets and the fine shops alone kept me 
 in continual admiration. 
 
 As we were returning home down Cheapside, papa 
 
60 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 said, " Emily shall take home some little books. Shall 
 we order the coachmau to the corner of St. Paul's Church- 
 yard, or shall we go to the Juvenile Library in Skinner 
 Street 1 ?" Mamma said she would go to Skinner Street, 
 for she wanted to look at the new buildings there. 
 Papa bought me seven new books, and the lady in the 
 shop persuaded him to take more, but mamma said 
 that was quite enough at present. 
 
 We went home by Ludgate Hill, because mamma 
 wanted to buy something there; and while she went 
 into a shop, papa heard me read in one of my new books, 
 and said he was glad to find I could read so well, for 
 I had forgot to tell him my aunt used to hear me read 
 every day. 
 
 My papa stopped the coach opposite to St. Dunstan's 
 Church, that I might see the great iron figures strike 
 upon the bell, to give notice that it was a quarter of an 
 hour past two. We waited some time that I might see 
 this sight, but just at the moment they were striking, I 
 happened to be looking at a toy-shop that was on the 
 other side of the way, and unluckily missed it. Papa 
 said, " Never mind ; we will go into the toy-shop, and I 
 dare say we shall find something that will console you 
 for your disappointment." " Do," said mamma, " for I 
 knew Miss Pearson, who keeps this shop, at Weymouth, 
 when I was a little girl, not much older than Emily. 
 Take notice of her, she is a very intelligent old lady." 
 Mamma made herself known to Miss Pearson, and 
 showed me to her, but I did not much mind what they 
 said ; no more did papa for we were busy among the 
 toys. 
 
 A large wax-doll, a baby-house completely furnished, 
 and several other beautiful toys, were bought for me. 
 I sat and looked at them with an amazing deal of 
 pleasure as we rode home they quite filled up one side 
 of the coach. 
 
 The joy I discovered at possessing things I could 
 call my own, and the frequent repetition of the words, 
 
VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 61 
 
 My own, my ou*n, gave my mamma some uneasiness. 
 She justly feared that the cold treatment I had experi- 
 enced at my uncle's had made me selfish, and therefore 
 she invited a little girl to spend a few days with me, to 
 see, as she has since told me, if I should not be liable 
 to fall into the same error from which I had suffered so 
 much at my uncle's. 
 
 As my mamma had feared, so the event proved ; for 
 I quickly adopted my cousins' selfish ideas, and gave the 
 young lady notice that they were my own playthings, 
 and she must not amuse herself with them any longer 
 than I permitted her. Then presently I took occasion 
 to begin a little quarrel with her, and said, " I have got 
 a mamma now, Miss Frederica, as well as you, and I 
 will go and tell her, and she will not let you play with 
 my doll any longer than I please, because it is my own 
 doll." And I very well remember I imitated, as nearly 
 as I could, the haughty tone in which my cousins used 
 to speak to me. 
 
 "Oh, fie! Emily," said my mamma; "can you be 
 the little girl who used to be so distressed because your 
 cousins would not let you play with their dolls? Do 
 you not see you are doing the very same unkind thing 
 to your playfellow that they did to you ?" Then I saw 
 as plain as could be what a naughty girl I was, and I 
 promised not to do so any more. 
 
 A lady was sitting with mamma, and mamma said, 
 " I believe I must pardon you this once, but I hope 
 never to see such a thing again. This lady is Miss 
 Frederica's mamma, and I am quite ashamed that she 
 should be witness to your inhospitality to her daughter, 
 particularly as she was so kind to come on purpose to 
 invite you to a share in her own private box at the 
 theatre this evening. Her carriage is waiting at the 
 door to take us, but how can we accept of the invitation 
 after what has happened ?" 
 
 The lady begged it might all be forgotten ; and 
 mamma consented that I should go, and she said, 
 
62 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 "But I hope, iny dear Emily, when you are sitting 
 in the playhouse, you will remember that pleasures 
 are far more delightful when they are shared among 
 numbers. If the whole theatre were your own, and 
 you were sitting by yourself to see the performance, how 
 dull it would seem to what you will find it, with so 
 many happy faces around us, all amused with the same 
 thing ! " I hardly knew what my mamma meant, for I 
 had never seen a play ; but when I got there, after the 
 curtain drew up, I looked up towards the galleries, and 
 down into the pit, and into all the boxes, and then I 
 knew what a pretty sight it was to see a number of 
 happy faces. I was very well convinced that it would 
 not have been half so cheerful, if the theatre had been 
 my own, to have sat there by myself. From that time, 
 whenever I felt inclined to be selfish, I used to remember 
 the theatre where the mamma of the young lady I had 
 been so rude to gave me a seat in her own box. There 
 is nothing in the world so charming as going to a play. 
 All the way there I was as dull and as silent as I used 
 
 to be in shire, beca,use I was so sorry mamma had 
 
 been displeased with me. Just as the coach stopped, 
 Miss Frederica said, " Will you be friends with me, 
 Emily?" and I replied, "Yes, if you please, Frederica;" 
 and we went hand-in-hand together into the house. I 
 did not speak any more till we entered the box, but after 
 that I was as lively as if nothing at all had happened. 
 
 I shall never forget how delighted I was at the first 
 sight of the house. My little friend and I were placed 
 together in the front, while our mammas retired to the 
 back part of the box to chat by themselves, for they had 
 been so kind as to come very early, that I might look 
 about me before the performance began. 
 
 Frederica had been very often at a play. She was 
 very useful in telling me what everything was. She 
 made me observe how the common people were coming 
 bustling down the benches in the galleries, as if they 
 were afraid they should lose their places. She told me 
 
VISIT TO THE COUSINS. 63 
 
 what a crowd these poor people had to go through before 
 they got into the house. Then she showed me how 
 leisurely they all came into the pit, and looked about 
 them before they took their seats. She gave me a 
 charming description of the king and queen at the play, 
 and showed me where they sat, and told me how the 
 princesses were dressed. It was a pretty sight to see 
 the remainder of the candles lighted ; and so it was to 
 see the musicians come up from under the stage. I 
 admired the music very much, and I asked if that was 
 the play. Frederica laughed at my ignorance, and then 
 she told me, when the play began the green curtain 
 would draw up to the sound of soft music and I should 
 hear a lady, dressed in black, say, 
 
 " Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast ;" 
 
 and those were the very first words the actress, whose 
 name was Almeria, spoke. When the curtain began to 
 draw up, and I saw the bottom of her black petticoat, 
 and heard the soft music, what an agitation I was in ! 
 But before that we had long to wait. Frederica told me 
 we should wait till all the dress-boxes were full, and then 
 the lights would pop up under the orchestra ; the second 
 music would play, and then the play would begin. 
 
 This play was the Mourning Bride. It was a very 
 moving tragedy; and after that, when the curtain 
 dropped, and I thought it was all over, I saw the most 
 diverting pantomime that ever was seen. I made a 
 strange blunder the next day, for I told papa that 
 Almeria was married to Harlequin at last ; but I assure 
 you I meant to say Columbine, for I knew very well 
 that Almeria was married to Alphonso ; for she said she 
 was in the first scene. She thought he was dead, but 
 she found him again, just as I did niy papa and mamma, 
 when she least expected it. 
 
64 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 MAEIA HOWE. 
 
 I WAS brought up in the country. From my infancy I 
 was always a weak and tender-spirited girl, subject to 
 fears and depressions. My parents, and particularly my 
 mother, were of a very different disposition. They were 
 what is usually called gay : they loved pleasure, and 
 parties, and visiting ; but as they found the turn of my 
 mind to be quite opposite, they gave themselves little 
 trouble about me, but upon such occasions generally left 
 me to my choice, which was much oftener to stay at 
 home and indulge myself in my solitude, than to join in 
 their rambling visits. I was always fond of being alone, 
 yet always in a manner afraid. There was a book closet 
 which led into my mother's dressing-room. Here I was 
 eternally fond of being shut up by myself, to take down 
 whatever volumes I pleased, and pore upon them, no 
 matter whether they were fit for my years or no, or 
 whether I understood them. Here, when the weathei 
 would not permit my going into the dark walk, my walk, 
 as it was called, in the garden ; here, when my parents 
 have been from home, I have stayed for hours together, 
 till the loneliness which pleased me so at first, has at 
 length become quite frightful and I have rushed out of 
 the closet into the inhabited parts of the house, and 
 sought refuge in the lap of some one of the female 
 servants, or of my aunt, who would say, seeing me look 
 pale, that Maria had been frightening herself with some 
 of those nasty books : so she used to call my favourite 
 volumes, which I would not have parted with, no, not 
 with one of the least of them, if I had had the choice to 
 be made a fine princess, and to govern the world. But 
 my aunt was no reader. She used to excuse herself, and 
 say that reading hurt her eyes. I have been naughty 
 enough to think that this was only an excuse, for I found 
 that my aunt's weak eyes did not prevent her from poring 
 
THE WITCH AUNT. 65 
 
 ten hours a day upon her prayer-book, or her favourite 
 Thomas a Kempis. But this was always her excuse for 
 not reading any of the books I recommended. My aunt 
 was my father's sister. She had never been married. 
 My father was a good deal older than my mother, aud 
 my aunt was ten years older than my father. As I was 
 often left at home with her, and as my serious disposition 
 so well agreed with hers, an intimacy grew up between 
 the old lady and me, and she would often say that she 
 loved only one person in the world and that was me. 
 Not that she and my parents were on very bad terms ; 
 but the old lady did not feel herself respected enough. 
 The attention and fondness which she showed to me, 
 conscious as I was that I was almost the only being she 
 felt anything like fondness to, made me love her, as it 
 was natural ; indeed, I am ashamed to say, that I fear I 
 almost loved her better than both my parents put to- 
 gether. But there was an oddness, a silence about my 
 aunt, which was never interrupted but by her occasional 
 expressions of love to me, that made me stand in fear of 
 her. An odd look from under her spectacles would some- 
 times scare me away when I had been peering up in her 
 face to make her kiss me. Then she had a way of 
 muttering to herself, which, though it was good words 
 and religious words that she was mumbling, somehow I 
 did not like. My weak spirits, and the fears I was 
 subject to, always made me afraid of any personal singu- 
 larity or oddness in any one. I am ashamed, ladies, to 
 lay open so many particulars of our family ; but indeed 
 it is necessary to the understanding of what I am going 
 to tell you, of a very great weakness, if not wickedness, 
 which I was guilty of towards my aunt. But I must 
 return to my studies, and tell you what books I found 
 in the closet, and what reading I chiefly admired. There 
 was a great Book of Martyrs in which I used to read, 
 or rather I used to spell out meanings ; for I was too 
 ignorant to make out many words; but there it was 
 written all about those good men who chose to be burned 
 
66 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 alive rather than forsake their religion and become 
 naughty Papists. Some words I could make out, some I 
 could not ; but I made out enough to fill my little head 
 with vanity, and I used to think I was so courageous I 
 could be burned too, and I would put my hands upon the 
 flames which were pictured in the pretty pictures which 
 the book had, and feel them ; but you know, ladies, there 
 is a great difference between the flames in a picture and 
 real fire, and I am now ashamed of the conceit which I 
 had of my own courage, and think how poor a martyr 
 I should have made in those days. Then there was a 
 book not so big ; but it had pictures in it ; it was called 
 Culpepper's Herbal ; it was full of pictures of plants 
 and herbs, but I did not much care for that. Then there 
 was Salmon's Modern History, out of which I picked 
 a good deal. It had pictures of Chinese gods, and the 
 great hooded serpent, which ran strangely in my fancy. 
 There were some law books too, but the old English 
 frightened me from reading them. But above all, what I 
 relished was Stackhouse's History of tlie Bible, where 
 there was the picture of the ark, and all the beasts 
 getting into it. This delighted me, because it puzzled 
 me, and many an aching head have I got with poring 
 into it, and contriving how it might be built, with such 
 and such rooms to hold all the world if there should be 
 another flood, and sometimes settling what pretty beasts 
 should be saved and what should not, for I would have 
 no ugly or deformed beast in my pretty ark. But this 
 was only a piece of folly and vanity that a little reflection 
 might cure me of. Foolish girl that I was ! to suppose 
 that any creature is really ugly that has all its limbs 
 contrived with heavenly wisdom, and was doubtless 
 formed to some beautiful end, though a child cannot 
 comprehend it. Doubtless a frog or a toad is not uglier 
 in itself than a squirrel or a pretty green lizard ; but we 
 want understanding to see it. 
 
 [Here I must remind you, my dear Miss Howe, that 
 one of the young ladies smiled and two or three were seen 
 
THE WITCH AUNT. 67 
 
 to titter at this part of your narration, and you seemed, 
 I thought , a little too angry for a girl of your sense and 
 reading ; but you will remember, my dear, that young 
 heads are not always able to bear strange and unusual 
 assertions ; and if some elder person, possibly, or some 
 book which you had found, had not put it into your head, 
 you would hardly have discovered by your own reflection 
 that a frog or a toad was equal in real loveliness to a 
 frisking squirrel, or a pretty green lizard, as you called 
 it ; not remembering that at this very time you gave the 
 lizard the name of pretty, and left it out to the frog so 
 liable we are all to prejudices. But you went on with 
 your story. ~\ 
 
 These fancies, ladies, were not so very foolish or 
 naughty, perhaps, but they may be forgiven in a child of 
 six years old ; but what I am going to tell, I shall be 
 ashamed of, and repent, I hope, as long as I live. It 
 will teach me not to form rash judgments. Besides the 
 picture of the ark, and many others which I have forgot, 
 Stackhouse contained one picture which made more im- 
 pression upon my childish understanding than all the rest. 
 It was the picture of the raising up of Samuel, which I 
 used to call the Witch of Endor picture. I was always 
 very fond of picking up stories about witches. There 
 was a book called Glanvil on Witches, which used to 
 lie about in this closet; it was thumbed about, and 
 showed it had been much read in former times. This 
 was my treasure. Here I used to pick out the strangest 
 stories. My not being able to read them very well prob- 
 ably made them appear more strange and out of the 
 way to me. But I could collect enough to understand 
 that witches were old women who gave themselves up 
 to do mischief how by the help of spirits as bad as 
 themselves they lamed cattle, and made the corn not 
 grow ; and how they made images of wax to stand for 
 people that had done them any injury, or they thought 
 had done them injury ; and how they burned the images 
 before a slow fire, and stuck pins in them; and the 
 
68 
 
 persons which these waxen images represented, however 
 far distant, felt all the pains and torments in good earnest, 
 which were inflicted in show upon these images; and 
 such a horror I had of these wicked witches, that though 
 I am now better instructed, and look upon all these 
 stories as mere idle tales, and invented to fill people's 
 heads with nonsense, yet I cannot recall to mind the 
 horrors which I then felt without shuddering, and feeling 
 something of the old fit return. 
 
 [Here, my dear Miss Howe, you may remember that 
 
 Miss M , the youngest of our party, showing some 
 
 more curiosity than usual, I winked upon you to hasten 
 to your story, lest the terrors which you were describing 
 should make too much impression upon a young head, and 
 you kindly understood my sign, and said less upon the 
 subject of your fears than I fancy you first intended.] 
 
 This foolish book of witch stories had no pictures in 
 it, but I made up for them out of my own fancy, and 
 out of the great picture of the raising up of Samuel in 
 Stackhouse. I was not old enough to understand the 
 difference there was between these silly improbable tales, 
 which imputed such powers to poor old women, who are 
 the most helpless things in the creation, and the narrative 
 in the Bible, which does not say that the witch, or pre- 
 tended witch, raised up the dead body of Samuel by her 
 own power ; but, as it clearly appears, he was permitted 
 by the divine will to appear to confound the presumption 
 of Saul j and that the witch herself was really as much 
 frightened and confounded at the miracle as Saul himself, 
 not expecting a real appearance ; but probably having 
 prepared some juggling, sleight-of-hand tricks and sham 
 appearance to deceive the eyes of Saul : whereas she, nor 
 any one riving, had never the power to raise the dead to 
 life, but only He who made them from the first. These 
 reasons I might have read in Stackhouse itself if I had 
 been old enough, and have read them in that very book 
 since I was older, but at that time I looked at little 
 beyond the picture. 
 
THE WITCH AUNT. 69 
 
 These stories of witches so terrified me, that my sleeps 
 were broken, and in my dreams I always had a fancy of 
 a witch being in the room with me. I know now that 
 it was only nervousness ; but though I can laugh at it 
 now as well as you, ladies, if you knew what I suffered, 
 you would be thankful that you have had sensible people 
 about you to instruct you and teach you better. I was 
 let grow up wild like an ill weed, and thrived accordingly. 
 One night that I had been terrified in my sleep with my 
 imaginations, I got out of bed and crept softly to the 
 adjoining room. My room was next to where my aunt 
 usually sat when she was alone. Into her room I crept 
 for relief from my fears. The old lady was not yet 
 retired to rest, but was sitting with her eyes half-open, 
 half-closed ; her spectacles tottering upon her nose ; her 
 head nodding over her prayer-book ; her lips mumbling 
 the words as she read them, or half -read them in her 
 dozing posture; her grotesque appearance; her old- 
 fashioned dress, resembling what I had seen in that fatal 
 picture in Stackhouse; all this, with the dead time of 
 night, as it seemed to me (for I had gone through my 
 first sleep), joined to produce a wicked fancy in me, that 
 the form which I had beheld was not my aunt, but some 
 witch. Her mumbling of her prayers confirmed me in 
 this shocking idea. I had read in Glanvil of those wicked 
 creatures reading their prayers backwards, and I thought 
 that this was the operation which her lips were at this 
 time employed about. Instead of flying to her friendly 
 lap for that protection which I had so often experienced 
 when I have been weak and timid, I shrunk back terrified 
 and bewildered to my bed, where I lay in broken sleeps 
 and miserable fancies till the morning, which I had so 
 much reason to wish for, came. My fancies a little wore 
 away with the light, but an impression was fixed, which 
 could not for a long time be done away. In the daytime, 
 when my father and mother were about the house, when 
 I saw them familiarly speak to my aunt, my fears all 
 vanished ; and when the good creature has taken me upon 
 
70 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 her knees and shown me any kindness more than ordinary, 
 at such times I have melted into tears and longed to tell 
 her what naughty foolish fancies I had had of her. But 
 when night returned, that figure which I had seen recurred 
 the posture, the half -closed eyes, the mumbling and 
 muttering which I had heard a confusion was in my 
 head, who it was I had seen that night : it was my aunt, 
 and it was not my aunt : it was that good creature, who 
 loved me above all the world, engaged at her good task of 
 devotions perhaps praying for some good to me. Again, 
 it was a witch a creature hateful to God and man, read- 
 ing backwards the good prayers; who would perhaps 
 destroy me. In these conflicts of mind I passed several 
 weeks, till, by a revolution in my fate, I was removed to 
 the house of a female relation of my mother's, in a distant 
 part of the country, who had come on a visit to our house, 
 and observing my lonely ways, and apprehensive of the 
 ill effect of my mode of living upon my health, begged 
 leave to take me home to her house to reside for a short 
 time. I went with some reluctance at leaving my closet, 
 my dark walk, and even my aunt, who had been such a 
 source of both love and terror to me. But I went, and 
 soon found the grand effects of a change of scene. Instead 
 of melancholy closets and lonely avenues of trees, I saw 
 lightsome rooms and cheerful faces ; I had companions of 
 my own age ; no books were allowed me but what were 
 rational and sprightly ; that gave me mirth or gave me 
 instruction. I soon learned to laugh at witch stories; 
 and when I returned after three or four months' absence 
 to our own house, my good aunt appeared to me in the 
 same light in which I had viewed her from my infancy, 
 before that foolish fancy possessed me, or rather, I should 
 say, more kind, more fond, more loving than before. It 
 is impossible to say how much good that lady, the kind 
 relation of my mother's that I spoke of, did to me by 
 changing the scene. Quite a new turn of ideas was given 
 to me ; I became sociable and companionable ; my parents 
 soon discovered a change in me, and I have found a 
 
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 71 
 
 similar alteration in them. They have been plainly more 
 fond of me since that change, as from that time I learned 
 to conform myself more to their way of living. I have 
 never since had that aversion to company and going out 
 with them which used to make them regard me with less 
 fondness than they would have wished to show. I impute 
 almost all that I had to complain of in their neglect to 
 my having been a little, unsociable, uncompanionable 
 mortal. I lived in this manner for a year or two, passing 
 my time between our house and the lady's who so kindly 
 took me in hand, till, by her advice, I was sent to this 
 school ; where I have told you, ladies, what for fear of 
 ridicule I never ventured to tell any person besides, the 
 story of my foolish and naughty fancy. 
 
 CHAELOTTE WILMOT. 
 
 UNTIL I was eleven years of age my life was one con- 
 tinued series of indulgence and delight. My father was 
 a merchant, and supposed to be in very opulent circum- 
 stances, at least I thought so, for at a very early age I 
 perceived that we lived in a more expensive way than 
 any of my father's friends did. It was not the pride 
 of birth, of which, Miss Withers, you once imagined 
 you might justly boast, but the mere display of wealth 
 that I was early taught to set an undue value on. 
 My parents spared no cost for masters to instruct 
 me; I had a French governess, and also a woman- 
 servant whose sole business it was to attend on me. My 
 playroom was crowded with toys, and my dress was the 
 admiration of all my youthful visitors, to whom I gave 
 balls and entertainments as often as I pleased. I looked 
 down on all my young companions as my inferiors ; but 
 I chiefly assumed airs of superiority over Maria Hartley, 
 whose father was a clerk in my father's counting-house, 
 
72 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 and therefore I concluded she would regard the fine show 
 I made with more envy and admiration than any other 
 of my companions. In the days of my humiliation, which 
 I too soon experienced, I was thrown on the bounty of 
 her father for support. To be a dependant on the 
 charity of her family seemed the heaviest evil that could 
 have befallen me; for I remembered how often I had 
 displayed my finery and my expensive ornaments, on 
 purpose to enjoy the triumph of my superior advantages ; 
 and, with shame I now speak it, I have often glanced at 
 her plain linen frock, when I showed her my beautiful 
 ball- dresses. Nay, I once gave her a hint, which she 
 so well understood that she burst into tears, that I could 
 not invite her to some of my parties because her mamma 
 once sent her on my birthday in a coloured frock. I 
 cannot now think of my want of feeling without excessive 
 pain ; but one day I saw her highly amused with some 
 curious toys, and on her expressing the pleasure the sight 
 of them gave her, I said, "Yes, they are very well for 
 those who are not accustomed to these things ; but, for 
 my part, I have so many, I am tired of them, and I am 
 quite delighted to pass an hour in the empty closet your 
 mamma allows you to receive your visitors in, because 
 there is nothing there to interrupt the conversation." 
 
 Once, as I have said, Maria was betrayed into tears ; 
 now that I insulted her by calling her own small apart- 
 ment an empty closet, she turned quick upon me, but 
 not in anger, saying, "Oh, my dear Miss Wilmot, how 
 
 very sorry I am" Here she stopped; and though 
 
 I knew not the meaning of her words, I felt it as a re- 
 proof. I hung down my head abashed ; yet perceiving 
 that she was all that day more kind and obliging than 
 ever, and being conscious of not having merited this 
 kindness, I thought she was mean-spirited, and therefore 
 I consoled myself with having discovered this fault in 
 her, for I thought my arrogance was full as excusable as 
 her meanness. 
 
 In a few days I knew my error ; I learned why Maria 
 
THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. 73 
 
 bad been so kind, and why she had said she was sorry. 
 It was for me, proud disdainful girl that I was, that she 
 was sorry ; she knew, though I did not, that my father 
 was on the brink of ruin ; and it came to pass, as she 
 feared it would, that in a few days my playroom was as 
 empty as Maria's closet, and all my grandeur was at an end. 
 
 My father had what is called an execution in the 
 house; everything was seized that we possessed. Our 
 splendid furniture, and even our wearing apparel, all 
 my beautiful ball -dresses, my trinkets, and my toys 
 were taken away by my father's merciless creditors. 
 The week in which this happened was such a scene of 
 hurry, confusion, and misery, that I will not attempt to 
 describe it. 
 
 At the end of a week I found that my father and 
 mother had gone out very early in the morning. Mr. 
 Hartley took me home to his own house, and I expected 
 to find them there ; but, oh ! what anguish did I feel, 
 when I heard him tell Mrs. Hartley they had quitted 
 England, and that he had brought me home to live with 
 them. In tears and sullen silence I passed the first 
 day of my entrance into this despised house. Maria 
 was from home. All the day I sat in a corner of the 
 room grieving for the departure of my parents; and if 
 for a moment I forgot that sorrow, I tormented myself 
 with imagining the many ways which Maria might 
 invent to make me feel in return the slights and airs 
 of superiority which I had given myself over her. Her 
 mother began the prelude to what I expected, for I 
 heard her freely censure the imprudence of my parents. 
 She spoke in whispers; yet, though I could not hear 
 every word, I made out the tenor of her discourse. 
 She was very anxious, lest her husband should be 
 involved in the ruin of our house. He was the chief 
 clerk in my father's counting-house. Towards evening 
 he came in and quieted her fears by the welcome news 
 that he had obtained a more lucrative situation than the 
 one he had lost. 
 
74 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 At eight in the evening Mrs. Hartley said to me, 
 " Miss Wilmot, it is time for you to be in bed, my dear ; " 
 and ordered the servant to show me upstairs, adoling that 
 she supposed she must assist me to undress, but that 
 when Maria came home, she must teach me to wait on 
 myself. The apartment in which I was to sleep was at 
 the top of the house. The walls were white-washed, and 
 the roof was sloping. There was only one window in 
 the room, a small casement, through which the bright 
 moon shone, and it seemed to me the most melancholy 
 sight I had ever beheld. In broken and disturbed 
 slumbers I passed the night. When I awoke in the 
 morning, she whom I most dreaded to see, Maria, who I 
 supposed had envied my former state, and who I now 
 felt certain would exult over my present mortifying 
 reverse of fortune, stood by my bedside. She awakened 
 me from a dream, in which I thought she was ordering 
 me to fetch her something ; and on my refusal, she said 
 I must obey her, for I was now her servant. Far 
 differently from what my dreams had pictured did Maria 
 address me ! She said in the gentlest tone imaginable, 
 " My dear Miss Wilmot, my mother begs you will come 
 down to breakfast ; will you give me leave to dress you 1" 
 My proud heart would not suffer me to speak, and I 
 began to attempt to put on my clothes ; but never having 
 been used to do anything for myself, I was unable to 
 perform it, and was obliged to accept of the assistance of 
 Maria. She dressed me, washed my face, and combed 
 my hair ; and as she did these services for me, she said 
 in a most respectful manner, " Is this the way you like 
 to wear this, Miss Wilmot 1" or, "Is this the way you 
 like this done?" and courtesied as she gave me every 
 fresh article to put on. The slights I expected to receive 
 from Maria would not have distressed me more than 
 the delicacy of her behaviour did. I hung down my 
 head with shame and anguish. 
 
 In a few days Mrs. Hartley ordered her daughter to 
 instruct me in such useful works and employments as 
 
FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 75 
 
 Maria knew. Of everything which she called useful I 
 was most ignorant. My accomplishments I found were 
 held in small estimation here, by all indeed, except Maria. 
 She taught me nothing without the kindest apologies for 
 being obliged to teach me, who, she said, was so excellent 
 in all elegant arts ; and was for ever thanking me for the 
 pleasure she had formerly received from my skill in music 
 and pretty fancy works. The distress I was in made 
 these complimentary speeches not flatteries, but sweet 
 drops of comfort to my degraded heart, almost broken 
 with misfortune and remorse. 
 
 I remained at Mr. Hartley's but two months ; for at 
 the end of that time my father inherited a considerable 
 property by the death of a distant relation, which has 
 enabled him to settle his affairs. He established himself 
 again as a merchant ; but as he wished to retrench his 
 expenses, and begin the world again on a plan of strict 
 economy, he sent me to this school to finish my education. 
 
 SUSAN YATES. 
 
 I WAS born and brought up in a house in which my 
 parents had all their lives resided, which stood in the 
 midst of that lonely tract of land called the Lincolnshire 
 Fens. Few families besides our own lived near the spot, 
 both because it was reckoned an unwholesome air, and 
 because its distance from any town or market made it an 
 inconvenient situation. My father was in no very affluent 
 circumstances, and it was a sad necessity which he was 
 put to of having to go many miles to fetch anything 
 from the nearest village, which was full seven miles 
 distant, through a sad miry way that at all times made 
 it heavy walking, and after rain was almost impassable. 
 But he had no horse or carriage of his own. 
 
 The church which belonged to the parish in which 
 
76 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 our house was situated stood in this village; and its 
 distance being, as I said before, seven miles from our 
 house, made it quite an impossible thing for my mother 
 or me to think of going to it. Sometimes, indeed, on a 
 fine dry Sunday my father would rise early, and take a 
 walk to the village, just to see how goodness thrived, as 
 he used to say ; but he would generally return tired, and 
 the worse for his walk. It is scarcely possible to explain 
 to any one who has not lived in the Fens what difficult 
 and dangerous walking it is. A mile is as good as four, 
 I have heard my father say, in those parts. My mother, 
 who in the early part of her life had lived in a more 
 civilised spot, and had been used to constant church- 
 going, would often lament her situation. It was from 
 her I early imbibed a great curiosity and anxiety to see 
 that thing which I had heard her call a church, and so 
 often lament that she could never go to. I had seen 
 houses of various structures, and had seen in pictures the 
 shapes of ships and boats, and palaces and temples, but 
 never rightly anything that could be called a church, or 
 that could satisfy me about its form. Sometimes 1 
 thought it must be like our house, and sometimes I 
 fancied it must be more like the house of our neighbour, 
 Mr. Sutton, which was bigger and handsomer than ours. 
 Sometimes I thought it was a great hollow cave, such as 
 I have heard my father say the first inhabitants of the 
 earth dwelt in. Then I thought it was like a waggon, 
 or a cart, and that it must be something movable. The 
 shape of it ran in my mind strangely, and one day I 
 ventured to ask my mother what was that foolish thing 
 she was always longing to go to, and which she called 
 a church. Was it anything to eat or drink, or was it 
 only like a great huge plaything to be seen and stared 
 at 1 I was not quite five years of age when I made this 
 inquiry. 
 
 This question, so oddly put, made my mother smile ; 
 but in a little time she put on a more grave look, and 
 informed me that a church was nothing that I had 
 
FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 77 
 
 supposed it, but it was a great building, far greater than 
 any house which I had seen, where men and women 
 and children came together twice a day on Sundays, to 
 hear the Bible read, and make good resolutions for the 
 week to come. She told me that the fine music which 
 we sometimes heard in the air came from the bells of 
 St. Mary's Church, and that we never heard it but when 
 the wind was in a particular point. This raised my 
 wonder more than all the rest ; for I had somehow con- 
 ceived that the noise which I heard was occasioned by 
 birds up in the air, or that it was made by the angels, 
 whom (so ignorant I was till that time) I had always 
 considered to be a sort of birds; for before this time 
 I was totally ignorant of anything like religion, it being 
 a principle of my father that young heads should not be 
 told too many things at once, for fear they should get 
 confused ideas and no clear notions of anything. We 
 had always indeed so far observed Sundays, that no work 
 was done upon that day, and upon that day I wore my 
 best muslin frock, and was not allowed to sing or to 
 be noisy ; but I never understood why that day should 
 differ from any other. We had no public meetings : 
 indeed, the few straggling houses which were near us 
 would have furnished but a slender congregation; and 
 the loneliness of the place we lived in, instead of making 
 us more sociable, and drawing us closer together, as my 
 mother used to say it ought to have done, seemed to 
 have the effect of making us more distant and averse to 
 society than other people. One or two good neighbours 
 indeed we had, but not in numbers to give me an idea 
 of church attendance. 
 
 But now my mother thought it high time to give me 
 some clearer instruction in the main points of religion, 
 and my father came readily into her plan. I was now 
 permitted to sit up half an hour later on a Sunday even- 
 ing that I might hear a portion of Scripture read, which 
 had always been their custom, though by reason of my 
 tender age, and my father's opinion on the impropriety 
 
78 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 of children being taught too young, I had never till now 
 been an auditor. I was taught my prayers, and those 
 things which you, ladies, I doubt not, had the benefit of 
 being instructed in at a much earlier age. 
 
 The clearer my notions on these points became, they 
 only made me more passionately long for the privilege 
 of joining in that social service, from which it seemed 
 that we alone, of all the inhabitants of the land, were 
 debarred ; and when the wind was in that point which 
 enabled the sound of the distant bells of St. Mary's to 
 be heard over the great moor which skirted our house, 
 I have stood out in the air to catch the sounds, which I 
 almost devoured ; and the tears have come into my eyes 
 when sometimes they seemed to speak to me almost in 
 articulate sounds, to come to church, and because of the 
 great moor which was between me and them, I could 
 not come; and the too tender apprehensions of these 
 things have filled me with a religious melancholy. 
 With thoughts like these I entered into my seventh 
 year. 
 
 And now the time was come when the great mooi 
 was no longer to separate me from the object of my 
 wishes and of my curiosity. My father having some 
 money left him by the will of a deceased relation, we 
 ventured to set up a sort of a carriage no very superb 
 one, I assure you, ladies ; but in that part of the world 
 it was looked upon with some envy by our poorer neigh- 
 bours. The first party of pleasure which my father 
 proposed to take in it was to the village where I had 
 so often wished to go, and my mother and I were to 
 accompany him ; for it was very fit, my father observed, 
 that little Susan should go to church and learn how to 
 behave herself, for we might some time or other have 
 occasion to live in London, and not always be confined 
 to that out-of-the-way^ spot. 
 
 It was on a Sunday morning that we set out, my 
 little heart beating with almost breathless expectation. 
 The day was fine, and the roads as good as they ever 
 
FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 79 
 
 are in those parts. I was so happy and so proud ! I 
 was lost in dreams of what I was going to see. At 
 length the tall steeple of St. Mary's Church came in 
 view. It was pointed out to me by my father, as the 
 place from which that music had come, which I had 
 heard over the moor, and had fancied to be angels 
 singing. I was wound up to the highest pitch of delight 
 at having visibly presented to me the spot from which 
 had proceeded that unknown friendly music ; and when 
 it began to peal, just as we approached the village, it 
 seemed to speak, Siisan is come, as plainly as it used to 
 invite me to come, when I heard it over the moor. I 
 pass over our alighting at the house of a relation, and 
 all that passed till I went with my father and mother to 
 church. 
 
 St. Mary's Church is a great church for such a small 
 village as it stands in. My father said it had been a 
 cathedral, and that it had once belonged to a monastery, 
 but the monks were all gone. Over the door there was 
 stonework, representing saints and bishops, and here and 
 there, along the sides of the church, there were figures 
 of men's heads made in a strange grotesque way : I have 
 since seen the same sort of figures in the round tower of 
 the Temple Church in London. My father said they 
 were very improper ornaments for such a place, and so I 
 now think them ; but it seems the people who built these 
 great churches in old times gave themselves more liberties 
 than they do now ; and I remember that when I first 
 saw them, and before my father had made this observa- 
 tion, though they were so ugly and out of shape, and 
 some of them seem to be grinning and distorting their 
 features with pain or with laughter, yet being placed 
 upon a church, to which I had come with such serious 
 thoughts, I could not help thinking they had some serious 
 meaning ; and I looked at them with wonder, but with- 
 out any temptation to laugh. I somehow fancied they 
 were the representation of wicked people set up as a 
 warning. 
 
80 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 When we got into the church, the service was not 
 begun, and my father kindly took me round to show 
 me the monuments and everything else remarkable. I 
 remember seeing one of a venerable figure, which my 
 father said had been a judge. The figure was kneeling, 
 as if it was alive, before a sort of desk, with a book, I 
 suppose the Bible, lying on it. I somehow fancied the 
 figure had a sort of life in it, it seemed so natural, or 
 that the dead judge that it was done for said his prayers 
 at it still. This was a silly notion, but I was very 
 young, and had passed my little life in a remote place, 
 where I had never seen anything nor knew anything; 
 and the awe which I felt at first being in a church took 
 from me all power but that of wondering. I did not 
 reason about anything ; I was too young. Now I under- 
 stand why monuments are put up for the dead, and why 
 the figures which are put upon them are described as 
 doing the actions which they did in their lifetimes, and 
 that they are a sort of pictures set up for our instruction. 
 But all was new and surprising to me on that day the 
 long windows with little panes, the pillars, the pews 
 made of oak, the little hassocks for the people to kneel 
 on, the form of the pulpit, with the sounding-board over 
 it, gracefully carved in flower-work. To you, who have 
 lived all your lives in populous places, and have been 
 taken to church from the earliest time you can remember, 
 my admiration of these things must appear strangely 
 ignorant. But I was a lonely young creature, that had 
 been brought up in remote places, where there was neither 
 church nor church-going inhabitants. I have since lived 
 in great towns, and seen the ways of churches and of 
 worship, and I am old enough now to distinguish between 
 what is essential in religion, and what is merely formal 
 or ornamental. 
 
 When my father had done pointing out to me the 
 things most worthy of notice about the church, the service 
 was almost ready to begin ; the parishioners had most of 
 them entered and taken their seats ; and we were shown 
 
FIRST GOING TO CHURCH. 81 
 
 into a pew where my mother was already seated. Soon 
 after the clergyman entered, and the organ began to play 
 what is called the voluntary. I had never seen so many 
 people assembled before. At first I thought that all eyes 
 were upon me, and that because I was a stranger. I 
 was terribly ashamed and confused at first ; but my 
 mother helped me to find out the places in the prayer- 
 book, and being busy about that took off some of my 
 painful apprehensions. I was no stranger to the order 
 of the service, having often read in the prayer-book at 
 home, but my thoughts being confused, it puzzled me a 
 little to find out the responses and other things, which I 
 thought I knew so well ; but I went through it tolerably 
 well. One thing which has often troubled me since is, 
 that I am afraid I was too full of myself and of thinking 
 how happy I was, and what a privilege it was for one 
 that was so young to join in the service with so many 
 grown people, so that I did not attend enough to the 
 instruction which I might have received. I remember I 
 foolishly applied everything that was said to myself, so 
 as it could mean nobody but myself, I was so full of my 
 own thoughts. All that assembly of people seemed to 
 me as if they were come together only to show me the 
 way of a church. Not but I received some very affecting 
 impressions from some things which I heard that day ; 
 but the standing up and sitting down of the people, the 
 organ, the singing : the way of all these things took 
 up more of my attention than was proper ; or I thought 
 it did. I believe I behaved better, and was more serious 
 when I went a second time, and a third time ; for now 
 we went as a regular thing every Sunday, and continued 
 to do so, till, by a still further change for the better in 
 my father's circumstances, we removed to London. Oh ! 
 it was a happy day for me my first going to St. Mary's 
 Church ; before that day I used to feel like a little out- 
 cast in the wilderness, like one that did not belong to 
 the world of Christian people. I have never felt like a 
 little outcast since. But I never can hear the sweet 
 
82 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 noise of bells, that I don't think of the angels singing, 
 and what poor but pretty thoughts I had of angels in my 
 un instructed solitude. 
 
 AEABELLA HAKDY. 
 
 I WAS born in the East Indies. I lost my father and 
 mother young. At the age of five my relations thought 
 it proper that I should be sent to England for my edu- 
 cation. I was to be intrusted to the care of a young 
 woman who had a character for great humanity and 
 discretion ; but just as I had taken leave of my friends, 
 and we were about to take our passage, the young woman 
 suddenly fell sick, and could not go on board. In this 
 unpleasant emergency no one knew how to act. The 
 ship was at the very point of sailing, and it was the last 
 which was to sail for the season. At length the captain, 
 who was known to my friends, prevailed upon my relation, 
 who had come with us to see us embark, to leave the 
 young woman on shore, and to let me embark separately. 
 There was no possibility of getting any other female 
 attendant for me in the short time allotted for our pre- 
 paration ; and the opportunity of going by that ship was 
 thought too valuable to be lost. No other ladies happened 
 to be going, and so I was consigned to the care of the 
 captain and his crew rough and unaccustomed attendants 
 for a young creature delicately brought up as I had been; 
 but indeed they did their best to make me not feel the 
 difference. The unpolished sailors were my nursery-maids 
 and my waiting-women. Everything was done by the 
 captain and the men to accommodate me, and make me 
 easy. I had a little room made out of the cabin, which 
 was to be considered as my room, and nobody might 
 enter into it. The first mate had a great character for 
 bravery and all sailor-like accomplishments; but with 
 all this he had a gentleness of manners, and a pale 
 feminine cast of face, from ill health and a weakly con- 
 
THE SEA-VOYAGE. 83 
 
 Btitution, which subjected him to some ridicule from the 
 officers, and caused him to be named Betsy. He did 
 not much like the appellation, but he submitted to it 
 the better, saying that those who gave him a woman's 
 name well knew that he had a man's heart, and that in 
 the face of danger he would go as far as any man. To 
 this young man, whose real name was Charles Atkinson, 
 by a lucky thought of the captain, the care of me was 
 especially intrusted. Betsy was proud of his charge, 
 and, to do him justice, acquitted himself with great 
 diligence and adroitness through the whole of the voyage. 
 From the beginning I had somehow looked upon Betsy 
 as a woman, hearing him so spoken of, and this reconciled 
 me in some measure to the want of a maid which I had 
 been used to. But I was a manageable girl at all times, 
 and jave nobody much trouble. 
 
 <^nave not knowledge enough to give an account of 
 my voyage, or to remember the names of the seas we 
 passed through, or the lands which we touched upon in 
 our course. The chief thing I can remember (for I do 
 not recollect the events of the voyage in any order) was 
 Atkinson taking me upon deck to see the great whales 
 playing about in the sea. There was one great whale 
 came bounding up out of the sea, and then he would 
 dive into it again, and then would come up at a distance 
 where nobody expected him, and another whale was 
 following after him. Atkinson said they were at play, 
 and that the lesser whale loved that bigger whale, and 
 kept it company all through the wide seas; but I 
 thought it strange play, and a frightful kind of love ; for 
 I every minute expected they would come up to our ship 
 and toss it. But Atkinson said a whale was a gentle 
 creature, and it was a sort of sea-elephant, and that the 
 most powerful creatures in nature are always the least 
 hurtful. And he told me how men went out to take 
 these whales, and stuck long pointed darts into them; 
 and how the sea was discoloured with the blood of these 
 poor whales for many miles' distance ; and I admired 
 
84 
 
 the courage of the men, but I was sorry for the inoffen- 
 sive whale. Many other pretty sights he used to show 
 me, when he was not on watch, or doing some duty for 
 the ship. No one was more attentive to his duty than 
 he ; but at such times as he had leisure he would show 
 me all pretty sea-sights: the dolphins and porpoises 
 that came before a storm, and all the colours which the 
 sea changed to; how sometimes it was a deep blue 
 and then a deep green, and sometimes it would seem all 
 on fire; all these various appearances he would show 
 me, and attempt to explain the reason of them to me, as 
 well as my young capacity would admit of. There were 
 a lion and a tiger on board, going to England as a 
 present to the king; and it was a great diversion to 
 Atkinson and me, after I got rid of my first terrors, 
 to see the ways of these beasts in their dens, and how 
 venturous the sailors were in putting their hands through 
 the grates, and patting their rough coats. Some of the 
 men had monkeys, which ran loose about, and the sport 
 was for the men to lose them and find them again. The 
 monkeys would run up the shrouds, and pass from rope 
 to rope, with ten times greater alacrity than the most 
 experienced sailor could follow them; and sometimes 
 they would hide themselves in the most unthought-of 
 places, and when they were found, they would grin and 
 make mouths, as if they had sense. Atkinson described 
 to me the ways of these little animals in their native 
 woods, for he had seen them. Oh, how many ways he 
 thought of to amuse me in that long voyage ! 
 
 Sometimes he would describe to me the odd shapes 
 and varieties of fishes that were in the sea, and tell me 
 tales of the sea-monsters that lay hid at the bottom, and 
 were seldom seen by men ; and what a glorious sight it 
 would be, if our eyes could be sharpened to behold all 
 the inhabitants of the sea at once swimming in the great 
 deeps, as plain as we see the gold and silver fish in a 
 bowl of glass. With such notions he enlarged my infant 
 capacity to take in many things. 
 
THE SEA-VOYAGE. 85 
 
 When in foul weather I have been terrified at the 
 motion of the vessel, as it rocked backwards and for- 
 wards, he would still my fears, and tell me that I used 
 to be rocked so once in a cradle, and that the sea was 
 God's bed, and the ship our cradle, and we were as safe 
 in that greater motion as when we felt that lesser one in 
 our little wooden sleeping-places. When the wind was 
 up, and sang through the sails, and disturbed me with 
 its violent clamours, he would call it music, and bid me 
 hark to the sea-organ, and with that name he quieted 
 my tender apprehensions. When I have looked around 
 with a mournful face at seeing all men about me, he 
 would enter into my thoughts, and tell me pretty stories 
 of his mother and his sisters, and a female cousin that 
 he loved better than his sisters, whom he called Jenny, 
 and say that when we got to England I should go and 
 see them, and how fond Jenny would be of his little 
 daughter, as he called me; and with these images of 
 women and females which he raised in my fancy, he 
 quieted me for a while. One time, and never but once, 
 he told me that Jenny had promised to be his wife if 
 ever he came to England, but that he had his doubts 
 whether he should live to get home, for he was very 
 sickly. This made me cry bitterly. 
 
 That I dwell so long upon the attention of this 
 Atkinson, is only because his death, which happened 
 just before we got to England, affected me so much, 
 that he alone of all the ship's crew has engrossed my 
 mind ever since; though indeed the captain and all 
 were singularly kind to me, and strove to make up for 
 my uneasy and unnatural situation. The boatswain would 
 pipe for my diversion, and the sailor-boy would climb 
 the dangerous mast for my sport. The rough foremast- 
 inan would never willingly appear before me till he had 
 combed his long black hair smooth and sleek, not to 
 terrify me. The officers got up a sort of play for my 
 amusement, and Atkinson, or, as they called him, Betsy, 
 acted the heroine of the piece. All ways that could 
 
86 MRS. LEICESTER'S SCHOOL. 
 
 be contrived were thought upon to reconcile me to my 
 lot. I was the universal favourite ; I do not know how 
 deservedly; but I suppose it was because I was alone, 
 and there was no female in the ship besides me. Had 
 I come over with female relations or attendants, I should 
 have excited no particular curiosity; I should have re- 
 quired no uncommon attentions. I was one little woman 
 among a crew of men ; and I believe the homage which 
 I have read that men universally pay to women, was in 
 this case directed to me in the absence of all other women- 
 kind. I do not know how that might be, but I was a little 
 princess among them, and I was not six years old. 
 
 I remember the first drawback which happened to my 
 comfort was Atkinson's not appearing the whole of one 
 day. The captain tried to reconcile me to it by saying 
 that Mr. Atkinson was confined to his cabin; that he 
 was not quite well, but a day or two would restore him. 
 I begged to be taken in to see him, but this was not 
 granted. A day, and then another came, and another, 
 and no Atkinson was visible, and I saw apparent solici- 
 tude in the faces of all the officers, who nevertheless 
 strove to put on their best countenances before me, and 
 to be more than usually kind to me. At length, by the 
 desire of Atkinson himself, as I have since learned, I was 
 permitted to go into his cabin and see him. He was 
 sitting up, apparently in a state of great exhaustion ; but 
 his face lighted up when he saw me, and he kissed me 
 and told me that he was going a great voyage, far longer 
 than that which we had passed together, and he should 
 never come back ; and though I was so young, I under- 
 stood well enough that he meant this of his death, and I 
 cried sadly ; but he comforted me, and told me that I 
 must be his little executrix, and perform his last will, and 
 bear his last words to his mother and his sisters, and to 
 his cousin Jenny, whom I should see in a short time; 
 and he gave me his blessing, as a father would bless his 
 child, and he sent a last kiss by me to all his female 
 relations, and he made me promise that I would go and 
 
THE SEA-VOYAGE. 87 
 
 see them when I got to England. And soon after this he 
 died. But I was in another part of the ship when he 
 died, and I was not told it till we got to shore, which 
 was a few days after ; but they kept telling me that he 
 was better and better, and that I should soon see him, 
 but that it disturbed him to talk with any one. Oh, 
 what a grief it was when I learned that I had lost an old 
 shipmate that had made an irksome situation so bearable 
 by his kind assiduities ; and to think that he was gone, 
 and I could never repay him for his kindness ! 
 
 When I had been a year and a half in England, the 
 captain, who had made another voyage to India and 
 back, thinking that time had alleviated a little the 
 sorrow of Atkinson's relations, prevailed upon my friends 
 who had the care of me in England to let him introduce 
 me to Atkinson's mother and sisters. Jenny was no 
 more ; she had died in the interval, and I never saw her. 
 Grief for his death had brought on a consumption, of 
 which she lingered about a twelvemonth and then expired. 
 But in the mother and the sisters of this excellent young 
 man I have found the most valuable friends I possess 
 on this side the great ocean. They received me from 
 the captain as the little protegee of Atkinson, and from 
 them I have learned passages of his former life ; and this 
 in particular, that the illness of which he died was brought 
 on by a wound of which he never quite recovered, which 
 he got in the desperate attempt, when he was quite a 
 boy, to defend his captain against a superior force of the 
 enemy which had boarded him, and which, by his pre- 
 mature valour inspiriting the men, they finally succeeded 
 in repulsing. This was that Atkinson who, from his 
 pale and feminine appearance, was called Betsy; this 
 was he whose womanly care of me got him the name of 
 a woman ; who, with more than female attention, conde- 
 scended to play the handmaid to a little unaccompanied 
 orphan that fortune had cast upon the care of a rough 
 sea-captain and his rougher crew. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 THIS work is designed as a supplement to the Adven- 
 tures of Telemachus. It treats of the conduct and 
 sufferings of Ulysses, the father of Telemachus. The 
 picture which it exhibits is that of a brave man strug- 
 gling with adversity ; by a wise use of events, and with 
 an inimitable presence of mind under difficulties, forcing 
 out a way for himself through the severest trials to which 
 human life can be exposed; with enemies natural and 
 preternatural surrounding him on all sides. The agents 
 in this tale, besides men and women, are giants, en- 
 chanters, sirens : things which denote external force or 
 internal temptations, the twofold danger which a wise 
 fortitude must expect to encounter in its course through 
 this world. The fictions contained in it will be found to 
 comprehend some of the most admired inventions of 
 Grecian mythology. 
 
 The groundwork of the story is as old as the Odyssey, 
 but the moral and the colouring are comparatively modern. 
 By avoiding the prolixity which marks the speeches and 
 the descriptions in Homer, I have gained a rapidity to 
 the narration which I hope will make it more attractive 
 and give it more the air of a romance to young readers, 
 though I am sensible that by the curtailment I have 
 sacrificed in many places the manners to the passion, the 
 subordinate characteristics to the essential interest of the 
 story. The attempt is not to be considered as seeking a 
 comparison with any of the direct translations of the 
 /, either in prose or verse, though if I were to 
 
90 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 state the obligations which I have had to one obsolete 
 version, 1 I should have run the hazard of depriving my- 
 self of the very slender degree of reputation which I 
 could hope to acquire from a trifle like the present under- 
 taking. 
 
 CHAPTEE L 
 
 The Cicous The fruit of the lotos -tree Polyphemus and the 
 Cyclops The kingdom of the winds, and God JEolus's fatal 
 present The Laestrygonian man-eaters. 
 
 THIS history tells of the wanderings of Ulysses and his 
 followers in their return from Troy, after the destruction 
 of that famous city of Asia by the Grecians. He was 
 inflamed with a desire of seeing again, after a ten years' 
 absence, his wife and native country Ithaca. He was 
 king of a barren spot, and a poor country, in comparison 
 of the fruitful plains of Asia which he was leaving, or 
 the wealthy kingdoms which he touched upon in his re- 
 turn ; yet wherever he came, he could never see a soil 
 which appeared in his eyes half so sweet or desirable as 
 his country earth. This made him refuse the offers of 
 the goddess Calypso to stay with her, and partake of her 
 immortality, in the delightful island : and this gave him 
 strength to break from the enchantments of Circe, the 
 daughter of the Sun. 
 
 From Troy ill winds cast Ulysses and his fleet upon 
 the coast of the Cicons, a people hostile to the Grecians. 
 Landing his forces, he laid siege to their chief city Ismarus, 
 which he took, and with it much spoil, and slew many 
 people. But success proved fatal to him ; for his soldiers, 
 elated with the spoil and the good store of provisions 
 which they found in that place, fell to eating and drink- 
 ing, forgetful of their safety, till the Cicons, who inhabited 
 the coast, had time to assemble their friends and allies 
 from the interior, who mustering in prodigious force, set 
 
 1 The translation of Homer by Chapman in the reign of James I. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 91 
 
 upon the Grecians, while they negligently revelled and 
 feasted, and slew many of them and recovered the spoil. 
 They, dispirited and thinned in their numbers, with 
 difficulty made their retreat good to the ships. 
 
 Thence they set sail, sad at heart, yet something 
 cheered that with such fearful odds against them they 
 had not all been utterly destroyed. A dreadful tempest 
 ensued, which for two nights and two days tossed them 
 about, but the third day the weather cleared, and they 
 had hopes of a favourable gale to carry them to Ithaca ; 
 but as they doubled the Cape of Malea, suddenly a north 
 wind arising, drove them back as far as Cythera. After 
 that, for the space of nine days, contrary winds continued 
 to drive them in an opposite direction to the point to 
 which they were bound, and the teuth day they put in 
 at a shore where a race of men dwell that are sustained 
 by the fruit of the lotos- tree. Here Ulysses sent some 
 of his men to land for fresh water, who were met by 
 certain of the inhabitants, that gave them some of their 
 country food to eat ; not with any ill intention towards 
 them, though in the event it proved pernicious ; for, 
 having eaten of this fruit, so pleasant it proved to their 
 appetite, that they in a minute quite forgot all thoughts 
 of home, or of their countrymen, or of ever returning 
 back to the ships to give an account of what sort of in- 
 habitants dwelt there, but they would needs stay and 
 live there among them, and eat of that precious food for 
 ever ; and when Ulysses sent other of his men to look 
 for them, and to bring them back by force, they strove, 
 and wept, and would not leave their food for heaven 
 itself, so much the pleasure of that enchanting fruit had 
 bewitched them. But Ulysses caused them to be bound 
 hand and foot, and cast under the hatches ; and set sail 
 with all possible speed from that baneful coast, lest others 
 after them might taste the lotos, which had such strange 
 qualities to make men forget their native country and 
 the thoughts of home. 
 
 Coasting on all that night by unknown and out of the 
 
92 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 way shores, they came by day-break to the land where 
 the Cyclops dwell, a sort of giant shepherds that neither 
 sow nor plough, but the earth untilled produces for them 
 rich wheat and barley and grapes, yet they have neither 
 bread nor wine, nor know the arts of cultivation, nor 
 care to know them ; for they live each man to himself, 
 without laws or government, or anything like a state or 
 kingdom, but their dwellings are in caves, on the steep 
 heads of mountains, every man's household governed by 
 his own caprice, or not governed at all, their wives and 
 children as lawless as themselves, none caring for others, 
 but each doing as he or she thinks good. Ships or boats 
 they have none, nor artificers to make them, no trade or 
 commerce, or wish to visit other shores ; yet they have 
 convenient places for harbours and for shipping. Here 
 Ulysses with a chosen party of twelve followers landed, 
 to explore what sort of men dwelt there, whether hos- 
 pitable and friendly to strangers, or altogether wild and 
 savage, for as yet no dwellers appeared in sight. 
 
 The first sign of habitation which they came to was a 
 giant's cave rudely fashioned, but of a size which be- 
 tokened the vast proportions of its owner, the pillars 
 which supported it being the bodies of huge oaks or pines, 
 in the natural state of the tree, and all about showed 
 more marks of strength than skill in whoever built it. 
 Ulysses, entering in, admired the savage contrivances and 
 artless structure of the place, and longed to see the tenant 
 of so outlandish a mansion ; but well conjecturing that 
 gifts would have more avail in extracting courtesy than 
 strength could succeed in forcing it, from such a one as 
 he expected to find the inhabitant, he resolved to flatter 
 his hospitality with a present of Greek wine, of which he 
 had store in twelve great vessels ; so strong that no one 
 ever drank it without an infusion of twenty parts of water 
 to one of wine, yet the fragrance of it even then so 
 delicious, that it would have vexed a man who smelled 
 it to abstain from tasting it ; but whoever tasted it, it 
 was able to raise his courage to the height of heroic deeds 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 93 
 
 Taking with them a goatskin flagon full of this precious 
 liquor, they ventured into the recesses of the cave. Here 
 they pleased themselves a whole day with beholding the 
 giant's kitchen, where the flesh of sheep and goats lay 
 strewed, his dairy where goat-milk stood ranged in troughs 
 and pails, his pens where he kept his live animals ; but 
 those he had driven forth to pasture with him when he 
 went out in the morning. While they were feasting 
 their eyes with a sight of these curiosities, their ears were 
 suddenly deafened with a noise like the falling of a house. 
 It was the owner of the cave who had been abroad all 
 day feeding his flock, as his custom was, in the mountains, 
 and now drove them home in the evening from pasture. 
 He threw down a pile of fire-wood, which he had been 
 gathering against supper-time, before the mouth of the 
 cave, which occasioned the crash they heard. The 
 Grecians hid themselves in the remote parts of the cave, 
 at sight of the uncouth monster. It was Polyphemus, 
 the largest and savagest of the Cyclops, who boasted him- 
 self to be the son of Neptune. He looked more like a 
 mountain crag than a man, and to his brutal body he had 
 a brutish mind answerable. He drove his flock, all that 
 gave milk, to the interior of the cave, but left the rams 
 and the he-goats without. Then taking up a stone so 
 massy that twenty oxen could not have drawn it, he 
 placed it at the mouth of the cave, to defend the entrance, 
 and sat him down to milk his ewes and his goats ; which 
 done, he lastly kindled a fire, and throwing his great eye 
 round the cave (for the Cyclops have no more than one 
 eye, and that placed in the midst of their forehead), 
 by the glimmering light he discerned some of Ulysses' 
 men. 
 
 " Ho, guests, what are you 1 merchants or wandering 
 thieves ? " he bellowed out in a voice which took from 
 them all power of reply, it was so astounding. 
 
 Only Ulysses summoned resolution to answer, that 
 they came neither for plunder nor traffic, but were 
 Grecians who had lost their way, returning from Troy ; 
 
94 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 which famous city, under the conduct of Agamemnon, the 
 renowned son of Atreus, they had sacked, and laid level 
 with the ground. Yet now they prostrated themselves 
 humbly before his feet, whom they acknowledged to be 
 mightier than they, and besought him that he would 
 bestow the rites of hospitality upon them, for that Jove 
 was the avenger of wrongs done to strangers, and would 
 fiercely resent any injury which they might suffer. 
 
 " Fool," said the Cyclop, " to come so far to preach to 
 me the fear of the gods. We Cyclops care not for your 
 Jove, whom you fable to be nursed by a goat, nor any of 
 your blessed ones. We are stronger than they, and dare 
 bid open battle to Jove himself, though you and all your 
 fellows of the earth join with him." And he bade them 
 tell him where their ship was, in which they came, and 
 whether they had any companions. But Ulysses, with a 
 wise caution, made answer, that they had no ship or com- 
 panions, but were unfortunate men whom the sea, splitting 
 their ship in pieces, had dashed upon his coast, and they 
 alone had escaped. He replied nothing, but gripping two 
 of the nearest of them, as if they had been no more than 
 children, he dashed their brains out against the earth, and 
 (shocking to relate) tore in pieces their limbs, and devoured 
 them, yet warm and trembling, making a lion's meal of 
 them, lapping the blood : for the Cyclops are man-eaters, 
 and esteem human flesh to be a delicacy far above goat's 
 or kid's; though by reason of their abhorred customs 
 few men approach their coast except some stragglers, or 
 now and then a shipwrecked mariner. At a sight so 
 horrid Ulysses and his men were like distracted people. 
 He, when he had made an end of his wicked supper, 
 drained a draught of goat's milk down his prodigious 
 throat, and lay down and slept among his goats. Then 
 Ulysses drew his sword, and half resolved to thrust it 
 with all his might in at the bosom of the sleeping monster ; 
 but wiser thoughts restrained him, else they had there 
 without help all perished, for none but Polyphemus him- 
 self could have removed that mass of stone which he had 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 95 
 
 placed to guard the entrance. So they were constrained 
 to abide all that night in fear. 
 
 When day came the Cyclop awoke, and kindling a 
 fire, made his breakfast of two other of his unfortunate 
 prisoners, then milked his goats as he was accustomed, 
 and pushing aside the vast stone, and shutting it again 
 when he had done, upon the prisoners, with as much ease 
 as a man opens and shuts a quiver's lid, he let out his 
 flock, and drove them before him with whistlings (as 
 sharp as winds in storms) to the mountains. 
 
 Then Ulysses, of whose strength or cunning the Cyclop 
 seems to have had as little heed as of an infant's, being 
 left alone, with the remnant of his men which the Cyclop 
 had not devoured, gave manifest proof how far manly 
 wisdom excels brutish force. He chose a stake from 
 among the wood which the Cyclop had piled up for 
 firing, in length and thickness like a mast, which he 
 sharpened and hardened in the fire, and selected four 
 men, and instructed them what they should do with this 
 stake, and made them perfect in their parts. 
 
 When the evening was come, the Cyclop drove home 
 his sheep ; and as fortune directed it, either of purpose, 
 or that his memory was overruled by the gods to his hurt 
 (as in the issue it proved), he drove the males of his flock, 
 contrary to his custom, along with the dams into the 
 pens. Then shutting-to the stone of the cave, he fell to 
 his horrible supper. When he had despatched two more 
 of the Grecians, Ulysses waxed bold with the contempla- 
 tion of his project, and took a bowl of Greek wine, and 
 merrily dared the Cyclop to drink. 
 
 " Cyclop," he said, " take a bowl of wine from the 
 hand of your guest; it may serve to digest the man's 
 flesh that you have eaten, and show what drink our ship 
 held before it went down. All I ask in recompense, if 
 you find it good, is to be dismissed in a whole skin. 
 Truly you must look to have few visitors, if you observe 
 this new custom of eating your guests." 
 
 The brute took and drank, and vehemently enjoyed 
 
96 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 the taste of wine, which was new to him, and swilled 
 again at the flagon, and entreated for more, and prayed 
 Ulysses to tell him his name, that he might bestow a 
 gift upon the man who had given him such brave liquor. 
 The Cyclops (he said) had grapes, but this rich juice (he 
 swore) was simply divine. Again Ulysses plied him with 
 the wine, and the fool drank it as fast as he poured out, 
 and again he asked the name of his benefactor, which 
 Ulysses cunningly dissembling, said : " My name is No- 
 man; my kindred and friends in my own country call 
 me Noman." "Then," said the Cyclop, "this is the 
 kindness I will show thee, Noman ; I will eat thee last 
 of all thy friends." He had scarce expressed his savage 
 kindness when the fumes of the strong wine overcame 
 him, and he reeled down upon the floor and sank into a 
 dead sleep. 
 
 Ulysses watched his time, while the monster lay in- 
 sensible, and heartening up his men, they placed the sharp 
 end of the stake in the fire till it was heated red-hot, and 
 some god gave them a courage beyond that which they 
 were used to have, and the four men with difficulty bored 
 the sharp end of the huge stake, which they had heated 
 red-hot, right into the eye of the drunken cannibal, and 
 Ulysses helped to thrust it in with all his might, still 
 farther and farther, with effort, as men bore with an 
 augur, till the scalded blood gushed out, and the eye -ball 
 smoked, and the strings of the eye cracked, as the burn- 
 ing rafter broke in it, and the eye hissed, as hot iron 
 hisses when it is plunged into water. 
 
 He waking, roared with the pain so loud that all the 
 cavern broke into claps like thunder. They fled, and 
 dispersed into corners. He plucked the burning stake 
 from his eye, and hurled the wood madly about the cave. 
 Then he cried out with a mighty voice for his brethren 
 the Cyclops, that dwelt hard by in caverns upon hills ; 
 they hearing the terrible shout came flocking from all 
 parts to inquire what ailed Polyphemus ? and what cause 
 be had for making such horrid clamours in the night-time 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 97 
 
 to break their sleeps ? if his fright proceeded from any 
 mortal? if strength or craft had given him his death's 
 blow 1 He made answer from within that Noman had 
 hurt him, Noman had killed him, Noman was with him 
 in the cave. They replied, " If no man has hurt thee, 
 and no man is with thee, then thou art alone, and the 
 evil that afflicts thee is from the hand of heaven, which 
 none can resist or help." So they left him and went 
 their way, thinking that some disease troubled him. He, 
 blind and ready to split with the anguish of the pain, 
 went groaning up and down in the dark, to find the door- 
 way, which when he found, he removed the stone, and 
 sat in the threshold, feeling if he could lay hold on any 
 man going out with the sheep, which (the day now 
 breaking) were beginning to issue forth to their accus- 
 tomed pastures. But Ulysses, whose first artifice in 
 giving himself that ambiguous name, had succeeded so 
 well with the Cyclop, was not of a wit so gross to be 
 caught by that palpable device. But casting about in 
 his mind all the ways which he could contrive for escape 
 (no less than all their lives depending on the success), 
 at last he thought of this expedient. He made knots of 
 the osier twigs upon which the Cyclop commonly slept, 
 with which he tied the fattest and fleeciest of the rams 
 together, three in a rank, and under the belly of the 
 middle ram he tied a man, and himself last, wrapping 
 himself fast with both his hands in the rich wool of one, 
 the fairest of the flock. 
 
 And now the sheep began to issue forth very fast; 
 the males went first, the females unmilked stood by, 
 bleating and requiring the hand of their shepherd in vain 
 to milk them, their full bags sore with being unemptied, 
 but he much sorer with the loss of sight. Still as the 
 males passed, he felt the backs of those fleecy fools, never 
 dreaming that they carried his enemies under their bellies : 
 so they passed on till the last ram came loaded with his 
 wool and Ulysses together. He stopped that rani and 
 felt him, and had his hand once in the hair of Ulysses, 
 
98 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 yet knew it not, and he chid the rani for being last, and 
 spoke to it as if it understood him, and asked it whether 
 it did not wish that its master had his eye again, which 
 that abominable Noman with his execrable rout had put 
 out, when they had got him down with wine; and he 
 willed the ram to tell him whereabouts in the cave his 
 enemy lurked, that he might dash his brains and strew 
 them about, to ease his heart of that tormenting revenge 
 which rankled in it. After a deal of such foolish talk to 
 the beast he let it go. 
 
 When Ulysses found himself free, he let go his hold, 
 and assisted in disengaging his friends. The rams which 
 had befriended them they carried off with them to the 
 ships, where their companions with tears in their eyes 
 received them, as men escaped from death. They plied 
 their oars, and set their sails, and when they were got as 
 far off from shore as a voice would reach, Ulysses cried 
 out to the Cyclop : " Cyclop, thou should'st not have so 
 much abused thy monstrous strength, as to devour thy 
 guests. Jove by my hand sends thee requital to pay thy 
 savage inhumanity." The Cyclop heard, and came forth 
 enraged, and in his anger he plucked a fragment of a 
 rock, and threw it with blind fury at the ships : it nar- 
 rowly escaped lighting upon the bark in which Ulysses 
 sat, but with the fall it raised so fierce an ebb, as bore 
 back the ship till it almost touched the shore. " Cyclop," 
 said Ulysses, " if any ask thee who imposed on thee that 
 unsightly blemish in thine eye, say it was Ulysses, son of 
 Laertes : the king of Ithaca am I called, the waster of 
 cities." Then they crowded sail, and beat the old sea, 
 and forth they went with a forward gale ; sad for fore- 
 past losses, yet glad to have escaped at any rate; till 
 they came to the isle where ^Eolus reigned, who is god 
 of the winds. 
 
 Here Ulysses and his men were courteously received 
 by the monarch, who showed him his twelve children 
 which have rule over the twelve winds. A month they 
 stayed and feasted with him, and at the end of the month 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 99 
 
 he dismissed them with many presents, and gave to 
 Ulysses at parting an ox's hide, in which were enclosed 
 all the winds : only he left abroad the western wind, to 
 play upon their sails and waft them gently home to 
 Ithaca. This bag, bound in a glittering silver band, so 
 close that no breath could escape, Ulysses hung up at 
 the mast. His companions did not know its contents, 
 but guessed that the monarch had given to him some 
 treasures of gold or silver. 
 
 Nine days they sailed smoothly, favoured by the 
 western wind, and by the tenth they approached so nigh 
 as to discern lights kindled on the shores of their country 
 earth ; when, by ill fortune, Ulysses, overcome with 
 fatigue of watching the helm, fell asleep. The mariners 
 seized the opportunity, and one of them said to the rest : 
 " A fine time has this leader of ours : wherever he goes 
 he is sure of presents, when we come away empty-handed ; 
 and see, what king ^Eolus has given him, store no doubt 
 of gold and silver." A word was enough to those covetous 
 wretches, who quick as thought untied the bag, and in- 
 stead of gold, out rushed with mighty noise all tlie ivinds. 
 Ulysses with the noise awoke and saw their mistake, 
 but too late, for the ship was driving with all the winds 
 back far from Ithaca, far as to the island of JEolus from 
 which they had parted, in one hour measuring back what 
 in nine days they had scarcely tracked, and in sight of 
 home too ! Up he flew amazed, and raving doubted 
 whether he should not fling himself into the sea for grief 
 of his bitter disappointment. At last he hid himself 
 under the hatches for shame. And scarce could he be 
 prevailed upon, when he was told he was arrived again 
 in the harbour of king jEolus, to go himself or send to 
 that monarch for a second succour ; so much the disgrace 
 of having misused his royal bounty (though it was the 
 crime of his followers and not his own) weighed upon 
 him : and when at last he went, and took a herald with 
 him, and came where the god sat on his throne, feasting 
 with his children, he would not trust in among them at 
 
100 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 their meat, but set himself down like one unworthy in 
 the threshold. 
 
 Indignation seized ^Eolus to behold him in that 
 manner returned ; and he said : " Ulysses, what has 
 brought you back 1 are you so soon tired of your country r i 
 or did not our present please you ? we thought we had 
 given you a kingly passport." Ulysses made answer : 
 " My men have done this ill mischief to me : they did it 
 while I slept." "Wretch," said JEolus, "avaunt, and 
 quit our shores : it fits not us to convoy men whom the 
 gods hate, and will have perish." 
 
 Forth they sailed, but with far different hopes than 
 when they left the same harbour the first time with all 
 the winds confined, only the west-wind suffered to play 
 upon their sails to waft them in gentle murmurs to 
 Ithaca. They were now the sport of every gale that 
 blew, and despaired of ever seeing home more. Now 
 those covetous mariners were cured of their surfeit for 
 gold, and would not have touched it if it had lain in un- 
 told heaps before them. 
 
 Six days and nights they drove along, and on the 
 seventh day they put in to Lamos, a port of the Laestry- 
 gonians. So spacious this harbour was, that it held with 
 ease all their fleet, which rode at anchor, safe from any 
 storms, all but the ship in which Ulysses was embarked. 
 He, as if prophetic of the mischance which followed, kept 
 still without the harbour, making fast his bark to a rock 
 at the land's point, which he climbed with purpose to 
 survey the country. He saw a city with smoke ascending 
 from the roofs, but neither ploughs going, nor oxen yoked, 
 nor any sign of agricultural works. Making choice of 
 two men, he sent them to the city to explore what sort 
 of inhabitants dwelt there. His messengers had not gone 
 far before they met a damsel, of stature surpassing human, 
 who was coming to draw water from a spring. They 
 asked her who dwelt in that land. She made no reply, 
 but led them in silence to her father's palace. He was 
 a monarch and named Antiphas. He and all his people 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 101 
 
 were giants. When they entered the palace, a woman, 
 the mother of the damsel, but far taller than she, rushed 
 abroad and called for Antiphas. He came, and snatching 
 up one of the two men, made as if he would devour him. 
 The other fled. Antiphas raised a mighty shout, and 
 instantly, this way and that, multitudes of gigantic people 
 issued out at the gates, and making for the harbour, tore 
 up huge pieces of the rocks, and flung them at the ships 
 which lay there, all which they utterly overwhelmed and 
 sank ; and the unfortunate bodies of men which floated, 
 and which the sea did not devour, these cannibals thrust 
 through with harpoons, like fishes, and bore them off to 
 their dire feast. Ulysses with his single bark that had 
 never entered the harbour escaped ; that bark which was 
 now the only vessel left of all the gallant navy that had 
 set sail with him from Troy. He pushed off from the 
 shore, cheering the sad remnant of his men, whom horror 
 at the sight of their countrymen's fate had almost turned 
 to marble. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 The house of Circe Men changed into beasts The voyage to hell 
 The banquet of the dead. 
 
 ON went the single ship till it came to the island of 
 where Circe the dreadful daughter of the Sun dwelt. 
 She was deeply skilled in magic, a haughty beauty, and 
 had hair like the Sun. The Sun was her parent, and 
 begot her and her brother ^Eetes (such another as her- 
 self) upon Perse, daughter to Oceanus. 
 
 Here a dispute arose among Ulysses' men, which of 
 them should go ashore and explore the country ; for there 
 was a necessity that some should go to procure water and 
 provisions, their stock of both being nigh spent : but 
 their hearts failed them when they called to mind the 
 shocking fate of their fellows whom the Lsestrygonians 
 had eaten and those which the foul Cyclop Polyphemus 
 
102 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 had crushed between his jaws; which moved them so 
 tenderly in the recollection that they wept. But tears 
 never yet supplied any man's wants ; this Ulysses knew 
 full well, and dividing his men (all that were left) into 
 two companies, at the head of one of which was himself, 
 and at the head of the other Eurylochus, a man of tried 
 courage, he cast lots which of them should go up into the 
 country, and the lot fell upon Eurylochus and his com- 
 pany, two and twenty in number ; who took their leave, 
 with tears, of Ulysses and his men that stayed, whose 
 eyes wore the same wet badges of weak humanity, for they 
 surely thought never to see these their companions again, 
 but that on every coast where they should come, they 
 should find nothing but savages and cannibals. 
 
 Eurylochus and his party proceeded up the country, 
 till in a dale they descried the house of Circe, built of 
 bright stone, by the road's side. Before her gate lay 
 many beasts, as wolves, lions, leopards, which, by her art, 
 of wild she had rendered tame. These arose when they 
 saw strangers, and ramped upon their hinder paws, and 
 fawned upon Eurylochus and his men, who dreaded the 
 effects of such monstrous kindness ; and staying at the 
 gate they heard the enchantress within, sitting at her 
 loom, singing such strains as suspended all mortal faculties, 
 while she wove a web, subtle and glorious, and of texture 
 inimitable on earth, as all the housewiferies of the deities 
 are. Strains so ravishingly sweet, provoked even the 
 sagest and prudentest heads among the party to knock 
 and call at the gate. The shining gate the enchantress 
 opened, and bade them come in and feast. They unwise 
 followed, all but Eurylochus, who stayed without the 
 gate, suspicious that some train was laid for them. Being 
 entered, she placed them in chairs of state, and set before 
 them meal and honey, and Smyrna wine ; but mixed with 
 baneful drugs of powerful enchantment. When they had 
 eaten of these, and drunk of her cup, she touched them 
 with her charming-rod, and straight they were transformed 
 into swine, having the bodies of swine, the bristles, and 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 103 
 
 snout, and grunting noise of that animal; only they 
 still retained the minds of men, which made them the 
 more to lament their brutish transformation. Having 
 changed them, she shut them up in her sty with many 
 more whom her wicked sorceries had formerly changed, 
 and gave them swine's food, mast, and acorns, and chest- 
 nuts, to eat. 
 
 Eurylochus, who beheld nothing of these sad changes 
 from where he was stationed without the gate, only 
 instead of his companions that entered (who he thought 
 had all vanished by witchcraft) beheld a herd of swine, 
 hurried back to the ship, to give an account of what he 
 had seen : but so frightened and perplexed, that he could 
 give no distinct report of anything, only he remembered 
 a palace, and a woman singing at her work, and gates 
 guarded by lions. But his companions, he said, were all 
 vanished. 
 
 Then Ulysses suspecting some foul witchcraft, snatched 
 his sword, and his bow, and commanded Eurylochus in- 
 stantly to lead him to the place. But Eurylochus fell 
 down, and embracing his knees, besought him by the 
 name of a man whom the gods had in their protection, 
 not to expose his safety, and the safety of them all, to 
 certain destruction. 
 
 " Do thou then stay, Eurylochus !" answered Ulysses : 
 " eat thou and drink in the ship in safety ; while I go 
 alone upon this adventure : necessity, from whose law is 
 no appeal, compels me." 
 
 So saying he quitted the ship and went on shore, 
 accompanied by none ; none had the hardihood to offer to 
 partake that perilous adventure with him, so much they 
 dreaded the enchantments of the witch. Singly he pur- 
 sued his journey till he came to the shining gates which 
 stood before her mansion : but when he essayed to put 
 his foot over her threshold, he was suddenly stopped by 
 the apparition of a young man, bearing a golden rod in 
 his hand, who was the god Mercury. He held Ulysses 
 by the wrist, to stay his entrance; and " Whither wouldest 
 
104 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 thou go?" he said; "0, thou most erring of the sons of 
 men ! knowest thou not that this is the house of great 
 Circe, where she keeps thy friends in a loathsome sty, 
 changed from the fair forms of men into the detestable 
 and ugly shapes of swine? art thou prepared to share 
 their fate, from which nothing can ransom thee ?" But 
 neither his words, nor his coming from heaven, could stop 
 the daring foot of Ulysses, whom compassion for the mis- 
 fortune of his friends had rendered careless of danger: 
 which when the god perceived, he had pity to see valour 
 so misplaced, and gave him the flower of the herb moly, 
 which is sovereign against enchantments. The moly is a 
 small unsightly root, its virtues but little known, and in 
 low estimation ; the dull shepherd treads on it every day 
 with his clouted shoes ; but it bears a small white flower, 
 which is medicinal against charms, blights, mildews, and 
 damps. "Take this in thy hand," said Mercury, "and 
 with it boldly enter her gates : when she shall strike thee 
 with her rod, thinking to change thee, as she has changed 
 thy friends, boldly rush in upon her with thy sword, and 
 extort from her the dreadful oath of the gods, that she 
 will use no enchantments against thee : then force her to 
 restore thy abused companions." He gave Ulysses the 
 little white flower, and instructing him how to use it, 
 vanished. 
 
 When the god was departed, Ulysses with loud knock- 
 ings beat at the gate of the palace. The shining gates 
 were opened, as before, and great Circe with hospitable 
 cheer invited in her guest. She placed him on a throne 
 with more distinction than she had used to his fellows, 
 she mingled wine in a costly bowl, and he drank of it, 
 mixed with those poisonous drugs. When he had drunk, 
 she struck him with her charming- rod, and "To your 
 sty," she cried ; " out, swine ; mingle with your com- 
 panions." But those powerful words were not proof 
 against the preservative which Mercury had given to 
 Ulysses; he remained unchanged, and as the god had 
 directed him, boldly charged the witch with his sword, 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 105 
 
 as if he meant to take her life : which when she saw, 
 and perceived that her charms were weak against the 
 antidote which Ulysses bore about him, she cried out and 
 bent her knees beneath his sword, embracing his, and 
 said, " Who or what manner of man art thou ? Never 
 drank any man before thee of this cup, but he repented 
 it in some brute's form. Thy shape remains unaltered as 
 thy mind. Thou canst be none other than Ulysses, 
 renowned above all the world for wisdom, whom the fates 
 have long since decreed that I must love. This haughty 
 bosom bends to thee. Ithacan, a goddess woos thee 
 to her bed." 
 
 "0 Circe," he replied, "how canst thou treat of love 
 or marriage with one whose friends thou hast turned into 
 beasts ? and now offerest him thy hand in wedlock, only 
 that thou mightest have him in thy power, to live the 
 life of a beast with thee, naked, effeminate, subject to thy 
 will, perhaps to be advanced in time to the honour of a 
 place in thy sty. What pleasure canst thou promise, 
 which may tempt the soul of a reasonable man? thy 
 meats, spiced with poison ; or thy wines, drugged with 
 death 1 Thou must swear to me, that thou wilt never 
 attempt against me the treasons which thou hast practised 
 upon my friends." The enchantress, won by the terror 
 of his threats, or by the violence of that new love which 
 she felt kindling in her veins for him, swore by Styx, 
 the great oath of the gods, that she meditated no injury 
 to him. Then Ulysses made show of gentler treatment, 
 which gave her hopes of inspiring him with a passion 
 equal to that which she felt. She called her handmaids, 
 four that served her in chief, who were daughters to her 
 silver fountains, to her sacred rivers, and to her conse- 
 crated woods, to deck her apartments, to spread rich 
 carpets, and set out her silver tables with dishes of the 
 purest gold, and meat as precious as that which the gods 
 eat, to entertain her guest. One brought water to wash 
 his feet, and one brought wine to chase away, with a 
 refreshing sweetness, the sorrows that had come of late 
 
106 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 so thick upon him and hurt his noble mind. They 
 strewed perfumes on his head, and after he had bathed 
 in a bath of the choicest aromatics, they brought him 
 rich and costly apparel to put on. Then he was con- 
 ducted to a throne of massive silver, and a regale, fit for 
 Jove when he banquets, was placed before him. But 
 the feast which Ulysses desired was to see his friends 
 (the partners of his voyage) once more in the shapes of 
 men ; and the food which could give him nourishment 
 must be taken in at his eyes. Because he missed this 
 sight, he sat melancholy and thoughtful, and would taste 
 of none of the rich delicacies placed before him. Which 
 when Circe noted, she easily divined the cause of his 
 sadness, and leaving the seat in which she sat throned, 
 went to her sty, and led abroad his men, who came in 
 like swine, and filled the ample hall, where Ulysses sat, 
 with gruntings. Hardly had he time to let his sad eye 
 run over their altered forms and brutal metamorphosis, 
 when with an ointment which she smeared over them, 
 suddenly their bristles fell off, and they started up in 
 their own shapes men as before. They knew their leader 
 again, and clung about him with joy of their late restora- 
 tion, and some shame for their late change ; and wept so 
 loud, blubbering out their joy in broken accents, that the 
 palace was rilled with a sound of pleasing mourning, and 
 the witch herself, great Circe, was not unmoved at the 
 sight. To make her atonement complete, she sent for 
 the remnant of Ulysses' men who stayed behind at the 
 ship, giving up their great commander for lost; who 
 when they came, and saw him again alive, circled with 
 their fellows, no expression can tell what joy they felt ; 
 they even cried out with rapture, and to have seen their 
 frantic expressions of mirth, a man might have supposed 
 that they were just in sight of their country earth, the 
 cliffs of rocky Ithaca. Only Eurylochus would hardly 
 be persuaded to enter that palace of wonders, for he 
 remembered with a kind of horror how his companions 
 had vanished from his sight. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 107 
 
 Theii great Circe spake, and gave order, that there 
 should be no more sadness among them, nor remember- 
 ing of past sufferings. For as yet they fared like men 
 that are exiles from their country, and if a gleam of mirth 
 shot among them, it was suddenly quenched with the 
 thought of their helpless and homeless condition. Her 
 kind persuasions wrought upon Ulysses and the rest, 
 that they spent twelve months in all manner of delight 
 with her in her palace. For Circe was a powerful 
 magician, and could command the moon from her sphere, 
 or unroot the solid oak from its place to make it dance 
 for their diversion, and by the help of her illusions she 
 could vary the taste of pleasures, and contrive delights, 
 recreations, and jolly pastimes, to " fetch the day about 
 from sun to sun, and rock the tedious year as in a 
 delightful dream." 
 
 At length Ulysses awoke from the trance of the 
 faculties into which her charms had thrown him, and 
 the thought of home returned with tenfold vigour to goad 
 and sting him ; that home where he had left his virtuous 
 wife Penelope, and his young son Telemachus. One day 
 when Circe had been lavish of her caresses, and was in 
 her kindest humour, he moved to her subtly, and as it 
 were afar off, the question of his home-return ; to which 
 she answered firmly, " Ulysses, it is not in my power to 
 detain one whom the gods have destined to farther trials. 
 But leaving me, before you pursue your journey home, you 
 must visit the house of Hades, or Death, to consult the 
 shade of Tiresias the Theban prophet ; to whom alone, 
 of all the dead, Proserpine, queen of hell, has committed 
 the secret of future events : it is he that must inform 
 you whether you shall ever see again your wife and 
 country." "0 Circe," he cried; "that is impossible: 
 who shall steer my course to Pluto's kingdom ? Never ship 
 had strength to make that voyage." " Seek no guide," 
 she replied ; "but raise you your mast, and hoist your 
 white sails, and sit in your ship in peace : the north wind 
 shall waft you through the seas, till you shall cross the 
 
108 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 expanse of the ocean, and come to where grow the poplar 
 groves, and willows pale, of Proserpine : where Pyriphle- 
 gethon and Cocytus and Acheron mingle their waves. 
 Cocytus is an arm of Styx, the forgetful river. Here dig 
 a pit, and make it a cubit broad and a cubit long, and 
 pour in milk, and honey, and wine, and the blood of a 
 ram, and the blood of a black ewe, and turn away thy 
 face while thou pourest in, and the dead shall come flock- 
 ing to taste the milk and the blood ; but suffer none to 
 approach thy offering till thou hast inquired of Tiresias 
 all which thou wishest to know." 
 
 He did as great Circe had appointed. He raised his 
 mast, and hoisted his white sails, and sat in his ship in 
 peace. The north wind wafted him through the seas, 
 till he crossed the ocean, and came to the sacred woods 
 of Proserpine. He stood at the confluence of the three 
 floods, and digged a pit, as she had given directions, and 
 poured in his offering ; the blood of a ram, and the blood 
 of a black ewe, milk, and honey, and wine ; and the dead 
 came to his banquet : aged men, and women, and youths, 
 and children who died in infancy. But none of them 
 would he suffer to approach, and dip their thin lips in 
 the offering, till Tiresias was served, not though his own 
 mother was among the number, whom now for the first 
 time he knew to be dead, for he had left her living when 
 he went to Troy, and she had died since his departure, 
 and the tidings never reached him : though it irked his 
 soul to use constraint upon her, yet in compliance with 
 the injunction of great Circe, he forced her to retire along 
 with the other ghosts. Then Tiresias, who bore a golden 
 sceptre, came and lapped of the offering, and immediately 
 he knew Ulysses, and began to prophecy : Jie denounced 
 woe to Ulysses, woe, woe, and many sufferings, through 
 the anger of Neptune for the putting out of the eye of the 
 sea-gods son. Yet there was safety after suffering, if 
 they could abstain from slaughtering the oxen of tJie Sun 
 after tJiey landed in the Triangular island. For Ulysses, 
 the gods had destined him from a king to become a beggar. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 109 
 
 and to perish by his own guests, unless he slew those who 
 knew him not. 
 
 This prophecy, ambiguously delivered, was all that 
 firesias was empowered to unfold, or else there was no 
 longer place for him ; for now the souls of the other dead 
 came flocking in such numbers, tumultuously demanding 
 the blood, that freezing horror seized the limbs of the 
 living Ulysses, to see so many, and all dead, and he the 
 only one alive in that region. Now his mother came 
 and lapped the blood, without restraint from her son, and 
 now she knew him to be her son, and inquired of him 
 why he had come alive to their comfortless habitations. 
 And she said, that affliction for Ulysses' long absence had 
 preyed upon her spirits, and brought her to the grave. 
 
 Ulysses' soul melted at her moving narration, and for- 
 getting the state of the dead, and that the airy texture 
 of disembodied spirits does not admit of the embraces of 
 flesh and blood, he threw his arms about her to clasp her : 
 the poor ghost melted from his embrace, and looking 
 mournfully upon him vanished away. 
 
 Then saw he other females. Tyro, who when she 
 lived was the paramour of Neptune, and by him had 
 Pelias and Neleus. Antiope, who bore two like sons to 
 Jove, Amphion and Zethus, founders of Thebes. Alcrnena, 
 the mother of Hercules, with her fair daughter, afterwards 
 her daughter-in-law, Megara. There also Ulysses saw 
 Jocasta, the unfortunate mother and wife of CEdipus ; 
 who ignorant of kin wedded with her son, and when she 
 had discovered the unnatural alliance, for shame and grief 
 hanged herself. He continued to drag a wretched life above 
 the earth, haunted by the dreadful Furies. There was 
 Leda, the wife of Tyndarus, the mother of the beautiful 
 Helen, and of the two brave brothers, Castor and Pollux, 
 who obtained this grace from Jove, that being dead, they 
 should enjoy life alternately, living in pleasant places 
 under the earth. For Pollux had prayed that his brother 
 Castor, who was subject to death, as the son of Tyudarus, 
 should partake of his own immortality, which he derived 
 
110 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 from an immortal sire : this the Fates denied j therefore 
 Pollux was permitted to divide his immortality with his 
 brother Castor, dying and living alternately. There was 
 Iphimedeia, who bore two sons to Neptune that were 
 giants, Otus and Ephialtes : Earth in her prodigality 
 never nourished bodies to such portentous size and beauty 
 as these two children were of, except Orion. At nine 
 years old they had imaginations of climbing to heaven to 
 see what the gods were doing; they thought to make 
 stairs of mountains, and were for piling Ossa upon 
 Olympus, and setting Pelion upon that, and had perhaps 
 performed it, if they had lived till they were strip- 
 lings ; but they were cut off by death in the infancy of 
 their ambitious project. Phaedra was there, and Procris, 
 and Ariadne, mournful for Theseus' desertion, and Msera, 
 and Clymene, and Eryphile, who preferred gold before 
 wedlock faith. 
 
 But now came a mournful ghost, that late was Aga- 
 memnon, son of Atreus, the mighty leader of all the host 
 of Greece and their confederate kings that warred against 
 Troy. He came with the rest to sip a little of the blood 
 at that uncomfortable banquet. Ulysses was moved with 
 compassion to see him among them, and asked him what 
 untimely fate had brought him there, if storms had over- 
 whelmed him coming from Troy, or if he had perished in 
 some mutiny by his own soldiers at a division of the prey 
 
 "By none of these," he replied, "did I come to my 
 death, but slain at a banquet to which I was invited by 
 ^Egisthus after my return home. He conspiring with my 
 adulterous wife, they laid a scheme for my destruction, 
 training me forth to a banquet as an ox goes to the 
 slaughter, and there surrounding me they slew me with 
 all my friends about me. 
 
 " Clytemnestra, my wicked wife, forgetting the vows 
 which she swore to me in wedlock, would not lend a 
 hand to close my eyes in death. But nothing is so 
 heaped with impieties as such a woman, who would kill 
 her spouse that married her a maid. When I brought 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. Ill 
 
 her home to iny house a bride, I hoped in my heart that 
 she would be loving to me and to my children. Now, 
 her black treacheries have cast a foul aspersion on her 
 whole sex. Blest husbands will have their loving wives 
 in suspicion for her bad deeds." 
 
 "Alas!" said Ulysses, "there seems to be a fatal- 
 ity in your royal house of Atreus, and that they are 
 hated of Jove for their wives. For Helen's sake, your 
 brother Meuelaus' wife, what multitudes fell in the wars 
 of Troy ! " 
 
 Agamemnon replied, "For this cause be not thou 
 more kind than wise to any woman. Let not thy words 
 express to her at any time all that is in thy mind, keep 
 still some secrets to thyself. But thou by any bloody 
 contrivances of thy wife never need'st fear to fall. Ex- 
 ceeding wise she is, and to her wisdom she has a good- 
 ness as eminent : Icarius' daughter, Penelope the chaste : 
 we left her a young bride when we parted from our wives 
 to go to the wars, her first child suckling at her breast, 
 the young Telemachus, whom you shall see grown up to 
 manhood on your return, and he shall greet his father with 
 befitting welcomes. My Orestes, my dear son, I shall 
 never see again. His mother has deprived his father of 
 the sight of him, and perhaps will slay him as she slew 
 his sire. It is now no world to trust a woman in. But 
 what says fame ? is my son yet alive 1 lives he in 
 Orchomen, or in Pylus, or is he resident in Sparta, in his 
 uncle's court? as yet, I see, divine Orestes is not here 
 with me." 
 
 To this Ulysses replied that he had received no 
 certain tidings where Orestes abode, only some uncertain 
 rumours which he could not report for truth. 
 
 While they held this sad conference, with kind tears 
 striving to render unkind fortunes more palatable, the 
 soul of great Achilles joined them. "What desperate 
 adventure has brought Ulysses to these regions," said 
 Achilles, " to see the end of dead men and their foolish 
 shades ? " 
 
112 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 Ulysses answered him that he had come to consult 
 Tiresias respecting his voyage home. " But thou, son 
 of Thetis," said he, " why dost thou disparage the state of 
 the dead ? seeing that as alive thou didst surpass all men 
 in glory, thou must needs retain thy pre-eminence here 
 below : so great Achilles triumphs over death." 
 
 But Achilles made reply that he had much rather be 
 a peasant-slave upon the earth than reign over all the 
 dead. So much did the inactivity and slothful condition 
 of that state displease his unquenchable and restless 
 spirit. Only he inquired of Ulysses if his father Peleus 
 were living, and how his son Neoptolemus conducted 
 himself. 
 
 Of Peleus Ulysses could tell him nothing : but of 
 Neoptolemus he thus bore witness : " From Scyros I 
 convoyed your son by sea to the Greeks, where I can 
 speak of him, for I knew him. He was chief in council 
 and in the field. When any question was proposed, so 
 quick was his conceit in the forward apprehension of any 
 case, that he ever spoke first, and was heard with more 
 attention than the older heads. Only myself and aged 
 Nestor could compare with him in giving advice. In 
 battle I cannot speak his praise, unless I could count all 
 that fell by his sword. I will only mention one instance 
 of his manhood. When we sat hid in the belly of the 
 wooden horse, in the ambush which deceived the Trojans 
 to their destruction, I, who had the management of that 
 stratagem, still shifted my place from side to side to note 
 the behaviour of our men. In some I marked their 
 hearts trembling, through all the pains which they took 
 to appear valiant, and in others tears, that in spite of 
 manly courage would gush forth. And to say truth, it 
 was an adventure of high enterprise, and as perilous a 
 stake as was ever played in war's game. But in him I 
 could not observe the least sign of weakness, no tears nor 
 tremblings, but his hand still on his good sword, and ever 
 urging me to set open the machine and let us out before 
 the time was come for doing it ; and when we sallied out 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 113 
 
 he was still first in that fierce destruction and bloody mid- 
 night desolation of King Priam's city." 
 
 This made the soul of Achilles to tread a swifter pace, 
 with high-raised feet, as he vanished away, for the joy 
 which he took in his son being applauded by Ulysses. 
 
 A sad shade stalked by, which Ulysses knew to be 
 the ghost of Ajax, his opponent, when living, in that 
 famous dispute about the right of succeeding to the arms 
 of the deceased Achilles. They being adjudged by the 
 Greeks to Ulysses, as the prize of wisdom above bodily 
 strength, the noble Ajax in despite went mad, and slew 
 himself. The sight of his rival turned to a shade by his 
 dispute, so subdued the passion of emulation in Ulysses, 
 that for his sake he wished that judgment in that contro- 
 versy had been given against himself, rather than so 
 illustrious a chief should have perished for the desire of 
 those arms, which his prowess (second only to Achilles 
 in fight) so eminently had deserved. "Ajax," he cried, 
 " all the Greeks mourn for thee as much as they lamented 
 for Achilles. Let not thy wrath burn for ever, great son 
 of Telamon. Ulysses seeks peace with thee, and will 
 make any atonement to thee that can appease thy hurt 
 spirit." But the shade stalked on, and would not ex- 
 change a word with Ulysses, though he prayed it with 
 many tears and many earnest entreaties. "He might 
 have spoke to me," said Ulysses, "since I spoke to him ; 
 but I see the resentments of the dead are eternal." 
 
 Then Ulysses saw a throne, on which was placed a 
 judge distributing sentence. He that sat on the throne 
 was Minos, and he was dealing out just judgments to the 
 dead. He it is that assigns them their place in bliss or 
 woe. 
 
 Then came by a thundering ghost, the large-limbed 
 Orion, the mighty hunter, who was hunting there the 
 ghosts of the beasts which he had slaughtered in desert 
 hills upon the earth ; for the dead delight in the occupa- 
 tions which pleased them in the time of their living upon 
 the earth. 
 
114 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 There was Tityus suffering eternal pains because he 
 had sought to violate the honour of Latona as she passed 
 from Pytho into Panopeus. Two vultures sat perpetually 
 preying upon his liver with their crooked beaks, which as 
 fast as they devoured is for ever renewed ; nor can he 
 fray them away with his great hands. 
 
 There was Tantalus, plagued for his great sins, stand- 
 ing up to the chin in water, which he can never taste, 
 but still as he bows his head, thinking to quench his 
 burning thirst, instead of water he licks up unsavoury 
 dust. All fruits pleasant to the sight, and of delicious 
 flavour, hang in ripe clusters about his head, seeming as 
 though they offered themselves to be plucked by him ; 
 but when he reaches out his hand, some wind carries 
 them far out of his sight into the clouds, so he is starved 
 in the midst of plenty by the righteous doom of Jove, in 
 memory of that inhuman banquet at which the sun turned 
 pale, when the unnatural father served up the limbs of 
 his little son in a dish, as meat for his divine guests. 
 
 There was Sisyphus, that sees no end to his labours. 
 His punishment is, to be for ever rolling up a vast stone 
 to the top of a mountain, which when it gets to the top, 
 falls down witli a crushing weight, and all his work is to 
 be begun again. He was bathed all over in sweat, that 
 reeked out a smoke which covered his head like a mist. 
 His crime had been the revealing of state secrets. 
 
 There Ulysses saw Hercules : not that Hercules who 
 enjoys immortal life in heaven among the gods, and is 
 married to Hebe or Youth, but his shadow which remains 
 below. About him the dead flocked as thick as bats, 
 hovering around, and cuffing at his head : he stands with 
 his dreadful bow, ever in the act to shoot. 
 
 There also might Ulysses have seen and spoken with 
 the shades of Theseus, and Pirithous, and the old heroes ; 
 but he had conversed enough with horrors, therefore, 
 covering his face with his hands, that he might see no 
 more spectres, he resumed his seat in his ship, and pushed 
 off. The barque moved of itself without the help of any 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 115 
 
 oar, and soon brought him out of the regions of death 
 into the cheerful quarters of the living, and to the island 
 of jEea, whence he had set forth. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 The song of the Sirens Scylla and Charybdis The oxen of the 
 Sun The judgment The crew killed by lightning. 
 
 " UNHAPPY man, who at thy birth wast appointed twice 
 to die ! others shall die once : but thou, besides that 
 death that remains for thee, common to all men, hast in 
 thy lifetime visited the shades of death. Thee Scylla, 
 thee Charybdis, expect. Thee the deathful Sirens lie in 
 wait for, that taint the minds of whoever listen to them 
 with their sweet singing. Whosoever shall but hear the 
 call of any Siren, he will so despise both wife and children 
 through their sorceries, that the stream of his affection 
 never again shall set homewards, nor shall he take joy in 
 wife or children thereafter, or they in him." 
 
 With these prophetic greetings great Circe met Ulysses 
 on his return. He besought her to instruct him in the 
 nature of the Sirens, and by what method their baneful 
 allurements were to be resisted. 
 
 " They are sisters three," she replied, " that sit in a 
 mead (by which your ship must needs pass) circled with 
 dead men's bones. These are the bones of men whom 
 they have slain, after with fawning invitements they have 
 enticed them into their fen. Yet such is the celestial 
 harmony of their voice accompanying the persuasive magic 
 of their words, that knowing this, you shall not be able 
 to withstand their enticements. Therefore when you are 
 to sail by them, you shall stop the ears of your companions 
 with wax, that they may hear no note of that dangerous 
 music ; but for yourself, that you may hear, and yet live, 
 give them strict command to bind you hand and foot to 
 the mast, and in no case to set you free, till you are out 
 
116 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 of the danger of the temptation, though you should en- 
 treat it, and implore it ever so much, but to bind you 
 rather the more for your requesting to be loosed. So 
 shall you escape that snare." 
 
 Ulysses then prayed her that she would inform him 
 what Scylla and Charybdis were, which she had taught 
 him by name to fear. She replied : " Sailing from -<Eea 
 to Trinacria, you must pass at an equal distance between 
 two fatal rocks. Incline never so little either to the one 
 side or the other, and your ship must meet with certain 
 destruction. No vessel ever yet tried that pass without 
 being lost, but the Argo, which owed her safety to the 
 sacred freight she bore, the fleece of the golden-backed 
 ram, which could not perish. The biggest of these rocks 
 which you shall come to, Scylla hath in charge. There, 
 in a deep whirlpool at the foot of the rock, the abhorred 
 monster shrouds her face ; who if she were to show her 
 full form, no eye of man or god could endure the sight ; 
 thence she stretches out all her six long necks peering and 
 diving to suck up fish, dolphins, dog-fish, and whales, 
 whole ships, and their men, whatever comes within her 
 raging gulf. The other rock is lesser, and of less ominous 
 aspect; but there dreadful Charybdis sits, supping the 
 black deeps. Thrice a day she drinks her pits dry, and 
 thrice a day again she belches them all up : but when 
 she is drinking, come not nigh, for being once caught, the 
 force of Neptune cannot redeem you from her swallow. 
 Better trust to Scylla, for she will but have for her six 
 necks, six men : Charybdis in her insatiate draught will 
 ask all." 
 
 Then Ulysses inquired, in case he should escape Charyb- 
 dis, whether he might not assail that other monster with 
 his sword : to which she replied that he must not think 
 that he had an enemy subject to death, or wounds, to 
 contend with : for Scylla could never die. Therefore, 
 his best safety was in flight, and to invoke none of the 
 gods but Gratis, who is Scylla's mother, and might per- 
 haps forbid her daughter to devour them. For his con- 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 117 
 
 duct after he arrived at Trinacria she referred him to the 
 admonitions which had been given him by Tiresias. 
 
 Ulysses having communicated her instructions, as far 
 as related to the Sirens, to his companions, who had not 
 been present at that interview ; but concealing from them 
 the rest, as he had done the terrible predictions of Tire- 
 sias, that they might not be deterred by fear from pursuing 
 their voyage : the time for departure being come, they set 
 their sails, and took a final leave of great Circe ; who by 
 her art calmed the heavens, and gave them smooth seas, 
 and a right fore wind (the seaman's friend) to bear them 
 on their way to Ithaca. 
 
 They had not sailed past a hundred leagues before the 
 breeze which Circe had lent them suddenly stopped. It 
 was stricken dead. All the sea lay in prostrate slumber. 
 Not a gasp of air could be felt. The ship stood still. 
 Ulysses guessed that the island of the Sirens was not far 
 off, and that they had charmed the air so with their 
 devilish singing. Therefore he made him cakes of wax, 
 as Circe had instructed him, and stopped the ears of his 
 men with them : then causing himself to be bound hand 
 and foot, he commanded the rowers to ply their oars and 
 row as fast as speed could carry them past that fatal 
 shore. They soon came within sight of the Sirens, who 
 sang in Ulysses' hearing : 
 
 Come here, thou, worthy of a world of praise, 
 That dost so high the Grecian glory raise ; 
 Ulysses ! stay thy ship ; and that song hear 
 That none pass'd ever, but it bent his ear, 
 But left him ravish'd, and instructed more 
 By us, than any, ever heard before. 
 For we know all things, whatsoever were 
 In wide Troy labour'd : whatsoever there 
 The Grecians and the Trojans both sustain'd : 
 By those high issues that the gods ordain'd : 
 And whatsoever all the earth can show 
 To inform a knowledge of desert, we know. 
 
 These were the words, but the celestial harmony of 
 the voices which sang them no tongue can describe : it 
 
118 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 took the ear of Ulysses with ravishment. He would 
 have broke his bonds to rush after them ; and threatened, 
 wept, sued, entreated, commanded, crying out with tears 
 and passionate imprecations, conjuring his men by all the 
 ties of perils past which they had endured in common, by 
 fellowship and love, and the authority which he retained 
 among them, to let him loose ; but at no rate would they 
 obey him. And still the Sirens sang. Ulysses made 
 signs, motions, gestures, promising mountains of gold if 
 they would set him free; but their oars only moved 
 faster. And still the Sirens sung. And still the more 
 he adjured them to set him free, the faster with cords 
 and ropes they bound him ; till they were quite out of 
 hearing of the Sirens' notes, whose effect great Circe had 
 so truly predicted. And well she might speak of them, 
 for often she had joined her own enchanting voice to 
 theirs, while she has sat in the flowery meads, mingled 
 with the Sirens and the Water Nymphs, gathering their 
 potent herbs and drugs of magic quality : their singing 
 altogether has made the gods stoop, and " heaven drowsy 
 with the harmony." 
 
 Escaped that peril, they had not sailed yet an hundred 
 leagues farther, when they heard a roar afar off, which 
 Ulysses knew to be the barking of Scylla's dogs, which 
 surround her waist, and bark incessantly. Coming nearer 
 they beheld a smoke ascend, with a horrid murmur, which 
 arose from that other whirlpool, to which they made 
 nigher approaches than to Scylla. Through the furious 
 eddy, which is in that place, the ship stood still as a 
 stone, for there was no man to lend his hand to an oar, 
 the dismal roar of Scylla's dogs at a distance, and the 
 nearer clamours of Charybdis, where everything made an 
 echo, quite taking from them the power of exertion. 
 Ulysses went up and down encouraging his men, one by 
 one, giving them good words, telling them that they were 
 in greater perils when they were blocked up in the Cyclop's 
 cave, yet, heaven assisting his counsels, he had delivered 
 them out of that extremity. That he could not believe 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 119 
 
 but they remembered it ; and wished them to give the 
 same trust to the same care which he had now for their 
 welfare. That they must exert all the strength and wit 
 which they had, and try if Jove would not grant them an 
 .escape even out of this peril. In particular he cheered 
 up the pilot who sat at the helm, and told him that he 
 must show more firmness than other men, as he had 
 more trust committed to him, and had the sole manage- 
 ment by his skill of the vessel in which all their safeties 
 were embarked. That a rock lay hid within those boil- 
 ing whirlpools which he saw, on the outside of which he 
 must steer, if he would avoid his own destruction, and 
 the destruction of them all. 
 
 They heard him, and like men took to the oars ; but 
 little knew what opposite danger, in shunning that rock, 
 they must be thrown upon. For Ulysses had concealed 
 from them the wounds, never to be healed, which Scylla 
 was to open : their terror would else have robbed them 
 all of all care to steer, or move an oar, and have made 
 them hide under the hatches for fear of seeing her, where 
 he and they must have died an idle death. But even 
 then he forgot the precautions which Circe had given him 
 to prevent harm to his person ; who had willed him not 
 to arm, or show himself once to Scylla : but disdaining 
 not to venture life for his brave companions, he could not 
 contain, but armed in all points, and taking a lance in 
 either hand, he went up to the fore deck, and looked 
 when Scylla would appear. 
 
 She did not show herself as yet, and still the vessel 
 steered closer by her rock, as it sought to shun that other 
 more dreaded : for they saw how horribly Charybdis' 
 black throat drew into her all the whirling deep, which 
 she disgorged again, that all about her boiled like a 
 kettle, and the rock roared with troubled waters ; which 
 when she supped in again, all the bottom turned up, and 
 disclosed far under shore the swart sands naked, whose 
 whole stern sight frayed the startled blood from their 
 faces, and made Ulysses turn his to view the wonder of 
 
120 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 whirlpools. Which when Scylla saw, from out her black 
 den, she darted out her six long necks, and swoopt up as 
 many of his friends : whose cries Ulysses heard, and saw 
 them too late, with their heels turned up, and their 
 hands thrown to him for succour, who had been their 
 help in all extremities, but could not deliver them now ; 
 and he heard them shriek out, as she tore them, and to 
 the last they continued to throw their hands out to him 
 for sweet life. In all his sufferings he never had beheld 
 a sight so full of miseries. 
 
 Escaped from Scylla and Chary bdis, but with a dimin- 
 ished crew, Ulysses, and the sad remains of his followers, 
 reached the Trinacrian shore. Here landing, he beheld 
 oxen grazing of such surpassing size and beauty, that 
 both from them, and from the shape of the island 
 (having three promontories jutting into the sea) he 
 judged rightly that he was come to the Triangular 
 island, and the oxen of the Sun, of which Tiresias had 
 forewarned him. 
 
 So great was his terror lest through his own fault, or 
 that of his men, any violence or profanation should be 
 offered to the holy oxen, that even then, tired as they 
 were with the perils and fatigues of the day past, and 
 unable to stir an oar, or use any exertion, and though 
 night was fast coming on, he would have them re-embark 
 immediately, and make the best of their way from that 
 dangerous station ; but his men with one voice resolutely 
 opposed it, and even the too cautious Eurylochus himself 
 withstood the proposal ; so much did the temptation of 
 a little ease and refreshment (ease tenfold sweet after 
 such labours) prevail over the sagest counsels, and the 
 apprehension of certain evil outweigh the prospect of 
 contingent danger. They expostulated, that the nerves 
 of Ulysses seemed to be made of steel, and his limbs not 
 liable to lassitude like other men's; that waking or 
 sleeping seemed indifferent to him ; but that they were 
 men, not gods, and felt the common appetites for food 
 and sleep. That in the night-time all the winds most 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 121 
 
 destructive to ships are generated. That black night 
 still required to be served with meat, and sleep, and 
 quiet havens and ease. That the best sacrifice to the sea 
 was in the morning. With such sailor-like sayings and 
 mutinous arguments, which the majority have always 
 ready to justify disobedience to their betters, they forced 
 Ulysses to comply with their requisition, and against his 
 will to take up his night -quarters on shore. But he 
 first exacted from them an oath that they would neither 
 maim nor kill any of the cattle which they saw grazing, 
 but content themselves with such food as Circe had 
 stowed their vessel with when they parted from Mea. 
 This they man by man severally promised, imprecating 
 the heaviest curses on whoever should break it; and 
 mooring their bark within a creek, they went to supper, 
 contenting themselves that night with such food as Circe 
 had given them, not without many sad thoughts of their 
 friends whom Scylla had devoured, the grief of which 
 kept them great part of the night waking. 
 
 In the morning Ulysses urged them again to a 
 religious observance of the oath that they had sworn, not 
 in any case to attempt the blood of those fair herds 
 which they saw grazing, but to content themselves with 
 the ship's food ; for the god who owned those cattle sees 
 and hears all 
 
 They faithfully obeyed, and remained in that good 
 mind for a month, during which they were confined to 
 that station by contrary winds, till all the wine and the 
 bread were gone, which they had brought with them. 
 When their victuals were gone, necessity compelled them 
 to stray in quest of whatever fish or fowl they could snare, 
 which that coast did not yield in any great abundance. 
 Then Ulysses prayed to all the gods that dwelt in bounti- 
 ful heaven, that they would be pleased to yield them some 
 means to stay their hunger without having recourse to 
 profane and forbidden violations : but the ears of heaven 
 seemed to be shut, or some god incensed plotted his ruin ; 
 for at mid-day, when he should chiefly have been vigilant 
 
122 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 and watchful to prevent mischief, a deep sleep fell upon 
 the eyes of Ulysses, during which he lay totally insensible 
 of all that passed in the world, and what his friends or 
 what his enemies might do, for his welfare or destruction. 
 Then Eurylochus took his advantage. He was the man 
 of most authority with them after Ulysses. He repre- 
 sented to them all the misery of their condition; how 
 that every death is hateful and grievous to mortality, but 
 that of all deaths famine is attended with the most pain- 
 ful, loathsome, and humiliating circumstances; that the 
 subsistence which they could hope to draw from fowling 
 or fishing was too precarious to be depended upon ; that 
 there did not seem to be any chance of the winds chang- 
 ing to favour their escape, but that they must inevitably 
 stay there and perish, if they let an irrational superstition 
 deter them from the means which nature offered to their 
 hands ; that Ulysses might be deceived in his belief that 
 these oxen had any sacred qualities above other oxen; 
 and even admitting that they were the property of the 
 god of the Sun, as he said they were, the Sun did neither 
 eat nor drink, and the gods were best served not by a 
 scrupulous conscience, but by a thankful heart, which 
 took freely what they as freely offered : with these and 
 Buch-like persuasions he prevailed on his half-famished 
 and half -mutinous companions, to begin the impious 
 violation of their oath by the slaughter of seven of the 
 fairest of these oxen which were grazing. Part they 
 roasted and eat, and part they offered in sacrifice to the 
 gods, particularly to Apollo, god of the Sun, vowing to 
 build a temple to his godhead, when they should arrive 
 in Ithaca, and deck it with magnificent and numerous 
 gifts : Vain men ! and superstition worse than that which 
 they so lately derided ! to imagine that prospective peni- 
 tence can excuse a present violation of duty, and that the 
 pure natures of the heavenly powers will admit of com- 
 promise or dispensation for sin. 
 
 But to their feast they fell, dividing the roasted 
 portions of the flesh, savoury and pleasant meat to them, 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES, 123 
 
 but a sad sight to the eyes and a savour of death in the 
 nostrils of the waking Ulysses ; who just woke in time 
 to witness, but not soon enough to prevent, their rash 
 and sacrilegious banquet. He had scarce time to ask 
 what great mischief was this which they had done unto 
 him ; when behold, a prodigy ! the ox-hides which they 
 had stripped began to creep, as if they had life ; and the 
 roasted flesh bellowed as the ox used to do when he was 
 living. The hair of Ulysses stood up on end with affright 
 at these omens ; but his companions, like men whom the 
 gods had infatuated to their destruction, persisted in their 
 horrible banquet. 
 
 The Sun from its burning chariot saw how Ulysses' 
 men had slain his oxen, and he cried to his father Jove : 
 "Revenge me upon these impious men who have slain 
 my oxen, which it did me good to look upon when I 
 walked my heavenly round. In all my daily course I 
 never saw such bright and beautiful creatures as those 
 my oxen were." The father promised that ample retribu- 
 tion should be taken of those accursed men : which was 
 fulfilled shortly after, when they took their leaves of the 
 fatal island. 
 
 Six days they feasted in spite of the signs of heaven, 
 and on the seventh, the wind changing, they set their 
 sails and left the island ; and their hearts were cheerful 
 with the banquets they had held ; all but the heart of 
 Ulysses, which sank within him, as with wet eyes he 
 beheld his friends, and gave them for lost, as men devoted 
 to divine vengeance. Which soon overtook them : for 
 they had not gone many leagues before a dreadful tempest 
 arose, which burst their cables ; down came their mast, 
 crushing the scull of the pilot in its fall ; off he fell from 
 the stern into the water, and the bark wanting his 
 management drove along at the wind's mercy : thunders 
 roared, and terrible lightnings of Jove came down ; first 
 a bolt struck Burylochus, then another, and then another, 
 till all the crew were killed, and their bodies swam about 
 like sea-mews; and the ship was split in pieces: only 
 
124 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 Ulysses survived ; and he had no hope of safety but in 
 tying himself to the mast, where he sat riding upon the 
 waves, like one that in no extremity would yield to 
 fortune. Nine days was he floating about with all the 
 motions of the sea, with no other support than the 
 slender mast under him, till the tenth night cast him, all 
 spent and weary with toil upon the friendly shores of the 
 island Ogygia, 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 The island of Calypso Immortality refused. 
 
 HENCEFORTH the adventures of the single Ulysses must 
 be pursued. Of all those faithful partakers of his toil, 
 who with him left Asia, laden with the spoils of Troy, 
 now not one remains, but all a prey to the remorseless 
 waves, and food for some great fish ; their gallant navy 
 reduced to one ship, and that finally swallowed up and 
 lost. Where now are all their anxious thoughts of home? 
 that perseverance with which they went through the 
 severest sufferings and the hardest labours to which poor 
 seafarers were ever exposed, that their toils at last might 
 be crowned with the sight of their native shores and 
 wives at Ithaca ! Ulysses is now in the isle Ogygia ; 
 called the Delightful Island. The poor shipwrecked 
 chief, the slave of all the elements, is once again raised 
 by the caprice of fortune into a shadow of prosperity. 
 He that was cast naked upon the shore, bereft of all his 
 companions, has now a goddess to attend upon him, and 
 his companions are the nymphs which never die. Who 
 has not heard of Calypso 1 her grove crowned with alders 
 and poplars 1 her grotto, against which the luxuriant vine 
 laid forth his purple grapes? her ever new delights, 
 crystal fountains, running brooks, meadows flowering 
 with sweet balm -gen tie and with violet: blue violets 
 which like veins enamelled the smooth breasts of each 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 125 
 
 fragrant mead ! It were useless to describe over again 
 what has been so well told already : or to relate those 
 soft arts of courtship which the goddess used to detain 
 Ulysses ; the same in kind which she afterwards practised 
 upon his less wary son, whom Minerva, in the shape of 
 Mentor, hardly preserved from her snares, when they 
 came to the Delightful Island together in search of the 
 scarce departed Ulysses. 
 
 A memorable example of married love, and a worthy 
 instance how dear to every good man his country is, was 
 exhibited by Ulysses. If Circe loved him sincerely, 
 Calypso loves him with tenfold more warmth and passion : 
 she can deny him nothing but his departure ; she offers 
 him everything, even to a participation of her immor- 
 tality; if he will stay and share in her pleasures he 
 shall never die. But death with glory has greater charms 
 for a mind heroic than a life that shall never die with 
 shame ; and when he pledged his vows to his Penelope, 
 he reserved no stipulation that he would forsake her 
 whenever a goddess should think him worthy of her bed, 
 but they had sworn to live and grow old together : and 
 he would not survive her if he could, nor meanly share 
 in immortality itself, from which she was excluded. 
 
 These thoughts kept him pensive and melancholy in 
 the midst of pleasure. His heart was on the seas, making 
 voyages to Ithaca. Twelve months had worn away, 
 when Minerva from heaven saw her favourite, how he 
 sat still pining on the sea shores (his daily custom), 
 wishing for a ship to carry him home. She (who is 
 wisdom herself) was indignant that so wise and brave a 
 man as Ulysses should be held in effeminate bondage by 
 an unworthy goddess : and at her request, her father 
 Jove ordered Mercury to go down to the earth to com- 
 mand Calypso to dismiss her guest. The divine mes- 
 senger tied fast to his feet his winged shoes, which bear 
 him over land and seas, and took in his hand his golden 
 rod, the ensign of his authority. Then wheeling in 
 many an airy round, he stayed not till he alighted on 
 
126 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 the firm top of the mountain Pieria : thence he fetched 
 a second circuit over the seas, kissing the waves in his 
 flight with his feet, as light as any sea-mew fishing dips 
 her wings, till he touched the isle Ogygia, and soared up 
 from the blue sea to the grotto of the goddess, to whom 
 his errand was ordained. 
 
 His message struck a horror, checked by love, through 
 all the faculties of Calypso. She replied to it, incensed : 
 " You gods are insatiate, past all that live, in all things 
 which you affect; which makes you so envious and 
 grudging. It afflicts you to the heart, when any goddess 
 seeks the love of a mortal man in marriage, though you 
 yourselves without scruple link yourselves to women of 
 the earth. So it fared with you, when the delicious- 
 fingered Morning shared Orion's bed; you could never 
 satisfy your hate and your jealousy till you had incensed 
 the chastity -loving dame, Diana, who leads the precise 
 life, to come upon him by stealth in Ortygia, and pierce 
 him through with her arrows. And when rich -haired 
 Ceres gave the reins to her affections, and took lasion 
 (well worthy) to her arms, the secret was not so cunningly 
 kept but Jove had soon notice of it, and the poor mortal 
 paid for his felicity with death, struck through with 
 lightnings. And now you envy me the possession of a 
 wretched man, whom tempests have cast upon my shores, 
 making him lawfully mine ; whose ship Jove rent in 
 pieces with his hot thunderbolts, killing all his friends. 
 Him I have preserved, loved, nourished, made him mine 
 by protection, my creature, by every tie of gratitude 
 mine ; have vowed to make him deathless like myself ; 
 him you will take from me. But I know your power, 
 and that it is vain for me to resist. Tell your king that 
 I obey his mandates." 
 
 With an ill grace Calypso promised to fulfil the com- 
 mands of Jove; and, Mercury departing, she went to 
 find Ulysses, where he sat outside the grotto, not know- 
 ing of the heavenly message, drowned in discontent, not 
 seeing any human probability of his ever returning home. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 127 
 
 She said to him : " Unhappy man, no longer afflict 
 yourself with pining after your country, but build you a 
 ship, with which you may return home ; since it is the 
 will of the gods : who, doubtless, as they are greater in 
 power than I, are greater in skill, and best can tell what 
 is fittest for man. But I call the gods and my inward 
 conscience, to witness, that I had no thought but what 
 stood with thy safety, nor would have done or counselled 
 anything against thy good. I persuaded thee to nothing 
 which I should not have followed myself in thy extremity : 
 for my mind is innocent and simple. 0, if thou knewest 
 what dreadful sufferings thou must yet endure before 
 ever thou readiest thy native land, thou wouldest not 
 esteem so hardly of a goddess' offer to share her immor- 
 tality with thee ; nor, for a few years' enjoyment of a 
 perishing Penelope, refuse an imperishable and never- 
 dying life with Calypso." 
 
 He replied: "Ever -honoured, great Calypso, let it 
 not displease thee, that I, a mortal man, desire to see and 
 converse again with a wife that is mortal ; human objects 
 are best fitted to human infirmities. I well know how 
 far in wisdom, in feature, in stature, proportion, beauty, 
 in all the gifts of the mind, thou exceedest my Penelope : 
 she a mortal, and subject to decay ; thou immortal, ever 
 growing, yet never old ; yet in her sight all my desires 
 terminate, all my wishes ; in the sight of her, and of my 
 country earth. If any god, envious of my return, shall 
 lay his dreadful hand upon me as I pass the seas, I sub- 
 mit -, for the same powers have given me a mind not to 
 sink under oppression. In wars and waves my sufferings 
 have not been small." 
 
 She heard his pleaded reasons, and of force she must 
 assent ; so to her nymphs she gave in charge from her 
 sacred woods to cut down timber, to make Ulysses a ship. 
 They obeyed, though in a work unsuitable to their soft 
 fingers, yet to obedience no sacrifice is hard : and Ulysses 
 busily bestirred himself, labouring far more hard than 
 they, as was fitting, till twenty tall trees, driest and 
 
128 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 fittest for timber, were felled. Then like a skilful ship- 
 wright he fell to joining the planks, using the plane, 
 the axe, and the augur, with such expedition, that in 
 four days' time a ship was made, complete with all her 
 decks, hatches, side-boards, yards. Calypso added linen 
 for the sails, and tackling ; and when she was finished, 
 she was a goodly vessel for a man to sail in alone, or in 
 company, over the wide seas. By the fifth morning she 
 was launched ; and Ulysses, furnished with store of pro- 
 visions, rich garments, and gold and silver, given him by 
 Calypso, took a last leave of her, and of her nymphs 
 and of the isle Ogygia which had so befriended him. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The tempest The sea-bird's gift The escape by swimming The 
 sleep in the woods. 
 
 A.T the stern of his solitary ship Ulysses sat and steered 
 right artfully. No sleep could seize his eyelids. He 
 beheld the Pleiads, the Bear which is by some called the 
 Wain, that moves round about Orion, and keeps still 
 above the ocean, and the slow-setting sign Bootes, which 
 some name the Waggoner. Seventeen days he held his 
 course, and on the eighteenth the coast of Phseacia was 
 in sight. The figure of the land, as seen from the sea, 
 was pretty and circular, and looked something like a 
 shield. 
 
 Neptune returning from visiting his favourite .^Ethi- 
 opians, from the mountains of the Solymi, descried Ulysses 
 ploughing the waves, his domain. The sight of the man 
 he so much hated for Polyphemus' sake, his son, whose 
 eye Ulysses had put out, set the god's heart on fire, and 
 snatching into his hand his horrid sea-sceptre, the trident 
 of his power, he smote the air and the sea, and conjured 
 up all his black storms, calling down night from the cope 
 of heaven and taking the earth into the sea, as it seemed, 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 129 
 
 with clouds, through the darkness and indistinctness which 
 prevailed, the billows rolling up before the fury of all 
 the winds that contended together in their mighty 
 sport. 
 
 Then the knees of Ulysses bent with fear, and then 
 all his spirit was spent, and he wished that he had been 
 among the number of his countrymen who fell before 
 Troy, and had their funerals celebrated by all the Greeks, 
 rather than to perish thus, where no man could mourn 
 him or know him. 
 
 As he thought these melancholy thoughts, a huge 
 wave took him and washed him overboard, ship and all 
 upset amidst the billows, he struggling afar off, clinging 
 to her stern broken off which he yet held, her mast 
 cracking in two with the fury of that gust of mixed winds 
 that struck it, sails and sail-yards fell into the deep, and 
 he himself was long drowned under water, nor could get 
 his head above, wave so met with wave, as if they strove 
 which should depress him most, and the gorgeous gar- 
 ments given him by Calypso clung about him, and hindered 
 his swimming ; yet neither for this, nor for the overthrow 
 of his ship, nor his own perilous condition, would he give 
 up his drenched vessel, but, wrestling with Neptune, got 
 at length hold of her again, and then sat in her bulk, 
 insulting over death, which he had escaped, and the salt 
 waves which he gave the sea again to give to other men : 
 his ship, striving to live, floated at random, cuffed from 
 wave to wave, hurled to and fro by all the winds ; now 
 Boreas tossed it to Notus, Notus passed it to Eurus, 
 and Eurus to the west wind, who kept up the horrid 
 tennis. 
 
 Them in their mad sport Ino Leucothea beheld ; Ino 
 Leucothea, now a sea-goddess, but once a mortal and the 
 daughter of Cadmus ; she with pity beheld Ulysses the 
 mark of their fierce contention, and rising from the waves 
 alighted on the ship, in shape like to the sea-bird which 
 is called a cormorant, and in her beak she held a wonder- 
 ful girdle made of sea-weeds which grow at the bottom of 
 E 
 
130 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 the ocean, which she dropped at his feet, and the bird 
 spake to Ulysses and counselled him not to trust any 
 more to that fatal vessel against which god Neptune had 
 levelled his furious wrath, nor to those ill-befriending 
 garments which Calypso had given him, but to quit both 
 it and them, and trust for his safety to swimming. " And 
 here," said the seeming bird, "take this girdle and tie 
 about your middle, which has virtue to protect the wearer 
 at sea, and you shall safely reach the shore ; but when 
 you have landed cast it far from you back into the 
 sea." He did as the sea-bird instructed him, he stripped 
 himself naked, and fastening the wondrous girdle about 
 his middle, cast himself into the seas to swim. The 
 bird dived past his sight into the fathomless abyss of 
 the ocean. 
 
 Two days and two nights he spent in struggling with 
 the waves, though sore buffetted and almost spent, never 
 giving up himself for lost, such confidence he had in that 
 charm which he wore about his middle, and in the words 
 of that divine bird. But the third morning the winds 
 grew calm, and all the heavens were clear. Then he 
 saw himself nigh land, which he knew to be the coast of 
 the Phseacians, a people good to strangers, and abounding 
 in ships, by whose favour he doubted not that he should 
 soon obtain a passage to his own country. And such joy 
 he conceived in his heart, as good sons have that esteem 
 their father's life dear, when long sickness has held him 
 down to his bed, and wasted his body, and they see at 
 length health return to the old man, with restored 
 strength and spirits, in reward of their many prayers to 
 the gods for his safety : so precious was the prospect of 
 home-return to Ulysses, that he might restore health to 
 his country (his better parent), that had long languished 
 as full of distempers in his absence. And then for his 
 own safety's sake he had joy to see the shores, the woods, 
 so nigh and within his grasp as they seemed, and he 
 laboured with all the might of hands and feet to reach 
 with swimming that nigh-seeming land. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 131 
 
 But when he approached near, a horrid sound of a 
 huge sea beating against rocks informed him that here 
 was no place for landing, nor any harbour for man's 
 resort, but through the weeds and the foam which the 
 sea belched up against the land he could dimly discover 
 the rugged shore all bristled with flints, and all that part 
 of the coast one impending rock that seemed impossible 
 to climb, and the water all about so deep, that not a sand 
 was there for any tired foot to rest upon, and every 
 moment he feared lest some wave more cruel than the 
 rest should crush him against a cliff, rendering worse than 
 vain all his landing : and should he swim to seek a more 
 commodious haven farther on, he was fearful lest, weak 
 and spent as he was, the winds would force him back a 
 long way off into the main, where the terrible god Neptune, 
 for wrath that he had so nearly escaped his power, having 
 gotten him again into his domain, would send out some 
 great whale (of which those seas breed a horrid number) 
 to swallow him up alive; with such malignity he still 
 pursued him. 
 
 While these thoughts distracted him with diversity of 
 dangers, one bigger wave drove against a sharp rock his 
 naked body, which it gashed and tore, and wanted little 
 of breaking all his bones, so rude was the shock. But 
 in this extremity she prompted him that never failed him 
 at need. Minerva (who is wisdom itself) put it into his 
 thoughts no longer to keep swimming off and on, as one 
 dallying with danger, but boldly to force the shore that 
 threatened him, and to hug the rock that had torn him 
 so rudely ; which with both hands he clasped, wrestling 
 with extremity, till the rage of that billow which had 
 driven him upon it was past ; but then again the rock 
 drove back that wave so furiously, that it reft him of his 
 hold, sucking him with it in his return, and the sharp 
 rock (his cruel friend) to which he clinged for succour, 
 rent the flesh so sore from his hands in parting, that he 
 fell off, and could sustain no longer : quite under water 
 he fell, and past the help of fate, there had the hapless 
 
132 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 Ulysses lost all portion that he had in this life, if Minerva 
 had not prompted his wisdom in that peril to essay 
 another course, and to explore some other shelter, ceasing 
 to attempt that landing-place. 
 
 She guided his wearied and nigh -exhausted limbs to 
 the mouth of the fair river Calliroe, which not far from 
 thence disbursed its watery tribute to the ocean. Here 
 the shores were easy and accessible, and the rocks, which 
 rather adorned than defended its banks, so smooth, that 
 they seemed polished of purpose to invite the landing of 
 our sea-wanderer, and to atone for the uncourteous treat- 
 ment which those less hospitable cliffs had afforded him. 
 And the god of the river, as if in pity, stayed his current 
 and smoothed his waters, to make his landing more easy ; 
 for sacred to the ever-living deities of the fresh waters, 
 be they mountain-stream, river, or lake, is the cry of 
 erring mortals that seek their aid, by reason that being 
 inland-bred they partake more of the gentle humanities 
 of our nature than those marine deities, whom Neptune 
 trains up in tempests in the unpitying recesses of his salt 
 
 So by the favour of the river's god Ulysses crept to 
 land half-drowned ; both his knees faltering, his strong 
 hands falling down through weakness from the excessive 
 toils he had endured, his cheek and nostrils flowing with 
 froth of the sea-brine, much of which he had swallowed 
 in that conflict, voice and breath spent, down he sank as 
 in death. Dead weary he was. It seemed that the sea 
 had soaked through his heart, and the pains he felt in 
 all his veins were little less than those which one feels 
 that has endured the torture of the rack. But when his 
 spirits came a little to themselves, and his recollection by 
 degrees began to return, he rose up, and unloosing from 
 his waist the girdle or charm which that divine bird had 
 given him, and remembering the charge which he had 
 received with it, he flung it far from him into the river. 
 Back it swam with the course of the ebbing stream till it 
 reached the sea, where the fair hands of Ino Leucothea 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 133 
 
 received it to keep it as a pledge of safety to any future 
 shipwrecked mariner that like Ulysses should wander in 
 those perilous waves. 
 
 Then he kissed the humble earth in token of safety, 
 and on he went by the side of that pleasant river till he 
 came where a thicker shade of rushes that grew on its 
 banks seemed to point out the place where he might rest 
 his sea -wearied limbs. And here a fresh perplexity 
 divided his mind, whether he should pass the night, 
 which was coming on, in that place, where, though he 
 feared no other enemies, the damps and frosts of the chill 
 sea-air in that exposed situation might be death to him 
 in his weak state ; or whether he had better climb the 
 next hill, and pierce the depth of some shady wood, in 
 which he might find a warm and sheltered though insecure 
 repose, subject to the approach of any wild beast that 
 roamed that way. Best did this last course appear to 
 him, though with some danger, as that which was more 
 honourable and savoured more of strife and self-exertion, 
 than to perish without a struggle the passive victim of 
 cold and the elements. 
 
 So he bent his course to the nearest woods, where, 
 enteriDg in, he found a thicket, mostly of wild olives and 
 such low trees, yet growing so intertwined and knit to- 
 gether that the moist wind had not leave to play through 
 their branches, nor the sun's scorching beams to pierce 
 their recesses, nor any shower to beat through, they grew 
 so thick and as it were folded each in the other ; here 
 creeping in, he made his bed of the leaves which were 
 beginning to fall, of which was such abundance that two 
 or three men might have spread them ample coverings, 
 such as might shield them from the winter's rage, though 
 the air breathed steel and blew as it would burst. Here 
 creeping in, he heaped up store of leaves all about him, 
 as a man would billets upon a winter fire, and lay down 
 in the midst. Rich seed of virtue lying hid in poor 
 leaves ! Here Minerva soon gave him sound sleep ; and 
 here all his long toils past seemed to be concluded and 
 
134 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 shut up within the little sphere of his refreshed and 
 closed eyelids. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The princess Nausicaa The washing The game with the ball 
 The Court of Phaeacia and king Alcinous. 
 
 MEANTIME Minerva, designing an interview between the 
 king's daughter of that country and Ulysses when he 
 should awake, went by night to the palace of king 
 Alcinous, and stood at the bedside of the princess 
 Nausicaa in the shape of one of her favourite attendants, 
 and thus addressed the sleeping princess. 
 
 " Nausicaa, why do you lie sleeping here, and never 
 bestow a thought upon your bridal ornaments, of which 
 you have many and beautiful, laid up in your wardrobe 
 against the day of your marriage, which cannot be far 
 distant; when you shall have need of all, not only to 
 deck your own person, but to give away in presents to 
 the virgins that honouring you shall attend you to the 
 temple ? Your reputation stands much upon the timely 
 care of these things; these things are they which fill 
 father and reverend mother with delight. Let us arise 
 betimes to wash your fair vestments of linen and silks in 
 the river ; and request your sire to lend you mules and 
 a coach, for your wardrobe is heavy, and the place where 
 we must wash is distant, and besides it fits not a great 
 princess like you to go so far on foot." 
 
 So saying she went away, and Nausicaa awoke, full of 
 pleasing thoughts of her marriage, which the dream had 
 told her was not far distant : and as soon as it was 
 dawn, she arose and dressed herself and went to find her 
 parents. 
 
 The queen her mother was already up, and seated 
 among her maids, spinning at her wheel, as the fashion 
 was in those primitive times, when great ladies did not 
 disdain housewifery; and the king her father was pre- 
 
1'HE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 135 
 
 paring to go abroad at that early hour to council with 
 his grave senate. 
 
 " My father," she said, " will you not order mules and 
 a coach to be got ready, that I may go and wash, I and 
 my maids, at the cisterns that stand without the city 1" 
 
 "What washing does my daughter speak of 1 ?" said 
 Alcinous. 
 
 " Mine and my brothers' garments," she replied, " that 
 have contracted soil by this time with lying by so long 
 in the wardrobe. Five sons have you, that are my 
 brothers ; two of them are married, and three are 
 bachelors ; these last it concerns to have their garments 
 neat and unsoiled; it may advance their fortunes in 
 marriage : and who but I their sister should have a care 
 of these things ? You yourself, my father, have need of 
 the whitest apparel, when you go, as now, to the council." 
 
 She used this plea, modestly dissembling her care of 
 her own nuptials to her father ; who was not displeased 
 at this instance of his daughter's discretion : for a season- 
 able care about marriage may be permitted to a young 
 maiden, provided it to be accompanied with modesty and 
 dutiful submission to her parents in the choice of her 
 future husband : and there was no fear of Nausicaa 
 choosing wrongly or improperly, for she was as wise as 
 she was beautiful, and the best in all Phseacia were 
 suitors to her for her love. So Alcinous readily gave 
 consent that she should go, ordering mules and a coach 
 to be prepared. And Nausicaa brought from her chamber 
 all her vestments, and laid them up in the coach, and 
 her mother placed bread and wine in the coach, and oil 
 in a golden cruse, to soften the bright skins of Nausicaa 
 and her maids when they came out of the river. 
 
 Nausicaa making her maids get up into the coach 
 with her, lashed the mules, till they brought her to the 
 cisterns which stood a little on the outside of the town, 
 and were supplied with water from the river Calliroe. 
 
 There her attendants unyoked the mules, took out the 
 clothes, and steeped them in the cisterns, washing them 
 
136 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 in several waters, and afterwards treading them clean 
 with their feet, venturing wagers who should have done 
 soonest and cleanest, and using many pretty pastimes to 
 beguile their labour as young maids use, while the 
 princess looked on. When they had laid their clothes 
 to dry, they fell to playing again, and Nausieaa joined 
 them in a game with the ball, which is used in that 
 country, which is performed by tossing the ball from 
 hand to hand with great expedition, she who begins the 
 pastime singing a song. It chanced that the princess, 
 whose turn it became to toss the ball, sent it so far from 
 its mark, that it fell beyond into one of the cisterns of 
 the river : at which the whole company, in merry con- 
 sternation, set up a shriek so loud as waked the sleeping 
 Ulysses, who was taking his rest, after his long toils, in 
 the woods not far distant from the place where these 
 young maids had come to wash. 
 
 At the sound of female voices Ulysses crept forth 
 from his retirement, making himself a covering with 
 boughs and leaves as well as he could to shroud his 
 nakedness. The sudden appearance of his weather-beaten 
 and almost naked form so frighted the maidens that they 
 scudded away into the woods and all about to hide them- 
 selves, only Minerva (who had brought about this inter- 
 view to admirable purposes, by seemingly accidental 
 means) put courage into the breast of Nausicaa, and she 
 stayed where she was, and resolved to know what manner 
 of man he was, and what was the occasion of his strange 
 coming to them. 
 
 He not venturing (for delicacy) to approach and clasp 
 her knees, as suppliants should, but standing far off, 
 addressed this speech to the young princess. 
 
 "Before I presume rudely to press my petitions, I 
 should first ask whether I am addressing a mortal woman, 
 or one of the goddesses. If a goddess, you seem to me 
 to be likest to Diana, the chaste huntress, the daughter 
 of Jove. Like hers are your lineaments, your stature, 
 your features, and air divine." 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 137 
 
 She making answer that she was no goddess, but a 
 mortal maid, he continued : 
 
 " If a woman, thrice blessed are both the authors of 
 your birth, thrice blessed are your brothers, who even to 
 rapture must have joy in your perfections, to see you 
 grown so like a young tree, and so graceful. But most 
 blessed of all that breathe is he that has the gift to 
 engage your young neck in the yoke of marriage. I never 
 saw that man that was worthy of you. I never saw man 
 or woman that at all parts equalled you. Lately at 
 Delos (where I touched) I saw a young palm which grew 
 beside Apollo's temple ; it exceeded all the trees which 
 ever I beheld for straightness and beauty : I can compare 
 you only to that. A stupor past admiration strikes me, 
 joined with fear, which keeps me back from approaching 
 you, to embrace your knees. Nor is it strange ; for one 
 of freshest and firmest spirit would falter, approaching 
 near to so bright an object : but I am one whom a cruel 
 habit of calamity has prepared to receive strong impres- 
 sions. Twenty days the unrelenting seas have tossed me 
 up and down coming from Ogygia, and at length cast me 
 shipwrecked last night upon your coast. I have seen no 
 man or woman since I landed but yourself. All that I 
 crave is clothes, which you may spare me, and to be 
 shown the way to some neighbouring town. The gods 
 who have care of strangers, will requite you for these 
 courtesies." 
 
 She, admiring to hear such complimentary words pro- 
 ceed out of the mouth of one whose outside looked so 
 rough and unpromising, made answer : " Stranger, I dis- 
 cern neither sloth nor folly in you, and yet I see that you 
 are poor and wretched ; from which I gather that neither 
 wisdom nor industry can secure felicity; only Jove 
 bestows it upon whomsoever he pleases. He perhaps has 
 reduced you to this plight. However, since your wander- 
 ings have brought you so near to our city, it lies in our 
 duty to supply your wants. Clothes and what else a 
 human hand should give to one so suppliant, and so 
 
138 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 tamed with calamity, you shall not want. We will show 
 you our city and tell you the name of our people. This 
 is the land of the Phaeacians, of which my father Alcinous 
 is king." 
 
 Then calling her attendants, who had dispersed on the 
 first sight of Ulysses, she rebuked them for their fear, 
 and said : " This man is no Cyclop, nor monster of sea 
 or land, that you should fear him; but he seems 
 manly, staid, and discreet, and though decayed in his 
 outward appearance, yet he has the mind's riches, wit 
 and fortitude, in abundance. Show him the cisterns 
 where he may wash him from the sea-weeds and foam 
 that hang about him, and let him have garments that 
 fit him out of those which we have brought with us to 
 the cisterns." 
 
 Ulysses, retiring a little out of sight, cleansed him in 
 the cisterns from the soil and impurities with which the 
 rocks and waves had covered all his body, and clothing 
 himself with befitting raiment, which the princess' 
 attendants had given him, he presented himself in more 
 worthy shape to Nausicaa. She admired to see what a 
 comely personage he was, now he was dressed in all parts ; 
 she thought him some king or hero : and secretly wished 
 that the gods would be pleased to give her such a 
 husband. 
 
 Then causing her attendants to yoke her mules, and 
 lay up the vestments, which the sun's heat had sufficiently 
 dried, in the coach, she ascended with her maids, and 
 drove off to the palace ; bidding Ulysses, as she departed, 
 keep an eye upon the coach, and to follow it on foot at 
 some distance : which she did, because if she had suffered 
 him to have rode in the coach with her, it might have 
 subjected her to some misconstructions of the common 
 people, who are always ready to vilify and censure their 
 betters, and to suspect that charity is not always pure 
 charity, but that love or some sinister intention lies hid 
 under its disguise. So discreet and attentive to appear- 
 ance in all her actions was this admirable princess. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 139 
 
 Ulysses, as he entered the city, wondered to see its 
 magnificence, its markets, buildings, temples; its walls 
 and rampires ; its trade and resort of men ; its harbours 
 for shipping, which is the strength of the Phaeacian state. 
 But when he approached the palace, and beheld its riches, 
 the proportion of its architecture, its avenues, gardens, 
 statues, fountains, he stood rapt in admiration, and 
 almost forgot his own condition in surveying the flourish- 
 ing estate of others : but recollecting himself, he passed 
 on boldly into the inner apartment, where the king and 
 queen were sitting at dinner with their peers ; Nausicaa 
 having prepared them for his approach. 
 
 To them, humbly kneeling, he made it his request, that 
 since fortune had cast him naked upon their shores, they 
 would take him into their protection, and grant him a 
 conveyance by one of the ships, of which their great 
 Phseacian state had such good store, to carry him to his 
 own country. Having delivered his request, to grace it 
 with more humility, he went and sat himself down upon 
 the hearth among the ashes, as the custom was in those 
 days when any would make a petition to the throne. 
 
 He seemed a petitioner of so great state and of so 
 superior a deportment, that Alcinous himself arose to do 
 him honour, and causing him to leave that abject station 
 which he had assumed, placed him next to his throne, 
 upon a chair of state, and thus he spake to his peers : 
 
 " Lords and counsellors of Phaeacia, ye see this man, 
 who he is we know not, that is come to us in the guise 
 of a petitioner : he seems no mean one ; but whoever he 
 is, it is fit, since the gods have cast him upon our protec- 
 tion, that we grant him the rites of hospitality while he 
 stays with us, and at his departure a ship well manned 
 to convey so worthy a personage as he seems to be in a 
 manner suitable to his rank, to his own country." 
 
 This counsel the peers with one consent approved ; 
 and wine and meat being set before Ulysses, he ate and 
 drank, and gave the gods thanks who had stirred up the 
 royal bounty of Alcinous to aid him in that extremity. 
 
UO THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 But not as yet did he reveal to the king and queen who 
 he was, or whence he had come ; only in brief terms he 
 related his being cast upon their shores, his sleep in the 
 woods, and his meeting with the princess Nausicaa : 
 whose generosity, mingled with discretion, filled her 
 parents with delight, as Ulysses in eloquent phrases 
 adorned and commended her virtues. But Alcinous, 
 humanely considering that the troubles which his guest 
 had undergone required rest, as well as refreshment by 
 food, dismissed him early in the evening to his chamber ; 
 where in a magnificent apartment Ulysses found a 
 smoother bed, but not a sounder repose, than he had 
 enjoyed the night before, sleeping upon leaves which he 
 had scraped together in his necessity. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 The songs of Demodocus The convoy home The mariners trans- 
 formed to stone The young shepherd. 
 
 WHEN it was day -light, Alcinous caused it to be pro- 
 claimed by the heralds about the town that there was 
 come to the palace a stranger, shipwrecked on their coast, 
 that in mien and person resembled a god ; and inviting 
 all the chief people of the city to come and do honour to 
 the stranger. 
 
 The palace was quickly filled with guests, old and 
 young, for whose cheer, and to grace Ulysses more, 
 Alcinous made a kingly feast, with banquetings and 
 music. Then Ulysses being seated at a table next the 
 king and queen, in all men's view j after they had feasted, 
 Alcinous ordered Demodocus, the court-singer, to be called 
 to sing some song of the deeds of heroes, to charm the 
 ear of his guest. Demodocus came and reached his harp, 
 where it hung between two pillars of silver ; and then 
 the blind singer, to whom, in recompense of his lost 
 Bight, the muses had given an inward discernment, a 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 141 
 
 soul and a voice to excite the hearts of men and gods to 
 delight, began in grave and solemn strains to sing the 
 glories of men highliest famed. He chose a poem, whose 
 subject was the stern strife stirred up between Ulysses 
 and great Achilles, as at a banquet sacred to the gods in 
 dreadful language they expressed their difference ; while 
 Agamemnon sat rejoiced in soul to hear those Grecians 
 jar : for the oracle in Pytho had told him that the period 
 of their wars in Troy should then be, when the kings of 
 Greece, anxious to arrive at the wished conclusion, should 
 fall to strife, and contend which must end the war, force 
 or stratagem. 
 
 This brave contention he expressed so to the life, in 
 the very words which they both used in the quarrel, as 
 brought tears into the eyes of Ulysses at the remembrance 
 of past passages of his life, and he held his large purple 
 weed before his face to conceal it. Then craving a cup 
 of wine, he poured it out in secret libation to the gods, 
 who had put into the mind of Demodocus unknowingly 
 to do him so much honour. But when the moving poet 
 began to tell of other occurrences where Ulysses had 
 been present, the memory of his brave followers who had 
 been with him in all difficulties, now swallowed up and 
 lost in the ocean, and of those kings that had fought 
 with him at Troy, some of whom were dead, some exiles 
 like himself, forced itself so strongly upon his mind, that 
 forgetful where he was, he sobbed outright with passion ; 
 which yet he restrained, but not so cunningly but Alcinous 
 perceived it, and without taking notice of it to Ulysses, 
 privately gave signs that Demodocus should cease from 
 his singing. 
 
 Next followed dancing in the Phseacian fashion, when 
 they would show respect to their guests; which was 
 succeeded by trials of skill, games of strength, running, 
 racing, hurling of the quoit, mock fights, hurling of the 
 javelin, shooting with the bow ; in some of which Ulysses 
 modestly challenging his entertainers, performed such 
 feats of strength and prowess as gave the admiring 
 
142 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 Phseacians fresh reason to imagine that he was either 
 some god or hero of the race of the gods. 
 
 These solemn shows and pageants in honour of his 
 guest, king Alcinous continued for the space of many 
 days, as if he could never be weary of showing courtesies 
 to so worthy a stranger. In all this time he never asked 
 him his name, nor sought to know more of him than he 
 of his own accord disclosed : till on a day as they were 
 seated feasting, after the feast was ended, Demodocus 
 being called, as was the custom, to sing some grave 
 matter, sang how Ulysses, on that night when Troy was 
 fired, made dreadful proof of his valour, maintaining 
 singly a combat against the whole household of Deipho- 
 bus, to which the divine expresser gave both act and 
 passion, and breathed such a fire into Ulysses' deeds, 
 that it inspired old death with life in the lively express- 
 ing of slaughters, and rendered life so sweet and passionate 
 in the hearers, that all who heard felt it fleet from them 
 in the narration : which made Ulysses even pity his own 
 slaughterous deeds, and feel touches of remorse, to see 
 how song can revive a dead man from the grave, yet no 
 way can it defend a living man from death : and in 
 imagination he underwent some part of death's horrors, 
 and felt in his living body a taste of those dying pangs 
 which he had dealt to others ; that with the strong con- 
 ceit, tears (the true interpreters of unutterable emotion) 
 stood in his eyes. 
 
 Which, king Alcinous noting, and that this was now 
 the second time that he had perceived him to be moved 
 at the mention of events touching the Trojan wars, he 
 took occasion to ask whether his guest had lost any friend 
 or kinsman at Troy, that Demodocus' singing had 
 brought into his mind. Then Ulysses, drying the tears 
 with his cloak, and observing that the eyes of all the 
 company were upon him, desirous to give them satisfac- 
 tion in what he could, and thinking this a fit time to 
 reveal his true name and destination, spake as follows : 
 
 " The courtesies which ye all have shown me, and in 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 143 
 
 particular yourself and princely daughter, king Alcinous, 
 demand from me that I should no longer keep you in 
 ignorance of what or who I am ; for to reserve any secret 
 from you, who have with such openness of friendship 
 embraced my love, would argue either a pusillanimous 
 or an ungrateful mind in me. Know then that I am 
 that Ulysses, of whom I perceive ye have heard some- 
 thing; who heretofore have filled the world with the 
 renown of my policies. I am he by whose counsels, if 
 Fame is to be believed at all, more than by the united 
 valour of all the Grecians, Troy fell. I am that unhappy 
 man whom the heavens and angry gods have conspired to 
 keep an exile on the seas, wandering to seek my home 
 which still flies from me. The land which I am in quest 
 of is Ithaca ; in whose ports some ship belonging to your 
 navigation-famed Phseacian state may haply at some time 
 have found a refuge from tempests. If ever you have 
 experienced such kindness, requite it now, by granting 
 to me, who am the king of that land, a passport to that 
 land. 
 
 Admiration seized all the court of Alcinous to behold 
 in their presence one of the number of those heroes who 
 fought at Troy, whose divine story had been made known 
 to them by songs and poems, but of the truth they had 
 little known, or rather they had hitherto accounted those 
 heroic exploits as fictions and exaggerations of poets ; but 
 having seen and made proof of the real Ulysses, they 
 began to take those supposed inventions to be real verities, 
 and the tale of Troy to be as true as it was delightful. 
 
 Then king Alcinous made answer : " Thrice fortunate 
 ought we to esteem our lot, in having seen and conversed 
 with a man of whom report hath spoken so loudly, but, 
 as it seems, nothing beyond the truth. Though we could 
 desire no felicity greater than to have you always among 
 us, renowned Ulysses, yet your desire having been ex- 
 pressed so often and so deeply to return home, we can 
 deny you nothing, though to our own loss. Our kingdom 
 of Phseacia, as you know, is chiefly rich in shipping. lu 
 
144 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 all parts of the world, where there are navigable seas, or 
 ships can pass, our vessels will be found. You cannot 
 name a coast to which they do not resort. Every rock 
 and deep quicksand is known to them that lurks in the 
 vast deep. They pass a bird in flight ; and with such 
 unerring certainty they make to their destination, that 
 some have said they have no need of pilot or rudder, but 
 that they move instinctively, self-directed, and know the 
 minds of their voyagers. Thus much, that you may not 
 fear to trust yourself in one of our Phseacian ships. To- 
 morrow if you please you shall launch forth. To-day 
 spend with us in feasting : who never can do enough 
 when the gods send such visitors." 
 
 Ulysses acknowledged king Alcinous' bounty; and 
 while these two royal personages stood interchanging 
 courteous expressions, the heart of the princess Nausicaa 
 was overcome ; she had been gazing attentively upon her 
 father's guest as he delivered his speech, but when he 
 came to that part where he declared himself to be Ulysses, 
 she blessed herself and her fortune that in relieving a 
 poor shipwrecked mariner, as he seemed no better, she 
 had conferred a kindness on so divine a hero as he proved : 
 and scarce waiting till her father had done speaking, 
 with a cheerful countenance she addressed Ulysses, bid- 
 ding him be cheerful, and when he returned home, as by 
 her father's means she trusted he would shortly, some- 
 times to remember to whom he owed his life, and who 
 met him in the woods by the river Calliroe. 
 
 " Fair flower of Phaeacia," he replied, " so may all the 
 gods bless me with the strife of joys in that desired day, 
 whenever I shall see it, as I shall always acknowledge to 
 be indebted to your fair hand for the gift of life which I 
 enjoy, and all the blessings which shall follow upon my 
 home return. The gods give thee, Nausicaa, a princely 
 husband; and from you two spring blessings to this 
 state." So prayed Ulysses, his heart overflowing with 
 admiration and grateful recollections of king Alcinous' 
 daughter. 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 145 
 
 Then at the king's request he gave them a brief rela- 
 tion of all the adventures that had befallen him since he 
 launched forth from Troy, during which the princess 
 Nausicaa took great delight (as ladies are commonly 
 taken with these kind of travellers' stories) to hear of 
 the monster Polyphemus, of the men that devour each 
 other in Laestrygonia, of the enchantress Circe, of Scylla, 
 and the rest; to which she listened with a breathless 
 attention, letting fall a shower of tears from her fair eyes 
 every now and then, when Ulysses told of some more 
 than usual distressful passage in his travels : and all the 
 rest of his auditors, if they had before entertained a high 
 respect for their guest, now felt their veneration increased 
 tenfold, when they learnt from his own mouth what 
 perils, what sufferings, what endurance, of evils beyond 
 man's strength to support, this much-sustaining, almost 
 heavenly man, by the greatness of his mind, and by his 
 invincible courage, had struggled through. 
 
 The night was far spent before Ulysses had ended his 
 narrative, and with wishful glances he cast his eyes 
 towards the eastern parts, which the sun had begun to 
 flecker with his first red : for on the morrow Alcinous had 
 promised that a bark should be in readiness to convoy 
 him to Ithaca. 
 
 In the morning a vessel well manned and appointed 
 was waiting for him; into which the king and queen 
 heaped presents of gold and silver, massy plate, apparel, 
 armour, and whatsoever things of cost or rarity they 
 judged would be most acceptable to their guest : and the 
 sails being set, Ulysses embarking with expressions of 
 regret took his leave of his royal entertainers, of the fair 
 princess (who had been his first friend), and of the peers 
 of Phseacia; who crowding down to the beach to have 
 the last sight of their illustrious visitant, beheld the 
 gallant ship with all her canvas spread, bounding and 
 curveting over the waves, like a horse proud of his rider ; 
 or as if she knew that in her capacious womb's rich 
 freightage she bore Ulysses. 
 
146 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 He whose life past had been a series of disquiets, in 
 seas among rude waves, in battles amongst ruder foes, 
 now slept securely, forgetting all ; his eyelids bound in 
 such deep sleep, as only yielded to death ; and when they 
 reached the nearest Ithacan port by the next morning, 
 he was still asleep. The mariners not willing to awake 
 him, landed him softly, and laid him in a cave at the 
 foot of an olive-tree, which made a shady recess in that 
 narrow harbour, the haunt of almost none but the sea- 
 nymphs, which are called Naiads ; few ships before this 
 Phaeacian vessel having put into that haven, by reason 
 of the difficulty and narrowness of the entrance. Here 
 leaving him asleep, and disposing in safe places near him 
 the presents with which king Alcinous had dismissed 
 him, they departed for Phseacia; where these wretched 
 mariners never again set foot ; but just as they arrived, 
 and thought to salute their country earth ; in sight of 
 their city's turrets, and in open view of their friends who 
 from the harbour with shouts greeted their return ; their 
 vessel and all the mariners which were in her were 
 turned to stone, and stood transformed and fixed in sight 
 of the whole Pha3acian city, where it yet stands, by 
 Neptune's vindictive wrath; who resented thus highly 
 the contempt which those Phseacians had shown in con- 
 voying home a man whom the god had destined to 
 destruction. Whence it comes to pass that the Phseacians 
 at this day will at no price be induced to lend their ships 
 to strangers, or to become the carriers for other nations, 
 so highly do they still dread the displeasure of the sea- 
 god, while they see that terrible monument ever in 
 sight. 
 
 When Ulysses awoke, which was not till some time 
 after the mariners had departed, he did not at first know 
 his country again, either that long absence had made it 
 strange, or that Minerva (which was more likely) had 
 cast a cloud about his eyes, that he should have greater 
 pleasure hereafter in discovering his mistake : but like a 
 man suddenly awaking in some desert isle, to which his 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 147 
 
 sea-mates have transported him in his sleep, he looked 
 around, and discerning no known objects, he cast his 
 hands to heaven for pity, and complained on those ruth- 
 less men who had beguiled him with a promise of con- 
 veying him home to his country, and perfidiously left him 
 to perish in an unknown land. But then the rich presents 
 of gold and silver given him by Alcinous, which he saw 
 carefully laid up in secure places near him, staggered 
 him : which seemed not like the act of wrongful or unjust 
 men, such as turn pirates for gain, or land helpless pas- 
 sengers in remote coasts to possess themselves of their 
 goods. 
 
 While he remained in this suspense, there came up to 
 him a young shepherd, clad in the finer sort of apparel, 
 such as kings' sons wore in those days when princes did 
 not disdain to tend sheep, who accosting him, was saluted 
 again by Ulysses, who asked him what country that was, 
 on which he had been just landed, and whether it were 
 a part of a continent or an island. The young shepherd 
 made show of wonder, to hear any one ask the name of 
 that land ; as country people are apt to esteem those for 
 mainly ignorant and barbarous who do not know the 
 names of places which are familiar to them, though per- 
 haps they who ask have had no opportunities of knowing, 
 and may have come from far countries. 
 
 " I had thought," said he, " that all people knew our 
 land. It is rocky and barren, to be sure; but well 
 enough : it feeds a goat or an ox well ; it is not wanting 
 neither in wine nor in wheat; it has good springs of 
 water, some fair rivers; and wood enough, as you may 
 see : it is called Ithaca." 
 
 Ulysses was joyed enough to find himself in his own 
 country ; but so prudently he carried his joy, that dis- 
 sembling his true name and quality, he pretended to the 
 shepherd that he was only some foreigner who by stress 
 of weather had put into that port ; and framed on the 
 sudden a story to make it plausible, how he had come 
 from Crete in a ship of Phseacia ; when the young shep- 
 
148 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 herd laughing, and taking Ulysses' hand in both his, 
 said to him : " He must be cunning, I find, who thinks 
 to overreach you. What, cannot you quit your wiles and 
 your subtleties, now that you are in a state of security 1 
 must the first word with which you salute your native 
 earth be an untruth? and think you that you are un- 
 known?" 
 
 Ulysses looked again; and he saw, not a shepherd, 
 but a beautiful woman, whom he immediately knew to 
 be the goddess Minerva, that in the wars of Troy had 
 frequently vouchsafed her sight to him; and had been 
 with him since in perils, saving him unseen. 
 
 " Let not my ignorance offend thee, great Minerva," 
 he cried, " or move thy displeasure, that in that shape I 
 knew thee not ; since the skill of discerning the deities is 
 not attainable by wit or study, but hard to be hit by the 
 wisest of mortals. To know thee truly through all thy 
 changes is only given to those whom thou art pleased to 
 grace. To all men thou takest all likenesses. All men 
 in their wits think that they know thee, and that they 
 have thee. Thou art wisdom itself. But a semblance of 
 thee, which is false wisdom, often is taken for thee : so 
 thy counterfeit view appears to many, but thy true presence 
 to few : those are they which, loving thee above all, are 
 inspired with light from thee to know thee. But this I 
 surely know, that all the time the sons of Greece waged 
 war against Troy, I was sundry times graced with thy 
 appearance ; but since, I have never been able to set eyes 
 upon thee till now ; but have wandered at my own dis- 
 cretion, to myself a blind guide, erring up and down the 
 world, wanting thee." 
 
 Then Minerva cleared his eyes, and he knew the 
 ground on which he stood to be Ithaca, and that cave to 
 be the same which the people of Ithaca had in former 
 times made sacred to the sea-nymphs, and where he him- 
 self had done sacrifices to them a thousand times ; and 
 full in his view stood Mount Nerytus with all its woods : 
 so that now he knew for a certainty that he was arrived 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 149 
 
 in his own country, and with the delight which he felt he 
 could not forbear stooping down and kissing the soil 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 The change from a kiug to a beggar Eumaeus and the 
 herdsmen Telemachus. 
 
 NOT long did Minerva suffer him to indulge vain trans- 
 ports, but briefly recounting to him the events which had 
 taken place in Ithaca during his absence, she showed him 
 that his way to his wife and throne did not lie so open, 
 but that before he was reinstated in the secure possession 
 of them, he must encounter many difficulties. His palace, 
 wanting its king, was become a resort of insolent and 
 imperious men, the chief nobility of Ithaca and of the 
 neighbouring isles, who, in the confidence of Ulysses 
 being dead, came as suitors to Penelope. The queen (it 
 was true) continued single, but was little better than a 
 state-prisoner in the power of these men, who under a 
 pretence of waiting her decision, occupied the king's house, 
 rather as owners than guests, lording and domineering at 
 their pleasure, profaning the palace, and wasting the royal 
 substance, with their feasts and mad riots. Moreover the 
 goddess told him how, fearing the attempts of these law- 
 less men upon the person of his young son Telemachus, 
 she herself had put it into the heart of the prince to go 
 and seek his father in far countries ; how in the shape of 
 Mentor she had borne him company in his long search ; 
 which, though failing, as she meant it should fail, in its 
 first object, had yet had this effect, that through hard- 
 ships he had learned endurance, through experience he 
 had gathered wisdom, and wherever his footsteps had 
 been he had left such memorials of his worth, as the 
 fame of Ulysses* son was already blown throughout the 
 world. That it was now not many days since Telemachus 
 had arrived in the island, to the great joy of the queen 
 
150 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 his mother, who had thought him dead, by reason of his 
 long absence, and had begun to mourn for him with a 
 grief equal to that which she endured for Ulysses ; the 
 goddess herself having so ordered the course of his adven- 
 tures, that the time of his return should correspond with 
 the return of Ulysses, that they might together concert 
 measures how to repress the power and insolence of those 
 wicked suitors. This the goddess told him ; but of the 
 particulars of his son's adventures, of his having been 
 detained in the Delightful Island, which his father had 
 so lately left, of Calypso, and her nymphs, and the many 
 strange occurrences which may be read with profit and 
 delight in the history of the prince's adventures, she 
 forbore to tell him as yet, as judging that he would hear 
 them with greater pleasure from the lips of his son, when 
 he should have him in an hour of stillness and safety, 
 when their work should be done, and none of their 
 enemies left alive to trouble them. 
 
 Then they sat down, the goddess and Ulysses, at the 
 foot of a wild olive-tree, consulting how they might with 
 safety bring about his restoration. And when Ulysses 
 revolved in his mind how that his enemies were a multi- 
 tude, and he single, he began to despond, and he said, " I 
 shall die an ill death like Agamemnon ; in the threshold 
 of my own house I shall perish, like that unfortunate 
 monarch, slain by some one of my wife's suitors." But 
 then again calling to mind his ancient courage, he secretly 
 wished that Minerva would but breathe such a spirit 
 into his bosom as she enflamed him with in the day of 
 Troy's destruction, that he might encounter with three 
 hundred of those impudent suitors at once, and strew the 
 pavements of his beautiful palace with their bloods and 
 brains. 
 
 And Minerva knew his thoughts, and she said, "I 
 will be strongly with thee, if thou fail not to do thy part. 
 And for a sign between us that I will perform my promise, 
 and for a token on thy part of obedience, I must change 
 thee, that thy person may not be known of men." 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 151 
 
 Then Ulysses bowed his head to receive the divine 
 impression, and Minerva by her great power changed his 
 person so that it might not be known. She changed him 
 to appearance into a very old man, yet such a one as by 
 his limbs and gait seemed to have been some considerable 
 person in his time, and to retain yet some remains of his 
 once prodigious strength. Also, instead of those rich 
 robes in which king Alcinous had clothed him, she threw 
 over his limbs such old and tattered rags as wandering 
 beggars usually wear. A staff supported his steps, and a 
 scrip hung to his back, such as travelling mendicants use, 
 to hold the scraps which are given to them at rich men's 
 doors. So from a king he became a beggar, as wise 
 Tiresias had predicted to him in the shades. 
 
 To complete his humiliation, and to prove his obedience 
 by suffering, she next directed him in this beggarly attire 
 to go and present himself to his old herdsman Eumseus, 
 who had the care of his swine and his cattle, and had 
 been a faithful steward to him all the time of his absence. 
 Then strictly charging Ulysses that he should reveal 
 himself to no man but to his own son, whom she would 
 send to him when she saw occasion, the goddess went her 
 way. 
 
 The transformed Ulysses bent his course to the cottage 
 of the herdsman, and entering in at the front court, the 
 dogs, of which Eumaeus kept many fierce ones for the 
 protection of the cattle, flew with open mouths upon him, 
 as those ignoble animals have oftentimes an antipathy to 
 the sight of anything like a beggar, and would have rent 
 him in pieces with their teeth, if Ulysses had not had the 
 prudence to let fall his staff, which had chiefly provoked 
 their fuiy, and sat himself down in a careless fashion 
 upon the ground ; but for all that some serious hurt had 
 certainly been done to him, so raging the dogs were, had 
 not the herdsman, whom the barking of the dogs had 
 fetched out of the house, with shouting and with throwing 
 of stones repressed them. 
 
 He said, when he saw Ulysses, " Old rather, how near 
 
152 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 you were to being torn in pieces by these rude dogs ! I 
 should never have forgiven myself, if through neglect of 
 mine any hurt had happened to yon. But heaven has 
 given me so many cares to my portion, that I might well 
 be excused for not attending to everything : while here I 
 lie grieving and mourning for the absence of that majesty 
 which once ruled here, and am forced to fatten his swine 
 and his cattle for evil men, who hate him, and who wish 
 his death ; when he perhaps strays up and down the world, 
 and has not wherewith to appease hunger, if indeed he 
 yet lives (which is a question) and enjoys the cheerful 
 light of the sun." This he said, little thinking that he 
 of whom he spoke now stood before him, and that in 
 that uncouth disguise and beggarly obscurity was present 
 the hidden majesty of Ulysses. 
 
 Then he had his guest into the house, and set meat 
 and drink before him ; and Ulysses said, " May Jove and 
 all the other gods requite you for the kind speeches and 
 hospitable usage which you have shown me ! " 
 
 Eumseus made answer, "My poor guest, if one in 
 much worse plight than yourself had arrived here, it were 
 a shame to such scanty means as I have, if I had let him 
 depart without entertaining him to the best of my ability. 
 Poor men, and such as have no houses of their own, are 
 by Jove himself recommended to our care. But the 
 cheer which we that are servants to other men have to 
 bestow, is but sorry at most, yet freely and lovingly I 
 give it you. Indeed there once ruled here a man, whose 
 return the gods have set their faces against, who, if he 
 had been suffered to reign in peace and grow old among 
 us, would have been kind to me and mine. But he is 
 gone; and for his sake would to God that the whole 
 posterity of Helen might perish with her, since in her 
 quarrel so many worthies have perished. But such as 
 your fare is, eat it, and be welcome ; such lean beasts as 
 are food for poor herdsmen. The fattest go to feed the 
 voracious stomachs of the queen's suitors. Shame on 
 their unworthiness there is no day in which two or three 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 153 
 
 of the noblest of the herd are not slain to support theii 
 feasts and their surfeits." 
 
 Ulysses gave good ear to his words, and as he ate his 
 meat, he even tore it and rent it with his teeth, for mere 
 vexation that his fat cattle should be slain to glut the 
 appetites of those godless suitors. And he said, " What 
 chief or what ruler is this, that thou commendest so 
 highly, and sayest that he perished at Troy 1 I am but 
 a stranger in these parts. It may be I have heard of 
 some such in my long travels." 
 
 Eumseus answered, " Old father, never one of all the 
 strangers that have come to our coast with news of 
 Ulysses being alive, could gain credit with the queen or 
 her son yet. These travellers, to get raiment or a meal, 
 will not stick to invent any lie. Truth is not the com- 
 modity they deal in. Never did the queen get anything 
 of them but lies. She receives all that come graciously, 
 hears their stories, inquires all she can, but all ends in 
 tears and dissatisfaction. But in God's name, old father, 
 if you have got a tale, make the most on't, it may gain 
 you a cloak or a coat from somebody to keep you warm : 
 but for him who is the subject of it, dogs and vultures 
 long since have torn him limb from limb, or some great 
 fish at sea has devoured him, or he lieth with no better 
 monument upon his bones than the sea-sand. But for 
 me, past all the race of men, were tears created : for I 
 never shall find so kind a royal master more ; not if my 
 father or my mother could come again and visit me from 
 the tomb, would my eyes be so blessed, as they should 
 be with the sight of him again, coming as from the dead. 
 In his last rest my soul shall love him. He is not here, 
 nor do I name him as a flatterer, but because I am 
 thankful for his love and care which he had to me a poor 
 man ; and if I knew surely that he were past all shores 
 that the sun shines upon, I would invoke him as a deified 
 thing." 
 
 For this saying of Eumseus the waters stood in Ulysses' 
 eyes, and he said, " My friend, to say and to affirm posJ- 
 
154 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 tively that he cannot be alive, is to give too much license 
 to incredulity. For, not to speak at random, but with 
 as much solemnity as an oath comes to, I say to you that 
 Ulysses shall return, and whenever that day shall be, 
 then shall you give to me a cloak and a coat ; but till then, 
 I will not receive so much as a thread of a garment, but 
 rather go naked ; for no less than the gates of hell do I 
 hate that man, whom poverty can force to tell an untruth. 
 Be Jove then witness to my words, that this very year, 
 nay ere this month be fully ended, your eyes shall behold 
 Ulysses, dealing vengeance in his own palace upon the 
 wrongers of his wife and his son." 
 
 To give the better credence to his words, he amused 
 Eumseus with a forged story of his life, feigning of him- 
 self that he was a Cretan born, and one that went with 
 Idomeneus to the wars of Troy. Also he said that he 
 knew Ulysses, and related various passages which he 
 alleged to have happened betwixt Ulysses and himself, 
 which were either true in the main, as having really 
 happened between Ulysses and some other person, or 
 were so like to truth, as corresponding with the known 
 character and actions of Ulysses that Eumseus' incredulity 
 was not a little shaken. Among other things he asserted 
 that he had lately been entertained in the court of Thes- 
 protia, where the king's son of the country had told him, 
 that Ulysses had been there but just before him, and 
 was gone upon a voyage to the oracle of Jove in Dodona, 
 whence he should shortly return, and a ship woidd be 
 ready by the bounty of the Thesprotians to convoy him 
 straight to Ithaca. " And in token that what I tell you 
 is true," said Ulysses, " if your king come not within the 
 period which I have named, you shall have leave to give 
 your servants commandment to take my old carcass, and 
 throw it headlong from some steep rock into the sea, that 
 poor men, taking example by me, may fear to lie." But 
 Eumaeus made answer that that should be small satisfac- 
 tion or pleasure to him. 
 
 So while they sat discoursing in this manner, supper 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 155 
 
 was served in, and the servants of the herdsman, who 
 had been out all day in the fields, came in to supper, and 
 took their seats at the fire, for the night was bitter and 
 frosty. After supper, Ulysses, who had well eaten and 
 drunken, and was refreshed with the herdsman's good 
 cheer, was resolved to try whether his host's hospitality 
 would extend to the lending him a good warm mantle or 
 nig to cover him in the night-season ; and framing an 
 artful tale for the purpose, in a merry mood, filling a cup 
 of Greek wine, he thus began : 
 
 " I will you a story of your king Ulysses and myself. 
 If there is ever a time when a man may have leave to 
 tell his own stories, it is when he has drunken a little 
 too much. Strong liquor driveth the fool, and moves 
 even the heart of the wise, moves and impels him to sing 
 and to dance, and break forth in pleasant laughters, and 
 perchance to prefer a speech too which were better kept 
 in. When the heart is open, the tongue will be stirring. 
 But you shall hear. We led our powers to ambush once 
 under the walls of Troy." 
 
 The herdsmen crowded about him eager to hear any- 
 thing which related to their king Ulysses and the wars 
 of Troy, and thus he went on : 
 
 " I remember Ulysses and Menelaus had the direction 
 of that enterprise, and they were pleased to join me with 
 them in the command. I was at that time in some 
 repute among men, though fortune has played me a trick 
 since, as you may perceive. But I was somebody in those 
 times, and could do something. Be that as it may, a 
 bitter freezing night it was, such a night as this, the air 
 cut like steel, and the sleet gathered on our shields like 
 crystal. There was some twenty of us that lay close 
 crouched down among the reeds and bulrushes that grew 
 in the moat that goes round the city. The rest of us made 
 tolerable shift, for every man had been careful to bring 
 with him a good cloak or mantle to wrap over his armour 
 and keep himself warm ; but I, as it chanced, had left 
 my cloak behind me, as not expecting that the night 
 
156 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 would prove so cool, or rather I believe because I had at 
 that time a brave suit of new armour on, which being a 
 soldier, and having some of the soldier's vice about me, 
 vanity, I was not willing should be hidden under a cloak ; 
 but I paid for my indiscretion with my sufferings, for the 
 inclement night, and the wet of the ditch in which we 
 lay, I was well-nigh frozen to death ; and when I could 
 endure no longer, I jogged Ulysses, who was next to me, 
 and had a nimble ear, and make known my case to him, 
 assuring him that I must inevitably perish. He answered 
 in a low whisper, ' Hush, lest any Greek should hear you, 
 and take notice of your softness.' Not a word more he 
 said, but showed as if he had no pity for the plight I was 
 in. But he was as considerate as he was brave, and even 
 then, as he lay with his head reposing upon his hand, he 
 was meditating how to relieve me, without exposing my 
 weakness to the soldiers. At last raising up his head, 
 he made as if he had been asleep, and said, ' Friends, I 
 have been warned in a dream to send to the fleet to king 
 Agamemnon for a supply, to recruit our numbers, for we 
 are not sufficient for this enterprise ; ' and they believing 
 him, one Thoas was despatched on that errand, who 
 departing, for more speed, as Ulysses had foreseen, left 
 his upper garment behind him, a good warm mantle, to 
 which I succeeded, and by the help of it got through the 
 night with credit. This shift Ulysses made for one in 
 need, and would to heaven that I had now that strength 
 in my limbs, which made me in those days to be accounted 
 fit to be a leader under Ulysses ! I should not then 
 want the loan of a cloak or mantle, to wrap about me 
 and shield my old limbs from the night-air." 
 
 The tale pleased the herdsmen; and Eumseus, who 
 more than all the rest was gratified to hear tales of 
 Ulysses, true or false, said, that for his story he deserved 
 a mantle and a night's lodging, which he should have ; 
 and he spread for him a bed of goat and sheep skins by 
 the fire ; and the seeming beggar, who was indeed the 
 true Ulyssep, lay down and slept under that poor roof, 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 157 
 
 in that abject disguise to which the will of Minerva had 
 subjected him. 
 
 When morning was come, Ulysses made offer to 
 depart, as if he were not willing to burthen his host's 
 hospitality any longer, but said that he would go and 
 try the humanity of the town's folk, if any there would 
 bestow upon him a bit of bread or a cup of drink. 
 Perhaps the queen's suitors (he said) out of their full 
 feasts would bestow a scrap on him : for he could wait 
 at table, if need were, and play the nimble serving-man, 
 he could fetch wood (he said) or build a fire, prepare 
 roast meat or boiled, mix the wine with water, or do any 
 of those offices which recommended poor men like him to 
 services in great men's houses. 
 
 " Alas ! poor guest," said Eumseus, " you know not 
 what you speak. What should so poor and old a man 
 as you do at the suitors' tables 1 Their light minds are 
 not given to such grave servitors. They must have 
 youths, richly tricked out in flowing vests, with curled 
 hair, like so many of Jove's cup-bearers, to fill out the 
 wine to them as they sit at table, and to shift their 
 trenchers. Their gorged insolence would but despise and 
 make a mock at thy age. Stay here. Perhaps the 
 queen, or Telemachus, hearing of thy arrival, may send 
 to thee of their bounty." 
 
 As he spake these words, the steps of one crossing 
 the front court were heard, and a noise of the dogs fawn- 
 ing and leaping about as for joy ; by which token Eumseus 
 guessed that it was the prince, who hearing of a traveller 
 being arrived at Eumseus' cottage that brought tidings 
 of his father, was come to search the truth, and Eumseus 
 said : "It is the tread of Telemachus, the son of king 
 Ulysses." Before he could well speak the words, the 
 prince was at the door, whom Ulysses rising to receive, 
 Telemachus would not suffer that so aged a man, as he 
 appeared, should rise to do respect to him, but he cour- 
 teously and reverently took him by the hand, and inclined 
 his head to him, as if he had surely known that it was 
 
158 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 his father indeed : but Ulysses covered his eyes with his 
 hands, that he might not show the waters which stood 
 in them. And Telemachus said, " Is this the man who 
 can tell us tidings of the king my father?" 
 
 " He brags himself to be a Cretan born," said Eumaeus, 
 "and that he has been a soldier and a traveller, but 
 whether he speak the truth or not, he alone can tell. 
 But whatsoever he has been, what he is now is apparent. 
 Such as he appears, I give him to you ; do what you will 
 with him ; his boast at present is that he is at the very 
 best a supplicant." 
 
 " Be he what he may," said Telemachus, " I accept 
 him at your hands. But where I should bestow him I 
 know not, seeing that in the palace his age would not 
 exempt him from the scorn and contempt which my 
 mother's suitors in their light minds would be sure to 
 fling upon him. A mercy if he escaped without blows : 
 for they are a company of evil men, whose profession is 
 wrongs and violence." 
 
 Ulysses answered : " Since it is free for any man to 
 speak in presence of your greatness, I must say that my 
 heart puts on a wolfish inclination to tear and to devour, 
 hearing your speech, that these suitors should with such 
 injustice rage, where you should have the rule solely. 
 What should the cause be ? do you wilfully give way to 
 their ill manners ? or has your government been such as 
 has procured ill-will towards you from your people ? or 
 do you mistrust your kinsfolk and friends in such sort, 
 as without trial to decline their aid? a man's kindred 
 are they that he might trust to when extremities ran 
 high." 
 
 Telemachus replied : " The kindred of Ulysses are 
 few. I have no brothers to assist me in the strife. But 
 the suitors are powerful in kindred and friends. The 
 house of old Arcesius has had this fate from the heavens, 
 that from old it still has been supplied with single heirs. 
 To Arcesius Laertes only was born, from Laertes descended 
 only Ulysses, from Ulysses I alone have sprung, whom 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 159 
 
 he left so young, that from me never comfort arose to 
 him. But the end of all rests in the hands of the 
 gods." 
 
 Then Eumseus departing to see to some necessary 
 business of his herds, Minerva took a woman's shape, 
 and stood in the entry of the door, and was seen to 
 Ulysses, but by his son she was not seen, for the 
 presences of the gods are invisible save to those to whom 
 they will to reveal themselves. Nevertheless the dogs 
 which were about the door saw the goddess, and durst 
 not bark, but went crouching and licking of the dust for 
 fear. And giving signs to Ulysses that the time was 
 now come in which he should make himself known to 
 his son, by her great power she changed back his shape 
 into the same which it was before she transformed him ; 
 and Telemachus, who saw the change, but nothing of 
 the manner by which it was effected, only he saw the 
 appearance of a king in the vigour of his age where but 
 just now he had seen a worn and decrepit beggar, was 
 struck with fear, and said, "Some god has done this 
 house this honour," and he turned away his eyes, and 
 would have worshipped. But his father permitted not, 
 but said, " Look better at me ; I am no deity, why put 
 you upon me the reputation of godhead 1 I am no more 
 but thy father : I am even he ; I am that Ulysses, by 
 reason of whose absence thy youth has been exposed to 
 such wrongs from injurious men." Then kissed he his 
 son, nor could any longer refrain those tears which he 
 had held under such mighty restraint before, though 
 they would ever be forcing themselves out in spite of 
 him ; but now, as if their sluices had burst, they came 
 out like rivers, pouring upon the warm cheeks of his son. 
 Nor yet by all these violent arguments could Telemachus 
 be persuaded to believe .that it was his father, but he 
 said, some deity had taken that shape to mock him ; for 
 he affirmed, that it was not in the power of any man, 
 who is sustained by mortal food, to change his shape so 
 in a moment from age to youth : for " but now," said he, 
 
160 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 "you were all wrinkles, and were old, and now you look 
 as the gods are pictured." 
 
 His father replied : " Admire, but fear not, and know 
 me to be at all parts substantially thy father, who in the 
 inner powers of his mind, and the unseen workings of a 
 father's love to thee, answers to his outward shape and 
 pretence ! There shall no more Ulysseses come here. I 
 am he that after twenty years' absence, and suffering a 
 world of ill, have recovered at last the sight of my country 
 earth. It was the will of Minerva that I should be 
 changed as you saw me. She put me thus together; 
 she puts together or takes to pieces whom she pleases. 
 It is in the law of her free power to do it : sometimes to 
 show her favourites under a cloud, and poor, and again 
 to restore to them their ornaments. The gods raise and 
 throw down men with ease." 
 
 Then Telemachus could hold out no longer, but he 
 gave way now to a full belief and persuasion, of that 
 which for joy at first he could not credit, that it was 
 indeed his true and very father, that stood before him ; 
 and they embraced, and mingled their tears. 
 
 Then said Ulysses, " Tell me who these suitors are, 
 what are their numbers, and how stands the queen thy 
 mother affected to them 1" 
 
 "She bears them still in expectation," said Telemachus, 
 " which she never means to fulfil, that she will accept 
 the hand of some one of them in second nuptials. For 
 she fears to displease them by an absolute refusal. So 
 from day to day she lingers them on with hope, which 
 they are content to bear the deferring of, while they have 
 entertainment at free cost in our palace." 
 
 Then said Ulysses, "Reckon up their numbers that 
 we may know their strength and ours, if we having none 
 but ourselves may hope to prevail against them." 
 
 "0 father," he replied, "I have ofttimes heard of 
 your fame for wisdom, and of the great strength of your 
 arm, but the venturous mind which your speeches now 
 indicate moves me even to amazement : for in no wise 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 161 
 
 can it consist with wisdom or a sound mind, that two 
 should try their strengths against a host. Nor five, or 
 ten, or twice teD strong are these suitors, but many more 
 by much : from Dulichium came there fifty and two, 
 they and their servants ; twice twelve crossed the seas 
 hither from Samos; from Zacynthus twice ten; of our 
 native Ithacans, men of chief note, are twelve who aspire 
 to the bed and crown of Penelope ; and all these under 
 one strong roof, a fearful odds against two ! My father, 
 there is need of caution, lest the cup which your great 
 mind so thirsts to taste of vengeance prove bitter to 
 yourself in the drinking. And therefore it were well 
 that we would bethink us of some one who might assist 
 us in this undertaking." 
 
 " Thinkest thou," said his father, " if we had Minerva 
 and the king of skies to be our friends, would their 
 sufficiencies make strong our part ; or must we look out 
 for some further aid yet ?" 
 
 " They you speak of are above the clouds," said Tele- 
 machus, " and are sound aids indeed ; as powers that not 
 only exceed human, but bear the chiefest sway among 
 the gods themselves." 
 
 Then Ulysses gave directions to his son to go and 
 mingle with the suitors, and in no wise to impart his 
 secret to any, not even to the queen his mother, but to 
 hold himself in readiness, and to have his weapons and 
 his good armour in preparation. And he charged him, 
 that when he himself should come to the palace, as he 
 meant to follow shortly after and present himself in his 
 beggar's likeness to the suitors, that whatever he should 
 see which might grieve his heart, with what foul usage 
 and contumelious language soever the suitors should re- 
 ceive his father, coming in that shape, though they should 
 strike and drag him by the heels along the floors, that 
 he should not stir nor make offer to oppose them, further 
 than by mild words to expostulate with them, until 
 Minerva from heaven should give the sign which should 
 be the prelude to their destruction. And Telemachus 
 
 M 
 
162 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 promising to obey his instructions departed; and the 
 shape of Ulysses fell to what it had been before, and he 
 became to all outward appearance a beggar, in base and 
 beggarly attire. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The queen's suitors The battle of the beggars The armour 
 taken down The meeting with Penelope 
 
 FKOM the house of Eumseus the seeming beggar took his 
 way, leaning on his staff, till he reached the palace, 
 entering in at the hall where the suitors sat at meat. 
 They in the pride of their feasting began to break their 
 jests in mirthful manner, when they saw one looking so 
 poor and so aged approach. He who expected no better 
 entertainment was nothing moved at their behaviour, 
 but, as became the character which he had assumed, in 
 a suppliant posture crept by turns to every suitor, and 
 held out his hands for some charity, with such a natural 
 and beggar-resembling grace, that he might seem to have 
 practised begging all his life; yet there was a sort of 
 dignity in his most abject stoopings, that whoever had 
 seen him, would have said, If it had pleased heaven that 
 this poor man had been born a king, he would gracefully 
 have filled a throne. And some pitied him, and some 
 gave him alms, as their present humours inclined them, 
 but the greater part reviled him, and bid him begone, as 
 one that spoiled their feast ; for the presence of misery 
 has this power with it, that while it stays, it can dash 
 and overturn the mirth even of those who feel no pity 
 or wish to relieve it ; nature bearing this witness of her- 
 self in the hearts of the most obdurate. 
 
 Now Telemachus sat at meat with the suitors, and 
 knew that it was the king his father, who in that shape 
 begged an alms; and when his father came and pre- 
 sented himself before him in turn, as he had done to the 
 suitors one by one, he gave him of his own meat which 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 163 
 
 he had in his dish, and of his own cup to drink. And 
 the suitors were past measure offended to see a pitiful 
 beggar, as they esteemed him, to be so choicely regarded 
 by the prince. 
 
 Then Antinous, who was a great lord, and of chief 
 note among the suitors, said, " Prince Telemachus does 
 ill to encourage these wandering beggars, who go from 
 place to place, affirming that they have been some con- 
 siderable persons in their time, filling the ears of such as 
 hearken to them with lies, and pressing with their bold 
 feet into kings' palaces. This is some saucy vagabond, 
 some travelling Egyptian." 
 
 " I see," said Ulysses, " that a poor man should get 
 but little at your board, scarce should he get salt from 
 your hands if he brought his own meat." 
 
 Lord Antinous, indignant to be answered with such 
 sharpness by a supposed beggar, snatched up a stool, 
 with which he smote Ulysses where the neck and shoulders 
 join. This usage moved not Ulysses ; but in his great 
 heart he meditated deep evils to come upon them all, 
 which for a time must be kept close, and he went and 
 sat himself down in the doorway to eat of that which 
 was given him, and he said, " For life or possessions a 
 man will fight, but for his belly this man smites. If a 
 poor man has any god to take his part, my lord Antinous 
 shall not live to be the queen's husband." 
 
 Then Antinous raged highly, and threatened to drag 
 him by the heels, and to rend his rags about his ears, if 
 he spoke another word. 
 
 But the other suitors did in no wise approve of the 
 harsh language, nor of the blow which Antinous had 
 dealt ; and some of them said, " Who knows but one of 
 the deities goes about, hid under that poor disguise ? for 
 in the likeness of poor pilgrims the gods have many times 
 descended to try the dispositions of men, whether they 
 be humane or impious." While these things passed, 
 Telemachus sat and observed all, but held his peace, 
 remembering the instructions of his father. But secretly 
 
164 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 he waited for the sign which Minerva was to send from 
 heaven. 
 
 That day there followed Ulysses to the court one of 
 the common sort of beggars, Irus by name, one that had 
 received alms beforetime of the suitors, and was their 
 ordinary sport, when they were inclined (as that day) to 
 give way to mirth, to see him eat and drink ; for he had 
 the appetite of six men ; and was of huge stature and 
 proportions of body ; yet had in him no spirit nor courage 
 of a man. This man, thinking to curry favour with the 
 suitors, and recommend himself especially to such a great 
 lord as Antinous was, began to revile and scorn Ulysses, 
 putting foul language upon him, and fairly challenging 
 him to fight with the fist. But Ulysses, deeming his 
 railings to be nothing more than jealousy and that envious 
 disposition which beggars commonly manifest to brothers 
 in their trade, mildly besought him not to trouble him, 
 but to enjoy that portion which the liberality of their 
 entertainers gave him, as he did, quietly ; seeing that of 
 their bounty there was sufficient for all. 
 
 But Irus, thinking that this forbearance in Ulysses 
 was nothing more than a sign of fear, so much the more 
 highly stormed, and bellowed, and provoked him to fight; 
 and by this time the quarrel had attracted the notice of 
 the suitors, who with loud laughters and shouting egged 
 on the dispute, and lord Autinous swore by all the gods 
 it should be a battle, and that in that hall the strife 
 should be determined. To this the rest of the suitors 
 with violent clamours acceded, and a circle was made for 
 the combatants, and a fat goat was proposed as the 
 victor's prize, as at the Olympic or the Pythian games. 
 Then Ulysses, seeing no remedy, or being not unwilling 
 that the suitors should behold some proof of that strength 
 which ere long in their own persons they were to taste of, 
 stripped himself, and prepared for the combat. But first 
 he demanded that he should have fair play shown him, 
 that none in that assembly should aid his opponent, or 
 take part against him, for, being an old man, they might 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 165 
 
 easily crush him with their strengths. And Telemachus 
 passed his word that no foul play should be shown him, 
 but that each party should be left to their own unassisted 
 strengths, and to this be made Antinous and the rest of 
 the suitors swear. 
 
 But when Ulysses had laid aside his garments, and 
 was bare to the waist, all the beholders admired at the 
 goodly sight of his large shoulders being of such exquisite 
 shape and whiteness, and at his great and brawny bosom, 
 and the youthful strength which seemed to remain in a 
 man thought so old , and they said, " What limbs and 
 what sinews he has !" and coward fear seized on the 
 mind of that great vast beggar, and he dropped his 
 threats and big words, and would have fled, but lord 
 Antinous stayed him, and threatened him that if he 
 declined the combat, he would put him a ship, and land 
 him on the shores where king Echetus reigned, the 
 roughest tyrant which at that time the world contained, 
 and who had that antipathy to rascal beggars, such as he, 
 that when any landed on his coast, he would crop their 
 ears and noses and give them to the dogs to tear. So 
 Irus, in whom fear of king Echetus prevailed above the 
 fear of Ulysses, addressed himself to fight. But Ulysses, 
 provoked to be engaged in so odious a strife with a fellow 
 of his base conditions, and loathing longer to be made a 
 spectacle to entertain the eyes of his foes, with one blow 
 which he struck him beneath the ear, so shattered the 
 teeth and jawbone of this soon baffled coward, that he 
 laid him sprawling in the dust, with small stomach or 
 ability to renew the contest. Then raising him on his 
 feet, he led him bleeding and sputtering to the door, and 
 put his staff into his hand, and bid him go use his com- 
 mand upon dogs and swine, but not presume himself to 
 be lord of the guests another time, nor of the beggary ! 
 
 The suitors applauded in their vain minds the issue of 
 the contest, and rioted in mirth at the expense of poor 
 Irus, who they vowed should be forthwith embarked and 
 sent to king Echetus; and they bestowed thanks on 
 
166 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 Ulysses for ridding the court of that unsavoury morsel, 
 as they called him ; but in their inward souls they would 
 not have cared if Irus had been victor, and Ulysses had 
 taken the foil, but it was mirth to them to see the 
 beggars fight. In such pastimes and light entertainments 
 the day wore away. 
 
 When evening was come the suitors betook themselves 
 to music and dancing. And Ulysses leaned his back 
 against a pillar from which certain lamps hung which 
 gave light to the dancers, and he made show of watching 
 the dancers, but very different thoughts were in his head. 
 And as he stood near the lamps, the light fell upon his 
 head, which was thin of hair and bald, as an old man's. 
 And Eurymachus, a suitor, taking occasion from some 
 words which were spoken before, scoffed and said, " Now 
 I know for a certainty that some god lurks under the poor 
 and beggarly appearance of this man, for as he stands by 
 the lamps, his sleek head throws beams around it, like as 
 it were a glory." And another said, " He passes his time 
 too not much unlike the gods, lazily living exempt from 
 labour, taking offerings of men." "I warrant," said 
 Eurymachus again, " he could not raise a fence or dig a 
 ditch for his livelihood, if a man would hire him to work 
 in a garden." 
 
 "I wish," said Ulysses, "that you who speak this 
 and myself were to be tried at any task-work, that I had 
 a good crooked scythe put in my hand, that was sharp 
 and strong, and you such another, where the grass grew 
 longest, to be up by daybreak, mowing the meadows till 
 the sun went down, not tasting of food till we had 
 finished, or that we were set to plough four acres in one 
 day of good glebe land, to see whose furrows were evenest 
 and cleanest, or that we might have one wrestling -bout 
 together, or that in our right hands a good steel-headed 
 lance were placed, to try whose blows fell heaviest and 
 thickest upon the adversary's headpiece. I would cause 
 you such work, as you should have small reason to 
 reproach me with being slack at work. But you would 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 167 
 
 do well to spare me this reproach, and to save your 
 strength, till the owner of this house shall return, till the 
 day when Ulysses shall return, when returning he shall 
 enter upon his birthright." 
 
 This was a galling speech to those suitors, to whom 
 Ulysses' return was indeed the thing which they most 
 dreaded ; and a sudden fear fell upon their souls, as if 
 they were sensible of the real presence of that man who 
 did indeed stand amongst them, but not in that form 
 as they might know him; and Eurymachus, incensed, 
 snatched a massy cup which stood on a table near, and 
 hurled it at the head of the supposed beggar, and but 
 narrowly missed the hitting of him ; and all the suitors 
 rose, as at once, to thrust him out of the hall, which 
 they said his beggarly presence and his rude speeches 
 had profaned. But Telemachus cried to them to forbear, 
 and not to presume to lay hands upon a wretched man to 
 whom he had promised protection. He asked if they 
 were mad, to mix such abhorred uproar with his feasts. 
 He bade them take their food and their wine, to sit up 
 or go to bed at their free pleasures, so long as he should 
 give licence to that freedom ; but why should they abuse 
 his banquet, or let the words which a poor beggar spake 
 have power to move their spleens so fiercely? 
 
 They bit their lips arid frowned for anger, to be checked 
 BO by a youth j nevertheless for that time they had the 
 grace to abstain, either for shame, or that Minerva had 
 infused into them a terror of Ulysses' son. 
 
 So that day's feast was concluded without bloodshed, 
 and the suitors, tired with their sports, departed severally 
 each man to his apartment. Only Ulysses and Telemachus 
 remained. And now Telemachus, by his father's direction, 
 went and brought down into the hall armour and lances 
 from the armoury : for Ulysses said, " On the morrow we 
 shall have need of them." And moreover he said, "If 
 any one shall ask why you have taken them down, say, 
 it is to clean them and scour them from the rust which 
 they have gathered since the owner of this house went 
 
168 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 for Troy." And as Telemachus stood by the armour, 
 the lights were all gone out, and it was pitch-dark, and 
 the armour gave out glistening beams as of fire, and he 
 said to his father, " The pillars of the house are on fire." 
 And his father said, "It is the gods who sit above the 
 stars and have power to make the night as light as the 
 day." And he took it for a good omen. And Telemachus 
 fell to cleaning and sharpening of the lances. 
 
 Now Ulysses had not seen his wife Penelope in all the 
 time since his return ; for the queen did not care to 
 mingle with the suitors at their banquets, but, as became 
 one that had been Ulysses' wife, kept much in private, 
 spinning and doing her excellent housewiferies among 
 her maids in the remote apartments of the palace. Only 
 upon solemn days she would come down and show herself 
 to the suitors. And Ulysses was filled with a longing 
 desire to see his wife again, whom for twenty years he 
 had not beheld, and he softly stole through the known 
 passages of his beautiful house, till he came where the 
 maids were lighting the queen through a stately gallery 
 that led to the chamber where she slept. And when the 
 maids saw Ulysses, they said, "It is the beggar who 
 came to the court to-day, about whom all that uproar was 
 stirred up in the hall : what does he here ?" But Pene- 
 lope gave commandment that he should be brought before 
 her, for she said, " It may be that he has travelled, and 
 has heard something concerning Ulysses." 
 
 Then was Ulysses right glad to hear himself named 
 by his queen, to find himself in nowise forgotten, nor her 
 great love towards him decayed in all that time that he 
 had been away. And he stood before his queen, and she 
 knew him not to be Ulysses, but supposed that he had 
 been some poor traveller. And she asked him of what 
 country he was. 
 
 He told her (as he had before told to Eumseus) that 
 he was a Cretan born, and however poor and cast down 
 he now seemed, no less a man than brother to Idomeneus, 
 who was grandson to king Minos, and though he now 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 169 
 
 wanted bread, he had once had it in his power to feast 
 Ulysses. Then he feigned how Ulysses, sailing for Troy, 
 was forced by stress of weather to put his fleet in at a 
 port of Crete, where for twelve days he was his guest, 
 and entertained by him with all befitting guest-rites. 
 And he described the very garments which Ulysses had 
 on, by which Penelope knew that he had seen her lord. 
 
 In this manner Ulysses told his wife many tales of 
 himself, at most but painting, but painting so near to the 
 life, that the feeling of that which she took at her ears 
 became so strong, that the kindly tears ran down her fair 
 cheeks, while she thought upon her lord, dead she thought 
 him, and heavily mourned the loss of him, whom she 
 missed, whom she could not find, though in very deed he 
 stood so near her. 
 
 Ulysses was moved to see her weep, but he kept his 
 own eyes as dry as iron or horn in their lids, putting a 
 bridle upon his strong passion, that it should not issue to 
 sight. 
 
 Then he told her how he had lately been at the court 
 of Thesprotia, and what he had learned concerning Ulysses 
 there, in order as he had delivered to Eumaeus : and 
 Penelope was won to believe that there might be a possi- 
 bility of Ulysses being alive, and she said, " I dreamed a 
 dream this morning. Methought I had twenty household 
 fowl which did eat wheat steeped in water from my hand, 
 and there came suddenly from the clouds a crook-beaked 
 hawk who soused on them and killed them all, trussing 
 their necks, then took his flight back up to the clouds. 
 And in my dream methought that I wept and made great 
 moan for my fowls, and for the destruction which the 
 hawk had made; and my maids came about me to 
 comfort me. And in the height of my griefs the hawk 
 came back, and lighting upon the beam of my chamber, 
 he said to me in a man's voice, which sounded strangely 
 even in my dream, to hear a hawk to speak : ' Be of good 
 cheer,' he said, '0 daughter of Icarius; for this is no 
 dream which thou hast seen, but that which shall happen 
 
170 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 to thee indeed. Those household fowl which thou 
 lamentest so without reason, are the suitors who devour 
 thy substance, even as thou sawest the fowl eat from thy 
 hand, and the hawk is thy husband, who is coming to 
 give death to the suitors.' And I awoke, and went to 
 see to my fowls if they were alive, whom I found eating 
 wheat from their troughs, all well and safe as before my 
 dream." 
 
 Then said Ulysses, " This dream can endure no other 
 interpretation than that which the hawk gave to it, who 
 is your lord, and who is coming quickly to effect all that 
 his words told you." 
 
 " Your words," she said, " my old guest, are so sweet, 
 that would you sit and please me with your speech, my 
 ears would never let my eyes close their spheres for very 
 joy of your discourse; but none that is merely mortal 
 can live without the death of sleep, so the gods who are 
 without death themselves have ordained it, to keep the 
 memory of our mortality in our minds, while we experi- 
 ence that as much as we live we die every day : in which 
 consideration I will ascend my bed, which I have nightly 
 watered with my tears since he that was the joy of it 
 departed for that bad city;" she so speaking, because she 
 could not bring her lips to name the name of Troy so 
 much hated. So for that night they parted, Penelope to 
 her bed, and Ulysses to his son, and to the armour and 
 the lances in the hall, where they sat up all night clean- 
 ing and watching by the armour. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The madness from above The bow of Ulysses The slaughter- 
 The conclusion. 
 
 WHEN daylight appeared, a tumultuous concourse of 
 suitors again filled the hall; and some wondered, and 
 some inquired what meant that glittering store of armour 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 171 
 
 and lances which lay on heaps by the entry of the door ; 
 and to all that asked Telemachus made reply, that he 
 had caused them to be taken down to cleanse them of the 
 rust and of the stain which they had contracted by lying 
 so long unused, even ever since his father went for Troy ; 
 and with that answer their minds were easily satisfied. 
 So to their feasting and vain rioting again they fell. 
 Ulysses by Telemachus' order had a seat and a mess 
 assigned to him in the doorway, and he had his eye ever 
 on the lances. And it moved gall in some of the great 
 ones there present, to have their feast still dulled with 
 the society of that wretched beggar as they deemed him, 
 and they reviled and spurned at him with their feet. 
 Only there was one Pliilaetius, who had something a 
 better nature than the rest, that spake kindly to him, 
 and had his age in respect. He coming up to Ulysses, 
 took him by the hand with a kind of fear, as if touched 
 exceedingly with imagination of his great worth, and said 
 thus to him, " Hail ! father stranger ! my brows have 
 sweat to see the injuries which you have received, and 
 my eyes have broke forth in tears, when I have only 
 thought that such being oftentimes the lot of worthiest 
 men, to this plight Ulysses may be reduced, and that he 
 now may wander from place to place as you do ; for such 
 who are compelled by need to range here and there, and 
 have no firm home to fix their feet upon, God keeps them 
 in this earth, as under water ; so are they kept down and 
 depressed. And a dark thread is sometimes spun in the 
 fates of kings." 
 
 At this bare likening of the beggar to Ulysses, Minerva 
 from heaven made the suitors for foolish joy to go mad, 
 and roused them to such a laughter as would never stop, 
 they laughed without power of ceasing, their eyes stood 
 full of tears for violent joys; but fears and horrible 
 misgivings succeeded : and one among them stood up 
 and prophesied : "Ah, wretches!" he said, "what mad- 
 ness from heaven has seized you, that you can laugh ? see 
 you not that your meat drops blood 1 a night, like the 
 
172 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 night of death, wraps you about, you shriek without 
 knowing it ; your eyes thrust forth tears ; the fixed walls, 
 and the beam that bears the whole house up, fall blood ; 
 ghosts choke up the entry ; full is the hall with appari- 
 tions of murdered men ; under your feet is hell ; the sun 
 falls from heaven, and it is midnight at noon." But like 
 men whom the gods had infatuated to their destruction, 
 they mocked at his fears, and Eurymachus said, "This 
 man is surely mad, conduct him forth into the market- 
 place, set him in the light, for he dreams that 'tis night 
 within the house." 
 
 But Theoclymenus (for that was the prophet's name), 
 whom Minerva had graced with a prophetic spirit, that 
 he foreseeing might avoid the destruction which awaited 
 them, answered and said : " Eurymachus, I will not 
 require a guide of thee, for I have eyes and ears, the use of 
 both my feet, and a sane mind within me, and with these 
 I will go forth of the doors, because I know the imminent 
 evils which await all you that stay, by reason of this poor 
 guest who is a favourite with all the gods." So saying 
 he turned his back upon those inhospitable men, and 
 went away home, and never returned to the palace. 
 
 These words which he spoke were not unheard by 
 Telemachus, who kept still his eye upon his father, ex- 
 pecting fervently when he would give the sign, which 
 was to precede the slaughter of the suitors. 
 
 They dreaming of no such thing, fell sweetly to their 
 dinner, as joying in the great store of banquet which was 
 heaped in full tables about them ; but there reigned not 
 a bitterer banquet planet in all heaven, than that which 
 hung over them this day by secret destination of Minerva. 
 
 There was a bow which Ulysses left when he went 
 for Troy. It had lain by since that time, out of use and 
 unstrung, for no man had strength to draw that bow, 
 save Ulysses. So it had remained as a monument of 
 the great strength of its master. This bow, with the 
 quiver of arrows belonging thereto, Telemachus had 
 brought down from the armoury on the last night along 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 173 
 
 with the lances; and now Minerva, intending to do 
 Ulysses an honour, put it into the mind of Telemachus 
 to propose to the suitors to try who was strongest to draw 
 that bow ; and he promised that to the man who should 
 be able to draw that bow, his mother should be given in 
 marriage; Ulysses' wife, the prize to him who should 
 bend the bow of Ulysses. 
 
 There was great strife and emulation stirred up among 
 the suitors at those words of the prince Telemachus. And 
 to grace her son's words, and to confirm the promise 
 which he had made, Penelope came and showed herself 
 that day to the suitors ; and Minerva made her that she 
 appeared never so comely in their sight as that day, and 
 they were inflamed with the beholding of so much beauty, 
 proposed as the price of so great manhood; and they 
 cried out, that if all those heroes who sailed to Colchos 
 for the rich purchase of the golden-fleeced ram, had seen 
 earth's richer prize, Penelope, they would not have made 
 their voyage, but would have vowed their valours and 
 their lives to her, for she was at all parts faultless. 
 
 And she said, "The gods have taken my beauty from 
 me, since my lord went for Troy." But Telemachus 
 willed his mother to depart and not be present at that 
 contest, for he said, "It may be, some rougher strife 
 shall chance of this, than may be expedient for a woman 
 to witness." And she retired, she and her maids, and 
 left the hall. 
 
 Then the bow was brought into the midst, and a mark 
 was set up by prince Telemachus : and lord Antinous as 
 the chief among the suitors had the first offer, and he 
 took the bow and fitting an arrow to the string, he strove 
 to bend it, but not with all his might and main could he 
 once draw together the ends of that tough bow; and 
 when he found how vain a thing it was to endeavour to 
 draw Ulysses' bow, he desisted, blushing for shame and 
 for mere anger. Then Eurymachus adventured, but with 
 no better success; but as it had torn the hands of 
 Antinous, so did the bow tear and strain his hands, and 
 
174 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 marred his delicate fingers, yet could he not once stir the 
 string. Then called he to the attendants to bring fat and 
 unctuous matter, which melting at the fire, he dipped the 
 bow therein, thinking to supple it and make it more pliable, 
 but not with all the helps of art could he succeed in making 
 it to move. After him Liodes, and Amphinomus, and 
 Polybus, and Eurynomus, and Polyctorides, assayed their 
 strength, but not any one of them, or of the rest of those 
 aspiring suitors, had any better luck : yet not the meanest 
 of them there but thought himself well worthy of Ulysses' 
 wife, though to shoot with Ulysses' bow the completest 
 champion among them was by proof found too feeble. 
 
 Then Ulysses prayed them that he might have leave 
 to try ; and immediately a clamour was raised among the 
 suitors, because of his petition, and they scorned and 
 swelled with rage at his presumption, and that a beggar 
 should seek to contend in a game of such noble mastery. 
 But Telemachus ordered that the bow should be given 
 him, and that he should have leave to try, since they had 
 failed ; " for," he said, " the bow is mine, to give or to 
 withhold : " and none durst gainsay the prince. 
 
 Then Ulysses gave a sign to his son, and he com- 
 manded the doors of the hall to be made fast, and all 
 wondered at his words, but none could divine the cause. 
 And Ulysses took the bow into his hands, and before he 
 essayed to bend it, he surveyed it at all parts to see 
 whether, by long lying by, it had contracted any stiffness 
 which hindered the drawing ; and as he was busied in 
 the curious surveying of his bow, some of the suitors 
 mocked him and said, " Past doubt this man is a right 
 cunning archer, and knows his craft well. See how he 
 turns it over and over, and looks into it as if he could 
 see through the wood." And others said, "We wish 
 some one would tell out gold into our laps but for so long 
 a time as he shall be in drawing of that string." But 
 when he had spent some little time in making proof of 
 the bow, and had found it to be in good plight, like as a 
 harper in tuning of his harp draws out a string, with 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 175 
 
 such ease or much more did Ulysses draw to the head the 
 string of his own tough bow, and in letting of it go, it 
 twanged with such a shrill noise as a swallow makes 
 when it sings through the air ; which so much amazed 
 the suitors, that their colours came and went, and the 
 skies gave out a noise of thunder, which at heart cheered 
 Ulysses, for he knew that now his long labours by the 
 disposal of the fates drew to an end, Then fitted he an 
 arrow to the bow, and drawing it to the head, he sent it 
 right to the mark which the prince had set up. Which 
 done, he said to Telemachus, " You have got no disgrace 
 yet by your guest, for I have struck the mark I shot at, 
 and gave myself no such trouble in teasing the bow with 
 fat and fire, as these men did, but have made proof that 
 my strength is not impaired, nor my age so weak and 
 contemptible as these were pleased to think it. But 
 come, the day going down calls us to supper, after which 
 succeed poem and harp, and all delights which use to 
 crown princely banquetings." 
 
 So saying, he beckoned to his son, who straight girt 
 his sword to his side, and took one of the lances (of 
 which there lay great store from the armoury) in his 
 hand, and armed at all points, advanced towards his 
 father. 
 
 The upper rags which Ulysses wore fell from his 
 shoulder, and his own kingly likeness returned, when he 
 rushed to the great hall door with bow and quiver full 
 of shafts, which down at his feet he poured, and in bitter 
 words presignified his deadly intent to the suitors. 
 "Thus far," he said, "this contest has been decided 
 harmless : now for us there rests another mark, harder 
 to hit, but which my hands shall essay notwithstanding, 
 if Phoebus, god of archers, be pleased to give me mastery." 
 With that he let fly a deadly arrow at Antinous, which 
 pierced him in the throat as he was in the act of lifting 
 a cup of wine to his mouth. Amazement seized the 
 suitors, as their great champion fell dead, and they raged 
 highly against Ulysses, and said that it should prove the 
 
176 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 dearest shaft which he ever let fly, for he had slain a man, 
 whose like breathed not in any part of the kingdom : and 
 they flew to their arms, and would have seized the lances, 
 but Minerva struck them with dimness of sight that they 
 went erring up and down the hall, not knowing where to 
 find them. Yet so infatuated were they by the dis- 
 pleasure of heaven, that they did not see the imminent 
 peril which impended over them, but every man believed 
 that this accident had happened beside the intention of 
 the doer. Fools ! to think by shutting their eyes to 
 evade destiny, or that any other cup remained for them, 
 but that which their great Antinous had tasted ! 
 
 Then Ulysses revealed himself to all in that presence, 
 and that he was the man whom they held to be dead at 
 Troy, whose palace they had usurped, whose wife in his 
 lifetime they had sought in impious marriage, and that 
 for this reason destruction was come upon them. And 
 he dealt his deadly arrows among them, and there was no 
 avoiding him, nor escaping from his horrid person, and 
 Telernachus by his side plied them thick with those 
 murderous lances from which there was no retreat, till 
 fear itself made them valiant, and danger gave tftem eyes 
 to understand the peril; then they which had swords 
 drew them, and some with shields, that could find them, 
 and some with tables and benches snatched up in haste, 
 rose in a mass to overwhelm and crush those two ; yet 
 they singly bestirred themselves like men, and defended 
 themselves against that great host, and through tables, 
 shields and all, right through the arrows of Ulysses clove, 
 and the irresistible lances of Telemachus ; and many lay 
 dead, and all had wounds, and Minerva in the likeness of 
 a bird sate upon the beam which went across the hall, 
 clapping her wings with a fearful noise, and sometimes 
 the great bird would fly among them, cuffing at the 
 swords and at the lances, and up and down the hall 
 would go, beating her wings, and troubling everything, 
 that it was frightful to behold, and it frayed the blood 
 from the cheeks of those heaven-hated suitors : but to 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 177 
 
 Ulysses and his son she appeared in her own divine 
 similitude, with her snake-fringed shield, a goddess armed, 
 fighting their battles. Nor did that dreadful pair desist 
 till they had laid all their foes at their feet. At their 
 feet they lay in shoals ; like fishes, when the fishermen 
 break up their nets, so they lay gasping and sprawling at 
 the feet of Ulysses and his son. And Ulysses remem- 
 bered the prediction of Tiresias, which said that he was 
 to perish by his own guests, unless he slew those who 
 knew him not. 
 
 Then certain of the queen's household went up and 
 told Penelope what had happened, and how her lord 
 Ulysses had come home, and had slain the suitors. But 
 she gave no heed to their words, but thought that some 
 frenzy possessed them, or that they mocked her : for it is 
 the property of such extremes of sorrow as she had felt, 
 not to believe when any great joy cometh. And she 
 rated and chid them exceedingly for troubling her. But 
 they the more persisted in their asseverations of the 
 truth of what they had affirmed ; and some of them had 
 seen the slaughtered bodies of the suitors dragged forth 
 of the hall. And they said, " That poor guest whom you 
 talked with last night was Ulysses." Then she was yet 
 more fully persuaded that they mocked her, and she wept. 
 But they said, " This thing is true which we have told. 
 We sat within, in an inner room in the palace, and the 
 doors of the hall were shut on us, but we heard the cries 
 and the groans of the men that were killed, but saw 
 nothing, till at length your son called to us to come in, 
 and entering we saw Ulysses standing in the midst of the 
 slaughtered." But she persisting in her unbelief, said, 
 that it was some god which had deceived them to think 
 it was the person of Ulysses. 
 
 By this time Telemachus and his father had cleansed 
 their hands from the slaughter, and were come to where 
 the queen was talking with those of her household ; and 
 when she saw Ulysses, she stood motionless, and had no 
 power to speak, sudden surprise and joy and fear and 
 
178 THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 
 
 many passions so strove within her. Sometimes she was 
 clear that it was her husband that she saw, and sometimes 
 the alterations which twenty years had made in his person 
 (yet that was not much) perplexed her that she knew not 
 what to think, and for joy she could not believe; and 
 yet for joy she would not but believe; and, above all, 
 that sudden change from a beggar to a king troubled her, 
 and wrought uneasy scruples in her mind. But Tele- 
 machus seeing her strangeness, blamed her, and called 
 her an ungentle and tyrannous mother ! and said that she 
 showed a too great curiousness of modesty, to abstain 
 from embracing his father, and to have doubts of his 
 person, when to all present it was evident that he was 
 the very real and true Ulysses. 
 
 Then she mistrusted no longer, but ran and fell upon 
 Ulysses' neck, and said, " Let not my husband be angry, 
 that I held off so long with strange delays ; it is the 
 gods, who severing us for so long time, have caused this 
 unseemly distance in me. If Menelaus' wife had used 
 half my caution, she would never have taken so freely to 
 a stranger's bed ; and she might have spared us all these 
 plagues which have come upon us through her shameless 
 deed." 
 
 These words with which Penelope excused herself, 
 wrought more affection in Ulysses than if upon a first 
 sight she had given up herself implicitly to his embraces ; 
 and he wept for joy to possess a wife so discreet, so 
 answering to his own staid mind, that had a depth of wit 
 proportioned to his own, and one that held chaste virtue 
 at so high a price, and he thought the possession of such 
 a one cheaply purchased with the loss of all Circe's 
 delights, and Calypso's immortality of joys; and his long 
 labours and his severe sufferings past seemed as nothing, 
 now they were crowned with the enjoyment of his vir- 
 tuous and true wife Penelope. And as sad men at sea 
 whose ship has gone to pieces nigh shore, swimming for 
 their lives, all drenched in foam and brine, crawl up to 
 some poor patch of laud, which they take possession of 
 
THE ADVENTURES OF ULYSSES. 179 
 
 with as great a joy as if they had the world given them 
 in fee, with such delight did this chaste wife cling to her 
 lord restored, till the dark night fast coming on reminded 
 her of that more intimate and happy union when in her 
 long-widowed bed she should once again clasp a living 
 Ulysses. 
 
 So from that time the land had rest from the suitors. 
 And the happy Ithacans with songs and solemn sacrifices 
 of praise to the gods celebrated the return of Ulysses : 
 for he that had been so long absent was returned to 
 wreak the evil upon the heads of the doers ; in the place 
 where they had done the evil, there wreaked he his 
 vengeance upon them. 
 
GUY FAUX. 
 
 A VERY ingenious and subtle writer, whom there is good 
 reason for suspecting to be an ex-Jesuit, not unknown at 
 Douay some five -and -twenty years since (he will -not 
 
 obtrude himself at M th again in a hurry), about a 
 
 twelvemonth back set himself to prove the character of 
 the Powder Plot Conspirators to have been that of heroic 
 self-devotedness and true Christian martyrdom. Under 
 the mask of Protestant candour, he actually gained ad- 
 mission for his treatise into a London weekly paper not 
 particularly distinguished for its zeal towards either 
 religion. But, admitting Catholic principles, his argu- 
 ments are shrewd and incontrovertible. He says : 
 
 " Guy Faux was a fanatic ; but he was no hypocrite. 
 He ranks among good haters. He was cruel, bloody- 
 minded, reckless of all considerations but those of an 
 infuriated and bigoted faith ; but he was a true son of 
 the Catholic Church, a martyr, and a confessor, for all 
 that. He who can prevail upon himself to devote his 
 life to a cause, however we may condemn his opinions or 
 abhor his actions, vouches at least for the honesty of his 
 principles and the disinterestedness of his motives. He 
 may be guilty of the worst practices ; but he is capable 
 of the greatest. He is no longer a slave, but free. The 
 contempt of death is the beginning of virtue. The hero 
 of the Gunpowder Plot was, if you will, a fool, a mad- 
 man, an assassin ; call him what names you please : still 
 he was neither knave nor coward. He did not propose 
 
GUY FAUX. 181 
 
 to blow up the Parliament, and come off scot-free himself; 
 he showed that he valued his own life no more than 
 theirs in such a cause, where the integrity of the Catholic 
 faith and the salvation of perhaps millions of souls was 
 at stake. He did not call it a murder, but a sacrifice, 
 which he was about to achieve ; he was armed with the 
 Holy Spirit and with fire ; he was the Church's chosen 
 servant, and her blessed martyr. He comforted himself 
 as 'the best of cut-throats.' How many wretches are 
 there who would have undertaken to do what he intended 
 for a sum of money, if they could have got off with im- 
 punity ! How few are there who would have put them- 
 selves in Guy Faux's situation to save the universe ! Yet, 
 in the latter case, we affect to be thrown into greater 
 consternation than at the most unredeemed acts of villainy; 
 as if the absolute disinterestedness of the motive doubled 
 the horror of the deed ! The cowardice and selfishness 
 of mankind are in fact shocked at the consequences to 
 themselves (if such examples are held up for imitation) ; 
 and they make a fearful outcry against the violation of 
 every principle of morality, lest they, too, should be called 
 on for any such tremendous sacrifices ; lest they in their 
 turn, should have to go on the forlorn hope of extra-official 
 duty. Charity begins at home, is a maxim that prevails 
 as well in the courts of consciousness as in those of 
 prudence. We would be thought to shudder at the con- 
 sequences of crime to others, while we tremble for them 
 to ourselves. We talk of the dark and cowardly assassin ; 
 and this is well, when an individual shrinks from the face 
 of an enemy, and purchases his own safety by striking a 
 blow in the dark ; but how the charge of cowardly can 
 be applied to the public assassin, who, in the very act of 
 destroying another, lays down his life as the pledge and 
 forfeit of his sincerity and boldness, I am at a loss to 
 devise. There may be barbarous prejudice, rooted hatred, 
 unprincipled treachery in such an act; but he who 
 resolves to take all the danger and odium upon himself 
 can no more be branded with cowardice than Regulus 
 
182 GUY FAUX. 
 
 devoting himself for his country, or Codrus leaping into 
 the fiery gulf. A wily Father Inquisitor, coolly and with 
 plenary authority condemning hundreds of helpless, un- 
 offending victims to the flames, or the horrors of a living 
 tomb, while he himself would not suffer a hair of his 
 head to be hurt, is, to me, a character without any 
 qualifying trait in it. Again : The Spanish conqueror 
 and hero, the favourite of his monarch, who enticed 
 thirty thousand poor Mexicans into a large open building 
 under promise of strict faith and cordial good-will, and 
 then set fire to it, making sport of the cries and agonies 
 of these deluded creatures, is an instance of uniting the 
 most hardened cruelty with the most heartless selfishness. 
 His plea was, keeping no faith with heretics ; this was 
 Guy Faux's too : but I am sure at least that the latter 
 kept faith with himself; he was in earnest in his profes- 
 sions. His was not gay, wanton, unfeeling depravity ; 
 he did not murder in sport : it was serious work that he 
 had taken in hand. To see this arch-bigot, this heart- 
 whole traitor, this pale miner in the infernal regions, 
 skulking in his retreat with his cloak and dark lantern, 
 moving cautiously about among his barrels of gunpowder 
 loaded with death, but not yet ripe for destruction, regard- 
 less of the lives of others, and more than indifferent to 
 his own, presents a picture of the strange infatuation of 
 the human understanding, but not of the depravity of 
 the human will, without an equal. There were thousands 
 of pious Papists privy to and ready to applaud the deed 
 when done; there was no one but our old fifth -of- 
 November friend, who still flutters in rags and straw on 
 the occasion, that had the courage to attempt it. In him 
 stern duty and unshaken faith prevailed over natural 
 frailty." 
 
 It is impossible, upon Catholic principles, not to admit 
 the force of this reasoning : we can only not help smiling 
 (with the writer) at the simplicity of the gulled editor, 
 swallowing the dregs of Loyola for the very quintessence 
 of sublimated reason in England at the commencement of 
 
GUY FAUX. 183 
 
 the nineteenth century. We will just, as a contrast, 
 show what we Protestants (who are a party concerned) 
 thought upon the same subject at a period rather nearer 
 to the heroic project in question. 
 
 The Gunpowder Treason was the subject which called 
 forth the earliest specimen which is left us of the pulpit 
 eloquence of Jeremy Taylor. When he preached the 
 sermon on that anniversary, which is printed at the end 
 of the folio edition of his Sermons, he was a young man, 
 just commencing his ministry under the auspices of 
 Archbishop Laud. From the learning and maturest 
 oratory which it manifests, one should rather have con- 
 jectured it to have proceeded from the same person after 
 he was ripened by time into a Bishop and Father of the 
 Church. "And, really, these Romano -barbari could 
 never pretend to any precedent for an act so barbarous 
 as theirs. Adramelech, indeed, killed a king; but he 
 spared the people. Haman would have killed the people, 
 but spared the king; but that both king and people, 
 princes and judges, branch and rush and root, should die 
 at once (as if Caligula's wish were actuated, and all 
 England upon one head), was never known till now, that 
 all the malice of the world met in this as in a centre. 
 The Sicilian even-song, the matins of St. Bartholomew, 
 known for the pitiless and damned massacres, were but 
 KOLTTVOV crKias ovap, the dream of the shadow of smoke, 
 if compared with this great fire. In tarn occupato sceculo 
 fabulas vulgares nequitia non invenit. This was a busy 
 age. Herostratus must have invented a more sublimed 
 malice than the burning of one temple, or not have been 
 so much as spoke of since the discovery of the powder 
 treason. But I must make more haste ; I shall not else 
 climb the sublimity of this impiety. Nero was some- 
 times the populare odium, was popularly hated, and 
 deserved it too: for he slew his master, and his wife, 
 and all his family, once or twice over; opened his 
 mother's womb ; fired the city, laughed at it, slandered 
 the Christians for it : but yet all these were but principle* 
 
184 GUY FAUX 
 
 malorum, the very first rudiments of evil. Add, then, 
 to these, Herod's masterpiece at Raman, as it was 
 deciphered by the tears and sad threnes of the matrons in 
 a universal mourning for the loss of their pretty infants ; 
 yet this of Herod will prove but an infant wickedness, 
 and that of Nero the evil but of one city. I would 
 willingly have found out an example, but see I cannot. 
 Should I put into the scale the extract of the old tyrants 
 famous in antique stories : 
 
 ' Bistonii stabuluni regis, Busiridis aras, 
 Antiphatae meusas, et Taurica regna Thoantis ; ' 
 
 should I take for true story the highest cruelty as it was 
 fancied by the most hieroglyphical Egyptian, this alone 
 would weigh them down, as if the Alps were put in scale 
 against the dust of a balance. For, had this accursed 
 treason prospered, we should have had the whole kingdom 
 mourn for the inestimable loss of its chiefest glory, its 
 life, its present joy, and all its very hopes for the future. 
 For such was their destined malice, that they would not 
 only have inflicted so cruel a blow, but have made it 
 incurable, by cutting off our supplies of joy, the whole 
 succession of the Line Royal. Not only the vine itself, 
 but all the gemmulce, and the tender olive branches, 
 should either have been bent to their intentions, and 
 made to grow crooked, or else been broken. 
 
 "And now, after such a sublimity of malice, I will 
 not instance in the sacrilegious ruin of the neighbouring 
 temples, which needs must have perished in the flame ; 
 nor in the disturbing the ashes of our entombed kings, 
 devouring their dead ruins like sepulchral dogs : these are 
 but minutes in respect of the ruin prepared for the living 
 temples : 
 
 1 Stragem sed is tarn non tulit 
 Christus cadeutum Principum 
 Impune, lie forsan sui 
 Patris periret fabrica. 
 Ergo quse poterit lingua retexere 
 Laudes, Ckriste, tuas, qui domitum struis 
 Infidum populum cum Dunn perfido J'" 
 
GUY FAUX. 185 
 
 In such strains of eloquent indignation did Jeremy 
 Taylor's young oratory inveigh against that stupendous 
 attempt which he truly says had no parallel in ancient or 
 modern times. A century and a half of European crimes 
 has elapsed since he made the assertion, and his position 
 remains in its strength. He wrote near the time in 
 which the nefarious project had like to have been com- 
 pleted. Men's minds still were shuddering from the 
 recentness of the escape. It must have been within his 
 memory, or have been sounded in his ears so young by 
 his parents, that he would seem, in his maturer years, to 
 have remembered it. No wonder, then, that he describes 
 it in words that burn. But to us, to whom the tradition 
 has come slowly down, and has had time to cool, the 
 story of Guido Vaux sounds rather like a tale, a fable, 
 and an invention, than true history. It supposes such 
 gigantic audacity of daring, combined with such more 
 than infantile stupidity in the motive, such a combina- 
 tion of the fiend and the monkey, that credulity is almost 
 swallowed up in contemplating the singularity of the 
 attempt. It has accordingly, in some degree, shared the 
 fate of fiction. It is familiarised to us in a kind of serio- 
 ludicrous way, like the story of Guy of Warwick or 
 Valentine and Orson. The way which we take to per- 
 petuate the memory of this deliverance is well adapted to 
 keep up this fabular notion. Boys go about the streets 
 annually with a beggarly scarecrow dressed up, which is 
 to be burnt indeed, at night, with holy zeal ; but, mean- 
 time, they beg a penny for poor Guy: this periodical 
 petition, which we have heard from our infancy, combined 
 with the dress and appearance of the effigy, so well calcu- 
 lated to move compassion, has the effect of quite removing 
 from our fancy the horrid circumstances of the story which 
 is thus commemorated ; and in poor Guy vainly should we 
 try to recognise any of the features of that tremendous 
 madman in iniquity, Guido Vaux, with his horrid crew 
 of accomplices, that sought to emulate earthquakes and 
 bursting volcanoes in their more than mortal mischief. 
 
186 GUY FAUX. 
 
 Indeed, the whole ceremony of burning Guy Faux, or 
 the, Pope, as he is indifferently called, is a sort of Treason 
 Travestie, and admirably adapted to lower our feelings 
 upon this memorable subject. The printers of the little 
 duodecimo Prayer Book, printed by T. Baskett, 1 in 
 1749, which has the effigy of his sacred majesty George 
 II. piously prefixed, have illustrated the service (a very 
 fine one in itself) which is appointed for the anniversary 
 of this day with a print which it is not very easy to 
 describe ; but the contents appear to be these : The scene 
 is a room, I conjecture in the king's palace. Two persons 
 one of whom I take to be James himself, from his 
 wearing his hat, while the other stands bareheaded are 
 intently surveying a sort of speculum, or magic mirror, 
 which stands upon a pedestal in the midst of the room, 
 in which a little figure of Guy Faux with his dark lantern, 
 approaching the door of the Parliament House, is made 
 discernible by the light proceeding from a great eye which 
 shines in from the topmost corner of the apartment ; by 
 which eye the pious artist no doubt meant to designate 
 Providence. On the other side of the mirror is a figure 
 doing something, which puzzled me when a child, and 
 continues to puzzle me now. The best I can make of it 
 is, that it is a conspirator busy laying the train; but 
 then, why is he represented in the king's chamber? 
 Conjecture upon so fantastical a design is vain ; and I 
 only notice the print as being one of the earliest graphic 
 representations which woke my childhood into wonder, 
 and doubtless combined, with the mummery before 
 mentioned, to take off the edge of that horror which the 
 naked historical mention of Guide's conspiracy could not 
 have failed of exciting. 
 
 1 The same, I presume, upon whom the clergyman in the song 
 of the "Vicar and Moses," not without judgment, passes this 
 memorable censure : 
 
 " Here, Moses the king : 
 "Tis a scandalous thing 
 That this Baskett should print for the Crown." 
 
GUY FAUX. 187 
 
 Now that so many years are past since that abominable 
 machination was happily frustrated, it will not, I hope, 
 be considered a profane sporting with the subject if we 
 take no very serious survey of the consequences that would 
 have flowed from this plot if it had had a successful issue. 
 The first thing that strikes us, in a selfish point of view, 
 is the material change which it must have produced in 
 the course of the nobility. All the ancient peerage being 
 extinguished, as it was intended, at one blow, the Red 
 Book must have been closed for ever, or a new race of 
 peers must have been created to supply the deficiency. 
 As the first part of this dilemma is a deal too shocking 
 to think of, what a fund of mouth-watering reflections 
 does this give rise to in the breast of us plebeians of A.D. 
 1823 ! Why, you or I, reader, might have been Duke 
 
 of , or Earl of . I particularise no titles, to 
 
 avoid the least suspicion of intention to usurp the dignities 
 of the two noblemen whom I have in my eye; but a 
 feeling more dignified than envy sometimes excites a 
 sigh, when I think how the posterity of Guide's Legion 
 of Honour (among whom you or I might have been) might 
 have rolled down "dulcified," as Burke expresses it, "by 
 an exposure to the influence of heaven in a long flow of 
 generations, from the hard, acidulous, metallic tincture 
 of the spring." 1 What new orders of merit, think you, 
 this English Napoleon would have chosen ? Knights of 
 the Barrel, or Lords of the Tub, Grand Almoners of the 
 Cellar, or Ministers of Explosion ? We should have given 
 the train couchant, and the fire rampant, in our arms ; 
 we should have quartered the dozen white matches in 
 our coats : the Shallows would have been nothing to us. 
 
 Turning away from these mortifying reflections, let us 
 contemplate its effects upon the other house; for they 
 were all to have gone together, king, lords, commons. 
 
 To assist our imagination, let us take leave to suppose 
 (and we do it in the harmless wantonness of fancy) that 
 the tremendous explosion had taken place in our days. 
 1 Letter to a Noble Lord. 
 
188 GUY FAUX. 
 
 We better know what a House of Commons is in our 
 days, and can better estimate our loss. Let us imagine, 
 then, to ourselves, the united members sitting in full 
 conclave above; Faux just ready with his train and 
 matches below, in his hand a " reed tipt with fire." He 
 applies the fatal engine . 
 
 To assist our notions still further, let us suppose some 
 lucky dog of a reporter, who had escaped by miracle upon 
 some plank of St. Stephen's benches, and came plump 
 upon the roof of the adjacent Abbey, from whence 
 descending, at some neighbouring coffee-house, first wiping 
 his clothes and calling for a glass of lemonade, he sits 
 down and reports what he had heard and seen (quorum 
 pars magna fuit), for the Morning Post or the Courier. 
 We can scarcely imagine him describing the event in any 
 other words but some such as these : 
 
 " A Motion was put and carried, that this House do 
 adjourn ; that the Speaker do quit the chair. The House 
 ROSE amid clamours for Order." 
 
 In some such way the event might most technically 
 have been conveyed to the public. But a poetical mind, 
 not content with this dry method of narration, cannot 
 help pursuing the effects of this tremendous blowing up, 
 this adjournment in the air, sine die. It sees the 
 benches mount, the Chair first, and then the benches ; 
 and first the Treasury Bench, hurried up in this nitrous 
 explosion, the Members, as it were, pairing off; Whigs 
 and Tories taking their friendly apotheosis together (as 
 they did their sandwiches below in Bellamy's room). 
 Fancy, in her flight, keeps pace with the aspiring legis- 
 lators : she sees the awful seat of order mounting, till 
 it becomes finally fixed, a constellation, next to Cassi- 
 opeia's chair, the wig of him that sat in it taking 
 its place near Berenice's curls. St. Peter, at heaven's 
 wicket, no, not St. Peter, St. Stephen, with open 
 arms, receives his own . 
 
 While Fancy beholds these Celestial appropriations, 
 Reason, no less pleased, discerns the mighty benefit which 
 
GUY FAUX. 189 
 
 so complete a renovation must produce below. Let the 
 most determined foe to corruption, the most thorough- 
 paced redresser of abuses, try to conceive a more absolute 
 purification of the House than this was calculated to 
 produce. Why, Pride's Purge was nothing to it. The 
 whole borough-mongering system would have been got 
 rid of, fairly exploded ; with it the senseless distinctions 
 of party must have disappeared, faction must have 
 vanished, corruption have expired in the air. From 
 Hundred, Tything, and Wapentake, some new Alfred 
 would have convened, in all its purity, the primitive 
 Witenagemote, fixed upon a basis of property or popu- 
 lation permanent as the poles . 
 
 From this dream of universal restitution, Reason and 
 Fancy with difficulty awake to view the real state of 
 things. But, blessed be Heaven ! St. Stephen's walls 
 are standing, all her seats firmly secured ; nay, some have 
 doubted (since the Septennial Act) whether gunpowder 
 itself, or anything short of a committee above stairs, would 
 be able to shake any one member from his seat ; that 
 great and final improvement to the Abbey, which is all 
 that seems wanting, the removing Westminster Hall 
 and its appendages, and letting in the view of the 
 Thames, must not be expected in our days. Dismissing, 
 therefore, all such speculations as mere tales of a tub, it 
 is the duty of every honest Englishman to endeavour, 
 by means less wholesale than Giudo's, to ameliorate, 
 without extinguishing parliaments ; to hold the lantern 
 to the dark places of corruption ; to apply the match to 
 the rotten parts of the system only ; and to wrap himself 
 up, not in the muffling mantle of conspiracy, but in the 
 warm honest cloak of integrity and patriotic intention. 
 
ON THE AMBIGUITIES ARISING FROM 
 PEOPEE NAMES. 
 
 How oddly it happens that the same sound shall suggest 
 to the minds of two persons hearing it ideas the most 
 opposite ! I was conversing, a few years since, with a 
 young friend upon the subject of poetry, and particularly 
 that species of it which is known by the name of the 
 Epithalamium. I ventured to assert that the most perfect 
 specimen of it in our language was the Epithalamium of 
 Spenser upon his own marriage. 
 
 My young gentleman, who has a smattering of taste, 
 and would not willingly be thought ignorant of anything 
 remotely connected with the belles-lettres, expressed a 
 degree of surprise, mixed with mortification, that he 
 should never have heard of this poem ; Spenser being an 
 author with whose writings he thought himself peculiarly 
 conversant. 
 
 I offered to show him the poem in the fine folio copy 
 of the poet's works which I have at home. He seemed 
 pleased with the offer, though the mention of the folio 
 seemed again to puzzle him. But, presently after, 
 assuming a grave look, he compassionately muttered to 
 himself, " Poor Spencer !" 
 
 There was something in the tone with which he spoke 
 these words that struck me not a little. It was more 
 like the accent with which a man bemoans some recent 
 calamity that has happened to a friend than that tone 
 of sober grief with which we lament the sorrows of a 
 
AMBIGUITIES ARISING FROM PROPER NAMES. 191 
 
 person, however excellent and however grievous his 
 afflictions may have been, who has been dead more than 
 two centuries. I had the curiosity to inquire into the 
 reasons of so uncommon an ejaculation. My young gentle- 
 man, with a more solemn tone of pathos than before, 
 repeated, "Poor Spencer !" and added, "He has lost his 
 wife !" 
 
 My astonishment at this assertion rose to such a 
 height, that I began to think the brain of my young 
 friend must be cracked, or some unaccountable reverie 
 had gotten possession of it. But, upon further explana- 
 tion, it appeared that the word "Spenser" which to 
 you or me, reader, in a conversation upon poetry too, 
 would naturally have called up the idea of an old poet in 
 a ruff, one Edmund Spenser, that flourished in the days 
 of Queen Elizabeth, and wrote a poem called " The Faery 
 Queene," with "The Shepherd's Calendar," and many 
 more verses besides did, in the mind of my young friend, 
 excite a very different and quite modern idea ; namely, 
 that of the Honourable William Spencer, one of the living 
 ornaments, if I am not misinformed, of this present 
 poetical era, A.D. 1811. 
 
ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE 
 THEATEES. 
 
 WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF A CLUB OF DAMNED AUTHORS. 
 
 MR. REFLECTOR I am one of those persons whom the 
 world has thought proper to designate by the title of 
 Damned Authors. In that memorable season of dramatic 
 failures, 1806-7, in which no fewer, I think, than two 
 tragedies, four comedies, one opera, and three farces 
 suffered at Drury Lane Theatre, I was found guilty of 
 constructing an afterpiece, and was damned. 
 
 Against the decision of the public in such instances 
 there can be no appeal. The Clerk of Chatham might as 
 well have protested against the decision of Cade and his 
 followers who were then the public. Like him, I was 
 condemned because I could write. 
 
 Not but it did appear to some of us that the measures 
 of the popular tribunal at that period savoured a little of 
 harshness and of the summumjus. The public mouth 
 was early in the season fleshed upon the "Vindictive 
 Man," and some pieces of that nature ; and it retained, 
 through the remainder of it, a relish of blood. As Dr. 
 Johnson would have said, "Sir, there was a habit of 
 sibilation in the house." 
 
 Still less am I disposed to inquire into the reason of 
 the comparative lenity, on the other hand, with which 
 some pieces were treated, which, to indifferent judges, 
 
ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 193 
 
 seemed at least as much deserving of condemnation as 
 some of those which met with it. I am willing to put 
 a favourable construction upon the votes that were given 
 against us; I believe that there was no bribery or 
 designed partiality in the case: only "our nonsense did 
 not happen to suit their nonsense;" that was all. 
 
 But against the manner in which the public, on these 
 occasions, think fit to deliver their disapprobation, I must 
 and ever will protest. 
 
 Sir, imagine but you have been present at the 
 damning of a piece those who never had that felicity, I 
 beg them to imagine a vast theatre, like that which 
 Drury Lane was before it was a heap of dust and ashes 
 (I insult not over its fallen greatness ; let it recover itself 
 when it can for me, let it lift up its towering head once 
 more, and take in poor authors to write for it ; hie ccestus 
 artemque repono), a theatre like that, filled with all 
 sorts of disgusting sounds, shrieks, groans, hisses, but 
 chiefly the last, like the noise of many waters, or that 
 which Don Quixote heard from the fulling-mills, or that 
 wilder combination of devilish sounds which St. Anthony 
 listened to in the wilderness. 
 
 Oh ! Mr. Reflector, is it not a pity that the sweet 
 human voice, which was given man to speak with, to sing 
 with, to whisper tones of love in, to express compliance, 
 to convey a favour, or to grant a suit, that voice, which 
 in a Siddons or a Braham rouses us, in a Siren Catalani 
 charms and captivates us, that the musical, expressive 
 human voice should be converted into a rival of the 
 noises of silly geese, and irrational, venomous snakes ? 
 
 I never shall forget the sounds on my night. I never 
 before that time fully felt the reception which the Author 
 of All 111, in the " Paradise Lost," meets with from the 
 critics in the pit, at the final close of his Tragedy upon 
 the Human Race, though that, alas! met with too 
 much success : 
 
 " From innumerable tongues 
 A dismal universal hiss, the sound 
 
 
194 ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES 
 
 Of public scorn. Dreadful was the diu 
 Of hissing through the hall, thick swarming now 
 With complicated monsters, head and tail, 
 Scorpion and asp, and Amphisbaena dire, 
 Cerastes horn'd, Hydras, and Elops drear, 
 And Dipsas." 
 
 For hall substitute theatre, and you have the very 
 image of what takes place at what is called the damnation 
 of a piece, and properly so called ; for here you see its 
 origin plainly, whence the custom was derived, and what 
 the first piece was that so suffered. After this, none can 
 doubt the propriety of the appellation. 
 
 But, sir, as to the justice of bestowing such appalling, 
 heart -withering denunciations of the popular obloquy 
 upon the venial mistake of a poor author, who thought 
 to please us in the act of filling his pockets, for the sum 
 of his demerits amounts to no more than that, it does, 
 I own, seem to me a species of retributive justice far too 
 severe for the offence. A culprit in the pillory (bate the 
 eggs) meets with no severer exprobration. 
 
 Indeed, I have often wondered that some modest 
 critic has not proposed that there should be a wooden 
 machine to that effect erected in some convenient part of 
 the proscenium, which an unsuccessful author should be 
 required to mount, and stand his hour, exposed to the 
 apples and oranges of the pit. This amende honorable 
 would well suit with the meanness of some authors, who, 
 in their prologues fairly prostrate their skulls to the 
 audience, and seem to invite a pelting. 
 
 Or why should they not have their pens publicly 
 broke over their heads, as the swords of recreant knights 
 in old times were, and an oath administered to them that 
 they should never write again ? 
 
 Seriously, Messieurs the Public, this outrageous way 
 which you have got of expressing your displeasures is too 
 much for the occasion. When I was deafening under the 
 effects of it, I could not help asking what crime of great 
 moral turpitude I had committed : for every man about 
 me seemed to feel the offence as personal to himself: as 
 
ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 195 
 
 something which public interest and private feelings 
 alike called upon him in the strongest possible manner, 
 to stigmatise with infamy. 
 
 The Romans, it is well-known to you, Mr. Reflector, 
 took a gentler method of marking their disapprobation of 
 an author's work. They were a humane and equitable 
 nation. They left the furca and the patibulum, the axe 
 and the rods, to great offenders : for these minor and (if 
 I may so term them) extra-moral offences, the bent thumb 
 was considered as a sufficient sign of disapprobation, 
 vertere 2iollicem ; as the pressed thumb, premere pollicem, 
 was a mark of approving. 
 
 And really there seems to have been a sort of fitness 
 in this method, a correspondency of sign in the punish- 
 ment to the offence. For, as the action of writing is 
 performed by bending the thumb forward, the retroversion 
 or bending back of that joint did not unaptly point to 
 the opposite of that action; implying that it was the 
 will of the audience that the author should write no 
 more: a much more significant as well as more humane 
 way of expressing that desire than our custom of hissing, 
 which is altogether senseless and indefensible. Nor do 
 we find that the Roman audiences deprived themselves, 
 by this lenity, of any tittle of that supremacy which 
 audiences in all ages have thought themselves bound to 
 maintain over such as have been candidates for their 
 applause. On the contrary, by this method they seem to 
 have had the author, as we should express it, completely 
 under finger and thumb. 
 
 The provocations to which a dramatic genius is exposed 
 from the public are so much the more vexatious as they 
 are removed from any possibility of retaliation, which 
 sweetens most other injuries ; for the public never writes 
 itself. Not but something very like it took place at the 
 time of the O.P. differences. The placards which were 
 nightly exhibited were, properly speaking, the composi- 
 tion of the public. The public wrote them, the public 
 applauded them ; and precious morceaux of wit and 
 
196 ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 
 
 eloquence they were, except some few of a better 
 quality, which it is well known were furnished by 
 professed dramatic writers. After this specimen of what 
 the public can do for itself, it should be a little slow in 
 condemning what others do for it. 
 
 As the degrees of malignancy vary in people according 
 as they have more or less of the Old Serpent (the father 
 of hisses) in their composition, I have sometimes amused 
 myself with analysing this many -headed hydra, which 
 calls itself the public, into the component parts of which 
 it is " complicated, head and tail," and seeing how many 
 varieties of the snake kind it can afford. 
 
 First, there is the Common English Snake. This is 
 that part of the auditory who are always the majority at 
 damnations ; but who, having no critical venom in them- 
 selves to sting them on, stay till they hear others hiss, 
 and then join in for company. 
 
 The Blind Worm is a species very nearly allied to the 
 foregoing. Some naturalists have doubted whether they 
 are not the same. 
 
 The Rattlesnake. These are your obstreperous talking 
 critics, the impertinent guides of the pit, who will not 
 give a plain man leave to enjoy an evening's entertain- 
 ment ; but with their frothy jargon and incessant finding 
 of faults, either drown his pleasure quite, or force him, in 
 his own defence, to join in their clamorous censure. The 
 hiss always originates with these. When this creature 
 springs his rattle, you would think, from the noise it 
 makes, there was something in it ; but you have only to 
 examine the instrument from which the noise proceeds, 
 and you will find it typical of a critic's tongue, a shallow 
 membrane, empty, voluble, and seated in the most con- 
 temptible part of the creature's body. 
 
 The Whipsnake. This is he that lashes the poor 
 author the next day in the newspapers. 
 
 The Deaf Adder, or Surda Echidna of Linnaeus. 
 Under this head may be classed all that portion of the 
 spectators (for audience they properly are not), who, not 
 
ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 197 
 
 finding the first act of a piece answer to their precon- 
 ceived notions of what a first act should be, like Obstinate 
 in John Bunyan, positively thrust their fingers in their 
 ears, that they may not hear a word of what is coming, 
 though perhaps the very next act may be composed in a 
 style as different as possible, and be written quite to their 
 own tastes. These adders refuse to hear the voice of the 
 charmer, because the tuning of his instrument gave them 
 offence. 
 
 I should weary you and myself too, if I were to go 
 through all the classes of the serpent kind. Two qualities 
 are common to them all. They are creatures of remark- 
 ably cold digestions, and chiefly haunt pits and low 
 grounds. 
 
 I proceed with more pleasure to give you an account 
 of a club to which I have the honour to belong. There 
 are fourteen of us, who are all authors that have been 
 once in our lives what is called damned. We meet on 
 the anniversary of our respective nights, and make our- 
 selves merry at the expense of the public. The chief 
 tenets which distinguish our society, and which every 
 man among us is bound to hold for gospel, are 
 
 That the public, or mob, in all ages have been a set of 
 blind, deaf, obstinate, senseless, illiterate savages. That 
 no man of genius, in his senses, would be ambitious of 
 pleasing such a capricious, ungrateful rabble. That the 
 only legitimate end of writing for them is to pick their 
 pockets ; and, that failing, we are at full liberty to vilify 
 and abuse them as much as ever we think fit. 
 
 That authors, by their affected pretences to humility, 
 which they made use of as a cloak to insinuate their 
 writings into the callous senses of the multitude, obtuse 
 to everything but the grossest flattery, have by degrees 
 made that great beast their master; as we may act 
 submission to children till we are obliged to practise it 
 in earnest. That authors are and ought to be considered 
 the masters and preceptors of the public, and not vice 
 
198 ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 
 
 versd. That it was so in the days of Orpheus, Linus, 
 and Musaeus ; and would be so again, if it were not that 
 writers prove traitors to themselves. That, in particular, 
 in the days of the first of those three great authors just 
 mentioned, audiences appear to have been perfect models 
 of what audiences should be ; for though, along with the 
 trees and the rocks and the wild creatures which he drew 
 after him to listen to his strains, some serpents doubtless 
 came to hear his music, it does not appear that any one 
 among them ever lifted up a dissentient voice. They 
 knew what was due to authors in those days. Now 
 every stock and stone turns into a serpent, and has a 
 voice. 
 
 That the terms "Courteous Reader" and "Candid 
 Auditors," as having given rise to a false notion in those 
 to whom they were applied, as if they conferred upon 
 them some right, which they cannot have, of exercising 
 their judgments, ought to be utterly banished and ex- 
 ploded. 
 
 These are our distinguishing tenets. To keep up 
 the memory of the cause in which we suffered, as the 
 ancients sacrificed a goat, a supposed unhealthy animal, 
 to JEsculapius, on our feast-nights we cut up a goose, an 
 animal typical of tlie, popular voice, to the deities of 
 Candour and Patient Hearing. A zealous member of 
 the society once proposed that we should revive the 
 obsolete luxury of viper-broth ; but the stomachs of some 
 of the company rising at the proposition, we lost the 
 benefit of that highly salutary and antidotal dish. 
 
 The privilege of admission to our club is strictly 
 limited to such as have been fairly damned. A piece 
 that has met with ever so little applause, that has but 
 languished its night or two, and then gone out, will 
 never entitle its author to a seat among us. An excep- 
 tion to our usual readiness in conferring this privilege is 
 in the case of a writer, who, having been once condemned, 
 writes again, and becomes candidate for a second martyr- 
 dom. Simple damnation we hold to be a merit ; but to 
 
ON THE CUSTOM OF HISSING AT THE THEATRES. 199 
 
 be twice-damned we adjudge infamous. Such a one we 
 utterly reject, and blackball without a hearing : 
 
 ' ' The common damned shun his society" 
 
 Hoping that your publication of our Regulations may 
 be a means of inviting some more members into our 
 society, I conclude this long letter. 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, 
 
 SEMEL-DAMNATUS. 
 
THE GOOD CLERK, A CHARACTER; 
 
 WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF "THE COMPLETE ENGLISH 
 TRADESMAN." 
 
 THE Good Clerk. He writeth a fair and swift hand, and 
 is competently versed in the four first rules of arithmetic, 
 in the Rule of Three (which is sometimes called the 
 Golden Rule), and in Practice. We mention these things 
 that we may leave no room for cavillers to say that any- 
 thing essential hath been omitted in our definition ; else, 
 to speak the truth, these are but ordinary accomplish- 
 ments, and such as every understrapper at a desk is 
 commonly furnished with. The character we treat of 
 soareth higher. 
 
 He is clean and neat in his person ; not from a vain- 
 glorious desire of setting himself forth to advantage in 
 the eyes of the other sex (with which vanity too many of 
 our young sparks nowadays are infected), but to do 
 credit, as we say, to the office. For this reason, he ever- 
 more taketh care that his desk or his books receive no 
 soil; the which things he is commonly as solicitous to 
 have fair and unblemished, as the owner of a fine horse is 
 to have him appear in good keep. 
 
 He riseth early in the morning; not because early 
 rising conduceth to health (though he doth not altogether 
 despise that consideration), but chiefly to the intent that 
 he may be first at the desk. There is his post, there 
 he delighteth to be, unless when his meals or necessity 
 
THE GOOD CLERK. 201 
 
 calleth him away ; which time he alway esteemeth as loss, 
 aiid maketh as short as possible. 
 
 He is temperate in eating and drinking, that he may 
 preserve a clear head and steady hand for his master's 
 service. He is also partly induced to this observation to 
 the rules of temperance by his respect for religion and the 
 laws of his country ; which things, it may once for all be 
 noted, do add special assistances to his actions, but do 
 not and cannot furnish the mainspring or motive thereto. 
 His first ambition, as appeareth all along, is to be a good 
 Clerk ; his next, a good Christian, a good Patriot, etc. 
 
 Correspondent to this, he keepeth himself honest, not 
 for fear of the laws, but because he hath observed how 
 unseemly an article it maketh in the Day-Book or Ledger 
 when a sum is set down lost or missing; it being his 
 pride to make these books to agree and to tally, the one 
 side with the other, with a sort of architectural symmetry 
 and correspondence. 
 
 He marrieth, or marrieth not, as best suiteth with his 
 employer's views. Some merchants do the rather desire 
 to have married men in their Counting-houses, because 
 they think the married state a pledge for their servants' 
 integrity, and an incitement to them to be industrious ; 
 and it was an observation of a late Lord Mayor of London, 
 that the sons of clerks do generally prove clerks them- 
 selves, and that merchants encouraging persons in their 
 employ to marry, and to have families, was the best 
 method of securing a breed of sober, industrious young 
 men attached to the mercantile interest. Be this as it 
 may, such a character as we have been describing will 
 wait till the pleasure of his employer is known on this 
 point ; and regulateth his desires by the custom of the 
 house or firm to which he belongeth. 
 
 He avoideth profane oaths and jesting, as so much 
 time lost from his employ; what spare time he hath 
 for conversation, which, in a counting-house such as we 
 have been supposing, can be but small, he spendeth in 
 putting seasonable questions to such of his fellows (and 
 
202 THE GOOD CLERK. 
 
 sometimes respectfully to the master himself) who can 
 give him information respecting the price and quality of 
 goods, the state of exchange, or the latest improvements 
 in book-keeping ; thus making the motion of his lips, as 
 well as of his fingers, subservient to his master's interest. 
 Not that he refijseth a brisk saying, or a cheerful sally of 
 wit, when it conies unforced, is free of offence, and hath 
 a convenient brevity. For this reason, he hath commonly 
 some such phrase as this in his mouth : 
 
 It's a slovenly look 
 
 To blot your book. 
 Or, 
 
 Red ink for ornament, black for use : 
 The best of things are open to abuse. 
 
 So upon the eve of any great holy-day, of which he 
 keepeth one or two at least every year, he will merrily 
 say, in the hearing of a confidential friend, but to none 
 other, 
 
 All work and no play 
 
 Makes Jack a dull boy. 
 
 Or, 
 
 A bow always bent must crack at last. 
 
 But then this must always be understood to be spoken 
 confidentially, and, as we say, under the rose. 
 
 Lastly, his dress is plain, without singularity ; with 
 no other ornament than the quill, which is the badge of 
 his function, stuck behind the dexter car, and this rather 
 for convenience of having it at hand, when he hath been 
 called away from his desk, and expecteth to resume his 
 seat there again shortly, than from any delight which he 
 taketh in foppery or ostentation. The colour of his 
 clothes is generally noted to be black rather than brown, 
 brown rather than blue or green. His whole deportment 
 is staid, modest, and civil. His motto is Regularity . 
 
 This Character was sketched in an interval cf business, 
 to divert some of the melancholy hours of a Counting- 
 house. It is so little a creature of fancy, that it is scarce 
 
THE GOOD CLERK. 203 
 
 anything more than a recollection of some of those frugal 
 and economical maxims which, about the beginning of the 
 last century (England's meanest period), were endeavoured 
 to be inculcated and instilled into the breasts of the 
 London Apprentices 1 by a class of instructors who might 
 not inaptly be termed The Masters of Mean Morals. 
 The astonishing narrowness and illiberality of the lessons 
 contained in some of those books is inconceivable by those 
 whose studies have not led them that way, and would 
 almost induce one to subscribe to the hard censure which 
 Drayton has passed upon the mercantile spirit : 
 
 The gripple merchant, born to be the curse 
 Of this brave isle. 
 
 I have now lying before me that curious book by Daniel 
 Defoe, The Complete English Tradesman. The pom- 
 pous detail, the studied analysis of every little mean art, 
 every sneaking address, every trick and subterfuge short 
 of larceny that is necessary to the tradesman's occupation, 
 with the hundreds of anecdotes, dialogues (in Defoe's 
 liveliest manner) interspersed, all tending to the same 
 amiable purpose, namely, the sacrificing of every honest 
 emotion of the soul to what he calls the main chance, if 
 you read it in an ironical sense, and as a piece of covered 
 satire, make it one of the most amusing books which 
 Defoe ever writ, as much so as any of his best novels. 
 It is difficult to say what his intention was in writing it. 
 It is almost impossible to suppose him in earnest. Yet 
 .such is the bent of the book to narrow and to degrade 
 the heart, that if such maxims were as catching and in- 
 fectious as those of a licentious cast, which happily is not 
 the case, had I been living at that time, I certainly should 
 have recommended to the Grand Jury of Middlesex, 
 who presented The Fable of the Bees, to have presented 
 this book of Defoe's in preference, as of a far more vile 
 
 1 This term designated a larger class of young men than that 
 to which it is now confined. It took in the articled clerks of 
 merchants and bankers, the George Barnwella of the day. 
 
204 THE GOOD CLERK. 
 
 and debasing tendency. I will give one specimen of his 
 advice to the young tradesman on the Government of his 
 Temper : " The retail tradesman in especial, . and even 
 every tradesman in his station, must furnish himself with 
 a competent stock of patience. I mean that sort of 
 patience which is needful to bear with all sorts of im- 
 pertinence, and the most provoking curiosity that it is 
 possible to imagine the buyers, even the worst of them, 
 are, or can be, guilty of. A tradesman behind his counter 
 must have no flesh and blood about him, no passions, no 
 resentment ; he must never be angry, no, not so much 
 as seem to be so, if a customer tumbles him five hundred 
 pounds' worth of goods, and scarce bids money for any- 
 thing ; nay, though they really come to his shop with no 
 intent to buy, as many do, only to see what is to be sold, 
 and though he knows they cannot be better pleased than 
 they are at some other shop where they intend to buy, 
 'tis all one ; the tradesman must take it ; he must place 
 it to the account of his calling, that 'tis his business to be 
 HI used and resent nothing ; and so must answer as 
 obligingly to those that give him an hour or two's trouble 
 and buy nothing, as he does to those who, in half the 
 time, lay out ten or twenty pounds. The case is plain ; 
 and if some do give him trouble, and do not buy, others 
 make amends, and do buy; and as for the trouble, 'tis 
 the business of the shop." 
 
 Here follows a most admirable story of a mercer who, 
 by his indefatigable meanness and more than Socratic 
 patience under affronts, overcame and reconciled a lady, 
 who, upon the report of another lady that he had behaved 
 saucily to some third lady, had determined to shun his 
 shop, but, by the over-persuasions of a fourth lady, was 
 induced to go to it ; which she does, declaring beforehand 
 that she will buy nothing, but give him all the trouble 
 she can. Her attack and his defence, her insolence and 
 his persevering patience, are described in colours worthy 
 of a Mandeville ; but it is too long to recite. " The 
 short inference from this long discourse," says he, "is 
 
THE GOOD CLERK. 205 
 
 this, that here you see, and I could give you many 
 examples like this, how and in what manner a shopkeeper 
 is to behave himself in the way of his business ; what 
 impertinences, what taunts, flouts, and ridiculous things 
 he must bear in his trade, and must not show the least 
 return, or the least signal of disgust : he must have no 
 passions, no fire in his temper ; he must be all soft and 
 smooth ; nay, if his real temper be naturally fiery and 
 hot, he must show none of it in his shop ; he must be a 
 perfect complete hypocrite, if he will be a complete trades- 
 man. 1 " It is true, natural tempers are not to be always 
 counterfeited : the man cannot easily be a lamb in his 
 shop and a lion in himself; but, let it be easy or hard, 
 it must be done, and is done. There are men who have 
 by custom and usage brought themselves to it, that 
 nothing could be meeker and milder than they when 
 behind the counter, and yet nothing be more furious and 
 raging in every other part of life : nay, the provocations 
 they have met with in their shops have so irritated their 
 rage, that they would go upstairs from their shop, and 
 fall into frenzies, and a kind of madness, and beat theii 
 heads against the wall, and perhaps mischief themselves, 
 if not prevented, till the violence of it had gotten vent, 
 and the passions abate and cool. I heard once of a shop- 
 keeper that behaved himself thus to such an extreme, 
 that when he was provoked by the impertinence of the 
 customers beyond what his temper could bear, he would 
 go upstairs and beat his wife, kick his children about like 
 dogs, and be as furious for two or three minutes as a man 
 chained down in Bedlam ; and again, when that heat was 
 over, would sit down and cry faster than the children he 
 had abused; and, after the fit, he would go down into 
 the shop again, and be as humble, courteous, and as calm 
 as any man whatever ; so absolute a government of his 
 passions had he in the shop, and so little out of it : in 
 the shop, a soulless animal that would resent nothing ; 
 
 1 As no qualification accompanies this maxim, it must be 
 understood as the genuine sentiment of the author ! 
 
206 THE GOOD CLERK. 
 
 and in the family, a madman : in the shop, meek like a 
 lamb ; but in the family outrageous, like a Libyan lion. 
 The sum of the matter is, it is necessary for a tradesman 
 to subject himself, by all the ways possible, to his busi- 
 ness ; his customers are to be his idols ; so far as he may 
 worship idols, by allowance, he is to bow down to them, 
 and worship them ; at least he is not in any way to dis- 
 please them, or show any disgust or distaste whatsoever 
 they may say or do. The bottom of all is that he is 
 intending to get money by them ; and it is not for him 
 that gets money to offer the least inconvenience to them 
 by whom he gets it : he is to consider that, as Solomon 
 says, "the borrower is servant to the lender; so the 
 seller is servant to the buyer." What he says on the 
 head of " Pleasures and Recreations " is not less amusing : 
 " The tradesman's pleasure should be in his business : his 
 companions should be in his books " (he means his Ledger, 
 Waste-book, etc), " and if he has a family he makes his 
 excursions upstairs and no further. None of my cautions 
 aim at restraining a tradesman from diverting himself, as 
 we call it, with his fireside, or keeping company with his 
 wife and children." Liberal allowance ! nay, almost 
 licentious and criminal indulgence! But it is time to 
 dismiss this Philosopher of Meanness. More of this stuff 
 would illiberalise the pages of the Re/Lector. Was the 
 man in earnest, when he could bring such powers of 
 description, and all the charms of natural eloquence, in 
 commendation of the meanest, vilest, wretchedest degra- 
 dations of the human character? or did he not rather 
 laugh in his sleeve at the doctrines which he inculcated ; 
 and, retorting upon the grave citizens of London their 
 own arts, palm upon them a sample of disguised satire 
 under the name of wholesome Instruction ? 
 
THE REYNOLDS GALLERY. 
 
 THE Reynolds Gallery has, upon the whole, disappointed 
 me. Some of the portraits are interesting. They are 
 faces of characters whom we (middle-aged gentlemen) 
 were born a little too late to remember, but about whom 
 we have heard our fathers tell stories till we almost fancy 
 to have seen them. There is a charm in the portrait of 
 a Rodney or a Keppel, which even a picture of Nelson 
 must want for me. I should turn away after a slight 
 inspection from the best likeness that could be made of 
 Mrs. Anne Clarke; but Kitty Fisher is a considerable 
 personage. Then the dresses of some of the women so 
 exactly remind us of modes which we can just recall ; of 
 the forms under which the venerable relationship of aunt 
 or mother first presented themselves to our young eyes ; the 
 aprons, the coifs, the lappets, the hoods. Mercy on us ! 
 what a load of head ornaments seem to have conspired to 
 bury a pretty face in the picture of Mrs. Long, yet could 
 not ! Beauty must have some " charmed life " to have 
 been able to surmount the conspiracy of fashion in those 
 days to destroy it. 
 
 The portraits which least pleased me were those of boys 
 as infant Bacchuses, Jupiters, etc. But the artist is not 
 to be blamed for the disguise. No doubt the parents 
 wished to see their children deified in their lifetime. It 
 was but putting a thunderbolt (instead of a squib) into 
 young master's hands ; and a whey-faced chit was trans- 
 formed into the infant ruler of Olympus, him who was 
 
208 THE REYNOLDS GALLERY. 
 
 afterward to shake heaven and earth with his black brow. 
 Another good boy pleased his grandmamma so well, and 
 the blameless dotage of the good old woman imagined in 
 him an adequate representative of the awful Prophet 
 Samuel. But the great historical compositions, where the 
 artist was at liberty to paint from his own idea, the 
 Beaufort and the Ugolino : why then, I must confess, 
 pleading the liberty of table -talk for my presumption, 
 that they have not left any very elevating impression on 
 my mind. Pardon a ludicrous comparison. I know, 
 madam, you admire them both ; but placed opposite to 
 each other as they are at the gallery, as if to set the one 
 work in competition with the other, they did remind me 
 of the famous contention for the prize of deformity, 
 mentioned in the 173d Number of the Spectator. The 
 one stares, and the other grins ; but is there common 
 dignity in their countenances 1 Does anything of the 
 history of their life gone by peep through the ruins of the 
 mind in the face, like the unconquerable grandeur that 
 surmounts the distortions of the Laocoon 1 The figures 
 which stand by the bed of Beaufort are indeed happy 
 representations of the plain unmannered old nobility of 
 the English historical plays of Shakspere; but, for anything 
 else ; Give me leave to recommend those macaroons. 
 
 After leaving the Reynolds Gallery (where, upon the 
 whole, I received a good deal of pleasure), and feeling that 
 I had quite had my fill of paintings, I stumbled upon a 
 picture in Piccadilly (No. 22, I think), which purports to 
 be a portrait of Francis the First, by Leonardo da Vinci. 
 Heavens, what a difference ! It is but a portrait, as most 
 of those I had been seeing ; but, placed by them, it would 
 kill them, swallow them up as Moses' rod the other rods. 
 Where did these old painters get their models ? I see no 
 such figures, not in my dreams, as this Francis, in the char- 
 acter, or rather with the attributes, of John the Baptist. 
 A more than martial majesty in the brow and upon the 
 eyelid ; an arm, muscular, beautifully formed ; the long, 
 graceful, massy fingers compressing, yet so as not to hurt, 
 
THE REYNOLDS GALLERY. 209 
 
 a lamb more lovely, more sweetly shrinking, than we can 
 conceive that milk-white one which followed Una; the 
 picture altogether looking as if it were eternal, combining 
 the truth of flesh with a promise of permanence like 
 marble. 
 
 Leonardo, from the one or two specimens we have of 
 him in England, must have been a stupendous genius. 
 I can scarce think he has had his full fame he who could 
 paint that wonderful personification of the Logos, or second 
 person of the Trinity, grasping a globe, late in the 
 possession of Mr. Troward of Pall Mall, where the hand 
 was, by the boldest licence, twice as big as the truth of 
 drawing warranted ; yet the effect, to every one that saw 
 it, by some magic of genius was confessed to be not 
 monstrous, but miraculous and silencing. It could not 
 be gainsaid. 
 
WOEDSWOETH'S EXCUESIOK" 
 
 The Quarterly Review, October, 1814, 
 
 THE volume before us, as we learn from the Preface, is 
 "a detached portion of an unfinished poem, containing 
 views of man, nature, and society;" to be called the 
 Recluse, as having for its principal subject the "sensa- 
 tions and opinions of a poet living in retirement;" and 
 to be preceded by a " record in verse of the origin and 
 progress of the author's own powers, with reference to 
 the fitness which they may be supposed to have conferred 
 for the task." To the completion of this plan we look 
 forward with a confidence which the execution of the 
 finished part is well calculated to inspire. Meanwhile, 
 in what is before us there is ample matter for enter- 
 tainment : for the " Excursion " is not a branch (as might 
 have been suspected) prematurely plucked from the parent 
 tree to gratify an overhasty appetite for applause ; but is, 
 in itself, a complete and legitimate production. 
 
 It opens with the meeting of the poet with an aged 
 man whom he had known from his schooldays ; in plain 
 words, a Scottish pedlar; a man who, though of low 
 origin, had received good learning and impressions of the 
 strictest piety from his stepfather, a minister and village 
 schoolmaster. Among the hills of Athol, the child is 
 described to have become familiar with the appearances 
 of nature in his occupation as a feeder of sheep; and 
 from her silent influences to have derived a character, 
 meditative, tender, and poetical. With an imagination 
 and feelings thus nourished his intellect not unaided by 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 211 
 
 books, but those, few, and chiefly of a religious cast the 
 necessity of seeking a maintenance in riper years had 
 induced him to make choice of a profession, the appella- 
 tion for which has been gradually declining into contempt, 
 but which formerly designated a class of men, who, 
 journeying in country places, when roads presented less 
 facilities for travelling, and the intercourse between towns 
 and villages was imfrequent and hazardous, became a sort 
 of link of neighbourhood to distant habitations \ resem- 
 bling, in some small measure, in the effects of their 
 periodical returns, the caravan which Thomson so feel- 
 ingly describes as blessing the cheerless Siberian in its 
 annual visitation, with "news of human kind." 
 
 In the solitude incident to this rambling life, power 
 had been given him to keep alive that devotedness to 
 nature which he had imbibed in his childhood, together 
 with the opportunity of gaining such notices of persons 
 and things from his intercourse with society, as qualified 
 him to become a " teacher of moral wisdom." With this 
 man, then, in a hale old age, released from the burthen 
 of his occupation, yet retaining much of its active habits, 
 the poet meets, and is by him introduced to a second 
 character a sceptic one who had been partially roused 
 from an overwhelming desolation, brought upon him by 
 the loss of wife and children, by the powerful incitement 
 of hope which the French Revolution in its commence- 
 ment put forth, but who, disgusted with the failure of 
 all its promises, had fallen back into a laxity of faith and 
 conduct which induced at length a total despondence as 
 to the dignity and final destination of his species. In 
 the language of the poet, he 
 
 . . . broke faith with those whom he had laid 
 In earth's dark chambers. 
 
 Yet he describes himself as subject to compunctious 
 visitations from that silent quarter. 
 
 . . . Feebly must they have felt, 
 
 Who, in old time, attired with snakes and whips 
 
212 WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 
 
 The vengeful Furies. Beautiful regards 
 Were turned on me the face of her I loved ; 
 The wife and mother ; pitifully fixing 
 Tender reproaches, insupportable ! p. 133. 
 
 The conversations with this person, in which the 
 Wanderer asserts the consolatory side of the question 
 against the darker views of human life maintained by his 
 friend, and finally calls to his assistance the experience of 
 a village priest, the third, or rather fourth interlocutor, 
 (for the poet himself is one), form the groundwork of the 
 " Excursion." 
 
 It will be seen by this sketch that the poem is of a 
 didactic nature, and not a fable or story; yet it is not 
 wanting in stories of the most interesting kind, such 
 as the lovers of Cowper and Goldsmith will recognise as 
 something familiar and congenial to them. We might 
 instance the " Ruined Cottage," and the Solitary's own 
 story, in the first half of the work ; and the second half, 
 as being almost a continued cluster of narration. But 
 the prevailing charm of the poem is, perhaps, that, con- 
 versational as it is in its plan, the dialogue throughout 
 is carried on in the very heart of the most romantic 
 scenery which the poet's native hills could supply ; and 
 which, by the perpetual references made to it either in 
 the way of illustration or for variety and pleasurable 
 description's sake, is brought before us as we read. We 
 breathe in the fresh air, as we do while reading Walton's 
 "Complete Angler ;" only the country about us is as much 
 bolder than Walton's, as the thoughts and speculations, 
 which form the matter of the poem, exceed the trifling 
 pastime and low-pitched conversation of his humble 
 fishermen. We give the description of the "two huge 
 peaks," which from some other vale peered into that in 
 which the Solitary is entertaining the poet and com- 
 panion. " Those," says their host, 
 
 if here you dwelt, would be 
 
 Your prized companions. Many are the notes 
 Which in his tuneful course the wind draws forth 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 213 
 
 From rocks, woods, caverns, heaths, and dashing shores ; 
 
 And well those lofty brethren bear their part 
 
 In the wild concert : chiefly when the storm 
 
 Rides high ; then all the upper air they fill 
 
 With roaring sound, that ceases not to flow, 
 
 Like smoke, along the level of the blast 
 
 In mighty current ; theirs, too, is the song 
 
 Of stream and headlong flood that seldom fails ; 
 
 And in the grim and breathless hour of noon, 
 
 Methinks that I have heard them echo back 
 
 The thunder's greeting : nor have Nature's laws 
 
 Left them ungifted with a power to yield 
 
 Music of finer frame ; a harmony, 
 
 So do I call it, though it be the hand 
 
 Of silence, though there be no voice ; the clouds, 
 
 The mist, the shadows, light of golden suns, 
 
 Motions of moonlight, all come thither touch, 
 
 And have an answer thither come, and shape 
 
 A language not unwelcome to sick hearts, 
 
 And idle spirits : there the sun himself 
 
 At the calm close of summer's longest day 
 
 Rests his substantial orb ; between those heights, 
 
 And on the top of either pinnacle, 
 
 More keenly than elsewhere in night's blue vault, 
 
 Sparkle the stars as of their station proud. 
 
 Thoughts are not busier in the mind of man, 
 
 Than the mute agents stirring there : alone 
 
 Here do I sit and watch. p. 84. 
 
 To a mind constituted like that of Mr. Wordsworth, 
 the stream, the torrent, and the stirring leaf seem not 
 merely to suggest associations of deity, but to be a kind 
 of speaking communication with it. He walks through 
 every forest, as through some Dodona ; and every bird 
 that flits among the leaves, like that miraculous one 1 in 
 Tasso, but in language more intelligent, reveals to him 
 far higher love -lays. In his poetry nothing in Nature is 
 
 1 With party-coloured plumes, and purple bill, 
 
 A wondrous bird among the rest there flew, 
 . That in plain speech sung love-lays loud and shrill ; 
 Her leden was like human language true ; 
 So much she talk'd, and with such wit and skill, 
 That strange it seemed how much good she knew. 
 
 Fairfax's Translation* 
 
214 WORDSWORTH'S " EXCURSION." 
 
 dead. Motion is synonymous with life. "Beside yon 
 spring," says the Wanderer, speaking of a deserted well, 
 from which, in former times, a poor woman, who died 
 heart-broken, had been used to dispense refreshment to 
 the thirsty traveller, 
 
 beside you spring I stood, 
 
 And eyed its waters, till we seem'd to feel 
 One sadness, they and I. For them a bond 
 Of brotherhood is broken : time has been 
 When every day the touch of human hand 
 Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up 
 In mortal stillness. p. 27. 
 
 To such a mind, we say call it strength or weakness 
 if weakness, assuredly a fortunate one the visible and 
 audible things of creation present, not dim symbols, or 
 curious emblems, which they have done at all times to 
 those who have been gifted with the poetical faculty, 
 but revelations and quick insights into the life within us, 
 the pledge of immortality : 
 
 the whispering air 
 
 Sends inspiration from her shadowy heights, 
 And blind recesses of the cavern'd rocks : 
 The little rills, and waters numberless, 
 Inaudible by day-light. 
 
 " I have seen," the poet says, and the illustration is a 
 happy one 
 
 I have seen 
 
 A curious child, applying to his ear 
 
 The convolutions of a smooth-lipp'd shell 
 
 To which, in silence hush'd, his very soul 
 
 Listen'd intensely, and his countenance soon 
 
 Brighten'd with joy ; for murmurings from within 
 
 Were heard sonorous cadences ! whereby, 
 
 To his belief, the monitor express'd 
 
 Mysterious union with its native sea. 
 
 Even such a shell the universe itself 
 
 Is to the ear of faith ; and doth impart 
 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things : 
 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever during power ; 
 
 And central peace subsisting at the heart 
 
 Of endless agitation. p. 191. 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 215 
 
 Sometimes this harmony is imaged to us by an echo ; 
 and in one instance, it is with such transcendent beauty 
 set forth by a shadow and its corresponding substance, 
 that it would be a sin to cheat our readers at once of so 
 happy an illustration of the poet's system, and so fair a 
 proof of his descriptive powers. 
 
 Thus having reached a bridge, that over-arch'd 
 
 The hasty rivulet where it lay becalm'd 
 
 In a deep pool, by happy chance we saw 
 
 A twofold image ; on a grassy bank 
 
 A snow-white ram, and in the crystal flood 
 
 Another and the same ! Most beaiatiful, 
 
 On the green turf, with his imperial front, 
 
 Shaggy and bold, and wreathed horns superb, 
 
 The breathing creature stood ; as beautiful, 
 
 Beneath him, show'd his shadowy counterpart. 
 
 Each had his glowing mountains, each his sky, 
 
 And each seem'd centre of his own fair world : 
 
 Antipodes unconscious of each other, 
 
 Yet, in partition, with their several spheres, 
 
 Blended in perfect stillness, to our sight ! p. 407. 
 
 Combinations, it is confessed, " like those reflected in 
 that quiet pool," cannot be lasting : it is enough for the 
 purpose of the poet, if they are felt. They are at least 
 his system ; and his readers, if they reject them for their 
 creed, may receive them merely as poetry. In him, faith, 
 in friendly alliance and conjunction with the religion of his 
 country, appears to have grown up, fostered by medita- 
 tion and lonely communions with Nature an internal 
 principle of lofty consciousness, which stamps upon his 
 opinions and sentiments (we were almost going to say) 
 the character of an expanded and generous Quakerism. 
 
 From such a creed we should expect unusual residts ; 
 and, when applied to the purposes of consolation, more 
 touching considerations than from the mouth of common 
 teachers. The finest speculation of this sort perhaps in 
 the poem before us, is the notion of the thoughts which 
 may sustain the spirit, while they crush the frame of the 
 sufferer, who from loss of objects of love by death, is 
 commonly supposed to pine away under a broken heart. 
 
216 WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 
 
 . . . If there be, whose tender frames have drooped 
 
 Even to the dust, apparently, through weight 
 
 Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
 
 An agonising spirit to transmute, 
 
 Infer not hence a hope from those withheld 
 
 When wanted most ; a confidence impaired 
 
 So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
 
 With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 
 
 Of what is lost, and perish through regret, 
 
 Oh no ! full oft the innocent sufferer sees 
 
 Too clearly ; feels too vividly ; and longs 
 
 To realise the vision with intense 
 
 And over constant yearning; there, there lies 
 
 The excess, by which the balance is destroyed. 
 
 Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 
 
 This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 
 
 Though inconceivably endowed, too dim 
 
 For any passion of the soul that leads 
 
 To extasy ; and, all the crooked paths 
 
 Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
 
 Along the line of limitless desires. p. 148. 
 
 With the same modifying and incorporating power, he 
 tells us, 
 
 Within the soul a faculty abides 
 
 That with interpositions, which would hide 
 
 And darken, so can deal, that they become 
 
 Contingencies of pomp ; and serve to exalt 
 
 Her native brightness. As the ample moon, 
 
 In the deep stillness of a summer eve, 
 
 Rising behind a thick and lofty grove, 
 
 Burns like an uncousuming fire of light 
 
 In the green trees ; and, kindling on all sides 
 
 Their leafy umbrage, turns the dusky veil 
 
 Into a substance glorious as her own, 
 
 Yea, with her own incorporate, by power 
 
 Capacious and serene. Like power abides 
 
 In man's celestial spirit ; Virtue thus 
 
 Sets forth and magnifies herself ; thus feeds 
 
 A calm, a beautiful, and silent fire, 
 
 From the incumbrances of mortal life, 
 
 From error, disappointment, nay, from guilt ; 
 
 And sometimes, so relenting justice wills, 
 
 From palpable oppressions of despair. p. 188. 
 
 This is high poetry; though (as we have ventured 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 217 
 
 to lay the basis of the author's sentiments in a sort of 
 liberal Quakerism) from some parts of it, others may. 
 with more plausibility, object to the appearance of a kind 
 of Natural Methodism : we could have wished therefore 
 that the tale of Margaret had been postponed, till the 
 reader had been strengthened by some previous acquaint- 
 ance with the author's theory; and not placed in the 
 front of the poem, with a kind of ominous aspect, beauti- 
 fully tender as it is. It is a tale of a cottage, and its 
 female tenant, gradually decaying together, while she 
 expected the return of one whom poverty and not unkind- 
 ness had driven from her arms. We trust ourselves only 
 with the conclusion 
 
 . . . . nine tedious years 
 
 From their first separation, nine long years, 
 
 She lingered in unquiet widowhood, 
 
 A wife and widow. I have heard, my friend, 
 
 That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 
 
 Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath day ; 
 
 And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit 
 
 The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench 
 
 For hours she sate ; and evermore her eye 
 
 Was busy in the distance, shaping things 
 
 That made her heart beat quick. You see that path ; 
 
 There to and fro she paced through many a day 
 
 Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 
 
 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread 
 
 With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd 
 
 A man whose garments showed the soldier's * red, 
 
 The little child who sate to turn the wheel 
 
 Ceased from his task ; and she with faultering voice 
 
 Made many a fond inquiry ; and when they, 
 
 Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, 
 
 Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, 
 
 That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, 
 
 And, when a stranger horseman came, the latch 
 
 Would lift, and in his face look wistfully ; 
 
 Most happy, if from aught discovered there 
 
 Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat 
 
 The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut 
 
 Sank to decay : for he was gone, whose hand, 
 
 1 Her husband had enlisted for a soldier. 
 
218 
 
 At the first nipping of October frost, 
 
 Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw 
 
 Checquered the green grown thatch. And so she lived 
 
 Through the long winter, reckless and alone ; 
 
 Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain 
 
 Was sapped ; and, while she slept, the nightly damps 
 
 Did chill her breast ; and in the stormy day 
 
 Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind, 
 
 Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 
 
 She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds 
 
 Have parted hence : and still that length of road, 
 
 And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 
 
 Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my friend, 
 
 In sickness she remained ; and here she died, 
 
 Last human tenant of these ruined walls ! p. 46. 
 
 The fourth book, entitled "Despondency Corrected," 
 we consider as the most valuable portion of the poem. 
 For moral grandeur; for wide scope of thought and a 
 long train of lofty imagery ; for tender personal appeals ; 
 and a versification which we feel we ought to notice, but 
 feel it also so involved in the poetry, that we can hardly 
 mention it as a distinct excellence ; it stands without 
 competition among our didactic and descriptive verse. 
 The general tendency of the argument (which we might 
 almost affirm to be the leading moral of the poem) is to 
 abate the pride of the calculating understanding, and to 
 reinstate the imagination and the affections in those seats 
 from which modern philosophy has laboured but too 
 successfully to expel them. 
 
 " Life's autumn past," says the gray-haired Wanderer, 
 
 . . I stand on winter's verge, 
 And daily lose what I desire to keep ; 
 Yet rather would I instantly decline 
 To the traditionary sympathies 
 Of a most rustic ignorance, and take 
 A fearful apprehension from the owl 
 Or death-watch and as readily rejoice 
 If two auspicious magpies crossed my way 
 This rather would I do than see and hear 
 The repetitions wearisome of sense, 
 Where soul is dead and feeling hath no place. p. 108. 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 219 
 
 In the same spirit, those illusions of the imaginative 
 faculty to which the peasantry in solitary districts are 
 peculiarly subject, are represented as the kindly ministers 
 of conscience : 
 
 . . . with whose service charged 
 They come and go, appear and disappear j 
 Diverting evil purposBs, remorse 
 Awakening, chastening an intemperate grief, 
 Or pride of heart abating. 
 
 Reverting to more distant ages of the world, the 
 operation of that same faculty in producing the several 
 fictions of Chaldean, Persian, and Grecian idolatry, is 
 described with such seductive power, that the Solitary, 
 in good earnest, seems alarmed at the tendency of his own 
 argument. Notwithstanding his fears, however, there is 
 one thought so uncommonly fine, relative to the spiritu- 
 ality which lay hid beneath the gross material forms of 
 Greek worship, in metal or stone, that we cannot resist 
 the allurement of transcribing it 
 
 Triumphant o'er his pompous show 
 Of art, this palpable array of sense, 
 On every side encountered ; in despite 
 Of the gross fictions chanted in the streets 
 By wandering rhapsodists ; and in contempt 
 Of doubt and bold denials hourly urged 
 Amid the wrangling schools a SPIRIT hung, 
 Beautiful Region ! o'er thy towns and farms, 
 Statues and temples, and memorial tombs ; 
 And emanations were perceived ; and acts 
 Of immortality, in Nature's course, 
 Exemplified by mysteries, that were felt 
 As bonds, on grave Philosopher imposed 
 And armed Warrior ; and in every grove 
 A gay or pensive tenderness prevailed, 
 When piety more awful had relaxed. 
 
 " Take, running river, take these locks of mine " 
 Thus would the votary say " this severed hair, 
 My vow fulfilling, do I here present, 
 Thankful for my beloved child's return. 
 Thy banks, Cejjhisus, he again hath trod, 
 Thy murmurs heard, and drunk the crystal lymph 
 With which thou dost refresh the thirsty lip, 
 
220 
 
 And moisten all day long these flowery fields.' 1 
 
 And doubtless, sometimes, when the hair was shed 
 
 Upon the flowing stream, a thought arose 
 
 Of Life continuous, Being unimpaired ; 
 
 That hath been, is, and where it was and is 
 
 There shall be ; seen, and heard, and felt, and known, 
 
 And recognised existence unexposed 
 
 To the blind walk of mortal accident ; 
 
 From diminution safe and weakening age ; 
 
 While man grows old, and dwindles and decays; 
 
 And countless generations of mankind 
 
 Depart, and leave no vestige where they trod. p. 174. 
 
 In discourse like this the first day passes away. The 
 second (for this almost dramatic poem takes up the 
 action of two summer days) is varied by the introduction 
 of the village priest ; to whom the Wanderer resigns the 
 office of chief speaker, which had been yielded to his age 
 and experience on the first. The conference is begun 
 at the gate of the churchyard ; and after some natural 
 speculations concerning death and immortality and the 
 custom of funereal and sepulchral observances, as deduced 
 from a feeling of immortality certain doubts are pro- 
 posed respecting the quantity of moral worth existing in 
 the world, and in that mountainous district in particular. 
 In the resolution of these doubts, the priest enters upon 
 a most affecting and singular strain of narration, derived 
 from the graves around him. Pointing to hillock after 
 hillock, he gives short histories of their tenants, disclos- 
 ing their humble virtues, and touching with tender hand 
 upon their frailties. 
 
 Nothing can be conceived finer than the manner of 
 introducing these tales. With heaven above his head, 
 and the mouldering turf at his feet standing betwixt 
 life and death he seems to maintain that spiritual 
 relation which he bore to his living flock in its undimin- 
 ished strength, even with their ashes ; and to be in his 
 proper cure, or diocese, among the dead. 
 
 We might extract powerful instances of pathos from 
 these tales the story of Ellen in particular but their 
 force is in combination, and in the circumstances under 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 221 
 
 which they are introduced. The traditionary anecdote 
 of the Jacobite and Hanoverian, as less liable to suffer 
 by transplanting, and as affording an instance of that 
 finer species of humour, that thoughtful playfulness in 
 which the author more nearly perhaps than in any other 
 quality resembles Cowper, we shall lay (at least a part of 
 it) before our readers. It is the story of a whig who, 
 having wasted a large estate in election contests, retired 
 "beneath a borrowed name" to a small town among 
 these northern mountains, where a Caledonian laird, a 
 follower of the house of Stuart, who had fled his country 
 after the overthrow at Culloden, returning with the 
 return of lenient times, had also fixed his residence. 
 
 Here, then, they met, 
 
 Two doughty champions ; flaming Jacobite, 
 And sullen Hanoverian ! you might think 
 That losses and vexations, less severe 
 Than those which they had severally sustained, 
 Would have inclined each to abate his zeal 
 For his ungrateful cause ; no, I have heard 
 My reverend father tell that, mid the calm 
 Of that small town encountering thus, they filled 
 Daily its bowling-green with harmless strife, 
 Plagued with uncharitable thoughts the church, 
 And vex'd the market-place ! But in the breasts 
 Of these opponents gradually was wrought, 
 With little change of general sentiment, 
 Such change towards each other, that their days 
 By choice were spent in constant fellowship ; 
 And, if at times they fretted with the yoke, 
 Those very bickerings made them love it more. 
 
 A favourite boundary to their lengthened walks 
 This churchyard was. And, whether they had come 
 Treading their path in sympathy, and linked 
 In social converse, or by some short space 
 Discreetly parted to preserve the peace, 
 One spirit seldom failed to extend its sway 
 Over both minds, when they awhile had marked 
 The visible quiet of this holy ground 
 And breathed its soothing air 
 
 There live who yet remember to have seen 
 Their courtly figures seated on a stump 
 Of an old yew, their favourite resting place. 
 
222 WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 
 
 But, as the remnant of the long-lived tree 
 
 Was disappearing by a swift decay, 
 
 They with joint care determined to erect, 
 
 Upon its site, a dial, which should stand 
 
 For public use ; and also might survive 
 
 As their own private monument ; for this 
 
 Was the particular spot, in which they wished 
 
 (And heaven was pleased to accomplish their desire) 
 
 That, undivided, their remains should lie. 
 
 So, where the mouldered tree had stood, was raised 
 
 Yon structure, framing, with the ascent of steps 
 
 That to the decorated pillar lead, 
 
 A work of art, more sumptuous, as might seem, 
 
 Than suits this place ; yet built in no proud scorn 
 
 Of rustic homeliness ; they only aimed 
 
 To ensure for it respectful guardianship. 
 
 Around the margin of the plate, whereon 
 
 The shadow falls, to note the stealthy hours, 
 
 Winds an inscriptive legend 
 
 At these words 
 
 Thither we turned ; and gathered, as we read, 
 The appropriate sense, in Latin numbers couched. 
 " Time flies ; it is his melancholy task 
 To bring, and bear away, delusive hopes, 
 And reproduce the troubles he destroys. 
 But, while his business thus is occupied, 
 Discerning mortal ! do thou serve the will 
 Of Time's eternal Master, and that peace, 
 Which the world wants, shall be for thee confirmed. "- 
 pp. 270-273. 
 
 The causes which have prevented the poetry of Mr. 
 Wordsworth from attaining its full share of popularity 
 are to be found in the boldness and originality of his 
 genius. The times are past when a poet could securely 
 follow the direction of his own mind into whatever tracts 
 it might lead. A writer, who would be popular, must 
 timidly coast the shore of prescribed sentiment and 
 sympathy. He must have just as much more of the 
 imaginative faculty than his readers as will serve to 
 keep their apprehensions from stagnating, but not so 
 much as to alarm their jealousy. He must not think or 
 feel too deeply. 
 
 If he has had the fortune to be bred in the midst of 
 
WORDSWORTH'S "EXCURSION." 223 
 
 the most magnificent objects of creation, he must not 
 have given away his heart to them ; or if he have, he 
 must conceal his love, or not carry his expressions of it 
 beyond that point of rapture which the occasional tourist 
 thinks it not overstepping decorum to betray, or the limit 
 which that gentlemanly spy upon Nature, the picturesque 
 traveller, has vouchsafed to countenance. He must do 
 this, or be content to be thought an enthusiast. 
 
 If from living among simple mountaineers, from a 
 daily intercourse with them, not upon the footing of a 
 patron, but in the character of an equal, he has detected, 
 or imagines that he has detected, through the cloudy 
 medium of their unlettered discourse, thoughts and appre- 
 hensions not vulgar; traits of patience and constancy, 
 love unwearied, and heroic endurance, not unfit (as he 
 may judge) to be made the subject of verse, he will be 
 deemed a man of perverted genius by the philanthropist 
 who, conceiving of the peasantry of his country only as 
 objects of a pecuniary sympathy, starts at finding them 
 elevated to a level of humanity with himself, having their 
 own loves, enmities, cravings, aspirations, etc., as much 
 beyond his faculty to believe, as his beneficence to 
 supply. 
 
 If from a familiar observation of the ways of children, 
 and much more from a retrospect of his own mind when 
 a child, he has gathered more reverential notions of that 
 state than fall to the lot of ordinary observers, and, 
 escaping from the dissonant wranglings of men, has 
 tuned his lyre, though but for occasional harmonies, to 
 the milder utterance of that soft age, his verses shall 
 be censured as infantile by critics who confound poetry 
 "having children for its subject''' with poetry that is 
 "childish," and who, having themselves perhaps never 
 been children, never having possessed the tenderness 
 and docility of that age, know not what the soul of a 
 child is how apprehensive! how imaginative! how 
 religious ! 
 
 We have touched upon some of the causes which we 
 
224 WORDSWORTH'S " EXCURSION." 
 
 conceive to have been unfriendly to the author's former 
 poems. We think they do not apply in the same force 
 to the one before us. There is in it more of uniform 
 elevation, a wider scope of subject, less of manner, and it 
 contains none of those starts and imperfect shapings 
 which in some of this author's smaller pieces offended the 
 weak, and gave scandal to the perverse. It must indeed 
 be approached with seriousness. It has in it much of that 
 quality which " draws the devout, deterring the profane." 
 Those who hate the " Paradise Lost " will not love this 
 poem. The steps of the great master are discernible in 
 it; not in direct imitation or injurious parody, but in 
 the following of the spirit, in free homage and generous 
 subjection. 
 
 One objection it is impossible not to foresee. It will be 
 asked, why put such eloquent discourse in the mouth of 
 a pedlar *? It might be answered that Mr. Wordsworth's 
 plan required a character in humble life to be the organ 
 of his philosophy. It was in harmony with the system 
 and scenery of his poem. We read " Piers Plowman's 
 Creed," and the lowness of the teacher seems to add a 
 simple dignity to the doctrine. Besides, the poet has 
 bestowed an unusual share of education upon him. Is 
 it too much to suppose that the author, at some early 
 period of his life, may himself have known such a person, 
 a man endowed with sentiments above his situation, 
 another Burns ; and that the dignified strains which he 
 has attributed to the Wanderer may be no more than 
 recollections of his conversation, heightened only by the 
 amplification natural to poetry, or the lustre which 
 imagination flings back upon the objects and companions 
 of our youth 1 After all, if there should be found readers 
 willing to admire the poem, who yet feel scandalised at 
 a name, we would advise them, wherever it occurs, to 
 substitute silently the word Palmer, or Pilgrim, or any 
 less offensive designation, which shall connect the notion 
 of sobriety in heart and manners with the experience and 
 privileges which a wayfaring life confers. 
 
THEATEICAL NOTICES. 
 
 RICHARD BROME'S JOVIAL GREW. 
 
 THE Jovial Crew, or the Merry Beggars^ has been 
 revived here [at the English Opera] after an interval, as 
 the bills tell us, of seven years. Can it be so long (it 
 seems but yesterday) since we saw poor Lovegrove in 
 Justice Clack? His childish treble still pipes in our 
 ears; "Whip 'em, whip 'em, whip 'em." Dowton was 
 the representative of the Justice the other night, and 
 shook our ribs most incontinently. He was in "excel- 
 lent foolery," and our lungs crowed chanticleer. Yet it 
 appears to us that there was a still higher strain of 
 fatuity in his predecessor that his eyes distilled a richer 
 dotage. Perhaps, after all, it was an error of the memory. 
 Defunct merit comes out upon us strangely. 
 
 Easy natural Wrench was the Springlbve ; too com- 
 fortable a personage perhaps to personify Sprin glove, in 
 whom the voice of the bird awakens a restless instinct of 
 roaming that had slept during the winter. Miss Steven- 
 son certainly leaves us nothing to regret for the absence 
 of the lady, however agreeable, who formerly performed 
 the part of Meriel. Miss Stevenson is a fine open-coun- 
 tenanced lass, with glorious girlish manners. But the 
 Princess of Mumpers, and Lady Paramount of beggarly 
 counterfeit accents, was she that played Rachel. Her 
 gabbling lachrymose petitions ; her tones, such as we 
 have heard by the side of old woods, when an irresistible 
 face has come peeping on one on a sudden ; with her full 
 Q 
 
226 THEATRICAL NOTICES. 
 
 black locks, and a voice how shall we describe it 1 a 
 voice that was by nature meant to convey nothing but 
 truth and goodness, but warped by circumstance into an 
 assurance that she is telling us a Me that catching 
 twitch of the thievish irreprovable finger those ballad- 
 singers' notes, so vulgar, yet so unvulgar that assurance 
 so like impudence and yet so many countless leagues 
 removed from it her jeers, which we had rather stand, 
 than be caressed with other ladies' compliments, a 
 summer's day long her face with a wild out-of-doors 
 grace upon it 
 
 Altogether, a brace of more romantic she-beggars it 
 was never our fortune to meet in this supplicatory world. 
 The youngest might have sat for " pretty Bessy," whose 
 father was an Earl, and whose legend still adorns the 
 front of mine hostess's doors at Bethnal Green ; and the 
 other could be no less than the " Beggar Maid " whom 
 "King Cophetua wooed." "What a lass that were," 
 said a stranger who sate beside us, speaking of Miss 
 Kelly in Rachel, "to go a-gypsying through the world 
 with." We confess we longed to drop a tester in her 
 lap, she begged so masterly. 
 
 By-the-way, this is the true Beggar's Opera. The 
 other should have been called the Mirror for Highway- 
 men. We wonder the Societies for the Suppression of 
 Mendicity (and other good things) do not club for the 
 putting down of this infamous protest in favour of air, 
 and clear liberty, and honest license, and blameless asser- 
 tion of man's original blest charter of blue skies, and 
 vagrancy, and nothing-to-do. 
 
 July 4, 1819. 
 
 ISAAC BICKERSTAFFS HYPOCRITE. 
 
 BY one of those perversions which actuate poor mortals 
 in the place of motives (to persuade us into the notion 
 that we are free agents, we presume), we had never till 
 
THEATRICAL NOTICES. 227 
 
 the other evening seen Dowton [at the English Opera] 
 in Dr. Cantwell. By a pious fraud of Mr. Arnold's, who 
 by a process as simple as some of those by which Mathews 
 metamorphoses his person, has converted the play into 
 an opera, a conversion, by-the-way, for which we are 
 deeply indebted to him, we have been favoured with 
 this rich novelty at our favourite theatre. It seems a 
 little unreasonable to come lagging in with a posthumous 
 testimony to the merits of a performance of which the 
 town has long rung, but we cannot help remarking in 
 Mr. Dowton's acting, the subtle gradations of the hypo- 
 crisy ; the length to which it runs in proportion as the 
 recipient is capable of taking it in; the gross palpable 
 way in which he administers the dose in wholesale to old 
 Lady Lambert, that rich fanatic; the somewhat more 
 guarded manner in which he retails it out, only so much 
 a time as he can bear, to the somewhat less bitten fool 
 her son ; and the almost absence of it before the younger 
 members of the family, when nobody else is by; how 
 the cloven foot peeps out a little and a little more, till 
 the diabolical nature is stung out at last into full mani- 
 festation of its horrid self. What a grand insolence in 
 the tone which he assumes, when he commands Sir John 
 to quit his house; and then the tortures and agonies 
 when he is finally baffled ! It is in these last perhaps 
 that he is greatest, and we should be doing injustice not 
 to compare this part of the performance with, and in some 
 respects to give it the preference above, the acting of Mr. 
 Kean, in a situation nearly analogous, at the conclusion 
 of the City Madam. Cantwell reveals his pangs with 
 quite as much force, and without the assistance of those 
 contortions which transform the detected Luke into the 
 similitude of a mad tiger, or a foaming demon. Dowton 
 plays it neither like beast nor demon, but simply as it 
 should be, a bold bad man pushed to extremity. Humanity 
 is never once overstepped. Has it ever been noticed, the 
 exquisite modulation with which he drawls out the word 
 "Charles," when he calls his secretary, so humble, so 
 
228 THEATRICAL NOTICES. 
 
 seraphic, so resigned. The most diabolical of her sex 
 that we ever knew accented her honey devil words in 
 just such a hymn-like smoothness. The spirit of Whit- 
 field seems hovering in the air, to suck the blessed tones 
 so much like his own upon earth : Lady Huntingdon 
 claps her neat white wings, and gives it out again in 
 heaven to the sainted ones, in approbation. 
 
 Miss Kelly is not quite at home in Charlotte ; she is 
 too good for such parts. Her cue is to be natural ; she 
 cannot put on the modes of artificial life, and play the 
 coquette as it is expected to be played. There is a 
 frankness in her tones which defeats her purposes ; we 
 could not help wondering why her lover (Mr. Pearman) 
 looked so rueful ; we forgot that she was acting airs and 
 graces, as she seemed to forget it herself, turning them 
 into a playfulness which could breed no doubt for a 
 moment which way her inclinations ran. She is in truth 
 not framed to tease or torment even in jest, but to utter 
 a hearty Yes or No ; to yield or refuse assent with a 
 noble sincerity. We have not the pleasure of being 
 acquainted with her, but we have been told that she 
 carries the same cordial manners into private life. We 
 have heard, too, of some virtues which she is in the 
 practice of; but they are of a description which repay 
 themselves, and with them neither we nor the public have 
 anything to do. 
 
 One word about Wrench who played the Colonel : 
 Was this man never unhappy 1 It seems as if care never 
 came near him, as if the black ox could never tread upon 
 his foot ; we want something calamitous to befall him, 
 to bring him down to us. It is a shame he should be 
 suffered to go about with his well-looking happy face and 
 tones insulting us thin race of irritable and irritable- 
 making critics. 
 
 August 2, 1819. 
 
THEATRICAL NOTICES. 229 
 
 NEW PIECES AT THE LYCEUM. 
 
 A PLOT has broke out at this theatre. Some quarrel has 
 been breeding between the male and female performers, 
 and the women have determined to set up for themselves. 
 Seven of them, Belles without Beaux they call themselves, 
 have undertaken to get up a piece without any assistance 
 from the men, and in our opinion have established their 
 point most successfully. There is Miss Carew with her 
 silvery tones, and Miss Stevenson with her delicious 
 mixture of the school-girl and the waiting-maid, and Miss 
 Kelly, sure to be first in any mischief, and Mrs. Chatterly, 
 with some of the best acting we have ever witnessed, and 
 Miss Love, worthy of the name, and Mrs. Grove that 
 rhymes to her, and Mrs. Richardson who might in charity 
 have been allowed somewhat a larger portion of the 
 dialogue. The effect was enchanting. We mean for once. 
 We do not want to encourage these Amazonian vanities. 
 Once or twice we longed to have Wrench bustling among 
 them. A lady who sate near us was observed to gape 
 for want of variety. To us it was delicate quintessence, 
 an apple-pie made all of quinces. We remember poor 
 Holcroffc's last comedy, which positively died from the 
 opposite excess ; it was choked up with men, and perished 
 from a redundancy of male population. It had nine 
 principal men characters in it, and but one woman, and 
 she of no very ambiguous character. Mrs. Harlow, to 
 do the part justice, chose to play it in scarlet. 
 
 We did not know Mrs. Chatterly's merits before ; she 
 plays, with downright sterling good acting, a prude who 
 is to be convinced out of her prudery by Miss Kelly's (we 
 did not catch her stage name) assumption of the dress and 
 character of a brother of seventeen, who makes the 
 prettiest unalarming platonic approaches ; and in the 
 shyest mark of moral battery, no one step of which you 
 can detect, or say this is decidedly going too far, vanquishes 
 at last the ice of her scruples, brings her into an infinite 
 
230 THEATRICAL NOTICES 
 
 scrape, and then with her own infinite good humour seta 
 all to right, and brings her safe out of it again with 
 an explanation. Mrs. Chatterly's embarrassments were 
 masterly. Miss Stevenson, her maid's, start at surprising 
 a youth in her mistress's closet at midnight, was quite as 
 good. Miss Kelly we do not care to say anything about, 
 because we have been accused of flattering her. The 
 truth is, this lady puts so much intelligence and good 
 sense into every part which she plays, that there is no 
 expressing an honest sense of her merits, without incurring 
 a suspicion of that sort. But what have we to gain by 
 praising Miss Kelly ? 
 
 Altogether, this little feminine republic, this provoking 
 experiment, went off most smoothly. What a nice world 
 it would be, we sometimes think, all women ! but then 
 we are afraid, we slip in a fallacy unawares into the hypo- 
 thesis ; we somehow edge in the idea of ourselves as 
 spectators or something among them. 
 
 We saw Wilkinson after it in Walk for a Wager. 
 What a picture of forlorn hope ! of abject orphan destitu- 
 tion ! he seems to have no friends in the world but his 
 legs, and he plies them accordingly. He goes walking 
 on like a perpetual motion. His continual ambulatory 
 presence performs the part of a Greek chorus. He is the 
 walking gentleman of the piece ; a peripatetic that would 
 make a stoic laugh. He made us cry. His Muffincap 
 in Amateurs and Actors is just such another piece of 
 acting. We have seen charity boys, both of St. Clement's 
 and Farringdon Without, looking just as old, ground 
 down out of all semblance of youth, by abject and hope- 
 less neglect you cannot guess their age between fifteen 
 and fifty. If Mr. Peake is the author of these pieces he 
 has no reason to be piqued at their reception. 
 
 We must apologise for an oversight in our last week's 
 article. The allusion made to Mr. Kean's acting of Luke 
 in the City Madam was totally inapplicable to the part 
 and to the play. We were thinking of his performance 
 of the concluding scenes of The New Way to Pay Old 
 
THEATRICAL NOTICES. 231 
 
 Debts. We confounded one of Massinger's strange heroes 
 with the other. It was Sir Giles Overreach we meant ; 
 nor are we sure that our remark was just, even with this 
 explanation. When we consider the intense tone in which 
 Mr. Kean thinks it proper (and he is quite as likely to 
 be in the right as his blundering critic) to pitch the 
 temperament of that monstrous character from the 
 beginning, it follows but logically and naturally that 
 where the wild uncontrollable man comes to be baffled 
 of his purpose, his passion should assume a frenzied 
 manner, which it was altogether absurd to expect should 
 be the same with the manner of the cautious and self- 
 restraining Cantwell, even when he breaks loose from all 
 bonds in the agony of his final exposure. We never felt 
 more strongly the good sense of the saying comparisons 
 are odious. They betray us not seldom into bitter errors 
 of judgment ; and sometimes, as in the present instance, 
 into absolute matter-of-fact blunders. But we have 
 recanted. 
 
 August 181 y. 
 
 MISS KELLY AT BATH. 
 
 DEAR G , I was thinking yesterday of our old 
 
 play -going days, of your and my partiality to Mrs. 
 Jordan, of our disputes as to the relative merits of Dodd 
 and Parsons, and whether Smith or Jack Palmer were 
 the most of a gentleman. The occasion of my falling 
 into this train of thinking, was my learning from the 
 newspapers that Miss Kelly is paying the Bath Theatre 
 a visit (your own theatre, I am sorry to find, is shut up, 
 either from parsimonious feelings, or through the influence 
 
 of principles). 1 This lady has long ranked 
 
 among the most considerable of our London performers. 
 If there are one or two of greater name, I must impute 
 
 1 The word here omitted by the Bristol Editor, we suppose, is 
 Methodistical. 
 
232 THEATRICAL NOTICES. 
 
 it to the circumstance that she has never burst upon the 
 town at once in the maturity of her powers, which is a 
 great advantage to debutantes who have passed their 
 probationary years in Provincial Theatres. We do not 
 hear them tuning their instruments. But she has been 
 winning her patient way from the humblest degradations 
 to the eminence which she has now attained, on the self- 
 same boards which supported her first in the slender 
 pretensions of chorus singer. I very much wish you 
 would go and see her. You will not see Mrs. Jordan, 
 but something else ; something on the whole very little, 
 if at all, inferior to that lady in her best days. I cannot 
 hope that you will think so, I do not even wish that you 
 should. Our longest remembrances are the most sacred, 
 and I shall revere the prejudice that shall prevent you 
 from thinking quite so favourably of her as I do. I do 
 not well know how to draw a parallel between their 
 distinct manners of acting. I seem to recognise the 
 same pleasantness and nature in both. But Mrs. Jordan's 
 was the carelessness of a child ; her childlike spirit shook 
 off the load of years from her spectators ; she seemed one 
 whom care could not come near ; a privileged being sent 
 to teach mankind what he most wants joyousness. 
 Hence, if we had more unmixed pleasure from her per- 
 formances, we had perhaps less sympathy with them than 
 with those of her successor. This latter lady's is the joy 
 of a freed spirit escaping from care, as a bird that had 
 been limed; her smiles, if I may use the expression, 
 seemed saved out of the fire, relics which a good spirit 
 had snatched up as most portable ; her discontents are 
 visitors and not inmates : she can lay them by altogether, 
 and when she does so, I am not sure that she is not 
 greatest. She is in truth no ordinary tragedian. Her 
 Yarico is the most intense piece of acting which I ever 
 witnessed, the most heart-rending spectacle. To see her 
 leaning upon that wretched reed, her lover the very 
 exhibition of whose character would be a moral offence, 
 but for her clinging and noble credulity to see her lean 
 
THEATRICAL NOTICES. 233 
 
 upon that flint, and by the strong workings of passion, 
 imagine it a god, is one of the most afflicting lessons of 
 the yearnings of the human heart, and its mistakes, that 
 was ever read upon a stage. The whole performance is 
 everywhere African, fervid, glowing. Nor is this anything 
 more than the wonderful force of imagination in this per- 
 former ; for turn but the scene, and you shall have her 
 come forward in some kindly home-drawn character of an 
 English rustic, a Phoebe, or a Dinah Cropley where you 
 would swear that her thoughts had never strayed beyond 
 the precincts of the dairy or the farm, or her mind known 
 less tranquil passions than she might have learned among 
 the flock, her out-of-door companions. See her again in 
 parts of pure fun, such as the Housemaid in the Merry 
 Mourners, where the suspension of the broom in her hand, 
 which she has been delightfully twirling, on unexpectedly 
 encountering her sweetheart in the character of her 
 fellow-servant, is quite equal to Mrs. Jordan's cordial 
 inebriation in Nell. I do not know whether I am not 
 speaking it to her honour, that she does not succeed in 
 
 what are called fine lady parts. Our friend C once 
 
 observed that no man of genius ever figured as a gentle- 
 man. Neither did any woman gifted with Mrs. Jordan's 
 or Miss Kelly's sensibilities ever take upon herself to 
 shine as a fine lady ; the very essence of this character 
 consisting in the entire repression of all genius and all 
 feeling. To sustain a part of this kind to the life, a 
 performer must be haunted by a perpetual self-reference, 
 she must be always thinking of herself, and how she 
 looks, and how she deports herself in the eyes of the 
 spectators ; whereas the delight of actresses of true 
 feeling and their chief power, is to elude the personal 
 notice of an audience, to escape into their parts and hide 
 themselves under the hood of their assumed character. 
 Their most self-possession is in fact a self-forgetfulness ; 
 an oblivion alike of self and spectators. For this reason 
 your most approved epilogue-speakers have been always 
 ladies who have possessed least of this self -forgetting 
 
234 THEATRICAL NOTICES. 
 
 quality ; and I think I have seen the amiable actress in 
 question suffering some embarrassment, when she has 
 had an address of the sort to deliver ; when she found 
 the modest veil of personation, which had half hid her 
 from the audience, suddenly withdrawn, and herself 
 brought without any such gratifying intervention before 
 the public. 
 
 I would apologise for the length of this letter, if I did 
 not remember the lively interest you used to take in 
 theatrical performers. 
 
 I am, etc. etc. 
 
 ii * * * # 
 February 7, 1819. 
 
FIEST FEU1TS OF AUSTRALIAN POETEY. 
 
 (Sydney, New South Wales. Printed for Private Distribution. 
 By Barren Field.) 
 
 I first adventure ; follow me who list : 
 And be the second Austral harmonist. 
 
 WHOEVER thou art that hast transplanted the British 
 wood-notes to the far-off forests which the Kangaroo 
 haunts whether thou art some involuntary exile that 
 solaces his sad estrangement with recurrence to his native 
 notes, with more wisdom than those captive Hebrews of 
 old refused to sing their Sion songs in a strange land 
 or whether, as we rather suspect, thou art that valued 
 friend of ours, who, in thy young time of life, together 
 with thy faithful bride, thy newly " wedded flower," didst, 
 in obedience to the stern voice of duty, quit thy friends, 
 thy family, thy pleasing avocations, the Muses with which 
 thou wert as deeply smitten as any, we believe, in our age 
 and country, to go and administer tedious justice in 
 inauspicious unliterary TniEFLAND, 1 we reclaim thee for 
 our own, and gladly would transport thee back to thy 
 native " fields," and studies congenial to thy habits. 
 
 We know a merry captain, and co-navigator with Cook, 
 who prides himself upon having planted the first pun in 
 Otaheite. It was in their own language, and the islanders 
 first looked at him, then stared at one another, and all at 
 once burst out into a genial laugh. It was a stranger, 
 
 1 An elegant periphrasis for the Bay. Mr. Coleridge led us the 
 way "Cloudland, gorgeous land." 
 
236 FIRST FRUITS OF AUSTRALIAN POETRY. 
 
 and as a stranger they gave it welcome. Many a quibble 
 of their own growth, we doubt not, has since sprung from 
 that well-timed exotic. Where puns flourish, there must 
 be no inconsiderable advance in civilisation. The same 
 good results we are willing to augur from this dawn of 
 refinement at Sydney. They were beginning to have 
 something like a theatrical establishment there, which we 
 are sorry to hear has been suppressed; for we are of 
 opinion with those who think that a taste for such kind 
 of entertainments is one remove at least from profligacy, 
 and that Shakspere and Gay may be as safe teachers of 
 morality as the ordinary treatises which assume to instil 
 that science. We have seen one of their play-bills (while 
 the thing was permitted to last), and were affected by it 
 in no ordinary degree, particularly in the omission of the 
 titles of honour, which in this country are condescendingly 
 conceded to the players. In their Dramatis Personse, 
 Jobson was played by Smith ; Lady Loverule, Jones 
 Nell, Wilkinson ; gentlemen and lady performers alike 
 curtailed of their fair proportions. With a little patronage, 
 we prophesy, that in a very few years the histrionic estab- 
 lishment of Sydney would have risen in respectability ; 
 and the humble performers would, by tacit leave or open 
 permission, have been allowed to use the same encouraging 
 affixes to their names, which dignify their prouder brethren 
 and sisters in the mother country. What a moral advance- 
 ment, what a lift in the scale, to a Braham or a Stephens 
 of New South Wales, to write themselves Mr. and Miss / 
 The King here has it not in his power to do so much for 
 a commoner, no, not though he dub him a Duke. 
 
 The "First Fruits" consist of two poems. The first 
 celebrates the plant epacris grandiflora ; but we are no 
 botanists, and perhaps there is too much matter mixed up 
 in it from the Midsummer NigMs Dream to please some 
 readers. The thefts are indeed so open and palpable, 
 that we almost recur to our first surmise, that the author 
 must be some unfortunate wight, sent on his travels for 
 plagiarisms of a more serious complexion. But the old 
 
FIRST FRUITS OF AUSTRALIAN POETRY. 237 
 
 matter and the new blend kindly together, and must, we 
 hope, have proved right acceptable to more than one 
 
 -Among the fair 
 
 Of that young land of Shakspere's tongue. 
 
 We select for our readers the second poem ; and are 
 mistaken if it does not relish of the graceful hyperboles 
 of our elder writers. We can conceive it to have been 
 written by Andrew Marvell, supposing him to have been 
 banished to Botany Bay, as he did, we believe, once 
 meditate a voluntary exile to Bermuda. See his fine 
 poem, " Where the remote Bermudas ride." 
 
THE GENTLE GIANTESS. 
 
 THE widow Blacket, of Oxford, is the largest female I 
 ever had the pleasure of beholding. There may be her 
 parallel upon the earth ; but surely I never saw it. I 
 take her to be lineally descended from the maid's aunt 
 of Brainford, who caused Master Ford such uneasiness. 
 She hath Atlantean shoulders; and, as she stoopeth in 
 her gait, with as few offences to answer for in her own 
 particular as any one of Eve's daughters, her back seems 
 broad enough to bear the blame of all the peccadilloes 
 that have been committed since Adam. She girdeth her 
 waist or what she is pleased to esteem as such nearly 
 up to her shoulders ; from beneath which that huge 
 dorsal expanse, in mountainous declivity, emergeth. Re- 
 spect for her alone preventeth the idle boys, who follow 
 her about in shoals, whenever she cometh abroad, from 
 getting up and riding. But her presence infallibly com- 
 mands a reverence. She is indeed, as the Americans 
 would express it, something awful. Her person is a 
 burthen to herself no less than to the ground which bears 
 her. To her mighty bone, she had a pinguitude withal, 
 which makes the depth of winter to her the most desir- 
 able season. Her distress in the warmer solstice is 
 pitiable. During the months of July and August, she 
 usually renteth a cool cellar, where ices are kept, where- 
 into she descendeth when Sirius rageth. She dates from 
 a hot Thursday, some twenty -five years ago. Her 
 apartment in summer is pervious to the four winds. 
 Two doors, in north and south direction, and two win- 
 
THE GENTLE GIANTESS. 239 
 
 dows, fronting the rising and the setting sun, never 
 closed, from every cardinal point catch the contributory 
 breezes. She loves to enjoy what she calls a quadruple 
 draught. That must be a shrewd zephyr that can escape 
 her. I owe a painful face-ache, which oppresses me at 
 this moment, to a cold caught, sitting by her, one day in 
 last July, at this receipt of coolness. Her fan, in ordi- 
 nary, resembleth a banner spread, which she keepeth con- 
 tinually on the alert to detect the least breeze. She 
 possesseth an active and gadding mind, totally incom- 
 mensurate with her person. No one delighteth more 
 than herself in country exercises and pastimes. I have 
 passed many an agreeable holiday with her in her favourite 
 park at Woodstock. She performs her part in these 
 delightful ambulatory excursions by the aid of a portable 
 garden-chair. She setteth out with you at a fair foot- 
 gallop, which she keepeth up till you are both well- 
 breathed, and then reposeth she for a few seconds. 
 Then she is up again for a hundred paces or so, and 
 again resteth ; her movements, on these sprightly occa- 
 sions, being something between walking and flying. Her 
 great weight seeineth to propel her forward, ostrich- 
 fashion. In this kind of relieved marching, I have 
 traversed with her many scores of acres on those well- 
 wooded and well -watered domains. Her delight at 
 Oxford is in the public walks and gardens, where, when 
 the weather is not too oppressive, she passeth much of 
 her valuable time. There is a bench at Maudlin, or 
 
 rather situated between the frontiers of that and 's 
 
 College (some litigation, latterly, about repairs, has vested 
 
 the property of it finally in J s), where, at the hour 
 
 of noon, she is ordinarily to be found sitting, so she 
 calls it by courtesy, but, in fact, pressing and breaking 
 of it down with her enormous settlement ; as both those 
 foundations, who, however, are good-natured enough to 
 wink at it, have found, I believe, to their cost. Here 
 she taketh the fresh air, principally at vacation -times, 
 when the walks are freest from interruption of the 
 
240 THE GENTLE GIANTESS. 
 
 younger fiy of students. Here she passeth her idle 
 hours, not idly, but generally accompanied with a book, 
 blessed if she can but intercept some resident Fellow 
 (as usually there are some of that brood left behind at 
 these periods), or stray Master of Arts (to most of them 
 she is better known than their dinner bell), with whom 
 she may confer upon any curious topic of literature. I 
 have seen these shy gownsmen, who truly set but a very 
 slight value upon female conversation, cast a hawk's eye 
 upon her from the length of Maudlin 'Grove, and warily 
 glide off into another walk, true monks as they are; 
 and urgently neglecting the delicacies of her polished 
 converse for their own perverse and uncommunicating 
 solitariness ! Within -doors, her principal diversion is 
 music, vocal and instrumental ; in both which she is no 
 mean professor. Her voice is wonderfully fine ; but till 
 I got used to it, I confess it staggered me. It is, for all 
 the world, like that of a piping bullfinch ; while, from 
 her size and stature, you would expect notes to drown 
 the deep organ. The shake, which most fine singers 
 reserve for the close or cadence, by some unaccountable 
 flexibility, or tremulousness of pipe, she carrieth quite 
 through the composition ; so that her time, to a common 
 air or ballad, keeps double motion, like the earth, 
 running the primary circuit of the tune, and still revolv- 
 ing upon its own axis. The effect, as I said before, when 
 you are used to it, is as agreeable as it is altogether new 
 and surprising. The spacious apartment of her outward 
 frame lodgeth a soul in all respects disproportionate. Of 
 more than mortal make, she evinceth withal a trembling 
 sensibility, a yielding infirmity of purpose, a quick sus- 
 ceptibility to reproach, and all the train of diffident and 
 blushing virtues, which for their habitation usually seek 
 out a feeble frame, an attenuated and meagre constitution. 
 With more than man's bulk, her humours and occupations 
 are eminently feminine. She sighs, being six feet high. 
 She languisheth, being two feet wide. She worketh 
 slender sprigs upon the delicate muslin, her fingers 
 
THE GENTLE GIANTESS. 241 
 
 being capable of moulding a Colossus. She sippeth her 
 wine out of her glass daintily her capacity being that 
 of a tun of Heidelberg. She goeth mincingly with those 
 feet of hers, whose solidity need not fear the black ox's 
 pressure. Softest and largest of thy sex, adieu ! By 
 what parting attribute may I salute thee, last and best 
 of the Titanesses, Ogress, fed with milk instead of 
 blood ; not least, or least handsome, among Oxford's 
 stately structures, Oxford, who, in its deadest time of 
 vacation, can never properly be said to be empty, having 
 thee to fill it. 
 
ON A PASSAGE IN "THE TEMPEST." 
 
 As long as I can remember the play of The Tempest, one 
 passage in it has always set me upon wondering. It has 
 puzzled me beyond measure. In vain I strove to find 
 the meaning of it. I seemed doomed to cherish infinite, 
 hopeless curiosity. 
 
 It is where Prospero, relating the banishment of 
 Sycorax from Argier, adds : 
 
 For one thing that she did, 
 
 They would not take her life. 
 
 How have I pondered over this when a boy ! How 
 have I longed for some authentic memoir of the witch to 
 clear up the obscurity ! Was the story extant in the 
 chronicles of Algiers 1 Could I get at it by some for- 
 tunate introduction to the Algerine ambassador? Was 
 a voyage thither practicable? The Spectator, I knew, 
 went to Grand Cairo only to measure the pyramid. Was 
 not the object of my quest of at least as much importance ? 
 The blue-eyed hag ! could she have done anything good 
 or meritorious ? might that succubus relent ? then might 
 there be hope for the Devil. I have often admired since 
 that none of the commentators have boggled at this 
 passage; how they could swallow this camel, such a 
 tantalising piece of obscurity, such an abortion of an 
 anecdote. 
 
 At length I think I have lighted upon a clue which 
 may lead to show what was passing in the mind of 
 Shakspere when he dropped this imperfect rumour. In 
 the "Accurate Description of Africa, by John Ogilby 
 
243 
 
 (folio), 1670," page 230, 1 find written as follows. The 
 marginal title to the narrative is, " Charles the Fifth 
 besieges Algier" : 
 
 " In the last place, we will briefly give an account of 
 the Emperor Charles the Fifth, when he besieged this 
 city : and of the great loss he suffered therein. 
 
 " This prince, in the year one thousand five hundred 
 forty -one, having embarqued upon the sea an army of 
 twenty -two thousand men aboard eighteen galleys, and 
 an hundred tall ships, not counting the barques and 
 shallops, and other small boats, in which he had engaged 
 the principal of the Spanish and Italian nobility, with a 
 good number of the Knights of Malta \ he was to land 
 on the coasts of Barbary, at a cape called Matifou. From 
 this place unto the city of Algier, a flat shore or strand 
 extends itself for about four leagues, the which is exceed- 
 ing favourable to galleys. There he put ashore with his 
 army, and in a few days caused a fortress to be built, 
 which unto this day is called the castle of the Emperor. 
 
 " In the meantime the city of Algier took the alarm, 
 having in it at that time but eight hundred Turks, and 
 six thousand Moors, poor-spirited men, and unexercised 
 in martial affairs ; besides it was at that time fortified 
 only with walls, and had nc outworks : insomuch that 
 by reason of its weakness, and the great forces of the 
 Emperor, it could not in appearance escape taking. In 
 fine, it was attempted with such order, that the army 
 came up to the very gates, where the Chevalier de 
 Savignac, a Frenchman by nation, made himself remark- 
 able above all the rest by the miracles of his valour. 
 For having repulsed the Turks, who, having made a 
 sally at the gate called Babason, and there desiring to 
 enter along with them, when he saw that they shut the 
 gate upon him, he ran his poniard into the same, and 
 left it sticking deep therein. They next fell to battering 
 the city by the force of cannon ; which the assailants so 
 weakened, that in that great extremity the defendants 
 lost their courage, and resolved to surrender. 
 
244 ON A PASSAGE IN 
 
 " But as they were thus intending, there was a witch 
 of the town, whom the history does not name, which 
 went to seek out Assam Aga, that commanded within, 
 and prayed him to make it good yet nine days longer 
 with assurance, that within that time he should infallibly 
 see Algier delivered from that siege, and the whole army 
 of the enemy dispersed so that Christians should be as 
 cheap as birds. In a word, the thing did happen in the 
 manner as foretold; for upon the twenty -first day of 
 October, in the same year, there fell a continual rain 
 upon the land, and so furious a storm at sea, that one 
 might have seen ships hoisted into the clouds, and in one 
 instant again precipitated into the bottom of the water . 
 insomuch that that same dreadful tempest was followed 
 with the loss of fifteen galleys, and above an hundred 
 other vessels ; which was the cause why the Emperor, 
 seeing his army wasted by the bad weather, pursued by 
 a famine, occasioned by wrack of his ships, in which was 
 the greatest part of his victuals and ammunition, he was 
 constrained to raise the siege, and set sail for Sicily, 
 whither he retreated with the miserable reliques of his 
 fleet. 
 
 " In the meantime that witch being acknowledged the 
 deliverer of Algier, was richly remunerated, and the credit 
 of her charms authorised. So that ever since, witchcraft 
 hath been very freely tolerated ; of which the chief of the 
 town, and even those who are esteemed to be of greatest 
 sanctity among them, such as are the Marabous, a religious 
 order of their sects, do for the most part make profession 
 of it, under a goodly pretext of certain revelations which 
 they say they have had from their prophet, Mahomet. 
 
 " And hereupon those of Algier, to palliate the shame 
 and the reproaches that are thrown upon them for making 
 use of a witch in the danger of this siege, do say that the 
 loss of the forces of Charles V. was caused by a prayer of 
 one of their Marabous, named Cidy Utica, which was at 
 that time in great credit, not under the notion of a 
 magician, but for a person of a, holy life. Afterwards in 
 
ON A PASSAGE IN " THE TEMPEST." 245 
 
 remembrance of their success, they have erected imto him 
 a small mosque without the Babason gate, where he is 
 buried, and in which they keep sundry lamps burning in 
 honour of him : nay, they sometimes repair thither to 
 make their sola, for a testimony of greater veneration." 
 
 Can it be doubted, for a moment, that the dramatist 
 had come fresh from reading some older narrative of this 
 deliverance of Algier by a witch, and transferred the 
 merit of the deed to his Sycorax, exchanging only the 
 " rich remuneration," which did not suit his purpose, to 
 the simple pardon of her life? Ogilby wrote in 1670; 
 but the authorities to which he refers for his account of 
 Barbary are Johannes de Leo, or Africanus, Louis Marmol, 
 Diego de Haedo, Johannes Gramaye, Braeves, Gel. Curio, 
 and Diego de Torres, names totally unknown to me, and 
 to which I beg leave to refer the curious reader for his 
 fuller satisfaction. 
 
LETTEK TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN WHOSE 
 EDUCATION HAS BEEN NEGLECTED. 
 
 To the Editor of ike, London Magazine* 
 
 DEAE, SIR, I send you a bantering " Epistle to an Old 
 Gentleman whose Education is supposed to have been 
 neglected." Of course, it was suggested by some letters 
 of your admirable Opium-Eater, the discontinuance of 
 which has caused so much regret to myself in common 
 with most of your readers. You will do me injustice by 
 supposing that, in the remotest degree, it was my intention 
 to ridicule those papers. The fact is, the most serious 
 things may give rise to an innocent burlesque ; and, the 
 more serious they are, the fitter they become for that 
 purpose. It is not to be supposed that Charles Cotton 
 did not entertain a very high regard for Virgil, notwith- 
 standing he travestied that poet. Yourself can testify 
 the deep respect I have always held for the profound 
 learning and penetrating genius of our friend. Nothing 
 upon earth would give me greater pleasure than to find 
 that he has not lost sight of his entertaining and 
 instructive purpose. 
 
 I am, dear Sir, yours and his sincerely, 
 
 ELIA. 
 
 MY DEAR SIR, The question which you have done me 
 the honour to propose to me, through the medium of our 
 common friend, Mr. Grierson, I shall endeavour to answer 
 
LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 247 
 
 with as much exactness as a limited observation and 
 experience can warrant. 
 
 You ask, or rather Mr. Grierson, in his own interest- 
 ing language, asks for you, " Whether a person at the 
 age of sixty-three, with no more proficiency than a tolerable 
 knowledge of most of the characters of the English alphabet 
 at first sight amounts to, by dint of persevering application 
 and good masters, a docile and ingenuous disposition on 
 the part of the pupil always presupposed, may hope to 
 arrive, within a presumable number of years, at that 
 degree of attainments which shall entitle the possessor to 
 the character, which you are on so many accounts justly 
 desirous of acquiring, of a learned man" 
 
 This is fairly and candidly stated, only i could wish 
 that on one point you had been a little more explicit. 
 In the meantime, I will take it for granted, that by a 
 "knowledge of the alphabetic characters" you confine 
 your meaning to the single powers only, as you are silent 
 on the subject of the diphthongs and harder combinations. 
 
 Why, truly, sir, when I consider the vast circle of 
 sciences, it is not here worth while to trouble you with 
 the distinction between learning and science, which a man 
 must be understood to have made the tour of in these 
 days, before the world will be willing to concede to him 
 the title which you aspire to, I am almost disposed to 
 reply to your inquiry by a direct answer in the negative. 
 
 However, where all cannot be compassed, a great deal 
 that is truly valuable may be accomplished. I am un- 
 willing to throw out any remarks that should have a 
 tendency to damp a hopeful genius ; but I must not, in 
 fairness, conceal from you that you have much to do. 
 The consciousness of difficulty is sometimes a spur to 
 exertion. Rome or rather, my dear sir, to borrow an 
 illustration from a place as yet more familiar to you, 
 Rumford Rumford was not built in a day. 
 
 Your mind as yet, give me leave to tell you, is in the 
 state of a sheet of white paper. We must not blot or 
 blur it over too hastily. Or, to use an opposite simile, it 
 
248 LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 is like a piece of parchment all bescrawled and bescribbled 
 over with characters of no sense or import, which we must 
 carefully erase and remove before we can make way for 
 the authentic characters or impresses which are to be 
 substituted in their stead by the corrective hand of 
 science. 
 
 Your mind, my dear sir, again, resembles that same 
 parchment, which we will suppose a little hardened by 
 time and disuse. We may apply the characters; but 
 are we sure that the ink will sink *? 
 
 You are in the condition of a traveller that has all his 
 journey to begin. And, again, you are worse off than 
 the traveller which I have supposed ; for you have already 
 lost your way. 
 
 You have much to learn, which you have never been 
 taught ; and more, I fear, to unlearn, which you have 
 been taught erroneously. You have hitherto, I dare say, 
 imagined that the sun moves round the earth. When 
 you shall have mastered the true solar system, you will 
 have quite a different theory upon that point, I assure 
 you. I mention but this instance. Your own experi- 
 ence, as knowledge advances, will furnish you with many 
 parallels. 
 
 I can scarcely approve of the intention, which Mr. 
 Grierson informs me you have contemplated, of entering 
 yourself at a common seminary, and working your way 
 up from the lower to the higher forms with the children. 
 I see more to admire in the modesty than in the expe- 
 diency of such a resolution. I own I cannot reconcile 
 myself to the spectacle of a gentleman at your time of 
 life, seated, as must be your case at first, below a tyro of 
 four or five, for at that early age the rudiments of edu- 
 cation usually commence in this country. I doubt whether 
 more might not be lost in the point of fitness than would 
 be gained in the advantages which you propose to yourself 
 by this scheme. 
 
 You say you stand in need of emulation ; that this 
 incitement is nowhere to be had but at a public school ; 
 
LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 249 
 
 that you should be more sensible of your progress by 
 comparing it with the daily progress of those around you. 
 But have you considered the nature of emulation, and how 
 it is sustained at these tender years which you would have 
 to come in competition with 1 I am afraid you are dream- 
 ing of academic prizes and distinctions. Alas ! in the 
 university for which you are preparing, the highest medal 
 would be a silver penny ; and you must graduate in nuts 
 and oranges. 
 
 I know that Peter, the Great Czar or Emperor of 
 Muscovy, submitted himself to the discipline of a dock- 
 yard at Deptford, that he might learn, and convey to his 
 countrymen, the noble art of shipbuilding. You are old 
 enough to remember him, or at least the talk about him. 
 I call to mind also other great princes, who, to instruct 
 themselves in the theory and practice of war, and set an 
 example of subordination to their subjects, have conde- 
 scended to enrol themselves as private soldiers ; and, pass- 
 ing through the successive ranks of corporal, quartermaster, 
 and the rest, have served their way up to the station at 
 which most princes are willing enough to set out, of 
 general and commander-in-chief over their own forces. 
 But besides that there is oftentimes great sham and 
 pretence in their show of mock humility the competition 
 which they stooped to was with their coevals, however 
 inferior to them in birth. Between ages so very disparate 
 as those which you contemplate, I fear there can no 
 salutary emulation subsist. 
 
 Again : in the other alternative, could you submit to 
 the ordinary reproofs and discipline of a dayschool 1 ? 
 Could you bear to be corrected for your faults ? Or how 
 would it look to see you put to stand, as must be the case 
 sometimes, in a corner 1 
 
 I am afraid the idea of a public school in your circum- 
 stances must be given up. 
 
 But is it impossible, my dear sir, to find some person 
 of your own age, if of the other sex, the more agreeable, 
 perhaps, whose information, like your own, has rathei 
 
250 LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 lagged behind his years, who should be willing to set out 
 from the same point with yourself; to undergo the same 
 tasks 1 thus at once inciting and sweetening each other's 
 labours in a sort of friendly rivalry. Such a one, I think, 
 it would not be difficult to find in some of the western 
 parts of this island, about Dartmoor for instance. 
 
 Or what if, from your own estate, that estate, which, 
 unexpectedly acquired so late in life, has inspired into 
 you this generous thirst after knowledge, you were to 
 select some elderly peasant, that might best be spared 
 from the land, to come and begin his education with you, 
 that you might till, as it were, your minds together, 
 one whose heavier progress might invite, without a fear 
 of discouraging, your emulation ? We might then see 
 starting from an equal post the difference of the clownish 
 and the gentle blood. 
 
 A private education, then, or such a one as I have 
 been describing, being determined on, we must in the 
 next place look out for a preceptor; for it will be some 
 time before either of you, left to yourselves, will be able 
 to assist the other to any great purpose in his studies. 
 
 And now, my dear sir, if, in describing such a tutor 
 as I have imagined for you, I use a style a little above the 
 familiar one in which I have hitherto chosen to address 
 you, the nature of the subject must be my apology. 
 Difficile est de scientiis inscienter loqui ; which is as much 
 as to say, that, "in treating of scientific matters, it is 
 difficult to avoid the use of scientific terms." But I 
 shall endeavour to be as plain as possible. I am not going 
 to present you with the ideal of a pedagogue as it may 
 exist in my fancy, or has possibly been realised in the 
 persons of Buchanan and Busby. Something less than 
 perfection will serve our turn. The scheme which I 
 propose in this first or introductory letter has reference 
 to the first four or five years of your education only ; and 
 in enumerating the qualifications of him that should 
 undertake the direction of your studies, I shall rather 
 point out the minimum, or least, that I shall require of 
 
LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 251 
 
 him, than trouble you in the search of attainments neither 
 common nor necessary to our immediate purpose. 
 
 He should be a man of deep and extensive knowledge. 
 So much at least is indispensable. Something older than 
 yourself, I could wish him, because years add reverence. 
 
 To his age and great learning, he should be blessed 
 with a temper and a patience willing to accommodate itself 
 to the imperfections of the slowest and meanest capacities. 
 Such a one, in former days, Mr. Hartlib appears to have 
 been ; and such, in our days, I take Mr. Grierson to be : 
 but our friend, you know, unhappily, has other engage 
 ments. I do not demand a consummate grammarian ; 
 but he must be a thorough master of vernacular ortho- 
 graphy, with an insight into the accentualities and 
 punctualities of modern Sa*xon, or English. He must be 
 competently instructed (or how shall he instruct you 1) 
 in the tetralogy, or first four rules, upon which not only 
 arithmetic, but geometry, and the pure mathematics them- 
 selves, are grounded. I do not require that he should 
 have measured the globe with Cook or Ortelius ; but it 
 is desirable that he should have a general knowledge (I 
 do not mean a very nice or pedantic one) of the great 
 division of the earth into four parts, so as to teach you 
 readily to name the quarters. He must have a genius 
 capable in some degree of soaring to the upper element, to 
 deduce from thence the not much dissimilar computation 
 of the cardinal points, or hinges, upon which those 
 invisible phenomena, which naturalists agree to term 
 winds, do perpetually shift and turn. He must instruct 
 you, in imitation of the old Orphic fragments (the mention 
 of which has possibly escaped you), in numeric and 
 harmonious responses, to deliver the number of solar 
 revolutions within which each of the twelve periods, into 
 which the Annus Vulgaris, or common year, is divided, 
 doth usually complete and terminate itself. The inter- 
 calaries and other subtle problems he will do well to omit, 
 till riper years and course of study shall have rendered 
 you more capable thereof. He must be capable of 
 
252 LETTER TO AN OLD GENTLEMAN. 
 
 embracing all history, so as, from the countless myriads 
 of individual men who have peopled this globe of earth, 
 for it is a globe, by comparison of their respective births, 
 lives, deaths, fortunes, conduct, prowess, etc., to pronounce, 
 and teach you to pronounce, dogmatically and catechetic- 
 ally, who was the richest, who was the strongest, who 
 was the wisest, who was the meekest, man that ever 
 lived ; to the facilitation of which solution, you will readily 
 conceive, a smattering of biography would in no incon- 
 siderable degree conduce. Leaving the dialects of men 
 (in one of which I shall take leave to suppose you by this 
 time at least superficially instituted), you will learn to 
 ascend with him to the contemplation of that unarticulated 
 language which was before the written tongue ; and, with 
 the aid of the elder Phrygian or ^Esopic key, to interpret 
 the sounds by which the animal tribes communicate their 
 minds, evolving moral instruction with delight from the 
 dialogue of cocks, dogs, and foxes. Or, marrying theology 
 with verse, from whose mixture a beautiful and healthy 
 offspring may be expected, in your own native accents 
 (but purified), you will keep time together to the profound 
 harpings of the more modern or Wattsian hymnics. 
 
 Thus far I have ventured to conduct you to a " hill- 
 side whence you may discern the right path of a virtuous 
 and noble education ; laborious, indeed, at the first ascent, 
 but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospects 
 and melodious sounds on every side, that the harp of 
 Orpheus was not more charming." 1 
 
 With my best respects to Mr. Grierson when you see 
 him, I remain, my dear Sir, your obedient servant, 
 
 ELIA. 
 
 1 Milton's "Tractate on Education," addressed to Mr. Hartlib. 
 
BIOGEAPHICAL MEMOTE OF MR LISTON. 
 
 THE subject of our Memoir is lineally descended from 
 Johan de L'Estonne (see " Domesday Book," where he is 
 so written), who came in with the Conqueror, and had 
 lands awarded him at Lupton Magna, in Kent. His 
 particular merits or services, Fabian, whose authority I 
 chiefly follow, has forgotten, or perhaps thought it im- 
 material, to specify. Fuller thinks that he was standard- 
 bearer to Hugo de Agmondesham, a powerful Norman 
 baron, who was slain by the hand of Harold himself at 
 the fatal battle of Hastings. Be this as it may, we find 
 a family of that name flourishing some centuries later in 
 that county. John Delliston, knight, was High Sheriff 
 for Kent, according to Fabian, quinto Henrid Sexti ; 
 and we trace the lineal branch flourishing downwards, 
 the orthography varying, according to the unsettled usage 
 of the times, from Delleston to Leston or Listen, between 
 which it seems to have alternated, till, in the latter end 
 of the reign of James I., it finally settled into the 
 determinate and pleasing dissyllabic arrangement which 
 it still retains. Aminadab Listen, the eldest male repre- 
 sentative of the family of that day, was of the strictest 
 order of Puritans. Mr. Foss, of Pall Mall, has obligingly 
 communicated to me an undoubted tract of his, which 
 bears the initials only. A. L., and is entitled, "The 
 Grinning Glass, or Actor's Mirrour; wherein the vitu- 
 perative Visnomy of Vicious Players for the Scene is as 
 virtuously reflected back upon their mimetic Monstrosities 
 as it has viciously (hitherto) vitiated with its vile Vanities 
 
254 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 
 
 her Votarists." A strange title, but bearing the impress 
 of those absurdities with which the title-pages of that 
 pamphlet-spawning age abounded. The work bears date 
 1617. It preceded the " Histriomastix" by fifteen years ; 
 and, as it went before it in time, so it comes not far short 
 of it in virulence. It is amusing to find an ancestor of 
 Listen's thus bespattering the players at the commence- 
 ment of the seventeenth century : 
 
 " Thinketh He " (the actor), " with his costive coun- 
 tenances, to wry a sorrowing soul out of her anguish, or 
 by defacing the divine denotement of destinate dignity 
 (daignely described in the face humane and no other) to 
 reinstamp the Paradice-plotted similitude with a novel 
 and naughty approximation (not in the first intention) to 
 those abhorred and ugly God-forbidden correspondences, 
 with flouting Apes' jeering gibberings, and Babion bab- 
 bling-like, to hoot out of countenance all modest measure, 
 as if our sins were not sufficing to stoop our backs with- 
 out He wresting and crooking his members to mistimed 
 mirth (rather malice) in deformed fashion, leering when 
 he should learn, prating for praying, goggling his eyes 
 (better upturned for grace), whereas in Paradice (if we 
 can go thus high for His professions) that devilish Serpent 
 appeareth his undoubted Predecessor, first induing a mask 
 like some roguish roistering Roscius (I spit at them all) 
 to beguile with stage shows the gaping Woman, whose 
 Sex hath still chiefly upheld these Mysteries, and are 
 voiced to be the chief Stage-haunters, where, as I am 
 told, the custom is commonly to mumble (between acts) 
 apples, not ambiguously derived from that pernicious 
 Pippin (worse in effect than the Apples of Discord), 
 whereas sometimes the hissing sounds of displeasure, as 
 I hear, do lively reintonate that snake-taking-leave, and 
 diabolical goings off, in Paradice." 
 
 The Puritanic effervescence of the early Presbyterians 
 appears to have abated with time, and the opinions of 
 the more immediate ancestors of our subject to have 
 subsided at length into a strain of moderate Calvinism 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 255 
 
 Still a tincture of the old leaven was to be expected 
 among the posterity of A. L. 
 
 Our hero was an only son of Habakkuk Liston, settled 
 as an Anabaptist minister upon the patrimonial soil of 
 his ancestors. A regular certificate appears, thus entered 
 in the Church-book at Lupton Magna : " Johannes, 
 filius Habakkuk et Rebeccce Liston, JDissentientium, natus 
 quinto Decembri, 1780, baptizatus sexto Februarii se- 
 quentis ; Sponsoribus J. et W. Woollaston, und aim 
 Maria Merry weather" The singularity of an Anabaptist 
 minister conforming to the child-rites of the Church 
 would have tempted me to doubt the authenticity of this 
 entry, had I not been obliged with the actual sight of it 
 by the favour of Mr. Minns, the intelligent and worthy 
 parish clerk of Lupton. Possibly some expectation in 
 point of worldly advantages from some of the sponsors 
 might have induced this unseemly deviation, as it must 
 have appeared, from the practice and principles of that 
 generally rigid sect. The term Dissentientium was pos- 
 sibly intended by the orthodox clergyman as a slur upon 
 the supposed inconsistency. What, or of what nature, 
 the expectations we have hinted at may have been, we 
 have now no means of ascertaining. Of the Woollastons 
 no trace is now discoverable in the village. The name 
 of Merryweather occurs over the front of a grocer's shop 
 at the western extremity of Lupton. 
 
 Of the infant Liston we find no events recorded before 
 his fourth year, in which a severe attack of the measles 
 bid fair to have robbed the rising generation of a fund 
 of innocent entertainment. He had it of the confluent 
 kind, as it is called ; and the child's life was for a week 
 or two despaired of. His recovery he always attributes 
 (under Heaven) to the humane interference of one Dr. 
 Wilhelm Richter, a German empiric, who, in this ex- 
 tremity, prescribed a copious diet of sauer-Tcraut, which 
 the child was observed to reach at with avidity, when 
 other food repelled him ; and from this change of diet 
 his restoration was rapid and complete. We have often 
 
256 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 
 
 heard him name the circumstance with gratitude ; and it 
 is not altogether surprising that a relish for this kind of 
 aliment, so abhorrent and harsh to common English 
 palates, has accompanied him through life. When any 
 of Mr. Liston's intimates invite him to supper, he never 
 fails of finding, nearest to his knife and fork, a dish of 
 saner-kraut. 
 
 At the age of nine, we find our subject under the 
 tuition of the Rev. Mr. Goodenough (his father's health 
 not permitting him probably to instruct him himself), by 
 whom he was inducted into a competent portion of Latin 
 and Greek, with some mathematics, till the death of Mr. 
 Goodenough, in his own seventieth, and Master Liston's 
 eleventh year, put a stop for the present to his classical 
 progress. 
 
 We have heard our hero, with emotions which do his 
 heart honour, describe the awful circumstances attending 
 the decease of this worthy old gentleman. It seems they 
 had been walking out together, master and pupil, in a 
 fine sunset to the distance of three-quarters of a mile 
 west of Lupton, when a sudden curiosity took Mr. Good- 
 enough to look down upon a chasm, where a shaft had 
 been lately sunk in a mining speculation (then projecting, 
 but abandoned soon after, as not answering the promised 
 success, by Sir Ralph Shepperton, knight, and member 
 for the county). The old clergyman leaning over, either 
 with incaution or sudden giddiness (probably a mixture 
 of both), suddenly lost his footing, and, to use Mr. Liston's 
 phrase, disappeared, and was doubtless broken into a 
 thousand pieces. The sound of his head, etc., dashing 
 successively upon the projecting masses of the chasm, 
 had such an effect upon the child, that a serious sickness 
 ensued ; and, even for many years after his recovery, he 
 was not once seen so much as to smile. 
 
 The joint death of both his parents, which happened 
 not many months after this disastrous accident, and were 
 probably (one or both of them) accelerated by it, threw 
 our youth upon the protection of his maternal great-aunt, 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 257 
 
 Mrs. Sittingbourn. Of this aunt we have never heard 
 him speak but with expressions amounting almost to 
 reverence. To the influence of her early counsels and 
 manners he has always attributed the firmness with 
 which, in maturer years, thrown upon a way of life 
 commonly not the best adapted to gravity and self-retire- 
 ment, he has been able to maintain a serious character, 
 un tinctured with the levities incident to his profession. 
 Ann Sittingbouru (we have seen her portrait by Hudson) 
 was stately, stiff, tall, with a cast of features strikingly 
 resembling the subject of this memoir. Her estate in 
 Kent was spacious and well-wooded ; the house one of 
 those venerable old mansions which are so impressive in 
 childhood, and so hardly forgotten in succeeding years. 
 In the venerable solitudes of Charnwood, among thick 
 shades of the oak and beech (this last his favourite tree) 
 the young Listen cultivated those contemplative habits 
 which have never entirely deserted him in after years. 
 Here he was commonly in the summer months to be met 
 with, with a book in his hand, not a play-book, 
 meditating. Boyle's " Reflections " was at one time the 
 darling volume; which, in its turn, was superseded by 
 Young's " Night Thoughts," which has continued its hold 
 upon him through life. He carries it always about him; 
 and it is no uncommon thing for him to be seen, in the 
 refreshing intervals of his occupation, leaning against a 
 side-scene, in a sort of Herbert- of -Cherbury posture, 
 turning over a pocket-edition of his favourite author. 
 
 But the solitudes of Charnwood were not destined 
 always to obscure the path of our young hero. The pre- 
 mature death of Mrs. Sittingbourn, at the age of seventy, 
 occasioned by incautious burning of a pot of charcoal in 
 her sleeping-chamber, left him in his nineteenth year 
 nearly without resources. That the stage at all should 
 have presented itself as an eligible scope for his talents, 
 and, in particular, that he should have chosen a line so 
 foreign to what appears to have been his turn of mind, 
 may require some explanation. 
 
258 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 
 
 At Charnwood, then, we behold him, thoughtful, grave, 
 ascetic. From his cradle averse to flesh-meats and strong 
 drink ; abstemious even beyond the genius of the place, 
 and almost in spite of the remonstrances of his great-aunt, 
 who, though strict, was not rigid, water was his habitual 
 drink, and his food little beyond the mast and beech-nuts 
 of his favourite groves. It is a medical fact that this 
 kind of diet, however favourable to the contemplative 
 powers of the primitive hermits, etc., is but ill-adapted 
 to the less robust minds and bodies of a later generation. 
 Hypochondria almost constantly ensues. It was so in 
 the case of the young Listen. He was subject to sights, 
 and had visions. Those arid beech-nuts, distilled by a 
 complexion naturally adust, mounted into an occiput 
 already prepared to kindle by long seclusion and the 
 fervour of strict Calvinistic notions. In the glooms of 
 Charnwood he was assailed by illusions similar in kind 
 to those which are related of the famous Anthony of 
 Padua. Wild antic faces would ever and anon protrude 
 themselves upon his sensorium. Whether he shut his 
 eyes, or kept them open, the same illusions operated. 
 The darker and more profound were his cogitations, the 
 droller and more whimsical became the apparitions. 
 They buzzed about him thick as flies, flapping at him, 
 flouting him, hooting in his ear, yet with such comic 
 appendages, that what at first was his bane became at 
 length his solace ; and he desired no better society than 
 that of his merry phantasmata. We shall presently find 
 in what way this remarkable phenomenon influenced his 
 future destiny. 
 
 On the death of Mrs. Sittingbourn we find him received 
 into the family of Mr. Willoughby, an eminent Turkey 
 merchant, resident in Birchin Lane, London. We lose a 
 little while here the chain of his history, by what in- 
 ducements this gentleman was determined to make him 
 an inmate of his house. Probably he had had some 
 personal kindness for Mrs. Sittingbourn formerly; but, 
 however it was, the young man was here treated more 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 259 
 
 like a son than a clerk, though lie was nominally but the 
 latter. Different avocations, the change of scene, with 
 that alternation of business and recreation which in its 
 greatest perfection is to be had only in London appear 
 to have weaned him in a short time from the hypochon- 
 driacal affections which had beset him at Charnwood. 
 
 In the three years which followed his removal to Birchin 
 Lane, we find him making more than one voyage to the 
 Levant, as chief factor for Mr. Willoughby at the Porte. 
 We could easily fill our biography with the pleasant 
 passages which we have heard him relate as having 
 happened to him at Constantinople ; such as his having 
 been taken up on suspicion of a design of penetrating the 
 seraglio, etc. ; but, with the deepest convincement of this 
 gentleman's own veracity, we think that some of the 
 stories are of that whimsical, and others of that romantic 
 nature, which, however diverting, would be out of place 
 in a narrative of this kind, which aims not only at strict 
 truth, but at avoiding the very appearance of the contrary. 
 
 We will now bring him over the seas again, and suppose 
 him in the counting-house in Birchin Lane, his protector 
 satisfied with the returns of his factorage, and all going 
 on so smoothly, that we may expect to find Mr. Listen 
 at last an opulent merchant upon 'Change, as it is called. 
 But see the turns of destiny ! Upon a summer's excur- 
 sion into Norfolk,.in the year 1801, the accidental sight 
 of pretty Sally Parker, as she was called (then in the 
 Norwich company), diverted his inclinations at once from 
 commerce ; and he became, in the language of common- 
 place biography, stage-struck. Happy for the lovers of 
 mirth was it that our hero took this turn ; he might else 
 have been to this hour that unentertaining character, a 
 plodding London merchant. 
 
 We accordingly find him shortly after making his debut, 
 as it is called, upon the Norwich boards, in the season of 
 that year, being then in the twenty-second year of his 
 age. Having a natural bent to tragedy, he chose the 
 part of Pyrrhus, in the Distressed Mother, to Sally 
 
260 BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 
 
 Parker's Hermione. We find him afterwards as Barn- 
 well, Altamont, Chamont, etc. ; but, as if Nature had 
 destined him to the sock, an unavoidable infirmity 
 absolutely discapacitated him for tragedy. His person, 
 at this latter period of which I have been speaking, was 
 graceful, and even commanding ; his countenance set to 
 gravity : he had the power of arresting the attention of 
 an audience at first sight almost beyond any other tragic 
 actor. But he could not hold it. To understand this 
 obstacle, we must go back a few years to those appalling 
 reveries at Oharnwood Those illusions, which had 
 vanished before the dissipation of a less recluse life and 
 more free society, now in his solitary tragic studies, and 
 amid the intense calls upon feeling incident to tragic 
 acting, came back upon him with tenfold vividness. In 
 the midst of some most pathetic passage (the parting of 
 Jaffier with his dying friend, for instance), he would 
 suddenly be surprised with a fit of violent horse-laughter. 
 While the spectators were all sobbing before him with 
 emotion, suddenly one of those grotesque faces would 
 peep out upon him, and he could not resist the impulse. 
 A timely excuse once or twice served his purpose, but no 
 audiences could be expected to bear repeatedly this viola- 
 tion of the continuity of feeling. He describes them 
 (the illusions) as so many demons haunting him, and 
 paralysing every effect. Even now, I am told, he cannot 
 recite the famous soliloquy in Hamlet, even in private, 
 without immoderate bursts of laughter. However, what 
 he had not force of reason sufficient to overcome, he had 
 good sense enough to turn into emolument, and deter- 
 mined to make a commodity of his distemper. He 
 prudently exchanged the buskin for the sock, and the 
 illusions instantly ceased ; or, if they occurred for a short 
 season, by their very co-operation added a zest to his 
 comic vein, some of his most catching faces being (as 
 he expresses it) little more than transcripts and copies of 
 those extraordinary phantasmata. 
 
 We have now drawn out our hero's existence to the 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR OF MR. LISTON. 261 
 
 period when he was about to meet, for the first time, the 
 sympathies of a London audience. The particulars of 
 his SHCcess since have been too much before our eyes to 
 render a circumstantial detail of them expedient. I 
 shall only mention that Mr. Willoughby, his resentments 
 having had time to subside, is at present one of the 
 fastest friends of his old renegade factor ; and that Mr. 
 Listen's hopes of Miss Parker vanishing along with his 
 unsuccessful suit to Melpomene, in the autumn of 1811 
 he married his present lady, by whom he has been 
 blessed with one son, Philip, and two daughters, Ann 
 and Augustina. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR MUNDEK 
 
 HAKK'EE, Mr. Editor. A word in your ear. They tell 
 me you are going to put me in print, in print, sir ; to 
 publish my life. What is my life to you, sir ? What is 
 it to you whether I ever lived at all ? My life is a very 
 good life, sir. I am insured in the Pelican, sir. I am 
 three-score years and six, six, mark me, sir ; but I can 
 play Polonius, which, I believe, few of your corre 
 correspondents can do, sir. I suspect tricks, sir : I smell 
 a rat ; I do, I do. You would cog the die upon us ; you 
 would, you would, sir. But I will forestall you, sir. 
 You would be deriving me from William the Conqueror, 
 with a murrain to you. It is no such thing, sir. The 
 town shall know better, sir. They begin to smoke your 
 flams, sir. Mr. Listen may be born where he pleases, 
 sir ; but I will not be born at Lup Lupton Magna for 
 anybody's pleasure, sir. My son and I have looked over 
 the great map of Kent together, and we can find no such 
 place as you would palm upon us, sir ; palm upon us, I 
 say. Neither Magna nor Parva, as my son says, and he 
 knows Latin, sir ; Latin. If you write my life true, sir, 
 you must set down, that I, Joseph Munden, comedian, 
 came into the world upon Allhallows Day, Anno Domini, 
 1759 1759; no sooner nor later, sir; and I saw the 
 first light the first light, remember, sir, at Stoke Pogis 
 Stoke Pogis, comitatu Bucks, and not at Lup Lup 
 Magna, which I believe to be no better than moonshine 
 moonshine ; do you mark me, sir ? I wonder you can 
 put such flim-flams upon us, sir ; I do, I do. It does 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. MUNDEN. 263 
 
 not become you, sir ; I say it, I say it. And my father 
 was an honest tradesman, sir : he dealt in malt and hops, 
 sir ; and was a corporation-man, sir ; and of the Church 
 of England, sir, and no Presbyterian; nor Ana Ana- 
 baptist, sir; however you may be disposed to make 
 honest people believe to the contrary, sir. Your bams 
 are found out, sir. The town will be your stale-puts no 
 longer, sir ; and you must not send us jolly fellows, sir, 
 we that are comedians, sir, you must not send us into 
 groves and char charnwoods a -moping, sir. Neither 
 charns, nor charnel-houses, sir. It is not our constitution, 
 sir : I tell it you I tell it you. I was a droll dog from 
 my cradle. I came into the world tittering, and the 
 midwife tittered, and the gossips spilt their caudle with 
 tittering; and, when I was brought to the font, the 
 parson could not christen me for tittering. So I was 
 never more than half baptised. And, when I was little 
 Joey, I made 'em all titter ; there was not a melancholy 
 face to be seen in Pogis. Pure nature, sir. I was born 
 a comedian. Old Screwup, the undertaker, could tell you, 
 sir, if he were living. Why, I was obliged to be locked 
 up every time there was to be a funeral at Pogis, I was 
 I was, sir? I used to grimace at the mutes, as he 
 called it, and put 'em out with my mops and my mows, 
 till they couldn't stand at a door for me. And when I 
 was locked up, with nothing but a cat in my company, I 
 followed my bent with trying to make her laugh ; and 
 sometimes she would, and sometimes she would not. 
 And my schoolmaster could make nothing of me : I had 
 only to thrust my tongue in my cheek in my cheek, 
 sir, and the rod dropped from his ringers; and so my 
 education was limited, sir. And I grew up a young 
 fellow, and it was thought convenient to enter me upon 
 some course of life that should make me serious ; but it 
 wouldn't do, sir. And I was articled to a drysalter. My 
 father gave forty pounds premium with me, sir. I can 
 show the indentdent dentures, sir. But I was born 
 to be a comedian, sir : so I ran away, and listed with the 
 
264 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. MUNDEN. 
 
 players, sir : and I topt my parts at Arnersham and 
 Gerrard's Gross, and played my own father to his face, 
 in his own town of Pogis, in the part of Gripe, when 1 
 was not full seventeen years of age ; and he did not 
 know me again, but he knew me afterwards ; and then 
 he laughed, and I laughed, and, what is better, the 
 drysalter laughed, and gave me up my articles for the 
 joke's sake : so that I came into court afterwards with 
 clean hands with clean hands do you see, sir ? 
 
 [Here the manuscript becomes illegible for two or 
 three sheets onwards, which we presume to be occasioned 
 by the absence of Mr. Munden, jun., who clearly tran- 
 scribed it for the press thus far. The rest (with the 
 exception of the concluding paragraph, which is seem- 
 ingly resumed in the first handwriting) appears to con- 
 tain a confused account of some lawsuit, in which the 
 elder Munden was engaged ; with a circumstantial history 
 of the proceedings of a case of breach of promise of 
 marriage, made to or by (we cannot pick out which) 
 Jemima Munden, spinster ; probably the comedian's 
 cousin, for it does not appear he had any sister ; with a 
 few dates, rather better preserved, of this great actor's 
 engagements, as "Cheltenham (spelt Cheltnam), 1776;" 
 "Bath, 1779;" "London, 1789;" together with stage 
 anecdotes of Messrs. Edwin, Wilson, Lee, Lewis, etc.; 
 over which we have strained our eyes to no purpose, in 
 the hope of presenting something amusing to the public. 
 Towards the end, the manuscript brightens up a little, as 
 we said, and concludes in the following manner : ] 
 
 stood before them for six and thirty years [we 
 
 suspect that Mr. Munden is here speaking of his final 
 leave-taking of the stage], and to be dismissed at last. 
 But I was heart-whole to the last, sir. What though a 
 few drops did course themselves down the old veteran's 
 cheeks : who could help it, sir ? I was a giant that 
 night, sir; and could have played fifty parts, each as 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF MR. MUNDEN. 265 
 
 arduous as Dozy. My faculties were never better, sir. 
 But I was to be laid upon the shelf. It did not suit the 
 public to laugh with their old servant any longer, sir. 
 [Here some moisture has blotted a sentence or two.] 
 But I can play Polonius still, sir ; I can, I can. Your 
 servant, sir, JOSEPH MUNDEN. 
 
REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 
 
 ABOUT the year 18 , one R d, a respectable London 
 
 merchant (since dead) stocd in the pillory for some alleged 
 fraud upon the revenue. Among his papers were found 
 the following " Reflections," which we have obtained by 
 favour of our friend Elia, who knew him well, and had 
 heard him describe the train of his feelings, upon that 
 trying occasion, almost in the words of the manuscript. 
 Elia speaks of him as a man (with the exception of the 
 peccadillo aforesaid) of singular integrity in all his private 
 dealings, possessing great suavity of manner, with a 
 certain turn for humour. As our object is to present 
 human nature under every possible circumstance, we do 
 not think that we shall sully our pages by inserting it. 
 EDITOR. 
 
 SCENE, Opposite the Royal Exchange. 
 TIME, Twelve to One, Noon. 
 
 KETCH, my good fellow, you have a neat hand. Prithee 
 adjust this new collar to my neck gingerly. I am not 
 used to these wooden cravats. There, softly, softly. 
 That seems the exact point between ornament and 
 strangulation. A thought looser on this side. Now it 
 will do. And have a care, in turning me, that I present 
 my aspect due vertically. I now face the orient. In a 
 quarter of an hour I shift southward, do you mind ? 
 and so on till I face the east again, travelling with the 
 sun. No half-points, I beseech you, NN. by W., or 
 any such elaborate niceties. They become the shipman's 
 
REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 267 
 
 card, but not this mystery. Now leave me a little to 
 my own reflections. 
 
 Bless us, what a company is assembled in honour of 
 me ! How grand I stand here ! I never felt so sensibly 
 before the effect of solitude in a crowd. I muse in 
 solemn silence upon that vast miscellaneous rabble in the 
 pit there. From my private box I contemplate, with 
 mingled pity and wonder, the gaping curiosity of those 
 underlings. There are my Whitechapel supporters. 
 Rosemary Lane has emptied herself of the very flower of 
 her citizens to grace my show. Duke's Place sits 
 desolate. What is there in my face, that strangers 
 should come so far from the east to gaze upon it *? [Here 
 an egg narrowly misses kim.] That offering was well 
 meant, but not so cleanly executed. By the tricklings, 
 it should not be either myrrh or frankincense. Spare 
 your presents, my friends : I am noways mercenary. I 
 desire no missive tokens of your approbation. I am 
 past those valentines. Bestow these coffins of untimely 
 chickens upon mouths that water for them. Comfort 
 your addle spouses with them at home, and stop the 
 mouths of your brawling brats with such Olla Podridas ; 
 they have need of them. [A brick is let fly. ~\ Disease 
 not, I pray you, nor dismantle your rent and ragged 
 tenements, to furnish me with architectural decorations, 
 which I can excuse. This fragment might have stopped 
 a flaw against snow comes. [A coal flies.'] Cinders are 
 dear, gentlemen. This nubbling might have helped the 
 pot boil, when your dirty cuttings from the shambles at 
 three-halfpence a pound shall stand at a cold simmer. 
 Now, south about, Ketch. I would enjoy Australian 
 popularity. 
 
 What, my friends from over the water ! Old benchers 
 files of a day ephemeral Romans welcome ! Doth 
 the sight of me draw souls from limbo 1 Can it dispeople 
 purgatory 1 Ha ! 
 
 What am I, or what was my father's house, that I 
 should thus be set up a spectacle to gentlemen and others? 
 
268 REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLOEY. 
 
 Why are all faces, like Persians at the sunrise, bent singly 
 on mine alone ? I was wont to be esteemed an ordinary 
 visnomy, a quotidian merely. Doubtless these assembled 
 myriads discern some traits of nobleness, gentility, breed- 
 ing, which hitherto have escaped the common observation, 
 some intimations, as it were, of wisdom, valour, piety, 
 and so forth. My sight dazzles ; and, if I am not deceived 
 by the too-familiar pressure of this strange neckcloth that 
 envelopes it, my countenance gives out lambent glories. 
 For some painter now to take me in the lucky point of 
 expression ! the posture so convenient ! the head never 
 shifting, but standing quiescent in a sort of natural frame. 
 But these artisans require a westerly aspect. Ketch, 
 turn me. 
 
 Something of St. James's air in these my new friends. 
 How my prospects shift and brighten ! Now, if Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence be anywhere in that group, his fortune 
 is made for ever. I think I see some one taking out 
 a crayon. I will compose my whole face to a smile, 
 which yet shall not so predominate but that gravity and 
 gaiety shall contend, as it were, you understand me 1 ? 
 I will work up my thoughts to some mild rapture, a 
 gentle enthusiasm, which the artist may transfer, in a 
 manner, warm to the canvas. I will inwardly apostrophise 
 my tabernacle. 
 
 Delectable mansion, hail ! House not made of every 
 wood ! Lodging that pays no rent ; airy and commodious ; 
 which, owing no window-tax, art yet all casement, out of 
 which men have such pleasure in peering and overlooking, 
 that they will sometimes stand an hour together to enjoy 
 thy prospects ! Cell, recluse from the vulgar ! Quiet 
 retirement from the great Babel, yet affording sufficient 
 glimpses into it ! Pulpit, that instructs without note or 
 sermon-book ; into which the preacher is inducted without 
 tenth or first-fruit ! Throne, unshared and single, that 
 disdainest a Brentford competitor ! Honour without co- 
 rival ! Or nearest thou, rather, magnificent theatre, in 
 which the spectator comes to see and to be seen 1 From 
 
REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 269 
 
 thy giddy heights I look down upon the common herd, 
 who stand with eyes upturned, as if a winged messenger 
 hovered over them ; and mouths open as if they expected 
 manna. I feel, I feel, the true episcopal yearnings. 
 Behold in me, my flock, your true overseer ! What 
 though I cannot lay hands, because my own are laid; 
 yet I can mutter benedictions. True otium cum dignitate/ 
 Proud Pisgah eminence ! pinnacle sublime ! Pillory ! 
 'tis thee I sing ! Thou younger brother to the gallows, 
 without his rough and Esau palms, that with ineffable 
 contempt survey est beneath thee the grovelling stocks, 
 which claim presumptuously to be of thy great race ! 
 Let that low wood know that thou art far higher born. 
 Let that domicile for groundling rogues and base earth- 
 kissing varlets envy thy preferment, not seldom fated to 
 be the wanton baiting-house, the temporary retreat, of 
 poet and of patriot. Shades of Bastwick and of Prynne 
 hover over thee, Defoe is there, and more greatly daring 
 Shebbeare, from their (little more elevated) stations 
 they look down with recognitions. Ketch, turn me. 
 
 I now veer to the north. Open your widest gates, 
 thou proud Exchange of London, that I may look in as 
 proudly ! Gresham's wonder, hail ! I stand upon a level 
 with all your king;s. They and I, from equal heights, 
 with equal superciliousness, o'erlook the plodding money- 
 hunting tribe below, who, busied in their sordid specula- 
 tions, scarce elevate their eyes to notice your ancient, or 
 my recent, grandeur. The second Charles smiles on me 
 from three pedestals! 1 He closed the Exchequer: I 
 cheated the Excise. Equal our darings, equal be our lot. 
 
 Are those the quarters ? 'tis their fatal chime. That 
 
 1 A statue of Charles II., by the elder Cibber, adorns the 
 front of the Exchange. He stands also on high, in the train 
 of his crowned ancestors, in his proper order, within that build- 
 ing. But the merchants of London, in a superfetation of loyalty, 
 have, within a few years, caused to be erected another effigy of 
 him on the ground in the centre of the interior. We do not 
 hear that a fourth is in contemplation. 
 
270 REFLECTIONS IN THE PILLORY. 
 
 the ever-winged hours would but stand still ! but I must 
 descend descend from this dream of greatness. Stay, 
 stay, a little while, importunate hour-hand ! A moment 
 or two, and I shall walk on foot with the undistinguished 
 many. The clock speaks one. I return to common life. 
 Ketch, let me out. 
 
THE LAST PEACH. 
 
 I AM the miserablest man living. Give me counsel, dear 
 Editor. I was bred up in the strictest principles of 
 honesty, and have passed my life in punctual adherence 
 to them. Integrity might be said to be ingrained in our 
 family. Yet I live in constant fear of one day coming 
 to the gallows. 
 
 Till the latter end of last autumn I never experienced 
 these feelings of self-mistrust which ever since have em- 
 bittered my existence. From the apprehension of that 
 unfortunate man, 1 whose story began to make so great 
 an impression upon the public about that time, I date 
 my horrors. I never can get it out of my head that I 
 shall some time or other commit a forgery, or do some 
 equally vile thing. To make matters worse, I am in a 
 banking-house. I sit surrounded with a cluster of bank- 
 notes. These were formerly no more to me than meat 
 to a butcher's dog. They are now as toads and aspics. 
 I feel all day like one situated amidst gins and pitfalls. 
 Sovereigns, which I once took such pleasure in counting 
 out ; and scraping up with my little tin shovel (at which 
 I was the most expert in the banking-house), now scald 
 my hands. When I go to sign my name, I set down 
 that of another person, or write my own in a counterfeit 
 character. I am beset with temptations without motive. 
 I want no more wealth than I possess. A more contented 
 being than myself, as to money matters, exists not. What 
 should I fear? 
 
 1 Fauntleroy. 
 
272 THE LAST PEACH. 
 
 When a child, I was once let loose, by favour of a 
 nobleman's gardener, into his lordship's magnificent fruit- 
 garden, with full leave to pull the currants and the goose- 
 berries ; only I was interdicted from touching the wall- 
 fruit. Indeed, at that season (it was the end of autumn), 
 there was little left. Only on the south wall (can I for- 
 get the hot feel of the brickwork ?) lingered the one last 
 peach. Now, peaches are a fruit which I always had, 
 and still have, an almost utter aversion to. There is 
 something to my palate singularly harsh and repulsive in 
 the flavour of them. I know not by what demon of 
 contradiction inspired, but I was haunted by an irresistible 
 desire to pluck it. Tear myself as often as I would from 
 the spot, I found myself still recurring to it ; till madden- 
 ing with desire (desire I cannot call it), with wilfulness 
 rather, without appetite, against appetite, I may call 
 it, in an evil hour, I reached out my hand and plucked 
 it. Some few raindrops just then fell ; the sky (from a 
 bright day) became overcast ; and I was a type of our 
 first parents, after the eating of that fatal fruit. I felt 
 myself naked and ashamed, stripped of my virtue, spirit- 
 less. The downy fruit, whose sight rather than savour 
 had tempted me, dropped from my hand never to be 
 tasted. All the commentators in the world cannot per- 
 suade me but that the Hebrew word, in the second 
 chapter of Gensis, translated " apple," should be rendered 
 "peach." Only this way can I reconcile that mysterious 
 story. 
 
 Just such a child at thirty am I among the cash and 
 valuables, longing to pluck, without an idea of enjoyment 
 further. I cannot reason myself out of. these fears: I 
 dare not laugh at them. I was tenderly and lovingly 
 brought up. What then 1 Who that in life's entrance had 
 
 seen the babe F , from the lap stretching out his 
 
 little fond mouth to catch the maternal kiss, could have 
 predicted, or as much as imagined, that life's very different 
 exit 1 The sight of my own fingers torments me ; they 
 seem so admirably constructed for pilfering. Then that 
 
THE LAST PEACH. 272 
 
 jugular vein which I have in common ; in an em- 
 phatic sense may I say with David, I am "fearfully 
 made." All my mirth is poisoned by these unhappy 
 suggestions. If, to dissipate reflection, I hum a tune, it 
 changes to the "Lamentations of a Sinner." My very 
 dreams are tainted. I awake with a shocking feeling of 
 my hand in some pocket. 
 
 Advise me, dear Editor, on this painful heart-malady. 
 Tell me, do you feel anything allied to it in yourself? 
 Do you never feel an itching, as it were, a dactylomania, 
 or am I alone 1 You have my honest confession. My 
 next may appear from Bow Street. 
 
THE ILLUSTEIOUS DEFUNCT. 
 
 SINCE writing this article, we have been informed that 
 the object of our funeral oration is not definitively dead, 
 but only moribund. So much the better : we shall have 
 an opportunity of granting the request made to Walter 
 by one of the children in the wood, and " kill him two 
 times." The Abbd de Veriot having a siege to write, 
 and not receiving the materials in time, composed the 
 whole from his invention. Shortly after its completion, 
 the expected documents arrived, when he threw them 
 aside, exclaiming, " You are of no use to me now : I have 
 carried the town." 
 
 Nought but a blank remains, a dead void space, 
 A step of life that promised such a race. DRTDEN. 
 
 Napoleon has now sent us back from the grave 
 sufficient echoes of his living renown : the twilight of 
 posthumous fame has lingered long enough over the spot 
 where the sun of his glory set ; and his name must at 
 length repose in the silence, if not in the darkness, of 
 night. In this busy and evanescent scene, other spirits 
 of the age are rapidly snatched away, claiming our un- 
 divided sympathies and regrets, until in turn they yield 
 to some newer and more absorbing grief. Another name 
 is now added to the list of mighty departed, a name 
 whose influence upon the hopes and fears, the fates and 
 fortunes, of our countrymen, has rivalled, and perhaps 
 eclipsed, that of the defunct "child and champion of 
 Jacobinism," while it is associated with all the sanctions 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 275 
 
 of legitimate government, all the sacred authorities of 
 social order and our most holy religion. We speak of 
 one, indeed, under whose warrant heavy and incessant con- 
 tributions were imposed upon our fellow-citizens, but who 
 exacted nothing without the signet and the sign-manual 
 of most devout Chancellors of the Exchequer. Not to 
 dally longer with the sympathies of our readers, we think 
 it right to premonish them that we are composing an 
 epicedium upon no less distinguished a personage than the 
 Lottery, whose last breath, after many penultimate puffs, 
 has been sobbed forth by sorrowing contractors, as if the 
 world itself were about to be converted into a blank. 
 There is a fashion of eulogy, as well as of vituperation ; 
 and, though the Lottery stood for some time in the latter 
 predicament, we hesitate not to assert that multis ille 
 bonisflebilis occidit. Never have we joined in the sense- 
 less clamour which condemned the only tax whereto we 
 became voluntary contributors, the only resource which 
 gave the stimulus without the danger or infatuations of 
 gambling ; the only alembic which in these plodding days 
 sublimised our imaginations, and filled them with more 
 delicious dreams than ever flitted athwart the sensorium 
 of Alnaschar. 
 
 Never can the writer forget, when, as a child, he was 
 hoisted upon a servant's shoulder in Guildhall, and looked 
 down upon the installed and solemn pomp of the then 
 drawing Lottery. The two awful cabinets of iron, upon 
 whose massy and mysterious portals the royal initials 
 were gorgeously emblazoned, as if, after having deposited 
 the unfulfilled prophecies within, the king himself had 
 turned the lock, and still retained the key in his pocket ; 
 the blue-coat boy, with his naked arm, first converting 
 the invisible wheel, and then diving into the dark recess 
 for a ticket ; the grave and reverend faces of the com- 
 missioners eyeing the announced number; the scribes 
 below calmly committing it to their huge books; the 
 anxious countenances of the surrounding populace ; while 
 the giant figures of Gog and Magog, like presiding deities, 
 
276 THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 
 
 looked down with a grim silence upon the whole proceed 
 ing, constituted altogether a scene, which, combined 
 with the sudden wealth supposed to be lavished from 
 those inscrutable wheels, was well calculated to impress 
 the imagination of a boy with reverence and amazement. 
 Jupiter, seated between the two fatal urns of good and 
 evil, the blind goddess with her cornucopia, the Parcse 
 wielding the distaff, the thread of life, and the abhorred 
 shears, seemed but dim and shadowy abstractions of 
 mythology, when I had gazed upon an assemblage 
 exercising, as I dreamt, a not less eventful power, and 
 all presented to me in palpable and living operation. 
 Reason and experience, ever at their old spiteful work of 
 catching and destroying the bubbles which youth delighted 
 to follow, have indeed dissipated much of this illusion ; 
 but my mind so far retained the influence of that early 
 impression, that I have ever since continued to deposit 
 my humble offerings at its shrine, whenever the ministers 
 of the Lottery went forth with type and trumpet to 
 announce its periodical dispensations ; and though nothing 
 has been doled out to me from its undiscerning coffers 
 but blanks, or those more vexatious tantalisers of the 
 spirit denominated small prizes, yet do I hold myself 
 largely indebted to this most generous diffuser of universal 
 happiness. Ingrates that we are ! are we to be thankful 
 for no benefits that are not palpable to sense, to recognise 
 no favours that are not of marketable value, to acknow- 
 ledge no wealth unless it can be counted with the five 
 fingers 1 If we admit the mind to be the sole depository 
 of genuine joy, where is the bosom that has not been 
 elevated into a temporary Elysium by the magic of the 
 Lottery 1 Which of us has not converted his ticket, or 
 even his sixteenth share of one into a nest-egg of Hope, 
 upon which he has sate brooding in the secret roosting- 
 places of his heart, and hatched it into a thousand 
 fantastical apparitions ? 
 
 What a startling revelation of the passions if all the 
 aspirations engendered by the Lottery could be made 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 277 
 
 manifest ! Many an impecuniary epicure has gloated over 
 his locked-up warrant for future wealth, as a means of 
 realising the dream of his namesake in the "Alchemist:" 
 
 " My meat shall all come in in Indian shells," etc. 
 
 Many a doting lover has kissed the scrap of paper 
 whose promissory shower of gold was to give up to him 
 his otherwise unattainable Danae : Nimrods have trans- 
 formed the same narrow symbol into a saddle, by which 
 they have been enabled to bestride the backs of peerless 
 hunters ; while nymphs have metamorphosed its Protean 
 form into 
 
 " Rings, gauds, conceits, 
 Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats," 
 
 and all the braveries of dress, to say nothing of the 
 obsequious husband, the two footrnan'd carriage, and the 
 opera box. By the simple charm of this numbered and 
 printed rag, gamesters have, for a time at least, recovered 
 their losses : spendthrifts have cleared off mortgages from 
 their estates ; the imprisoned debtor has leapt over his 
 lofty boundary of circumscription and restraint, and 
 revelled in all the joys of liberty and fortune; the 
 cottage-walls have swelled out into more goodly propor- 
 tion than those of Baucis and Philemon ; poverty has 
 tasted the luxuries of competence ; labour has lolled at 
 ease in a perpetual armchair of idleness; sickness has 
 been bribed into banishment ; life has been invested with 
 new charms ; and death deprived of its former terrors. 
 Nor have the affections been less gratified than the wants, 
 appetites, and ambitions of mankind. By the conjurations 
 of the same potent spell, kindred have lavished anticipated 
 benefits upon one another, and charity upon all. Let it 
 be termed a delusion, a fool's paradise is better than 
 the wise man's Tartarus ; be it branded as an ignis-fatuus, 
 it was at least a benevolent one, which, instead of 
 beguiling its followers into swamps, caverns, and pitfalls, 
 allured them on with all the blandishments of enchant- 
 
278 THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 
 
 ment to a garden of Eden, an ever-blooming Elysium of 
 delight. True, the pleasures it bestowed were evanes- 
 cent : but which of our joys are permanent ? and who so 
 inexperienced as not to know that anticipation is always 
 of higher relish than reality, which strikes a balance both 
 in our sufferings and enjoyments'? "The fear of ill 
 exceeds the ill we fear;" and fruition, in the same pro- 
 portion, invariably falls short of hope. " Men are but 
 children of a larger growth," who may amuse themselves 
 for a long time in gazing at the reflection of the moon in 
 the water ; but, if they jump in to grasp it, they may 
 grope for ever, and only get the farther from their object. 
 He is the wisest who keeps feeding upon the future, and 
 refrains as long as possible from undeceiving himself by 
 converting his pleasant speculations into disagreeable 
 certainties. 
 
 The true mental epicure always purchased his ticket 
 early, and postponed inqiiiry into its fate to the last 
 possible moment, during the whole of which intervening 
 period he had an imaginary twenty thousand locked up 
 in his desk : and was not this well worth all the money 1 
 Who would scruple to give twenty pounds interest for even 
 the ideal enjoyment of as many thousands during two or 
 three months'? Crede quod habes, et hdbes ; and the 
 usufruct of such a capital is surely not dear at such a 
 price. Some years ago, a gentleman in passing along 
 Cheapside saw the figures 1069, of which number he was 
 the sole proprietor, flaming on the window of a lottery- 
 office as a capital prize. Somewhat flurried by this 
 discovery, not less welcome than unexpected, he resolved 
 to walk round St. Paul's that he might consider in what 
 way to communicate the happy tidings to his wife and 
 family ; but, upon re-passing the shop he observed that 
 the number was altered to 10,069, and, upon inquiry, 
 had the mortification to learn that his ticket was a blank, 
 and had only been stuck up in the window by a mistake 
 of the clerk. This effectually calmed his agitation ; but he 
 always speaks of himself as having once possessed twenty 
 
THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 279 
 
 thousand pounds, and maintains that his ten -minutes' 
 walk round St. Paul's was worth ten times the purchase- 
 money of the ticket. A prize thus obtained has, more- 
 over, this special advantage, it is beyond the reach of 
 fate ; it cannot be squandered ; bankruptcy cannot lay 
 siege to it ; friends cannot pull it down, nor enemies blow 
 it up ; it bears a charmed life, and none of woman born 
 can break its integrity, even by the dissipation of a 
 single fraction. Show me the property in these perilous 
 times, that is equally compact and impregnable. We 
 can no longer become enriched for a quarter of an hour ; 
 we can no longer succeed in such splendid failures ; all 
 our chances of making such a miss have vanished with 
 the last of the Lotteries. 
 
 Life will now become a flat, prosaic routine of matter- 
 of-fact ; and sleep itself erst so prolific of numerical con- 
 figurations and mysterious stimulants to lottery adventure, 
 will be disfurnished of its figures and figments. People 
 will cease to harp upon the one lucky number suggested 
 in a dream, and which forms the exception, while they are 
 scrupulously silent upon the ten thousand falsified dreams 
 which constitute the rule. Morpheus will stifle Cocker 
 with a handful of poppies, and our pillows will be no 
 longer haunted by the book of numbers. 
 
 And who, too, shall maintain the art and mystery of 
 puffing, in all its pristine glory, when the lottery pro- 
 fessors shall have abandoned its cultivation ? They were 
 the first, as they will assuredly be the last, who fully 
 developed the resources of that ingenious art ; who cajoled 
 and decoyed the most suspicious and wary reader into a 
 perusal of their advertisements by devices of endless 
 variety and cunning ; who baited their lurking schemes 
 with midnight murders, ghost-stories, crim-cons, bon-mots, 
 balloons, dreadful catastrophies, and every diversity of joy 
 and sorrow, to catch newspaper -gudgeons. Ought not 
 such talents to be encouraged ? Verily the abolitionists 
 have much to answer for ! 
 
 And now, having established the felicity of all those 
 
280 THE ILLUSTRIOUS DEFUNCT. 
 
 who gained imaginary prizes, let us proceed to show that 
 the equally numerous class who were presented with real 
 blanks have not less reason to consider themselves happy. 
 Most of us have cause to be thankful for that which is 
 bestowed ! but we have all, probably, reason to be still 
 more grateful for that which is withheld, and more 
 especially for our being denied the sudden possession of 
 riches. In the Litany, indeed, we call upon the Lord to 
 deliver us "in all time of our wealth;" but how few of 
 us are sincere in deprecating such a calamity ! Massinger's 
 Luke, and Ben Jonson's Sir Epicure Mammon, and Pope's 
 Sir Balaam, and our own daily observation, might con- 
 vince us that the Devil " now tempts by making rich, not 
 making poor." We may read in the Guardian a circum- 
 stantial account of a man who was utterly ruined by 
 gaining a capital prize; we may recollect what Dr. 
 Johnson said to Garrick, when the latter was making a 
 display of his wealth at Hampton Court " Ah, David, 
 David ! these are the things that make a death -bed 
 terrible ;" we may recall the Scripture declaration, as to 
 the difficulty a rich man finds in entering the kingdom of 
 Heaven ; and, combining all these denunciations against 
 opulence, let us heartily congratulate one another upon 
 our lucky escape from the calamity of a twenty or thirty 
 thousand pound prize ! The fox in the fable, who accused 
 the unattainable grapes of sourness, was more of a philo- 
 sopher than we are generally willing to allow. He was 
 an adept in that species of moral alchemy which turns 
 everything to gold, and converts disappointment itself 
 into a ground of resignation and content. Such we have 
 shown to be the great lesson inculcated by the Lottery, 
 when lightly contemplated ; and, if we might parody 
 M. de Chateaubriand's jingling expression, " Le Roi est 
 mort: vive le Roi f" we should be tempted to exclaim, 
 " The Lottery is no more : long live the Lottery !" 
 
THE RELIGION OF ACTORS. 
 
 THE world has hitherto so little troubled its head upon 
 the points of doctrine held by a community which con- 
 tributes in other ways so largely to its amusement, that, 
 before the late mischance of a celebrated tragic actor, it 
 scarce condescended to look into the practice of any 
 individual player, much less to inquire into the hidden 
 and abscondite springs of his actions. Indeed, it is with 
 some violence to the imagination that we conceive of an 
 actor as belonging to the relations of private life, so 
 closely do we identify these persons in our mind with 
 the characters which they assume upon the stage. How 
 oddly does it sound, when we are told that the late Miss 
 Pope, for instance, that is to say, in our notion of her 
 Mrs. Candour, was a good daughter, an affectionate 
 sister, and exemplary in all the parts of domestic life ! 
 With still greater difficulty can we carry our notions to 
 church, and conceive of Listen kneeling upon a hassock, or 
 Munden uttering a pious ejaculation, " making mouths 
 at the invisible event." But the times are fast improv- 
 ing; and, if the process of sanctity begun under the 
 happy auspices of the present licencer go on to its com- 
 pletion, it will be as necessary for a comedian to give 
 an account of his faith as of his conduct. Fawcett must 
 study the five points ; and Dicky Suett, if he were alive, 
 would have to rub up his catechism. Already the effects 
 of it begin to appear. A celebrated performer has thought 
 fit to oblige the world with a confession of his faith, or 
 
 Br 's Religio Dramatici. This gentleman, in his 
 
 laudable attempt to shift from his person the obloquy of 
 
282 THE RELIGION OF ACTORS. 
 
 Judaism, with a forwardness of a new convert, in trying 
 to prove too much, has, in the opinion of many, proved 
 too little. A simple declaration of his Christianity was 
 sufficient ; but, strange to say, his apology has not a word 
 about it. We are left to gather it from some expressions 
 which imply that he is a Protestant; but we did not 
 wish to inquire into the niceties of his orthodoxy. To 
 his friends of the old persuasion the distinction was 
 impertinent ; for what cares Rabbi Ben Kimchi for the 
 differences which have split our novelty ? To the great 
 body of Christians that holds the Pope's supremacy 
 that is to say, to the major part of the Christian world 
 his religion will appear as much to seek as ever. But 
 perhaps he conceived that all Christians are Protestants, 
 as children and the common people call all, that are not 
 animals, Christians. The mistake was not very consider- 
 able in so young a proselyte, or he might think the 
 general (as logicians speak) involved in the particular. 
 All Protestants are- Christians ; but I am a Protestant ; 
 ergo, etc. : as if a marmoset, contending to be a man, 
 overleaping that term as too generic and vulgar, should 
 at once roundly proclaim himself to be a gentleman. 
 The argument would be, as we say, exabundanti. From 
 whichever course this excessus in terminis proceeded, we 
 can do no less than congratulate the general state of 
 Christendom upon the accession of so extraordinary a 
 convert. Who was the happy instrument of the conver- 
 sion, we are yet to learn : it comes nearest to the attempt 
 of the late pious Dr. Watts to Christianise the Psalms 
 of the Old Testament. Something of the old Hebrew 
 raciness is lost in the transfusion ; but much of its 
 asperity is softened and pared down in the adaptation. 
 
 The appearance of so singular a treatise at this con- 
 juncture has set us upon an inquiry into the present state 
 of religion upon the stage generally. By the favour of 
 the Churchwardens of St. Martin's in the Fields, and St. 
 Paul's, Covent Garden, who have very readily, and with 
 great kindness, assisted our pursuit, we are enabled to lay 
 
THE RELIGION OF ACTORS. 283 
 
 before the public the following particulars. Strictly 
 speaking, neither of the two great bodies is collectively a 
 religious institution. We expected to find a chaplain 
 among them, as at St. Stephen's and other Court estab- 
 lishments ; and were the more surprised at the omission, 
 as the last Mr. Bengough at the one house, and Mr. 
 Powell at the other, from a gravity of speech and demean- 
 our, and the habit of wearing black at their first appear- 
 ances in the beginning of the fifth or the conclusion of the 
 fourth act, so eminently pointed out their qualifications 
 for such office. These corporations, then, being not 
 properly congregational, we must seek the solution of our 
 question in the tastes, attainments, accidental breeding, 
 and education of the individual members of them. As 
 we were prepared to expect, a majority at both houses 
 adhere to the religion of the Church Established, only 
 that at one of them a strong leaven of Roman Catholicism 
 is suspected ; which, considering the notorious education 
 of the manager at a foreign seminary, is not so much to 
 be wondered at. Some have gone so far as to report that 
 
 Mr. T y, in particular, belongs to an order lately 
 
 restored on the Continent. We can contradict this : that 
 gentleman is a member of the Kirk of Scotland : and his 
 name is to be found, much to his honour, in the list of 
 seceders from the congregation of Mr. Fletcher. While 
 the generality, as we have said, are content to jog on in 
 the safe trammels of national orthodoxy, symptoms of a 
 sectarian spirit have broken out in quarters where we 
 should least have looked for it. Some of the ladies at 
 
 both houses are deep in controverted points. Miss F e, 
 
 we are credibly informed, is a Sub- and Madame V 
 
 a wpra-Lapsarian. Mr. Pope is the last of the exploded 
 sect of the Eanters. Mr. Sinclair has joined the Shakers. 
 Mr. Grimaldi sen., after being long a Jumper, has lately 
 fallen into some whimsical theories respecting the fall of 
 man ; which he understands, not of an allegorical, but a 
 real tumble, by which the whole body of humanity became, 
 as it were, lame to the performance of good works. Pride 
 
284 THE RELIGION OF ACTORS. 
 
 he will have to be nothing but a stiff neck ; irresolution, 
 the nerves shaken; an inclination to sinister paths, 
 crookedness of the joints ; spiritual deaduess, a paralysis ; 
 want of charity, a contraction in the fingers ; despising of 
 government, a broken head ; the plaster, a sermon ; the 
 lint to bind it up, the text ; the probers, the preachers ; 
 a pair of crutches, the old and new law ; a bandage, 
 religious obligation : a fanciful mode of illustration, 
 derived from the accidents and habits of his past calling 
 spiritualised, rather than from any accurate acquaintance 
 with the Hebrew text, in which report speaks him but a 
 raw scholar. Mr. Elliston, from all we can learn, has 
 his religion yet to choose; though some think him a 
 Muggletonian. 
 
THE MONTHS. 
 
 RUMMAGING over the contents of an old stall at a half 
 book, half old-iron shop, in an alley leading from Wardour 
 Street to Soho Square, yesterday, I lit upon a ragged 
 duodecimo which had been the strange delight of my 
 infancy, and which I had lost sight of for more than 
 forty years, the "Queen-like Closet, or Rich Cabinet;" 
 written by Hannah Woolly, and printed for R. C. and T. 
 S., 1681 ; being an abstract of receipts in cookery, con- 
 fectionery, cosmetics, needlework, morality, and all such 
 branches of what were then considered as female accom- 
 plishments. The price demanded was sixpence, which 
 the owner (a little squab duodecimo character himself) 
 enforced with the assurance that his " own mother should 
 not have it for a farthing less." On my demurring at 
 this extraordinary assertion, the dirty little vendor rein- 
 forced his assertion with a sort of oath, which seemed 
 more than the occasion demanded : " And now," said he, 
 " I have put my soul to it." Pressed by so solemn an 
 asseveration, I could no longer resist a demand which 
 seemed to set me, however unworthy, upon a level with 
 its dearest relations ; and depositing a tester, I bore away 
 the tattered prize in triumph. I remember a gorgeous 
 description of the twelve months of the year, which I 
 thought would be a fine substitute for those poetical 
 descriptions of them which your " Every Day Book " had 
 nearly exhausted out of Spenser. This will be a treat, 
 thought I, for friend Hone. To memory they seemed 
 no less fantastic and splendid than the other. But what 
 
286 . THE MONTHS. 
 
 are the mistakes of childhood ! On reviewing them, they 
 turned out to be only a set of commonplace receipts for 
 working the seasons, months, heathen gods and goddesses, 
 etc., in samplers/ Yet, as an instance of the homely 
 occupation of our great grandmothers, they may be 
 amusing to some readers. " I have seen," says the notable 
 Hannah Woolly, " such Ridiculous things done in work, 
 as it is an abomination to any Artist to behold. As for 
 example : You may find, in some Pieces, Abraham and 
 Sarah, and many other Persons of Old time, Clothed as 
 they go nowadays, and truly sometimes worse ; for they 
 most resemble the Pictures on Ballads. Let all Ingenious 
 Women have regard, that when they work any Image, to 
 represent it aright. First, let it be Drawn well, and then 
 observe the Directions which are given by Knowing Men. 
 I do assure you, I never durst work any Scripture Story 
 without informing myself from the Ground of it; nor any 
 other Story, or single Person without informing myself 
 both of the Visage and Habit ; as followeth : 
 
 " If your work Jupiter, the Imperial feigned God, he 
 must have long, Black Curled hair, a Purple Garment 
 trimmed with Gold, and sitting upon a golden throne, 
 with bright yellow Clouds about him." 
 
 THE TWELVE MONTHS OF THE YEAR. 
 
 March. Is drawn in Tawny, with a fierce aspect ; a 
 Helmet upon his head, and leaning on a Spade ; and a 
 Basket of Garden-Seeds in his left hand, and in his Right 
 hand the sign of Aries; and Winged. 
 
 April. A young Man in Green, with a Garland of 
 Myrtle and Hawthorn-buds ; Winged ; in one hand Prim- 
 roses and Violets, in the other the Sign Taurus. 
 
 May. With a Sweet and lovely Countenance : clad 
 in a Robe of White and Green, embroidered with several 
 Flowers; upon his Head a garland of all manner of 
 roses ; on the one hand a Nightingale, in the other a 
 Lute. His sign must be Gemini. 
 
 June. In a Mantle of dark Grass-green ; upon his 
 
THE MONTHS. 287 
 
 Head a garland of Bents, Kings-cups, and Maiden-hair > 
 in his Left hand an Angle, with a box of Cantharides ; in 
 his Right, the Sign Cancer ; and upon his arms a Basket 
 of seasonable Fruits. 
 
 July. In a Jacket of light Yellow, eating Cherries ; 
 with his Face and Bosom Sun -burnt! on his Head a 
 wreath of Centaury and wild Thyme; a Scythe on his 
 shoulder, and a bottle at his girdle ; carrying the Sign 
 Leo. 
 
 August. A Young Man of fierce and Choleric aspect, 
 in a Flame-coloured garment ; upon his head a garland of 
 Wheat and Bye ; upon his Arm a Basket of all manner 
 of ripe Fruits ; at his Belt a Sickle ; his Sign Virgo. 
 
 September. A merry and cheerful Countenance, in 
 a Purple Robe; upon his Head a Wreath of red and 
 white Grapes ; in his Left hand a handful of Oats ; withal 
 carrying a Horn of Plenty, full of all manner of ripe 
 Fruits ; in his right hand the sign Libra. 
 
 October. In a Garment of Yellow and Carnation ; 
 upon his head a garland of Oak-leaves with Acorns ; in 
 his right hand the sign Scorpio; in his Left hand a 
 Basket of Medlars, Services, and Chestnuts, and any 
 other Fruits then in Season. 
 
 November. In a Garment of Changeable Green and 
 Black; upon his Head a garland of Olives, with the 
 Fruit in his Left hand ; Bunches of Parsnips and Turnips 
 in his Right ; his Sign Sagittarius. 
 
 December. A horrid and fearful aspect, clad in Irish 
 rags, or coarse frieze girt unto him ; upon his Head three 
 or four Night-Caps, and over them a Turkish Turban ; his 
 Nose red, his Mouth and Beard clogged with icicles ; at 
 his back a bundle of holly, ivy, or mistletoe ; holding in 
 furred mittens the sign of Capricornus. 
 
 January. Clad all in White, as the Earth looks with 
 the Snow, blowing his nails ; in his left arm a billet ; the 
 sign Aquarius standing by his side. 
 
 February. Clothed in a dark Sky-colour, carrying in 
 his Right hand the sign Pisces. 
 
288 THE MONTHS. 
 
 The following receipt " To dress up a chimney very 
 fine for the summer-time, as I have done many, and they 
 have been liked very well," may not be unprofitable to 
 the housewives of this century : 
 
 " First, take a pack-thread, and fasten it even to the 
 inner part of the Chimney, so high as that you can see 
 no higher as you walk up and down the House. You 
 must drive in several Nails to hold up all your work. 
 Then get good store of old green Moss from Trees, and 
 melt an equal proportion of beeswax and rosin together ; 
 and, while it is hot, dip the wrong ends of the moss in 
 it, and presently clap it upon your pack-thread, and press 
 it down hard with your hand. You must make haste, 
 else it will cool before you can fasten it, and then it will 
 fall down. Do so all around where the packthread goes ; 
 and the next row you must join to that, so that it may 
 seem all in one : thus do till you have finished it down 
 to the bottom. Then take some other kind of Moss, of 
 a whitish colour and stiff, and of several sorts or kinds, 
 and place that upon the other, here and there carelessly, 
 and in some places put a good deal, and some a little ; 
 then any kind of fine snail-shells, in which the snails are 
 dead, and little toad-stools, which are very old, and look 
 like velvet, or any other thing that was old and pretty : 
 place it here and there as your fancy serves, and fasten 
 all with Wax and Rosin. Then, for the hearth of your 
 chimney, you may lay some Orpan- Sprigs in order all 
 over, and it will grow as it lies ; and, according to the 
 season, get what flowers you can, and stick in as if they 
 grew, and a few sprigs of Sweet-Brier ; the flowers you 
 must renew every week ; but the moss will last all the 
 Summer, till it will be time to make a fire; and the 
 orpan will last near two Months. A Chimney thus done 
 doth grace a Room exceedingly." 
 
 One phrase in the above should particularly recommend 
 it to such of your female readers as, in the nice language 
 of the day, have done growing some time, " little toad- 
 
THE MONTHS. 289 
 
 stools, etc., and anything that is old and pretty" Was 
 ever antiquity so smoothed over 1 The culinary recipes 
 have nothing remarkable in them, except the costliness 
 of them. Everything (to the meanest meats) is sopped 
 in claret, steeped in claret, basted with claret, as if claret 
 were as cheap as ditch-water. I remember Bacon recom- 
 mends opening a turf or two in your garden walks, and 
 pouring into each a bottle of claret, to recreate the sense 
 of smelling, being no less grateful than beneficial. We 
 hope the Chancellor of the Exchequer will attend to this 
 in his next reduction of French wines, that we may once 
 more water our gardens with right Bourdeaux. The 
 medical recipes are as whimsical as they are cruel. Our 
 ancestors were not at all effeminate on this head. Modern 
 sentimentalists would shrink at a cock plucked and 
 bruised in a mortar alive to make a cullis, or a live mole 
 baked in an oven (be sure it be alive) to make a powder 
 for consumption. But the whimsicalest of all are the 
 directions to servants (for this little book is a compendium 
 of all duties) : the footman is seriously admonished not 
 to stand lolling against his master's chair while he waits 
 at table ; for " to lean on a chair when they wait, is a 
 particular favour shown to any superior servant, as the 
 chief gentleman, or the waiting-woman when she rises 
 from the table." Also he must not "hold the plates 
 before his mouth to be defiled with his breath, nor touch 
 them on the right [inner] side." Surely Swift must have 
 seen this little treatise. 
 
REMINISCENCE OF 
 SIE JEFFERY DUNSTAN. 
 
 To your account of Sir Jeffery Dunstan, in columns 
 829-30 (where, by an unfortunate erratum, the effigies 
 of two Sir Jefferys appear, when the uppermost figure is 
 clearly meant for Sir Harry Dimsdale), you may add that 
 the writer of this has frequently met him in his latter 
 days, about 1790 or 1791, returning in an evening, after 
 his long day's itineracy, to his domicile, a wretched shed 
 in the most beggarly purlieu of Bethnal Green } a little 
 on this side the Mile-end Turnpike. The lower figure in 
 that leaf most correctly describes his then appearance, 
 except that no graphic art can convey an idea of the 
 general squalour of it, and of his bag (his constant con- 
 comitant) in particular. Whether it contained "old 
 wigs " at that time, I know not ; but it seemed a fitter 
 repository for bones snatched out of kennels than for any 
 part of a gentleman's dress, even at second-hand. 
 
 The Ex-member for Garrat was a melancholy instance 
 of a great man whose popularity is worn out. He still 
 carried his sack; but it seemed a part of his identity 
 rather than an implement of his profession ; a badge of 
 past grandeur : could anything have divested him of that, 
 he would have shown a " poor forked animal " indeed. 
 My life upon it, it contained no curls at the time I speak 
 of. The most decayed and spiritless remnants of what 
 was once a peruke would have scorned the filthy case \ 
 would absolutely have " burst its cerements." No : it 
 
REMINISCENCE OF SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN. 291 
 
 was empty, or brought home bones, or a few cinders, 
 possibly. A strong odour of burnt bones, I remember, 
 blended with the scent of horse-flesh seething into dog's 
 meat, and only relieved a little by the breathings of a 
 few brick-kilns, made up the atmosphere of the delicate 
 suburban spot which this great man had chosen for the 
 last scene of his earthly vanities. The cry of " old wigs" 
 had ceased with the possession of any such fripperies : 
 his sack might have contained not unaptly a little mould 
 to scatter upon that grave to which he was now advanc- 
 ing j but it told of vacancy and desolation. His quips 
 were silent too, and his brain was empty as his sack : he 
 slank along, and seemed to decline popular observation. 
 If a few boys followed him, it seemed rather from habit 
 than any expectation of fun. 
 
 Alas ! how changed from him, 
 The life of humour, and the soul of whim, 
 Gallant and gay on Garrat's hustings proud ! 
 
 But it is thus that the world rewards its favourites in 
 decay. What faults he had, I know not. I have heard 
 something of a peccadillo or so. But some little deviation 
 from the precise line of rectitude might have been winked 
 at in so tortuous and stigmatic a frame. Poor Sir Jeffery ! 
 it were well if some M.P.'s in earnest had passed their 
 parliamentary existence with no more offences against 
 integrity than could be laid to thy charge ! A fair dis- 
 missal was thy due, not so unkind a degradation ; some 
 little snug retreat, with a bit of green before thine eyes, 
 and not a burial alive in the fetid beggaries of Bethnal. 
 Thou wouldst have ended thy days in a manner more 
 appropriate to thy pristine dignity, installed in munificent 
 mockery (as in mock honours you had lived), a poor 
 Knight of Windsor ! 
 
 Every distinct place of public speaking demands an 
 oratory peculiar to itself. The forensic fails within the 
 walls of St. Stephen. Sir Jeffery was a living instance 
 of this ; for, in the flower of his popularity, an attempt 
 
292 REMINISCENCE OF SIR JEFFERY DUNSTAN. 
 
 was made to bring him out upon the stage (at which of 
 the winter theatres I forget, but I well remember the 
 anecdote) in the part of Doctor Last. The announcement 
 drew a crowded house; but, notwithstanding infinite 
 tutoring, by Foote or Garrick, I forget which, when 
 the curtain drew up, the heart of Sir Jeffery failed, and 
 he faltered on, and made nothing of his part, till the 
 hisses of the house at last, in very kindness, dismissed 
 him from the boards. Great as his parliamentary elo- 
 quence had shown itself, brilliantly as his off-hand sallies 
 had sparkled on a hustings, they here totally failed him. 
 Perhaps he had an aversion to borrowed wit, and, like 
 my Lord Foppington, disdained to entertain himself (or 
 others) with the forced products of another man's brain. 
 Your man of quality is more diverted with the natural 
 sprouts of his own. 
 
CAPTAIN STAEKEY. 
 
 (To the Editor of Hone's Every -Day Book.) 
 
 DEAR SIR, I read your account of this unfortunate 
 being, and his forlorn piece of self-history, with that smile 
 of half-interest which the Annals of Insignificance excite, 
 till I came to where he says, " I was bound apprentice 
 to Mr. William Bird, an eminent writer, and teacher of 
 languages and mathematics," etc.; when I started as one 
 does on the recognition of an old acquaintance in a supposed 
 stranger. This, then, was that Starkey of whom I have 
 heard my sister relate so many pleasing anecdotes ; and 
 whom, never having seen, I yet seem almost to remember. 
 For nearly fifty years, she had lost all sight of him ; and, 
 behold ! the gentle Usher of her youth, grown into an 
 aged Beggar, dubbed with an opprobrious title to which 
 he had no pretensions ; an object and a May-game ! To 
 what base purposes may we not return ! What may 
 not have been the meek creature's sufferings, what his 
 wanderings, before he finally settled down in the com- 
 parative comfort of an old Hospitaller of the Almonry of 
 Newcastle 1 And is poor Starkey dead ? 
 
 I was a scholar of that "eminent writer" that he 
 speaks of ; but Starkey had quitted the school about a 
 year before I came to it. Still the odour of his merits 
 had left a fragrancy upon the recollection of the elder 
 pupils. The schoolroom stands where it did, looking into 
 a discoloured, dingy garden in the passage leading from 
 Fetter Lane into Bartlett's Buildings. It is still a school, 
 though the main prop, alas ! has fallen so ingloriously ; 
 
294 CAFfAIN STARKEY. 
 
 and bears a Latin inscription over the entrance in the 
 lane, which was unknown in our humbler times. Heaven 
 knows what " languages " were taught in it then ! I 
 am sure that neither my sister nor myself brought any 
 out of it, but a little of our native English. By " mathe- 
 matics," reader, must be understood "ciphering." It 
 was, in fact, a humble day-school, at which reading and 
 writing were taught to us boys in the morning ; and the 
 same slender erudition was communicated to the girls, 
 our sisters, etc., in the evening. Now, Starkey presided, 
 under Bird, over both establishments. In my time, Mr. 
 Cook, now or lately a respectable singer and performer 
 at Drury Lane Theatre, and nephew to Mr. Bird, had 
 succeeded to him. I well remember Bird. He was a 
 squat, corpulent, middle-sized man, with something of 
 the gentleman about him, and that peculiar mild tone 
 especially while he was inflicting punishment which is so 
 much more terrible to children than the angriest looks and 
 gestures. Whippings were not frequent ; but, when they 
 took place, the correction was performed in a private 
 room adjoining, where we could only hear the plaints, but 
 saw nothing. This heightened the decorum and the 
 solemnity. But the ordinary chastisement was the bas- 
 tinado, a stroke or two on the palm with that almost 
 obsolete weapon now, the ferule. A ferule was a sort 
 of flat ruler, widened, at the inflicting end, into a shape 
 resembling a pear, but nothing like so sweet, with a 
 delectable hole in the middle to raise blisters, like a 
 cupping-glass. I have an intense recollection of that 
 disused instrument of torture, and the malignancy, in 
 proportion to the apparent mildness, with which its 
 strokes were applied. The idea of a rod is accompanied 
 with something ludicrous ; but by no process can I look 
 back upon this blister-raiser with anything but unmingled 
 horror. To make him look more formidable, if a 
 pedagogue had need of these heightenings, Bird wore 
 one of those flowered Indian gowns formerly in use with 
 schoolmasters, the strange figures upon which we used 
 
CAPTAIN STARKEY. 295 
 
 to interpret into hieroglyphics of pain and suffering. But, 
 boyish fears apart, Bird, I believe, was, in the main, a 
 humane and judicious master. 
 
 Oh, how I remember our legs wedged into those un- 
 comfortable sloping desks, where we sat elbowing each 
 other ; and the injunctions to attain a free hand, unattain- 
 able in that position ; the first copy I wrote after, with 
 its moral lesson, " Art improves Nature ;" the still earlier 
 pot-hooks and the hangers, some traces of which I fear 
 may yet be apparent in this manuscript ; the truant looks 
 side-long to the garden, which seemed a mockery of our 
 imprisonment ; the prize for best spelling which had 
 almost turned my head, and which, to this day, I cannot 
 reflect upon without a vanity, which I ought to be ashamed 
 of; our little leaden inkstands, not separately subsisting, 
 but sunk into the desks ; the bright, punctually-washed 
 morning fingers, darkening gradually with another and 
 another ink-spot ! What a world of little associated cir- 
 cumstances, pains, and pleasures, mingling their quotas 
 of pleasure, arise at the reading of those few simple 
 words, "Mr. William Bird, an eminent writer, and 
 teacher of languages and mathematics, in Fetter Lane, 
 Holborn!" 
 
 Poor Starkey, when young, had that peculiar stamp 
 of old-fashionedness in his face which makes it impossible 
 for a beholder to predicate any particular age in the object. 
 You can scarce make a guess between seventeen and 
 seven -and -thirty. This antique cast always seems to 
 promise ill-luck and penury. Yet it seems he was not 
 always the abject thing he came to. My sister, who 
 well remembers him, can hardly forgive Mr. Thomas 
 Ranson for making an etching so unlike her idea of him 
 when he was a youthful teacher at Mr. Bird's school. Old 
 age and poverty a life-long poverty, she thinks could 
 at no time have so effaced the marks of native gentility 
 which were once so visible in a face otherwise strikingly 
 ugly, thin, and care-worn. From her recollections of 
 him, she thinks that he would have wanted bread before 
 
296 CAPTAIN STARKEY. 
 
 he would have begged or borrowed a halfpenny. " If 
 any of the girls," she says, " who were my school-fellows, 
 should be reading, through their aged spectacles, tidings 
 from the dead, of their youthful friend Starkey, they will 
 feel a pang, as I do, at having teased his gentle spirit." 
 They were big girls, it seems too old to attend his in- 
 structions with the silence necessary ; and, however old 
 age and a long state of beggary seems to have reduced 
 his writing faculties to a state of imbecility, in those 
 days his language occasionally rose to the bold and figur- 
 ative ; for, when he was in despair to stop their chatter- 
 ing, his ordinary phrase was, "Ladies, if you will not 
 hold your peace, not all the powers in heaven can make 
 you." Once he was missing for a day or two : he had 
 run away. A little old unhappy-looking man brought 
 him back, it was his father, and he did no business in 
 the school that day, but sat moping in a corner, with his 
 hands before his face ; and the girls, his tormentors, in 
 pity for his case, for the rest of that day forbore to annoy 
 him. " I had been there but a few months," adds she, 
 " when Starkey, who was the chief instructor of us girls, 
 communicated to us a profound secret, that the tragedy 
 of Cato was shortly to be acted by the elder boys, and 
 that we were to be invited to the representation." That 
 Starkey lent a helping hand in fashioning the actors, she 
 remembers ; and, but for his unfortunate person, he might 
 have had some distinguished part in the scene to enact. 
 As it was, he had the arduous task of prompter assigned 
 to him, and his feeble voice was heard clear and distinct, 
 repeating the text during the whole performance. She 
 describes her recollection of the cast of characters, even 
 now, with a relish. Martia, by the handsome Edgar 
 Hickman, who afterwards went to Africa, and of whom 
 she never afterwards heard tidings; Lucia, by Master 
 Walker, whose sister was her particular friend : Cato, by 
 John Hunter, a masterly declaimer, but a plain boy, and 
 shorter by the head than his two sons in the scene, etc. 
 In conclusion, Starkey appears to have been one of those 
 
CAPTAIN STARKEY. 297 
 
 mild spirits, which, not originally deficient in understand 
 ing, are crushed by penury into dejection and feebleness. 
 He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament, 
 to society, if Fortune had taken him into a very little 
 fostering; but, wanting that, he became a captain, a 
 byword, and lived and died a broken bulrush. 
 
THE ASS. 
 
 MR. COLLIER, in his " Poetical Decameron " (Third Con- 
 versation), notices a tract printed in 1595, with the 
 author's initials only, A.B., entitled " The Noblenesse of 
 the Asse ; a work rare, learned, and excellent." He has 
 selected the following pretty passage from it : "He (the 
 ass) refuseth no burden : he goes whither he is sent, 
 without any contradiction. He lifts not his foote against 
 any one ; he bytes not ; he is no fugitive, nor malicious 
 affected. He doth all things in good sort, and to his 
 liking that hath cause to employ him. If strokes be 
 given him, he cares not for them ; and, as our modern 
 poet singeth, 
 
 " 'Thou wouldst (perhaps) he should become thy foe, 
 And to that end dost beat him many times : 
 He cares not for himselfe, much less thy blow.' " l 
 
 Certainly Nature, foreseeing the cruel usage which 
 this useful servant to man should receive at man's hand, 
 did prudently in furnishing him with a tegument imper- 
 vious to ordinary stripes. The malice of a child or a 
 weak hand can make feeble impressions on him. His 
 back offers no mark to a puny foeman. To a common 
 whip or switch his hide presents an absolute insensibility. 
 You might as well pretend to scourge a schoolboy with 
 a tough pair of leather breeches on. His jerkin is well 
 
 1 Who this modern poet was, says Mr. C , is a secret worth 
 discovering. The woodcut on the title of the Pamphlet is an Ass 
 with a wreath of laurel round his neck. 
 
THE ASS. 299 
 
 fortified , and therefore the costermongers, " between the 
 years 1790 and 1800," did more politicly than piously in 
 lifting up a part of his upper garment. I well remember 
 that beastly and bloody custom. I have often longed to 
 see one of those refiners in discipline himself at the cart's 
 tail, with just such a convenient spot laid bare to the 
 tender mercies of the whipster. But, sine.e Nature has 
 resumed her rights, it is to be hoped that this patient 
 creature does not suffer to extremities ; and that, to the 
 savages who still belabour his poor carcass with their 
 blows (considering the sort of anvil they are laid upon), 
 he might in some sort, if he could speak, exclaim with 
 the philosopher, " Lay on : you beat but upon the case 
 of Anaxarchus." 
 
 Contemplating this natural safeguard, this fortified 
 exterior, it is with pain I view the sleek; foppish, combed, 
 and curried person of this animal as he is disnaturalised 
 at watering-places, etc., where they affect to make a 
 palfrey of him. Fie on all such sophistications ! It will 
 never do, Master Groom. Something of his honest, shaggy 
 exterior will still peep up in spite of you, his good, 
 rough, native, pine-apple coating. You cannot "refine 
 a scorpion into a fish, though you rinse it and scour it 
 with ever so cleanly cookery." 1 
 
 The modern poet quoted by A.B. proceeds to celebrate 
 a virtue for which no one to this day had been aware 
 that the ass was remarkable : 
 
 " One other gift this beast hath as his owne, 
 Wherewith the rest could not be furnished ; 
 On man himself the same was not bestowne : 
 To wit, on him is ne'er engendered 
 The hateful vermine that doth teare the skin, 
 And to the bode [body] doth make his passage in." 
 
 And truly, when one thinks on the suit of impenetrable 
 
 armour with which Nature (like Vulcan to another 
 
 Achilles) has provided him, these subtle enemies to our 
 
 repose would have shown some dexterity in getting into 
 
 1 Milton from memory. 
 
300 THE ASS. 
 
 M-s quarters. As the bogs of Ireland by tradition expel 
 toads and reptiles, he may well defy these small deer 
 in his fastnesses. It seems the latter had not arrived 
 at the exquisite policy adopted by the human vermin 
 "between 1790 and 1800." 
 
 But the most singular and delightful gift of the Ass, 
 according to the writer of this pamphlet, is his voice, 
 the "goodly, sweet, and continual brayings" of which, 
 "whereof they forme a melodious and proportionable 
 kinde of musicke," seem to have affected him with no 
 ordinary pleasure. "Nor thinke I," he adds, "that any 
 of our immoderate musicians can deny but that their 
 song is full of exceeding pleasure to be heard ; because 
 therein is to be discerned both concord, discord, singing 
 in the meane, the beginning to sing in large compasse, 
 then following into rise and fall, the halfe-note, whole 
 note, musicke of five voices, firme singing by four voices, 
 three together, or one voice and a halfe. Then their 
 variable contrarities amongst them, when one delivers 
 forth a long tenor or a short, the pausing for time, 
 breathing in measure, breaking the minim or very least 
 moment of time. Last of all, to heare the musicke of 
 five or six voices chaunged to so many of asses is amongst 
 them to heare a song of world without end." 
 
 There is no accounting for ears, or for that laudable 
 enthusiasm with which an author is tempted to invest a 
 favourite subject with the most incompatible perfections : 
 I should otherwise, for my own taste, have been inclined 
 rather to have given a place to these extraordinary 
 musicians at that banquet of nothing -less -than -sweet- 
 sounds, imagined by old Jeremy Collier (Essays, 1698, 
 part ii. on Music), where, after describing the inspiriting 
 effects of martial music in a battle, he hazards an ingeni- 
 ous conjecture, whether a sort of anti-music might not be 
 invented, which should have quite the contrary effect of 
 "sinking the spirits, shaking the nerves, curdling the 
 blood, and inspiring despair and cowardice and consterna- 
 tion. 'Tis probable," he says, " the roaring of lions, the 
 
THE ASS. 301 
 
 warbling of cats and screech-owls, together with a mixture 
 of the howling of dogs, judiciously imitated and com- 
 pounded, might go a great way in this invention." The 
 dose, we confess, is pretty potent, and skilfully enough 
 prepared. But what shall we say to the Ass of Silenus, 
 who, if we may trust to classic lore, by his own proper 
 sounds, without thanks to cat or screech-owl, dismayed 
 and put to rout a whole army of giants ? Here was anti- 
 music with a vengeance ; a whole Pan-Dis-Harmonicon 
 in a single lungs of leather ! 
 
 But I keep you trifling too long on this Asinine 
 subject. I have already passed the Pans Asinorum, and 
 will desist, remembering the old pedantic pun of Jem 
 Boyer, my schoolmaster, 
 
 "Ass in prcesenti seldom makes a WISE MAN in 
 futuro" 
 
IN BJE SQUIEEELS. 
 
 WHAT is gone with the Cages with the climbing 
 Squirrel, and bells to them, which were formerly the 
 indispensable appendage to the outside of a tinman's 
 shop, and were, in fact, the only Live Signs ? One, we 
 believe, still hangs out on Holborn; but they are fast 
 vanishing with the good old modes of our ancestors. 
 They seem to have been superseded by that still more 
 ingenious refinement of modern humanity, the tread- 
 mill; in which human squirrels still perform a similar 
 round of ceaseless, unprogressive clambering, which must 
 be nuts to them. 
 
 We almost doubt the fact of the teeth of this creature 
 being so purely orange -coloured as Mr. Urban's corre- 
 spondent gives out. One of our old poets and they 
 were pretty sharp observers of Nature describes them 
 as brown. But perhaps the naturalist referred to meant 
 "of the colour of a Maltese Orange," 1 which is rather 
 more obfuscated than your fruit of Seville or St. Michael's, 
 and may help to reconcile the difference. We cannot 
 speak from observation \ but we remember at school 
 getting our fingers into the orangery of one of these little 
 
 1 Fletcher in the " Faithful Shepherdess." The satyr offers to 
 Clorin 
 
 "Grapes whose lusty blood 
 Is the learned poet's good, 
 Sweeter yet did never crown 
 The head of Bacchus ; nuts more brown 
 Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them." 
 
IN RE SQUIRRELS. 303 
 
 gentry (not having a due caution of the traps set there), 
 and the result proved sourer than lemons. The author 
 of the " Task " somewhere speaks of their anger as being 
 "insignificantly fierce;" but we found the demonstration 
 of it on this occasion quite as significant as we desired, 
 and have not been disposed since to look any of these 
 " gift horses " in the mouth. Maiden aunts keep these 
 " small deer," as they do parrots, to bite people's fingers, 
 on purpose to give them good advice " not to adventure 
 so near the cage another time." As for their " six 
 quavers divided into three quavers and a dotted crotchet," 
 I suppose they may go into Jeremy Bentham's next 
 budget of fallacies, along with the " melodious and pro- 
 portionable kinde of musicke " recorded, in your last 
 number, of another highly-gifted animal 
 
DEFOE'S SECONDAKY NOVELS. 
 
 IT has happened not seldom that one work of some 
 author has so trauscendently surpassed in execution the 
 rest of his compositions, that the world has agreed to pass 
 a sentence of dismissal upon the latter, and to consign 
 them to total neglect and oblivion. It has done wisely 
 in this not to suffer the contemplation of excellences of 
 a lower standard to abate or stand in the way of the 
 pleasure it has agreed to receive from the masterpiece. 
 
 Again : it has happened, that from no inferior merit 
 of execution in the rest, but from superior good fortune 
 in the choice of its subject, some single work shall have 
 been suffered to eclipse and cast into shade the deserts of 
 its less fortunate brethren. This has been done with 
 more or less injustice in the case of the popular allegory 
 of Bunyan, in which the beautiful and scriptural image 
 of a pilgrim or wayfarer (we are all such upon earth), 
 addressing itself intelligibly and feelingly to the bosoms 
 of all, has silenced, and made almost to be forgotten, the 
 more awful and scarcely less tender beauties of the " Holy 
 War made by Shaddai upon Diabolus," of the same author, 
 a romance less happy in its subject, but surely well 
 worthy of a secondary immortality. But in no instance 
 has this excluding partiality been exerted with more 
 unfairness than against what may be termed the secondary 
 novels or romances of Defoe. 
 
 While all ages and descriptions of people hang delighted 
 over the "Adventures of Robinson Crusoe," and shall 
 continue to do so, we trust while the world lasts, how 
 
DEFOE'S SECONDARY NOVELS. 305 
 
 few comparatively will bear to be told that there exist 
 other fictitious narratives by the same writer, four of 
 them at least of no inferior interest, except what results 
 from a less felicitous choice of situation ! " Roxana," 
 " Singleton," " Moll Flanders," " Colonel Jack," are all 
 genuine offspring of the same father. They bear the 
 veritable impress of Defoe. An unpractised midwife that 
 would not swear to the nose, lip, forehead, and eye of 
 every one of them ! They are, in their way, as full of 
 incident, and some of them every bit as romantic ; only 
 they want the uninhabited island, and the charm that 
 has bewitched the world, of the striking solitary situation. 
 
 But are there no solitudes out of the cave and the 
 desert 1 or cannot the heart in the midst of crowds feel 
 frightfully alone? Singleton on the world of waters, 
 prowling about with pirates less merciful than the creatures 
 of any howling wilderness, is he not alone, with the 
 faces of men about him, but without a guide that can 
 conduct him through the mists of educational and habitual 
 ignorance, or a fellow-heart that can interpret to him the 
 new-born yearnings and aspirations of unpractised peni- 
 tence 1 Or when the boy Colonel Jack, in the loneliness 
 of the heart (the worst solitude), goes to hide his ill- 
 purchased treasure in the hollow tree by night, and 
 miraculously loses, and miraculously finds it again, 
 whom hath he there to sympathise with him 1 or of what 
 sort are his associates 1 
 
 The narrative manner of Defoe has a naturalness about 
 it beyond that of any other novel or romance writer. His 
 fictions have all the air of true stories. It is impossible 
 to believe, while you are reading them, that a real person 
 is not narrating to you everywhere nothing but what 
 really happened to himself. To this the extreme homeli- 
 ness of their style mainly contributes. We use the word 
 in its best and heartiest sense, that which comes home 
 to the reader. The narrators everywhere are chosen from 
 low life, or have had their origin in it : therefore they tell 
 their own tales (Mr. Coleridge has anticipated us in this 
 x 
 
306 DEFOE'S SECONDARY NOVELS. 
 
 remark), as persons in their degree are observed to do, 
 with infinite repetition, and an overacted exactness, lest 
 the hearer should not have minded, or have forgotten, 
 some things that had been told before. Hence the 
 emphatic sentences marked in the good old (but deserted) 
 Italic type ; and hence, too, the frequent interposition of 
 the reminding old colloquial parenthesis, "I say," "Mind," 
 and the like, when the story-teller repeats what, to a 
 practised reader, might appear to have been sufficiently 
 insisted upon before: which made an ingenious critic 
 observe, that his works, in this kind, were excellent read- 
 ing for the kitchen. And, in truth, the heroes and heroines 
 of Defoe can never again hope to be popular with a much 
 higher class of readers than that of the servant-maid or 
 the sailor. Crusoe keeps its rank only by tough prescrip- 
 tion. Singleton, the pirate; Colonel Jack, the thief; 
 Moll Flanders, both thief and harlot ; Roxana, harlot and 
 something worse, would be startling ingredients in the 
 bill of fare of modern literary delicacies. But, then, 
 what pirates, what thieves, and what harlots, are the thief, 
 the harlot, and the pirate of Defoe ! We would not hesi- 
 tate to say, that in no other book of fiction, where the 
 lives of such characters are described, is guilt and delin- 
 quency made less seductive, or the suffering made more 
 closely to follow the commission, or the penitence more 
 earnest or more bleeding, or the intervening flashes of 
 religious visitation upon the rude and uninstructed soul 
 more meltingly and fearfully painted. They, in this, come 
 near to the tenderness of Bunyan; while the livelier 
 pictures and incidents in them, as in Hogarth or in Field- 
 ing, tend to diminish the fastidiousness to the concerns 
 and pursuits of common life which an unrestrained passion 
 for the ideal and the sentimental is in danger of producing. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF 
 A LATE ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 
 
 WHAT Apelles was to the Grecian Alexander, the same 
 to the Russian was the late G D . None but 
 Apelles might attempt the lineaments of the world's con- 
 queror ; none but our Academician could have done justice 
 to the lines of the Czar and his courtiers. There they 
 hang, the labour of ten plodding years, in an endless 
 gallery, erected for the nonce, in the heart of Imperial 
 Petersburgh eternal monuments of barbarian taste sub- 
 mitted to half civilised cunning four hundred fierce 
 Half-Lengths, all male, and all military ; like the pit in 
 a French theatre, or the characters in Tim on as it was 
 last acted, with never a woman among them. Chaste 
 sitters to Vandyke, models of grace and womanhood ; and 
 thou Dame Venetia Digby, fairest among thy fair compeers 
 at Windsor, hide your pure pale cheeks, and cool English 
 beauties, before this suffocating horde of Scythian riflers, 
 this male chaos 1 Your cold' oaken frames shall wane 
 before the gorgeous gildings, 
 
 With Tartar faces throng'd, and horrent uniforms. 
 
 One emperor contended for the monopoly of the ancient; 
 two were competitors at once for the pencil of the modern 
 Apelles. The Russian carried it against the Haytian by 
 a single length. And if fate, as it was at one time nearly 
 arranged, had wafted D. to the shores of Hayti with 
 the same complacency, in his art, with which he persisted 
 
308 RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 
 
 in daubing in, day after day, his frozen Muscovites, he 
 would have sate down for life to smutch in upon canvas 
 the faces of blubber-lipped sultanas, or the whole male 
 retinue of the dingy court of Christophe. For in truth 
 a choice of subjects was the least of D.'s care. A Goddess 
 from Cnidus, or from the Caffre coast, was equal to him ; 
 Lot or Lot's wife ; the charming widow H., or her late 
 husband. 
 
 My acquaintance with D. was in the outset of his 
 art, when the graving tools, rather than the pencil, ad- 
 ministered to his humble wants. Those implements, as 
 is well known, are not the most favourable to the culti- 
 vation of that virtue, which is esteemed next to godliness. 
 He might " wash his hands in innocency," and so meta- 
 phorically "approach an altar/' but his material puds 
 were anything but fit to be carried to church. By an 
 ingrained economy in soap if it was not for pictorial 
 effect rather he would wash (on Sundays) the inner 
 oval, or portrait, as it may be termed, of his countenance, 
 leaving the unwashed temples to form a natural black 
 frame round the picture, in which a dead white was the 
 predominant colour. This, with the addition of green 
 spectacles made necessary by the impairment, which his 
 graving labours by day and night (for he was ordinarily 
 at them for sixteen hours out of the twenty-four) had 
 brought upon his visual faculties, gave him a singular 
 appearance, when he took the air abroad; insomuch, 
 that I have seen a crowd of young men and boys follow- 
 ing him along Oxford Street with admiration not without 
 shouts ; even as the Youth of Rome, we read in Vasari, 
 followed the steps of Raphael with acclamations for his 
 genius, and for his beauty, when he proceeded from his 
 workshop to chat with Cardinals and Popes at the 
 Vatican. 
 
 The family of D. were not at this time in affluent 
 circumstances. His father, a clever artist, had outlived 
 the style of art in which he excelled most of his contem- 
 poraries. He, with the father of the celebrated Morland, 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 309 
 
 worked for the shop of Carrington and Bowles, which 
 exists still for the poorer sort of caricatures, on the north 
 side of St. Paul's Church Yard. They did clever things 
 in colours. At an inn in Reading a screen is still pre- 
 served, full of their labours; but the separate portions 
 of either artist are now undistinguishable. I remember 
 a Mother teaching her Child to read (B. Barton has a 
 copy of it) ; a Laundress washing ; a young Quaker, a 
 beautiful subject. But the flower of their forgotten pro- 
 ductions hangs still at a public-house on the left hand, 
 as thou arrivest, reader, from the now Highgate archway, 
 at the foot of the descent where Crouch End begins, on 
 thy road to green Hornsey. Turn in, and look at it, for 
 the sight is well worth a cup of excusatory cyder. In 
 the parlour to the right you will find it an antiquated 
 subject a damsel sitting at her breakfast table in a 
 gown of the flowered chintz of our grandmothers, with a 
 tea-service before her of the same pattern. The effect 
 is most delicate. Why have these harmonies these 
 agremens no place in the works of modern art 1 
 
 With such niceties in his calling D. did not much 
 trouble his head, but, after an ineffectual experiment to 
 reconcile his eye-sight with his occupation, boldly quitted 
 it, and dashed into the beaten road of common -place 
 portraiture in oil. The Hopners, and the Lawrences, 
 were his Vandykes, and his Velasquezes ; and if he could 
 make anything like them, he insured himself immortality. 
 With such guides he straggled on through laborious 
 nights and days, till he reached the eminence he aimed 
 at of mediocrity. Having gained that summit, he sate 
 down contented. If the features were but cognoscible, 
 no matter whether the flesh resembled flesh, or oil-skin. 
 For the thousand tints the grains which in life diversify 
 the nose, the chin, the cheek which a Reynolds can but 
 coarsely counterfeit he cared nothing at all about them. 
 He left such scrupulosities to opticians and anatomists. 
 If the features were but there, the character of course 
 could not be far off. A lucky hit which he made in 
 
310 RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 
 
 painting the very dress of a dressy lady Mrs. W e , 
 whose handsome countenance also, and tall elegance of 
 shape, were too palpable entirely to escape under any 
 masque of oil, with which even D. could overlay them 
 brought to him at once an influx of sitters, which almost 
 rivalled the importunate calls upon Sir Thomas. A 
 portrait he did soon after, of the Princess Charlotte, 
 clenched his fame. He proceeded Academician. At 
 that memorable conjuncture of time it pleased the Allied 
 Sovereigns to visit England. 
 
 I called upon D. to congratulate him upon a crisis 
 so doubly eventful. His pleasant housekeeper seemed 
 embarrassed; owned that her master was alone. But 
 could he be spoken with 1 With some importunity I 
 prevailed upon her to usher me into his painting-room. 
 It was in Newman Street. At his easel stood D., with 
 an immense spread of canvas before him, and by his side 
 a live goose. I inquired into this extraordinary com- 
 bination. Under the rose he informed me, that he had 
 undertaken to paint a transparency for Vauxhall, against 
 an expected visit of the Allied Sovereigns to that place. 
 I smiled at an engagement so derogatory to his new-born 
 honours ; but a contempt of small gains was never one 
 of D.'s foibles. My eyes beheld crude forms of warriors, 
 kings, rising under his brush upon this interminable 
 stretch of cloth. The Wolga, the Don, and the Nieper, 
 were there, or their representative River Gods; and 
 Father Thames clubbed urns with the Vistula. Glory 
 with her dazzling eagle was not absent, nor Fame, nor 
 Victory. The shade of Rubens might have evoked the 
 mighty allegories. But what was the Goose 1 He was 
 evidently sitting for a something. 
 
 D. at last informed me, that having fixed upon a 
 group of rivers, he could not introduce the Royal Thames 
 without his swans. That he had inquired the price of 
 a live swan, and it being more than he was prepared to 
 give for it, he had bargained with the poulterer for the 
 next thing to it; adding significantly, that it would do 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 311 
 
 to roast, after it had served its turn to paint swans by. 
 Reader, this is a true story. 
 
 So entirely devoid of imagination, or any feeling for 
 his high art, was this Painter, that for the few historical 
 pictures he attempted, any sitter might sit for any char- 
 acter. He took once for a subject The Infant Hercules. 
 Did he choose for a model some robust antique ? No. 
 He did not even pilfer from Sir Joshua, who was nearer 
 to his own size. But from a show he hired to sit to him 
 a child in years indeed (though no Infant), but in fact a 
 precocious Man, or human portent, that was disgustingly 
 exhibiting at that period ; a thing to be strangled. From 
 this he formed his Infant Hercules. In a scriptural flight 
 he next attempted a Samson in the lap of Dalilah. A 
 Dalilah of some sort was procurable for love or money, 
 but who should stand for the Jewish Hercules? He 
 hired a tolerably stout porter, with a thickish head of 
 hair, curling in yellowish locks, but lithe much like a 
 wig. And these were the robust strengths of Samson. 
 
 I once was a witness to a family scene in his painting 
 closet, which I had entered .rather abruptly, and but for 
 his encouragement, should as hastily have retreated. He 
 stood with displeased looks eyeing a female relative 
 whom I had known under happier auspices that was 
 kneeling at his feet with a baby in her arms, with her 
 eyes uplifted and suppliant. Though I could have pre- 
 viously sworn to the virtue of Miss ; , yet casual slips 
 
 have been known. There are such things as families 
 disgraced, where least you would heve expected it The 
 
 child might be ; I had heard of no wedding I 
 
 \vas the last person to pry into family secrets when D. 
 relieved my uneasy cogitations by explaining, that the 
 innocent, good-humoured creature before me (such as she 
 ever was, and is now that she is married) with a baby 
 borrowed from a public-house, was acting Andromache to 
 his Ulysses, for the purpose of transferring upon canvas 
 a tender situation from the Troades of Seneca. 
 
 On a subsequent occasion I knocked at D.'s door. I 
 
312 RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 
 
 had chanced to have been in a dreamy humour previously. 
 T am not one that often poetises, but I had been musing 
 coxcombically enough in the heart of Newman Street, 
 Oxford Road upon Pindus, and the Aonian Maids. The 
 Lover of Daphne was in my mind when, answering to 
 my summons, the door opened, and there stood before me, 
 laurel-crowned, the God himself, unshorn Apollo. I was 
 beginning to mutter apologies to the Celestial Presence 
 when on the thumb of the right hand of the Delian (his 
 left held the harp) I spied a palette, such as painters 
 carry, which immediately reconciled me to the whimsical 
 transformation of my old acquaintance with his own 
 face, certainly any other than Grecianesque into a 
 temporary image of the oracle -giver of Delphos. To 
 have impersonated the Ithacan was little : he had been 
 just sitting for a God. It would be no incurious inquiry 
 to ascertain what the minimum of the faculty of imagina- 
 tion, ever supposed essential to painters along with poets, 
 is, that, in these days of complaints of want of patronage 
 
 towards the fine arts, suffices to dub a man a R 1 
 
 A n. 
 
 Not only had D. no imagination to guide him in the 
 treatment of such subjects, but he had no relish for high 
 art in the productions of the great masters. He turned 
 away from them as from something foreign and irrelative 
 to him, and his calling. He knew he had neither part 
 nor portion in them. Cozen him into the Stafford or 
 the Angerstein Gallery, he involuntarily turned away 
 from the Baths of Diana the Four Ages of Guercino 
 the Lazarus of Piombo to some pretty piece of modern 
 art that had been inconsistently thrust into the collection 
 through favour. On that he would dwell and pore, blind 
 as the dead to the delicacies that surrounded him. There 
 he might learn something. There he might pilfer a little. 
 There was no grappling with Titian or Angelo. 
 
 The narrowness of his domestic habits to the very 
 last, was the consequence of his hard bringing up, and 
 unexpected emergence into opulence. While rolling up 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 313 
 
 to the ears in Russian roubles, a penny was still in his 
 eyes the same important thing, which it had with some 
 reason seemed to be, when a few shillings were his daily 
 earnings. When he visited England a short time before 
 his death, he reminded an artist of a commission, which 
 he had executed for him in Russia, the package of which 
 was "still unpaid." At this time he was not unreason- 
 ably supposed to have realised a sum little short of half 
 a million sterling. What became of it was never known ; 
 what gulf, or what Arctic vorago, sucked it in, his 
 acquaintance in those parts have better means of guess- 
 ing, than his countrymen. It is certain that few of the 
 latter were anything the better for it. 
 
 It was before he expatriated himself, but subsequently 
 to his acquisition of pictorial honours in this country, 
 that he brought home two of his brother Academicians 
 to dine with him. He had given no orders extraordinary 
 to his housekeeper. He trusted, as he always did, to her 
 providing. She was a shrewd lass, and knew, as we say, 
 a bit of her master's mind. 
 
 It had happened that on the day before, D. passing 
 near Clare Market by one of those open shambles, where 
 tripe and cow-heel are exposed for sale, his eye was 
 arrested by the sight of some tempting flesh rolled up. 
 It is a part of the intestines of some animal, which my 
 olfactory sensibilities never permitted me to stay long 
 enough to inquire the name of. D. marked the curious 
 involutions of the unacquainted luxury ; the harmony of 
 its colours a sable vert pleased his eye ; and, warmed 
 with the prospect of a new flavour, for a few farthings he 
 bore it off in triumph to his housekeeper. It so happened 
 that his day's dinner was provided, so the cooking of the 
 novelty was for that time necessarily suspended. 
 
 Next day came. The hour of dinner approached. His 
 visitors, with no very romantic anticipations, expected a 
 plain meal at least ; they were prepared for no new 
 dainties ; when, to the astonishment of them, and almost 
 of D. himself, the purchase of the preceding day was 
 
314 RECOLLECTIONS OF A ROYAL ACADEMICIAN. 
 
 served up piping hot the cook declaring, that she did 
 not know well what it was, for "her master always 
 marketed." His guests were not so happy in their 
 ignorance. They kept dogs. 
 
 I will do D. the justice to say, that on such occasions 
 he took what happened in the best humour possible. He 
 had no false modesty though I have generally observed, 
 that persons, who are quite deficient in that mauvaise 
 honte, are seldon over-troubled with the quality itself, of 
 which it is the counterfeit. 
 
 By what arts, with his pretensions, D. contrived to 
 wriggle himself into a seat in the Academy, I am not 
 acquainted enough with the intrigues of that body (more 
 involved than those of an Italian conclave) to pronounce. 
 It is certain, that neither for love to him, nor out of any 
 respects to his talents, did they elect him. Individually 
 he was obnoxious to them all. I have heard that, in his 
 passion for attaining this object, he went so far as to go 
 down upon his knees to some of the members, whom he 
 thought least favourable, and beg their suffrage with 
 many tears. 
 
 But death, which extends the measure of a man's 
 stature to appearance ; and wealth, which men worship 
 in life and death, which makes giants of punies, and 
 enbalms insignificance ; called around the exequies of this 
 pigmy Painter the rank, the riches, the fashion of the 
 world. By Academic hands his pall was borne ; by the 
 carriages of nobles of the land, and of ambassadors from 
 foreign powers, his bier was followed ; and St. Paul's 
 (0 worthy casket for the shrine of such a Zeuxis) now 
 
 holds ALL THAT WAS MORTAL OF G. D. 
 
KEMAKKABLE COKKESPONDENT. 
 
 (To the Editor of the Every-Day Book.} 
 
 SIR I am the youngest of Three hundred and sixty-six 
 brethren there are no fewer of us who have the honour, 
 in the words of the good old song, to call the Sun our 
 Dad. You have done the rest of our family the favour 
 of bestowing an especial compliment upon each member 
 of it individually I mean as far as you have gone : for 
 it will take you some time before you can make your bow 
 all round and I have no reason to think it is your inten- 
 tion to neglect any of us but poor Me. Some you have 
 hung round with flowers ; others you have made fine with 
 martyrs' palms and saintly garlands. The most insignifi- 
 cant of us you have sent away pleased with some fitting 
 apologue or pertinent story. What have I done that you 
 dismiss me without mark or attribute 1 What though I 
 make my public appearance seldomer than the rest of my 
 brethren? I thought that angels' visits had been ac- 
 counted the more precious for their very rarity. Reserve 
 was always looked upon as dignified. I am seen but 
 once for four times that my brethren obtrude themselves ; 
 making their presence cheap and contemptible in com- 
 parison with the state which I keep. 
 
 Am I not a Day (when I do come) to all purposes, as 
 much as any of them. Decompose me, anatomise me ; 
 you will find that I am constituted like the rest. Divide 
 me into twenty-four, and you will find that I cut up into 
 as many goodly hours (or main limbs) as the rest. I too 
 
316 REMARKABLE CORRESPONDENT. 
 
 have my arteries and pulses, which are the minutes and 
 the seconds. 
 
 It is hard to be dis-familied thus, like Cinderella in her 
 rags and ashes, while her sisters flaunted it about in 
 cherry-coloured ribbons and favours. My brethren, for- 
 sooth, are to be dubbed ; one Saint Day ; another Pope 
 Day ; a third Bishop Day ; the least of them is Squire 
 Day, or Mr. Day, while I am plain Day. Our house, 
 Sir, is a very ancient one, and the least of us is too proud 
 to put up with an indignity. What though I am but a 
 younger brother in some sense for the youngest of my 
 brethren is by some thousand years my senior yet I 
 bid fair to inherit as long as any of them, while I have 
 the Calendar to show ; which, you must understand, is 
 our Title Deeds. 
 
 Not content with slurring me over with a bare and 
 naked acknowledgment of my occasional visitation in 
 prose, you have done your best to deprive me of my 
 verse honours. In column 310 of your Book, you quote 
 an antique scroll, leaving out the last couplet, as if on 
 purpose to affront me. " Thirty days hath September " 
 so you transcribe very faithfully for four lines, and 
 most invidiously suppress the exceptive clause : 
 
 " Except in Leap Year, that's the time 
 When February's days hath twenty and ." 
 
 I need not set down the rhyme which should follow ; I 
 dare say you know it very well, though you were pleased 
 to leave it out. These indignities demand reparation. 
 While you have time it will be well for you to make the 
 amende honorable. Ransack your stories, learned Sir, 
 I pray of you, for some attribute, biographical, anec- 
 dotical, or floral, to invest me with. Did nobody die, 
 or nobody flourish was nobody born upon any of my 
 periodical visits to this globe? Does the world stand 
 still as often as I vouchsafe to appear 1 Am I a blank 
 in the Almanac 1 Alms for oblivion ? If you don't find 
 a flower at least to grace me with (a Forget-Me-Not 
 
REMARKABLE CORRESPONDENT 317 
 
 would cheer me in ray present obscurity), I shall prove 
 the worst day to you you ever saw in your life : and your 
 work, instead of the title it now vaunts, must be content 
 (every fourth year at least) to go by the lame appellation 
 of, The Every-Day-but-one-Book. 
 
 Yours, as you treat me, 
 
 1VENTY-NINTH OF FEBRUARY. 
 
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF AN 
 UNFOKTUNATE DAY. 
 
 (To the Editor of the Every -Day Booh) 
 
 SIR I am a poor wronged Day. I appeal to you as the 
 general patron of the family of the Days. The candour 
 with which you attended to the expostulations of a poor 
 relative of ours a sort of cousin thrice removed 1 en- 
 courages me to hope that you will listen to the complaint 
 of a Day of rather more consequence. I am the Day, 
 Sir, upon which it pleased the course of Nature that your 
 Gracious Sovereign should be born. As such, before his 
 accession, I was always observed and honoured. But 
 since that happy event, in which naturally none had a 
 greater interest than myself, a flaw has been discovered 
 in my title. My lustre has been eclipsed, and to use 
 the words of one of your own poets 
 
 " I fade into the light of common Day I" 
 It seems that about that time an Impostor crept into 
 Court, who has the effrontery to usurp my honours, and 
 to style herself the King's Birthday, upon some shallow 
 pretence, that, being St. George's Day, she must needs 
 be King George's Day also. All Saints' Day we have 
 heard of, and All Souls' Day we are willing to admit ; 
 but does it follow that this foolish Twenty-third of April 
 must be All Georges' Day, and enjoy a monopoly of the 
 whole name, from George of Cappadocia to George of 
 Leyden, and from George-a-Green down to George Dyer 1 
 1 Twenty-ninth day of February. 
 
HUMBLE PETITION OF AN UNFORTUNATE DAY. 319 
 
 It looks a little oddly that I was discarded not long 
 after the discussions of a set of men and measures, with 
 whom I have nothing in common. I hope no whisperer 
 has insinuated into the ears of Koyalty, as if I were any- 
 thing whiggishly inclined, which, in my heart I abhor, 
 all these kinds of Revolutions, by which I am sure to be 
 the greatest sufferer. 
 
 I wonder my shameless rival can have the face to let 
 the Tower and Park guns proclaim so many big thunder- 
 ing fibs as they do upon her Anniversary making your 
 Sovereign to be older than he really is by an hundred 
 and odd days, which is no great compliment, one would 
 think. Consider if this precedent for ante-dating of 
 Births should become general, what confusion it must 
 make in the Parish Registers; what crowds of young 
 heirs we should have coming of age before they are one- 
 and-twenty, with numberless similar grievances. If these 
 chops and changes are suffered, we shall have Lvrd 
 Mayor's Day eating her custard unauthentically in May, 
 and Guy Faux preposterously blazing twice over in the 
 Dog Days. 
 
 I humbly submit that it is not within the prerogatives 
 of Royalty itself to be born twice over. We have read 
 of the supposititious births of princes, but where are the 
 evidences of this first birth ? Why are not the nurses 
 in attendance, the midwife, etc., produced? the silly 
 story has not so much as a Warming-pan to support it. 
 
 My legal advisers, to comfort me, tell me that I have 
 the right on my side ; I am the true Birth-Day, and the 
 other Day is only kept. But what consolation is this to 
 me, as long as this naughiy-kept-creature keeps me out 
 of my dues and privileges ? 
 
 Pray take my unfortunate case into your considera- 
 tion, and see that I am restored to my lawful Rejoicings, 
 Firings, Bon-firings, Illuminations, etc. 
 
 And your Petitioner shall ever pray. 
 
 TWELFTH DAY OF AUGUST. 
 
MJRS. GILPIN EIDING TO EDMONTON. 
 
 Then Mrs. Gilpin sweetly said 
 
 Unto her children three, 
 " I'll clamber o'er this stile so high, 
 
 And you'll climb after me." 
 But having climbed unto the top, 
 
 She could no further go : 
 But sate to every passer by 
 
 A spectacle and show : 
 Who said " Your spouse and you this day 
 
 Will show your horsemanship ; 
 And if you stay till he comes back, 
 
 Your horse will need no whip." 
 
 THE sketch here engraved (probably from the poet's 
 friend, Romney), was found with the above three stanzas 
 in the handwriting of Cowper, among the papers of the 
 late Mrs. Unwin. It is to be regretted that no more 
 was found of this little Episode, as it evidently was 
 intended to be, in the "Diverting History of Johnny 
 Gilpin." It is to be supposed that Mrs. Gilpin, in the 
 interval between dinner and tea, finding the time to 
 hang upon her hands, during her husband's involuntary 
 excursion, rambled out with the children into the fields 
 at the back of the Bell (as what could be more natural 1) ; 
 and at one of these high awkward stiles, for which 
 Edmonton is so proverbially famed, the embarrassment 
 represented, so mystifying to a substantial City madam, 
 might have happened ; a predicament which leaves her 
 in a state which is the very Antipodes to that of her 
 too -locomotive husband. In fact, she rides a restive 
 horse. Now I talk of Edmonton stiles, I must speak a 
 
MRS. GILPIN RIDING TO EDMONTON. 321 
 
 little about those of Enfield, its next neighbour, which 
 are so ingeniously contrived every rising bar to the top 
 becoming more protuberant than the one under it that 
 it is impossible for any Christian climber to get over 
 without bruising his (or her) shins as many times as 
 there are bars. These inhospitable invitations to a flayed 
 skin are planted so thickly too, and are so troublesomely 
 importunate at every little paddock here, that this, with 
 more propriety than Thebes of old, might be entitled 
 Hecatompolis : the Town of the Hundred Gates or Stiles. 
 
 A SOJOUBNER AT ENFIELI). 
 July 16, 1827. 
 
SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 THERE is a Saturday night I speak not to the admirers 
 of Burns erotically or theologically considered; HIS of 
 the " Cotter's " may be a very charming picture, granting 
 it to be but half true. Nor speak I now of the Saturday 
 Night at Sea, which Dibdin hath dressed up with a gusto 
 more poignant to the mere nautical palate of un-Calvinised 
 South Britons. Nor that it is marketing night with the 
 pretty tripping servant-maids all over London, who with 
 judicious and economic eye, select the white and well- 
 blown fillet, that the blue-aproned contunder of the calf 
 can safely recommend as " prime veal," and which they 
 are to be sure not to over-brown on the morrow. Nor 
 speak I of the hard-handed Artisan, who on this night 
 receives the pittance which is to furnish the neat Sab- 
 batical dinner not always reserved with Judaical rigour 
 for that laudable purpose, but broken in upon, perchance, 
 by inviting pot of ale, satisfactory to the present orifice. 
 These are alleviatory, care - consoling. But the Heb- 
 domadal Finale which I contemplate hath neither comfort 
 nor alleviation in it; I pronounce it, from memory, 
 altogether punitive, and to be abhorred. It is Saturday 
 Night to the School-boy ! 
 
 Cleanliness, saith some sage man, is next to Godliness. 
 It may be ; but how it came to sit so very near, is the 
 marvel. Methinks some of the more human virtues 
 might have put in for a place before it. Justice 
 Humanity Temperance are positive qualities; the 
 courtesies and little civil offices of life, had I been Master 
 
SATURDAY NIGHT. 323 
 
 of the Ceremonies to that Court, should have sate above 
 the salt in preference to a mere negation. I confess there 
 is something wonderfully refreshing, in warm countries, 
 in the act of ablution. Those Mahometan washings 
 how cool to the imagination ! but in all these supersti- 
 tions, the action itself, if not the duty, is voluntary. But 
 to be washed perforce ; to have a detestable flannel rag 
 soaked in hot water, and redolent of the very coarsest 
 coarse soap, ingrained with hard beads for torment, thrust 
 into your mouth, eyes, nostrils positively Burking you, 
 under pretence of cleansing substituting soap for dirt, 
 the worst dirt of the two making your poor red eyes 
 smart all night, that they might look out brighter on 
 the Sabbath morn (for their clearness was the effect of 
 pain more than cleanliness), could this be true religion 1 
 
 The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel. I am 
 always disposed to add, so are thpse of Grandmothers. 
 Mine the Print has made her look rather too young 
 had never-failing pretexts of tormenting children for their 
 good. I was a chit then ; and I well remember when a 
 fly had got into a corner of my eye, and I was complain- 
 ing of it to her, the old lady deliberately pounded two 
 ounces or more of the finest loaf sugar that could be got, 
 and making me hold open the eye as wide as I could 
 (all innocent of her purpose), she blew from delicate white 
 paper, with a full breath, the whole saccharine contents 
 into the part afflicted, saying, " There, now the fly is 
 out!" 'Twas most true: a legion of blue-bottles, with 
 the prince of flies at their head, must have dislodged 
 with the torrent and deluge of tears which followed. I 
 kept my own counsel, and my fly in my eye when I had 
 got one, in future, without troubling her dulcet applica- 
 tions for the remedy. Then her medicine case was a 
 perfect magazine of tortures for infants. She seemed to 
 have no notion of the comparatively tender drenches 
 which young internals require : her potions were any- 
 thing but milk for babes. Then her sewing up of a cut 
 finger pricking a whitloe before it was ripe, because she 
 
324 SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 could not see well, with the aggravation of the pitying 
 tone she did it in ! 
 
 But of all her nostrums (rest her soul !), nothing came 
 up to the Saturday Night's flannel, that rude fragment 
 of a Witney blanket (Wales spins none so coarse), thrust 
 into the corners of a weak child's eye with soap that 
 might have absterged an Ethiop, whitened the hands of 
 Duncan's She-murderer, and scoured away Original Sin 
 itself. A faint image of my penance you see in the 
 Print but the Artist has sunk the flannel the Age, 
 I suppose, is too nice to bear it : and he has faintly 
 shadowed the expostulatory suspension of the razor-strap 
 in the hand of my Grandfather, when my pains and 
 clamours had waxed intolerable. Peace to the Shades of 
 them both ! And if their well-meaning souls had need 
 of cleansing when they quitted earth, may the process of 
 it have been milder than that of my old Purgatorial 
 Saturday Night's path to the Sabbatical rest of the 
 morrow ! NEPOS. 
 
THOUGHTS ON PKESENTS OF GAME, &c. 
 
 " WE love to have our friend in the country sitting thus 
 at our table by proxy ; to apprehend his presence (though 
 a hundred miles may be between us) by a turkey, whose 
 goodly aspect reflects to us his 'plump corpusculum ;' to 
 taste him in grouse or woodcock; to feel him gliding 
 down in the toast peculiar to the latter ; to concorporate 
 him in a slice of Canterbury brawn. This is indeed to 
 have him within ourselves; to know him intimately; 
 such participation is methinks unitive, as the old theo- 
 logians phrase it." Last Essays of Mia. 
 
 "Elia presents his acknowledgments to his 'Corres- 
 pondent Unknown,' for a basket of prodigiously fine 
 game. He takes for granted that so amiable a character 
 must be a reader of the Athenceum, else he had meditated 
 a notice in the Times. Now if this friend had consulted 
 the Delphic oracle for a present suited to the palate of 
 Elia, he could not have hit upon a morsel so acceptable. 
 The birds he is barely thankful for ; pheasants are poor 
 fowls disguised in fine feathers ; but a hare roasted hard 
 and brown, with gravy and melted butter ! Old Mr. 
 Chambers, the sensible clergyman in Warwickshire, whose 
 son's acquaintance has made many hours happy in the 
 life of Elia, used to allow a pound of Epping to every 
 hare. Perhaps that was over-doing it. But, in spite of 
 the note of Philomel, who, like some fine poets, that 
 think no scorn to adopt plagiarisms from an humble 
 brother, reiterates every Spring her cuckoo cry of ' Jug, 
 Jug, Jug,' Elia pronounces that a hare, to be truly 
 
326 THOUGHTS ON PRESENTS OF GAME, ETC. 
 
 palated, must be roasted. Jugging sophisticates her 
 In our way it eats so ( crips,' as Mrs. Minikin says. 
 Time was, when Elia was not arrived at his taste, that 
 he preferred to all luxuries a roasted pig. But he dis- 
 claims all such green-sickness appetites in future, though 
 he hath to acknowledge the receipt of many a delicacy 
 in that kind from correspondents good, but mistaken 
 men in consequence of their erroneous supposition that 
 he had carried up into mature life the prepossessions of 
 childhood. From the worthy Vicar of Enfield he acknow- 
 ledges a tithe contribution of extraordinary sapor. The 
 ancients must have loved hares; else why adopt the 
 word lepores (obviously from lepus) but for some subtle 
 analogy between the delicate flavour of the latter and 
 the finer relishes of wit in what we most poorly translate 
 pleasantries. The fine madnesses of the poet are the 
 very decoction of his diet. Thence is he hare-brained. 
 Harum-scarum is a libellous unfounded phrase, of modern 
 usage. 'Tis true the hare is the most circumspect of 
 animals, sleeping with her eye open. Her ears, evei 
 erect, keep them in that wholesome exercise which con- 
 duces them to form the very tit-bit of the admirers of 
 this noble animal. Noble will I call her, in spite of her 
 detractors, who from occasional demonstrations of the 
 principle of self-preservation (common to all animals), 
 infer in her a defect of heroism. Half a hundred horse- 
 men, with thrice the number of dogs, scour the country 
 in pursuit of puss across three counties; and because 
 the well-flavoured beast, weighing the odds, is willing to 
 evade the hue and cry (with her delicate ears shrinking 
 perchance from discord), comes the grave naturalist, 
 Linnaeus perchance, or Buffon, and gravely sets down 
 the hare as a timid animal. Why Achilles, or Bully 
 Dawson, would have declined the preposterous combat. 
 
 " In fact, how light of digestion we feel after a hare ! 
 How tender its processes after swallowing ! What chyle 
 it promotes ! How ethereal ! as if its living celerity were 
 a type of its nimble coursing through the animal juices. 
 
THOUGHTS ON PRESENTS OF GAME, ETC. 327 
 
 The notice might be longer. It is intended less as a 
 Natural History of the Hare than a cursory thanks to 
 the country 'good Unknown.' The hare has many 
 friends, but none sincerer than ELI A." 
 
 Nov. 30, 1834. 
 
A POPULAE FALLACY, 
 THAT A DEFORMED PERSON IS A LORD. 
 
 AFTEK a careful perusal of the most approved works that 
 treat of nobility, and of its origin in these realms in 
 particular, we are left very much in the dark as to the 
 original patent in which this branch of it is recognised. 
 Neither Cainden in his "Etymologic and Original of 
 Barons," nor Dugdale in his "Baronage of England," 
 nor Selden (a more exact and laborious inquirer than 
 either) in his " Titles of Honour," affords a glimpse of 
 satisfaction upon the subject. There is an heraldic term, 
 indeed, which seems to imply gentility, and the right to 
 coat-armour (but nothing further), in persons thus quali- 
 fied. But the sinister bend is more probably interpreted 
 by the best writers on this science, of some irregularity 
 of birth than of bodily conformation. Nobility is either 
 hereditary or by creation, commonly called patent. Of 
 the former kind, the title in question cannot be, seeing 
 that the notion of it is limited to a personal distinction 
 which does not necessarily follow in the blood. Honours 
 of this nature, as Mr. Anstey very well observes, descend, 
 moreover, in a right line. It must be by patent, then, 
 if any thing. But who can show it *? How comes it to 
 be dormant ? Under what king's reign is it patented ? 
 Among the grounds of nobility cited by the learned Mr. 
 Ashmole, after " Services in the Field or in the Council 
 Chamber," he judiciously sets down " Honours conferred 
 by the sovereign out of mere benevolence, or as favouring 
 
A POPULAR FALLACY. 329 
 
 one subject rather than another for some likeness or con- 
 formity observed (or but supposed) in him to the royal 
 nature," and instances the graces showered upon Charles 
 Brandon, who, " in his goodly person being thought not 
 a little to favour the port and bearing of the king's own 
 majesty, was by that sovereign, King Henry the Eighth, 
 for some or one of these respects, highly promoted and 
 preferred." Here, if anywhere, we thought we had dis- 
 covered a clue to our researches. But after a painful 
 investigation of the rolls and records under the reign of 
 Richard the Third, or " Richard Crouchback," as he is 
 more usually designated in the chronicles, from a tra- 
 ditionary stoop or gibbosity in that part, we do not find 
 that that monarch conferred any such lordships as are 
 here pretended, upon any subject or subjects, on a simple 
 plea of "conformity" in that respect to the "royal 
 nature." The posture of affairs, in those tumultuous 
 times preceding the battle of Bosworth, possibly left him 
 at no leisure to attend to such niceties. Further than 
 his reign we have not extended our inquiries, the kings 
 of England who preceded or followed him being generally 
 described by historians to have been of straight and clean 
 limbs, the " natural derivative," says Daniel, 1 " of high 
 blood, if not its primitive recommendation to such en- 
 noblement, as denoting strength and martial prowess, 
 the qualities set most by in that fighting age." Another 
 motive, which inclines us to scruple the validity of this 
 claim, is the remarkable fact, that none of the persons in 
 whom the right is supposed to be vested do ever insist 
 upon it themselves. There is no instance of any of them 
 " suing his patent," as the law-books call it ; much less 
 of his having actually stepped up into his proper seat, 
 as, so qualified, we might expect that some of them would 
 have had the spirit to do, in the House of Lords. On 
 the contrary, it seems to be a distinction thrust upon 
 them. "Their title of 'lord,'" says one of their own 
 body, speaking of the common people, "I never much 
 1 History of England, Temporibus Edwardi Primi et sequentibus. 
 
330 A POPULAR FALLACY. 
 
 valued, and now I entirely despise ; and yet they will 
 force it upon me as an honour which they have a right 
 to bestow, and which I have none to refuse." 1 Upon a 
 dispassionate review of the subject, we are disposed to 
 believe that there is no right to the peerage incident to 
 mere bodily configuration ; that the title in dispute is 
 merely honorary, and depending upon the breath of the 
 common people, which in these realms is so far from the 
 power of conferring nobility, that the ablest constitu- 
 tionalists have agreed in nothing more unanimously than 
 in the maxim, that "the king is the sole fountain of 
 honour." 
 
 1 Hay on Deformity. 
 
CHARLES LAMB'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 CHARLES LAMB, born in the Inner Temple, 10th 
 February, 1775; educated in Christ's Hospital; after- 
 wards a clerk in the Accountants' Office, East India 
 House ; pensioned off from that service, 1825, after 
 thirty-three years' service ; is now a gentleman at large ; 
 can remember few specialties in his life worth noting, 
 except that he once caught a swallow flying (teste sud 
 manu). Below the middle stature ; cast of face slightly 
 Jewish, with no Judaic tinge in his complexional religion ; 
 stammers abominably, and is therefore more apt to dis- 
 charge his occasional conversation in a quaint aphorism, 
 or a poor quibble, than in set and edifying speeches ; has 
 consequently been libelled as a person always aiming at 
 wit ; which, as he told a dull fellow that charged him 
 with it, is at least as good as aiming at dulness. A 
 small eater, but not drinker ; confesses a partiality for 
 the production of the juniper-berry ; was a fierce smoker 
 of tobacco, but may be resembled to a volcano burnt out, 
 emitting only now and then a casual puff. Has been 
 guilty of obtruding upon the public a tale, in prose, 
 called "Kosamund Gray;" a dramatic sketch, named 
 "John Woodvil;" a "Farewell Ode to Tobacco," with 
 sundry other poems, and light prose matter, collected in 
 two slight crown octavos, and pompously christened his 
 works, though in fact they were his recreations ; and his 
 true works may be found on the shelves of Leadenhall 
 Street, filling some hundred folios. He is also the true 
 Elia, whose Essays are extant in a little volume, published 
 
332 CHARLES LAMB'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 
 
 a year or two siiice, and rather better known from that 
 name without a meaning than from any thing he has 
 done, or can hope to do, in his own. He was also the 
 first to draw the public attention to the old English 
 dramatists, in a work called " Specimens of English 
 Dramatic Writers who lived about the Time of Shak- 
 speare," published about fifteen years since. In short, 
 all his merits and demerits to set forth would take to 
 the end of Mr. Upcott's book, and then not be told 
 truly. 
 
 He died 18 , much lamented. 
 
 Witness his hand, 
 
 CHARLES LAMB. 
 ISth April 1827. 
 
LETTEE OF ELIA 
 TO EOBEET SOUTHEY, ESQ. 
 
 SIR You have done me an unfriendly office, without 
 perhaps much considering what you were doing. You 
 have given an ill name to my poor lucubrations. In a 
 recent paper on Infidelity, you usher in a conditional 
 commendation of them with an exception ; which, preced- 
 ing the encomium, and taking up nearly the same space 
 with it, must impress your readers with the notion, that 
 the objectional parts in them are at least equal in quantity 
 to the pardonable. The censure is in fact the criticism ; 
 the praise a concession merely. Exceptions usually 
 follow, to qualify praise or blame. But there stands 
 your reproof, in the very front of your notice, in ugly 
 characters, like some bugbear, to frighten all good Christ- 
 ians from purchasing. Through you I become an object 
 of suspicion to preceptors of youth, and fathers of families. 
 " A book which wants only a sounder religious feeling, 
 to be as delightful as it is original." With no further 
 explanation, what must your readers conjecture, but that 
 my little volume is some vehicle for heresy or infidelity ? 
 The quotation which you honour me by subjoining, oddly 
 enough, is of a character which bespeaks a temperament 
 in the writer the very reverse of that your reproof goes 
 to insinuate. Had you been taxing me with superstition, 
 the passage would have been pertinent to the censure. 
 Was it worth your while to go so far out of your way to 
 affront the feelings of an old friend, and commit yourself 
 
334 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 by an irrelevant quotation, for the pleasure of reflecting 
 upon a poor child, an exile at Genoa ? 
 
 I am at a loss what particular essay you had in view 
 (if my poor ramblings amount to that appellation) when 
 you were in such a hurry to thrust in your objection, 
 like bad news, foremost. Perhaps the paper on " Saying 
 Graces " was the obnoxious feature. I have endeavoured 
 there to rescue a voluntary duty good in place, but 
 never, as I remember, literally commanded from the 
 charge of an undecent formality. Rightly taken, sir, 
 that paper was not against Graces, but Want of Grace ; 
 not against the ceremony, but the carelessness and sloven- 
 liness so often observed in the performance of it. 
 
 Or was it that on the " New Year " in which I have 
 described the feelings of the merely natural man, on a 
 consideration of the amazing change, which is supposable 
 to take place on our removal from this fleshly scene ? If 
 men would honestly confess their misgivings (which few 
 men will) there are times when the strongest Christian 
 of us, I believe, has reeled under questions of such 
 staggering obscurity. I do not accuse you of this weak- 
 ness. There are some who tremblingly reach out shaking 
 hands to the guidance of Faith others who stoutly 
 venture into the dark (their Human Confidence their 
 leader, whom they mistake for Faith); and, investing 
 themselves beforehand with cherubic wings, as they fancy, 
 find their new robes as familiar, and fitting to the sup- 
 posed growth and stature in godliness, as the cast they 
 left off yesterday some whose hope totters upon crutches 
 others who stalk into futurity upon stilts. 
 
 The contemplation of a Spiritual World, which, with- 
 out the addition of a misgiving conscience, is enough to 
 shake some natures to their foundation is smoothly got 
 over by others, who shall float over the black billows in 
 their little boat of No-Distrust, as unconcernedly as over 
 a summer sea. The difference is chiefly constitutional. 
 
 One man shall love his friends and his friends' faces ; 
 and, under the uncertainty of conversing with them 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 335 
 
 again, in the same manner and familiar circumstances of 
 sight, speech, etc., as upon earth in a moment of no 
 irreverent weakness for a dream -while no more 
 would be almost content, for a reward of a life of virtue 
 (if he could ascribe such acceptance to his lame perform- 
 ances), to take up his portion with those he loved, and 
 was made to love, in this good world, which he knows 
 which was created so lovely, beyond his deservings. 
 Another, embracing a more exalted vision so that he 
 might receive indefinite additaments of power, knowledge, 
 beauty, glory, etc. is ready to forego the recognition of 
 humbler individualities of earth, and the old familiar 
 faces. The shapings of our heavens are the modifications 
 of our constitutions ; and Mr. Feeble Mind, or Mr. Great 
 Heart, is born in every one of us. 
 
 Some (and such have been accounted the safest divines) 
 have shrunk from pronouncing upon the final state of any 
 man ; nor dare they pronounce the case of Judas to be 
 desperate. Others (with stronger optics), as plainly as 
 with the eye of flesh, shall behold a given Icing in bliss, 
 and a given chamberlain in torment ; even to the eter- 
 nising of a cast of the eye in the latter, his own self- 
 mocked and good-humouredly-borne deformity on earth, 
 but supposed to aggravate the uncouth and hideous 
 expression of his pangs in the other place. That one 
 man can presume so far, and that another would with 
 shuddering disclaim such confidences, is, I believe, an 
 effect of the nerves purely. 
 
 If, in either of these papers, or elsewhere, I have been 
 betrayed into some levities not affronting the sanctuary, 
 but glancing perhaps at some of the outskirts and extreme 
 edges, the debatable land between the holy and profane 
 regions (for the admixture of man's inventions, twisting 
 themselves with the name of religion itself has artfully 
 made it difficult to touch even the alloy, without, in some 
 men's estimation, soiling the fine gold) if I have sported 
 within the purlieus of serious matter it was, I dare say, 
 a humour be not startled, sir, which I have unwit- 
 
336 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 tingly derived from yourself. You have all your life 
 been making a jest of the Devil. Not of the scriptural 
 meaning of that dark essence personal or allegorical ; 
 for the nature is nowhere plainly delivered. I acquit 
 you of intentional irreverence. But indeed you have 
 made wonderfully free with, and been mighty pleasant 
 upon, the popular idea and attributes of him. A Noble 
 Lord, your brother Visionary, has scarcely taken greater 
 liberties with the material keys, and merely Catholic 
 notion of St. Peter. You have flattered him in prose ; 
 you have chanted him in goodly odes. You have been 
 his Jester; volunteer Laureate, and self -elected Court 
 Poet to Beelzebub. 
 
 You have never ridiculed, I believe, what you thought 
 to be religion, but you are always girding at what some 
 pious, but perhaps mistaken folks, think to be so. For 
 this reason, I am sorry to hear that you are engaged 
 upon a life of George Fox. I know you will fall into 
 the error of intermixing some comic stuff with your 
 seriousness. The Quakers tremble at the subject in your 
 hands. The Methodists are as shy of you, upon account 
 of their founder. But, above all, our Popish brethren 
 are most in your debt. The errors of that Church have 
 proved a fruitful source to your scoffing vein. Their 
 Legend has been a Golden one to you. And here your 
 friends, sir, have noticed a notable inconsistency. To 
 the imposing rites, the solemn penances, devout austeri- 
 ties of that communion; the affecting though erring 
 piety of their hermits ; the silence and solitude of the 
 Chartreux their crossings, their holy waters their 
 Virgin, and their saints to these, they say, you have 
 been indebted for the best feelings, and the richest 
 imagery, of your epic poetry. You have drawn copious 
 drafts upon Loretto. We thought at one time you were 
 going post to Rome but that in the facetious commen- 
 taries, which it is your custom to append so plentifully, 
 and (some say) injudiciously, to your loftiest perform- 
 ances in this kind, you spurn the uplifted toe, which you 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 337 
 
 but just now seemed to court ; leave his holiness in the 
 lurch ; and show him a fair pair of Protestant heels 
 under your Romish vestment. When we think you 
 already at the wicket, suddenly a violent cross wind 
 blows you transverse 
 
 ' ' Ten thousand leagues awry. 
 
 Then might we see 
 
 Cowls, hoods, and habits, with their wearers, tost 
 And flutter'd into rags ; then reltques, beads, 
 Indulgences, dispenses, pardons, bulls, 
 The sport of winds." 
 
 You pick up pence by showing the hallowed bones, shrine, 
 and crucifix ; and you take money a second time by ex- 
 posing the trick of them afterwards. You carry your 
 verse to Castle Angelo for sale in a morning; and, 
 swifter than a pedlar can transmute his pack, you are at 
 Canterbury with your prose ware before night. 
 
 Sir, is it that I dislike you in this merry vein ? The 
 very reverse. No countenance becomes an intelligent 
 jest better than your own. It is your grave aspect, 
 when you look awful upon your poor friends, which I 
 would deprecate. 
 
 In more than one place, if I mistake not, you have 
 been pleased to compliment me at the expense of my 
 companions. I cannot accept your compliment at such 
 a price. The upbraiding a man's poverty naturally makes 
 him look about him to see whether he be so poor indeed 
 as he is presumed to be. You have put me upon count- 
 ing my riches. Really, Sir, I did not know I was so 
 
 wealthy in the article of friendships. There is , and 
 
 , whom you never heard of, but exemplary characters 
 both, and excellent church-goers ; and N., mine and 
 my father's friend for nearly half a century ; and the en- 
 thusiast for Wordsworth's poetry, T.N.T., a little tainted 
 with Socinianism, it is to be feared, but constant in his 
 
 attachments, and a capital critic ; and , a sturdy 
 
 old Athanasian, so that sets all to rights again ; and 
 W., the light, and warm -as -light -hearted, Janus of 
 
338 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 the London; and the translator of Dante, still a 
 curate, modest and amiable C. ; and Allan C., the large- 
 hearted Scot; and P r, candid and affectionate as 
 
 his own poetry; and A p, Coleridge's friend; and 
 
 G n, his more than friend; and Coleridge himself, 
 
 the same to me still, as in those old evenings, when we 
 used to sit and speculate (do you remember them, Sir ?) 
 at our old Salutation tavern, upon Pantisocracy and 
 
 golden days to come on earth ; and W th (why, sir, 
 
 I might drop my rent-roll here, such goodly farms and 
 manors have I reckoned up already. In what possession 
 has not this last name alone estated me ? but I will go 
 on) and M , the noble-minded kinsman, by wed- 
 lock, of W th ; and H. C. R., unwearied in the 
 
 offices of a friend; and Clarkson, almost above the 
 narrowness of that relation, yet condescending not seldom 
 heretofore from the labours of his world-embracing charity 
 to bless my humble roof; and the gall-less and single- 
 minded Dyer; and the high-minded associate of Cook, 
 the veteran Colonel, with his lusty heart still sending 
 cartels of defiance to old Time; and, not least, W.A., 
 the last and steadiest left to me of that little knot of 
 whist-players, that used to assemble weekly, for so many 
 years, at the Queen's Gate (you remember them, Sir?) 
 and called Admiral Burney friend. 
 
 I will come to the point at once. I believe you will 
 not make many exceptions to my associates so far. But 
 I have purposely omitted some intimacies, which I do 
 not yet repent of having contracted, with two gentlemen 
 diametrically opposed to yourself in principles. You will 
 understand me to allude to the authors of " Rimini '' and 
 of the " Table Talk." And first of the former. 
 
 It is an error more particularly incident to persons of 
 the correctest principles and habits, to seclude themselves 
 from the rest of mankind, as from another species, and 
 form into knots and clubs. The best people, herding 
 thus exclusively, are in danger of contracting a narrow- 
 ness. Heat and cold, dryness and moisture, in the 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 339 
 
 natural world do not fly asunder, to split the globe into 
 sectarian parts and separations ; but mingling, as they 
 best may, correct the malignity of any single predomin- 
 ance. The analogy holds, I suppose, in the moral world. 
 If all the good people were to ship themselves off to Terra 
 Incognita, what, in humanity's name, is to become of the 
 refuse 1 ? If the persons, whom I have chiefly in view, 
 have not pushed matters to this extremity yet, they carry 
 them as far as they can go. Instead of mixing with the 
 infidel and the freethinker in the room of opening a 
 negotiation, to try at least to find out at which gate the 
 error entered they huddle close together, in a weak fear 
 of infection, like that pusillanimous underling in Spenser 
 
 " This is the wandering wood, this Error's den ; 
 A monster vile, whom God and man does hate : 
 Therefore, I rede, beware." Fly, .fly, quoth then 
 The fearful Dwarf. 
 
 And, if they be writers in orthodox journals, address- 
 ing themselves only to the irritable passions of the un- 
 believer, they proceed in a safe system of strengthening 
 the strong hands, and confirming the valiant knees ; of 
 converting the already converted, and proselyting their 
 own party. I am the more convinced of this from a 
 passage in the very Treatise which occasioned this letter. 
 It is where, having recommended to the doubter the 
 writings of Michaelis and Lardner, you ride triumphantly 
 over the necks of all infidels, sceptics, and dissenters, 
 from this time to the world's end, upon the wheels of 
 two unanswerable deductions. I do not hold it meet to 
 set down, in a Miscellaneous Compilation like this, such 
 religious words as you have thought fit to introduce into 
 the pages of a petulant literary journal. I therefore beg 
 leave to substitute numerals, and refer to the Quarterly 
 Review (for January) for rilling of them up. "Here," 
 say you "as in the history of 7, if these books are 
 authentic, the events which they relate must be true; 
 if they were written by 8, 9 is 10 and 11." Your first 
 deduction, if it means honestly, rests upon two identical 
 
340 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 propositions; though I suspect an unfairness in one of 
 the terms, which this would not be quite the proper 
 place for explicating. At all events, you have no cause 
 to triumph; you have not been proving the premises, 
 but refer for satisfaction therein to very long and labori- 
 ous works, which may well employ the sceptic a twelve- 
 month or two to digest, before he can possibly be ripe 
 for your conclusion. When he has satisfied himself about 
 the premises, he will concede to you the inference, I dare 
 say, most readily. But your latter deduction, viz., that 
 because 8 has written a book concerning 9, therefore 10 
 and 11 was certainly his meaning, is one of the most 
 extraordinary conclusions per saltum that I. have had the 
 good fortune to meet with. As far as 10 is verbally 
 asserted in the writings, all sects must agree with you ; 
 but you cannot be ignorant of the many various ways in 
 which the doctrine of the * * * * has been understood, 
 from a low figurative expression (with the Unitarians) 
 up to the most mysterious actuality ; in which highest 
 sense alone you and your church take it. And for 11, 
 that there is no other possible conclusion to hazard this 
 in the face of so many thousands of Arians and Socinians, 
 etc., who have drawn so opposite a one, is such a piece 
 of theological hardihood, as, I think, warrants me in con- 
 cluding that, when you sit down to pen theology, you do 
 not at all consider your opponents, but have in your eye, 
 merely and exclusively, readers of the same way of think- 
 ing with yourself, and therefore have no occasion to 
 trouble yourself with the quality of the logic to which 
 you treat them. 
 
 Neither can I think, if you had had the welfare of the 
 poor child over whose hopeless condition you whine so 
 lamentably and (I must think) unseasonably seriously at 
 heart, that you could have taken the step of sticking him 
 up ly name T. H., is as good as naming him to per- 
 petuate an outrage upon the parental feelings, as long as 
 the Quarterly Review shall last. Was it necessary to 
 specify an individual case, and give to Christian com- 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 341 
 
 passion the appearance of a personal attack ? Is this the 
 way to conciliate unbelievers, or not rather to widen the 
 breach irreparably ? 
 
 I own I could never think so considerably of myself 
 as to decline the society of an agreeable or worthy man 
 upon difference of opinion only. The impediments and 
 the facilitations to a sound belief are various and inscrut- 
 able as the heart of man. Some believe upon weak prin- 
 ciples ; others cannot feel the efficacy of the strongest. 
 One of the most candid, most upright, and single-meaning 
 men I ever knew, was the late Thomas Hoi croft. I 
 believe he never said one thing, and meant another, in 
 his life; and, as near as I can guess, he never acted 
 otherwise than with the most scrupulous attention to 
 conscience. Ought we to wish the character false, for 
 the sake of a hollow compliment to Christianity ? 
 
 Accident introduced me to the acquaintance of Mr. L. 
 H. and the experience of his many friendly qualities 
 confirmed a friendship between us. You who have been 
 misrepresented yourself, I should hope, have not lent an 
 idle ear to the calumnies which have been spread abroad 
 respecting this gentleman. I was admitted to his house- 
 hold for some years, and do most solemnly aver that I 
 believe him to be in his domestic relations as correct as 
 any man. He chose an ill-judged subject for a poem, 
 the peccant humours of which have been visited on him 
 tenfold by the artful use, which his adversaries have 
 made, of an equivocal term. The subject itself was 
 started by Dante, but better because brieflier treated of. 
 But the crime of the lovers, in the Italian and the English 
 poet, with its aggravated enormity of circumstance, is not 
 of a kind (as the critics of the latter well knew) with 
 those conjunctions, for which Nature herself has provided 
 no excuse, because no temptation. It has nothing in 
 common with the black horrors, sung by Ford and Mas- 
 singer. The familiarising of it in the tale and fable may 
 be for that reason incidentally more contagious. In spite 
 of Rimini, I must look upon its author as a man of taste 
 
342 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 and a poet. He is better than so ; he is one of the most 
 cordial-minded men I ever knew, and matchless as a fire- 
 side companion. I mean not to affront or wound your 
 feelings when I say that in his more genial moods he has 
 often reminded me of you. There is the same air of mild 
 dogmatism the same condescending to a boyish sportive- 
 ness in both your conversations. His handwriting is 
 so much the same with your own, that I have opened 
 more than one letter of his, hoping, nay, not doubting, 
 but it was from you, and have been disappointed (he will 
 bear with my saying so) at the discovery of my error. 
 L. H. is unfortunate in holding some loose and not very 
 definite speculations (for at times I think he hardly knows 
 whither his premises would carry him) on marriage 
 the tenets, I conceive, of the " Political Justice " carried 
 a little farther. For anything I could discover in his 
 practice, they have reference, like those, to some future 
 possible condition of society, and not to the present times. 
 But neither for these obliquities of thinking (upon which 
 my own conclusions are as distant as the poles asunder) 
 nor for his political asperities and petulances, which are 
 wearing out with the heats and vanities of youth did I 
 select him for a friend ; but for qualities which fitted him 
 for that relation. I do not know whether I flatter my- 
 self with being the occasion, but certain it is, that, 
 touched with some misgivings for sundry harsh things 
 which he had written aforetime against our friend C., 
 before he left this country, he sought a reconciliation with 
 that gentleman (himself being his own introducer), and 
 found it. 
 
 L. H. is now in Italy; on his departure to which 
 land, with much regret I took my leave of him and his 
 little family seven of them, Sir, with their mother and 
 as kind a set of little people (T. H. and all), as affection- 
 ate children as ever blessed a parent. Had you seen 
 them, Sir, I think you could not have looked upon them 
 as so many little Jonases but rather as pledges of the 
 vessel's safety, that was to bear such a freight of love. 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 343 
 
 I wish you would read Mr. H.'s lines to that same 
 T. H., "six years old, during a sickness :"- 
 
 " Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
 My little patient boy ." 
 
 (they are to be found on the 47th page of " Foliage ") 
 and ask yourself how far they are out of the spirit 
 of Christianity. I have a letter from Italy, received 
 but the other day, into which L. H. has put as much 
 heart, and as many friendly yearnings after old asso- 
 ciates, and native country, as, I think, paper can well 
 hold. It would do you no hurt to give that the perusal 
 also. 
 
 From the other gentleman I neither expect nor desire 
 (as he is well assured) any such concessions as L. H. 
 made to C. What hath soured him, and made him to 
 suspect his friends of infidelity towards him, when there 
 was no such matter, I know not. I stood well with him 
 for fifteen years (the proudest of iny life), and have ever 
 spoken my full mind of him to some, to whom his pan- 
 egyric must naturally be least tasteful. I never in thought 
 swerved from him, I never betrayed him, I never slack- 
 ened in my admiration of him ; I was the same to him 
 (neither better nor worse), though he could not see it, as 
 in the days when he thought fit to trust me. At this 
 instant he may be preparing for me some compliment, 
 above my deserts, as he has sprinkled many such among 
 his admirable books, for which I rest his debtor ; or, for 
 anything I know, or can guess to the contrary, he may 
 be about to read a lecture on my weaknesses. He is 
 welcome to them (as he was to my humble hearth), if 
 they can divert a spleen, or ventilate a fit of sullenness. 
 I wish he would not quarrel with the world at the rate 
 he does ; but the reconciliation must be effected by him- 
 self, and I despair of living to see that day. But pro- 
 testing against much that he has written, and some 
 things which he chooses to do; judging him by his 
 conversation which I enjoyed so long, and relished sc 
 
344 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 deeply ; or by his books, in those places where no cloud- 
 ing passion intervenes I should belie my own conscience, 
 if I said less, than that I think W. H. to be, in his 
 natural and healthy state, one of the wisest and finest 
 spirits breathing. So far from being ashamed of that 
 intimacy, which was betwixt us, it is my boast that I 
 was able for so many years to have preserved it entire ; 
 and I think I shall go to my grave without finding or 
 expecting to find, such another companion. But I forget 
 my manners you will pardon me, Sir I return to the 
 correspondence. 
 
 Sir, you were pleased (you know where) to invite me 
 to a compliance with the wholesome forms and doctrines 
 of the Church of England. I take your advice with as 
 much kindness as it was meant. But I must think the 
 invitation rather more kind than seasonable. I am a 
 Dissenter. The last sect, with which you can remember 
 me to have made common profession, were the Unitarians. 
 You would think it not very pertinent, if (fearing that 
 all was not well with you) I were gravely to invite you 
 (for a remedy) to attend with me a course of Mr. Bel- 
 sham's Lectures at Hackney. Perhaps I have scruples 
 to some of your forms and doctrines. But if I come, am 
 I secure of civil treatment ? The last time I was in any 
 of your places of worship was on Easter Sunday last. I 
 had the satisfaction of listening to a very sensible sermon 
 of an argumentative turn, delivered with great propriety 
 by one of your bishops. The place was Westminster 
 Abbey. As such religion as I have, has always acted on 
 me more by way of sentiment than argumentative process, 
 I was not unwilling, after sermon ended, by no unbecom- 
 ing transition, to pass over to some serious feelings, 
 impossible to be disconnected from the sight of those old 
 tombs, etc. But, by whose order I know not, I was 
 debarred that privilege even for so short a space as a few 
 minutes ; and turned, like a dog, or some profane person, 
 out into the common street ; with feelings, which I could 
 not help, but not very congenial to the day or discourse. 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 345 
 
 I do not know that I shall ever venture myself again into 
 one of your churches. 
 
 You had your education at Westminster ; and doubt- 
 less among those dim aisles and cloisters, you must have 
 gathered much of that devotional feeling in those young 
 years, on which your purest mind feeds still and may it 
 feed ! The antiquarian spirit, strong in you, and grace- 
 fully blending ever with the religious, may have been 
 sown in you among those wrecks of splendid mortality. 
 You owe it to the place of your education; you owe 
 it to your learned fondness for the architecture of your 
 ancestors ; you owe it to the venerableness of your eccle- 
 siastical establishment, which is daily lessened and called 
 in question through these practices to speak aloud your 
 sense of them ; never to desist raising your voice against 
 them, till they be totally done away with and abolished ; 
 till the doors of Westminster Abbey be no longer closed 
 against the decent, though low -in -purse enthusiast, or 
 blameless devotee, who must commit an injury against 
 his family economy, if he would be indulged with a bare 
 admission within its walls. You owe it to the decencies, 
 which you wish to see maintained in its impressive ser- 
 vices, that our Cathedral be no longer an object of in- 
 spection to the poor at those times only, in which they 
 must rob from their attendance on the worship every 
 minute which they can bestow upon the fabric. In vain 
 the public prints have taken up this subject, in vain such 
 poor nameless writers as myself express their indignation. 
 A word from you, Sir a hint in your Journal would 
 be sufficient to fling open the doors of the Beautiful 
 Temple again, as we can remember them when we were 
 boys. At that time of life, what would the imaginative 
 faculty (such as it is) in both of us, have suffered, if the 
 entrance to so much reflection had been obstructed by 
 the demand of so much silver ! If we had scraped it up 
 to gain an occasional admission (as we certainly should 
 have clone) would the sight of those old tombs have been 
 as impressive to us (while we had been weighing anxiously 
 
346 LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 
 
 prudence against sentiment) as when the gates stood 
 open, as those of the adjacent Park ; when we could 
 walk in at any time, as the mood brought us, for a 
 shorter or a longer time, as that lasted ? Is the being 
 shown over a place the same as silently for ourselves 
 detecting the genius of it ? In no part of our beloved 
 Abbey now can a person find entrance (out of service 
 time) under the sum of two shillings. The rich and the 
 great will smile at the anticlimax, presumed to lie in 
 those two short words. But you can tell them, Sir, how 
 much quiet worth, how much capacity for enlarged feel- 
 ing, how much taste and genius, may coexist, especially 
 in youth, with a purse incompetent to this demand. A 
 respected friend of ours, during his late visit to the 
 metropolis, presented himself for admission to Saint 
 Paul's. At the same time a decently clothed man, with 
 as decent a wife, arid child, were bargaining for the same 
 indulgence. The price was only two-pence each person. 
 The poor but decent man hesitated, desirous to go in ; 
 but there were three of them, and he turned away 
 reluctantly. Perhaps he wished to have seen the tomb 
 of Nelson. Perhaps the Interior of the Cathedral was 
 his object. But in the state of his finances, even sixpence 
 might reasonably seem too much. Tell the Aristocracy 
 of the country (no man can do it more impressively) ; 
 instruct them of what value these insignificant pieces of 
 money, these minims to their sight, may be to their 
 humbler brethren. Shame these Sellers out of the 
 Temple. Show the poor that you can sometimes think 
 of them in some other light than as mutineers and 
 malcontents. Conciliate them by such kind methods to 
 their superiors, civil and ecclesiastical. Stop the mouths 
 of the railers ; and suffer your old friends, upon the old 
 terms, again to honour and admire you. Stifle not the 
 suggestions of your better nature with the pretext, that 
 an indiscriminate admission would expose the Tombs to 
 violation. Remember your boy days. Did you ever see 
 or hear of a mob in the Abbey, while it was free to all I 
 
LETTER TO SOUTHEY. 347 
 
 Did the rabble come there, or trouble their heads about 
 such speculations ? It is all that you can do to drive 
 them into your churches ; they do not voluntarily offer 
 themselves. They have, alas ! no passion for antiquities ; 
 for tomb of king or prelate, sage or poet. If they had, 
 they would be no longer the rabble. 
 
 For forty years that I have known the Fabric, the 
 only well-attested charge of violation adduced, has been 
 a ridiculous dismemberment committed upon the effigy 
 of that amiable spy Major Andre'. And is it for this 
 the wanton mischief of some school -boy, fired perhaps 
 with raw notions of Transatlantic Freedom or the 
 remote possibility of such a mischief occurring again, so 
 easily to be prevented by stationing a constable within 
 the walls, if the vergers are incompetent to the duty- 
 is it upon such wretched pretences, that the people of 
 England are made to pay a new Peter's Pence, so long 
 abrogated ; or must content themselves with contemplat- 
 ing the ragged Exterior of their Cathedral 1 The mischief 
 was done about the time that you were a scholar there. 
 Do you know anything about the unfortunate relic 1 Can 
 you help us in this emergency to find the nose ? or can 
 you give Chantrey a notion (from memory) of its pristine 
 life and vigour 1 I am willing for peace's sake to sub- 
 scribe my guinea towards the restoration of the lamented 
 feature. I am, Sir, your humble Servant, 
 
 ELIA. 
 
TABLE-TALK, AND FKAGMENTS OF 
 CEITICISM. 
 
 IT is a desideratum in works that treat de re culinarid, 
 that we have no rationale of sauces, or theory of mixed 
 flavours : as to show why cabbage is reprehensible with 
 rt>ast beef, laudable with bacon; why the haunch of 
 mutton seeks the alliance of currant -jelly, the shoulder 
 civilly declineth it ; why loin of veal (a pretty problem), 
 being itself unctuous, seeketh the adventitious lubricity 
 of melted butter, and why the same part in pork, not 
 more oleaginous, abhorreth from it ; why the French 
 bean sympathises with the flesh of deer ; why salt fish 
 points to parsnip, brawn makes a dead-set at mustard ; 
 why cats prefer valerian to heart's-ease, old ladies vice 
 versa, though this is rather travelling out of the road 
 of the dietetics, and may be thought a question more 
 curious than relevant; why salmon (a strong sapor per 
 se) fortifieth its condition with the mighty lobster-sauce, 
 whose embraces are fatal to the delicater relish of the 
 turbot; why oysters in death rise up against the con- 
 tamination of brown sugar, while they are posthumously 
 amorous of vinegar, why the sour mango and the sweet 
 jam by turns court and are accepted by the compilable 
 mutton-hash, she not yet decidedly declaring for either. 
 We are as yet but in the empirical stage of cookery. 
 We feed ignorantly, and want to be able to give a reason 
 of the relish that is in us; so that, if Nature should 
 furnish us with a new meat, or be prodigally pleased to 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 349 
 
 restore the phoenix, upon a given flavour, we might be able 
 to pronounce instantly, on philosophical principles, what 
 the sauce to it should be, what the curious adjuncts. 
 
 The greatest pleasure I know is to do a good action 
 by stealth, and to have it found out by accident. 
 
 'Tis unpleasant to meet a beggar. It is painful to 
 deny him ; and, if you relieve him, it is so much out of 
 your pocket. 
 
 Men marry for fortune, and sometimes to please their 
 fancy ; but, much oftener than is suspected, they consider 
 what the world will say of it, how such a woman in 
 their friends' eyes will look at the head of a table. 
 Hence we see so many insipid beauties made wives of, 
 that could not have struck the particular fancy of any 
 man that had any fancy at all. These I call furniture 
 wives ; as men buy furniture pictures, because they suit 
 this or that niche in their dining-parlours. 
 
 Your universally cried -up beauties are the very last 
 choice which a man of taste would make. What pleases 
 all, cannot have that individual charm which makes this 
 or that countenance engaging to you, and to you only 
 perhaps, you know not why. What gained the fair 
 Gunnings titled husbands, who, after all, turned out very 
 sorry wives 1 Popular repute. 
 
 It is a sore trial when a daughter shall marry against 
 her father's approbation. A little hard-heartedness, and 
 aversion to a reconcilement, is almost pardonable. After 
 all, Will Dockwray's way is, perhaps, the wisest. His 
 best-loved daughter made a most imprudent match ; in 
 fact, eloped with the last man in the world that her 
 father would have wished her to marry. All the world 
 said that he would never speak to her again. For 
 months she durst not write to him, much less come near 
 him. But, in a casual rencounter, he met her in the 
 
350 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 streets of Ware, Ware, that will long remember the 
 mild virtues of William Dockwray, Esq. What said 
 the parent to his disobedient child, whose knees faltered 
 under her at the sight of him ? " Ha, Sukey ! is it 
 you ?" with that benevolent aspect with which he paced 
 the streets of Ware, venerated as an angel : " come and 
 dine with us on Sunday." Then turning away, and 
 again turning back, as if he had forgotten something, 
 he added, "And, Sukey, do you hear? bring your 
 husband with you." This was all the reproof she ever 
 heard from him. Need it be added, that the match 
 turned out better for Susan than the world expected ? 
 
 The vices of some men are magnificent. Compare the 
 amours of Henry the Eighth and Charles the Second. 
 The Stuart had mistresses : the Tudor kept wives. 
 
 u We read the ' Paradise Lost ' as a task," says Dr. 
 Johnson. Nay, rather as a celestial recreation, of which 
 the dullard mind is not at all hours alike recipient. 
 "Nobody ever wished it longer;" nor the moon rounder, 
 he might have added. Why, 'tis the perfectness and 
 completeness of it which makes us imagine that not a 
 line could be added to it, or diminished from it, with 
 advantage. Would we have a cubit added to the stature 
 of the Medicean Venus ? Do we wish her taller ? 
 
 Amidst the complaints of the wide spread of infidelity 
 among us, it is consolatory that a sect has sprung up in 
 the heart of the metropolis, and is daily on the increase, 
 of teachers of that healing doctrine which Pope upheld, 
 and against which Voltaire directed his envenomed wit : 
 we mean those practical preachers of optimism, or the 
 belief that whatever is is best; the cads of omnibuses, 
 who from their little back pulpits, not once in three or 
 four hours, as those proclaimers of " God and his prophet" 
 in Mussulman countries, but every minute, at the entry 
 or exit of a brief passenger, are heard, in an almost 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 351 
 
 prophetic tone, to exclaim (Wisdom crying out, as it 
 were, in the streets), "ALL'S RIGHT !" 
 
 Advice is not so commonly thrown away as is imagined. 
 We seek it in difficulties. But, in common speech, we 
 are apt to confound with it admonition; as when a 
 friend reminds one that drink is prejudicial to the health, 
 etc. We do not care to be told of that which we know 
 
 better than the good man that admonishes. M 
 
 sent to his friend L , who is no water-drinker, a 
 
 twopenny tract "Against the Use of Fermented Liquors." 
 
 L acknowledged the obligation, as far as to twopence. 
 
 Penotier's advice was the safest, after all : 
 
 "I advised him" 
 
 But I must tell you. The dear, good-meaning, no- 
 thinking creature had been dumfounding a company of 
 us with a detail of inextricable difficulties, in which the 
 circumstances of an acquaintance of his were involved. 
 No clew of light offered itself. He grew more and 
 more misty as he proceeded. We pitied his friend, and 
 thought, 
 
 "God help the man so rapt in Error's endless maze !" 
 
 when, suddenly brightening up his placid countenance, 
 like one that had found out a riddle, and looked to have 
 the solution admired, 
 
 " At last," said he, " I advised him " 
 
 Here he paused, and here we were again interminably 
 thrown back. By no possible guess could any of us 
 aim at the drift of the meaning he was about to be 
 delivered of. 
 
 " I advised him," he repeated, " to have some advice 
 upon the subject." 
 
 A general approbation followed; and it was unani- 
 mously agreed, that, under all the circumstances of the case, 
 no sounder or more judicious counsel could have been given, 
 
 A laxity pervades the popular use of words. 
 
352 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 Parson W is not quite so continent as Diana, yet 
 
 prettily dissembleth his frailty. Is Parson W , there- 
 fore, a hypocrite? I think not. Where the conceal- 
 ment of a vice is less pernicious than the barefaced 
 publication of it would be, no additional delinquency is 
 
 incurred in the secrecy. Parson W is simply an 
 
 immoral clergyman. But if Parson W were to be 
 
 for ever haranguing, on the opposite virtue; choosing 
 for his perpetual text, in preference to all other pulpit- 
 topics, the remarkable resistance recorded in the 39th 
 of Exodus; dwelling, moreover, and dilating upon it, 
 
 then Parson W might be reasonably suspected 
 
 of hypocrisy. But Parson W rarely diverteth into 
 
 such line of argument, or toucheth it briefly. His 
 ordinary topics are fetched from " obedience to the 
 powers that are," "submission to the civil magistrate 
 in all commands that are not absolutely unlawful ;" on 
 which he can delight to' expatiate with equal fervour and 
 sincerity. 
 
 Again : to despise a person is properly to look down 
 upon him with none or the least possible emotion ; but 
 when Clementina, who has lately lost her lover, with 
 bosom heaving, eyes flashing, and her whole frame in 
 agitation, pronounces with a peculiar emphasis that she 
 " despises the fellow," depend upon it that he is not quite 
 so despicable in her eyes as she would have us imagine. 
 
 One more instance. If we must naturalise that por- 
 tentous phrase, a truism, it were well that we limited 
 the use of it. Every commonplace or trite observation is 
 not a truism. For example : A good name helps a man 
 on in the world. This is nothing but a simple truth, 
 however hackneyed. It has a distinct subject and predi- 
 cate. But when the thing predicated is involved in the 
 term of the subject, and so necessarily involved that by 
 no possible conception they can be separated, then it 
 becomes a truism ; a,s to say, " A good name is a proof 
 of a man's estimation in the world." We seem to be 
 saying something, when we say nothing. I was describing 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 353 
 
 to F some knavish tricks of a mutual friend of ours. 
 
 "If he did so and so," was the reply, " he cannot be an 
 honest mail." Here was a genuine truism, truth upon 
 truth, inference and proposition identical, or rather a 
 dictionary definition usurping the place of an inference. 
 
 We are ashamed at sight of a monkey, somehow as 
 we are shy of poor relations. 
 
 C imagined a Caledonian compartment in Hades, 
 
 where there should be fire without sulphur. 
 
 Absurd images are sometimes irresistible. I will 
 mention two, an elephant in a coach-office gravely 
 coming to have his trunk booked ; a mermaid over a fish- 
 kettle cooking her own tail. 
 
 It is the praise of Shakspeare, with reference to the 
 playwriters his contemporaries, that he has so few re- 
 volting characters. Yet he has one that is singularly 
 mean and disagreeable, the King in "Hamlet." Neither 
 has he characters of insignificance, unless the phantom 
 that stalks over the stage as Julius Ca3sar, in the play 
 of that name, may be accounted one. Neither has he 
 envious characters, excepting the short part of Don John, 
 in "Much Ado about Nothing." Neither has he un- 
 entertaining characters, if we except Parolles, and the 
 little that there is of the Clown in "All's Well that 
 Ends Well." 
 
 Is it possible that Shakspeare should never have read 
 Homer, in Chapman's version at least? If he had read 
 it, could he mean to travesty it in the parts of those 
 big boobies, Ajax and Achilles? Ulysses, Nestor, and 
 Agamemnon are true to their parts in the " Iliad :" they 
 are gentlemen at least. Thersites, though unamusing, 
 is fairly deducible from it. Troilus and Cressida are a 
 fine graft upon it. But those two big bulks 
 2 A 
 
354 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 It would settle the dispute as to whether Shakspeare 
 intended Othello for a jealous character, to consider how 
 differently we are affected towards him and towards 
 Leontes in the " Winter's Tale." Leontes is that char- 
 acter. Othello's fault was simply credulity. 
 
 "Lear. Who are you ? 
 
 Mine eyes are none of the best. I'll tell you straight. 
 Are you not Kent ? 
 
 Kent. The same ; your servant Kent. 
 Where is your servant Caius ? 
 
 Lear. 'Twas a good i'ellow, I can tell you that ; 
 He'd strike, and quickly too : he is dead and rotten. 
 
 Kent. No, ray good lord : I am the very man 
 
 Lear. I'll see that straight 
 
 Kent. That from your first of difference and decay 
 Have followed yoxir sad steps. 
 
 Lear. You are welcome hither. 
 
 Albany. He knows not what he says ; and vain is it 
 That we present us to him. 
 
 Edgar. Look up, my lord. 
 
 Kent. Vex not his ghost. Oh ! let him pass. He hates him 
 That would upon the rack of this rough world 
 Stretch him out longer. " 
 
 So ends "King Lear," the most stupendous of the 
 Shakspearian dramas ; and Kent, the noblest feature of 
 the conceptions of his divine mind. This is the magna- 
 nimity of authorship, when a writer, having a topic pre- 
 sented to him, fruitful of beauties for common minds, 
 waives his privilege, and trusts to the judicious few for 
 understanding the reason of his abstinence. What a 
 pudder would a common dramatist have raised here of a 
 reconciliation -scene, a perfect recognition, between the 
 assumed Caius and his master ! to the suffusing of many 
 fair eyes, and the moistening of cambric handkerchiefs. 
 The old dying king partially catching at the truth, and 
 immediately lapsing into obliviousness, with the high- 
 minded carelessness of the other to have his services 
 appreciated, as one that 
 
 " Served not for gain, 
 Or followed out of form," 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 355 
 
 are among the most judicious, not to say heart- touching, 
 strokes in Shakspeare. 
 
 Allied to this magnanimity it is, where the pith and 
 point of an argument, the amplification of which might 
 compromise the modesty of the speaker, is delivered 
 briefly, and, as it were, parentJietically ; as in those few 
 but pregnant words, in which the man in the old 
 "Nut-brown Maid" rather intimates than reveals his 
 unsuspecting high birth to the woman : 
 
 "Now understand, to Westmoreland, 
 Which is my heritage, 
 I will you bring, and with a ring, 
 By way of marriage, 
 I will you take, and lady make. " 
 
 Turn we to the version of it, ten times diluted, of 
 dear Mat. Prior, in his own way unequalled, and a poet 
 now-a-days too much neglected. " In me," quoth Henry, 
 addressing the astounded Emma, with a flourish and an 
 attitude, as we may conceive, 
 
 " In me behold the potent Edgar's heir, 
 Illustrious earl ! him terrible in war, 
 Let Loire confess." 
 
 And with a deal of skimble-skamble stuff, as Hotspur 
 would term it, more, presents the lady with a full and 
 true enumeration of his papa's rent-roll in the fat soil by 
 Deva. 
 
 But, of all parentheses (not to quit the topic too 
 suddenly), commend me to that most significant one, at 
 the commencement of the old popular ballad of "Fair 
 Rosamond :" 
 
 ' ' When good King Henry ruled this land, 
 The second of that name," 
 
 Now mark, 
 
 "(I 
 
 A 
 
 There is great virtue in this besides. 
 
 (Besides the Queen) he dearly loved 
 A fair and comely dame." 
 
356 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 THE different way in which the same story may be 
 told by different persons was never more strikingly illus- 
 trated than by the manner in which the celebrated Jeremy 
 Collier has described the effects of Tiinotheus' music upon 
 Alexander, in the second part of his Essays. We all 
 know how Dryden has treated the subject. Let us now 
 hear his great contemporary and antagonist : "Timotheus, 
 a Grecian," says Collier, " was so great a master, that he 
 could make a man storm and swagger like a tempest ; 
 and then, by altering the notes and the time, he could 
 take him down again, and sweeten his humour in a trice. 
 One time, when Alexander was at dinner, the man played 
 him a Phrygian air. The prince immediately rises, 
 snatches up his lance, and puts himself into a posture of 
 fighting ; and the retreat was no sooner sounded by the 
 change of the harmony, but his arms were grounded, and 
 his fire extinct ; and he sat down as orderly as if he had 
 come from one of Aristotle's lectures. I warrant you, 
 Demosthenes would have been flourishing about such 
 business a long hour, and may be not have done it neither. 
 But Timotheus had a nearer cut to the soul : he could 
 neck a passion at a stroke, and lay it asleep. Pythagoras 
 once met with a parcel of drunken fellows, who were likely 
 to be troublesome enough. He presently orders music to 
 play grave, and chops into a Dorian. Upon this they 
 all threw away their garlands, and were as sober and as 
 shamefaced as one would wish." It is evident that 
 Dryden in his inspired ode, and Collier in all this pudder 
 of prose, meant the same thing. But what a work does 
 the latter make with his "necking a passion at his 
 stroke," "making a man storm and swagger like a 
 tempest," and then "taking him down, and sweeting his 
 humour in a trice " ! What in Dryden is " softly sweet in 
 Lydian measures," Collier calls " chopping into a Dorian." 
 This Collier was the same, who, in his Biographical 
 Dictionary, says of Shakspeare, that " though his genius 
 generally was jocular, and inclining to festivity, yet he 
 could when he pleased be as serious as anybody" 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 357 
 
 Oh the comfort of sitting down heartily to an old folio, 
 and thinking surely that the next hour or two will be 
 your own ! and the misery of being defeated by the 
 useless call of somebody, who is come to tell you that he 
 has just come from hearing Mr. Irving ! What is that 
 to you? Let him go home, and digest what the good 
 man has said. You are at your chapel, in your oratory. 
 
 My friend Hume (not M.P.) has a curious manuscript 
 in his possession, the original draught of the celebrated 
 "Beggar's Petition" (who cannot say by heart the 
 "Beggar's Petition"?) as it was written by some school- 
 usher (as I remember), with corrections interlined from 
 the pen of Oliver Goldsmith. As a specimen of the 
 doctor's improvement, I recollect one most judicious 
 alteration : 
 
 ' ' A pampered menial drove me from the door," 
 It stood originally, 
 
 " A livery servant drove me," etc. 
 
 Here is an instance of poetical or artificial language 
 properly substituted for the phrase of common conversa- 
 tion ; against Wordsworth. 
 
 Our ancestors, the noble old Puritans of Cromwell's 
 day, could distinguish between a day of religious rest and 
 a day of recreation ; and while they exacted a vigorous 
 abstinence from all amusements (even to walking out 
 of nursery-maids with their charges in the fields) upon 
 the Sabbath, in lieu of the superstitious observance of 
 the saints' days, which they abrogated, they humanely 
 gave to the apprentices and poorer sort of people every 
 alternate Thursday for a day of entire sport and recre- 
 ation. A strain of piety and policy to be commended 
 above the profane mockery of the Stuarts and their 
 " Book of Sports." 
 
 I was once amused there is a pleasure in affecting 
 affectation at the indignation of a crowd that was 
 
358 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 justling in with me at the pit-door of Covent Garden 
 Theatre to have a sight of Master Betty then at once 
 in his dawn and his meridian in Hamlet. I had been 
 invited quite unexpectedly to join a party whom I met 
 near the door of the play-house ; and I happened to have 
 in my hand a large octavo, of Johnson and Steevens' 
 " Shakspeare," which, the time not admitting of my 
 carrying it home, of course went with me to the theatre. 
 Just in the very heat and pressure of the doors opening, 
 the rush, as they term it, I deliberately held the 
 volume over my head, open at the scene in which the 
 young Roscius had been most cried up, and quietly read 
 by the lamplight. The clamour became universal. " The 
 affectation of the fellow!" cried one. "Look at that 
 gentleman reading, papa !" squeaked a young lady, who, 
 in her admiration of the novelty, almost forgot her fears. 
 I read on. " He ought to have his book knocked out of 
 his hand ! " exclaimed a pursy cit, whose arms were too 
 fast pinioned to his side to suffer him to execute his kind 
 intention. Still I read on, and, till the time came to 
 pay my money, kept as unmoved as Saint Anthony at 
 his holy offices, with the satyrs, apes, and hobgoblins 
 moping, and making mouths at him, in the picture; 
 while the good man sits as undisturbed at the sight as if 
 he were sole tenant of the desert. The individual rabble 
 (I recognised more than one of their ugly faces) had 
 damned a slight piece of mine but a few nights since ; 
 and I was determined the culprits should not a second 
 time put me out of countenance. 
 
 We are too apt to indemnify ourselves for some char- 
 acteristic excellence we are kind enough to concede to a 
 great author by denying him every thing else. Thus 
 Donne and Cowley, by happening to possess more wit, 
 and faculty of illustration, than other men, are supposed 
 to have been incapable of nature or feeling : they are 
 usually opposed to such writers as Shenstone and Parnell ; 
 whereas, in the very thickest of their conceits, in the 
 
TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 359 
 
 bewildering mazes of tropes and figures, a warmth of 
 soul and generous feeling shines through, the "sum" 
 of which, "forty thousand" of those natural poets, as 
 they are called, " with all their quantity," could not 
 make up. 
 
 "Pray God, your honour relieve me," said a poor 
 
 beads- woman to my friend L one day : "I have seen 
 
 better days." "So have I, my good woman," retorted 
 he, looking up at the welkin, which was just then threaten- 
 ing a storm ; and the jest (he will have it) was as good 
 to the beggar as a tester. 
 
 It was, at all events, kinder than consigning her to 
 the stocks or the parish beadle. 
 
 But L has a way of viewing things in a para- 
 doxical light on some occasions. 
 
 I have in my possession a curious volume of Latin 
 verses, which I believe to be unique. It is entitled. 
 Alexandra Fultoni Scoti Epigrammatorum libri quinque, 
 It purports to be printed at Perth, and bears date 1679. 
 By the appellation which the author gives himself in the 
 preface, hypodidascidus, I suppose him to have been an 
 usher at some school. It is no uncommon thing now-a- 
 days for persons concerned in academies to affect a literary 
 reputation in the way of their trade. The " master of a 
 seminary for a limited number of pupils at Islington" 
 lately put forth an edition of that scarce tract, "The 
 Elegy in a Country Churchyard " (to use his own words), 
 with notes and headlines ! But to our author. These 
 epigrams of Alexander Fulton, Scotchman, have little 
 remarkable in them besides extreme dulness and insipidity; 
 but there is one, which, by its being marshalled in the 
 front of the volume, seems to have been the darling of 
 its parent, and for its exquisite flatness, and the surpris- 
 ing strokes of an anachronism with which it is pointed, 
 deserves to be rescued from oblivion. It is addressed, 
 like many of the others to a fair one : 
 
360 TABLE-TALK AND FRAGMENTS OF CRITICISM. 
 
 AD MAKIULAM SUAM AUTOR. 
 
 " Miserunt bella olim Helenas decor atque venustas 
 Europeu inter frugiferamque Asiarn. 
 Tara bona, quam tu, tarn prudens, sin ilia fuisset, 
 Ad lites issent Africa et America !" 
 
 Which, in humble imitation of mine author's peculiar 
 poverty of style, I have ventured thus to render into 
 English : 
 
 THE AUTHOR TO HIS MOGGY. 
 
 "For Love's illustrious cause, and Helen's charms, 
 All Europe and all Asia rushed to arms. 
 Had she with these thy polished sense combined, 
 All Afric and America had joined ! " 
 
 The happy idea of an American war undertaken in 
 the cause of beauty ought certainly to recommend the 
 author's memory to the countrymen of Madison and 
 Jefferson ; and the bold anticipation of the discovery of 
 that continent in the time of the Trojan War is a flight 
 beyond the Sibyl's books. 
 
ELIA TO HIS COKKESPONDENTS. 
 
 A WRITER, whose real name, it seems, is JBoldero, but 
 who has been entertaining the town for the last twelve 
 months with some very pleasant lucubrations under the 
 assumed signature of Leigh Hunt, 1 in his "Indicator" 
 of the 31st January last has thought fit to insinuate 
 that I, Elia, do not write the little sketches which bear 
 my signature in this magazine, but that the true author 
 
 of them is a Mr. L b. Observe the critical period 
 
 at which he has chosen to impute the calumny, on 
 the very eve of the publication of our last number, 
 affording no scope for explanation for a full month \ 
 during which time I must needs lie writhing and tossing 
 under the cruel imputation of nonentity. Good Heavens ! 
 that a plain man must not be allowed to be 
 
 They call this an age of personality ; but surely this 
 spirit of anti-personality (if I may so express it) is some- 
 thing worse. 
 
 Take away my moral reputation, I may live to 
 discredit that calumny; injure my literary fame, I 
 may write that up again : but, when a gentleman is 
 robbed of his identity, where is he 1 
 
 Other murderers stab but at our existence, a frail 
 and perishing trifle at the best : but here is an assassin 
 who aims at our very essence ; who not only forbids us to 
 
 1 Clearly a fictitious appellation ; for, if we admit the latter of 
 these names to be in a manner English, what is Leigh f Christian 
 nomenclature knows no such. 
 
362 ELIA TO HIS CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 be any longer, but to have been at all. Let our ancestors 
 look to it. 
 
 Is the parish register nothing? Is the house in 
 Princes Street, Cavendish Square, where we saw the 
 light six and forty years ago, nothing 1 Were our pro- 
 genitors from stately Genoa, where we flourished four 
 centuries back, before the barbarous name of Boldero 1 
 was known to a European mouth, nothing? Was the 
 goodly scion of our name, transplanted into England 
 in the reign of the seventh Henry, nothing? Are the 
 archives of the steelyard, in succeeding reigns (if haply 
 they survive the fury of our envious enemies), showing 
 that we flourished in prime repute, as merchants, down 
 to the period of the Commonwealth, nothing ! 
 
 "Why, then the world, and all that's in't, is nothing; 
 The covering sky is nothing ; Bohemia nothing." 
 
 I am ashamed that this trifling writer should have 
 power to move me so. 
 
 A COEKESPONDENT, who writes himself Peter Ball, or 
 Bell, for his handwriting is as ragged as his manners, 
 admonishes me of the old saying, that some people (under 
 a courteous periphrasis, I slur his less ceremonious epithet) 
 had need have good memories. In my " Old Benchers of 
 the Inner Temple," I have delivered myself, and truly, a 
 Templar born. Bell clamours upon this, and thinketh that 
 he hath caught a fox. It seems that in a former paper, 
 retorting upon a weekly scribbler who had called my good 
 identity in question (see Postscript to my " Chapter on 
 Ears"), I profess myself a native of some spot near 
 Cavendish Square, deducing my remoter origin from Italy. 
 But who does not see, except this tinkling cymbal, that, in 
 that idle fiction of Genoese ancestry, I was answering a 
 
 1 It is clearly of Transatlantic origin. 
 
ELIA TO HIS CORRESPONDENTS. 363 
 
 fool according to his folly, that Elia there expresseth 
 himself ironically as to an approved slanderer, who hath 
 no right to the truth, and can be no fit recipient of it ? 
 Such a one it is usual to leave to his delusions; or, 
 leading him from error still to contradictory error, to 
 plunge him (as we say) deeper in the mire, and give him 
 line till he suspend himself. No understanding reader 
 could be imposed upon by such obvious rodomontade to 
 suspect me for an alien, or believe me other than 
 English. 
 
 To a second correspondent, who signs himself "A 
 Wiltshire Man," and claims me for a countryman upon 
 the strength of an equivocal phrase in my "Christ's 
 Hospital," a more mannerly reply is due. Passing over 
 the Genoese fable, which Bell makes such a ring about, 
 he nicely detects a more subtle discrepancy, which Bell 
 was too obtuse to strike upon. Referring to the passage, 
 I must confess, that the term " native town," applied to 
 Calne, primd facie seems to bear out the construction 
 which my friendly correspondent is willing to put upon 
 it. The context too, I am afraid, a little favours it. 
 But where the words of an author, taken literally, com- 
 pared with some other passage in his writings, admitted 
 to be authentic, involve a palpable contradiction, it hath 
 been the custom of the ingenuous commentator to smooth 
 the difficulty by the supposition that in the one case an 
 allegorical or tropical sense was chiefly intended. So, 
 by the word "native," I may be supposed to mean a 
 town where I might have been born, or where it might 
 be desirable that I should have been born, as being situate 
 in wholesome air, upon a dry, chalky soil, in which I 
 delight ; or a town with the inhabitants of which I passed 
 some weeks, a summer or two ago, so agreeably, that 
 they and it became in a manner native to me. Without 
 some such latitude of interpretation in the present case, 
 I see not how we can avoid falling into a gross error in 
 physics, as to conceive that a gentleman may be born in two 
 places, from which all modern and ancient testimony is 
 
364 ELIA TO HIS CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 alike abhorrent. Bacchus cometh the nearest to it, whom 
 I remember Ovid to have honoured with the epithet 
 "twice born." 1 But, not to mention that he is so called 
 (we conceive) in reference to the places whence rather 
 than the places where he was delivered, for, by either 
 birth, he may probably be challenged for a Theban, in 
 a strict way of speaking, he was a filius femoris by no 
 means in the same sense as he had been before a Jilius 
 alvi ; for that latter was but a secondary and tralatitious 
 way of being born, and he but a denizen of the second 
 house of his geniture. Thus much by way of explanation 
 was thought due to the courteous " Wiltshire Man." 
 
 To " Indagator," " Investigator," " Incertus," and the 
 rest of the pack, that are so importunate about the true 
 localities of his birth, as if, forsooth, Elia were presently 
 about to be passed to his parish, to all such church- 
 warden critics he answereth, that, any explanation here 
 given notwithstanding, he hath not so fixed his nativity 
 (like a rusty vane) to one dull spot, but that, if he seeth 
 occasion, or the argument shall demand it, he will be 
 born again, in future papers, in whatever place, and at 
 whatever period, shall seem good unto him. 
 " Modd me Thebis, mod6 Athenis." 
 
 1 " Imperfectus adhuc infans genetricis ab alvo 
 Eripitur patrioque tener (si credere dignum) 
 Insuitur femori. . . . 
 Tutaque bis geniti sunt incunabula Bacchi. " 
 
 Metamorph., lib. iii 
 
ON THE DEATH OF COLEEIDGE. 
 
 WHEN I heard of the death of Coleridge, it was without 
 grief. It seemed to me that he long had been on the 
 confines of the next world, that he had a hunger for 
 eternity. I grieved then that I could not grieve. But, 
 since, I feel how great a part he was of me. His great 
 and dear spirit haunts me. I cannot think a thought, I 
 cannot make a criticism on men and books, without an 
 ineffectual turning and reference to him. He was the 
 proof and touchstone of all my cogitations. He was a 
 Grecian (or in the first form), at Christ's Hospital, where 
 I was Deputy-Grecian ; and the same subordination and 
 deference to him I have preserved through a life-long 
 acquaintance. Great in his writings, he was greatest in 
 his conversation. In him was disproved that old maxim, 
 that we should allow every one his share of talk. He 
 would talk from morn to dewy eve, nor cease till far 
 midnight ; yet who ever would interrupt him ? who would 
 obstruct that continuous flow of converse, fetched from 
 Helicon or Zion ? He had the tact of making the unintel- 
 ligible seem plain. Many who read the abstruser parts 
 of his " Friend " would complain that his words did not 
 answer to his spoken wisdom. They were identical. But 
 he had a tone in oral delivery which seemed to convey 
 sense to those who were otherwise imperfect recipients. 
 He was my fifty -years -old friend without a dissension. 
 Never saw I his likeness, nor probably the world can see 
 again. I seem to love the house he died at more passion- 
 
366 ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE. 
 
 ately than when he lived. I love the faithful Gillmans 
 more than while they exercised their virtues towards him 
 living. What was his mansion is consecrated to me a 
 chapel 
 
 EDMONTON, Nov. 21, 1834, 
 
PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, AND 
 MISCELLANEOUS VERSE. 
 
 PROLOGUE TO COLERIDGE'S TRAGEDY OF 
 " REMORSE." 
 
 THERE are, I am told, who sharply criticise 
 
 Our modern theatres' unwieldy size. 
 
 We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge, 
 
 Who think a house can never be too large : 
 
 Grieved when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear, 
 
 Shakes some prescribed Lyceum's petty sphere ; 
 
 And pleased to mark the grin from space to space 
 
 Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face. 
 
 might old Betterton or Booth return 
 
 To view our structures from their silent urn, 
 
 Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades, 
 
 Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades, 
 
 Where now, perhaps, in mirth which spirits approve, 
 
 He imitates the ways of men above, 
 
 And apes the actions of our upper coast, 
 
 As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost : 
 
 How might they bless our ampler scope to please, 
 
 And hate their own old shrunk-up audiences. 
 
 Their houses yet were palaces to those 
 
 Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose. 
 
 Shakespeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage, 
 
 Like giant pent in disproportion^ cage, 
 
 Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage. 
 
368 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 
 
 He who could tame his vast ambition down 
 
 To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town ; 
 
 And if some hundred auditors supplied 
 
 Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied, 
 
 How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's 
 
 Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears, 
 
 While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands 
 
 Retura'd the tribute of as many hands ! 
 
 Rude were his guests ; he never made his bow 
 
 To such an audience as salutes us now. 
 
 He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise. 
 
 Few ladies in his time frequented plays, 
 
 Or came to see a youth with awkward art 
 
 And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part. 
 
 The very use, since so essential grown, 
 
 Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown. 
 
 The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome erest> 
 
 The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest 
 
 The forest walks of Arden's fair domain, 
 
 Where Jaques fed his solitary vein, 
 
 No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply, 
 
 Seen only by the intellectual eye. 
 
 Those scenic helps, denied to Shakespeare's page, 
 
 Our Author owes to a more liberal age. 
 
 Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here j 
 
 'Tis for himself alone that he must fear. 
 
 Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride. 
 
 That (be the laurel granted or denied) 
 
 He first essay'd in this distinguish'd fane 
 
 Severer muses and a tragic strain. 
 
PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 369 
 
 PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY 
 "ANTONIO." 
 
 " LADIES, ye've seen how Guzman's consort died, 
 
 Poor victim of a Spanish brother's pride, 
 
 When Spanish honour through the world was blown, 
 
 And Spanish beauty for the best was known. 1 
 
 In that romantic, unenlightened time, 
 
 A breach of promise 1 * was a sort of crime 
 
 Which of you handsome English ladies here, 
 
 But deem the penance bloody and severe 1 
 
 A whimsical old Saragossa 3 fashion, 
 
 That a dead father's dying inclination 
 
 Should live to thwart a living daughter's passion 4 
 
 Unjustly on the sex we 5 men exclaim, 
 
 Rail at your 6 vices, and commit the same ; 
 
 Man is a promise-breaker from the womb, 
 
 And goes a promise-breaker to the tomb 
 
 What need we instance here the lover's vow, 
 
 The sick Man's purpose, or the great man's bow ? 7 
 
 The truth by few examples best is shown 
 
 Instead of many which are better known, 
 
 Take poor Jack Incident, that's dead and gone. 
 
 Jack, of dramatic genius justly vain, 
 
 Purchased a renter's share at Drury Lane ; 
 
 A prudent man in every other matter, 
 
 Known at his club-room for an honest hatter; 
 
 Humane and courteous, led a civil life, 
 
 And has been seldom known to beat his wife ; 
 
 But Jack is now grown quite another man, 
 
 Frequents the green-room, knows the plot and plan 
 
 Of each new piece, 
 
 And has been seen to talk with Sheridan ! 
 In at the play-house just at six he pops, 
 
 1 " Four easy lines." 2 " For which the heroine died." 
 
 3 In Spain II 4 Two neat lines. s Or you. 
 
 6 Or our, as they have altered it. 7 Antithesis ! ! C. L. 
 
 2n 
 
370 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 
 
 And never quits it till the curtain drops, 
 Is never absent on the author's night, 
 
 Knows actresses and actors too by sight ; 
 
 So humble, that with Suett he'll confer, 
 
 Or take a pipe with plain Jack Bannister ; 
 
 Nay, with an author has been known so free, 
 
 He once suggested a catastrophe 
 
 In short, John dabbled till his head was turn'd : 
 
 His wife remonstrated, his neighbours mourned, 
 
 His customers were dropping ofif apace, 
 
 And Jack's affairs began to wear a piteous face. 
 
 One night his wife began a curtain lecture : 
 
 ' My dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector, 
 
 Take pity on your helpless babes and me, 
 
 Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy 
 
 Look to your business, leave these cursed plays, 
 
 And try again your old industrious ways.' 
 
 Jack, who was always scar'd at the Gazette, 
 And had some bits of skull uninjured yet, 
 Promis'd amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason, 
 ' He would not see another play that season.' 
 
 Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept, 
 Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept, 
 And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men ; 
 No wit, but John the hatter once again 
 Visits his club : when lo ! one fated night 
 His wife with horror viewed the well-known sight 
 John's hat, wig, snuff-box well she knew liis tricks 
 And Jack decamping at the hour of six. 
 Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay, 
 Announcing that ' Pizarro ' was the play 
 1 Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.' 
 Quoth Jack, ' Why what the devil storm's a-brewing? 
 About a harmless play why all this fright ? 
 I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite 
 Zounds, woman ! Nelson's 1 to be there to-night.' " 
 
 1 " A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times 
 at both theatres and advertised himself. " C. L. 
 
PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 371 
 
 PROLOGUE TO FAULKENER : 
 A TRAGEDY BY WILLIAM GODWIN, 1807. 
 
 AN Author who has given you all delight 
 
 Furnished the tale our stage presents to-night. 
 
 Some of our earliest tears he taught to steal 
 
 Down our young cheeks, and forced us first to feel. 
 
 To solitary shores whole years confined, 
 
 Who has not read how pensive Crusoe pined ? 
 
 Who, now grown old, that did not once admire 
 
 His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire, 
 
 The stick, due notched, that told each tedious day 
 
 That in the lonely island wore away ? 
 
 Who has not shuddered, where he stands aghast 
 
 At sight of human footsteps in the waste 1 
 
 Or joyed not, when his trembling hands unbind 
 
 Thee, Friday, gentlest of the savage kind 1 
 
 The genius who conceived that magic tale 
 
 Was skilled by native pathos to prevail. 
 
 His stories, though rough-drawn and framed in haste, 
 
 Had that which pleased our homely grandsires' taste. 
 
 His was a various pen, that freely roved 
 
 Into all subjects, was in most approved. 
 
 Whate'er the theme, his ready muse obeyed 
 
 Love, Courtship, Politics, Religion, Trade 
 
 Gifted alike to shine in every sphere, 
 
 Novelist, Historian, Poet, Pamphleteer. 
 
 In some blest interval of party-strife, 
 
 He drew a striking sketch from private life, 
 
 Whose moving scenes of intricate distress 
 
 We try to-night in a dramatic dress : 
 
 A real story of domestic woe, 
 
 That asks no aid from music, verse, or show, 
 
 But trusts to truth, to Nature, and D foe. 
 
372 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 
 
 EPILOGUE TO " THE WIFE : A TALE OF MAN- 
 TUA," BY JAMES SHERIDAN KNOWLES. 
 
 WHEN first our bard his simple will express'd 
 That I should in his heroine's robes be dress'd, 
 My fears were with my vanity at strife, 
 How I could act that untried part " a wife." 
 But Fancy to the Grison hills me drew 
 Where Mariana like a wild-flower grew, 
 Nursing her garden-kindred : so far I 
 Liked her condition, willing to comply 
 With that sweet single life : when, with a cranch, 
 Down came that thundering, crashing avalanche, 
 Startling my mountain-project ! " Take this spade," 
 Said Fancy then, " dig low, adventurous maid, 
 For hidden wealth." I did ; and, Ladies, lo 1 
 Was e'er romantic female's fortune so, 
 To dig a life-warm lover from the snow ? 
 
 A wife and princess see me next, beset 
 With subtle toils, in an Italian net, 
 While knavish courtiers, stung with rage or fear, 
 Distill'd lip-poison in a husband's ear. 
 I pondefd on the boiling Southern vein ; 
 Racks, cords, stilettoes, rush'd upon my brain I 
 By poor, good, weak Antonio, too, disowned 
 I dream'd each night I should be Desdeniona'd, 
 And, being in Mantua, thought upon the shop 
 Whence fair Verona's youth his breath did stop : 
 And what if Leonardo, in foul scorn, 
 Some lean apothecary should suborn 
 To take my hated life ? A " tortoise " hung 
 Before my eyes, and in my ears scaled " alligators rung." 
 But my Othello, to his vows more zealous 
 Twenty lagos could not make him jealous ! 
 
 New raised to reputation, and to life 
 At your commands behold me, without strife, 
 Well-pleased, and ready to repeat the " Wife." 
 
PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 373 
 
 TO THOMAS STOTHARD, R.A., ON HIS ILLUS- 
 TRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS. 
 
 CONSUMMATE Artist, whose undying name 
 
 With classic Rogers shall go down to fame, 
 
 Be this thy crowning work ! In my young days 
 
 How often have I with a child's fond gaze 
 
 Pored on the pictured wonders thou hadst done : 
 
 Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison ! 
 
 All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view ; 
 
 I saw, and I believed the phantoms true. 
 
 But, above all, that most romantic tale 
 
 Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, 
 
 Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things, 
 
 That serve at once for jackets and for wings. 
 
 Age, that enfeebles other men's designs, 
 
 But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines. 
 
 In several ways distinct you make us feel 
 
 Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel. 
 
 Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise ; 
 
 And warmly wish you Titian's length of days. 
 
 TO CLARA N. 
 
 THE Gods have made me most unmusical, 
 
 With feelings that respond not to the call 
 
 Of stringed harp or voice obtuse and mute 
 
 To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute ; 
 
 King David's lyre, that made the madness flee 
 
 From Saul, had been but a Jew's-harp to me : 
 
 Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars, 
 
 Leave in my wounded ears inflicted scars ; 
 
 I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float 
 
 Upon the captive air ; I know no note, 
 
374 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 
 
 Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say, 
 
 Of the strange mysteries of Sol and Fa / 
 
 I sit at oratorios like a fish, 
 
 Incapable of sound, and only wish 
 
 The thing was over. Yet do I admire, 
 
 tuneful daughter of a tuneful sire, 
 
 Thy painful labours in a science, which 
 
 To your deserts I pray may make you rich 
 
 As much as you are loved, and add a grace 
 
 To the most musical Novello race. 
 
 Women lead men by the nose, some cynics say 
 
 You draw them by the ear a delicater way. 
 
 TO MY FRIEND THE INDICATOR. 
 
 YOUK easy Essays indicate a flow, 
 
 Dear friend, of brain which we may elsewhere seek 
 
 And to their pages I and hundreds owe, 
 
 That Wednesday is the sweetest of the week. 
 
 Such observation, wit, and sense, are shown, 
 
 We think the days of Bickerstaff return'd ; 
 
 And that a portion of that oil you own, 
 
 In his undying midnight lamp which burn'd. 
 
 I would not lightly bruise old Priscian's head 
 
 Or wrong the rules of grammar understood ; 
 
 But, with the leave of Priscian be it said, 
 
 The Indicative is your Potential Mood. 
 
 Wit, poet, prose-man, party-man, translator 
 
 H[unt], your best title yet is Indicator. 
 
 SAINT CRISPIN TO MR. GIFFORD. 
 
 ALL unadvised and in an evil hour, 
 
 Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft 
 
 The lowly labours of the " Gentle Craft " 
 
PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 375 
 
 For lowly toils, which blood and spirits sour. 
 All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power ; 
 The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground ; 
 The sweet content of mind is oftener found 
 In cobbler's parlour than in critic's bower. 
 The sorest work is what doth cross the grain ; 
 And better to this hour you had been plying 
 The obsequious awl, with well-wax'd finger flying, 
 Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein : 
 Still teasing muses, which are still denying ; 
 Making a stretching-leather of your brain. 
 
 St. Crispin's Eve. 
 
 IN TABULAM EXIMII PICTORIS R. B. HAYDONI IN QUA 
 JUDAEI ADVENIENTE DOMINO PALMAS IN VIA 
 PROSTERNENTES MIR A ARTE DEPINGUNTTJR. 
 
 QUID vult Iste Equitans 1 et quid velit ista virorum 
 Palniifera ingens turba et vox tremebunda Hosaima ? 
 Hosanna Christo semper, semperque canamus. 
 Palma fuit senior Pictor celeberrimus olim ; 
 Sed paluiam cedat, modo si foret ille superstes 
 Palma Haydone tibi : tu palmas omnibus aufers. 
 Palma negata macrum, donataque reddit opimum 
 Si simul incipiat cum fama increscere corpus 
 Tu cito pinguesces, fies et, amicule, obesus. 
 Aflfectant lauros pictores atque poetse, 
 Sin laurum invideant (sed quis tibi ?) laurigerentes 
 Pro lauro palma viridanti tempora cinge. 
 
 Carolagnulus. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ABOVE. 
 
 WHAT rider's that ? and who those myriads bringing 
 Him on his way, with palms, Hosanna singing 1 
 Hosanna to Christ ! Heaven, Earth, shall still be ringing. 
 
376 PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, ETC. 
 
 In days of old, Old Palma won renown : 
 
 But Palma's self must yield the painter's crown, 
 
 Haydon, to thee : Thy palms put every other down. 
 
 If Flaccus' sentence with the truth agree, 
 That palms awarded make men plump to be, 
 Friend Horace, Haydon soon shall match in bulk with 
 thee. 
 
 Painters with poets for the laurel vie ; 
 
 But should the laureate band thy claims deny, 
 
 Wear thou thine own green palm, Haydon, triumphantly 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 TO SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. 
 
 THOUGH thou'rt like Judas, an apostate black, 
 In the resemblance one thing thou dost lack ; 
 When he had gotten his ill-purchased pelf, 
 He went away, and wisely hanged himself. 
 This thou may'st do at last ; yet much I doubt, 
 If thou hast any bowels to gush out ! 
 
 THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE. 
 
 lo ! Paean ! lo ! sing, 
 To the finny people's king. 
 Not a mightier whale than this 
 In the vast Atlantic is ; 
 Not a fatter fish than he 
 Flounders round the Polar sea. 
 See his blubber ! at his gills 
 What a world of drink he swills ! 
 From his trunk, as from a spout, 
 Which next moment he pours out. 
 
 Such his person. Next declare, 
 Muse, who his companions are : 
 Every fish of generous kind 
 Scuds aside, or slinks behind : 
 But about his presence keep 
 All the monsters of the deep ; 
 
378 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 Mermaids, with their tails and singing, 
 
 His delighted fancy stinging ; 
 
 Crooked dolphins, they surround him ; 
 
 Dog-like seals, they fawn around him j 
 
 Following hard, the progress mark 
 
 Of the intolerant salt-sea shark : 
 
 For his solace and relief 
 
 Flat fish are his courtiers chief; 
 
 Last, and lowest in his train, 
 
 Ink-fish (libellers of the main) 
 
 Their black liquor shed in spite : 
 
 (Such on earth the things that write.) 
 
 In his stomach, some do say, 
 
 No good thing can ever stay : 
 
 Had it been the fortune of it 
 
 To have swallow'd that old prophet, 
 
 Three days there he'd not have dwelTd, 
 
 But in one have been expelFd. 
 
 Hapless mariners are they, 
 
 Who beguiled (as seamen say) 
 
 Deeming him some rock or island, 
 
 Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, 
 
 Anchor in his scaly rind 
 
 Soon the difference they find ; 
 
 Sudden, plumb ! he sinks beneath them, 
 
 Does to ruthless seas bequeath them 1 
 
 Name or title what has he ? 
 Is he Regent of the Sea 1 
 From this difficulty free us, 
 BufFon, Banks, or sage Linnseus. 
 With his wondrous attributes 
 Say what appellation suits 1 
 By his bulk, and by his size, 
 By his oily qualities, 
 This (or else my eyesight fails), 
 This should be the Prince of Whales. 
 
 K. ET R. 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 379 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 CLOSE by the ever-burning brimstone beds 
 Where Bedloe, Gates, and Judas hide their heads, 
 I saw great Satan like a Sexton stand 
 With his intolerable spade in hand 
 Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were, 
 For those who coffinless must enter there 
 With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth 
 Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath : 
 The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye that dwelt 
 Upon it long, like darkness to be felt. 
 The pillows to these baleful beds were toads, 
 Largo, living, livid, melancholy loads, 
 Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size 
 Crawl'd round ; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies. 
 A doleful bell, inculcating despair, 
 Was always ringing in the heavy air; 
 And all about the detestable pit 
 Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms did flit ; 
 Rivers of blood from dripping traitors spilt, 
 By treachery slung from poverty to guilt. 
 I ask'd the fiend for whom those rites were meant ? 
 " These graves," quoth he, " when life's brief oil is spent, 
 When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bed- 
 wards, 
 I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards." 
 
 R. ET R. 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE LAST REIGN. 
 
 YE Politicians, tell me, pray, 
 Why thus with woe and care rent ? 
 This is the worst that you can say, 
 Some wind has blown the Wig away, 
 And left the Hair Apparent. R. ET R. 
 
380 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 LINES. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY A SIGHT OF WALTHAM CROSS. 
 
 POINT still the spots, to hallow'd wedlock dear, 
 Where rested on its solemn way the bier, 
 That bore the bones of Edward's Elinor 
 To mix with Royal dust at Westminster. 
 Far different rites did thee to dust consign, 
 Duke Brunswick's daughter, princely Caroline, 
 A hurried funeral, and a banish'd grave, 
 High-minded wife ! were all that thou couldst have. 
 Grieve not, great ghost, nor count in death thy losses \ 
 Thou in thy life-time had'st thy share of crosses. 
 
 "ONE DIP." 
 
 MUCH speech obscures the sense ; the soul of wit 
 
 Is brevity : our tale one proof of it. 
 
 Poor Balbulus, a stammering invalid, 
 
 Consults the doctors, and by them is bid 
 
 To try sea-bathing, with this special heed, 
 
 " One dip was all his malady did need ; 
 
 More than that one his certain death would be." 
 
 Now who so nervous or so shook as he, 
 
 For Balbulus had never dipped before ? 
 
 Two well-known dippers, at the Broadstairs' shore, 
 
 Stout sturdy churls, have stript him to the skin, 
 
 And naked, cold, and shivering plunge him in. 
 
 Soon he emerges with scarce breath to say, 
 
 " I'm to be dip-dip-dipt ." "We know it," they 
 
 Reply. Expostulation seemed in vain, 
 And over ears they souse him in again ; 
 And up again he rises ; his words trip, 
 And falter as before, Still " dip-dip-dip " 
 And in he goes again with furious plunge, 
 Once more to rise ; when with a desperate lunge 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 381 
 
 At length he bolts these words out, " only once /" 
 The villains crave his pardon. Had the dunce 
 But aimed at these bare words the rogues had found him ; 
 But striving to be prolix, they half-drowned him. 
 
 H Y. 
 
 SATAN IN SEARCH OF A WIFE. 
 
 DEDICATION. 
 
 To delicate bosoms, that have sighed over the Loves of the Angels, 
 this poem is with tenderest regard consecrated. It can be no offence 
 to you, dear ladies, that the author has endeavoured to extend the 
 dominion of your darling passion ; to show love triumphant in 
 places, to which his advent has been never yet suspected. If one 
 Cecilia drew an Angel down, another may have leave to attract a 
 spirit upwards ; which, I am sure, was the most desperate adventure 
 of the two. Wonder not at the inferior condition of the agent ; for, if 
 King Cophetua wooed a beggar-maid, a greater king need not scorn 
 to confess the attractions of a fair tailor's daughter. The more 
 disproportionate the rank, the more signal is the glory of your sex. 
 Like that of Hecate, a triple empire is now confessed your own. 
 Nor Heaven, nor Earth, nor deepest tracts of Erebus, as Milton hath 
 it, have power to resist your sway. I congratulate your last victory. 
 You have fairly made an honest man of the Old One ; and, if your 
 conquest is late, the success must be salutary. The new Benedick 
 has employment enough on Ms hands to desist from dabbling with 
 the affairs of poor mortals ; he may fairly leave human nature to 
 herself ; and we may sleep for one while at least secure from the 
 attacks of this hitherto restless Old Bachelor. It remains to be 
 seen, whether the world will be much benefited by the change in 
 his condition. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 L 
 
 THE Devil was sick and queasy of late, 
 
 And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him ; 
 His ears they hung down, and his tail it was clapp'd 
 Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd 
 None knew what the devil ail'd him. 
 
382 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 II. 
 
 He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights, 
 
 That was fit for a fiend's disportal ; 
 For 'twas made of the finest of thistles and thorn, 
 Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn 
 Of the best down beds that are mortal. 
 
 in. 
 
 His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved, 
 
 With groanings corresponding ; 
 And mincing and few were the words he spoke, 
 While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke 
 
 From a heart that seem'd desponding. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now the Devil an old wife had for his dam. 
 
 I think none e'er was older : 
 Her years old Parr's were nothing to them ; 
 And a chicken to her was Methusalem, 
 
 You'd say, could you behold her. 
 
 v. 
 
 She remember'd Chaos a little child, 
 
 Strumming upon hand organs ; 
 At the birth of Old Night a gossip she sat, 
 The ancientest there, and was godmother at 
 
 The christening of the Gorgons. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros' skin, 
 
 Like a mummy's through its cerement ; 
 But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd 
 What pinch'd her son ; whom she thus address'd 
 In terms that bespoke endearment. 
 
 VII. 
 
 What ails my Nicky, my darling Imp, 
 My Lucifer bright, my Beelze ? 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 383 
 
 My Pig, my Pug-with-a-curly-tail, 
 You are not well. Can a mother fail 
 To see that which all Hell see V 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " mother dear, I am dying, I fear ; 
 
 Prepare the yew, and the willow, 
 And the cypress black : for I get no ease 
 By day or by night for the cursed fleas 
 
 That skip about my pillow." 
 
 IX. 
 
 '* Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer, 
 For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son, 
 And your blankets both, and dried them upon 
 The brimstony banks of Acheron 
 It is not the fleas that bite, son." 
 
 x. 
 
 "01 perish of cold these bitter sharp nights, 
 
 The damp like an ague ferrets ; 
 The ice and the frost hath shot into the bone ; 
 And I care not greatly to sleep alone 
 
 0' nights for the fear of spirits." 
 
 XI. 
 
 " The weather is warm, my own sweet boy, 
 
 And the nights are close and stifling ; 
 And for fearing of spirits, you cowardly elf 
 Have you quite forgot you're a spirit yourself 1 
 Come, come, I see you are trifling. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " I wish my Nicky is not in love " 
 " mother, you have nick'd it " 
 And he turn'd his head aside with a blush 
 Not red hot pokers or crimson plush, 
 Could half so deep have prick'd it. 
 
384 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " These twenty thousand good years or more," 
 
 Quoth he, " on this burning shingle 
 I have led a lonesome bachelor's life, 
 Nor known the comfort of babe or wife 
 'Tis a long time to live single." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Quoth she, " If a wife is all you want, 
 
 I shall quickly dance at your wedding. 
 I am dry nurse, you know, to the female ghosts " 
 And she call'd up her charge, and they came in hosts 
 To do the old beldam's bidding : 
 
 xv. 
 
 All who in their lives had been servants of sin 
 
 Adulteress, wench, virago 
 And murd'resses old that had pointed the knife 
 Against a husband's or father's life, 
 
 Each one a she lago. 
 
 XVL 
 
 First Jezebel came no need of paint 
 
 Or dressing to make her charming ; 
 For the blood of the old prophetical race 
 Had heighten'd the natural flush of her face 
 
 To a pitch 'bove rouge or carmine. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Semiramis there low tender'd herself, 
 
 With all Babel for a dowry : 
 With Helen, the flower and the bane of Greece ' 
 And bloody Medea next offer'd her fleece, 
 
 That was of Hell the houri. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Clytemnestra, with Joan of Naples, put in ; 
 Cleopatra, by Antony quicken'd ; 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 385 
 
 Jocasta, that married where she should not, 
 Came hand in hand with the daughters of Lot, 
 'Till the Devil was fairly sicken'd. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 For the Devil himself, a devil as he is, 
 
 Disapproves unequal matches. 
 " mother," he cried, " despatch them hence ; 
 No spirit I speak it without offence 
 
 Shall have me in her hatches." 
 
 xx. 
 
 With a wave of her wand they all were gone ! 
 
 And now came out the slaughter : 
 " 'Tis none of these that can serve my turn ; 
 For a wife of flesh and blood I burn 
 
 I'm in love with a tailor's daughter. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " 'Tis she must heal the wounds that she made, 
 
 'Tis she must be my physician. 
 parent mild, stand not my foe 
 For his mother had whisper'd something low 
 
 About " matching beneath his condition." 
 
 xxn. 
 
 " Aud then we must get paternal consent, 
 
 Or an unblest match may vex ye." 
 " Her father is dead ; I fetch'd him away, 
 In the midst of his goose last Michaelmas day- 
 He died of an apoplexy. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 " His daughter is fair, and an only heir 
 
 With her I long to tether 
 He has left her his hell, and all that he had ; 
 The estates are contiguous, and I shall be mad 
 
 'Till we lay our two hells together." 
 2c 
 
386 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " But how do you know the fair maid's mind ?" 
 
 Quoth he, " Her loss was but recent ; 
 And I could not speak my mind, you know, 
 Just when I was fetching her father below 
 It would have been hardly decent. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 *' But a leer from her eye, where Cupids lie, 
 
 Of love gave proof apparent ; 
 
 And, from something she dropp'd, I shrewdly ween'd. 
 In her heart she judged that a living Fiend 
 
 Was better than a dead Parent. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " But the time is short ; and suitors may come 
 
 While I stand here reporting ; 
 Then make your sou a bit of a beau, 
 And give me your blessing before I go 
 
 To the other world a-courting." 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " But what will you do with your horns, my son ? 
 
 And that tail fair maids will mock it 
 " My tail I will dock and as for the horn, 
 Like husbands above, I think no scorn 
 
 To carry it in my pocket." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " But what will you do with your feet, my son V' 
 
 " Here are stockings fairly woven : 
 My hoofs I will hide in silken hose ; 
 And cinnamon-sweet are my pettitoes 
 
 Because, you know, they are cloven? 1 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " Then take a blessing, my darling son," 
 Quoth she and kissed him civil 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 387 
 
 Then his neckcloth she tied ; and when he was drest 
 From top to toe in his Sunday's best, 
 He appear'd a comely devil. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 So his leave he took : but how he fared 
 In his courtship barring failures 
 In a Second Part you shall read it soon, 
 In a brand-new song, to be sung to the tune 
 Of the " Devil among the Tailors." 
 
 THE SECOND PART, 
 
 CONTAINING THE COURTSHIP AND THE WEDDINQ. 
 I. 
 
 WHO is she that by night from her balcony looks 
 On a garden where cabbage is springing ? 
 
 'Tis the tailor's fair lass, that we told of above ; 
 
 She muses by moonlight on her true love ; 
 So sharp is Cupid's stinging. 
 
 n. 
 
 She has caught a glimpse of the Prince of the Air 
 
 In his Luciferian splendour, 
 And away with coyness and maiden reserve 1 
 For none but the Devil her turn will serve, 
 
 Her sorrows else will end her. 
 
 in. 
 
 She saw when he fetch'd her father away, 
 
 And the sight no whit did shake her ; 
 For the Devil may sure with his own make free 
 And " it saves besides," quoth merrily she, 
 " The expense of an undertaker. 
 
388 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 IV. 
 
 " Then come, my Satan, my darling Sin, 
 
 Return to my arms, my Hell beau ; 
 My Prince of Darkness, my crow-black dove " 
 And she scarce had spoke, when her own true love 
 Was kneeling at her elbow ! 
 
 But she wist not at first that this was he, 
 That had raised such a boiling passion ; 
 
 For his old costume he had laid aside, 
 
 And was come to court a mortal bride 
 In a coat-and-waistcoat fashion. 
 
 VI. 
 
 She miss'd his large horns, and she miss'd his fair tail, 
 
 That had hung so retrospective ; 
 And his raven plumes, and some other marks 
 Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks 
 
 In a mind but too susceptive : 
 
 VII. 
 
 And she held it scorn that a mortal born 
 
 Should the Prince of Spirits rival, 
 To clamber at midnight her garden fence 
 For she knew not else by what pretence 
 
 To account for his arrival. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " What thief art thou," quoth she, " in the dark 
 
 That stumblest here presumptuous 1 
 Some Irish adventurer I take you to be 
 A foreigner, from your garb I see, 
 
 Which besides is not over sumptuous." 
 
 IX. 
 
 Then Satan, awhile dissembling his rank, 
 A piece of amorous fun tries : 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 389 
 
 Quoth he, " I'm a Netherlander born ; 
 Fair virgin, receive not my suit with scorn 
 I'm a Prince in the Low Countries 
 
 x. 
 
 " Though I travel incog. From the Land of Fog 
 
 And Mist I am come to proffer 
 My crown and my sceptre to lay at your feet ; 
 It is not every day in the week you may meet, 
 
 Fair maid, with a Prince's offer." 
 
 XL 
 
 " Your crown and your sceptre I like full well, 
 They tempt a poor maiden's pride, sir ; 
 
 But your lands and possessions excuse if I'm rude 
 
 Are too far in a northerly latitude 
 For me to become your bride, sir. 
 
 XII. 
 
 " In that aguish clime I should catch my death, 
 
 Being but a raw new-comer " 
 Quoth he, " We have plenty of fuel stout ; 
 And the fires, which I kindle, never go out 
 
 By winter, nor yet by summer. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount 
 
 Over monarchs there abiding. 
 My groom of the stables is Nimrod old ; 
 And Nebuchadnazor iny stirrups must hold, 
 
 When I go out a-riding. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 " To spare your blushes, and maiden fears, 
 
 I resorted to these inventions 
 But, imposture, begone; and avaunt, disguise !" 
 And the Devil began to swell and rise 
 
 To his own diabolic dimensions. 
 
390 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGKAMS, ETC. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon, 
 
 Like a branching stag in Arden ; 
 Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength 
 Push'd out ; and his train lay floundering in length 
 
 An acre beyond the garden. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 To tender hearts I have framed my lay 
 
 Judge ye, all love-sick maidens, 
 When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight, 
 In his proper proportions, her own true knight, 
 
 If she needed long persuadings. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back, 
 
 As her sex's art had taught her : 
 For " the biggest fortunes," quoth she, " in the land 
 Are not worthy," then blush'd, "of your Highuess's hand, 
 
 Much less a poor tailor's daughter. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still, 
 
 For whom great suitors hunger ; 
 And their father's hell is much larger than mine." 
 Quoth the Devil, " I've no such ambitious design, 
 
 For their dad is an old fishmonger ; 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " And I cannot endure the smell of fish 
 
 I have taken an anti-bias 
 To their livers, especially since the day 
 That the Angel smoked my cousin away 
 
 From the chaste spouse of Tobias. 
 
 " Had my amorous kinsman much longer stay'd. 
 The perfume would have seal'd his obit ; 
 
POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 391 
 
 For he had a nicer nose than the wench, 
 Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench, 
 In the arms of the son of Tobit." 
 
 XXL 
 
 " I have read it," quoth she, " in Apocryphal Writ 
 
 And the Devil stoop'd down and kiss'd her ; 
 Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame, 
 On Semele's lips, the love-scorch'd dauie, 
 Impress'd such a burning blister. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The fire through her bones and her vitals shot 
 
 " 0, I yield, my winsome marrow 
 I am thine for life " and black thunders roll'd 
 And she sank in his arms through the garden moidd, 
 
 With the speed of a red-hot arrow. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Merrily, merrily, ring the bells 
 
 From each Pandemonian steeple ; 
 For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful bride, 
 And a wedding dinner he will provide, 
 
 To feast all kinds of people. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Fat bulls of Basan are roasted whole, 
 
 Of the breed that ran at David ; 
 With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side, 
 That shall stand apart, when the world is tried ; 
 
 Fit meat for souls unsaved ! 
 
 xxv. 
 
 The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood, 
 
 Which the bard sang near Cremona, 
 With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings imp'd ; 
 And the fish was two delicate slices crimp'd, 
 
 Of the whale that swallow'd Jonah. 
 
392 POLITICAL SQUIBS, EPIGRAMS, ETC. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Then the goblets were crown'd, and a health went round 
 
 To the bride, in a wine like scarlet ; 
 No earthly vintage so deeply paints, 
 For 'twas dash'd with a tinge from the blood of the saints 
 
 By the Babylonian Harlot. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 No Hebe fair stood cup-bearer there, 
 
 The guests were their own skinkers j 
 But Bishop Judas first blest the can, 
 Who is of all Hell Metropolitan, 
 And kiss'd it to all the drinkers. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 The feast being ended, to dancing they went, 
 
 To music that did produce a 
 Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee 
 Was sung in parts by the Furies Three ; 
 
 And the Devil took out Medusa. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But the best of the sport was to hear his old dam, 
 
 Set up her shrill forlorn pipe 
 How the wither'd Beldam hobbled about, 
 And put the rest of the company out 
 
 For she needs must try a hornpipe. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din, 
 
 Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling, 
 Our reporter no longer was able to stay, 
 But came in his own defence away, 
 
 And left the bride quadrilling. 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Mrs. Leicester's School (p. 1). London, printed for M. J. 
 Godwin, at the Juvenile Library, No. 41 Skinner Street, 1807. 
 The joint composition of Charles and Mary Lamb, the three 
 stories, Maria Howe, Susan Fates, and Arabella Hardy, being 
 by Charles, and the remainder by Mary. No mention is to be 
 found in Lamb's letters of the origin of this work ; but it was 
 certainly written at the suggestion of Godwin, for his series of 
 Children's books. It is interesting to traoe in the scenes and 
 incidents of the various stories recollections of the childish 
 days of the brother and sister. The pretty village of Amwell, 
 where the school is placed, was only some five miles from 
 Blakesware. The story called The Young Mahometan contains 
 Mary Lamb's own recollections of the old Family Seat of the 
 Plumers, and her reference to the marble hall, the twelve 
 Caesars, the Hogarth prints, and the picture of the young 
 shepherdess, may be put side by side with her brother's essay, 
 
 11 Blakesmoor in H shire," and other allusions in letter and 
 
 essay to the old mansion. The Witch Aunt (absurdly altered 
 in modern editions to the much less expressive " Effect of 
 Witch Stories "), is the first sketch of an experience afterwards 
 elaborated by Lamb in the Elia Essay, Witches and other Night 
 Fears. Susan Yates, the scene of which is laid in a village in 
 the Lincolnshire Fens, was probably derived from the early 
 recollections of old John Lamb, who had originally come up to 
 London from Lincolnshire a poor boy to enter service, and 
 who when he came in after years to live in the Temple would 
 naturally love to compare the grotesque faces "in the round 
 tower of the Temple Church" with those in the old Minster 
 Church of his native county. The Changeling is curious as 
 illustrating the strong Shakspearian bias of the writers, as 
 shown in their resorting to the expedient of a play within a 
 play, whereby to "catch the conscience" of the delinquent 
 nurse. Perhaps the most perfect of the stories, in point of 
 delicacy and humour, are The Sea Voyage of Charles and The 
 
394: NOTES. 
 
 Father's Wedding-Day of Mary. It was the latter which was 
 Walter Savage Lander's special favourite. We have Lamb's 
 own authority for the respective authorship of the various tales. 
 "I wrote only the Witch Aunt; the First going to Church ; 
 and the final story about ' a little Indian girl ' in a ship." 
 
 The Adventures of Ulysses (p. 89). 1808. Another contri- 
 bution to Godwin's Juvenile Library. Lamb writes to Manning 
 in February 1808 : "I have done two books since the failure 
 of my farce ; they will both be out this summer. The one is a 
 juvenile book 'The adventures of Ulysses,' intended to be an 
 introduction to the reading of Telemachus ! It is done out of 
 the Odyssey, not from the Greek I would not mislead you 
 nor yet from Pope's Odyssey, but from an older translation of 
 one Chapman. The ' Shakspeare Tales ' suggested the doing it." 
 Again, in 1827, writing to Barton, he asks: "Did you ever 
 read my 'Adventures of Ulysses,' founded on Chapman's old 
 translation of it, for children or men ? Chapman is divine, and 
 my abridgment has not quite emptied him of his divinity." 
 Traces of Chapman may be discovered in abundance in Lamb's 
 version, extending to a repetition of misprints in Chapman 
 which even down to the present day have not been corrected. 
 The Homeric river-epithet "Fair-flowing" was personified by 
 Chapman into a river goddess, which we may suppose he 
 intended to write " Callirhoe," but which by a printer's error 
 became "Callicoe," in which shape it strangely appears in 
 Lamb's copy. But Lamb's Greek was not his strong point. 
 For the rest, he frequently borrows whole lines of Chapman's 
 version, as in the story of ^Eolus 
 
 " Only he left abroad the western wind j" 
 in that of Polyphemus 
 
 " Which that abhorred No-man did put out, 
 Assisted by his execrable rout," 
 
 and so forth, giving to his narrative a rhythm and diction 
 pleasantly old-fashioned. There seems no reason why the 
 version should not again become a favourite schoolroom story- 
 book, and form as pleasant an introduction to the Odyssey 
 as the Tales from Shakspeare have been, and still are, to the 
 study of our English poet. 
 
 Guy Faux (p. 180). (London Magazine, November 1823.) The 
 latter portion of this paper first appeared in Leigh Hunt's 
 Reflector in 1811, under the following title, "On the probable 
 effects of the Gunpowder Treason in this country, if the 
 Conspirators had accomplished their object." It began with 
 the paragraph on p. 183, "The Gunpowder Treason was the 
 
NOTES. 395 
 
 subject," etc. etc. Lamb revived it with additions twelve years 
 later in the London Magazine, a propos of an article of Hazlitt's 
 (the ' ' ingenious and subtle writer " alluded to) in the Examiner 
 of November 1821. 
 
 On the Custom of Hissing at the Theatres (p. 192). (The Reflec- 
 tor, No. iii., Art. xi., 1811). A reminiscence of the failure of Mr. 
 H. at Drury Lane in 1806. The Vindictive Man was a play of 
 Holcroft's produced in November 1806, only three weeks before 
 Lamb's equally unsuccessful venture. The condemnation of 
 Holcroft's play is fully and amusingly described by Lamb in a 
 letter to Manning of December 5, 1806. Mr. De Camp, who 
 played Goldfinch, a character revived from Holcroft's Road to 
 Ruin, "was hooted, more than hissed ; hooted and bellowed off 
 the stage before the second act was finished, so that the remainder 
 of his part was forced to be, with some violence to the play, 
 omitted." The play, according to Lamb, "died in part of its 
 own weakness, and in part for being choked up with bad actors. " 
 It was acted only twice. 
 
 The Good Clerk (p. 200). (The Reflector, No. iv., Art. xxiii., 
 1811.) 
 
 The Reynolds Gallery (p. 207). (The Examiner, June 6, 
 1813.) An exhibition of the works of Reynolds, first suggested 
 by a "lover of the arts " at the Royal Academy dinner in 1811. 
 ' ' It was warmly applauded by the Prince Regent, who was pre- 
 sent, and who offered to contribute several works by the late 
 president in his own possession. This commemoration of 
 Reynolds took place in 1813, when 113 of his works were 
 gathered together for exhibition to the public, and included 
 some of his finest productions. It was inaugurated by a banquet 
 at Willis's Rooms at which the Prince Regent was present, and 
 at which all who were distinguished in position and associated 
 with the encouragement of the arts were specially invited to 
 attend. This was the first public exhibition of the works of 
 any individual British artist " (Sandby's History of the Royal 
 Academy. London, 1862). 
 
 Wordsworth's Excursion (p. 210). (Quarterly Review, October 
 1814.) Jeffrey's famous notice of the Excursion, beginning 
 "This will never do," appeared in the Edinburgh Review of 
 November 1814, and by a happy coincidence Lamb's appeared 
 in the corresponding number of the Quarterly. Just before its 
 publication Lamb wrote to Wordsworth asking for indulgence 
 on the ground that it was the first review he had ever written. 
 "I hope," he says, "you will see good- will in the thing. I 
 had a difficulty to perform not to make it all panegyric ; 1 have 
 
396 NOTES. 
 
 attempted to personate a mere stranger to you, perhaps with 
 too much strangeness. But you must bear that in mind when 
 you read it, and not think that I am in mind distant from you or 
 your poem, but that both are close to me, among the nearest of 
 persons and things. . . . But," he concludes, "it must speak 
 for itself, if Gilford and his crew do not put words in its mouth, 
 which I suspect." This ominous hint was only too literally to 
 be fulfilled. Immediately after the appearance of the Quarterly 
 Lamb wrote again to his friend, this time in dismay : " I told 
 you my review was a very imperfect one. But what you will see 
 in the Quarterly is a spurious one, which Mr. Baviad Gifford has 
 palmed upon it for mine. I never felt more vexed in my life 
 than when I read it. I cannot give you an idea of what he has 
 done to it, out of spite at me, because he once suffered me to be 
 called a lunatic in his Review. The language he has altered 
 throughout. Whatever inadequateness it had to its subject it 
 was, in point of composition, the prettiest piece of prose I ever 
 writ ; and so my sister (to whom alone I read the MS.) said. 
 That charm, if it had any, is all gone ; more than a third of the 
 substance is cut away, and that not all from one place, but 
 passim, so as to make utter nonsense. Every warm expression 
 is changed for a nasty cold one. I have not the cursed altera- 
 tion by me ; I shall never look at it again ; but, for a specimen, 
 I remember I had said the poet of the Excursion ' walks through 
 common forests as through some Dodona or enchanted wood, 
 and every casual bird that flits upon the boughs, like that 
 miraculous one in Tasso, but in language more piercing than 
 any articulate sounds, reveals to him far higher love-lays. ' It 
 is now (besides half a dozen alterations in the same half dozen 
 lines) ' but in language more intelligent reveals to him ; ' that 
 is one I remember." There is much more in the same letter on 
 the subject that will be read with interest. In spite of Gifford's 
 alterations there are passages in the Review, as it appeared, that 
 are unmistakably Lamb's, and could have been written by no 
 other hand. The beautiful sentence about those who "never 
 having possessed the tenderness and docility" of the childish 
 age, " know not what the soul of a child is, how apprehensive, 
 how imaginative, how religious," is unquestionably a "sweet 
 forewarning" of one of the most affecting passages in the Elia 
 Essay "New Year's Eve." 
 
 As I have elsewhere remarked, much of Lamb's praise may 
 seem commonplace compared with the able and sympathetic 
 Wordsworthian criticism that has been produced in the last 
 seventy years. But, as usual, he was among the first to recog- 
 nise a really good thing, while the world's eyes were still closed. 
 It is the timeliness of his appreciation that should win our 
 gratitude. 
 
NOTES. 397 
 
 Theatrical Notices (p. 225). The three following theatrical 
 criticisms appeared in the columns of the Escaminer with the 
 signature, four asterisks (* * * *), adopted by Lamb in his com- 
 munications to that journal. To the third of these anonymous 
 articles (New pieces at the Lyceum), Leigh Hunt prefixed an 
 editorial note, pointing to a special and distinguished author- 
 ship. He speaks of "an impudent rogue of a friend whose 
 most daring tricks and pretences carry as good a countenance 
 with them as virtues in any other man, and who lias the face 
 above all to be a better critic than ourselves." 
 
 The letter about Miss Kelly was originally addressed to 
 Lamb's old schoolfellow and friend John Matthew Gutch, for 
 a long time editor of Farley's Bristol Journal. Leigh Hunt 
 prefaced the letter, in copying it into the Examiner, as follows : 
 "The reader we are sure will thank us for extracting the 
 following observations on a favourite actress from a provincial 
 paper, the Bristol Journal. "We should have guessed the 
 masterly and cordial hand that wrote them had we met with 
 it in the East Indies. There is but one praise belonging to 
 Miss Kelly which it has omitted and which it could not supply ; 
 and that is, that she has had finer criticism written upon her 
 than any performer that ever trod the stage. " 
 
 First Fruits of Australian Poetry (p. 235.) (Examiner, January 
 16, 1820. ) A collection of verse, printed for private circulation, 
 by Lamb's old friend, Barron Field, who was Judge of the 
 Supreme Court at Sydney, New South Wales, from 1816 to 
 1824. The poems afterwards appeared as an appendix to a 
 volume of geographical memoirs, published by Murray, in 1825. 
 Compare Lamb's Elia Essay, Distant Correspondents. 
 
 The Gentle Giantess (p. 238). (London Magazine, December 
 1822. ) Although Lamb domiciles the widow Blacket at Oxford, 
 her original would seem to have belonged to the sister University. 
 It can hardly be coincidence that Lamb thus writes in the 
 same year to Miss Wordsworth of a certain stout lady at 
 Cambridge: "Ask anybody you meet who is the biggest 
 woman in Cambridge, and I'll hold you a wager they'll say 
 Mrs. Smith. She broke down two benches in Trinity Gardens, 
 one on the confines of St. John's, which occasioned a litigation 
 between the Societies as to repairing it. In warm weather she 
 retires into an ice-cellar (literally !) and dates the returns of the 
 years from a hot Thursday some twenty years back. She sits 
 in a room with opposite doors and windows, to let in a thorough 
 draught, which gives her slenderer friends toothaches." 
 
 On a Passage in the Tempest (p. 242). (London Magazine, 
 November 1823.) Lamb's citation from Ogilby is uojeu d'esprit, 
 
398 NOTES. 
 
 but a genuine transcript. There can be little doubt that an 
 early version of this story was known to Shakspeare. The 
 siege of Algiers took place in 1542, and all the authorities cited 
 by Ogilby wrote before Shakspeare's day. In company with 
 Mr. Aldis Wright, I have referred to many of these in the 
 Library of Trinity College Cambridge, but as yet have not 
 found any mention of the witch incident. 
 
 Letter to an old Gentleman whose Education has been neglected 
 (p. 250). (London Magazine, January 1825.) The papers here 
 playfully imitated are of course De Quiucey's "Letters to a 
 Young Man whose Education has been neglected," which appeared 
 first in the London Magazine. Lamb has not attempted to 
 parody more than the introductory passages of De Quincey's 
 first letter, and here and there the solemn sententiousness of 
 the original. The "first question" addressed to De Quincey, 
 "Whether to you, with your purposes, and at your age of 
 thirty -two, a residence at either of our English universities or 
 at any foreign university can be of much service ?" is very 
 humorously paralleled by the supposed question of Lamb's 
 correspondent " Whether a person at the age of sixty-three, 
 with no more proficiency than a tolerable knowledge of most 
 of the characters of the English alphabet at first sight amounts 
 to ... may hope to arrive, within a presumable number of 
 years, at that degree of attainments which shall entitle the 
 possessor to the character, which you are on so many accounts 
 justly desirous of acquiring, of a learned man" Lamb writes 
 to Miss Hutchinson that " De Quincey's parody was submitted 
 to him before being printed, and had his probatum." 
 
 Biographical Memoir of Mr. Liston (p. 253). (London Maga- 
 zine, January 1825.) See letter of Lamb to Miss Hutchinson of 
 January 25, 1825. "Did you read the Memoir of Liston? and 
 did you guess whose it was ? Of all the lies I ever put off, 
 I value this most. It is from top to toe, every paragraph, pure 
 invention, and has passed for gospel ; has been republished in 
 newspapers, and in the penny play-bills of the night, as an 
 authentic account. I shall certainly go to the naughty man 
 some day for my fibbiugs." So again, to Bernard Barton : 
 " I have caused great speculation in the dramatic (not thy] 
 world by a lying 'Life of Liston,' all pure invention. The 
 town has swallowed it, and it is copied into newspapers, play- 
 bills, etc., as authentic. You do not know the droll, and 
 possibly missed reading the article (in our first number, new 
 series). A life more improbable for him to have lived would 
 not easily be invented." 
 
 Autobiography of Mr. Munden (p. 262). (London Magazine, 
 
NOTES. 399 
 
 February 1825.) " He wrote in the same Magazine two lives of 
 Liston and Munden which the public took for serious, and 
 which exhibit an extraordinary jumble of imaginary facts and 
 truth of bye-painting. Munden he made born at Stoke Pogis, 
 the very sound of which was like the actor speaking and 
 digging his words " (Leigh Hunt's Autobiography, chap, 
 xvi). 
 
 Reflections in the Pillory (p. 266). (London Magazine^ 
 March 1825.) 
 
 The Last Peach (p. 271). (London Magazine, April 1825.) 
 A reminiscence, apparently of the old mansion of the Plumers 
 at Blakesware, and of Lamb's summer holiday spent there with 
 
 his grandmother. See Elia Essay, Blakesmoor in H shire, 
 
 and my notes upon it. The "hot feel of the brickwork" is 
 another exquisite touch to be added to the "sulky pike" and 
 the "solitary wasp" in that delightful picture. 
 
 The Illustrious Defunct (p. 274). (New Monthly Magazine^ 
 1825.) When Lamb wrote this admirable essay, the State- 
 lottery system was, as he says, "moribund," but not yet 
 extinct. It came to an cud in the following year. In the 
 number of Hone's Every -Day Book for November 15, 1826, 
 will be found some most amusing particulars of the event, and 
 the expiring efforts of the ticket-sellers to advertise their wares. 
 " Positively the last lottery that will ever be drawn in England. 
 All lotteries end for ever, 18 October." Hone gives a copy 
 of a pictorial advertisement, representing a fish woman, sitting 
 down by the side of her basket and reading a printed bill 
 "What's the odds ?" she says, "while I am floundering here 
 the goldfish will be gone ; and as I always was a dab at hooking 
 the right numbers, I must cast for a share of the six 30,000 
 on the 18th of July ; for it is but 'giving a sprat to catch a 
 herring,' as a body may say, and it is the last chance we shall 
 have in England." In after days, Hone adds, this ma)' be 
 looked on with interest as a specimen of the means to which 
 the lottery-schemers were reduced in order to attract attention 
 to "the last." 
 
 The Religion of Actors (p. 281). (New Monthly Magazine, 
 1826.) "A little thing without name will also be printed 
 on the Religion of the Actors, but it is out of your way, so I 
 recommend you, with true author's hypocrisy, to skip it " (Lamb 
 to Bernard Barton. March, 1826). 
 
 The Months (p. 285). (Hone's Every-Day Book, April 16, 
 1826.) Hone prefixes the following note: " C. L., whose 
 
400 NOTES, 
 
 papers under these initials on 'Captain Starkey,' 'The Ass,' 
 and ' Squirrels, ' besides other communications are in the first 
 volume, drops the following pleasant article 'in an hour of 
 need.'" 
 
 "Those Every -Day and Table Books will be a treasure a 
 hundred years hence, but they have failed to make Hone's 
 fortune." So Lamb wrote to Southey in 1830, pleading for the 
 struggling editor, for whom kind friends had then just opened 
 a coffee-house in the city. It was in a like "hour of need" 
 that Lamb had originally sent contributions to the pleasant 
 columns of the Every-Day Book, Hone acknowledges his 
 gratitude in a dedicatory letter prefixed to the completed work. 
 "Your letter to me," he writes, "within the first two mouths 
 from the commencement of the present work, approving my 
 notice of St. Chad's Well, and your afterwards daring to publish 
 me your ' friend ' with your proper name annexed, I shall 
 never forget. How can I forget your and Miss Lamb's sympathy 
 and kindness when glooms overmastered me, and that your 
 pen sparkled in the book when my mind was in clouds and 
 darkness. These 'trifles,' as each of you would call them, are 
 benefits scored upon my heart." 
 
 Reminiscence of Sir Jeffrey Dunstan (p. 289). (Hone's Every- 
 Day Book, June 22, 1826). The following extract from Sir 
 Richard Phillips' Morning's Walk to Kew (1817), as quoted in 
 Hone's Evcry-Day Book, forms the best explanation of Lamb's 
 letter to the editor : "Southward of Wandsworth a road 
 extends nearly two miles to the village of Lower Tooting, and 
 nearly midway are a few houses or hamlets by the side of a 
 small common called Garrat, from which the road itself is 
 called Garrat Lane. Various encroachments on this common 
 led to an association of the neighbours, about three score years 
 since, when they chose a president, or mayor, to protect their 
 rights ; and the time of their first election being the period of 
 a new Parliament, it was agreed that the mayor should be 
 rechosen after every general election. Some facetious members 
 of the club gave in a few years local notoriety to this election ; 
 and when party spirit ran high in the days of Wilkes and 
 Liberty, it was easy to create an appetite for a burlesque 
 election among the lower orders of the metropolis. The publicans 
 at Wandsworth, Tooting, Battersea, Clapham and Vauxhall, 
 made a purse to give it character ; and Mr. Foote rendered its 
 interest universal by calling one of his inimitable farces ' ' The 
 Mayor of Garrat." I have indeed been told that Foote, Clarrick, 
 and Wilkes wrote some of the candidates' addresses, for the 
 purpose of instructing the people in the corruptions which 
 attend elections to the legislature, and of producing those 
 
NOTES. 401 
 
 reforms by means of ridicule and shame which are vainly 
 expected from solemn appeals of argument and patriotism. 
 
 Not being able to find the members for Garrat in Beatson's 
 political index, or in any of the court calendars, I am obliged 
 to depend on tradition for information in regard to the early 
 history of this famous borough. The first mayor of whom I 
 could hear was called Sir John Harper. He filled the seat 
 during two Parliaments, and was, it appears, a man of wit, for 
 on a dead cat being thrown at him on the hustings, and a 
 bystander exclaiming that it stunk worse than a fox, Sir John 
 vociferated, "That's no wonder, for you see its a. pole-cat." 
 
 This noted baronet was, in the metropolis, a retailer of brick- 
 dust ; and, his Garrat honours being supposed to be a means 
 of improving his trade and the condition of his ass, many 
 characters in similar occupations were led to aspire to the same 
 distinctions. 
 
 He was succeeded by Sir Jeffrey Dunstan, who was returned 
 for three parliaments, and was the most popular candidate that 
 ever appeared on the Garrat hustings. His occupation was 
 that of buying old wigs, once an article of trade like that in old 
 clothes, but become obsolete since the full-bottomed and full- 
 dressed wigs of both sexes went out of fashion. Sir Jeffrey 
 usually carried his wig-bag over his shoulder, and, to avoid the 
 charge of vagrancy, vociferated, as he passed along the street, 
 "old wigs ;" but having a person like Esop, and a countenance 
 and manner marked by irresistible humour, he never appeared 
 without a train of boys and curious persons whom he entertained 
 by his sallies of wit, shrewd sayings, and smart repartees ; and 
 from whom without begging he collected sufficient to maintain 
 his dignity as mayor and knight. He was no respecter of 
 persons, and was so severe in his jokes on the corruptions and 
 compromisers of power, that the street-jester was prosecuted 
 for using what were then called seditious expressions ; and, as 
 a caricature on the times which ought never to be forgotten, 
 he was in 1793 tried, convicted, and imprisoned ! In conse- 
 quence of this affair, and some charges of dishonesty, he lost 
 his popularity, and at the general election for 1796 was ousted 
 by Sir Harry Dimsdale, muffin-seller, a man as much deformed 
 as himself. Sir Jeffrey could not long survive his fall ; but in 
 death as in life he proved a satire on the vices of the proud, 
 for in 1797 he died like Alexander the Great and many other 
 heroes renowned in the historic page "of suffocation from 
 excessive drinking ! " 
 
 Captain Starkey (p. 292). (Hone's Every- Day Book, vol. L, 
 July 21.) Under the date of 9th July Hone had published a 
 review of the following work "Memoirs of the Life of Benj. 
 2 r> 
 
402 NOTES. 
 
 Starkey, late of London, but now an inmate of the Freemen's 
 Hospital in Newcastle. Written by himself. With a portrait of 
 the author, and a fac-simile of his handwriting. Printed and sold 
 by William Hall, Great Market, Newcastle, 1818." The book, 
 the reviewer good-naturedly says, is the adventureless history 
 of a man who did no harm in the world, and thought he had a 
 right to live, because he was a living being. In the course of 
 his hand-to-mouth struggle for existence, Starkey records how, 
 at the age of fourteen, he was "bound apprentice to Mr. William 
 Bird, an eminent writer and teacher of languages and mathe- 
 matics, in Fetter Lane, Hplborn. " It was the mention of this, 
 his earliest place of education, that attracted the notice of Lamb, 
 and produced the singularly interesting contribution to his own 
 biography contained in this letter. 
 
 The Ass (p. 297). (Hone's Every-Day Book, vol. L, October 
 5.) Hone prefaces Lamb's contribution with the following 
 note: "The cantering of Tim Tims" (a correspondent who 
 had written on the same subject a few weeks earlier) "startles 
 him who told of his ' youthful days ' at the school wherein poor 
 Starkey cyphered part of his little life. C. L. ' getting well, 
 but weak ' from painful and severe indisposition, is ' off and 
 away ' for a short discursion. Better health to him, and good 
 be to him all his life. Here he is." 
 
 In Re Squirrels (p. 301). (Hone's Every -Day Book, vol. i., 
 October 18.) A correspondent of the Gentleman's Magazine, 
 on the seventh of the same month, had communicated his 
 experience of these little creatures, and among other letters to 
 Hone which it had called forth was this of Lamb's a trifle, 
 but rich in his peculiar humour. 
 
 Estimate of Defoe's Secondary Novels (p. 303). Contributed 
 by Lamb to his friend Walter Wilson's "Memoirs of the Life 
 and Times of Daniel Defoe, 1829." The substance of a portion 
 of it will be found in a letter of December 1822, on first 
 hearing of Wilson's intention to undertake the work. See also 
 another letter to Wilson, of November 15, 1829, acknowledg- 
 ing a present of the completed work, and saying " I shall 
 always feel happy in having my name go down anyhow with 
 Defoe's and that of his historiographer. I promise myself, if 
 not immortality, yet diuturnity of being read in consequence." 
 
 Recollections of a late Royal Academician (p. 308). (English- 
 man's Magazine, September 1831.) George Dawe, born in 
 London, February 8, 1781 ; died, October 15, 1829 ; buried in 
 St. Paul's Cathedral. His chief work, after early years engaged 
 in historical-painting, was in portrait-painting. He was engaged 
 
NOTES. 403 
 
 by the Emperor of Russia to paint his officers who had beeu 
 prominent in the wars with Napoleon. For this purpose he 
 started for Russia in January 1819, and, during a residence there 
 of nine years, is said to have painted four hundred portraits, 
 which decorate a large gallery in the Emperor's Palace, called 
 the Hermitage (Redgrave's Biographical Dictionary of British 
 Artists). Dawe made a large fortune, but seems to have lost 
 it in imprudent speculations. He was made Associate of the 
 Academy in 1809 (" By what law of association," Lamb wrote 
 at the time, " I cannot guess"), and full Academician in 1814. 
 This paper was Lamb's first contribution to the Englishman's 
 Magazine, when his friend Moxon became publisher of it. It 
 was arranged that Lamb should furnish miscellaneous papers to 
 appear under the general heading of Peter's Net. Lamb writes 
 to Moxon in August 1831 ou the subject of these Recollec- 
 tions : " The R. A. here memorised was George Dawe, whom I 
 knew well, and heard many anecdotes of, from Daniels and 
 Westall, at H. Rogers's : to each of them it will be well to send 
 u Magazine in my name. It will fly like wild-fire among the 
 Royal Academicians and artists. . . . The anecdotes of G. 
 D. are substantially true ; what docs Elia (or Peter) care for 
 dates?" 
 
 Remarkable Correspondent (p. 315). This letter, and the one 
 that follows it, explain themselves. They appeared in Hone's 
 Every-Day Book under the dates May 1 and August 12. It 
 will be remembered that George IV. was born on August 12, 
 1762, but that the anniversary was always kept on the corre- 
 sponding Saint's Day, that of St. George, April 23, the day 
 which for the same reason, oddly enough, nas always been 
 claimed for Shakspcare's birthday. To both these remonstrances 
 Hone appended a playful reply. 
 
 Mrs. Gilpin riding to Edmonton (p. 320). This short paper, 
 headed by a rude woodcut of a woman in a poke-bonnet sitting 
 on a stile, appeared in Hone's Table-Book (1827-28), vol. ii. 
 The signature and the internal evidence of style would suffi- 
 ciently identify the author even if Mr. Frederick Locker did 
 not possess the original manuscript in Lamb's unmistakable 
 handwriting. Larnb was living at Enfield at the time, and the 
 proximity of Edmonton, combined with his own and his sister's 
 experiences of the fields in that neighbourhood, fully account for 
 the playful romance. It hardly needs to be said that the whole 
 thing is invention. The suggestion that the rude woodcut, 
 obviously by one of Hone's stock caricaturists, was "probably 
 by the poet's friend, Romney," is a stroke of humour that could 
 belong to no one except Charles Lamb. 
 
404 NOTES. 
 
 Saturday Night, (p. 322). From The Gem, a keepsnke or 
 annual for the year 1830. The preceding volume, for 1829 ; 
 had been edited by Thomas Hood, and in it had appeared a 
 short sketch, signed with Lamb's name, but really contributed 
 by Hood himself, as a joke in which Lamb's love of hoaxing 
 allowed him to concur. 
 
 The present contribution was written to accompany an engrav- 
 ing from David Wilkie's picture, Saturday Night, in which a 
 cottager appears washing her child's face, and apparently 
 rubbing the soap and water well in with her bare hand. An 
 old man, presumably the child's grandfather, is leisurely strop- 
 ping a razor in the chimney corner. It is yet one more vivid 
 remembrance of Lamb's childish days with his grandmother in 
 Hertfordshire. 
 
 Thoughts on Presents of Game, etc. (p. 325). From the 
 Athenceum, November 30, 1833. Lamb's friend Chambers who 
 had made " many hours happy in the life of Elia " was a fellow- 
 clerk with him 'in the India House ; one of the six who sat in 
 the same compartment of the large room in the accountant's 
 office. These compartments were called " compounds. " Lamb 
 once denned his compound, it may be remembered, as a "col- 
 lection of simples." 
 
 A Popular Fallacy (p. 328). From the New Monthly Maga- 
 zine,, June 1826. Originally intended, no doubt, to form one 
 of the series afterwards republished in the Last Essays of Elia. 
 
 Charles Lamb's Autobiography (p. 331). Appeared first in 
 the New Monthly Magazine for April 1835, with the following 
 prefatory note : 
 
 "We have been favoured, by the kindness of Mr. Upcott, 
 with the following sketch, written in one of his manuscript 
 collections by Charles Lamb. It will be read with deep interest 
 by all, but with the deepest interest by those who had the 
 honour and happiness of knowing the writer. It is so sin- 
 gularly characteristic that we can scarcely persuade ourselves 
 we do not hear it, as we read, spoken from his living lips. 
 Slight as it is, it conveys the most exquisite and perfect notion 
 of the personal manner and habits of our friend. For the intel- 
 lectual rest we lift the veil of its noble modesty, and can even 
 here discern them. Mark its humour, crammed into a few 
 thinking words ; its pathetic sensibility in the midst of con- 
 trast ; its wit, truth, and feeling ; and, above all, its fanciful 
 retreat at the close, under a phantom cloud of death." 
 
 Mr. Upcott was Assistant Librarian of the London Institu- 
 tion, and one of the contributors to a Biographical Diciionary 
 of Living Authors of Great Britain and Ireland, 1816. It may 
 
NOTES. 405 
 
 have been for a proposed new edition of this work that Lamb 
 contributed this brief account of himself and estimate of his 
 powers in 1827. 
 
 Letter of Elia to Robert Southey, Esq. (p. 333). (London Maga- 
 zine, October 1823.) The concluding paragraphs of this letter, 
 under the title of "The Tombs in the Abbey," were republished 
 by Lamb in the Last Essays of Elia in 1833. For the origin 
 and history of the letter, as a whole, I may refer to my notes 
 on that essay. The article by Southey which provoked it 
 appeared in the Quarterly Review for January 1823. 
 
 A Poor Child, an Exile at Genoa. Leigh Hunt's eldest boy, 
 Thornton, at that time with his family in Italy. Leigh Hunt 
 left for Italy in November 1821, and was absent from England 
 till 1825. 
 
 I am sorry to hear that you are engaged iqjon a Life of George 
 Fox. Tliis idea, if ever entertained by Southey, was never, 
 1 believe, carried out. His Life of Wesley had appeared in 
 1820. It was after reading this work that a Wesleyan minister 
 is related to have murmured, as he laid it down, "Sir, thou 
 hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep " a profounder 
 criticism on Southey's capacity for dealing with such subjects 
 than any to be found in this essay. 
 
 There is , and , whom you never heard of. The 
 
 blanks in the sentences that follow cannot all be supplied, but 
 most of the initials belong to names easily to be identified. 
 "N., my own and my father's friend," was Randal Norris, the 
 Sub-Treasurer of the Inner Temple; "T. N. T.," Thomas 
 Noon Talfourd, afterwards the judge, and Lamb's executor and 
 biographer ; " W. the light . . . Janus of The London," Wain- 
 wright, whose affected gaiety and high spirits imposed upon 
 Lamb and many others, till convicted of forgery and murder ; 
 "modest and amiable C.," Henry Francis Gary, the translator 
 
 of Dante ; " Allan C.," Allan Cunningham ; " P r," Procter, 
 
 better known as Barry Cornwall; "A p," Thomas All- 
 sop, author of the Letters, Conversations, and Recollections of 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge ; " G n," James Gillman, the sur- 
 geon, in whose house at Highgate Coleridge lived and died ; 
 "M," Mr. Monkhouse, a cousin of Mrs. Wordsworth's; "H. 
 C. R.," Henry Crabb Robinson, in whose delightful diaries 
 many an interesting anecdote of Lamb and Coleridge is to be 
 found ; "W. A.," William Ayrton, the musical critic, and one 
 of the first to make the great German composers popular in this 
 country, through that admirable work The Musical Library. 
 By the courtesy of the present Mr. William Scroop Ayrton, 
 
406 NOTES. 
 
 I possess copies of several short notes from Lamb to his father, 
 chiefly referring to the weekly rubber, in which the Ayrtons 
 and the Barneys took part. They are, for the most part, written 
 in the wildest spirit of drollery. One may be given as a sample, 
 especially as it touches a national event of July 1821 : 
 
 "DEAR AYRTON In consequence of the august coronation, 
 we propose postponing (I wonder if these words ever met so 
 close before mark the elegancy) our Wednesday this week to 
 Friday, when a grand rural fete champetre will be given at 
 Russell House ; the back-garden to be illuminated in honour of 
 the late ceremony. Vivat Regina. Moriatur R x. C. L." 
 
 The Authors of Rimini and of the Table Talk.Le\g\\ Hunt 
 and William Hazlitt. 
 
 I wish you would read Mr. H.'s lines. The first stanza runs 
 thus : 
 
 " Sleep breathes at last from out thee, 
 
 My little patient boy ; 
 And balmy rest about thee 
 
 Smooths off the day's annoy : 
 I sit me down and think 
 
 Of all thy winning ways, 
 Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
 That I had less to praise." 
 
 I stood well with him for fifteen years. The precise occasion 
 of the breach between Lamb and Hazlitt it might be im- 
 possible to discover. Hazlitt was moody and sensitive, and 
 unduly impatient of criticism. It is pleasant to know that 
 Lamb's manly defence of his old friend in this letter had the 
 effect of restoring their old intimacy ; and when he died, seven 
 years later, Lamb was among the friends who were round his 
 bed. 
 
 That amiable spy, Major Andrt. For an interesting account 
 of the removal of Andre's remains to Westminster Abbey in 
 1821, see Dean Stanley's Memorials of the Abbey. "On the 
 monument, in bas-relief, by Van Gelder, is to be seen the like- 
 ness of Washington receiving the flag of trace, and the letter 
 either of Andre or of Clinton. Many a citizen of the great 
 Western Republic has paused before the sight of the sad story. 
 Often has the head of Washington or Andre been carried off, 
 perhaps by republican or royalist indignation, but more prob- 
 ably by the pranks of Westminster boys." 
 
 On the subject of the letter generally, see letters of Lamb 
 to Bernard Barton, July 10 and September 17, 1823 : also letter 
 to Sou they of November 21, in which the old friendly rela- 
 
NOTES. 407 
 
 tiona are once more established. "The kindness of your note 
 has melted away the mist which was upon me. That accursed 
 Q.R. had vexed me by a gratuitous speaking, of its own know- 
 ledge, that tho "Confessions of a Drunkard" was a genuine 
 description of the state of the writer. Little thiugs that are 
 not ill-meant may produce much ill. That might have injured 
 me alive and dead. I am in a public office, and my life is 
 insured. I was prepared for anger, and I thought I saw in a 
 few obnoxious words, a hard case of repetition directed against 
 me. I wish both Magazine and Review at the bottom of the sea. 
 I shall be ashamed to see you, and my sister (though innocent) 
 will be still more so ; for the folly was done without her know- 
 ledge, and has made her uneasy ever since. My guardian 
 angel was absent at that time. 
 
 Table-Talk and Fragments of Criticism (p. 348). A portion 
 of these were published in the Athenceum, January 4, 1834 ; 
 the remainder are culled from veiy various sources. 
 
 Mia to his Correspondents (p. 361). In Leigh Hunt's Indi- 
 cator of January 31, 1821, appeared the paragraph referred to 
 by Lamb. It ran as follows : 
 
 " The Works of Charles Lamb. We reprint in our present 
 number a criticism in the Examiner on the works of this 
 author. He is not so much known as he is admired ; but if 
 to be admired, and more, by those who are better known have 
 anything of the old laudatory desideratum in it, we know no 
 man who possesses a more enviable share of praise. The truth 
 is that Mr. Lamb in general has performed his services to the 
 literary world so anonymously, and in his most trivial subjects 
 has such a delicate and extreme sense of all that is human, that 
 common readers have not been aware of half his merits, nor 
 great numbers of his existence. When his writings were 
 collected by the bookseller (in 1818), people of taste were 
 asking who this Mr. Charles Lamb was that had written so 
 well. They were answered, The man who set the critics right 
 about the old English dramatists, and whom some of them 
 showed at once their ingratitude and their false pretensions by 
 abusing. Besides the work here alluded to, Mr. Lamb is the 
 author of an interesting prose abridgment of the Odyssey, under 
 the title of the Adventures of Ulysses, and has helped his sister 
 in other little works for children (equally fit for those ' of a 
 larger growth '), especially one called Mrs. Leicester's School 
 We believe we are taking no greater liberty with him than our 
 motives will warrant when we add that he sometimes writes in 
 the London Magazine under the signature of Elia. " 
 
 The second of these replies to correspondents arose out of 
 the former. Very curious and pathetic is the reference to 
 
408 NOTES. 
 
 his alleged birthplace in Princes Street, Cavendish Square. 
 Princes Street, Leicester Square, is where Mr. Bartram lived, 
 
 who married Lamb's old love, Alice W . The whole paper 
 
 is a series of mystifications. Calne in Wiltshire was not the 
 birthplace of Coleridge, whose personality Lamb adopted in 
 the Essay on Christ's Hospital ; but Coleridge did actually 
 live at Calne for a time, in later years. 
 
 On the Death of Coleridge (p. 365). This singularly touching 
 confidence was first communicated to the world by Mr. John 
 Forster, in a paper on Lamb contributed after his death to the 
 New Monthly Magazine in 1835. It was thus introduced : 
 ' ' Lamb never fairly recovered the death of Coleridge. He 
 thought of little else (his sister was but another portion of him- 
 self) until his own great spirit joined his friend's. He had a habit 
 of venting his melancholy in a sort of mirth. He would with 
 nothing graver than a pun ' cleanse his bosom of the perilous 
 stuff that weighed ' upon it. In a jest or a few light phrases 
 he would lay open the recesses of his heart. So in respect of 
 the death of Coleridge. Some old friends of his saw him two 
 or three weeks ago, and remarked the constant turning and 
 reference of his mind. He interrupted himself and them 
 almost every instant with some play of affected wonder or 
 humorous melancholy on the words ' Coleridge is dead. ' Noth- 
 ing could divert him from that, for the thought of it never 
 left him. About the same time we had written to him to re- 
 quest a few lines for the literary album of a gentleman who 
 entertained a fitting admiration of his genius. It was the last 
 request we were to make, and the last kindness we were to receive. 
 
 He wrote in Mr. 's volume, and wrote of Coleridge. This, 
 
 we believe, was the last production of his pen. A strange and 
 not unenviable chance, which saw him at the end of his literary 
 pilgrimage, as he had been at the beginning, in that immortal 
 company. We are indebted, with the reader, to the kind- 
 ness of our friend for permission to print the whole of what 
 was written. It would be impertinence to offer a remark on 
 it. Once read, its noble and affectionate tenderness will be 
 remembered for ever." 
 
 Prologue to Coleridge's Remorse (p. 367). Coleridge's tragedy 
 of Osorio, originally written in 1797, was brought out in a 
 revised shape, and under the name of Remorse, at Drury Lane 
 in 1813. It had a ran of twenty nights. 
 
 Prologue to Antonio (p. 369). Godwin's play was produced 
 on December 13, 1800, and hopelessly failed. See letter of 
 Lamb to Manning, December 16, 1800. See also Mr. Kegan 
 Paul's Life of Godwin for a full account of Lamb's untiring 
 
NOTES. 409 
 
 efforts in his friend's behalf. The footnotes to the prologue 
 are, of course, Lamb's own, appended in a letter to Manning of 
 December 13. 
 
 Prologue to Faulkener (p. 371). The tragedy was played at 
 Drury Lane, December 16, 1807. The subject of the play was 
 taken from an incident in Defoe's Uoxana. See Kegan Paul's 
 Life of Godwin, ii. 162. 
 
 Epilogue to the Wife (p. 372). Sheridan Knowles acknow- 
 ledges Lamb's contribution to his drama in the preface to the 
 published edition in 1833. The Epilogue was spoken by Miss 
 Ellen Tree, who played the heroine. 
 
 To Clara N. (p. 37Z).(Athenccum, July 26, 1834.) Clara 
 Novello, the fourth daughter of Lamb's old and valued friend, 
 Vincent Novello. When Lamb wrote this complimentary 
 tribute, she was only sixteen years of age. She had made her 
 first appearance in public the year before, and was already 
 singing (in this year, 1834) at both the Philharmonic and the 
 Ancient Concerts. Lamb had probably heard her chiefly at her 
 father's house. Clara Novello, afterwards the Countess Gigliucci, 
 happily still lives, to remember with pride her enthusiastic 
 though unmusical admirer. 
 
 To my Friend, the Indicator (p. 374). (Leigh Hunt, who 
 brought out the periodical in question in 1819.) It took its 
 name from a fanciful application of the following passage from 
 a work on Natural History : "There is a bird in the interior 
 of Africa whose habits would rather seem to belong to the 
 interior of Fairy-land, but they have been well authenticated. 
 It indicates to honey -hunters where the nests of wild bees are 
 to be found. It calls them with a cheerful cry which they 
 answer ; and, on finding itself recognised, flies and hovers 
 over a hollow tree containing the honey. While they arc 
 occupied in collecting it, the bird goes to a little distance, 
 where he observes all that passes ; and the hunters, when they 
 have helped themselves, take care to leave him his portion of 
 the food. This is the Cuculus Indicator of Liuneeus, otherwise 
 called the Moroc, Bee Cuckoo, or Honey Bird. " 
 
 Saint Crispin to Mr. Gi/ord (p. 374). Gifford, the Editor of 
 the Quarterly, \\as, as is well known, in early life apprenticed 
 to a shoemaker. Lamb had a special grudge against him for 
 mangling his review of Wordsworth's Excursion. See note 011 
 Lamb's review in the present volume. 
 
 In Tabulam Eximii (p. 375). On Haydou's Picture, the 
 Entry of Christ into Jerusalem. I have corrected the text of 
 
410 NOTES. 
 
 the Latin from the copy given in Hayclon's Memoirs, vol. ii. p. 
 13. As Tom Taylor remarks, this specimen of Lamb's Latinity 
 is more monkish than classical. He probably meant it to be 
 so. Hay don's picture was exhibited by him .in 1820. See his 
 Memoirs, i. 399. 
 
 To Sir James Mackintosh (p. 377). The unfortunate epigram 
 that brought about the final collapse of the Albion. See Elia 
 Essay, " Newspapers thirty-five years ago." The epigrams that 
 follow will not strike the reader as having any great merit, or 
 reason to exist. They appeared for the most part in the 
 Examiner, where any stick did well enough with which to beat 
 the Prince Regent. He tells Bernard Barton, in 1829, " Stroll- 
 ing to Waltham Cross the other day, I hit off these lines. 
 It is one of the crosses which Edward I. caused to be built for 
 his wife at every town where her corpse rested, between North- 
 amptonshire and London." The epigram, as given in the letter, 
 exhibits some considerable variations. 
 
 One Dip (p. 380). Archdeacon Hessey has lately made public, 
 for the first time, the very curious history of this little fable. 
 It was one of two epigrams written by Lamb for Archdeacon 
 Hessey and his brother, the late Rev. Francis Hessey, when 
 schoolboys at Merchant Taylors. The subject for the Latin 
 epigram was "Suum Cuique," and the epigram may be found 
 in my notes to the Essay "On the Inconveniences resulting 
 from being hanged" (Lamb's Poems, Plays, and Miscellaneous 
 Essays, p. 403). The subject proposed for the English epigram 
 was, " Brevis esse laboro," and, as Archdeacon Hessey remarks, 
 ' ' the adventure recorded might well have happened to Lamb 
 himself." It should be added that the production of these 
 epigrams being of regular and frequent recurrence, the boys 
 were allowed and almost expected to obtain help from their 
 friends. In previous editions of Lamb's works, the epigram 
 
 will be found, with the signature " H y," but up to the date 
 
 of Archdeacon Hessey's interesting paper in the Taylorian, 
 it had never been explained. "I have now before me," the 
 Archdeacon writes, ' ' the copies of them as they were shown up 
 to the head-master, with the names of J. A. Hessey and F. 
 Hessey attached to them respectively." See letter of Lamb to 
 Southey, of May 10, 1830. 
 
 Satan in Search of a Wife (p. 381). Originally published 
 in a thin volume, with illustrations, by Moxoii in 1831. It 
 seems to have been the combined product of reading Moore's 
 Loves of. the Angels and Coleridge and Southey's Demi's Walk, 
 with the crop of imitations to which the latter poem gave rise. 
 The choosing the daughter of a tailor, as the lady who won 
 
NOTES. 411 
 
 Satan's young affections, is due solely to the grim circumstance 
 that the cavity beneath a tailor's shop-board, into which he 
 lets fall the portions of cloth which form his "cabbage," is 
 called in the strange slang of the profession, his "Hell." The 
 verses are indeed but little worthy of their author ; but they 
 gave occasion for one of his many and familiar acts of generosity, 
 and it is pleasant to take leave of him with the record of it. 
 Moxon had been forced to abandon the publication of his 
 Englishman's Magazine for want of support. Lamb had written 
 for it, and helped it in all ways he could, but in vain ; and he 
 writes to his friend, October 24, 1831, commending his prudence 
 in not continuing the experiment longer. ' ' To drop metaphors, 
 I am sure you have done wisely. The very spirit of your 
 epistle speaks that you have a weight off your mind. I have 
 
 one on mine the cash in hand, which, as less truly 
 
 says, burns in my pocket. I feel queer at returning it (who 
 does not ?) you feel awkward at retaking it (who ought not ?) 
 is there no middle way of adjusting this fine embarrassment ? 
 I think I have hit upon a medium to skin the sore place over, 
 if not quite to heal it. You hinted that there might be some- 
 thing under 10 by and by, accruing to me Devil's money" 
 (the allusion is to the squib now before us), ' ' (you are sanguine, 
 say 7 : 10s) ; that I entirely renounce, and abjure all future 
 interest in ; I insist upon it, and ' by him I will not name ' 
 I won't touch a penny of it. That will split your loss one half, 
 and leave me conscientious possessor of what I hold. Less than 
 your assent to this, no proposal will I accept of." 
 
 THE END. 
 
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