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A BOOR FOE A COMER ;
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FROM AUTHORS
THE BEST SUITED TO THAT MODE OF ENJOYMENT;
COMMENTS ON EACH, AND A GENERAL INTRODUCTION,
BY LEIGH HUNT.
NEW YORK;
DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET.
1859.
* *
Stack
Annex
PR
If 57
PFEFACE.
AN ample account of the nature of this work will be
found in the Introduction ; but to give a brief and
more general idea of the entertainment which it is pro-
posed to set before the purchaser, it may be as well to
state in this place, that the book, for the most part, is a
collection of passages from such authors as retain, if not
the highest, yet the most friendly and as it were domes-
tic hold upon us during life, and sympathize with us
through all portions of it. Hence the first extract is a
Letter addressed to an Infant, the last the Elegy in the
Churchyard,* and the intermediate ones have something
of an analogous reference to the successive stages of
existence. It is therefore intended to be read by intel-
ligent persons of all times of life, the youthful associa
tions in it being such as the oldest readers love to call
to mind, and the oldest such as all would gladly meet
* The last article of the Second Series.
298306
6 PREFACE.
with in their decline. It has no politics in it, no polem-
ics, nothing to offend the delicatest mind. The inno-
centest boy and the most cautious of his seniors might
alike be glad to look over the other's shoulder, and find
him in his corner perusing it.
This may be speaking in a boastful manner ; but an
Editor has a right to boast of his originals, especially
when they are such as have comforted and delighted him
throughout his own life, and are for that reason recom-
mended by him to others.
CONTENTS OF FIRST SERIES.
NATURE OF THE PRESENT WORK, AND A FEW REMARKS ON ITS READ-
ERS 9
LETTER TO A NEW-BORN CHILD Catherine Talbot. 27
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS Shenstone, 30
GROWN SCHOOLBOYS. A Letter to Geo. Montagu Horace Walpole. 42
ODE ON SOLITUDE. Written at twelve years of age . . Pope. 45
SIR BERTRAND A Fragment Dr. Aikin. 4*7
ROBINSON CRUSOE. The Five Points in his History . . . De Foe. 53
Crusoe's Meditations and Mode of Life 56
He finds the Print of a Man's Foot on the Shore ... 59
Sees Savages in the Island, and obtains a Servant ... 63
PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERT OF THE FLYING WOMAN. Rob't Pidtock. 73
Gu. BLAS AND THE PARASITE Le Sage. 96
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. From the " Mysteries of
Udolpho " -Sfr* Radcliffe. 104
THE WARNING. From the Novel of " Nature and Art " Mrs. Inchbald. 128
JOHN BUNGLE Thomas Amory. 137
DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL 149
Wandering Tartars and their Chief Zagatai, in the Thir-
teenth Century William de Rubruquis. 154
Passage of the Desert of Lop Marco Polo. 162
KublaKhan . " "164
Kubla Khan's Palace at Xanadu " " 165
Kubla Khan's Person and State " " 168
Friar Oderic's Rich Man who was fed by Fifty
Virgins " "170
Of the Old Man of the Mountain . . . . " " 171
8 CONTENTS.
rAG>
DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL Continued.
How Prester John burnt up his Enemy's Men
and Horses " ' 173
Praise of Women Ledyard. 175
Bed in the Desert Mungo Park. 177
First Sight of the Niger " " 179
Kindness of a Woman to him, and a Song
over his Distress " " 180
He passes a Lion " " 182
Narrow Escape from another Lion ... " " 184
Moss in the Desert " " 184
A SHIPWRECK, A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE BY THE WAY . 189
Shipwreck of a Spanish Vessel . . . Cyrus Redding. 190
A Sea Voyage, and Adventure by the Way . . . Cook. 193
BUSINESS, BOOKS, AND AMUSEMENT. Passages from his Autobiogra-
phy William Hutton. 217
NATURE OF THE PRESENT WORK,
FEW REMARKS ON ITS READERS.
compilation is intended for all lovers of books, at
-*- every time of life, from childhood to old age, particu-
larly such as are fond of the authors it quotes, and who
enjoy their perusal most in the quietest places. It is in-
tended for the boy or girl who loves to get with a book
into a corner for the youth who on entering life finds his
advantage in having become acquainted with books for
the man in the thick of life, to whose spare moments books
are refreshments and for persons in the decline of life,
who reflect on what they have experienced, and to whom
books and gardens afford their tranquillest pleasures.
If is a book (not to say it immodestly) intended to lie
in old parlour windows, in studies, in cottages, in cabins
aboard ship, in country-inns, in country-houses, in summer-
houses, in any houses that have wit enough to like it, and
are not the mere victims of a table covered with books for
show.
1*
10 INTRODUCTION.
When Shenstone was a child, he used to have a new
book brought him from the next country-town, whenever
any body went to market. If he had gone to bed and was
asleep, it was put behind his pillow ; and if it had been
forgotten, and he was awake, his mother (more kindly than
wisely) " wrapped up a piece of wood of the same form, and
pacified him for the night." This is the sort of child we
hope to be a reader of our volumes.
When Gray and Walpole were at Eton, they partitioned
out the fields into territories of which they had read in
books, and so ruled over them and sent ambassadors to one
another. These are the sort of school-boys we look to en-
tertain.
When Mrs. Inchbald, who was a farmer's daughter, first
came to London, she was alone, and would have been sub-
jected to no small perils but for the knowledge she had
acquired from books ; for she was poor, lovely, and sensitive.
She turned the knowledge to the greatest account, and lived
to add precious matter to the stock. We natter ourselves,
or rather we dare to aver, considering the authors who
furnish our extracts, that nobody would have more approved
of our book than Mrs. Inchbald.
Some of the most stirring men in the world, persons in
the thick of business of all kinds, and indeed with the busi-
ness of the world itself on their hands, Lorenzo de Medici,
for instance, who was at once the great merchant and the
political arbiter of his time, have combined with their
other energies the greatest love of books, and found no re-
INTRODUCTION. \\
creation at once so wholesome and so useful. We hope
many a man of business will refresh himself with the shont
pieces in these volumes, and return to his work the fitter to
baffle craft, and yet retain a reverence for simplicity.
Every man who has a right sense of business, whether
his business be that of the world or of himself, has a respect
for all right things apart from it ; because business with
him is not a mindless and merely instinctive industry, like
that of a beetle rolling its ball of clay, but an exercise of
faculties congenial with the other powers of the human
being, and all working to some social end. Hence he ap-
proves of judicious and reflecting leisure of domestic and
social evenings of suburban retreats of gardens of ulti-
mate retirement " for good " of a reading and reflective
old age. Such retirements have been longed for, and in
many instances realized, by wise and great men of all classes,
from the Diocletians of old to the Foxes and Burkes of our
own days. Warren Hastings, who had ruled in India,
yearned for the scenes of his boyhood ; and lived to be
happy in them. The wish to possess a country-house, a
retreat, a nest, a harbour of some kind from the storms and
even from the agitating pleasures of life, is as old as the
sorrows and joys of civilization. The child feels it when
he " plays at house ;" the schoolboy, when he is reading in
his corner ; the lover, when he thinks of his mistress.
Epicurus felt it in his garden ; Horace and Virgil expressed
their desire of it in passages which the sympathy of man-
kind has rendered immortal. It was the end of all the
12 INTRODUCTION.
wisdom and experience of Shakspeare. He retired to his
native town, and built himself a house in which he died.
And who else does not occasionally " flit " somewhere mean-
time if he can ? The country for many miles round Lon-
don, and indeed in most other places, is adorned with houses
and grounds of men of business, who are whirled to and fro
on weekly or daily evenings, and who would all find some-
thing to approve in the closing chapters of our work. The
greatest moneyed man of our time, Rothschild, who weighed
kings in his balance, could not do without his house at
Gunnersbury. Even the turbulent De Retz, according to
Madame de Sevigne, became the sweetest of retired Signiors,
and did nothing but read books and feed his trout. It is
customary to jest upon such men, and indeed upon all re-
tirement ; to say that they would still meddle with affairs
if they could, and that retirement is a failure and a " bore."
Fox did not think so. It is possible that De Retz would
have meddled fast enough ; nor are many energetic men
superior, perhaps, to temptations of their spirit in this way,
when such occur. But this does not hinder them from en-
joying another and a seasonable pleasure meantime. On
the contrary, this very energy is the thing which hinders it
from palling ; that is to say, supposing their intellects are
large enough to include a sense of it. De Retz, like Burke
and Fox, was a lover of books. Sir Robert Walpole, who
retired only to be sick and to die, did not care for books
Occupation is the necessary basis of all enjoyment ; and he
who cannot read, or botanize, or farm, or amuse himself
INTRODUCTION. 13
with his neighbours, or exercise his brain with thinking, is
in a bad way for the country at any time, much more for
retiring into it. He has nothing to do but to get back as
fast as he can, and be hustled into a sensation by a mob.
" Books, Venus, books." It is those that teach us to
refine on our pleasures when young, and which, having so
taught us, enable us to recall them with satisfaction when
old. For let the half-witted say what they will of delu-
sions, no thorough reader ever ceased to believe in his
books, whatever doubts they might have taught him by
the way. They are pleasures too palpable and habitual for
him to deny. The habit itself is a pleasure. They contain
his young dreams and his old discoveries ; all that he has
lost, as well as all that he has gained ; and, as he is no
surer of the gain than of the loss, except in proportion to
the strength of his perceptions, the dreams, in being re-
newed, become truths again. He is again in communion
with the past ; again interested in its adventures, grieving
with its griefs, laughing with its merriment, forgetting the
very chair and room he is sitting in. Who, in the myste-
rious operation of things, shall dare to assert in what unreal
corner of time and space that man's mind is ; or what better
proof he has of the existence of the poor goods and chattels
about him, which at that moment (to him) are non-existent ?
' : Oh !" people say, " but he wakes up, and sees them there."
Well ; he woke down then, and saw the rest. What we
distinguish into dreams and realities, are, in both cases, but
representatives of impressions. Who shall know what dif-
14 INTRODUCTION.
ference there is in them at all, save that of degree, till some
higher state of existence help us to a criterion ?
For our part, such real things to us are books, that, if
habit and perception make the difference between real and
unreal, we may say that we more frequently wake out of
common life to them, than out of them to common life. Yet
we do not find the life the less real. We only feel books
to be a constituent part of it ; a world, as the poet says,
" Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood,
Our pastime and our happiness may grow."
What do readers care for " existing things " (except when
Ireland is mentioned, or a child is grieving) compared with
poetry and romance ? What for Bonaparte and his pre-
tences, compared with the honest jealousy of " Orlando," or
the cakes of Alfred ? What for all the parsons in the world
(except Pius IX. or some Welsh curate) compared with
Parson Adams or the Vicar of Wakefield ? What men
(generally speaking) are they so sure of? are so intimate
with ? can describe, quote, and talk of to one another with
so much certainty of a mutual interest ? And yet, when
readers wake up to that other dream of life, called real life
(and we do not mean to deny its palpability), they do not
find their enjoyment of it diminished. It is increased
increased by the contrast by the variety by the call upon
them to show the faith which books have originally given
them in all true and good things, and which books, in spito
of contradiction and disappointment, have constantly main
INTRODUCTION. 15
tained. Mankind are the creatures of books, as well as of
other circumstances ; and such they eternally remain ;
proofs, that the race is a noble and a believing race, and
capable of whatever books can stimulate.
The volumes now offered to our fellow readers originated
in this kind of passion for books. They were suggested by
a wish we had long felt to get up a book for our private en-
joyment, and of a very particular and unambitious nature.
It was to have consisted of favourite passages, not out of the
authors we most admired, but those whom we most loved ;
and it was to have commenced, as the volumes do, with
Shenstone's Schoolmistress, and ended with Gray's Elegy.
It was to have contained indeed little which the volumes do
not comprise, though not intended to be half so big, and it
was to have proceeded on the same plan of beginning with
childhood and ending with the church-yard. We did not
intend to omit the greatest authors on account of their
being the greatest, but because they moved the feelings too
strongly. What we desired was not an excitement, but a
balm. Readers, who have led stirring lives, have such men
as Shakspeare with them always, in their very struggles and
sufferings, and in the tragic spectacles of the world. Great
crowds and great passions are Shakspeares ; and we, for one
(and such we take to be the case with many readers), are
sometimes as willing to retire from their " infinite agitation
of wit," as from strifes less exalted ; and retreat into the
placider corners of genius more humble. It is out of no
disrespect to their greatness ; neither, we may be allowed
1 6 IX Tit OD UCTION.
to say, is it from any fear of being unable to sustain it ; for
we have seen perhaps as many appalling faces of things in
our time as they have, and we are always ready to confront
more if duty demand it. But we do not choose to be always
suffering over again in books what we have suffered in the
world. We prefer, when in a state of repose, to renew what
we have enjoyed to possess wholly what we enjoy still
to discern in the least and gentlest things the greatest and
sweetest intentions of Nature and to cultivate those sooth-
ing, serene, and affectionate feelings, which leave us in peace
with all the world, and in good hope of the world to come.
The very greatest genius, after all, is not the greatest thing
in the world, any more than the greatest city in the world
is the country or the sky. It is a concentration of some of
its greatest powers, but it is not the greatest diffusion of its
might. It is not the habit of its success, the stability of
its serenencss. And this is what readers like ourselves desire
to feel and know. The greatest use of genius is but to sub-
serve to that end ; to further the means of enjoying it, and
to freshen and keep it pure ; as the winds and thunders,
which come rarely, are purifiers of the sweet fields, which
are abiding.
The book, therefore, as originally contemplated, was to
consist principally, besides the pieces mentioned, of such
, others as Cowley's Garden, Wotton's Happy Life, the fa-
vourite passages about the country from Horace and Virgil,
Claudian's Old Man of Verona, Pope's Ode on Solitude, a
selection from the Coverley papers in the Spectator, Thorn-
INTRODUCTION. \f
eon's Castle of Indolence^ Letters of Gray, Virgil's Gnat
out of Spenser ; and, though we have several editions of the
work constantly by us, we think we could not have denied
ourselves the pleasure of having something out of the Ara-
bian Nights. Our Sequestered Book (for such, in our mind,
we called it) would hardly have seemed complete without a
chapter or two about Sindbad or the Forty Thieves, or the
retirement of the Fairy Banou. The book was to have
been addressed entirely to lovers of sequestered pleasures,
and chiefly to such as were in the decline of life, or poeti-
cally beginning it.
When the volume, however, came to be considered with
a view to publication, objections were made to the smallness
of its size, and the probable fewness of its readers. Had we
been rich, we should have parried the objection, and sent
forth a volume at any rate, with the contents of which the
few would have been pleased. We consoled ourselves with
reflecting that we had other favourite passages which could
be included in a larger book ; and an extension of the plan
now struck us, which in the eyes of many readers, perhaps
of most, would in all probability improve it. This was, to
suppose our sequestered reader thinking, not merely of the
pleasures of his childhood or of his old age, but of his whole
life, past or to come, and thus calling to mind passages
from favourite authors of all kinds in illustration of its suc-
cessive phases. The spirit of the first conception was still,
however, to be carefully retained. Life, without effemi-
nately shutting one's eyes to its perplexities, was to be re-
18
INTRODUCTION.
garded, not in spleen, or in sorrow, or in narrowness of any
kind, but with a cheerfulness befitting childhood, a manli-
ness befitting a man, and with that calm and loving wisdom
in age which discerns so much beauty and goodness in the
face of Nature, that it cannot doubt the benevolence of her
soul.
Hence the inclusion in the present volume of knaveries
and other half-witted activities out in the world, and of
terrors and tragedies in solitude. Hence extracts from Le
Sage and Fielding, from Steele, Smollett, Goldsmith, Mrs.
Radcliffe, and others.
We have imagined a book-loving man, or man able
to refresh himself with books, at every successive period of
his life ; the child at his primer, the sanguine boy, the
youth entering the world, the man in the thick of it, the
man of alternate business and repose, the retired man calm-
ly considering his birth and his death ; and in this one hu-
man being we include, of course, the whole race and both
sexes, mothers, wives, and daughters, and all which they do
to animate and sweeten existence. Thus our invisible, or
rather many-bodied hero (who is the reader himself), is in
the first instance a baby ; then a child under the School-
mistress of Shenstone ; then the schoolboy with Gray and
Walpole, reading poetry and romance ; then Gil Bias en-
tering the world ; then the sympathiser with the John J3 un-
cles who enjoy it, and the Travellers who fill it with enter-
prise ; then the matured man beginning to talk of disap-
pointments, and standing in need of admonition Against
INTRODUCTION. 19
Inconsistency in his Expectations; then the reassured
man comforted by his honesty and his just hopes, and re-
freshing himself with his Club or his country-lodging, his
pictures, or his theatre ; then the retiring, or retired, or
finally old man, looking back with tenderness on his enjoy-
ments, with regret for his errors, with comfort in his virtues,
and with a charity for all men, which gives him a right to
the comfort ; loving all the good things he ever loved, par-
ticularly the books which have been his companions and the
childhood which he meets again in the fields ; and neither
wishing nor fearing to be gathered into that kindly bosom
of Nature, which covers the fields with flowers, and is en-
circled with the heavens.
The reader, however, is not to suppose that any atten-
tion to this plan of the book is exacted of him. Such a
demand would be a pedantry and a folly. It is only sug-
gested to him in case he may like it, and for the purpose of
showing that we set nothing before him which does not
possess a principle of order. He may regard the book, if
more convenient to do so, as a mere set of extracts with
comments, or of extracts alone, not requiring comments
Our sequestered book was to have been without comments ;
and we should have been well content, had none been de-
sired for this. There is a pleasure, it is true, in expressing
love and admiration, and in hoping that we contribute to the
extension of such feelings in the world ; but we can truly
say, that we seldom quote a fine passage, and comment
upon it at any length, without wishing that everybody had
20 INTRODUCTION.
been as well acquainted with it as ourselves, and could
dispense with the recommendation. All we expect of the
reader is that he should like the extracts on which the
comments are made. If he does not do that, he has no
business to be a reader of the book, or perhaps to be a
reader at all. At least he is no universalist ; no sympa-
thiser with the entire and genial round of existence ; and
it is for the reader who is, that these volumes are emphati-
cally intended.
A universalist, in one high bibliographical respect, may
be said to be the only true reader ; for he is the only
reader on whom no writing is lost. Too many people ap-
prove no books but such as are representatives of some
opinion or passion of their own. They read, not to have
human nature reflected on them, and so be taught to know
and to love everything, but to be reflected themselves as in
a pocket mirror, and so interchange admiring looks with
their own narrow cast of countenance. The universalist
alone puts up with difference of opinion, by reason of his
own very difference ; because his difference is a right
claimed by him in the spirit of universal allowance, and
not a privilege arrogated by conceit. He loves poetry and
prose, fiction and matter of fact, seriousness and mirth,
because he is a thorough human being, and contains por-
tions of all the faculties to which they appeal. A man who
can be nothing but serious, or nothing but merry, is but
half a man. The lachrymal or the risible organs are
wanting in him. He has no business to have eyes or
INTRODUCTION. 21
muscles like other men. The universalist alone can put
up with him, by reason of the very sympathy of his antipa-
thy. He understands the defect enough to pity, while he
dislikes it. The universalist is the only reader who can
make something out of books for which he has no predilec-
tion. He sees differences in them to sharpen his reason-
ing ; sciences which impress on him a sense of his igno-
rance ; nay, languages which, if they can do nothing else,
amuse his eye and set him thinking of other countries. He
will detect old acquaintances in Arabic numerals, and
puzzle over a sum or a problem, if only to try and taste the
curiosity of it. He is the only man (except a soldier or a
gardener) to whom an army list or an almanac would not be
thoroughly disgusting on a rainy day in a country ale-
house, when nothing else readable is at hand, and the
coach has gone "just ten minutes." The zodiacal light of
" Francis Moore, Physician," would not be lost on him. He
would laugh at the Doctor's verses ; wonder who St. Alphage
or St. Hugh could have been, as affecting the red-letter
days ; and see what Christian or surnames prevailed in the
army, or what personages had authority in those days. The
words "Royal Highness the Duke of York" would set
him thinking on the good-natured though not astonishing
prince, and imagining how hearty a dish of beef-steaks
he would have dispatched in the room in which he was
sitting.
Our compilation, therefore, though desirous to please
all who are willing to be pleased, is ambitious to satisfy
22
INTRODUCTION.
this sort of person most of all. It is of his childhood we
were mostly thinking when we extracted the Schoolmistress.
He will thoroughly understand the wisdom lurking beneath
the playfulness of its author. He will know how whole-
some as well as amusing it is to become acquainted with
books like Gil Bias and Joseph Andrews. He will derive
agreeable terror from Sir Bertram and the Haunted
Chamber ; will assent with delighted reason to every sen-
tence in Mrs. Barbauld's Essay ; will feel himself wan-
dering into solitudes with Gray ; shake honest hands with
Sir Roger de Coverley; be ready to embrace Parson
Adams, and to chuck Pounce out of window, instead of the
hat; will travel with Marco Polo and Mungo Park;
stay at home with Thomson ; retire with Cowley ; be in-
dustrious with Hutton ; sympathizing with Shenstone and
Mrs. Inchbald ; laughing with (and at) Buncle ; melan-
choly, and forlorn, and self-restored, with the shipwrecked
mariner of De Foe. There are Robinson Crusoes in the
moral as well as physical world, and even a universalist
may be one of them ; men, cast on desert islands of thought
and speculation ; without companionship ; without worldly
resources ; forced to arm and clothe themselves out of the
remains of shipwrecked hopes, and to make a home for
their solitary hearts in the nooks and corners of imagina-
tion and reading. It is not the worst lot in the world
Turned to account for others, and embraced with patient
cheerfulness, it may, with few exceptions, even be one of
the best. We hope our volume may light into the hands
INTRODUCTION. 23
of such men. Every extract which is made in it, has
thing of a like second-purpose, beyond what appears on its
face. There is amusement for those who require nothing
more, and instruction in the shape of amusement for those
who choose to find it. We only hope that the " knowing
reader : ' will not think we have assisted inquiry too
often. "We hate, with our friends the little boys, nothing
so much as the " Moral " that officiously treads the heels of
the great .ZEsop, and which assumes that the sage has not
done his work when he has told his story. It is bad enough
to be forced to interpret wisdom of any kind ; but to talk
after such transparent lessons as those, is overweeningness
horrible. The little boys will find nothing of the sort to
frighten them in this book ; and they need not look at the
prefaces, if they have no mind for them. It is beautiful to
think how ignorant our grown memories are of prefaces to
books of amusement that were put into our hands when
young, and how intensely we remember the best extracts.
What grown up people in general know anything of good
Dr. Enfield or didactic Dr. Knox, or even of Percy, the
editor of Ancient Reliques 1 Yet who that has read the
Speaker and Elegant Extracts ever forgot the soliloquy in
Hamlet, Goldsmith's Beau Tibbs and Contented Beggar,
or the story of Robin Hood ?
Those exquisite humours of Goldsmith, and the story of
Robin Hood, we have omitted, with a hundred others, partly
because we had not room for an abundance of things which
we admired, chiefly because they did not fall within a cer-
24 INTRODUCTION.
tain, idea of our plan. The extremely familiar knowledge
also which readers have of them might have been another
objection, even in a work consisting chiefly of favourite
passages ; things, which imply a certain amount of familiar
knowledge, if not in the public at large, yet among readers
in general. If any persons should object that some of
these also are too familiar, the answer is, that they are of a
nature which rendered it impossible for us, consistently
with our plan, to omit them, and that readers in general
would have missed them. We allude, in particular, to the
Elegy in a Country Church- Yard and the Ode on the
Prospect of Eton College. It is the privilege of fine
writers, when happy in their treatment of a universal sub-
ject of thought or feeling, to leave such an impression of it
in the reading world as almost to identify it with every-
body's own reflections, or constitute it a sort of involuntary
mental quotation. Of this kind are Gray's reflections in
the church-yard, and his memories of school-boy happiness.
Few people who know these passages by heart, ever think
of a church-yard or a school-ground without calling them
to mind.
The nature and the amount of the reader's familiarity
with many other extracts are the reasons why we have ex-
tracted them. They constitute part of the object and
essence of the book ; for the familiarity is not a vulgar and
repulsive one, but that of a noble and ever-fresh companion,
'whose society we can the less dispense with, the more we
are accustomed to it. The book in this respect resembles
INTRODUCTION. 25
a set of pictures which it delights us to live with, or a col-
lection of favourite songs and pieces of music, which we bind
up in volumes in order that we may always have them at
hand, or know where to find them. Who, in such a room
full of pictures, would object to his Raphael or Titian?
Or in such a collection of music, to his Beethoven, Rossini,
or Paisiello ? Our book may have little novelty in the least
sense of the word ; but it has the best in the greatest
sense ; that is to say, never-dying novelty ; antiquity hung
with ivy-blossoms and rose-buds ; old friends with the ever-
new faces of wit, thought, and affection. Time has proved
the genius with which it is filled. " Age cannot wither it,"
nor " custom stale its variety." We ourselves have read,
and shall continue to read it to our dying day ; and we
should not say thus much, especially on such an occasion, if
we did not know that hundreds and thousands would do the
same, whether they read it in this collection or not
to n Inn-tat Cljillt.
BY CATHERINE TALBOT.
THIS lady, whose posthumous " Essays " and " Reflections " were ad-
mired in their day, was niece of Thomson's friend, Lord Chancellor
Talbot ; and the " very young correspondent " to whom her pleasant
letter is addressed, was daughter of the Chancellor's third son, John,
afterwards a Welsh judge, ancestor of the present Earl Talbot. What
became of the little lady is not mentioned. Miss Talbot had very deli-
cate health, which she bore with great sweetness of temper. She led
a maiden life, and died in the year 1770, aged forty-nine.
YOU are heartily welcome, iny dear little cousin, into
this unquiet world ; long may you continue in it, in all
the happiness it can give, and bestow enough on all your
friends to answer fully the impatience with which you have
been expected. May you grow up to have every accom-
plishment that your good friend, the Bishop of Derry,* can
already imagine in you ; and in the meantime, may you
have a nurse with a tuneable voice, that may not talk an
immoderate deal of nonsense to you. You are at present,
my dear, in a very philosophical disposition ; the gaieties and
follies of life have no attraction for you ; its sorrows you
kindly commiserate ! but, however, do not suffer them to
* Thomas Eundle, another friend of Thomson's and the Chancellor's.
See the note ecmuing.
28 LETTER TO A KEW-BOR3 CHILD.
disturb your slumbers, and find charms in nothing but har-
mony and repose. You have as yet contracted no partialities,
are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, and look with a
perfect indifference on all human splendour. You have an
absolute dislike to the vanities of dress ; and are likely, for
many months, to observe the Bishop of Bristol's first rule
of conversation, Silence, though tempted to transgress it by
the novelty and strangeness of all objects round you.* As
you advance further in life, this philosophical temper will
by degrees wear off; the first object of your admiration will
probably be the candle, and thence (as we all of us do) you
will contract a taste for the gaudy and the glaring, without
making one moral reflection upon the danger of such false
admiration as leads people many a time to burn their fingers.
You will then begin to show great partiality for some very
good aunts, who will contribute all they can towards spoiling
you ; but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma
who will teach you, by her example, all sorts of good qua-
lities ; only let me warn you of one thing, my dear, and
that is, not to learn of her to have such an immoderate love
of home as is quite contrary to all the privileges of this
polite age, and to give up so entirely all those pretty graces
of whim, flutter, and affection, which so many charitable
poets have declared to be the prerogative of our sex. Oh !
my poor cousin, to what purpose will you boast this prero-
gative, when your nurse tells you (with a pious care to sow
* The Bishop of Bristol, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, was
Seeker. His "first rule of conversation" is very good. It was on these
two prelates that Pope wrote his couplet
E'en in a bishop I can spy desert ;
Seeker is decent, Handle has a heart
By "dfccut" we are to understand the word in its classical sense of
Incoming.
LETTER TO A NEW-BORN CHILD. ' 29
the seeds of jealousy and emulation as early as possible)
that you have a fine little brother " come to put your nose
out of joint ?" There will be nothing to be done then but
to be mighty good ; and prove what, believe me, admits of
very little dispute (though it has occasioned abundance),
that we girls, however people give themselves airs of being
disappointed, are by no means to be despised. The men un-
envied shine in public ; but it is we must make their homes
delightful to them and, if they provoke us, no less un-
comfortable. I do not expect you to answer this letter yet
awhile ; but, as I dare say you have the greatest interest
with your papa, will beg you to prevail upon him that we
may know by a line (before his time is engrossed by an-
other secret committee) that you and your mamma are
welL In the meantime, I will only assure you that all
here rejoice in your existence extremely ; and that I am,
my very young correspondent, most affectionately yours, &c
rljanlmistrrss.
BY SI1ENSTOXE.
THE Schoolmistress is one of those poems (delightful, to our thinking)
which are to be read with a smile on the face, and thoughtfulness at
heart: the smile, for the assumption of dignity in its tone; the
thoughtfulness, for the human interest of the subject It is Shenstone's
masterpiece. Its playful imitation of the manner of Spenser saved
him from that inferior artificial style of the day, which injured the
natural feeling of most of his other poems ; and the manliness at the
heart of its gentle wisdom ought to have saved the writer from the
fears which he condescended to entertain, lest undiscerning critics
should take it for something as dull as themselves. The poem has the
pungent sweetness and balminess of the herbs described in its cottage
garden. "We never think of it without seeming to inhale their fra-
grance.
The good dame, the heroine of the poem, was the schoolmistress of
Shenstone's own infancy. He was the offspring of a race now almost
extinct, the small uneducated country-gentleman, farming his own
estate ; and he was sent to the first iiurse-like teacher that presented
herself in the neighbourhood. Her name was Sarah Lloyd. Let this
be known, for the glory and encouragement of all such educers of in-
fant "bards sublime," or future "Chancellors in embryo." The birch-
tree is not in so much request as it was in her days. The " little bench
of heedless bishops " may now look at it without " shaping it into
rods," " and tingling at the view." The change is better for all parties,
considering that a proper amount of healthy vigour, reflection, and su-
periority to petty pains is to be secured by better means. It is not for
it* mode of infant training that the poem is here reprinted ; but for its
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 3
archness, its humour, its agreeable description, and the -writer's thought-
ful humanity.
AH me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn,
To think how modest worth neglected lies,
While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn
Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise ;
Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize :
Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try
To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ;
Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.
In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name :
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ;
They grieven sore in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame ;
And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe ;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow
And work the simple vassals mickle woe ;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low,
And as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So I have seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd ;
32 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ;
Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er tasto !
Ne superstition clog his chance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.
Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display ;
And at the door imprisoning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray,
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day !
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray ;
Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.
Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield :
Her apron, dy'd in grain, is blue, I trowe,
As is the harebell that adorns the field :
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchen sprays with anxious fear entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd,
And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd, and chastisement unkind.*
Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd,
The childish faces of old Eol's train,
Libs, Notus, Auster ;f these in frowns array'd,
* A memorial of the tremendous ingredients that composed the than-
derbolts of Jupiter.
t The winds, in the likeness of children, puffing and blowing in the
corners of old maps.
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 33
How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his flaws the rein ?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,
The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell.
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown ;
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air ;
'T was simple russet, but it was her own ;
'T was her own country bred the flock so fair ;
'T was her own labour did the fleece prepare ;
And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare :
For they in gaping wonderment abound,
And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground.
Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth,
Ne pompous title did debauch her ear ;
Goody, good-woman, gossip, n'aunt, forsooth,
Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ;
Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear ;
Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere ;
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind which did that title love.
One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame ;
Which, ever and anon, impell'd by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ;
Such favour did her past deportment claim ;
And if neglect had lavish'd on the ground
34 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same ;
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb she found.
Herbs, too, she knew, and well of each could speak,
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew ;
Where no vain flower disclos'd a gaudy streak ;
But herbs for use and physic not a few,
Of grey renown, within those borders grew ;
The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme,
Fresh baurn, and marygold of cheerful hue :
The lowly gill,* that never dares to climb ;
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.
Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung,
That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ;
And pungent radish, biting infant's tongue ;
And plaintain ribb'd, that heals the reaper's wound ;
And marjoram sweet, in shepherd's posie found :
And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom
Shall be ere-while in arid bundles bound,
To lurk amidst the labours of her loom,
And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume ;
And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown'd
The daintiest garden of the proudest peer,
Ere, driven from its envy'd site, it found
A sacred shelter for its branches here,
Where edg'd with gold its glittering skirts appear.
Oh wassel days ! customs meet and well,
Ere this was banish'd from its lofty sphere !
* Ground-ivy.
TEE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 35
Simplicity then sought this humble cell,
Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell.*
Here oft the dame, on Sabbath's decent eve,
Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ;
If winter 't were, she to her hearth did cleave,
But in her garden found a summer-seat :
Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat
How Israel's sons, beneath a foreign king,
While taunting foemen did a song entreat,
All for the nonce, untuning every string,
Uphung their useless lyres small heart had they to sing.
For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore,
And pass'd much time in truly virtuous deed ;
And in those elfins' ears would oft deplore
The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed,
And tortuous death was true devotion's meed,
And simple faith in iron chains did mourn,
That nould on wooden image place her creed ;
And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn :
Ah ! dearest lord, forefend, thilk days should e'er return.
In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem
By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac'd,
In which, when he receives his diadem,
Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac'd,
The matron sate ; and some with rank she grac'd,
(The source of children's and of courtiers' pride !)
Redress'd affronts (for vile affronts there pass'd)
t Koaemary was in great request as a flavourer of wine and ale, anil
hence it is associated by the poet with the wassail-bowl of old times.
36 TUE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
And warn'd them not the fretful to deride,
But love each other dear, whatever them betide.
Right well she knew each temper to descry,
To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ;
Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high,
And some entice with pittance small of praise ;
And other some with baleful sprig she frays ;
Ev'n absent, she the reins of power doth hold,
While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ;
Forewarn'd if little bird their pranks behold,
T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold.
Lo ! now with state she utters the command ;
Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ;
Their books of stature small they take in hand,
Which with pellucid horn secured are,
To save from finger wet the letters fair ;
The work so gay, that on their back is seen,
St. George's high atchievements does declare ;
On which thilk wight that has y-gazing been,
Kens the forthcoming rod ; unpleasing sight, I ween.
Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam
Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write !
As erst the bard by Mulla's silver stream,*
Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight,
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite.
For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight J
And down they drop. Appears his dainty skin,
Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin.
* Spencer. Mulla (Mole) is the river by which he dwelt in Ireland.
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 37
ruthful scene ! when from a nook obscure
His little sister doth his peril see :
All playful as she sate, she grows demure :
She finds all soon her wonted spirits flee ;
She meditates a prayer to set him free ;
Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny
(If gentle pardon did with dames agree)
To her sad grief, which swells in either eye,
And wrings her so that all for pity she could die.
No longer can she now her shrieks command,
And hardly she forbears, through awful fear,
To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand,
To stay harsh justice in his mid-career.
On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear !
(Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !)
She sees no kind domestic visage near,
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow,
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.
But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ?
Or what device his loud laments explain ?
The form uncouth of his disguised face ?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ?
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ?
When he in abject wise implores the dame,
Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ;
Or when from high she levels well her aim,
And through the thatch his cries each falling stroke pro-
claim.
The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay,
Attend and con their tasks with mickle care ;
298806
38 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
By turns, astonied, every twig survey,
And from their fellow's hateful wounds beware,
Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share,
Till fear has taught them a performance meet,
And to the well-known chest the dame repair,
Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them greet,
And ginger-bread y-rare ; now, certes, doubly sweet.
See to their seats they hie with merry glee,
And in beseemly order sitten there ;
All but the wight of flesh y-gall6d ; he
Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair ;
(This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair;)
And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast,
Convulsions intermitting, doth declare
His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust behest ;
And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.
His face besprent with liquid crystal shines,
His blooming face, that seems a purple flower,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All smear'd and sullied by a vernal shower.
the hard bosoms of despotic Power !
All, all but she, the author of his shame,
All, all but she, regret this mournful hour :
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flower, shall claim,
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.
Behind some door in melancholy thought,
Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines ;
Ne for his fellows' joyauce careth aught,
But to the wind all merriment resigns,
And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ;
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 39
* And many a sullen look askance is sent,
Which for his dame's annoyance he designs ;
And still the more to pleasure him she's bent,
The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past resent.
Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be !
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires,
Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see
Ye quench not, too, the sparks of nobler fires :
Ah ! better far than all the Muse's lyres,
All coward arts, is valour's generous heat ;
The firm fixt breast, which fit and right requires
Like Vernon's patriot soul,* more justly great
Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false deceit.
Yet, nurs'd, with skill, what dazzling fruits appear !
Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,
Or bard sublime (if bard may e'er be so)
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die,
Though now he crawl along the earth so low,
Nor, weeting how the Muse should soar on high,
Wisheth, poor starvling elf! his paper kite may fly
And this perhaps, who, censuring the design,
Low lays the house which that of cards doth build,
Shall Dennis be,f if rigid fate incline,
And many an epic to his rage shall yield ;
And many a poet quit the Aonian field ;
And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear
* A.dmiral Vernon, the conqueror of Porto Bello,
t The famous snarling critic.
40 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
As he who now, with 'sdainful fury thrill'd,
Surveys mine work, and levels many a sneer,
And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here !
But now Don Phoebus gains the middle skie,
And liberty unbars her prison-door,
And like a rushing torrent out they fly,
And now the grassy cirque han covered o'er
With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ;
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run ;
Heaven shield their short-liv'd pastimes, I implore !
For well may Freedom, erst so dearly won,
Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.
Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade,
And ehace gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ;
For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid,
Then never may ye taste more careless hours
In knightly castles or in ladies' bowers.
vain to seek delight in earthly things !
But most in courts, where proud ambition towers.
Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring
Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.
See in each sprite some various bent appear !
These rudely carol must incondite lay ;
Those sauntering on the green with jocund leer,
Salute the stranger passing on his way ;
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
Some builden fragile tenements of clay ;
With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play ;
Thilk to the huxter's savory cottage tend,
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 4 1
Here as each season yields a different store,
Each season's stores in order ranged been ;
Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o'er,
Galling full sore th' unmoney'd wight are seen ;
And gooseb'rie, clad in livery red and green ;
And here, of lovely dye, the Catherine pear ;
Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween ;
may no wight e'er pcnnyless come there,
\ 1st smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care.
See ! Cherries here, ere cherries yet abound,
With thread so white in tempting posies ty'd,
Scattering like blooming maid their glances round,
With pamper'd look draw little. yes aside,
And must be bought, though penury betide.
The plum all azure, and the nut all brown,
And here, each season, do those cakes abide,
Whose honour'd names th' inventive city own,
tendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.*
Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride
Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave,
Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils try'd.f
Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave ;
Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave,
Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ;
A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave,
Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray,
Till Reason's morn arise, and light them on their way.
* Shrewsbury cakes.
t Shrewsbury, the capital of Shenstone's native county, was devoted to
the cause of Charles the First.
<0rmnn Irjrnnlfaujs.
A LETTER FROM HOEACE WALPOLE TO HIS FRIEND GEORGE
MONTAGU.
GEORGE MONTAGU, one of Horace "Walpole's schoolfellows at Eton,
was of the Halifax branch of the family of that name. He became
Member of Parliament for Northampton, and Private Secretary to Lord
North while Chancellor of the Exchequer.
Walpole, who was now at Cambridge, in his nineteenth yeai-, does
not write so correctly as he did afterwards ; yet the germ of his wit is
very evident in this letter; also of his foppery or effeminacy; and
some may think, of his alleged heartlessuess. A wit he was of the
first water ; effeminate too, no doubt, though he prided himself on his
open-breasted waistcoats in his old age, and possessed exquisite good
sense and discernment, where party-feelings did not blind him. But
of the charge of heartlessness, his zeal and painstaking in behalf of a
hundred people, and his beautiful letter to his friend Conway in parti-
cular, offering, in a way not to be doubted, to share his fortune with
him (see Correspondence, vol. i. p. 358), ought to acquit him by accla-
mation.
The letter, here presented to the reader, is (with some qualification
as to prettiness of manner) a perfect exhibition of the thoughts and
feelings that go through the mind of a romantic schoolboy. How good
is his wishing to have had a kingdom, " only for the pleasure of being
driven from it, and living disguised in an humble vale /"
KINO'S COLLEGE, May 6th, 173&
DEAR GEORGE,
I agree with you entirely in the pleasure you take in
talking over old stories, but can't say but I meet every day
with new circumstances, which will be still more pleasure
GROWN SCHOOLBOYS. 43
to me to recollect. I think at our age 't is excess of joy,
to think, while we are running over past happiness, that it is
still in our power to enjoy as great. Narrations of the
greatest actions of other people are tedious in comparison
of the serious trifles that every man can call to mind of him-
self while he was learning those histories. Youthful passa-
ges of life are the chippings of Pitt's diamond, set into lit-
tle heart-rings with mottos ; the stone itself more worth, the
filings more gentle and agreeable. Alexander, at the head
of the world, never tasted the true pleasure that boys of his
own age have enjoyed at the head of a school. Little in-
trigues, little schemes, and policies engage their thoughts ;
and at the same time that they are laying the foundations
for their middle age of life, the mimic republic they live in
furnishes materials of conversation for their latter age ; and
old men cannot be said to be children a second time with
greater truth from any one cause, than their living over
again their childhood in imagination. To reflect on the
season when first they felt the titillation of love, the bud-
ding passions, and the first dear object of their wishes ! how
unexperienced they gave credit to all the tales of romantic
loves ! Dear George, were not the playing fields at Eton
food for all manner of flights ? No old maid's gown, though
it had been tormented into all the fashions from King
James to King George, ever underwent so many transfor-
mations as those poor plains have in my idea. At first I
was contented with tending a visionary flock, and sighing
some pastoral name to the echo of the cascade under the
bridge. How happy should I have been to have had a
kingdom, only for the pleasure of being driven from it, and
living disguised in an humble vale ! As I got further into
Virgil and Clelia,* I found myself transported from Area-
* An old French romance, founded on Roman history.
44 GROWN SCHOOLBOYS.
dia to the garden of Italy ; and saw Windsor Castle in no
other view than the Capitoli immobile saxum* I wish a
committee of the House of Commons may ever seem to be
the senate ; or a bill appear half so agreeable as a billet-doux.
You see how deep you have carried me into old stories ; I
write of them with pleasure, but shall talk of them with
more to you. I can't say I am sorry I was never quite a
schoolboy: an expedition against bargemen, or a match at
cricket, may be very pretty things to recollect ; but thank
my stars. I can remember things that are very near as
pretty. The beginning of my Roman history was spent in
the asylum,f or conversing in Egeria's hallowed grove ; not
in thumping and pummelling King Amulius's herdsmen.
I was sometimes troubled with a rough creature or two
from the plough ; one that, one should have thought, had
worked with his head, as well as his hands, they were both
so callous. One of the most agreeable circumstances I can
recollect is the Triumvirate, composed of yourself, Charles.j
and Your sincere Friend.
* " The immovable rock of the Capitol."
t The infant city of Kome, when it was a refuge for offenders.
t Charles Montagu, brother of George, afterwards a general in the
army. Another of these schoolboy coteries was called the Quadruple Al-
liance, and consisted of Walpole, Gray, West, and Ashton (afterwards a
clergyman). Walpole's schoolfellows gave themselves names out of the
classics and old romances, such as Tydeus, Plato, Oroondates, and Alman-
zor. Such things have always been going on in schools, and always will
as long as schools continue to be worth anything at all, and cultivate a
respect for generous and exalted sentiments.
(Die ira iolituk
WRITTEN BY POPE AT TWELVE YEARS OF AGE.
POPE never wrote more agreeable or well-tuned verses than this
interesting effusion of his boyhood. Indeed there is an intimation of
sweetness and variety in the versification, which was not borne out
afterwards by his boasted smoothness: nor can we help thinking, that
had the author of the Ode on Solitude arisen in less artificial times, he
would have turned out to be a still finer poet than he was. But the
reputation which he easily acquired for wit and criticism, the recent
fame of Dryden, and perhaps even his little warped and fragile person,
tempted him to accept such power over his contemporaries as he could
soonest realize.
It is observable that Pope never repeated the form of verse in
which this poem is written. It might have reminded him of a musical
feeling he had lost. All the little concluding lines of the stanzas have a
spirited yet touching modulation, very unusual with him afterwards :
In his own ground
IB winter flre
(Juiet by day, &c.
The closeness and straightforwardness of the style are remarkable in so
young a writer, and singularly announce his future conciseness. The
reader smiles to think of the unambitious wish expressed in the final
stanza ; yet it is pleasant to consider that the youthful poet remained
true to his love of the country all his life ; and still more pleasant, that
he was rich enough to indulge it. The Ode was probably written at
Binfield in Windsor Forest^ when he was a happy child, living with
46 ODE ON SOLITUDE.
his father and mother, and feeling the first delighted power of making
verses, in scenery fitted to inspire them.
HAPPY the man whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air
In his own ground :
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread.
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night ; study and ease,
Together mix'd ; sweet recreation ;
And innocence, which most doth please
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown ;
Thus unlamented let me die ;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.
SSrrtnralr. 3. /rngtnnit.
BY DR. AIKIN.
IF we may judge of others' impressions by our own, and have not
l>een led to overrate the merit of this Fragment by early associations,
there is nothing perused in boyhood which is of a nature to remain
longer in the recollection, or to link itself more strongly with analo-
gous ideas. The tolling bell, the bloody stump of the arm, the lady
who addresses, the knight " in these words " (not related), and above
all, the "dreary moors" at the commencement, and the light seen at
a distance, have recurred, we think, oftener to memory in the course of
our life than any other passages in books, with the exception of some
in Gray, Spenser, and the Arabian Nights. We cannot read them to
this day without feeling a sort of thrilling and desolate evening gloom
fall upon our mind ; nor can we ever see a piece of moorland, or a
distant light at the close of day, without thinking of them. The finest
poetry has only added to their impression; not displaced it. The
"woulds" that Sir Bertrand crosses, are precisely those in which the
ear listens at evening to
" Undescribed sounds,
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors."
Dr. Aikin was a writer from whom this effusion was hardly to have
been looked for. He was bred in a limited and somewhat formal
school of taste, and was no very sensitive critic ; but a good deal of
enthusiasm was repressed in him by circumstances ; and he was brother
48 SlJt BERTRAND.A FRAGMENT.
of an undoubted and fervid woman of genius, Sire. Barbauld. There
was more in the Aikin family than academical and sectarian connec-
tions suffered to come out of it
SIR BERTRAND turned his steed towards the woulds,
hoping to cross these dreary moors before the curfew.
But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewil-
dered by the different tracks ; and not being able, as far as
the eye could reach, to espy any object but the brown heath
surrounding him, he was at length quite uncertain which
way he should direct his course. Night overtook him in
this situation. It was one of those nights when the moon
gives a faint glimmering qf light through the thick black
clouds of a louring sky. Now and then she emerged in full
splendour from her veil, and then instantly retired behind
it, having just served to give the forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide
extended prospect over the desolate waste. Hope and
native courage awhile urged him to push forwards, but at
length the increasing darkness and fatigue *of body and
mind overcame him ; he dreaded moving from the ground
he stood on, for fear of unknown pits and bogs ; and alight
ing from his horse in despair, he threw himself on the
ground. He had not long continued in that posture when
the sullen toll of a distant bell struck his ears he started
up, and turning towards the sound, discerned a dim twink
ling light. Instantly he seized his horse's bridle, and with
cautious steps advanced towards it. After a painful march
he was stopt by a moated ditch surrounding the place from
whence the light proceeded ; and by a momentary glimpse
of moon-light he had a full view of a large antique mansion,
with turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the
centre. The injuries of time were strongly marked on
everything about it. The roof in various places was fallen
in, the battlements were half demolished, and the windows
SIR BERTH AND. A FRAGMENT. 49
broken and dismantled. A draw-bridge, with a ruinous
gate-way at each end, led to the court before the building.
He entered ; and instantly the light, which proceeded from
a window in one of the turrets, glided along and vanished ;
at the same moment the moon sunk beneath a black cloud,
and the night was darker than ever. All was silent.
Sir Bertrand fastened his steed under a shed, and approach-
ing the house, traversed its whole front with light and slow
footsteps. All was still as death. He looked in at the
lower windows, but could not distinguish a single object
through the impenetrable gloom. After a short parley with
himself, he entered the porch, and seizing a massy iron
knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and, hesitating, at length
struck a loud stroke. The noise resounded through the
whole mansion with hollow echoes. All was still again
he repeated the strokes more boldly and loudly another
interval ensued a third' time he knocked, and a third time
all was still. He then fell back to some distance, that he
might discern whether any light could be seen in the whole
front. It again appeared in the same place, and quickly
glided away as before at the same instant a deep sullen
toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand's heart made a
fearful stop he was a while motionless ; then terror im-
pelled him to make some hasty steps towards his steed
but shame stopt his flight; and urged by honour and a
resistless desire of finishing the adventure, he returned to
the porch ; and working up his soul to a full steadiness of
resolution, he drew forth his sword with one hand, and with
the other lifted up the latch of the gate. The heavy door,
creaking upon its hinges, reluctantly yielded to his hand
he applied his shoulder to it, and forced it open he quitted
it, and stepped forwyj,r.d the door instantly shut with a
"aundering clap. Sir Bertrand's blood was chilled he
3
50 SIS BERTRAXD.A FRAGMENT.
turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trem-
bling hands could seize it : but his utmost strength could
not open it again. After several ineffectual attempts, he
looked behind him, and beheld, across a hall, upon a large
staircase, a pale bluish flame, which cast a dismal gleam of
light around. He again summoned forth his courage, and
advanced towards it. It retired. He came to the foot of
the stairs, and after a moment's deliberation ascended. He
went slowly up, the flame retiring before him, till he came
to a wide gallery. The flame proceeded along it, and he
followed in silent horror, treading lightly, for the echoes of
his footsteps startled him. It led him to the foot of another
staircase, and then vanished. At the same instant another
toll sounded from the turret Sir Bertrand felt it strike
upon his heart. He was now in total darkness, and with
his arms extended, began to ascend the second staircase. A
dead cold hand met his left hand; and firmly grasped it,
drawing him forcibly forwards he endeavored to disengage
himself, but could not he made a furious blow with his
sword, and instantly a loud shriek pierced his ears, and the
dead hand was left powerless with his He dropt it, and
rushed forward with a desperate valour. The stairs were
narrow and winding, and interrupted by frequent breaches,
and loose fragments of stone. The staircase grew narrower
and narrower, and at length terminated in a low iron grate.
Sir Bertrand pushed it open it led to an intricate winding
passage, just large enough to admit a person upon his hands
and knees. A faint glimmering of light served to show the
nature of the place. Sir Bertrand entered. A deep hollow
groan resounded from a distance through the vault. He
went forwards, and proceeding beyond the first turning, he
discerned the same blue flame which had before conducted
him. He followed it. The vault at length suddenly opened
SUt BERTRAND. A FRAGMENT. 51
into a lofty gallery, in the midst of which a figure appeared
completely armed, thrusting forwards the bloody stump of
an arm with a terrible frown and menacing gesture, and
brandishing a sword in his hand. Sir Bertrand undaunt-
edly sprung forwards, and aiming a fierce blow at the figure
it instantly vanished, letting fall a massy iron key. The
flame now rested upon a pair of ample folding-doors at the
end of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went up to it, and applied
the key to a brazen lock with difficulty he turned the bolt
instantly the doors flew open, and discovered a large
apartment, at the end of which was a coffin rested upon a
bier, with a taper burning upon each side of it. Along the
room on both sides were gigantic statues of black marble,
attired in the Moorish habit, and holding enormous sabres
in their right hands. Each of them reared his arm, and
advanced one leg forwards, as the knight entered ; at the
same moment the lid of the coffin flew open, and the .bell
tolled. The flame still glided forwards, and Sir Bertrand
resolutely followed, till he arrived within six paces of the
coffin. Suddenly, a lady in a shroud and black veil rose up
in it, and stretched out her arms towards him ; at the same
time the statues clashed their sabres and advanced. Sir
Bertrand flew to the lady and clasped her in his arms she
threw up her veil and kissed his lips ; and instantly the
whole building shook as with an earthquake, and fell asun-
der with a horrible crash. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a
sudden trance, and on recovering, found himself seated on a
velvet sofa, in the most magnificent room he had ever seen,
lighted with innumerable tapers, in lustres of pure crystal.
A sumptuous banquet was set in the middle. The doors
opening to soft music, a lady of incomparable beauty, attired
with amazing splendour, entered, surrounded by a troop of
gay nymphs more fair than the Graces. She advanced to
52 MX BERTRAND.A FRAGMENT.
the knight, and falling on her knees thanked him as her
deliverer. The nymphs placed a garland of laurel upon his
head, and the lady led him by the hand to the banquet, and
sat beside him. The nymphs placed themselves at the
table, and a numerous train of servants entering, served up
the feast, delicious music playing all the time. Sir Ber-
trand could not speak for astonishment he could only
return their honours by courteous looks and gestures. After
the banquet was finished, all retired but the lady, who
leading back the knight to the sofa, addressed him in these
words :
SUrtam
THE FIVE POINTS IN HIS HISTOBS".
THESE are Crusoe's loneliness, his contrivances how to live, his diweov-
ery of the footmark on the sea-shore, his first sight of the savages, and
his obtainment of a companion and servant in Friday. The second,
though the least surprising, is the one most habitually felt by the
reader ; the one he oftenest thinks of. It is indeed the main subject of
the book. But, as its interest spreads over the greater part of it> and
could only be duly represented by copious extracts (minuteness of detail
being necessary to do justice to its ingenuity and pel-severance) it would
have occupied too large a share of these pages. The lesser quantity
and more startling quality of the other points render them obviously
fittest for selection. The loneliness, which is in itself a one-ness, can
be well enough represented by one impressive extract ; the footmark
is essentially one (never was there a finer unique) ; the first sight of
the savages is of the same brief and independent order of interest ; and
two " man Fridays " are not in the regions of possibility. Peter Wil-
kins's "man Friday" was obliged to be turned into a woman, and
Philip Quarll's into a monkey.
Robinson Crusoe is understood to be founded on the real history of
Alexander Selkirk, a summary of which, charmingly written, was
given to the public by Steele. The greatest genius might have been
proud to paint a picture after that sketch. Yet we are not sure that
Selkirk's adventure was not an injury, instead of a benefit to De Foe.
A benefit it undoubtedly was, to him and to all of us, if it was required
in order to put the thought into De Foe's head ; but what we mean is, that
the world would probably have had the fiction, whether the feet had
54 ROBINSON CRUSOE.
existed or riot Deaert islands and cast-away mariners existed before
Selkirk: children have played at hermits and house-building, even
before they read Robinson Crusoe ; and the whole inimitable romance
would have required but a glance of De Foe's eye upon a child at
play, or at a page in an old book of voyages, or even at his own rest-
less and isolated thoughts. This is a conjecture, however, impossible
to prove ; and we only throw it out in justice to an original genius.
After all, it would make little difference ; for Selkirk was not Crusoe,
nor did he see the ghost of a human footstep, nor obtain a man Friday.
The inhabitant of the island was De Foe himself.
May we add, nevertheless, that when De Foe thought himself most
himself, he was least clever and least pleasant ? We were not so dis-
appointed with the Second Part of Crusoe as we expected to be, whem
we read the book over again the other day, but still it is very infe-
rior ; not wanted ; not even of a piece ; for Crusoe's isolation is the
charm. Who cares, after that, for a common settlement ? "We dread
even the remaining of the savages on the island ; not for fear they
should eat Robinson, but lest they should become friends with him,
and make up a dinner-party. Man Friday is quite enough. He is
single and subordinate, and does but administer to the superiority of
his master.
De Foe did better with one person than with many. He was a
very honest man, and very good at conceiving matters of fact ; but it
is curious to see how impossible he finds it, even in a fiction, to present
any thing to his imagination which does not come palpably home to a
man's worldly or other-worldly interest and importance ; and how
fond h'e is, whether alone or in company, of being all in all ; of play-
ing the "monarch of all he surveys," and dictating people's religion
and politics to them the moment he catches a listener. He was the
prose half of as inventive a genius as ever existed : and his footstep on
the sea-shore has left its mark within the borders of the greatest poetry ;
but it originated, s > to speak, in the same intense spirit of self-reference.
It was the one isolated Robinson Crusoe reflected by some one other
tremendous individual, come to contest with him his safety and his in-
dependence. The abstract idea of a multitude followed it ; but what
would their presence have been in comparison ? What would a thou-
sand footsteps have been ? The face of things would have been changed
at once, and Crusoe's face have no longer matched it. All the savages
KOBINSON CRUSOE. 55
afterwards never tread out that footmark : nor does Crusoe allow them
to remain, and run the chance of it.
It is observable, that De Foe never invented a hero to write about
greater than himself; while, at the same time, he willingly recorded
such as were inferior. No rogue or vagabond came amiss to him, any
more than a mariner or a merchant And it is curious to consider how
heartily such a minute dealer in matter of fact could set about telling
a lie ; at least what a deliberate and successful one he told about the
Ghost of Mrs. Veal ; a long-credited fiction which he invented at the
request of a bookseller, in order to sell a devout publication. His His-
tory of the Plague was long considered equally true, and reaped a like
success. But the fact is, it is a mistake to suppose De Foe a lover of
truth in any other sense than that of a workman's love for his tools, or
for any other purpose than that of a masterly use of it, and a conscious-
ness of the mastery. "We do not mean to dispute his veracity between
man and man : though his peculiar genius may not have been without
its recommendation of him to that secret government agency in which
he was at one time employed under his hero, William the Third. But
the singularly material and mechanical nature of that genius, great as
it was, while it hindered him from missing no impressions which coxild
be made personally on himself as a creature of flesh and blood, kept
him nnembauassed with any of the more perplexing truths suggessted
by too much thought and by imaginations poetical ; and hence it 5s.
that defect itself conspired to perfect and keep clear his astonishing
impress of matter of fact, and render him an object of admiration,
great, but not of an exalted kind. De Foe was in one respect as
unvulgar a man as can be conceived ; nobody but Swift could have sur-
passed him in such a work as Robinson Crusoe ; yet we cannot conceal
from ourselves, that something vulgar adheres to our idea of the author
of Moll Flanders, the Complete English Tradesman, and even of Robin-
son himself. He has no music, no thorough style, no accomplishments,
no love ; but he can make wonderful shift without them all ; was great
in the company of man Friday ; and he has rendered his shipwrecked
solitary immortal
56
CRUSOE'S MEDITATIONS
CRUSOE'S MEDITATIONS AND MODE OF LIFE.
I AM cast upon an horrible
desolate island : void of
all hope of recovery.
I am singled out and sep-
arated as it were from the
world, to be miserable.
I am divided from man-
kind, a solitary, one banish-
ed from human society.
I have no clothes to cover
me.
I am without any defence
or means to resist any vio-
lence of man or beast.
I have no soul to speak
to or relieve me.
Upon the whole, here was
But I am alive, and not
drowned, as all my ship's
company was.
But I am singled out too
from all the ship's crew, to
be spared from death ; and
He that miraculously saved
me from death, can deliver
me from this condition.
But I am not starved and
perishing on a barren place,
affording no sustenance.
But I am in an hot cli-
mate, where, if I had clothes,
I could hardly wear them.
But I am cast upon an
island where I see no wild
beasts to hurt me, as I saw
on the coast of Africa : and
what if I had been ship-
wrecked there ?
But God wonderfully sent
the ship in, near enough to
the shore, that I have gotten
out so many necessary things,
as will either supply my wants
or enable me to supply my-
self, even as long as I live,
an undoubted testimony that
AND MODE OF LIFE. 57
there was scarce any condition in the world so miserable,
but there was something negative, or something positive, to
be thankful in it ; and let this stand as a direction from the
experience of the most miserable of all conditions in this
world, that we may always find in it something to comfort
ourselves from, and to set, in the description of good and
evil, on the credit side of the account.
You are to understand that I now had, as I may call it,
two plantations in the island : one, my little fortification or
tent, with the wall about it, under the rock, with the cave
behind me, which by this time I had enlarged into several
apartments or caves, one within another. One of these,
which was the driest and largest, and had a door out beyond
my wall or fortification, that is to say, beyond where my wall
joined to the rock, was all filled up with the large earthen
pots, of which I have given an account, and with fourteen or
fifteen great baskets, which would hold five or six bushels
each, where I laid up my stores of provision, especially my
corn ; some in the ear, cut off short from the straw, and the
other rubbed out with my hand.
As for my wall, made, as before, with long stakes or
piles, those piles grew all like trees, and were by this time
grown so big, and spread so very much, that there was not
the least appearance, to any one's view, of any habitation
behind them.
Near this dwelling of mine, but a little farther within
the land, and upon lower ground, lay my two pieces of corn-
ground ; which I kept duly cultivated and sowed, and which
duly yielded me their harvest in its season ; and whenever
I had occasion for more corn, I had more land adjoining as
fit as that.
Besides this, I had my country seat, and I had now a
tolerable plantation there also ; for first, I had my little
3*
58 CRUSOE 1 S MEDITATIONS AND MODE OF LIFE.
bower, as I called it, which I kept in repair ; that is to say,
I kept the hedge which circled it in constantly fitted up to
its usual height, the ladder standing always in the inside ;
I kept the trees, which at first were no more than my stakes,
Nut were now grown very firm and tall ; I kept them always
<to cut, that they might spread and grow thick and wild, and
make the more agreeable shade, which they did effectually
to my mind. In the middle of this I had my tent always
standing, being a piece of a sail spread over poles set up for
that purpose, and which never wanted any repair or renew-
ing ; and under this I had made me a squab or couch, with
the skins of the creatures I had killed, and with other soft
things, and a blanket laid on them, such as belonged to our
sea-bedding, which I had saved, and a great watch-coat to
cover me ; and here, whenever I had occasion to be absent
from my chief seat, I took up my country habitation.
Adjoining to this I had my inclosures for my cattle, that
is to say, my goats ; and as I had taken an inconceivable
deal of pains to fence and inclose this ground, I was so un-
easy to see it kept entire, lest the goats should break through,
that I never left off, till with infinite labour I had stuck the
outside of the hedge so full of small stakes, and so near to
one another, that it was rather a pale than a hedge, and
there was scarce room to put a hand through between them ;
which, afterwards, when those stakes grew, as they all did
in the next rainy season, made the inclosure strong, like a
wall ; indeed stronger than any wall.
This will testify for me that I was not idle, and that I
spared no pains to bring to pass whatever appeared neces-
sary for my comfortable support ; for I considered, the keep-
ing up a breed of tame creatures thus at my hand would be
a living magazine of flesh, milk, butter, and cheese for me
as long as I lived in the place, if it were to be forty years ;
CRUSOE FINDS THE PSINT OF A FOOT. 59
and that keeping them in my reach depended entirely upon
my perfecting my inclosures to such a degree, that I might
be sure of keeping them together : which, by this method,
indeed, I so effectually secured, that when these little stakes
began to grow, I had planted them so very thick, I was
forced to pull some of them up again.
In this place also I had my grapes growing, which I
principally depended on for my winter store of raisins, and
which I never failed to preserve very carefully, as the best
and most agreeable dainty of my whole diet : and, indeed,
they were not agreeable only, but physical, wholesome, nour-
ishing, and refreshing to the last degree.
As this was also about half way between my other habi-
tation and the place where I had laid up my boat, I gene-
rally staid and lay here in my way thither; for I used fre-
quently to visit my boat, and I kept all things about or
belonging to her in very good order : sometimes I went out
in her to divert myself, but no more hazardous voyages would
I go, nor scarce ever above a stone's cast or two from the
shore, I was so apprehensive of being hurried out of my
knowledge again by the currents or winds, or any other
accident. But now I come to a new scene of my life.
HE FINDS THE PRINT OF A MAN'S FOOT ON THE SEA- SHORE.
It happened one day about noon, going towards my
boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's
naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen
in the sand : 1 stood like one thunderstruck, or as if I had
seen an apparition ; I listened, I looked round me, I could
hear nothing, nor see anything; I went up to a rising
ground to look farther ; I went up the shore, and down the
60 CRUSOE F1JSDS THE PSINT OF
shore, but it was all one ; I could see no other impression
but that one. I went to it again to see if there were any
more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy ; but there
was no room for that, for there was exactly the very print
of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot ; how it came
thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. But
after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly
confused and out of myself, I came home to my fortifica-
tion, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but
terrified to the last degree, looking behind me at every two
or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying
every stump at a distance to be a man ; nor is it possible
to describe how many various shapes an affrighted imagina-
tion represented things to me in ; how many wild ideas
were formed every moment in my fancy, and what strange
unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way.
When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it
ever after this, I fled into it like one pursued ; whether I
went over by the ladder, as first contrived, or went in at
the hole in the rock, which I called a door, I cannot re-
member : for never frighted hare fled to cover, or fox to
earth, with more terror of mind than I to this retreat.
I had no sleep that night ; the farther I was from the
occasion of my fright, the greater my apprehensions were :
which is something contrary to the nature of such things,
and especially to the usual practice of all creatures in fear.
But I was so embarrassed with my own frightful ideas of
the thing, that I formed nothing but dismal imaginations
to myself, even though I was now a great way off it,
Sometimes I fancied it must be the devil ; and reason join-
ed with me upon this supposition ; for how should any other
thing in human shape come into the place ? Where was
the vessel that brought them ? What marks were there of
A MAWS FOOT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 61
any other footsteps ? and how was it possible a man should
come there ? But then to think that Satan should take
human shape upon him in such a place, where there could
be no manner of occasion for it, but to leave the print of
his foot behind him, and that even for no purpose too (for
he could not be sure I should see it) ; this was an amaze-
ment the other way. I considered that the devil might
have found out abundance of other ways to have terrified
me, than this of the single print of a foot ; that as I lived
(^uite on the other side of the island, he would never have
been so simple to leave a mark in a place where it was ten
thousand to one whether I should ever see it or not ; and
in the sand too, which the first surge of the sea upon an
high wind would have defaced entirely. All this seemed
inconsistent with the thing itself, and with all notions we
usually entertain of the subtlety of the devil.
Abundance of such things as these assisted to argue me
out of all apprehensions of its being the devil ; and I pre-
sently concluded then, that it must be some more danger-
ous creature, viz., that it must be some of the savages of the
mainland over against me, who had wandered out to sea in
their canoes ; and, either driven by the currents, or by con-
trary winds, had made the island ; and had been on shore,
but were gone away again to sea, being as loath, perhaps,
to have staid in this desolate island, as I would have been
to have had them.
While these reflections were rolling upon my mind, I
was very thankful in my thought, that I was so happy as
not to be thereabouts at that time, or that they did not see
my boat, by which they would have concluded that some
inhabitants had been in the place, and, perhaps, have search-
ed further for me. Then terrible thoughts racked my ima-
ginations about their having found my boat, and that there
62 CRUSOE FINDS THE PRINT OF A FOOT.
were people here ; and that, if so, I should certainly have
them come again in greater numbers, and devour me ; that,
if it should happen so that they should not find me. yet
they would find my inclosure, destroy all my corn, carry
away all my stock of tame goats, and I should perish at last
for mere want.
Thus my fear banished all my religious hope. All that
former confidence in God, which was founded upon such
wonderful experience, as I had had of his goodness, now
vanished ; as if he that had fed me by a miracle hitherto,
could not preserve by his power the provision which he had
made for me by his goodness. I reproached myself with
my easiness, that would not sow any more corn one year
than would just serve me until the next season, as if no
accident could intervene to prevent my enjoying the crop
that was upon the ground ; and this I thought so just a re-
proof, that I resolved for the future to have two or three
years' corn beforehand, so that whatever might come, I
might not perish for want of bread.
How strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of
man ! and by what secret differing springs are the affections
hurried about, as differing circumstances present ! To-day
we love what to-morrow we hate ; to-day we seek what to-
morrow we shun ; to-day we desire what to-morrow we fear,
nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of. This was ex-
emplified in me at this time in the most lively manner
imaginable ; for I, whose only affliction was, that I seemed
banished from human society ; that I was alone, circum-
scribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and
condemned to what I call a silent life ; that I was as one
whom Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among
the living, or to appear among the rest of his creatures ; that
to have seen one of my own species would have seemed to
HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND, 63
me a raising me from death to life, and the greatest bless-
ing that Heaven itself, next to the supreme blessing of
Salvation, could bestow ; I say, that I should now tremble
at the very apprehension of seeing a man, and was ready
to sink into the ground at but the shadow or silent appear-
ance of a man's having set his foot on the island.
HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND, AND OBTAINS A SERVANT.
IN the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and
reflections, it came into my thoughts one day, that all this
might be a mere chimera of my own, and that this foot might
be the print of my own foot, when I came on shore from
my boat. This cheered me up a little too, and I began to
persuade myself it was all a delusion ; that it was nothing
else but my own foot ; and why might not I come that way
from the boat, as well as I was going that way to the boat ?
Again I considered also, that I could by no means tell for
certain where I had trod, and where I had not ; and that if
at last this was only the print of my own foot, I had played
the part of those fools who strive to make stories of spectres
and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them
more than anybody else.
Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again :
for I had not stirred out of my castle for three days and
nights, so that I began to starve for provision ; for I had
little or nothing within doors, but some barley-cakes and
water. Then I knew that my goats wanted to be milked,
too, which usually was my evening diversion ; and the poor
creatures were in great pain and inconvenience for want of
it; and indeed it almost spoiled some of them, and almost
dtled up their milk.
Heartening myself therefore with the belief that this
64 HE SEES & i I'AGES ON THE ISLAND,
was nothing but the print of one of my own feet (and so I
might be truly said to start at my own shadow), I began to
go abroad again, and went to my country house to milk my
flock. But to see with what fear I went forward, how often
I looked behind me, how I was ready every now and then
to lay down my basket and run for my life, it would have
made any one have thought I was haunted with an evil
conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly frighted ;
and so indeed I had.
However, as I went down thus two or three days, and
having seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to
think there was really nothing in it but my own imagina-
tion ; but I could not persuade myself fully of this, till I
should go down to the shore again, and see this print of a
foot, and measure it by my own, and see if there was any
similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was my own
foot : but when I came to the place, first it appeared evi-
dently to me that when I laid up my boat, I could not pos-
sibly be on shore any where thereabouts; secondly, when I
came to measure the mark with my own foot, I found ray
foot not so long by a great deal. Both these things filled
my head with new imaginations, and gave me the vapours
again to the highest degree ; so that I shook with cold, like
one in an ague ; and I went home again filled with a belief.
that some man or men had been on shore there ; or, in
short, that the island was inhabited, and I might be sur-
prised before I was aware ; and what course to take for my
security I knew not.
About a year and a half after I had entertained these
notions, and by long musing had, as it were, resolved them
all into nothing, I was surprised one morning early with
seeing no less than five canoes all on shore together, on my
side the island, and the people who belonged to them all
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 65
landed and out of my sight. The number of them broke
all my measures ; for seeing so many, and knowing that
they always came four or six or sometimes more in a boat,
I could not tell what to think of it, or how to take my
measures, to attack twenty or thirty men single-handed ;
so I lay still in my castle, perplexed and discomforted ;
hewever, I put myself into all the same postures for an
attack that I had formerly provided, and was just ready for
action, if anything had presented itself, having waited a
good while listening to hear if they made any noise. At
length, being very impatient, I set my guns at the foot of
my ladder, and clambered up to the top of the hill by my
two stages as usual ; standing so, however, that my head
did not appear above the hill : so that they could not per-
ceive me by any means. Here I observed, by the help of
my perspective glass, that there were no less than thirty
in number, that they had a fire kindled, and that they had
meat dressed ; how they cooked it, that I knew not, or what
it was ; but they were all dancing in I know not how many
barbarous gestures and figures, their own way, round the
fire.
When I was thus looking on them, I perceived by my
perspective two miserable wretches dragged from the boats,
where it seems they were laid by, and were now brought
out for the slaughter. I perceived one of them immediate-
ly fall, being knocked down, I suppose, with a club or
wooden sword, for that was their way ; and two or three
others were at work immediately, cutting him open for
their cookery, while the other victim was left standing by
himself till they should be ready for him. In that very mo-
ment, this poor wretch seeing himself a little at liberty,
nature inspired him with hopes of life, and he started away
from them, and ran along the sands with incredible swift-
66 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND,
ness directly towards me ; I mean towards that part of the
coast where my habitation was.
I was dreadfully frighted (that I must acknowledge)
when I perceived him to run my way ; and especially when,
as I thought, I saw him pursued by the whole body. There
was between them and my castle the creek, which I men-
tioned often at the first part of my story, when I landed
my cargoes out of the ship ; and this I knew he must ne-
cessarily swim over, or the poor wretch would be taken
there ; but when the savage escaping came thither, he made
nothing of it, though the tide was then up ; but plunging
in, swam through in about thirty strokes or thereabouts,
landed, and ran on with exceeding strength and swiftness.
When the three pursuers came to the creek, I found that
two of them could swim, but the third could not, and that
he, standing on the other side, looked at the others, but
went no farther, and soon after went softly back again ;
which, as it happened, was very well for him in the main.
I observed that the two who swam were yet more than
twice as long swimming over the creek than the fellow was
that fled from them ; it came now very warmly upon my
thoughts, and indeed irresistibly, that now was my time to
get me a servant, and perhaps a companion or assistant,
and that I was called plainly by Providence to save this
poor creature's life. I immediately got down the ladder
with all possible expedition, fetched my two guns, for they
were both at the foot of the ladder, as I observed above ;
and getting up again with the same haste to the top of the
hill, I crossed towards the sea ; and, having a very short
cut, and all down hill, clapped myself in the way between
the pursuers and the pursued, hallooing aloud to him that
fled, who looking back, was at first perhaps as much fright
ened at me as at them ; but I beckoned with my hand to
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 67
him to come back ; and in the meantime I slowly advanced
towards the two that followed ; then rushing at once upon
the foremost, I knocked him down with the stock of my
piece : I was loath to fire, because I would not have the rest
hear ; though at that distance it would not have been easily
heard ; and being out of sight of the smoke too, they would
not have easily known what to make of it. Having knocked
this fellow down, the other who pursued him stopped, as if
he had been frightened, and I advanced a pace towards
him ; but as I came nearer, I perceived presently he had a
bow and arrow, and was fitting it to shoot at me ; so I was
then necessitated to shoot at him first, which I did, and
killed him at the first shot. The poor savage who fled but
had stopped, though he saw both his enemies fallen and
killed (as he thought), yet was so frighted with the fire and
noise of my piece, that he stood stock-still, and neither
came forward nor went backward, though he seemed rather
inclined to fly still than to come on. I hallooed again to
him and made signs to come forward, which he easily un-
derstood, and came a little way, then stopped again, and
then a little farther, and then stopped again ; and I
could then perceive that he stood trembling, as if he had
been taken prisoner, and had just been to be killed, as his
two enemies were. I beckoned him again to come to me,
and gave him all the signs of encouragement that I could
think of; and he came nearer and nearer, kneeling down
every ten or twelve steps, in token of acknowledgment for
saving his life. I smiled at him and looked pleasantly, and
beckoned to him to come still nearer. At length he came
close to me, and then he kneeled down again, kissed the
ground, and laid his head upon the ground, and taking me
by the foot, set my foot upon his head : this, it seems, was
in token of swearing to be my slave for ever T took him
68 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAX1>,
up, and made much of him. and encouraged him all I could
But there was more work to do yet ; for I perceived the
savage whom I knocked down was not killed, but stunned
with the blow, and began to come to himself ; so I pointed
to him, and showed him the savage, that he was not dead ;
upon this he spoke some words to me, and though I could
not understand them, yet I thought they were pleasant to
hear, for they were the first sound of a man's voice that I had
heard (my own excepted) for above five-and-twenty years :
but there was no time for such reflections now : the savage
who was knocked down recovered himself so far as to sit
up upon the ground ; and I perceived that my savage be-
gan to be afraid ; but when I saw that, I presented my
other piece at the man. as if I would shoot him ; upon this
my savage, for so I call him now, made a motion to me to
lend him my sword, which hung naked in a belt by my
side ; so I did : he no sooner had it but he runs to his
enemy, and at one blow cut off his head so cleverly, no ex-
ecutioner in Germany could have done it sooner or better ;
which I thought it very strange for one who, I had reason
to believe, never saw a sword in his life before, except their
own wooden swords ; however, it seems, as I learned after-
wards, they made their wooden swords so sharp, so heavy,
and the wood is so hard, that they will cut off heads even
with them, ay, and arms, and that at one blow too. When
he had done this, he comes laughing to me in sign of
triumph, and brought me the sword again ; and with abun-
dance of gestures, which I did not understand, laid it down,
with the head of the savage that he had killed just before me.
But that which astonished him most was, to know how
I had killed the other Indian so far off: so pointing to him,
he made signs to me to let him go to him : so I bade him
go as well as I could. When he came to him he stood liko
AXD OBTAINS A SEK VANT. 69
one amazed, looking at him ; turning him first on one side,
then on the other ; looked at the wound the bullet had
made, which, it seems, was just in his breast, where it had
made an hole, and no great quantity of blood had followed ;
but he had bled inwardly, for he was quite dead. Then
lie took up his bow and arrows, and came back ; so I turned
to go away, and beckoned to him to follow me, making signs
to him, that more might come after them.
Upon this he signified to me, that he should bury them
with sand, that they might not be seen by the rest, if they
followed ; and so I made signs again to him to do so. He
fell to work, and in an instant he had scraped an hole in the
sand with his hands big enough to bury the first in, and
then dragged him into it, and covered him ; and did so also
by the other. I believe he had buried them both in a
quarter of an hour. Then calling him away, I carried him,
not to my castle, but quite away to my cave, on the farther
part of the island .
Here I gave him bread, and a bunch of raisins to cat,
and a draught of water, which I found he was indeed in
great distress for by his running ; and having refreshed
himself, I made signs for him to go lie down and sleep,
pointing to a place where I had laid a great parcel of rice
straw, and a blanket upon it, which I used to sleep -upon
myself sometimes ; so the poor creature lay down, and
went to sleep.
He was a comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well-made,
with straight long limbs, not too large, tall, and well-
shaped ; and, as I reckon, about twenty-six years of age.
He had a very good countenance, not a fierce and surly
aspect, but seemed to have something very manly in his
face, and yet he had all the sweetness and softness of an
European in his countenance too, especially when he smiled ;
70 HE ^EES SA VAGES ON THE ISLAND,
his hair was long and black, not curled like wool ; his fore-
head very high and large, and a great vivacity and spark-
ling sharpness in his eyes. The colour of hia skin was not
quite black, but very tawny and yet not of an ugly, yellow,
nauseous tawny, as the Brazilians, and Virginians, and other
natives of America are, but of a bright kind of a dun olive
colour, that had something in it very agreeable, though not
very easy to describe. His face was round and plump, his
nose small, not flat like the Negroes ; a very good mouth,
thin lips, and his teeth fine, well set, and white as ivory.
After he had slumbered rather than slept, about half an
hour, he waked again, and comes out of the cave to me, for
I had been milking my goats, which I had in the inclosure
just by. When he espied me, he came running to me, lay-
ing himself down again upon the ground, with all the possi-
ble signs of an humble thankful disposition, making many
antick gestures to show it. At last he lays his head flat
upon the ground, close to my foot, and sets my other foot
upon his head, as he had done before ; and after this, made
all the signs to me of subjection, servitude, and submission
imaginable, to let me know how much he would serve me as
long as he lived. I understood him in many things, and let
him know I was very well pleased with him. In a little
time I began to speak to him, and teach him to speak to
me ; at first I made him know his name should be Friday,
which was the day I saved his life, and I called him so in
memory of the time. I likewise taught him to say, " Mas-
ter," and then let him know that was to be my name ; I
likewise taught him to say Yes and No, and to know tho
meaning of them ; I gave him some milk in an earthen pot.
and let him see me drink it before him, and sop my bread
m it, and I gave him a cake of bread to do the like, which
he quickly complied with, and made signs that it was very
good for him.
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 71
I kept there with him all that night, but as soon as it
was day, I beckoned him to coine with me, and let him
know I would give him some clothes, at which he seemed
very glad, for he was stark-naked. As he went by the
place where he had buried the two men, he pointed exactly
to the spot, and showed me the marks that he had made to
find them again, making signs to me that he would dig them
ap again and eat them ; at this I appeared very angry, ex
pressed my abhorrence of it, made as if I would vomit at
the thoughts of it, and beckoned with my hand to him to
come away, which he did immediately with great submis-
sion. I then led him up to the top of the hill, to see if his
enemies were gone ; and pulling out my glass, I looked, and
saw plainly the place where they had been, but no appear-
ance of them or their canoes ; so that it was plain that they
were gone, and had left their two comrades behind them,
without any search after them.
But I was not content with this discovery ; but having
now more courage, and consequently more curiosity, I took
my man Friday with me, giving him the sword in his hand,
with the bow and arrows at his back, which I found he
could use very dexterously, making him carry one gun for
me, and I two for myself, and away we marched to the
place where these creatures had been ; for I had a mind
now to get some fuller intelligence of them. When I came
to the place, my very blood ran chill in my veins, and my
heart sunk within me at the horror of the spectacle. Indeed
it was a dreadful sight ; at least it was so to me, though
Friday made nothing of it. The place was covered with
human bones, the ground dyed with the blood, great pieces
of flesh left here and there half eaten, mangled, and
scorched ; and in short, all the tokens of the triumphant
feast they had been making there, after a victory over their
72 HE SEES SA VAGES ON THE ISLAND.
enemies. I saw three skulls, five hands, and the bones of
three or four legs and feet, and abundance of other parts of
the bodies ; and Friday, by his signs, made me understand,
that they brought over four prisoners to feast upon ; that
three of them were eaten up, and that he (pointing to him-
self) was the fourth ; that there had been a great battle
between them and their next king, whose subjects, it seems,
he had been one of ; and that they had taken a great num-
ber of prisoners, all which were carried to several places by
those that had taken them in the fight, in order to feast
upon them, as was done here by these wretches upon those
they brought hither.
I caused Friday to gather all the skulls, bones, flesh, and
whatever remained, and lay them together on an heap, and
make a great fire upon it and burn them all to ashes. I found
Friday had still a hankering stomach after some of the flesh,
and was still a cannibal in his nature ; but I discovered so
much abhorrence at the very thoughts of it, and at the least
appearance of it, that he durst not discover it ; for I had, by
some means, let him know, that I would kill him if he offered
it.
When we had done this, we came back to our castle, and
there I fell to work for my man Friday.
Mlkins'0 Dismntrq nf a /tying sunnum
THE Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins, a Cornish man, is the
only imitation of Robinson Crusoe that has stood its ground, with the
exception of the inferior, but still not unmeritorious History of Philip
Quarll. It is a Crusoe with the novelty of a Flying people ; as Quarll
is another, with the substitution of an affectionate ape, or Chimpanzee,
for Man Friday. The modest author, who seems to have taken no
steps to make either himself or his book known, has been but lately
discovered ; if indeed the receiver of the money for its copyright was
the same person. And it is most likely he was, the initials by which
the dedication of the work is signed being those of the receiver's name.
The circumstances of the discovery is thus stated in the latest edition,
published by Mr. Smith of Fleet Street.
"In the year 1835, Mr. Nicol, the printer, sold by auction a number
of books and manuscripts in his possession, which had formerly be-
longed to the well-known publisher Dodsley ; and in arranging them
for sale, the original agreement for the sale of the manuscript of ' Peter
Wilkius,' by the author, 'Robert Pultock of Clement's Inn,' to Dodsley,
was discovered. From this document it appears, that Mr. Pultock
received twenty pounds, twelve copies of the work, and ' cuts of the
first impression,' i. e., a set of proof impressions of the fanciful engrav-
ings that professed to illustrate the first edition, as the price of the
entire copyright This curious document was sold to John Wilks,
Esq., M. P., on the 17th of December, 1835."
The reader will observe, that the words "by the author," in this
extract, are not accompanied by marks of quotation. The fact, how-
ever, is stated as if he knew it for such, by the quoter of the document.
The Dedication is to Elizabeth, Countess of Northumberland, the
74 PETER WILKIN&S DISCOVERY
lady to whom Percy addressed his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry
She was a Wriothesley, descended of Shakspeare's Earl of South-
ampton, and appears to have been a very amiable woman. "R. P."
professes himself to be under obligations to her ; and says, that it was
after the pattern of her virtues that he drew the "mind" of hi
Youwarkee.
It is interesting to fancy "R, P.," or "Mr. Robert Pultock of
Clement's Inn," a gentle lover of books, not successful enough perhaps
as a barrister to lead a public or profitable life, but eking out a little
employment, or a bit of a patrimony, with literature congenial to him,
and looking oftener to Purchases Pilgrims on his shelves than to Coke
upon Littleton. We picture him to ourselves, with Robinson Crusoe
on one side of him, and Gaudentio di Lucca on the other, hearing the
pen go over his paper in one of those quiet rooms in Clement's Inn,
that look out of its old-fashioned buildings into the little garden with
the dial in it, held by the negro ; one of the prettiest corners in London,
and extremely fit for a sequestered fancy that cannot get any farther.
There he sits, the unknown, ingenious, and amiable Mr. Robert Pultock,
thinking of an imaginary beauty for want of a better; and creating
her for the delight of posterity, though his contemporaries were to
know little or nothing of her. We shall never go through the place
again, without regarding him as its crowning interest
Peter "VVilkins is no common production in any respect, though it is
far inferior to Crusoe in contrivance and detail ; and falls off, like all
these imaginary works, in the latter part, when they begin laying
down the law in politics and religion. It has been well observed too,
that the author has not made his Flying People in general light and
airy enough, or of sufficiently unvulgar materials, either in body or
mind, to warrant the ethereal advantages of their wings. And it may
be said on the other hand, that the kind of wing, the graundee, or
elastic natural drapery, which opens and shuts at pleasure, however
ingeniously and even beautifully contrived, would necessitate a crea-
ture, whose modifications of humanity, bodily and mental, though
never so good after their kind, might have startled the inventor had
he been more of a naturalist; might have developed a being veiy
different from the feminine, sympathizing, and lovely Youwarkee.
Muscles and nerves, not human, must have been associated with
inhuman wants and feelings ; probably have necessitated talons and a
beak I At bestj the womac would have been wilder; more elvisli,
OF THE FLYING WOMAN. 75
capricious, and unaccountable. She would have ruffled her whale-
bones when angry ; been horribly intimate perhapa with birds' nests,
and fights with eagles ; and frightened Wilkins out of his wits with
dashing betwixt rocks, and pulling. the noses of seals and gulls. So far
the book is wanting in verisimilitude and imagination.
But then how willing we are to gain the fair winged creature at
the expense of Zoonomy ! and after all, how founded in nature itself is
the human desire to fly I We do so in dreams : we all long for the
power when children : we think of it in poetry and in sorrow. " Oh
that I had the wings of a dove ! then would I fly away and be at rest"
Wilkins fled away into a beautiful twilight country, far from his un-
resting self and vulgar daylight ; and not being able to give himself
wings, he invented a wife that had them instead. Now a sweeter
creature is not to be found in books; and she does him immortal
honour. She is all tenderness and vivacity ; all born good taste and
blessed companionship. Her pleasure consists but in his : she prevents
all his wishes; has neither prudery nor immodesty; sheds not a tear
but from right feeling ; is the good of his home, and the grace of his
fancy. It is a pity the account of his bridal cannot be' given ; for never
were love and purity better united; but to draw it forth from the
general history, might give it in too many eyes a freedom which does
not belong to it. We must content ourselves with extracting the
account of the charmer's discovery, and of the way in which Peter
first became acquainted with her powers of flight. The voices which
he hears at night, the fall of some unknown weight at his door, the
puzzle about the graundee that has been slit* and the first movements
of the winged beauty over the lake, are all points particularly well-felt
and interesting.
The reader is to understand, that Peter had by this time settled
himself, d la Crusoe, in his solitary abode ; which is in a cavern by the
side of a lake, into which he had been drifted through a long subter-
raneous passage from the sea. It was a very beautiful place, but so far
out of the ordinary course of the sun, that "the brightest daylight
never exceeded that of half an hour after sunset in the summer-time in
England, and little more than just reddened the sky." In consequence
of this nature of her climate, Youwarkee was in all respects a very
tender-eyed thing, and could not bear a strong light
76 PETER WILKIXS'S DISCOVERY
I HAD now well stored my grotto with all sorts of winter
provisions ; and feeling the weather grow very cold, I
expected, and waited patiently for, the total darkness. I
went little abroad, and employed myself within doors, en-
deavouring to fence against the approaching extremity of
the cold. For this purpose I prepared a quantity of rushes,
which being very dry, I spread them smoothly on the floor
of my bed-chamber a good thickness, and over them I laid
my mattress : then I made a double sheet of the boat's awn-
ing, or sail, that I had brought to cover my goods ; and
having skewered together several of the jackets and clothes
I found in the chest, of them I made a coverlid ; so that I
lay very commodiously, and made very long nights of it,
now the dark season was set in.
As I lay awake one night, or day, I know not whether,
I very plainly heard the sound of several human voices, and
sometimes very loud ; but though I could easily distinguish
the articulations, I could not understand the least word that
was said ; nor did the voices seem at all to me like such as
I had anywhere heard before, but much softer and more
musical. This startled me, and I rose immediately, slip-
ping on my clothes and taking my gun in my hand (which
I always kept charged, being my constant travelling com-
panion), and my cutlass. Thus equipped, I walked into my
antechamber, where I heard the voices much plainer ; till,
after some little time, they quite died away. After watch-
ing here, and hearkening a good while, hearing nothing, I
walked back into the grotto, and laid me down again on my
bed. I was inclined to open the door of my antechamber,
but I own I was afraid ; beside, I considered, that if I did,
I could discover nothing at any distance, by reason of the
thick and gloomy wood that enclosed me.
OF THE FLYING WOMAN. 77
I had a thousand different surmises about the meaning
of this odd incident ; and could not conceive how any human
creature should be in my kingdom (as I called it) but my-
self, and I never yet see them or any traces of their habita-
tion. But then again I reflected, that though I had sur-
rounded the whole lake, yet I had not traced the outbounds
of the wood, next the rock, where there might be innumer-
able grottos like mine ; nay, perhaps some as spacious as
that I had sailed through to the lake ; and that though I
had not perceived it yet, this beautiful spot might be very
well peopled. But, says I again, if there be any such beings
as I am fancying here, surely they don't skulk in their dens,
like savage beasts, by daylight, and only patrol for prey by
night ; if so, I shall probably become a delicious morsel for
them ere long, if they meet with me. This kept me still
more within doors than before, and I hardly ever stirred out
but for water or firing. At length, hearing no more voices,
or seeing any one, I began to be more composed in my mind,
and at last grew persuaded it was all a mere delusion, and
only a fancy of mine without any real foundation ; and some-
times, though I was sure I was fully awake when I heard
them, I persuaded myself I had rose in my sleep upon a
dream of voices, and recollected with myself the various
stories I had heard when a boy of walking in one's sleep,
and the surprising effects of it ; so the whole notion was
now blown over.
I had not enjoyed my tranquillity above a week, before
my fears were roused afresh, hearing the same sound of
voices twice the same night, but not many minutes at a
time. What gave me most pain was, that they were at such
a distance, as I judged by the languor of the sound, that
if I had opened my door I could not have seen the utterers
through the trees, and I was resolved not to venture out j
78 PETER WILKIN&S DISCOVERT
but then I determined, if they should come again, anything
near my grotto, to open the door, see who they were, and
stand upon my own defence, whatever came of it. For. says
I, my entrance is so narrow and high, that more, than one
cannot come at a time ; and I can with ease dispatch
twenty of them, before they can secure me, if they should
be savages ; but if they prove sensible human creatures, it
will be a great benefit to me to join myself to their society.
Thus had I formed my scheme, but I heard no more of
them for a great while ; so that at length beginning to grow
ashamed of my fears, I became tranquil again.
* * * # #
I passed the summer, though I had never yet seen the
sun's body, very much to my satisfaction, partly in the
work I have been describing [he had taken what he calls
some " beast-fish" and got a great quantity of oil from
them], partly in building me a chimney in my antechamber,
of mud and earth burnt on my own hearth into a sort of
brick ; in making a window at one end of the above said
chamber, to let in what little light would come through the
trees, when I did not choose to open my door ; in moulding
an earthen lamp for my oil ; and finally, in providing and
laying in stores, fresh and salt ; for I had now cured and
dried many more fish against winter. These, I say, were
my summer employments at home, intermixed with many
agreeable summer excursions. But now the winter coming
on, and the days growing very short, or indeed there being
no day, properly speaking, but a kind of twilight, I kept
mostly in my habitation (though not so much as I had done
the winter before, when I had no light within doors) and
slept, or at lea:*t lay still, great part of my time, for
now my lamp was never out. I also turned two of my
beast-fish skins into a rug to cover my bed, and the third
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 79
into a cushion, which I always sat upon ; and a very soft
and warm cushion it made. All this together rendered my
life very easy ; yea, even comfortable.
An indifferent person would now be apt to ask, what
would this man desire more than he had ? To this I
answer, that I was contented while my condition was such
as I have been describing ; but a little while after the dark-
ness or twilight came on, I frequently heard the voices
again, sometimes a few only at a time, as it seemed, and
then again in great numbers. This threw me into new
fears, and I became as uneasy as ever, even to the degree
of growing quite melancholy ; though otherwise I never
received the least injury from anything. I foolishly at-
tempted several times, by looking out of window, to dis-
cover what these odd sounds proceeded from, though I
knew it was too dark to see anything there.
I was now fully convinced, by a more deliberate atten-
tion to them, that they could not be uttered by the beast-
fish, as I had before conjectured, but only by beings capable
of articulate speech. But then, what or where they were,
it galled me to be ignorant of.
At length, one night or day, I cannot say which, hearing
the voices very distinctly, aud praying very earnestly to be
either delivered from the uncertainty they had put me
under, or to have them removed from me, I took courage,
and arming myself with gun, pistols, and cutlass, I went out
of my grotto, and crept down the wood. I then heard them
plainer than before, and was able to judge from what point
of the compass they proceeded. Hereupon I went forward
towards the sound till I came to the verge of the wood,
where I could see the lake very well by the dazzle of the
water. Thereon, as I thought, I beheld a fleet of boats,
covering a large compass, and not far from the bridge. I
80 PETER WIL KISS'S DISCOVERT
was shocked hereat beyond expression : I could not con-
ceive where they came from, or whither they would go ;
but supposed there must be some other passage to the lake,
than I had found in my voyage through the cavern, and
that for certain they came that way, and from some place
of which as yet I had no manner of knowledge.
Whilst I was entertaining myself with this speculation,
I heard the people in the boats laughing and talking very
merrily, though I was too distant to distinguish the words.
I discerned soon after all the boats (as I still supposed them)
draw up. and push for the bridge ; presently after, though
I was sure no boat entered the arch, I saw a multitude of
people on the opposite shore, all marching towards the
bridge ; and what was the strangest of all, there was not
the least sign of a boat left on the lake. I then was in
a greater consternation than before ; but was still much
more so, when I saw the whole posse of people, that, as I
have just said, were marching towards the bridge, coming
over it to my side of the lake. At this my heart failed ;
and I was just going to run to my grotto for shelter, but
taking one look more, I plainly discovered, that the people,
leaping one after another from the top of the bridge, as if
into the water, and then rising again, flew in a long train
over the lake, the lengthways of it, quite out of sight, laugh-
ing, hallooing, and sporting together ; so that, looking back
igain to the bridge and on the lake, I could neither see
verson, boat, or anything else, nor hear the least noise or stir
tfterwards for that time.
I returned to my grotto brim-full of this amazing adven-
ture, bemoaning my misfortune in being at a place where I
ivas likely to remain ignorant of what was doing about me.
For, says I, if I am in a land of spirits, as now I have little
oom to doubt, there is no guarding against them. I am
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 81
never safe, even in my grotto ; for that can be no security
against such beings as can sail on the water in no boats, and
fly in the air on no wings (as the case now appears to me),
who can be here and there, and wherever they please. What a
miserable state, I say, am I fallen to ! I should have been
glad to have had human converse, and to have found inhabit-
ants in this place ; but there being none, as I supposed,
hitherto, I contented myself with thinking I was at least
safe from all those evils mankind in society are obnoxious
to. But now, what may be the consequence of the next
hour, I know not ; nay, I am not able to say. but whilst I
speak and show my discontent, they may at a distance con-
ceive my thoughts, and be hatching revenge against me for
my dislike of them.
The pressure of my spirits inclining me to repose, I laid
me down, but could get no rest; nor could all my most se-
rious thoughts, even of the Almighty Providence, give me
relief under my present anxiety. And all this was only
from my state of uncertainty concerning the reality of what
I had heard and seen, and from the earnestness with which
I coveted a satisfactory knowledge of those beings who had
just taken their flight from me.
I really believe the fiercest wild beast, or the most
savage of mankind that had met me, and put me upon my
defence, would not have given me half the trouble that then
lay upon me ; and the more, for that I had no seeming
possibility of ever being rid of my apprehensions. So find-
ing I could not sleep, I got up again ; but as I could not fly
from myself, all the art I could use with myself was but in
vain to obtain me any quiet.
In the height of my distress I had recourse to prayer,
with no small benefit ; begging, that if it pleased not the Al
mighty power to remove the object of my fears, at least to
4*
82 PETER WILKIN&S DISCOVERY
resolve my doubts about them, and to render them rathei
helpful than hurtful to me. I hereupon, as I always did on
such occasions, found myself much more placid and easy,
and began to hope the best, till I had almost persuaded
myself that I was out of danger ; and then laying myself
down, I rested very sweetly, till I was awakened by the
mpulse of the following dream :
Methought I was in Cornwall, at my wife's aunt's ; and
inquiring after her and my children, the old gentlewoman
informed me, both my wife and children had been dead
some time, and that my wife, before her departure, desired
her (that is her aunt), immediately upon my arrival, to tell
me she was only gone to the lake, where I should be sure
to see her, and be happy with her after. I then, as I fancied,
ran to the lake to find her. In my passage, she stopped
me, crying, Whither so fast, Peter ? I am your wife, your
Patty. Methought I did not know her, she was so altered ;
but observing her voice, I looked more wistfully at her, she
appeared to me as the most beautiful creature I ever beheld.
I then went to seize her in my arms, and the hurry of my
spirits awakened me.
When I got up, I kept at home, not caring even to look
out at my door. My dream ran strangely in my head, and
I had now nothing but Patty in my mind. Oh ! cries I,
how happy could I be with her, though I had only her in
this solitude. Oh ! that this was but a reality, and not a
dream. I could scarce refrain from running to the lake to
meet my Patty. But then I checked my folly,, and reason-
ed myself into some degree of temper again. However, I
could not forbear crying out, What! nobody to converse
with, nobody to assist, comfort, or counsel me ! this is a
melancholy situation indeed. Thus I ran on lamenting, till
I was almost weary ; when, on a sudden, I again heard the
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 83
voices. Hark ! says I, here they come again. Well, I
am now resolved to face them ; come life come death. It
is not to be alone I thus dread ; but to have company about
me, and not know who or what, is death to me, worse
than I can suffer from them, be they who or what they
will.
During my soliloquy the voices increased, and then by
degrees diminished as usual ; but I had scarce got my gun
in my hand, to pursue my resolution of showing myself to
those who uttered them, when I felt such a thump upon the
roof of my antechamber as shook the whole fabric, and set
me all over into a tremor ; I then heard a sort of shriek,
and a rustle near the door of my apartment, all which to
gether seemed very terrible. But I, having before deter-
mined to see what and who it was, resolutely opened my
door and leaped out. I saw nobody ; all was quite silent,
and nothing, that I could perceive, but my own fears a-mov-
ing. I went then softly to the corner of the building, and
there, looking down by the glimmer of my lamp, which
stood in the window, I saw something in human shape lying
at my feet. I gave the word, Who's there ? Still no one
answered. My heart was ready to force a way through my
side. I was for a while fixed to the earth like a statue.
At length recovering, I stepped in, fetched my lamp, and
returning, saw the very beautiful face my Patty appeared
under in my dream ; and not considering that it was only a
dream, I verily thought that I had my Patty before me,
but she seemed to be stone dead. Upon viewing her other
parts for I had never yet removed my eyes from her face
I found she had a sort of brown chaplet, like lace, round
her head, under and about which her hair was tucked up
and twined ; and she seemed to me to be clothed in a thin
hair-coloured silk garment which, upon trying to raise her,
84 PETER WILKINSS DISCOVERY
I found to be quite warm, and therefore hoped there was
life in the body it contained. I then took her into my
arms, and treading a step backwards with her, I put out
my lamp; however, having her in my arms, I conveyed her
through the doorway in the dark into my grotto ; here I
laid her upon my bed, and then ran out for my lamp.
This, thinks I, is an amazing adventure. How could
Patty come here, and dressed in silk and whalebone, too !
sure that is not the reigning fashion in England now.
But my dream said she was dead. Why truly, says I. so
she seems to be. But be it so, she is warm. Whether this
is the place for persons to inhabit after death or not, I can-
not tell (for I see there are people here, though I do not
know them) ; but be it as it will, she feels as flesh and
blood ; and if I but bring her to stir and act again as my
wife, what matters it to me what she is ! It will be a great
blessing and comfort to me, for she never would have come
to this very spot but for my good.
Top-full of these thoughts, I re-entered my grotto, shut
my door, and lighted my lamp ; when going to my Patty,
(as I delighted to fancy her), I thought I saw her eyes stir
a little. I then set the lamp further off, for fear of offend-
ing them if she should look up ; and warming the last glass
I had reserved of my Madeira, I carried it to her, but she
never stirred. I now supposed the fall had absolutely
killed her, and was prodigiously grieved, when laying my
hand on her breast I perceived the fountain of life had
some motion. This gave me infinite pleasure ; so not des-
pairing, I dipped my finger in the wine, and moistened her
lips with it two or three times, and I imagined they opened
a little. Upon this methought me, and taking a teaspoon,
gently poured a few drops of wine by that means into her
mouth. Finding she swallowed it, I poured in another
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 85
spoonful, and another, till I brought her to herself so well
as to be able to sit up. All this I did by a glimmering
light, which the lamp afforde'd from a distant part of the
room where I had placed it, as I have said, out of her
sight.
I then spoke to her and asked her divers questions, as
if she had really been Patty, and understood me ; in return
of which she uttered a language I had no idea of, though in
the most musical tone, and with the sweetest accent I had
ever heard. It grieved me I could not understand her.
However, thinking she might like to be upon her feet, I
went to lift her off the bed, when she felt to my touch in
the oddest manner possible ; for while in one respect it was
as though she had been cased in whalebone, it was as soft
and warm as if she had been naked.*
I then took her in my arms and carried her into my
antechamber again ; where I would fain have entered into
conversation with her, but found she and I could make noth-
ing of it together, unless we could understand one another's
speech. It is very strange my dream should have prepos-
sessed me so much of Patty, and of the alteration of her
countenance, that I could by no means persuade myself the
person I had with me was not she ; though, upon a delibe-
rate comparison, Patty, as pleasing as she always was to my
taste, would no more come up to this fair creature, than a
coarse ale-wife would to Venus herself.
* The flying apparatus of Wilkins's newly discovered people was called
a graundee, and consisted of a natural investment like delicate silk and
whalebone, which flew open at pleasure, and thus furnished its possessoi
with wings or a dress, according to the requirement of the moment. Pe-
ter's future wife had been sporting in the air with some other young dam-
self?, one of whom happening to brush too strongly against her, as they
stooped among some trees, had occasioned the accident which was the
oftuse of his good fortune.
36 PETER WILKIX.VS DISCOVERY
You may imagine we stared heartily at each other, and
I doubted not but she wondered as much as I by what
means we came so near each other. I offered her every-
thing in my grotto which I thought might please her, some
of which she gratefully received, as appeared by her looks
and behaviour. But she avoided my lamp, and always
placed her back towards it. I observing that, and ascrib-
ing it to her modesty, in my company, let her have her will,
and took care to set it in such a position myself as seemed
agreeable to her, though it deprived me of a prospect I very
much admired.
After we had sat a good while, now and then, I may say,
chattering to one another, she got up and took a turn or two
about the room. When I saw her in that attitude, her
grace and motion perfectly charmed me. and her shape was
incomparable ; but the strangeness of her dress put me to
my trumps, to conceive either what it was, or how it was
put on.
Well, we supped together, and I set the best of every-
thing I had before her, nor could either of us forbear speak-
ing in our own tongue, though we were sensible neither of
us understood the other. After supper I gave her some of
my cordials, for which she showed great tokens of thankful-
ness, and often, in her way, by signs and gestures, which
were very far from being insignificant, expressed her grati-
tude for my kindness. When supper had been some time
over, I showed her my bed and made signs for her to go to
it ; but she seemed very shy of that, till I showed her where
I meant to lie myself, by pointing to myself, then to that,
and again pointing to her and to my bed. When at length
I had made this matter intelligible to her, she lay down
very composedly ; and after I had taken care of my fire, and
set the things we had been using for supper in their places,
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 87
I laid myself down too ; for I could have no suspicious
thoughts, or fear of danger from a form so excellent.
I treated her for some time with all the respect imagi-
nable, and never suffered her to do the least part of my
work. It was very inconvenient to both of us only to know
each other's meaning by signs ; but I could not be other-
wise than pleased to see, that she endeavoured all in her
power to learn to talk like me. Indeed I was not behind-
hand with her in that respect, striving all I could to imitate
her. What I all the while wondered at was, she never
showed the least disquiet at her confinement ; for I kept my
door shut at first, through fear of losing her, thinking she
would have taken an opportunity to run away from me. for
little did I then think she could fly.
After my new love had been with me a fortnight, find-
ing my water ran low, I was greatly troubled at the thought
of quitting her at any time to go for more ; and having
hinted it to her with seeming uneasiness, she could not for
awhile fathom my meaning ; but when she saw me much
confused, she came at length, by the many signs I made, to
imagine it was my concern for her which made me so ;
whereupon she expressively enough signified I might be
easy, for she did not fear anything happening to her in my
absence. On this, as well as I could declare my meaning,
I entreated her not to go away before my return. As soon
as she understood what I signified to her by actions, she sat
down with her arms across, leaning her head against the
wall to assure me she would not stir. However, as I had
before nailed a cord to the outside of the door, I tied that
for caution's sake to a tree, for fear of the worst ; but I be-
lieve she had not the least design of removing.
I took my boat, net, and water-cask, as usual ; desirous
of bringing her home a fresh-fish dinner ; and succeeded so
88 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY
well as to catch enough for several good meals, and to spare
What remained I salted, and found she liked that better
than the fresh, after a few days' salting : though she did not
so well approve of that I had formerly pickled and dried.
As my salt grew very low, though I had used it very spar-
ingly, I now resolved to try making some ; and the next
summer I effected it.
Thus we spent the remainder of the winter together, till
the days began to be light enough for me to walk abroad a
little in the middle of them : for I was now under no appre-
hension of her leaving me ; as she had before this time so
many opportunities of doing so, but never once attempted it.
When the weather cleared up a little, by the lengthen-
ing of daylight, I took courage one afternoon to invite her
to walk with me to the lake ; but she sweetly excused her-
self from it whilst there was such a frightful glare of light,
as she said ; but, looking out of the door, told me if I would
not go out of the wood she would accompany me : so we
agreed to take a turn only there. I first went myself over
the stile at the door, and thinking it rather too high for her,
I took her in my arms and lifted her over. But even when
I had her in this manner, I knew not what to make of her
clothing, it sat so true and close ; but seeing her by a stead-
ier and truer light in the grove, though a heavy gloomy one,
than my light had afforded, I begged she would let me know
of what silk or other composition her garment was made.
She smiled and asked me if mine was not the same under
my jacket. " No, lady," says I, " I have nothing but my
skin under my clothes." " Why what do you mean ?" re-
plies she, somewhat tartly ; " but indeed I was afraid some-
thing was the matter, by that nasty covering you wear, that
you might not be seen. Are not you a glumm ?"* " Yes,'
* A man.
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 89
says I, "fair creature." (Here, though you may conceive
she spoke part English, part her own country tongue, and I
the same, as we best understood each other, yet I shall give
you our discourse word for word in plain English.) " Then,"
says she, " I am afraid you must have been a very bad man,
and have been crashee,* which I should be very sorry to
hear." I told her I believed we were none of us so good as
#e might be, but I hoped my faults had not at most exceeded
other men's ; but I had suffered abundance of hardships in
my time, and that at last Providence having settled me in
this spot, from whence I had no prospect of ever departing,
it was none of the least of its mercies to bring to my know-
ledge and company the most exquisite piece of all his works
in her, which I should acknowledge as long as I lived. She
was surprised at this discourse, and asked me (if I did not
mean to impose upon her, and was indeed an ingcrashee
glummf), why I should tell her I had no prospect of depart-
ing from hence 1 " Have not you," says she, " the same
prospect that I or any other person has of departing ? Sir,"
added she, " you don't do well, and really I fear you are slit,
or you would not wear this nasty cumbersome coat (taking
hold of my jacket sleeve), if you were not afraid of showing
the signs of a bad life upon your natural clothing."
I could not for my heart imagine what way there was to
get out of my dominions ; but certainly, thought I, there
must be some way or other, or she would not be so peremp-
tory. And as to my jacket, and showing myself in my
natural clothing, I profess she made me blush ; and, but for
the shame, I would have stripped to the skin to have satisfied
her. " But, madam," says I, " pray pardon me. for you really
are mistaken ; I have examined every nook and corner of
* Slit ; a punishment inflicted on the wings*, or graundee, of criminals,
t A man whose wings had not been slit.
90 PETER WILK1NSS DISCOVERY
this new world in which we now are, and can find no possi-
ble outlet ; nay. even by the same way I came in, I am sure
it is impossible to get out again." '' Why," says she," what
outlets have you searched for, or what way can you expect
out but the way you came in ? and why is that impossible
to return by again ? If you are not slit, is not the air open
to you ? will not the sky admit you to patrol in it as well as
other people ? I tell you, sir, I fear you have been slit for
your crimes ; and though you have been so good to me that
I cannot help loving of you heartily for it, yet, if I thought
you had been slit, I would not, nay, could not, stay a mo-
ment longer with you ; no, though it should break my heart
to leave you !"
I found myself now in a strange quandary, longing to
know what she meant by being slit, and had a hundred
strange notions in my head whether I was slit or not ; for
though I knew what the word naturally signified well enough,
yet in what manner, or by what figure of speech she applied
it to me, I had no idea of. But seeing her look a little
angrily upon me, ' ; Pray, madam," says I, " do not be offended
if I take the liberty to ask you what you mean by the word
crashee, so often repeated by you, for I am an utter stranger
to what you mean by it ?" " Sir," says she, " pray answer
me first how came you here ?" " Madam," replied I, " will
you please to take a walk to the verge of the wood, and I
will show you the very passage ?" " Sir," says she, ' ; I per-
fectly know the range of the rocks all around, and by the
least description, without going to see them, can tell from
which you descended." " In truth," said I, ' : most charming
lady, I descended from no rock at all ; nor would I for ft
thousand worlds attempt what could not be accomplished
but by my destruction." " Sir," says she, in some anger.
" it is false, and you impose on me." " I declare to you,"
OF A FLYING WOMAN. g\
says I, " madam, what I tell you is strictly true ; I never
was near the summit of any of the surrounding rocks or any-
thing like it ; but as you are not far from the verge of the
wood, be so good as to step a little further, and I will show
you my entrance in hither." " Well'" says she, " now this
odious dazzle of light is lessened, I do not care if I do go
with you."
When we came far enough to see the bridge, " There
madam," says I, " there is my entrance, where the sea pours
into this lake from yonder cavern." " It is not possible,"
says she ; " this is another untruth ; and as I see you would
deceive me and are not to be believed, farewell, I must be
gone. But hold," says she, " let me ask you one thing more,
that is, by what means did you come through that cavern ?
you could not have used to have come over the rock." " Bless
me, madam," says I, " do you think I and my boat could
fly ? Come over the rock, did you say 1 No. madam, I
sailed from the great sea, the main ocean, in my boat,
through that cavern into this very lake here." " What do
you mean by your boat ?" says she ; " you seem to make
two things of your boat you say you sailed with, and your-
self." " I do so," replied I, " for, madam, I take myself to
be good flesh and blood, but my boat is made of wood and
other materials." " Is it so?" says she ; " and pray where
is this boat that is made of wood and other materials ? under
your jacket ?" " Lord, madam," says I, "you put me in fear
that you were angry, but now I hope you only joke with me :
what, put a boat under my jacket ! no, madam, my boat is
iu the lake." "What! more untruths?" says she. "No,
madam," I replied ; " if you would be satisfied of what I
say, every word of which is as true as that my boat now is
in the lake, pray walk with me thither, and make your own
eyes judges what sincerity I speak with." To this phe
92 PETER WILKIX&S DISCOVERY
agreed, it growing dusky ; but assured me, if I did not give
her good satisfaction, I should see her no more.
We arrived at the lake, and going to my wet dock,
" Now, madam," says I, " pray satisfy yourself whether I
spake true or not." She looked at my boat, but could not
yet frame a proper notion of it. Says I, " Madam, in this
very boat I sailed from the main sea through that very
cavern into this lake ; and shall at last think myself the
happiest of all men, if you continue with me, love me, and
credit me ; and I promise you I will never deceive you, but
think my life happily spent in your service." I found she
was hardly content yet to believe what I told her of my
boat to be true, until I stepped into it, and pushing from
the shore, took my oars in my hand, and sailed along the
lake by her as she walked on the shore. At last she seemed
so well reconciled to me and my boat, that she desired I
would take her in. I immediately did so, and we sailed a
good way ; and as we returned to my dock, I described to
her how I procured the water we drank, and brought it to
shore in that vessel.
" Well," says she, " I have sailed, as you call it, many a
mile in my lifetime, but never in such a thing as this. I
own it will serve very well where one has a great many
things to carry from place to place ; but to be labouring
thus at an oar when one intends pleasure in sailing, is. in
my mind, a most ridiculous piece of slavery." " Why, pray,
madam, how would you have me sail ; for getting into the
boat only will not carry us this way or that, without using
some force." " But," says she, " pray where did you get
his boat, as you call it ?" " Oh ! madam," says I, " that is
too long and fatal a story to begin upon now ; this boat was
nade many thousand miles from hence, among a people
coal black, a quite different sort from us : and when I first
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 93
had it, I little thought of seeing this country ; but I will
make a faithful relation of all to you when we come home."
Indeed I began to wish heartily we were there, for it grew
into the night ; and having strolled so far without my gun,
I was afraid of what I had before seen and heard, and
hinted our return ; but I found my motion was disagreeable
to her, and so I dropped it.
I now perceived, and wondered at it, that the later it
grew, the more agreeable it seemed to her ; and as I had
now brought her into a good humour again by seeing and
sailing in my boat, I was not willing to prevent its increase.
I told he'r, if she pleased we would land, and when I had
docked my boat, I would accompany her where and as long
as she liked. As we talked and walked by the lake, she
made a little run before me, and jumped into it. Perceiv-
ing this, I cried out ; whereupon she merrily called on me
to follow her. The light was then so dim as prevented my
having more than a confused sight of her, when she jumped
in ; and looking earnestly after her, I could discern nothing
more than a small boat on the water, which skimmed along
at so great a rate that I almost lost sight of it presently ;
but running along the shore for fear of losing her, I met
her gravely walking to meet me, and then had entirely lost
sight of the boat on the lake. " This," says she, accosting
me with a smile, " is my way of sailing, which I perceive
by the fright you were in, you are altogether unacquainted
with ; and as you tell me you came from so many thousand
miles off. it is possible you may be made differently from
me ; but surely we are the part of the creation which has
had most care bestowed upon it ; and I suspect from all your
discourse, to which I have been very attentive, it is possible
you may no more be able to fly than to sail as I do." " No,
charming creature," says I, " that I cannot, I will assure
94 PETER WILKim'b DISCOVERT
you." She then, stepping to the edge of the lake, for the
advantage of a descent before her, sprang up into the air,
and away she went, further than my eyes could follow her.
I was quite astonished. So. says I, then all is over, all
a delusion which I have so long been in, a mere phantom !
better had it been for me never to have seen her, than thua
to lose her again. But what could I expect had she staid ?
for it is plain she is no human composition. But, says I,
she felt like flesh too, when I lifted her out at the door. I
had but very little time for reflection ; for in about ten
minutes after she had left me in this mixture of grief and
amazement, she alighted just by me on her feet.
Her return, as she plainly saw, filled me with a trans-
port not to be concealed, and which, as she afterwards told
me, was very agreeable to her. Indeed, I was some mo-
ments in such an agitation of mind, from these unparalleled
incidents, that I was like one thunderstruck ; but coming
presently to myself, and clasping her in my arms with as
much love and passion as I was capable of expressing,
" Are you returned again, kind angel," said I, " to bless a
wretch who can only be happy in adoring you ? Can it be
that you, who have so many advantages over me, should
quit all the pleasures that nature has formed you for. and
all your friends and relations, to take an asylum in my
arms ? But I here make you a tender of all I am able to
bestow my love and constancy." " Come, come," says she,
" no more raptures. I find you are a worthier man than I
thought I had reason to take you for ; and I beg your par-
don for my distrust, whilst I was ignorant of your perfec-
tions ; but now I verily believe all you said is true ; and I
promise you, as you have seemed so much to delight in me,
I will never quit you, till death or other as fatal accident
shall part us. But we will now. if you choose, go home ; for
OP A FLYING WOMAN. 95
I know you have been some time uneasy in this gloom, though
agreeable to me. For, giving my eyes the pleasure of
looking eagerly on you, it conceals my blushes from your
sight."
In this manner, exchanging mutual endearments and
soft speeches, hand in hand, we arrived at the grotto.
(0il $lu0 tt& tjp ^farosit*.
FROM LE SAGE.
GIL BLAS is a book which mates a great impression in youth with par-
ticular passages ; becomes thoroughly appreciated only by the maturest
knowledge ; and remains one of the greatest of favourites, with old people
who are wise and good-natured. Every body knows the Robbers' Cave,
the Beggar who asks alms with a loaded musket, the Archbishop who
invited a candour which he could not bear, the dramatic surprise and
exquisite lesson of the story transcribed into the present volume ; and
perhaps we all have a general, entertaining recollection of authors, and
stresses, and great men. But the hundreds of delicate strokes at
3very turn, the quiet, arch reference (never failing) to the most hidden
sources of action and nicest evidences of character, require an ex-
perienced taste and discernment to do them justice. When they obtain
this, they complete the charm of the reader by nattering his under-
standing. The hero (strange critical term for individuals the most un-
heroical !) is justly popular with all the world, because he resembles
them in their mixture of sense and nonsense, craft and credulity,
selfishness and good qualities. We have a sneaking regard for him on
our weak side ; while we flatter ourselves we should surpass him on
the strong. Then how pleasant the hypocrisy of the false hermit
Lamela, reconciled to us by his animal spirits; how consolatory (if
extension of evil can console) the bile and melancholy of the great
minister, the Counf^Duke, who always sees a spectre before him ; and
how charming, as completing the round of its universality, the alterna-
tions from town to country, from solitudes to courts, and the settlement
of the once simple Gil Bias, now Signior de Santillane, in his comforta-
ble farm at Lirias, over the door of which was to be written a farewU
to vicissitude :
GIL BIAS AND THE PARASITE. 97
Invent porturn. Spes et Fortuna, valete.
Sat me Insist! : ludite nunc alios.
My port is found. Farewell, ye freaks of chance ;
The dance ye led me, now let others dance.
Le Sage is accused, like Moliere, of having stolen all his good thiugs
from Spain. Do not believe it. Rest assured, that whatever he stole
he turned to the choicest account with his own genius ; otherwise the
Spaniards would have got the fame 'for his works, and not he. Nobody
stole Cervantes. Le Sage was a good, quiet man, very deaf, who lived
in a small house at Boulogne with a bit of trellised garden at the back,
in which he used to walk up and down while he composed. He had a
son, a celebrated actor, who came to live with him; and these two
were as fast friends, as they were honest and pleasant men.
But if every body knows the adventure of Gil Bias with the
Parasite, why, it may be asked, repeat it ? For the reason given in the
Preface, because there are passages in books which readers love to see
repeated, for the very sake of their intimacy with them. It is with
fine passages in books as with songs. Some we like, because they are
good and new ; and some, because they are very good indeed, and old
acquaintances. Besides, there are hundreds of readers who only just
recollect them well enough to desire to know them better.
It is to be borne in mind, that our hero has just set out in life ; and
that this is his first journey since he left school at Oviedo.
T ARRIVED in safety at Pennaflor, and halting at the
-* gate of an inn that made a tolerable appearance, I no
sooner alighted, than the landlord came out, and received
me with great civility ; he untied my portmanteau with his
own hands, and throwing it on his shoulder, conducted me
into a room, while one of his servants led my mule into the
stable. This innkeeper, the greatest talker of the Asturias,
and as ready to relate his own affairs without being asked,
as to pry into those of another, told me his name was
Andrew Corcuelo ; that he had served many years in the
king's army in quality of a Serjeant ; and had quitted the
service fifteen months ago to marry a damsel of Castropol,
fi
98 GIL BLAS A5D THE PARASITE.
who (though she was a little swarthy) knew very well how
to turn the penny. He said a thousand other things, which
I could have dispensed with the hearing of; but after
having made me his confidant, he thought he had a right
to exact the same condescension of me, and accordingly
asked whence I came, whither I was going, and what I was.
I was obliged to answer article by article ; for he accom-
panied every question by a profound bow, and begged me
to excuse his curiosity with such a respectful air, that I
could not refuse to satisfy him in every particular. This
engaged me in a long conversation with him, and gave me
occasion to mention my design, and the reason I had foi
disposing of my mule, that I might take the opportunity
of a carrier. He approved of my intention, though not in
a very succinct manner ; for he represented all the trouble-
some accidents that might befall me on the road : he re-
counted many dismal stories of travellers ; and I began to
be afraid he would never have done. He concluded at
length however with telling me, that if I had a mind to
sell my mule, he was acquainted with a very honest jockey
who would buy her. I assured him he would oblige me in
sending for him ; upon which he went in quest of him im-
mediately with great eagerness. It was not long before he
returned with his man, whom he introduced to me as a
person of exceeding honesty, and we went into the yard all
together, where my mule was produced, and passed and
repassed before the jockey, who examined her from head to
foot, and did not fail to speak very disadvantageously of
her. I own there was not much to be said in her praise ;
but, however, had it been the pope's mule, he would have
found some defects in her. He assured me, that she had
all the defects a mule could have ; and to convince me of
his veracity, appealed to the landlord, who, doubtless, had
OIL SLAS AND THE PARASITE. 99
his reasons for supporting his friend's assertions. " Well, '
said the dealer with an air of indifference, " how much
money do you expect for this wretched animal?" After the
eulogium he had bestowed on her, and the attestation of
Signior Corcuelo, whom I believed to be a man of honesty
and understanding, I would have given my mule for noth-
ing ; and therefore told him I would rely on his integrity j
bidding him appraise the beast in his own conscience, and
I would stand to the valuation. Upon this he assumed the
man of honour ; and replied, that in engaging his con-
science I took him on the weak side. In good sooth, that
did not seem to be his strong side ; for instead of valuing
her at ten of twelve pistoles, as my uncle had done, he fix-
ed the price at three ducats ; which I accepted >rith as
much joy as if I had made an excellent bargain.
After having so advantageously disposed of my mule,
the landlord conducted me to a carrier, who was to set out
the next day for Astorga. This muleteer let me know that
he should set out by day-break, and promised to awake me
in time, after we had agreed upon the price, as well for the
hire of a mule, as my board on the road ; and when every-
thing was settled between us, I returned to the inn with
Corcuelo, who, by the way, began to recount the carrier's
history. He told me every circumstance of his character
in town ; in short, was going to stupify me again with his
intolerable loquacity, when, luckily for me, a man of pretty
good appearance prevented my misfortune, by accosting him
with great civility. I left them together, and went on, with-
out suspecting that I had the least concern in their conver-
sation.
When I arrived at the inn, I called for supper ; and it
being a meagre day, was fain to put up with eggs ; which
while they got ready, I made up to my landlady, whom I .
N
100 GIL BLAS AND THE PARASITE.
had not seen before. She appeared handsome enough ; aud
withal so sprightly and gay, that I should have concluded (even
if her husband had not told me so) that her house was pret-
ty well frequented. When the omelet I had bespoken was
ready, I sat down to table by myself; and had not yet
swallowed the first mouthful, when the landlord came in,
followed by the man who had stopt him in the street. This
cavalier, who wore a long sword, and seemed to be about
thirty years of age, advanced towards me with an eager air,
saying, " Mr. Student, I am informed that you are that Signior
Gil Bias of Santillane, who is the link of philosophy, and
ornament of Oviedo ! Is it possible that you are that mir-
ror of learning, that sublime genius, whose reputation is so
great in this country ? You know not," continued he, ad-
dressing himself to the innkeeper and his wife, " you know
not what you possess ! You have a treasure in your house !
Behold in this young gentleman, the eighth wonder of the
world !" Then turning to me, and throwing his arms about
my neck, " Forgive," cried he, " my transports ! I cannot
contain the joy that your presence creates."
I could not answer for some time, because he locked me
so close in his arms, that I was almost suffocated for want
of breath ; and it was not till I had disengaged my head
from his embrace, that I replied " Signior Cavalier, I did
not think my name was known at Penaflor." " How !
known !" resumed he in his former strain, " we keep a reg-
ister of all the celebrated names within twenty leagues of
us. You in particular are looked upon as a prodigy ; and I
don't at all doubt, that Spain will one day be as proud of
you, as Greece was of her Seven Sages." These words were
followed by a fresh hug, which I was forced to endure,
though at the risk of strangulation. With the little expe-
.rience I had, I ought not to have been the dupe of his pro
GIL EL AS AND THE PARASITE. 1Q1
fessions and hyperbolical compliments. I ought to have
known, by his extravagant flattery, that he was one of those
parasites which abound in every town, and who, when a
stranger arrives, introduce themselves to him, in order to
fill their bellies at his expense. But my youth and vanity
made me judge otherwise. My admirer appeared to me so
much of a gentleman, that I invited him to take a share of
my supper. " Ah, with all my soul," cried he ; 'I am too
much obliged to my kind stars for having thrown me in the
way of the illustrious Gil Bias, not to enjoy my good for-
tune as long as I can ! I have no great appetite," pursued
he, " but I will sit down to bear you company, and eat a
mouthful purely out of complaisance."
So saying, my panegyrist took his place right over
against me ; and a cover being laid for him, attacked the
omelet as voraciously as if he had fasted three whole days.
By his complaisant beginning I foresaw that our dish would
not last long ; and therefore ordered a second ; which they
dressed with such dispatch, that it was served just as we
or rather he had made an end of the first. He proceeded
on this with the same vigour ; and found means, without
losing one stroke of his teeth, to overwhelm me with praises
during the whole repast, which made me very well pleased
with my sweet self. He drank in proportion to his eating ;
sometimes to my health, sometimes to that of my father
and mother, whose happiness in having such a son as me
he could not enough admire. All the while he plied me
with wine, and insisted upon my doing him justice, while I
toasted health for health ; a circumstance which, together
with his intoxicating flattery, put me into such good
humour, that seeing our second omelet half devoured, I
asked the landlord if he had no fish in the house. Signior
Corcuelo, who in all likelihood had a fellow-feeling with the
102 GIL BLAS AND THE PARASITE.
parasite, replied, " I have a delicate trout ; but those who
eat it must pay for the sauce ; 'tis a bit too dainty for your
palate, I doubt." " What do you call too dainty ?" said the
sycophant, raising his voice ; " you're a wiseacre, indeed !
Know, that there is nothing in this house too good for
Signior Gil Bias de Santillane, who deserves to be enter-
tained like a prince."
I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord's last
words, in which he prevented me ; who finding myself
offended, said with an air of disdain, " Produce this trout
of yours, Gaffer Corcuelo, and give yourself no trouble
about the consequence." This was what the innkeeper
wanted. He got it ready, and served it up in a trice. At
sight of this new dish, I could perceive the parasite's eye
sparkle with joy ; and he renewed that complaisance I
mean for the fish. which he had already shown for the
eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to give out, for
fear of accident, being crammed to the very throat. Hav-
ing, therefore, eaten and drank his bellyfull, he thought
proper to conclude the farce, by rising from table, and ac-
costing me in these words : " Signior Gil Bias, I am too
well satisfied with your good cheer, to leave you without
offering an important advice, which you seem to have great
occasion for. Henceforth beware of praise, and be upon
your guard arrainst everybody you do not know. You may
meet with other people inclined to divert themselves with
your credulity, and perhaps to push things still further; but
don't be duped again, nor believe yourself (though they
should swear it) the eighth wonder of the world." So say-
ing, he laughed in my face, and stalked away.
I was as much affected by this bite as I have since been
by misfortunes of far greater consequence. I could not for-
give myself for having been so grossly imposed upon ; or
GIL BLAS AND THE PARASITE. 1Q3
rather, I was shocked to find my pride so humbled.
" How ! (said I to myself) has the traitor, then, made a jest
of me ? His design in accosting my landlord in the street
was only to pump him ; or perhaps they understand one
another. Ah ! simple Gil Bias ! Go hang thyself for
shame, for having given such rascals an opportunity of
turning thee into ridicule ! I suppose they'll trump up a
fine story of this affair, which will reach Oviedo, and doubt-
less do thee a great deal of honour, and make thy parents
repent their having thrown away so much good counsel on
an ass. Instead of exhorting me not to wrong anybody,
they ought to have cautioned me against the knavery of the
world."
Chagrined with these mortifying reflections, and in-
flamed with resentment, I locked myself in my chamber
and went to bed, where, however, I did not sleep; for
before I could close my eyes, the carrier came to let me
know he was ready to set out, and only waited for me. I
got up instantly ; and while I put on my clothes, Corcuelo
brought me a bill, in which, I assure you, the trout was not
forgotten ; and I was not only obliged to gratify his exor-
bitance, but I had also the mortification to perceive, while
I counted the money, that the sarcastic knave remembered
my adventure. After having paid sauce for a supper which
I had so ill digested, I went to the muleteer with my bags,
wishing tho parasite, the innkeeper, and his inn, at the
Mumirn in tjjn Stofeft Ctonnter.
FROM THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO.
MBS. RADCLIFFE, a beautiful little woman of delicate constitution and
sequestered habits, as fond, as her own heroines, of lonely sea-shores,
picturesque mountains, and poetical meditations, perfected that dis-
covery of the capabilities of an old Jwuse or castle for exciting a
romantic interest, which lay ready to be made in the mind of every
child and poet, but which (if Gray did not put it into his head) first
suggested itself to the feudal dilletanteism of Horace Wai pole. Horace
had more genius in him than his contemporaries gave him credit for ;
but the reputation which his wit obtained him, the material philosophy
of the day, and the pursuit of fashionable amusement, did it no good.
He lost sight of the line to be drawn between the imposing and the in-
credible ; and though there is real merit in the Castle of Otranto, and
even grandeur of imagination, yet the conversion of dreams into gross
daylight palpabilities, which nothing short of iron-founders could
create swords that take a hundred men to lift them, and supernatural
yet substantial helmets, big as houses and actually serving for prisons
turns the sublime into the ridiculous, and has completely spoilt an
otherwise interesting narrative. Mrs. Radcliffe, frightened perhaps by
Walpole's failure (for this great mistress of Fear was too often a servant
of it), went to another extreme ; and except in what she quoted from
other story-tellers, resolved all her supernatural effects into common-
place causes. Those effects, however, while they lasted, and every
thing else capable of frightening people out of their wits old haunted
houses and corridors, mysterious music, faces behind curtains, cowled
and guilty monks, inquisitors, nuns, places to cornuut murders in, and
the murders themselves she understood to perfection. To dress these
in appropriate circumstances, she possessed also the eye of a painter as
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 1Q5
well as the feeling of a poetess. She conceived to a nicety the effect of
a storm on a landscape, the playing of a meteor on the point of a spear,
and the sudden appearance of some old castle to which travellers have
been long coming, and which they have reasons to fear living in. It
has been objected to her that she is too much of a melodramatic writer,
and that her characters are inferior to her circumstances; the back-
ground (as Hazlitt says) of more importance than the figures. This in
a great measure is true; but she has painted characters also, chiefly
weak ones, as in the querulous duped aunt in Udolpho, and the victim
of error, St. Pierre, in the Romance of the Forest. It must be consider-
ed, however, that her effects, however produced, are successful, and
greatly successful ; and that Nature herself deals in precisely such
effects, leaving men to be operated upon by them passively, and not
to play the chief parts in the process by means of their characters.
Mrs. Radcliffe brings on the scene Fear and Terror themselves, the
'grandeurs of the known world, and the awes of the unknown ; and if
human beings become puppets in her hands, it is as people in storm
and earthquake are puppets in the hands of Nature.
The following passage, from the Mysteries of Udolpho, is one of the
most favourite in her writings. Mr. Hazlitt thinks the Provenjal tale in
it " the greatest treat which Mrs. Radcliffe's pen has provided for the
lovers of the marvellous and terrible." Sir Walter Scott says, "The
best and most admired specimen of her art is the mysterious disappear-
ance of Ludovico, after having undertaken to watch for a night in a
haunted apartment ; and the mind of the reader is finely wound up for
some strange catastrophe, by the admirable ghost-story which he is
represented as perusing to amuse his solitude, as the scene closes upon
him. Neither can it be denied, that the explanation afforded of this
mysterious accident is as probable as romance requires, and in itself
completely satisfactory."
What that explanation is, the reader will find at the close of the
extract.
THE count gave orders for the -north apartments to be
opened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico ; but
Dorothee, remembering what she had lately witnessed there,
feared to obey ; and not one of the other servants daring to
venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time
5*
106 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour
for which the whole household waited with the greatest im-
patience.
After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the count, at-
tended him in his closet, where they remained alone for near
half an hour, and on leaving which his lord delivered to him
a sword.
" It has seen service in mortal quarrels," said the count,
jocosely, " you will use it honourably no doubt in a spiritual
one. To-morrow let me hear that there is not one ghost
remaining in the chateau."
Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. " You shall
be obeyed, my lord," said he ; "I will engage that no spectre
shall disturb the peace of the chateau after this night."
They now returned to the supper-room, where the count's
guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the north
apartments ; and Dorothee, being summoned for the keys,
delivered them to Ludovico. who then led the way, followed
by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached
the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back and
refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top
of the staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them
to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door,
during which they watched him with as much-eager curiosity
as if he had been performing some magical rite.
Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it,
and Dorothee, who had lingered far behind, was called for-
ward, under whose hand the door opened slowly, and her
eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sud-
den shriek and retreated. At this signal of alarm the
greater part of the crowd hurried down, and the count,
Henri, and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the inquiry,
who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a
LUDOVICO IN TEE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 1Q7
drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scab-
bard, the count with a lamp in his hand, and Henry carry-
ing a basket containing provision for the courageous ad-
venturer.
Having looked hastily round the first room, where no-
thing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second ;
and here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third in a
more tempered step. The count had now leisure to smile
at the discomposure into which he had been surprised, and
to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the
night.
" There are several chambers beyond these, your excel-
lenza," said Ludovico, pointing to a door, " and in one of
them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there ; and
when I am weary of watching, I can lie down."
" Good," said the count ; " let us go on. You see, these
rooms show nothing but damp walls and decaying furniture.
I have been so much occupied since I came to the chateau,
that I have not looked into them till now. Remember,
Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper to-morrow to throw open
these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to
pieces ; I will have them taken down, and this antique
furniture removed."
" Dear sir," said Henri, ' ; here is an arm-chair so massy
with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs in the
Louvre more than anything else."
" Yes," said the count, stopping a moment to survey it,
" there is a history belonging to that chair, but I have not
time to tell it ; let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater
extent than I imagined ; it is many years since I was in
them. But where is the bed-room you speak of, Ludovico?
these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I
remember them in their splendour."
108 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
" The bed, my lord," replied Ludovico, " they told me
was in a room that opens beyond the saloon and terminates
the suite."
" 0, here is the saloon," said the count, as they entered
the spacious apartment in which Emily and Dorothee had
rested. He here stood for a moment, surveying the reliques
of faded grandeur which it exhibited, the sumptuous tapestry,
the long and low sofas of velvet with frames heavily carved
and gilded, the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble ?
and covered in the centre with a piece of rich tapestry work,
the casements of painted glass, and the large Venetian mir-
rors of a size and quality such as at that period France could
not make, which reflected on every side the spacious apart-
ment. These had also formerly reflected a gay and brilliant
scene, for this had been the state room of the chiteau, and
here the marchioness had held the assemblies that made
part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a ma-
gician could have recalled the vanished groups many of
them vanished even from the earth ! that once had passed
over these polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted
picture would they have exhibited with the present ! Now,
instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid and busy crowd,
they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp
which the count held up, and which scarcely served to show
the three forlorn figures that stood surveying the room, and
the spacious and dusky walls around them.
" Ah !" said the count to Henri, awaking from his deep
reverie, " how the scene is changed since last I saw it ! I
was a young man then, and the marchioness was alive and
in her bloom ; many other persons were here too, who are
now no more. There stood the orchestra, here we tripped
in many a sprightly maze the walls echoing to the dance.
Now they resound only one feeble voice, and even that will.
LUDOV1CO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 109
ere long, be heard no more. My son, remember that I was
once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like
those who have preceded you like those who, as they sung
and danced in this most gay apartment, forgot that years
are made up of moments, and that every step they took
carried them nearer to their graves. But such reflections
are useless I had almost said criminal unless they teach
us to prepare for eternity, since otherwise they cloud our
present happiness without guiding us to a future one. But
enough of this let us go on."
Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and
the count, as he entered, was struck with the funeral ap-
pearance which the dark arras gave to it. He approached
the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to
be covered with a pall of black velvet, paused. " What can
this mean ?" said he, as he gazed upon it.
" I have heard, my lord," said Ludovico, as he stood at
the feet, looking within the canopied curtains, " that the
Lady Marchioness de Villeroi died in this chamber, and
remained here till she was removed to be buried ; and this,
perhaps, signor, may account for the pall."
The count made no reply, but stood for a few moments
engaged in thought, and evidently much affected. Then,
turning to Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air,
whether he thought his courage would support him through
the night. '' If you doubt this," added the count, " do not
be ashamed to own it ; I will release you from your en-
gagement without exposing you to the triumphs of your
fellow-servants." Ludovico paused ; pride and something
very like fear seemed struggling in his breast : pride,
however, was victorious ; he blushed, and his hesitation
ceased.
" No, my lord," said he, " I will go through with what
110 LUDOVIGO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
I have begun ; and I am grateful for your consideration.
On that hearth I will make a fire ; and with the good cheer
in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well."
" Be it so," said the count ; " but how will you beguile
the tediousness of the night, if you do not sleep ?"
" When I am weary, my lord," replied Ludovico, " I
shall not fear to sleep ; in the meanwhile, I have a book
that will entertain me."
" Well," said the count, " I hope nothing will disturb
you ; but if you should be seriously alarmed in the night,
come to my apartment. I have too much confidence in
your good sense and courage to believe you will be alarmed
on slight grounds, or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or
its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors.
To-morrow I shall have to thank you for an important
service ; these rooms shall then be thrown open, and my
people will then be convinced of their error. Good-night,
Ludovico ; let me see you early in the morning, and remem-
ber what I lately said to you."
" I will, my lord. Good-night to your excellenza let
me attend you with the light."
He lighted the count and Henri through the chambers
to the outer door. On the landing-place stood a lamp, which
one of the affrighted servants had left ; and Henri, as he
took it up, again bade Ludovico " good-night," who, having
respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them
and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber,
he examined the rooms through which he passed with more
minuteness than he had done before ; for he apprehended
that some person might have concealed himself in them for
the purpose of frightening him. No one, however, but him-
self was in these chambers ; and leaving open the doors
through which he passed, he came again to the great draw-
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. \\\
ing-room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat
startled him. For a moment he stood looking back through
the long suite of rooms he had just quitted ; and as
he turned, perceiving a light and his own figure reflected in
one of the large mirrors, he started. Other objects, too
were seen obscurely on its dark surface, but he paused not
to examine them, and returned hastily into the bed-room,
as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the Oriel,
and opened it. All within was still. On looking round,
his eye was caught by the portrait of the deceased mar-
chioness, upon which he gazed for a considerable time with
great attention and some surprise ; and then, having ex-
amined the closet he returned into the bed-room, where he
kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his
spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence
of the place ; for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this
silence. He now drew a small table and a chair near the
fire, took a bottle of wine and some cold provision out of
his basket, and regaled himself. When he had finished his
repast he laid his sword upon the table, and not feeling
disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had
spoken of. It was a volume of old Provencal tales. Hav-
ing stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, trimmed his lamp,
and drawn his chair upon the hearth, he began to read
and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes
which the page disclosed.
The count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room,
whither those of the party who had attended him to the
north apartment had retreated upon hearing Dorothee's
scream, and who were now earnest in their inquiries con-
cerning those chambers. The count rallied his guests on
their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclinations
which had occasioned it ; and this led to the question
112 LUDOV1CO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is evjr
permitted to revisit the earth ; and if it is, whether it was
possible for spirits to become visible to the sense ? The
baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and the last
was possible ; and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by
respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he
quoted. The count, however, was decidedly against him :
and a long conversation ensued, in which the usual argu-
ments on these subjects were on both sides brought forward
with skill and discussed with candour, but without convert-
ing either party to the opinion of his opponent. The effect
of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though
the count had much the superiority of the baron in point of
argument, he had fewer adherents ; for that love, so natural
to the human mind, of whatever is able to distend its facul-
ties with wonder and astonishment, attached the majority of
the company to the side of the baron ; and though many of
the count's propositions were unanswerable, his opponents
were inclined to believe this the consequence of their own
want of knowledge on so abstracted a subject, rather than
that arguments did not exist which were forcible enough to
conquer him.
Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her
father's glance called a blush upon her countenance, and
she then endeavoured to forget the superstitious tales she
had been told in the convent. Meanwhile. Emily had been
listening with deep attention to the discussion of what was
to her a very interesting question ; and remembering the
appearance she had seen in the apartment of the late mar-
chioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several
times she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen,
but the fear of giving pain to the count, and the dread of
his ridicule, restrained her ; and awaiting in anxious ex-
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 1 13
pectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she deter-
mined that her future silence should depend upon it.
When the party had separated for the night, and the
count retired to his dressing-room, the remembrance of the
desolate scenes he had so lately witnessed in his own man-
sion deeply affected him, but at length he was aroused from
his reverie and his silence. " What music is that I hear?"
taid he suddenly to his valet. " Who plays at this late
hour?"
The man made no reply ; and the count continued to lis-
ten, and then added, " That is no common musician ; he
touches the instrument with a delicate hand. Who is it,
Pierre ?"
" My lord !" said the man, hesitatingly.
" Who plays that instrument ?" repeated the count.
" Does not your lordship know, then ?" said the valet.
"What mean you?" said the count somewhat sternly.
" Nothing, my lord, I mean nothing," rejoined the man
submissively ; " only that music goes about the house at
midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have
heard it before."
" Music goes about the house at midnight ! Poor fellow !
Does nobody dance to the music, too ?"
" It is not in the chateau, I believe, my lord. The sounds
come from the woods, they say, though they seem so very
near ; but then a spirit can do anything."
" Ah, poor fellow !" said the count, " I perceive you are
as silly as the rest of them ; to-morrow you will be con-
vinced of your ridiculous error. But, hark ! what noise is
that?"
" Oh, my lord ! that is the voice we often hear with the
music."
" Often !" said the count ; " how often, pray ? It is a
very fine one."
114 LTJDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
" Why, my lord, I myself have not heard it more
than two or three times ; but there are those who have
lived here longer, that have heard it often enough."
" What a swell was that !" exclaimed the count, as he
still listened ; " and now, what a dying cadence ! This is
surely something more than mortal."
" That is what they say, my lord." said the valet ; " they
say it is nothing mortal that utters it ; and if I might say
my thoughts "
" Peace !" said the count ; and he listened till the strain
died away.
" This is strange," said he, as he returned from the win-
dow. " Close the casements, Pierre."
Pierre obeyed, and the count soon after dismissed him
but did not so soon lose the remembrance of the music,
which long vibrated in his fancy in tones of melting sweet-
ness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his thoughts.
Ludovico, meanwhile in his remote chamber, heard now
and then the faint echo of a closing door as the family re-
tired to rest ; and then the hall-clock, at a great distance,
struck twelve. " It is midnight," said he, and he looked
suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire on the
hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having
been engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten
everything besides ; but he soon added fresh wood, not
because he was cold, though the night was stormy,
but because he was cheerless ; and having again trimmed
the lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair
nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind
that howled mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to
abstract his mind from the melancholy that was stealing
upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent to
him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. H5
corner of the marquis's library ; and who, having opened it.
and perceived some of the marvels it related, had carefully
preserved it for her own entertainment, its condition giving
her some excuse for detaining it from its proper station.
The damp corner into which it had fallen, had caused the
cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be so
discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the
letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provencal wri-
ters, whether drawn from the Arabian legends brought by
the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits
performed by crusaders whom the troubadours accompanied
to the East, were generally splendid, and always marvellous
both in scenery and incident ; and it is not wonderful that
Dorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions
which had captivated the careless imagination in every rank
of society in a former age. Some of the tales, however, in
the book now before Ludovico were of simple structure, and
exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic
manners which usually characterized the fables of the twelfth
century, and of this description was the one he now hap.
pened to open ; which in its original style was of great
length, but may be thus shortly related. The reader will
perceive it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the
times.
THE PROVENCAL TALE.
There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble baron,
famous for his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His
castle was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty, and
thronged with illustrious knights ; for the honour he paid
to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to
enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those
of many -orinces. Eight minstrels were retained in his ser
116 LUDOV2CO IN THE I1AUXTED CHAMBER.
vice, who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions taken
from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry that befell
knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the
baron, their lord ; while he, surrounded by his knights and
ladies, banqueted in the great hall of the castle, where the
costly tapestry that adorned the walls with pictured exploits
of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass enriched
with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners that waved
along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of gold
and silver that glittered on the sideboards, the numerous
dishes that covered the tables, the number and gay liveries
of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of
the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence such as
we may not hope to see in these degenerate days.
Of the baron the following adventure is related : One
night, having retired late from the banquet to his chamber,
and dismissed his attendants, he was surprised by the
appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a sorrowful
and dejected countenance. Believing that this person had
been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible
he could have lately passed the ante-room unobserved by the
pages in waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion
on their lord, the baron, calling loudly for his people, drew
his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and
stood upon his defence. The stranger, slowly advancing,
told him that there was nothing to fear ; that he came with
no hostile intent, but to communicate to him a terrible
secret, which it was necessary for him to know.
The baron, appeased by the courteous manner of the
stranger after surveying him for some time in silence, re-
turned his sword into the scabbard, and desired him to ex-
plain the means by which he had obtained access to the
chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. H7
Without answering either of these inquiries, the
stranger said that he could not then explain himself, but
that, if the baron would follow him to the edge of the forest,
at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there
convince him that he had something of importance to dis-
close.
This proposal again alarmed the baron, who would
scarcely believe that the stranger meant to draw him to so
solitary a spot at this hour of the night without harbouring
a design against his life, and he refused to go ; observing
at the rame time, that if the stranger's purpose was an
honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal
the occasion of his visit in the apartment where they stood.
While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more
attentively than before, but observed no change in his counte-
nance, or any symptom that might intimate a consciousness
of evil design. He was habited like a knight, was of a tall
and majestic stature, and of dignified and courteous man-
ners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the sub-
stance of his errand in any place but that he had mentioned :
and at the same time gave hints concerning the secret he
would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity
in tie baron, which at length induced him to consent to the
stranger on certain conditions.
" Sir knight," said he, " I will attend you to the forest,
and will take with me only four of my people, who shall
witness our conference."
To this, however, the knight objected.
u What I would disclose," said he with solemnity, " is
to you alone. There are only three living persons to whom
the circumstance is known ; it is of more consequence to
you and your house than I shall now explain. In future
years you will look back to this night with satisfaction or re
118 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
pentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you would
hereafter prosper, follow me ; I pledge you the honour of a
knight that no evil shall befall you. If you are contented
to dare futurity, remain in your chamber, and I will depart
as I came."
" Sir knight," replied the baron ; " how is it possible
that my future peace can depend upon my present deter-
mination ?"
" That is not now to be told," said the stranger ; " I
have explained myself to the utmost. It is late ; if you
follow me it must be quickly ; you will do well to consider
the alternative."
The baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he
perceived his countenance assume a singular solemnity.
(Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw
a glance round the chamber, and then held up the lamp to
assist his observation ; but not perceiving anything to con-
firm his alarm, he took up the book again, and pursued the
story.)
The baron paced his apartment for some time in silence,
impressed by the words of the stranger, whose extraordinary
request he feared to grant, and feared also to refuse. At
length he said, " Sir knight, you are utterly unknown to me ;
tell me, yourself, is it reasonable that I should trust myself
alone with a stranger, at this hour, in the solitary forest ?
Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete
you in this chamber ?''
The knight frowned at these words, and was a moment
silent ; then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,
" I am an English knight ; I am called Sir Bevys of Lan
caster, and my deeds are not unknown at the holy city,
whence I was returning to my native land, when I was be-
nighted in the forest."
LUDOV1CO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. [[g
" Your name is not unknown to fame," said the baron ;
* I have heard of it." (The knight looked haughtily.)
" But why, since my castle is known to entertain all true
knights, did not your herald announce you ? Why did you
not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have
been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and
stealing to my chamber at midnight?"
The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence ; but
the baron repeated the questions.
" I come not," said the knight, " t > answer inquiries,
but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me ;
and again I pledge the honour of a knight that you shall
return in safety. Be quick in your determination I must
be gone."
After some farther hesitation, the baron determined to
follow the stranger, and to see the result of his extraordi-
nary request ; he therefore again drew forth his sword, and,
taking up a lamp, bade the knight lead on. The latter
obeyed ; and opening the door of the chamber, they passed
into the ante-room, where the baron, surprised to find all
his pages asleep, stopped, and with hasty violence was going
to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the knight
waved his hand, and looked so expressively at the baron,
that the latter restrained his resentment, and passed on.
The knight, having descended a staircase, opened a
secret door, which the baron had believed was only known
to himself; and proceeding through several narrow and
winding passages, came at length to a small gate that opened
beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the baron fol-
lowed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these
secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt
inclined to turn back from an adventure that appeared to
partake of treachery as well as danger. Then, considering
120 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
that he was armed, and observing the courteous and noble
air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed that
it had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the
mystery to its source.
He now found himself on the heathy platform, before
the great gates of his castle, where, on looking up, he per-
ceived lights glimmering in the different casements of the
guests, who were retiring to sleep ; and while he shivered
in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene
around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm cham-
ber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a
moment, the full contrast of his present situation.
(Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his
own fire, gave it a brightening stir.)
The wind was strong, and the baron watched his lamp
with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extin-
guished ; but though the flame wavered, it did not expire,
and he still followed the stranger, who often sighed as he
went, but did not speak.
When they reached the borders of the forest, the knight
turned and raised his head, as if he meant to address the
baron, but then closing his lips, in silence he walked on.
As they entered beneath the dark and spreading boughs,
the baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated
whether to proceed, and demanded how much farther they
were to go. The knight replied only by a gesture, and the
baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed
through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded
n considerable way, he again demanded whither they were
,'oing, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.
As he said this, he looked at his own sword and at the
might alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected
countenance disarmed the baron, for a moment, of suspicion.
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 121
" A little farther is the place whither I would lead you,"
said the stranger ; " no evil shall befall you I have sworn
it on the honour of a knight."
The baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and
they soon arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the
dark and lofty chestnuts entirely excluded the sky, and
which was so overgrown with underwood that they proceeded
with difficulty. The knight sighed deeply as he passed,
and sometimes paused ; and having at length reached a
spot where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and
with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the baron saw
there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and welter-
ing in blood ; a ghastly wound was on the forehead, and
death appeared already to have contracted the features.
The baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror,
looked at the knight for explanation, and was then going to
raise the body, and examine if there were any remains of
life ; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixed upon him a
look so earnest and mournful, as not only much surprised
him, but made him desist^
But what were the baron's emotions when, on holding
the lamp near the features of the corpse, he discovered the
exact resemblance of the stranger his conductor, to whom
he now looked up in astonishment and inquiry ! As he
gazed he perceived the countenance of the knight change
and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished
from his astonished sense ! While the baron stood, fixed
to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words :
(Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought
he heard a voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the
bed, where, however, he saw only the dark curtain and the
pall. He listened, scarcely daring to draw his breath, but,
heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the storm, and
6
122 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBEK.
the blast that rushed by the casements ; when, concluding
that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his
book to finish his story.)
While the baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice -was
heard to utter these words :
" The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight
of England, lies before you. He was this night waylaid
and murdered, as he journeyed from the holy city towards
his native land. Respect the honour of knighthood, and
the law of humanity ; inter the body in Christian ground,
and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe or
neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and misery,
light upon you and your house for ever !"
The baron, when he recovered from the awe and aston-
ishment into which this adventure had thrown him, re-
turned to his castle, whither he caused the body of Sir
Bevys to be removed ; and on the following day it was
interred with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of
the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies who
graced the court of Baron de Brunne.
Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the
book, for he felt drowsy ; and after putting more wood on
the fire, and taking another glass of wine, he reposed him-
self in the arm-chair on the hearth. In his dream he still
beheld the chamber where he really was, and once or twice
started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's
face looking over the high back of his arm-chair. This
idea had so strongly impressed him, that, when he raised
his eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes fixed upon
his own ; and he quitted his seat, and looked behind the
chair before he felt perfectly convinced that no person was
there.
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 123
Thus closed the hour.
The count, who had slept little during the night, rose
early, and, anxious to speak with Ludovico. went to the
north apartment ; but the outer door having been fastened
on the preceding night, he was obliged to knock loudly for
admittance. Neither the knocking nor his voice was heard :
he renewed his calls more loudly than before ; after which
a total silence ensued ; and the count, finding all his efforts
to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear that some
accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an imagin-
ary being might have deprived of his senses. He therefore
left the door with an intention of summoning his servants
to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the
lower part of the chateau.
To the count's inquiries whether they had seen or heard
any thing of Ludovico, they replied, in affright, that not one
of them had ventured on the north side of the chateau since
the preceding night.
" He sleeps soundly, then," said the count, " and is at
such a distance from the outer door, which is fastened, that
to gain admittance to the chambers it will be necessary to
force it. Bring an instrument, and follow me."
The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not
till nearly all the household were assembled, that the
count's orders were obeyed. In the meantime, Dorothee
was telling of a door that opened from a gallery leading
from the great staircase into the last ante-room of the
saloon, and this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it
appeared probable that Ludovico might be easily awakened
by an attempt to open it. Thither, therefore, the count
went ; but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it
had proved at the remoter one ; and now, seriously inte-
rested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon
124 LUDO VIC/0 I2f THE HAUNTED CHAMBER.
the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular
beauty, and withheld the blow. It appeared on the first
glance to be of ebony, so dark and close was its grain, and
so high its polish ; but it proved to be only of larch-wood,
of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests of
larch. The beauty of its polished hue, and of its delicate
carvings, determined the count to spare this door, and he
returned to that leading from the back staircase, which
being at length forced, he entered the first ante-room, fol-
lowed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his
servants, the rest waiting the event of the inquiry on the
stairs and landing-place.
All was silence in the chambers through which the
count passed, and having reached the saloon, he called
loudly upon Ludovico ; after which, still receiving no
answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and
entered.
The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehen-
sions for Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person
in sleep were heard ; and his uncertainty was not soon ter-
minated, since the shutters being all closed, the chamber
was too dark for any object to be distinguished in it.
The count bade a servant open them. who. as he crossed
the room to do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the
floor, when his cry occasioned such a panic among the few
of his fellows who had ventured thus far. that they instantly
fled, and the count and Henri were left to finish the ad-
venture.
Henri then sprang across the room, and, opening a
window-shutter, they perceived that the man had fallen
over a chair near the hearth, in which Ludovico had been
sitting ; for he sat there no longer, nor could anywhere
be seen by the imperfect light that was admitted into the
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 125
apartment. The count, seriously alarmed, now opened other
shutters, that he might be enabled to examine farther;
and Ludovico not yet appearing, he stood for a moment
suspended in astonishment, and scarcely trusting his senses,
till his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine
whether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in
it ; and he proceeded to the Oriel, where every thing re-
mained as on the preceding night ; but Ludovico was no-
where to be found.
The count now checked his amazement, considering
that Ludovico might have left the chamber during the
night, overcome by the terrors which their lonely desolation
and the recollected reports concerning them had inspired.
Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally have
sought society, and his fellow-servants had all declared they
had not seen him ; the door of the outer room also had been
found fastened, with the key on the inside ; it was impos-
sible, therefore, for him to have passed through that ; and
all the outer doors of this suite were found, on examination,
to be bolted and locked, with the keys also within them.
The count, being then compelled to believe that the lad
had escaped through the casements, next examined them :
but such as opened wide enough to admit the body of a
man were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars
or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person
having attempted to pass them ; neither was it probable
that Ludovico would have incurred the risk of breaking his
neck by leaping from a window, when he might have walked
safely through a door.
The count's amazement did not admit of words ; but ho
returned once more to examine the bed-room, where was
no appearance of disorder, except that occasioned by the
late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood a small
126 LUDOVICO IN TIIL HAUNTED CHAMBER.
table ; and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he
had been reading, and the remains of a flask of wine, still
remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket,
with some fragments of provision and wood.
Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment
without reserve, and though the count said little, there was
a seriousness in his manner that expressed much. It ap-
peared that Ludovico must have quitted these rooms by
some concealed passage, for the count could not believe
that any supernatural means had occasioned this event ;
yet. if there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable
why he should retreat through it ; and it was equally sur-
prising that not even the smallest vestige should appear
by which his progress could be traced. In the rooms,
everything remained as much in order as if he had just
walked out by the common way.
The count himself assisted in lifting the arras with
which the bed-chamber, saloon, and one of the ante-rooms
were hung, that he might discover if any door had been
concealed behind it ; but after a laborious search, none
was found ; and he at length quitted the apartments, having
secured the door of the last ante-chamber, the key of which
be took into his own possession. He then gave orders that
strict search should be made for Ludovico, not only in the
chateau, but in the neighbourhood, and retiring with Henri
to his closet, they remained there in conversation for a
considerable time ; and whatever was the subject of it,
Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity ; and his
manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever
the topic which now agitated the count's family with won-
der and alarm, was introduced.*
* The cMteau had been inhabited before the count came into its pos-
session. He was not aware that the apparently outward walls contained
LUDOVICO IN THE UAUNTED CHAMBER. 127
a series of passages and btaircases, which led to unknown vaults under-
ground ; and, therefore, he never thought of looking for a door in those
parts of the chamber which he supposed to be next to the air. In these
was a communication with the room. The chateau (for we are not here
in Udolpho) was on the sea-shore in Languedoc ; its vaults had become
the store-house of pirates, who did their best to keep up the supernatural
delusions that hindered people from searching the premises ; and these
pirates had carried Ludovico away.
FROM THE NOVEL OF "NATURE AND ART," BY MRS. INCIIBALI).
ELIZABETH INCIIBALD, an amusing dramatist, a writer of stories of the
highest order for sentiment and passion, and a beautiful woman, ad-
mirable for attractiveness of almost eveiy kind, especially candour and
self-denial, was daughter of a farmer in Suffolk, of the name of Simpson.
She married an actor, a very worthy man, who died not long after their
union. She performed on the stage herself for some years, in spite of
an impediment in her speech, which seems to have been generally
under control ; and then settled down into a successful authoress, court-
ed by high and low, often with a view to marriage. la one or two
instances offers would evidently have been accepted had they been
made, but she was superior to all that were unconnected with the
heart. She maintained some relatives at the expense of personal
sacrifices that sometimes left her without a fire in winter ; and she died
at a respectable lodging-house in Kensington, where she was buried in
the churchyard. She wrote the dramas of The Midnight Hour, Tfie
Mogul Tale, Such Things Are, <fec. ; and, besides the novel from which
the following incident is taken, was authoress of The Simple Story, one
of the deepest-felt and best-written tales in the language. We had not
the honor of knowing Mrs. Inchbald; but we love her memory for
many reasons one of which is, that a mother who possessed similar
virtues was fond of those novels, particularly Mature and Art, and
recommended it strongly to us in our boyhood. Passages more beauti-
ful and pathetic than those which we have selected are not to be found
in the whole circle of English prose.
The reader will observe that the warning is not aimed at lawyers
in particular. The writer would have done nothing so unjust. A
THE WARNING. 129
jawyer is only selected for the more striking illustration of it ; and as
the profession, generally speaking, has been as free in its way of life as
most others, however admirable for the final wisdom and virtue in
which its many-thoughted experience tends to settle it, the dreadful
circumstances imagined in this story are but too possible perhaps
have often occurred in spirit, though not in letter. The exclamation
"Oh, not from you!" may rank with the finest bursts of emotion in
the tragic poets ; and it comes more dreadfully home to the bosom of
society.
THE day at length is come on which Agnes shall have
a sight of her beloved William ! She who has watch-
ed for hours near his door, to procure a glimpse of him
going out or returning home ; who has walked miles to see
his chariot pass ; she now will behold him, and he will see
her, by command of the laws of his country. Those laws,
which will deal with rigour towards her, are in this one in-
stance still indulgent.
The time of the assizes at the county town in which
she is imprisoned, is arrived the prisoners are demanded
at the shire-hall the jail doors are opened they go in
sad procession. The trumpet sounds it speaks the arrival
of the judge and that judge is William.
The day previous to her trial, Agnes had read, in the
printed calendar of the prisoners, his name as the learned
judge before whom she was to appear. For a moment she
forgot her perilous state in the excess of joy which the still
unconquerable love she bore to him permitted her to taste,
even on the brink of the grave ! After reflection made her
check these worldly transports, as unfit for the present solemn
occasion. But, alas ! to her, earth and William were so close-
ly united, that, till she forsook the one, she could never
cease to think, without the contending passions of hope, of
fear, of love, of shame, and of despair, on the other.
6*
130 THE WARNING.
Now fear took place of her first immoderate joy ; she
feared that, although much changed in person since he had
seen her, and her real name now added to many an alias
yet she feared that some well-known glance of the eye. turn
of the action, or accent of speech, might recall her to his
remembrance ; and at that idea, shame overcame all her
other sensations for still she retained pride, in respect to
his opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was that wretch
she felt she was ! Once a ray of hope beamed on her, that
if he knew her if he recognised her he might possibly be-
friend her cause ; and life, bestowed through William's
friendship, seemed a precious object ! But, again, that rig-
orous honour she had often heard him boast, that firmness
to his word, of which she had fatal experience, taught her
to know he would not, for any improper compassion, any
unmanly weakness, forfeit his oath of impartial justice.
In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless
night.
When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar, and
her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-seat
of William, imagination could not form two figures, or two
situations more incompatible with the existence of former
familiarity than the judge and the culprit ; and yet. these
very persons had passed together the most blissful moments
that either ever tasted ! Those hours of tender dalliance
were now present to her mind his thoughts were more no-
bly employed in his high office ; nor could the haggard face,
hollow eye, desponding countenance, and meagre person of
the poor prisoner, once call to his memory, though her name
was uttered among a list of others which she had assumed,
his former youthful, lovely Agnes !
She heard herself arraigned, with trembling limbs and
downcast looks, and many witnesses had appeared against
THE WARNING. 131
her, before she ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful
judge ; she then gave one fearful glance, and discovered
William, unpitying but beloved William, in every feature !
It was a face she had been used to look on with delight, and
a kind of absent smile of gladness now beamed on her poor
wan visage.
When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had
been examined, the judge addressed himself to her
" What defence have you to make ?"
It was William spoke to Agnes ! The sound was sweet ;
the voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging.
It almost charmed her to a love of life ! Not such a voice
as when William last addressed her ; when he left her un-
done and pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to her
more.
She would have hung upon the present word for ever.
She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect
of practice, the art of his occupation ; which, at times, is
but a copy, by the unfeeling, of the benevolent brethren of
the bench. In the present judge, tenderness was not de-
signed for consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation
of the auditors.
There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last
he parted from you ; if there had, the awful William would
have been awed to marks of pity.
Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue
directed to her, she stood like one just petrified all vital
power seemed suspended.
Again he put the question, and with these additional
sentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered : " Recol-
lect yourself; have you no witnesses? no proof on your
behalf?"
A dead silence followed these questions.
132 THE WARNING.
He then mildly but forcibly added " What have you
to say ?"
Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she
fixed earnestly upon him. as if pleading for mercy, while
she faintly articulated
" Nothing, my lord."
After a short pause, he asked her in the same forcible,
but benevolent tone
" Have you no one to speak to your character ?"
The prisoner answered
" No."
A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she called
to mind by whom her character had first been blasted.
He summed up the evidence, and every time he was
obliged to press hard upon the proofs against her, she
shrunk, and seemed to stagger with the deadly blow
writhed under the weight of his minute justice, more than
from the prospect of a shameful death.
The jury consulted but a few minutes, the verdict was '
" Guilty."
She heard it with composure.
But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head,
and rose to pronounce the fatal sentence, she started with a
kind of convulsive motion, retreated a step or two back, and
lifting up her hands, with a scream exclaimed
" Oh, not from you !"
The piercing shriek which accompanied these words,
prevented their being heard by part of the audience ; and
those who heard them thought little of their meaning, more
than that they expressed her fear of dying.
Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been
uttered, William delivered the final speech ending with
" Dead, dead, dead."
THE WARNING. 133
She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried back
to prison in a swoon ; while he adjourned the court to go
to dinner.
If, unaffected by the scene he had witnessed, William
sat down to dinner "with an appetite, let not the reader con-
ceive that the most distant suspicion had struck his mind
of his ever having seen, much less familiarly known, the
poor offender whom he had just condemned. Still this
forgetfulness did not proceed from the want of memory for
Agnes. In every peevish or heavy hour passed with his
wife, he was sure to think of her ; yet it was self-love,
rather than love of her, that gave rise to these thoughts.
He felt the lack of female sympathy and tenderness to
soften the fatigue of studious labour, to soothe a sullen, a
morose disposition he felt he wanted comfort for himself,
but never once considered what were the wants of Agnes.
In the chagrin of a barren bed he sometimes thought,
too, even on the child that Agnes bore him ; but whether it
were male or female, whether a beggar in the streets or
dead, various and important public occupation forbade him
to inquire. Yet the poor, the widow, and the orphan fre-
quently shared William's ostentatious bounty. He was the
president of many excellent charities, gave largely, and
sometimes instituted benevolent societies for the unhappy ;
for he delighted to load the poor with obligation, and the
rich with praise.
There are persons like him who love to do every thing
good but that which their immediate duty requires. There
are servants that will serve every one more cheerfully than
their masters ; there are men who will distribute money
liberally to all except their creditors ; and there are wives
who will love all mankind better than their own husbands.
Duty is a familiar word which has little effect upon an ordi-
134 THE WARNING.
nary mind ; and as ordinary minds make a vast majority,
we have acts of generosity, self-denial, and honesty, where
smaller pains would constitute greater virtues. Had Wil-
liam followed the common dictates of charity, had he
adopted private pity instead of public munificence, had he
cast an eye at home before he sought abroad for objects of
compassion, Agnes had been preserved from an ignominious
death, and he had been preserved from remorse, the tor-
tures of which he for the first time proved on reading a
printed sheet of paper, accidentally thrown in his way a few
days after he had left the town in which he had condemned
her to die.
" March 10th, 179.
" The last dying words, speech, and confession, birth,
parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, of
Agnes Primrose, who was executed this morning between
the hours of ten and twelve, pursuant to the sentence passed
upon her by the Honourable Justice Norwynne.
" Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the
village of Anfield, in the county of " (William started
at the name of the village and county) ; " but being led
astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell
from the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which
instilled into her young heart all their evil ways, and at
length brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her
death will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex ;
how they listen to the praises and courtship of young men,
especially of those who are their betters ; for they only
court to deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all
persons who have done her injury or given her sorrow, from
the young man who first won her heart, to the jury who
found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her 1o death.
THE WARNING. 135
" And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not
only in respect of her crime for which she suffers, but in re-
gard to many other heinous sins of which she has been guilty,
more especially that of once attempting to commit a murder
upon her own helpless child ; for which guilt she now con-
siders the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to which she
is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and charity with
all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her part-
ing soul."
POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION.
" So great was this unhappy woman's terror of death and
the awful judgment that was to follow, that when sentence
was pronounced upon her she fell into a swoon, from that into
convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, but
was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short
interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman
who attended her. She has left one child, a youth almost
sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the
time of her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial
duty ; and no sooner was her final sentence passed than he
began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill near the prison
from which she is released by death. During the loss of
her senses, the said Agnes Primrose raved continually of
her child ; and, asking for pen, ink, and paper, wrote an in-
coherent petition to the judge, recommending the youth to
his protection and mercy. But notwithstanding this insanity,
she behaved with composure and resignation when the fatal
morning arrived in which she was to be launched into eter-
nity. She prayed devoutly during the last hour, and seemed
to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which she was
going. A crowd of spectators followed her to the fatal spot,
most of whom returned weeping at the recollection of the
136 THE WARNING.
fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which
her dreadful state seemed to make upon her."
No sooner had the name of " Anfield" struck William,
than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on
his mind to give him full conviction who it was he had judged
and sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of Agnes,
such as he once had known her ; and now he wondered how
his thoughts could have been absent from an object so piti-
able, so worthy of his attention, as not to give him even
suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her
person, during the whole trial.
But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sen-
sation was absorbed by remorse. It wounded, it stabbed,
it rent his hard heart as it would do a tender one ; it havocked
on his firm inflexible mind as it would on a weak and pliant
brain ! Spirit of Agnes ! look down, and behold all your
wrongs revenged ! William feels remorse.
rpHE Life of John Buncle, Esq. ; containing various Observations
-L and Reflections made in several parts of tfie World, and many
Extraordinary Relations, is a book unlike any other in the language,
perhaps in the world ; and the introduction of passages from it into
the present volume must be considered as being, like itself, an excep-
tion to rules ; for it will resemble rather a notice in a review, than our
selections in general. John's Life is not a classic: it contains no
passage which is a general favourite : no extract could be made from it
of any length, to which readers of good taste would not find objections.
Yet there is so curious an interest in all its absurdities ; its jumble of
the gayest and gravest considerations is so founded in the actual state of
things ; it draws now and then such excellent portraits from life ; and
above all, its animal spirits are at once so excessive and so real, that
we defy the best readers not to be entertained with it, and having had
one or two specimens, not to desire more. Buncle would say, that
there is "cut and come again" in him, like one of his luncheons of
cold beef and a foaming tankard.
John Buncle, Esq., is the representative of his author, Thomas
Amory ; of whom little is known, except that he was a gentleman of
singular habits and appearance, who led a retired life, was married,
was a vehement Unitarian, wrote another extraordinary book profess-
ing to be "Lives of Several Ladies" (in which there is a link with
John), and died, to the glory of animal spirits, and of rounds of bread
and butter (into which his good cheer seems latterly to have merged),
at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. He is supposed to have been bred
a physician. His father was a barrister, and is understood to havo
acquired considerable property in Ireland, in consequence of becoming
secretary to the forfeited estates.
138 JOHN BUNVLK
John Buncle is evidently Amoiy himself. This is apparent from
the bits of real autobiography which are mixed with the fictitious, and
which constitute one of the strange jumbles in his book. Ilazlitt has
called him the " English Rabelais ;" and in point of animal spirits, love
of good cheer, and something of a mixture of scholarship, theology,
and profane reading, he may be held to deserve the title ; but he has
no claim to the Frenchman's greatness of genius, freedom from bigotry,
and profoundness of wit and humour. He might have done very well
for a clerk to Rabelais ; and his master would have laughed quite as
much at, as with him. John is a kind of innocent Henry the Eighth
"of private life," without the other's fat, fury, and solemnity. He is
a prodigious hand at matrimony, at divinity, at a song, at a loud
"hem," and at a turkey and chine. He breaks with the Trinitarians
as confidently and with as much scorn as Henry did with the Pope ;
and he marries seven wives, whom he disposes of by the lawful process
of fever and small-pox His book is made up of natural history, ma-
thematics (literally), songs, polemics, landscapes, eating and drinking,
and characters of singular men, all bound together by his introductions
to and marriages with these seven successive ladies, every one of whom
is a charmer, a Unitarian, and cut off in the flower of her youth. Buncle
does not know how to endure her loss ; he shuts his eyes " for three
days ;" is stupified ; is in despair ; till suddenly he recollects that
Heaven does not like such conduct ; that it is a mourner's business to
bow to its decrees ; to be devout ; to be philosophic : in shorty to be
jolly, and look out for another dear, bewitching partner, " on Christian
principles." This is, literally, a fair account of his book; and our
readers are now qualified to understand the passages we proceed to
extract.
The ' Lives of Several Ladies" which preceded Buncle's autobi-
ography, professed to be genuine lives, and were equally manifest
fictions, mixed with a portion of truth. The ladies, like the wives,
were all Unitarians, and all charming ; and the writer, after a certain
spiritual mode, fell in love with them. They partook of his zest for
all the pleasures of life ; had a great objection to ugly, as well as to
Athanasian husbands, and none in the world to a good supper. The
lives are addressed to a friend of the name of Jewks a name which is
often apostrophized with an abrupt joviality of the most amusing kind,
in the midst of theological disquisitions. As the opening of this work
u no unfavourable specimen of the author, and furnishes a pretty
JOHN BUSCLE. 139
thorough foretaste of his spirit, the reader ia presented with a few
pages of it
" Your letter, dear Jewks, I had the pleasure of receiv-
ing; and, that you should not suspect me of neglecting
you, I postpone my journey to Chadson, to answer your
questions. To the best of my power I will give you a monu-
ment of my friendship, though at present my condition is
such, that I cannot subtract too much from the organs of
the intellect, to give to those of motion. You shall have all
I know relating to the lady you inquire after. You shall
have, by the way, a few occasional observations.
" In the year 1739, I travelled many hundred miles to
visit ancient monuments, and discover curious things ; and
as I wandered, to this purpose, among the vast hills of
Northumberland, fortune conducted me one evening, in the
month of June, when I knew not where to rest, to the
sweetest retirement my eyes have ever beheld. This is
Hali-farm. It is a beautiful vale surrounded with rocks,
forest, and water. I found at the upper end of it the pret-
tiest thatched house in the world, and a garden of the most
artful confusion I had ever seen. The little mansion was
covered on every side with the finest flowery greens. The
streams, all round, were murmuring and falling a thousand
ways. All the kinds of singing birds were here collected,
and in high harmony on the sprays. The ruins of an abbey
enhance the beauties of this place ; they appear at the distance
of four hundred yards from the house ; and as some great
trees are now grown up among the remains, and a river winds
between the broken walls, the view is solemn, the picture fine.
" When I came up to the house, the first figure I saw
was the lady whose story I am going to relate. She had
the charms of an angel, but her dress was quite plain and
clean like a country maid. Her person appeared faultless,
140 JOHN BUN OLE.
and of the middle size, between the disagreeable extremes ;
her face a sweet oval, and her complexion the brunette of
the bright rich kind ; her mouth, like a rose-bud that is just
beginning to blow ; and a fugitive dimple, by fits, would
lighten and disappear. The finest passions were always
passing in her face ; and in her long, even, chestnut eyes,
there was a fluid fire sufficient for half-a-dozen pair.
" She had a volume of Shakspeare in her hand as I came
softly towards her, having left my horse at a distance with
my servant ; and her attention was so much engaged with
the extremely poetical and fine lines which Titania speaks
in the third act of the Midsummer Night 1 s Dream, that she
did not see me till I was quite near her. She seemed then
in great amazement. She could not be much more sur-
prised if I had dropped from the clouds. But this was soon
over, upon my asking her if she was not the daughter of
Mr. John Bruce, as I supposed from a similitude of faces,
and informing her that her father, if I was right, was my
near friend, and would be glad to see his chum in that part
of the world. Marinda replied, ' You are not wrong ;' and
immediately asked me in. She conducted me to a parlour
that was quite beautiful in the rural way, and welcomed me
to Hali-farm, as her father would have done, she said, had
I arrived before his removal to a better world. She then
left me for a while, and I had time to look over the room I
was in. The floor was covered with rushes wrought into
the prettiest mat, and the walls decorated all round with
the finest flowers and shells. Robins and nightingales, the
finch and the linnet, were in the neatest red cages of he/
own making ; and at the upper end of the chamber, in a
charming little open grotto, was the finest strix capite
aurito, cnrpore rufo, that I have seen, that is, the great
eagle owl. This beautiful bird, in a niche like a ruin, looked
JOHN BUNGLE. 141
vastly fine. As to the flowers which adorned this room,
I thought they were all natural at my first coming in, but
on inspection it appeared that several baskets of the finest
kinds were inimitably painted on the walls by Mannda's
hand.
" These things afforded me a pleasing entertainment for
about half an hour, and then Miss Bruce returned. One of
the maids brought in a supper such fare, she said, as her
little cottage afforded ; and the table was covered with
green peas and pigeons, cream cheese, new bread and but-
ter. Everything was excellent in its kind. The cider and
ale were admirable. Discretion and dignity appeared in
Marinda's behaviour ; she talked with judgment ; and,
under the decencies of ignorance, was concealed a valuable
knowledge." Vol. I., p. 1.
This is the way in which Buncle meets with most of his ladies.
They are discovered in lovely places reading books, and are always
prepared for nice little suppers. Their fathers or other companions are
generally people to match. Jack Bruce, Marinda's father, was an
excellent good fellow, disinherited by his own father for refusing to
sign the thirty-nine articles. He disappears in a solitude, marries a
farmer's daughter ("an extraordinary beauty" with an "uncommon
understanding "), and becomes a farmer himself.
" ' Religion.' would Jack Bruce say, as we passed an
evening over a little bowl of nectar for he never taught in
the dry, sober method ' religion,' &c."
Then follows a picture of philosophic Unitarianism.
" This was a glorious faith, Jewks." People, he says,
"may substitute inventive pieces in the place of true religion,
aud multiply their fancies into endleSs volumes; such as ;
Revelation examined ivith Candour, the most uncandid
142 JO HA UNCLE.
thing that ever was written; the Life of David, &c., by the
same author ; Rogers's Discourse of the Visible and Invisi-
ble Church ; Waterland's Importance, and other writings ;
the execrable dialogues called Ophiomaches ; Trapp, Web-
ster, and Vernon ; the miserable Answers to the Bishop oj
Clogher ; Dodwell, Church, and Brooks, against Middle-
ton ; Knowles against the Argument a Priori ; and cart-
loads of such religious lumber" (these italics are the au-
thor's) ; " but, my dear Jewks, true Christianity lies in re-
pentance and amendment."
Miss Bruce wins a husband by painting pictures of "Arcadia" and
the "Crucifixion," and "playing on the fiddle." Divers charming
young ladies come to her house by accident, and form extempore
never-dying friendships, in the manner of the people in the Rovers
" Come to my arms, my slight acquaintance."
Among others are Mrs. Schomberg and Miss West.
" They were riding t.o Crawford Dyke, near Dunglass,
the place I intended for, and by a wrong turn in the road
came to Mrs. Benlow's house, instead of going to Robin : s
Toad, where they designed to bait. It was between eight
and nine at night when they got to her door ; and as they
appeared, by the richness of their riding-dress, their ser-
vants, and the beautiful horses they rid, to be women of
distinction, Mrs. Benlow invited them in, and requested
they would lie at her house that night, as the inn they were
looking for was very bad. Nothing could be more grateful
to the ladies than this proposal. They were on the ground
in a moment ; and we all sat down soon after, with the
greatest cheerfulness, to a fine dish of trouts, roasted
chickens, tarts, and sparragrass. The strangers were quite
charmed with everything they saw. The sweet rural room
they were in, and the wild beauties of the garden in view>
JOHN UNCLE. 143
they could not enough admire ; and they were so struck
with Mrs. Benlow's goodness, and the lively happy manner
she has of showing it, that they conceived immediately the
greatest affection for her. Felicity could not rise higher
than it did at this table. For a couple of hours we laughed
most immoderately." Id., p. 92.
But to quit the lives of ladies who married other men, and come to
John Buncle and his own. John quits his father, as Jack Bruce did,
on account of a religious difference, and goes about the world, seeking
whom he may many. His first wife is a Miss Melmoth. He had
known her some time, when having been led one day into some parti-
cularly serious reflections on life and death by the sight of a skeleton,
he considered that it would be a good thing to " commence a matrimo-
nial relation with some sensible, good-humoured, dear, delightful girl of
the mountains, and persuade her to be the cheerful partner of his still
life." He thought that " nature and reason " would then " create the
highest scenes of felicity, and that he should live, as it were, in the
suburbs of heaven."
" This is fine," concludes he, in an ecstacy. " For onco
in my life I am fortunate. And suppose this partner I
want in my solitude could be Miss Melmoth, one of the
wisest and most discreet of women, thinking a bloom and
good-humour itself in a human figure, then, indeed, I must
be happy in this silent, romantic station. This spot of
earth would then have all the felicities. : Resolved. Con'
clusum est contra Manich(eos, said the great St. Austin ;
and with a thump of his fist, he (St. Austin) cracked the
table." Vol. II, Edit. 1770, p. 62.
Miss Melmoth, being one of the wisest as well as loveliest of
women, accepts of course the hand that draws so convincing a con-
clusion from the fist of St. Austin. For two years they lead a life of
bliss ; but at the end of that time she dies of a fever, and John quits a
solitude which he could not bear.
144 JOHN BUKCLE,
His second wife is the lovely Miss Statia Henley, "bright and
charming as Aurora," daughter of John Henley, Esquire, of the Groves
of Basil. She had some fugitive notions of celibacy, which our hero
refutes on Christian principles; and, as in the former instance, they
lead a life of bliss for two years. The " illustrious Statia " then dies of
the small-pox, and is laid by Charlotte's side.
" Thus did I again become a mourner. I sat with my
eyes shut for three days ; but at last called for my horse, to
try what air, exercise, and variety of objects could do."
Vol. Ill, p. 57.
Air, exercise, and a variety of objects did very well ; for Mr.
Buncle misses his way into the house and grounds of the exquisite Miss
Antonia Cramer, " a heaven-born maid " and " innocent beauty," whom
he marries of course. But her, also, alas ! he loses of the small-pox, at
the end of two no, three years. "Four" days, too, he sits with his
eyes shut, which is a day more than he gave to Statia ; and then he
left the lodge once more, "to live, if he could, since his religion
ordered him so to do, and see what he was next to meet with in the
world."
" Nota bene," says our author at this place. " As I
mention nothing of any children by so many wives, some
readers may perhaps wonder at this ; and therefore, to give
a general answer, once for all, I think it sufficient to ob-
serve, that I had a great many to carry on the succession ;
but as they never were concerned in any extraordinary
affairs, nor ever did any remarkable things, that I ever
heard of; only rise and breakfast, read and saunter, drink
and eat, it would not be fair, in my opinion, to make any
one pay for their history." P. 151.
This kind of progeny, by the way, hardly does credit to our hero's
rery exquisite marriages. But as extremes meet> and fair play must
>e seen to the mass of the community, we suppose the young Buncles
were dull, in consideration of the vivacity of the parents.
JOHN BUNGLE. 145
Mr. Buncle having laid his beloved Antonia by the side of his
Charlotte and his Statia, now goes to Harrogate ; and while there, " it
is his fortune to dance with a lady who had the head of an Aristotle,
the heart of a primitive Christian, and the form of a Venus de Medicis."
" This was Miss Spence, of Westmoreland. I was not
many hours in her company," says he, " before I became
most passionately in love with her. I did all I could to
win her heart, and at last asked her the question. But be-
fore I inform my readers what the consequence of this was,
I must take some notice of what I expect from the Critical
Reviewers. These gentlemen will attempt to raise the
laugh. Our moralist (they will say) has buried three wives
running, and they are hardly cold in their graves before
he is dancing like a buck at the Wells, and plighting vows
to a fourth girl, the beauty Miss Spence. An honest fellow,
this Suarez, as Pascal says of that Jesuit, in his Provincial
Letters.
" To this I reply, that I think it unreasonable and
impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and
proper tribute of tears and sorrow humanity requires ; but
when that duty has been paid, we must remember, that to
lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife ! A wife
must be a living woman." Vol. III., p. 180.
He argues furthermore, that it would be sinful to behave on such
occasions as if Providence had been unjust. The lady has been lent
but for a term ; and we must bow to the limitation. Besides, she is in
Heaven ; and therefore it would be senseless to continue murmuring,
and not make the most of the world that remains to us, while she ia
" breathing the balmy air of Paradise," and being " beyond description
happy."
Miss Spence, however, is a little coy. She is a very learned as well
as charming young lady. She quotes Virgil, discourses with her lover
on fluxions and the Differential Calculus, and is not to be won quite so
fast as he wishes. Nevertheless, he wins her at last ; loses her in six
7
146 JOHN BUNGLE.
months of a malignant fever and four doctors ; and in less tLan three
months afterwards, marries the divine Mias Emilia Turner, of Skelsmore
Vale alas ! for six weeks only. A chariot and four runs away with
them, and his "charmer is killed." She lives about an hour, repeats
some consolatory verses to him out of a Latin epitaph, and bids him
adieu with " the spirit of an old Roman."
John's next " intended " (for the marriage did not take place in due
order) was the enchanting Miss Dunk, famous for " exact regularity of
beauty, and elegant softness of propriety." This elegant softness of
propriety does not hinder the fair Agnes from running away with him
from her father's house; but she has scarcely arrived at the village
where they are to be married, when she falls sick, is laid out for dead,
and is buried in the next churchyard. Not long afterwards the un
happy lover meets her, alive, laughing, and taking no notice, in the
character of the wife of Dr. Stanvil, an amiable anatomist. The word
will explain the accident that brought the charmer into the doctor's
hands. Buncle, vexed as he owns himself to lose her, could not but
see the reasonableness of the result and the folly of making an " up-
roar ;" so he gallantly imitates the lady's behaviour, and rides off to fall
in with that " fine creature " Julia Fitzgibbons, as charming for a be-
witching negligence, as Miss Dunk was for a divine self-possession.
John studies physic under her father ; marries her in the course of two
years ; and at the end of ten month8 loses her in a river while they are
fishing. He sits with his eyes shut ten days (so highly do his wives
increase in value); and then calls his man "to bring out the horses,"
and is off, on Christian principles, for wife the seventh.
Who should this be but Miss Dunk? His friend, Dr. Stanvil, her
husband, drops down dead of an apoplexy on purpose to oblige him.
The widow lete him know that her reserve had not proceeded a bit
from dislike; quite the contrary. She marries him; they lead a bliss-
ful life for a year and a half, during which he is reconciled with his
father, who has berome a convert to Unitarianism ; and then the lady
goes the way of all Buncle's wives, dying of his favourite uxoricide, the
small-pox; and John, after diverting himself at sea, retires to a "little
flowery retreat," in the neighbourhood of London, to hear purling
streams on the one hand, and news on the other, and write verses
about going to Heaven.
The reader is to bear in mind, that all these marriages are inter
persed with descriptions, characters, adventures of other sorts, natural
JOHN UNCLE. 147
history, and, above all, with polemics full of the most ridiculous
beggings of the question, and the most bigoted invectives against
bigotry. A few specimens of the table of contents will show him
what sort of reading he has missed :
" The History of Miss Noel.
" A Conversation in relation to the Primaevity of the
Hebrew Tongue.
" Of Mrs. O'Hara's and Mrs. Grafton's Grottoes.
" Miss Noel's Notion of Hutchinson's Cherubim.
" The Origin of Earthquakes of the Abyss, &c.
" An Account of Muscular Motion.
" An Account of Ten Extraordinary Country Girls.
" A Rule to Determine the Tangents of Curved Lines.
" What a Moral Shekinah is.
" Of Mr. Macknight's Harmony (of the Gospels).
" Description of a Society of Protestant Married Friars.
" The Author removes to Oldfield Spaw, on account of
Indisposition occasioned hy Hard Drinking ; and his Re-
flections on Hard Drinking.
" A Discourse on Fluxions between Miss Spence and
the Author.
" Of the Athanasian Creed.
" What Phlogiston is.
" Picture and Character of Curll, the Bookseller." (He
says he was " very tall, thin, ungainly, goggle-eyed, white-
faced, splay-footed, and baker-kneed ; very profligate, but not
ill-natured.")
It is impossible to be serious with John Buncle, Esquire, jolly dog,
Unitarian, and Blue Beard ; otherwise, if we were t? take him at hia
word, we should pronounce him, besides being a jolly dog, to be one of
a very selfish description, with too good a constitution to correct him, a
prodigious vanity, no feeling whatever, and a provoking contempt for
everything unfortunate, or opposed to his whims. He quarrels with
148 JOHN BUNGLE.
bigotry, and is a bigot ; with abuse, and riots in it. lie Kates the cruei
opinions held by Athanasius, and sends people to the devil as an Arian.
He kills off seven wives out of pure incontinence and love of change,
yet cannot abide a rake or even the poorest victim of the rake, unless
both happen to be his acquaintances. The way in which he tramples
n the miserable wretches in the streets, is the very rage and triumph
of hard-heartedness, furious at seeing its own vices reflected on it,
unredeemed by the privileges of law, divinity, and success. But the
truth is, John is no more responsible for his opinions than health itself,
or a high-mettled racer. He only "thinks he's thinking." He does,
in reality, nothing at all but eat, drink, talk, and enjoy himself.
Amory, Buncle's creator, was in all probability an honest man, or he
would hardly have been innocent enough to put such extravagances
on paper. What Mrs. Amory thought of the seven wives does not
appear. Probably he invented them before he knew her ; perhaps
was not anxious to be reminded of them afterwards. When he was in
the zenith of his health and spirits, he must have been a prodigious
fellow over a bottle and beefsteak.
It is hardly necessary to say, that by the insertion of passages from
this fantastical book no disrespect is intended to the respectable sect of
Unitarians; who, probably, care as little for Buncle's friendship as the
Trinitarians do for his enmity. There is apt to be too little real
Christianity in polemics of any kind ; and John is no exception to the
remark. He contrives to be so absurd, even when most reasonable,
that the charms of Nature herself and of animal spirits would suffer
under his admiration and example, if readers could not easily discern
the difference ; and even the youngest need scarcely be warned against
overlooking it. Our volumes are intended to include all the phases of
humanity that can be set before them without injury ; and among
these were not to be omitted the eccentric.
nf 3knks nf
FROM WILLIAM DE RUBRUQUIS, MARCO POLO, LKDYARD, AND MUNGO PARK.
IN an old honse, or new house, or any house, but particularly in a
house in the country, where there are storms at night, and the wind is
thundering in the trees, and the rain comes dashing against the win-
dows in the gusts of it, who does not think of men at sea, of disasters
by shipwreck, of husbands and sons far away, struggling perhaps in
breakers on the shore, or clinging to icy shrouds, while we are lying in
the safe and warm bed ? It seems as if none of us ought to be com-
fortable on such occasions ; and yet, provided we do our duty to the
unfortunate, we ought to be as much so as we can ; for, in the first place,
none of our friends may be in danger ; and, secondly, Nature, in the
course of her harshest but always beneficent operations, never desires
more suffering to be inflicted than can be helped.
Now, homes have always a tendency to make us think of remote
places ; comfortable beds remind us of travellers by night ; and com-
fortable books, of travellers at all hours who cannot get any ; but of
all books, those which are written by travellers themselves give us a
quintessence of all these feelings : and the older the books are, and the
remoter the countries they treat of, the completer becomes our satisfac-
tion, because the antiquity itself has become a sort of reverend novelty,
and danger is over with all parties except in the happy shuddering
sense of it on the part of the reader.
" With many a tempest had his beard been shaken,"
says Chaucer of his seaman. It had been shaken, observe. So have
all the beards of travellers of old ; and the older or more ancient they
were, the more bearded one fancies them. An old folio book of ro-
{50 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
mantic yet credible voyages and travels to read, an old bearded travel-
ler for ite hero, a fireside in an old country-house to read it by, curtains
drawn, and just wind enough stirring out of doors to make an accom-
paniment to the billows or forests we are reading of, this surely is one
of the perfect moments of existence.
English reading of this kind, we mean the reading of books of
travels in the English language, may be said to commence with the
travels of good old William de Rubruquis and accomplished Marco
Polo. See how instinctively our good friend Dr. John Harris, thorough
disinterested bookworm, and one of the fathers of these collections of
knowledge, intimates their superiority over their precursors, in the
Table of Contents prefixed to his huge folio volumes, one of which is
now before us :
"An account of the Several Passages to the Indies, both by sea
and land, that have been attempted, discovered, or practised by the
Ancients.
" An account of the Travels of two Mahommedans through India
and China in the ninth century.
"The Travels of Rabbi Benjamin, the son of Jonas of Tudela,
through Europe, Asia, and Africa, from Spain to China, from the year
of our Lord 1160 to 1173; from the Latin versions of Benedict Arias
Montanus, and Constantine 1'Empereur, compared with other Transla-
tions into different languages."
" The remarkable Travels of William de Rubruquis, a monk, sent
by Louis IX., king of France, commonly styled St. Louis, ambassador
into different parts of the East, particularly into Tartary and China,
A.D. 1253, containing abundance of curious Particulars relating to those
Countries, written by the Ambassador, and addressed to his Royal
Master King Louis.
" The curious and remarkable Voyages and Travels of Marco Polo, a
gentleman of Venice, who, in the middle of the thirteenth century,
passed through a great part of Asia, all the dominions of the Tartai-s,
and returned home by sea through the Islands of the East Indies ;
taken chiefly from the accurate edition of Ramusio, compared with an
original manuscript in His Prussian Majesty's library, and with most of
the translations hitherto published."
The very tables of contents in these good folio writers, who give
" full measure, pressed down and running over," are a kind of books
in themselves, and save us the trouble of stating who their heroes
DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 151
were. Only, for the pleasure of the thing, we may add, that these two
fine old voyagers, from whom we are about to make some extracts,
were, the one aa simple, honest, truth-telling, and intelligent a soul
withal as ever took monkery for a good thing ; and the other, a man
of aa proved a credibility in his way, a noble, trading, and accomplish-
ed Venetian, though he may have leant his ear a little too much to
reports. He dealt in such very large and prosperous matters, both
of jewellery and government^ and saw such heaps of countries, and
cities, and populations, and revenues, that although he fairly overbore
the incredulity of his astounded countrymen with the bushels of
diamonds and precious stones which he poured forth before their eyes
(in a scene which our readers will meet with), he left behind him the
nickname of Marco Milione ; and a worthy epitomiser of his book in-
forms us, that the Venetians in their carnival entertainments long had
a character of that name, whose " chief jest lay in describing cities
with a million of bridges, husbands with a million of wives, birds with
a million of wings, beasts with a million of legs," &c.* But if Marco
had come to life again, he might have retorted by personifying a
buffoon populace possessed of a million of ignorances. Marco, like
Bruce, has outlived misconception. Every fresh traveller has tended
to confirm the relations both of him and Rubruquis; and as those
relations chiefly concern one of the largest, most curious, and most
unchanging countries and people on the face of the earth, they present
a singular combination of modern with ancient interest. The Tartars
are still nomade rovers in one part of their vast possessions, and
Chinese rulers in the other. Their dresses are the same as of old, their
faces the same ; they still exhibit the same mixture of great and civiliz-
ed, yet clumsy, undertakings ; and if in their joint character of Tartar
and Chinese, their philosopher, Confucius, has rendered them a far
wiser and more thinking people than is supposed even by the thinking
* Vide Mr. MacFarlane, himself a traveller, and very shrewd and entertaining
observer, in a publication entitled the Romance of Travel, vol. i, p. 239 (Knight's
Weekly Volumes). We have read Mr. MacFarlane's first two little books with the
greatest pleasure ; but though not wanting in curious extract as well as abridgment,
he is too summary for the purpose of the present book. Our extracts from Marco
Polo and Rubruquis are taken from the revised republication of Harris; Namgan-
tium atque Intineranlium Bibliotheca; or, a Complete Collection of Voyages
and Travels, consisting of above sins hundred of the most authentic writers, dbe.,
two volumes folio, 1764. Harris includes Hackluyt and Purchas, and translations
from the best authorities in other languages.
152 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
European (himself not so free from prejudice and foolish custom as he
fancies), their jealousy of innovation is a remnant of the old Tartar
pride, as well as an instinct of security. The greatest innovation in
China, next to philosophy, was tea ; which, however, appears to be of
older date than the times of Polo and Rubruquis, though Mr. MacFar-
lane has observed the curious fact of their making no mention of it.
There are no three ideas which we associate more strongly with the
two great portions of the East, than tea with the Chinese, and coffee
and smoking with the Turks and Persians ; yet tea is not alluded to
by the oldest Chinese writers, and the use of coffee and tobacco by
mankind dates no further back than a few centuries. There is no
mention of smoking in the Arabian Nights; nor was there of coffee,
till Mr. Lane found it in one of his additional stories. The Mussul-
man's drink was sherbet ; and instead of smoke, he chewed dates and
tarts.
This honesty on the part of our two good old travellers is, in
fact, a virtue belonging emphatically to the best travellers, ancient and
modern. Herodotus, the first authentic traveller, was an honest man.
Nearchus, Alexander's admiral, the first authentic voyager, was an
honest man. The great Columbus was one ; Drake was one ; Dampier,
Bernier, Cook, Bell of Antimony, Niebuhr, Pocock, Park, Ledyard, the
other explorers of Africa, and the heroical men who adorn our own
days, the Franklins, Richardsons, and Backs. Bruce's fault was not
dishonesty, but ostentation. It is impossible indeed to conceive men of
this kind unpossessed of great virtues. Nothing less could animate or
support them. Hence, in reading the best books of travels, we have
the double pleasure of feeling ourselves to be in the company of the
brave and the good.
In selecting the following extracts from some of the most interest-
ing of these writers, we have gone upon the principle of exemplifying
the chief points of attraction in books of voyages and travels ; to wit,
remoteness and obscurity of place, difference of custom, marvel] ousnesa
of hearsay, surprising but conceivable truth, barbaric or civilized
splendour, savage or simple contentment, personal danger, courage
and suffering, and moral enthusiasm.
WANDERING TARTARS. 153
WILLIAM DE RUBRUQUIS.
AND first for a taste of William de Rubruquis. It is to be borne in
mind, that he was sent into the East by the French king and crusader
Louis IX., in the middle of the thirteenth century. The crusades had
opened up a new Christian interest all over that quarter of the world.
Enterprising monks, and remnants of Christian churches in Turkey
and Armenia, had occasioned exaggerated notions of the state of the
laith in various parts of it ; and Louis had heard of the famous Prester
John, or imaginary Christian presbyter and king, reigning somewhere
over Christian subjects, who is supposed to have meant the king of
Abyssinia. Louis had sent some monks to look out for this royal
brother in vain ; and now he sent three more, to find him in the
person of a Tartar king of the name of Sartach. One of these was our
good monk "William, who seems to have been a Brabanter, and who
had Latinized his name, after the fashion of those times, from Ruys-
brock or Rysbruck into De Rubruquis. The servant of the church
militant went rejoicing on his perilous mission, armed with a. Bible
and prayer-book, with a few lowly presents of wine, dried fruit, and
biscuits, which the Tartars plundered and laughed at, and with a heap
of bad arguments in divinity, which Sartach appears to have laughed
at still more. As to Prester John, William could hear not a word
about him, except from a few Nestorian Christians, who had nothing
to show for the existence of such a personage. Prester John was
eternally sitting on his throne somewhere ; but it was always in some
other place.
Of Sartach the reader will find little in our extracts, the glory of
the sight of him having been prejudiced by that of his brother chief
and vagabond, Zagatai, whom Rubruquis saw first, and of whose state
and presence he gives a more particular account. All the statements
of Rubruquis are full of the life of truth. The appearance of Zagatai's
carts with their houses on them, moving towards the traveller as if "a
great city came to him," is particularly striking; and Zagatai's consort,
with her lovely noseless face, has a virtue of repulsion in her, beyond
all the foreign beauties we ever read of.
154 WANDERING TARTARS.
WANDEEING TAETAES AND TKEIE CHIEF ZAGATAI, IN THE THIE-
TEENTII CENTUEY.
TKOM THE TRAVELS OP WILLIAM DE BUBRUQUIS.
rpHE third day after we were departed out of these pre-
JL cincts of Soldaia, we found the Tartars, amongst whom
being entered, methought I was come into a new world,
whose life and manners I will describe unto your highness
as well as I can.
They have no settled habitation, neither know they to-
day where they shall lodge to-morrow.
They have all Scythia to themselves, which stretcheth
from the River Danube to the utmost extent of the East.
Each of their captains, according to the number of his people,
knows the bounds of his pastures, and where he ought to feed
his cattle winter and summer, spring and autumn ; for in
the winter they remove into warm regions southward, and
in the summer they go up into the cold regions northward.
In winter, when snow lies upon the ground, they feed their
cattle in pastures where there is no water, because then they
use snow instead of water. Their houses in which they
sleep they raise upon a round foundation of wickers artifi-
cially wrought and compacted together, the roof consisting of
wickers also meeting above in one little roundell, out of
which there rises upwards a neck like a chimney, which they
cover with white felt ; and often they lay mortar or white
earth upon the felt with the powder of bones, that it may
shine and look white : sometimes also they cover their houses
with black felt. This cupola of their house they adorn with
variety of pictures.
Before the door they hang a felt curiously painted over,
for they spend all their coloured felt in painting vines, trees,
birds, and beasts thereupon. These houses they make so
WANDERING TARTARS. 155
large that they contain thirty feet in breadth ; for measur-
ing once the breadth between the wheel-ruts of one of their
carts or wains, I found it to be twenty feet over, and when
the house was upon the cart it stretched over the wheels on
each side five feet at least. I told two-and-twenty oxen in
one draught, drawing an house upon a cart, eleven in one
row according to the breadth of the cart, and eleven more
on the other side. The axle-tree of the cart was of an huge
bigness like the mast of a ship, and a fellow stood in the
door of the house upon the forestall of the cart, driving the
oxen. They likewise make certain four-square baskets of
slender twigs, as big as great chests ; and afterwards from
one side to another they frame an hollow lid or cover of
such-like twigs, and make a door in it before. Then they
cover the said chest or house with black felt, rubbed over
with tallow or sheep's milk, to keep the rain from soaking
through, which they likewise adorn with painting or white
feathers. Into these chests they put their whole house-
hold stuff, or treasure, and bind them upon other carts which
are drawn by camels, that they may pass through rivers ;
neither do they ever take down these chests from their carts.
When they take down their dwelling-houses, they turn
the doors always to the south, and next they place the carts
laden with chests here and there within a stone's cast of
the house, insomuch that the house standeth between two
ranks of carts, as it were between two walls.
The women make themselves (adorn?) beautiful carts,
which I am not able to describe to your majesty but by
pictures only. I would willingly have painted all things
for you, had my skill being great enough in that art. A
rich Tartar hath a hundred or two such carts with chests.
Baatu hath sixteen wives, every one of which hath one great
house besides other little houses, which they place behind
156 WANDERING TARTARS.
the great one, being as it were chambers for their women
to dwell, and to each of the houses belong two hundred
carts. When they take their houses off their carts, the
principal wife placeth her court on the west, and so all the
rest in order ; so that the last wife's house is on the east
frontier, and the court of each wife is distant from another
about a stone's cast.
Hence it is that the court of a rich Tartar will appear
like a very large village, few men being to be seen therein.
One woman will guide twenty or thirty carts at once, for
their country is very flat, and they fasten the carts with
camels or oxen one behind another. A wench sits in the
foremost cart driving the oxen, and all the rest of them-
selves follow at a like pace. When they come to a place
which is a bad passage, they loose them, and guide them
one by one, for they go at a slow pace, and not much faster
than an ox can walk.
On my arrival among these barbarous people I thought,
as I before observed, that I was come into a new world ;
for they came flocking about us on horseback, after they
had made us wait for them in the shade under the black
carts. The first question they asked was, whether we had
ever been with them heretofore or not ; and on our answer-
ing that we had not, they began impudently to beg our
victuals from us. We gave them some of our biscuit and
wine, which we had brought with us from the town of Sol-
dai ; and having drunk off one flaggon of our wine, they
demanded another, telling us that a man does not go into a
house with one foot. We gave them no more, however, ex-
cusing ourselves that we had but little. Then they asked
us whence we came, and whither we were bound. I answered
them in these words, That we had heard concerning theii
Prince Sartach, that he was become a Christian, and thai
WANDERING TAETAKS. If, 7
unto him our determination was to travel, having your
majesty's letter to deliver unto him. They were very in-
quisitive to know if I came of mine own accord, or whether
I was sent. I answered that no man compelled me to come,
neither had I come unless I had been willing ; and that
there I was come, according to my own will and that of my
superior. I took the utmost care never to say I was your
majesty's ambassador. Then they asked what we had in
our carts, whether it were gold, silver, or rich garments to
take to Sartach. I answered that Sartach should see what
we had brought when we were come unto him ; that they
had nothing to do to ask such questions, but rather ought
to conduct me unto their captain ; and that he, if he thought
proper, should cause me to be directed to Sartach if not,
that I would return ; for there was in the same province
one of Baatu's kinsmen, called Zagatai, to whom the Em-
peror of Constantinople had written letters to suffer me to
pass through his territories.
With this answer of ours they were satisfied, giving us
horses and oxen and two men to conduct us. But before
they would allow us these necessaries, they made us wait a
long while, begging our bread for their brats, wondering at
all things they saw about our servants, as their knives,
gloves, purses, and points, and desiring to have them. I
excused myself, saying we had a long way to travel, and we
could not deprive ourselves of things necessary to finish so
long a journey. They said I was a niggardly scoundrel.
It is true they took nothing by force from me, but they will
beg all they see very importunately ; and if a man bestows
anything upon them, it is but lost ; for they are thankless
wretches. They esteem themselves lords, and think that
nothing should be denied them by any man. If a man
gives them nothing, and afterwards stands in need of their
158 WANDERING TARTARS.
assistance, they will do nothing for him. They gave us of
their cows' milk to drink after their butter was churned
out of it, which was very spur, which they call Apram ; so
we departed from them ; and indeed it seemed to me that
we were escaped out of the hands of devils. The next day
we were introduced to their captain. From the time where-
in we departed from Soldai till we arrived at the court of
Sartach, which was the space of two months, we never lay
in house or tent, but always under the canopy of heaven,
and in the open air, or under our carts ; neither saw we any
village, or heard of any building where any village had been ;
but the graves of the Comanians we saw in great abun-
dance.
We met the day following with the carts of Zagatai,
laden with houses, and I really thought that a great city
came to meet me. I wondered at the multitudes of droves
of oxen and of horses, and droves of sheep ; I could see but
few men that guided all these, upon which I inquired how
many men he had under him, and they told me that he had
not above five hundred in all, and that one-half of this num-
ber never lay in another lodging. Then the servant, which
was our guide, told me that I must present somewhat to
Zagatai, and so he caused us to stay, going themselves
before to give notice of our coming. By this time it was
past three, and they unladed their houses near a river, and
there came unto us his interpreter, who, being informed by
us that we were never there before, demanded some of our
victuals, and we granted his request. He also required of
us some garment as a reward, because he was to interpret
our message to his master. We excused ourselves as well
as we could. Then he asked us what we would prefer to
his lord, and we took a flaggon of wine, and filled a basket
with biscuit, and a salver with apples and other fruits ; but
WANDERING TARTARS. 159
nc was not contented therewith, because we brought him
not some rich garment.
We were however admitted into his presence with fear
and bashfulness. He sat on his bed, holding a musical
instrument in his hand, and his wife sat by him, who, in my
opinion, had cut and pared her nose between the eyes that
she might seem to be more flat-nosed ; for she had left her-
self no nose at all in that place, having anointed the very
scar with black ointment, as she also did her eyebrows,
which sight seemed to us most ugly. Then I repeated to
him the same words which I had done in other places ; for
we were directed in this circumstance by some that had
been amongst the Tartars, that we should never vary in our
tale. I besought him that he would accept this small gift
at our hands, excusing myself that I was a monk, and that
it was against our profession to possess gold, silver, or pre-
cious garments, and therefore that I had not any such thing
to give him, unless he would receive some part of our
victuals instead of a blessing. He caused thereupon our
present to be received, and immediately distributed the
same amongst his men, who were met together for that pur-
pose, to drink and make merry. I delivered also to him
the Emperor of Constantinople's letters, eight days after
the feast of Ascension, and he sent them to Soldai to have
them interpreted there ; for they were written in Greek,
and he had none about him that was skilled in the Greek
tongue.
He asked us if we could drink any Cosmos that is to
say, mare's milk, for those that are Christians among them,
as the Russians, Grecians, and Alans, who keep their own
laws very strictly, will not drink thereof, for they account
themselves no Christians after they have once drank of it ;
and their priests reconcile them to the church, as if they
160 WANDERING TARTARS.
had renounced the Christian faith. I answered, that as yet
we had sufficient of our own to drink, and that when it
failed us we should be constrained to drink such as should
be given us. He inquired also what was contained in the
letters your majesty sent to Sartach. I answered they were
sealed up, and nothing contained in them but friendly
words. And he asked what words we would deliver unto
Sartach. I answered the words of Christian Faith. He
asked again what those words were, for he was very desirous
to hear them. Then I expounded to him, as well as I
could by my interpreter, who was a very sorry one, the
Apostle's Creed, which after he had heard he shook his head.
Here endetli (as far as our pages are concerned) good William de
Rubruquis ; and here beginneth the good Signor Jeweller and noble
Venetian, Messer Marco Polo.
MARCO POLO.
HARRIS suffered his pen to slip in his table of contents when h
described Marco Polo travelling in the middle of the twelfth centuiy
That was the date of the father and uncle of Marco, who went intc
China and Tartary before him. Marco, however, includes the history
of their travels in his own, so that Harris's date does not violate the
spirit of the truth. The father and uncle, Niccolo and Maffeo Polo,
had had better luck than Rubruquis. They saw not only the wild and
roving Tartars, but the civilized ; those who lived in great cities, not,
of houses on carts, but of magnificent palaces, descendants of the con-
querors under Genghis Khan, lord of India, Persia, and Northern
China, whose descendant Kubla (Coleridge's Kubla) was now reigning
" In Cambalu, seat of Cathaian Khan."
PARADISE LOST.
Milton had seen him before Coleridge, in the pages of Marco Polo. The
MARCO POLO. 161
great poet had also seen the Tartars of William de Rubruquis, and the
subsequent Chinese improvements on their carts :
"As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds,
Dislodging from a region scarce of prey
To gorge the flesh of lambs or yeanling kids
On hills where flocks are fed, flies tow'rds the springs
Of Ganges or Hydaspes, Indian streams,
But in his way lights on the barren plains
Of Sericana, where Chineses drive
"With sails and wind their cany waggons light;
So on this windy sea of land the Fiend
Walk'd up and down alone, bent on his prey."
ID., Book III.
The reader will also find Milton presently with Marco Polo in the
desert. He was fond of the East and South, from Tartary down to
Morocco, from the red and white complexions of the conical-hatted
sons of Hologou down to the
" Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreathM."
But what poet is not? Chaucer got his 'Squire's Tale, nobody knows
how, from
" Sarra, in the land of Tartary."
Other old English poets confounded, or chose to confound,
" the loathly lakes of Tartary"
with those of Tartarus ; at least, one word with the other. They thought
both the places so grim and remote, as to deserve to have the same
appellation.
Niccolo and Maffeo Polo went into the East to trade in jewels.
They entered the service of Kubla, assisted him in his wars with their
knowledge of engineering, and became agents for religious affairs be-
tween the Pope and their master, who (with a liberality which is &j t
to be more honourable to the person who is willing to hear, than to
the zealots who assume that they are qualified to teach him) was desir-
ous to understand what a people so clever in the affairs of this world
had to tell him respecting the world unknown. On their return to the
Khan (which terminated in nothing to that end), they brought with
them the younger Polo Marco, who also entered the Khan's service
162 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
and who subsequently became the most enterprising traveller of al.
three, and the relater of their adventures. He told the history to a
friend, who took it from his mouth ; and hence it is, that he is always
spoken of in the third person.
The reader must conceive Marco in full progress for the court of the
Great Khan, and about to pass over the terrible desert of Lop or Kobi,
where he (or Dr. Harris) has omitted, however, what we could swear
we once beheld in it^ by favour of some other account ; to wit, a dread-
ful unendurable face, that used to stare at people as they went by.
Polo's account, deprived of this rich bit of horror, is comparatively
tame ; but still the sounds, and the invisible host of passengers, are
much ; and the poetic reader will trace the footsteps of Milton, who
has clearly been listening, in this same desert of Lop, to the ghastly
calling of people's names to
" Voices calling in the dead of night,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names
On sands and shores and desert wildernesses."
He has another line in the same passage about "ghastly fury's appari-
tion," which we cannot but think was suggested by our friend, the
dreadful face.
MABCO POLO PASSES TUB DESERT OF LOP.
is subject to the Tartars; the name of the
\J province and chief city is the same ; it hath many cities
and castles, many precious stones are found there in the
rivers, especially jasper and chalcedons, which merchants
carry quite to Ouaback to sell and make great gain ; from
Piem to this province, and quite through it also, is a sandy
soil with many bad waters and few good. When an army
passes through the province, all the inhabitants thereof, with
their wives, children, cattle, and all their house stuff fly two
days' journey into the sands, where they know that great
waters are, and stay there, and carry their corn thither,
also to hide it in the sand after harvests from the like fears.
MARCO POLO PASSES THE DESERT OF LOP. 163
The wind doth so deface their steps in the sand, that their
enemies cannot find their way.
Departing from this province, you are to travel five days'
journey through the sands, where no other water almost
than that which is bitter is anywhere to be found, until you
come to the city called Lop, which is a great city from
which is the entrance of a great desert, called also the wil-
derness of Lop, seated between the east and the north-east.
The inhabitants are Mahommedans, subject to the Great
Khan.
In the city of Lop, merchants who desire to pass over
the desert, cause all necessaries to be provided for them,
and when victuals begin to fail in the desert, they kill their
asses and camels, and eat them. They make it mostly their
choice to use camels, because they are sustained with little
meat, and bear great burthens. They must provide victuals
for a month to cross it only, for to go through it lengthways
would require a year's time. They go through the sands
and barren mountains, and daily find water ; yet it is some-
times so little that it will hardly suffice fifty or a hundred
men with their beasts : and in three or four places the water
is salt and bitter. The rest of the road, for eight-and-twenty
days, is very good. In it there are not either beast, or birds ;
they say that there dwell many spirits in this wilderness,
which cause great and marvellous illusions to travellers, and
make them perish ; for if any stay behind, and cannot see
his company, he shall be called by his name, and so going
out of the way, is lost. In the night they hear as it were
the noise of a company, which taking to be theirs they per-
ish likewise. Concerts of music-instruments are sometimes
heard in the air, likewise drums and noise of armies. They
go therefore close together, hang bells on their beasts' necks,
and set marks if any stray.
164 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
"We must now suppose our traveller arrived at the dwelling ol
KUBLA KHAN.
Tins magnificent Tartar prince has always been an object of inter-
est with readers of the old travellers. A fine poet has noticed him,
and rendered him a hundred times more so. Coleridge was reading an
account of one of his structures in Purchas's Pilgrimage, when he fell
into a sleep occasioned by opium, during which, he tells us, he poured
forth some hundreds of lines, of which an accident deprived us of more
than the divine fragment known under the title of Kubla Khan, or a
Vision in a Dream. Opium takers are said to have such visions ; but
only such an opium taker as Coleridge ever had one, we suspect, so
thoroughly fit and poetical, or related it in such exquisite music. It is
impossible to refer to it, and not repeat it. The reader shall first have
not only the words which the poet quotes from Purchas as having occa-
sioned it, but the original of Purchas from Marco Polo. He will then
see what a poet can do, even for a book of old travels and a king of
kings.
Coleridge says he fell asleep while reading " the following sentence,
or words of the same substance," from Purchas's book : " Here the
Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden
thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed with a
wall." " The author," he proceeds, " continued for about three hours
in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which he
has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less
than from two to three hundred lines ; if that indeed can be called com-
position in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a
parallel production of the corresponding expressions, without any sen-
sation, or a consciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to him-
self to have a distinct recollection of the whole ; and taking his pen,
ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are
here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a
person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour ;
pnd on his return to his room, found to his no small surprise and mor-
ification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollec-
rion of the general purport of the vision, yet^ with the exception of
ome eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed
away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had
been cast ; but^ alas ! without the after restoration of the latter."
KUBLA KHAWS PALACE AT XANADU. 165
The veracity of this statement has been called iii question ; by what
right of superior knowledge to the poet's own, we cannot say. For
our parts, we devoutly believe it. We know very little of opium ; but
perhaps every writer of verse has experienced what it is to pour forth
poetry in dreams, though he may have been as unable to call his pro-
duction to mind, as Scarlatti was his famous " Devil's Sonata." Cole-
ridge, by some process perhaps of the mysterious herb which had set
him to sleep, had the ability given him ; perhaps he had not been
aaleep at all in the ordinary sense of the word, but in some state of what
is called coma vigil. At all events, the poem, exquisite as it is, is no
finer than he could have written awake ; and what he could have writ-
ten awake, he might have conceived asleep, especially under the pre-
ternatural kind of excitement to which opiates give rise.
The following is Marco Polo's account of the structure alluded to.
We give it, however, not from Harris, but from the later and better
pages of Mr. Murray, who published not long ago the completest ver-
sion of the travels of Marco Polo. The "Shandu" of Mr. Murray is
the " Xanadu" of Coleridge.
KUBLA KHAN'S PALACE AT XANADU.
At Shandu in Tartary, near the western frontier of
China, he has built a very large palace of marble and other
valuable stones. The halls are gilded all over, and won-
derfully beautiful, and a space sixteen miles in circuit is
surrounded by a wall within which are fountains, rivers, and
meadows. He finds stags, deer, and wild-goats, to give for
food to the falcons and ger-falcons, which he keeps in cages,
and goes out once a week to sport with them. Frequently
he rides through that enclosure, having a leopard on the
crupper of his horse, which, whenever he is inclined, he lets
go, and it catches a stag, deer, or wild-goat, which is given
to the ger-falcons in the cage. In this park, too. the mon-
arch has a large palace framed of cane, in interior gilded
all over, having pictures of beasts and birds most skilfully
worked on it. The roof is of the same material, and so
160 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVELS.
richly varnished that no water can penetrate. I assure you
that these canes are more than three palms thick, and from
ten to fifteen paces long. They are cut lengthways, from
one knot to the other, and then arranged so as to form the
roof. The whole structure is so disposed that the Khan,
when he pleases, can order it to be taken down, for it is
supported by more than two hundred cords of silk. His
majesty remains there three months of the year, June, July,
and August, the situation being cool and agreeable ; and
during this period his palace of cane is set up, while all the
rest of the year it is down. On the 28th of August, he
departs thence, and for the following purpose : there are
a race of mares white as snow, with no mixture of any other
colour, and in number 10,000, whose milk must not be
drunk by any one who is not of imperial lineage. Only one
other race of men can drink it, called Boriat, because they
gained a victory for Gengis Khan. When one of these
white animals is passing, the Tartars pay respect to it as a
great lord, standing by to make way for it.
Now for the architecture and landscape gardening of the por ;
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree,
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girded round :
And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree j
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
KUBLA KHAN'S PALACE AT XANADU. 167
But, oli ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover !
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover !
And from this chasm with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail :
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war !
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves ;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle or rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ico !
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw ;
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she play'd,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
168 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
Her symphony and song.
To such a deep delight 't would win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice !
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry beware ! beware !
His flashing eyes, his floating hair !
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your lips with holy dread.
For he on honey dew hath fed,
And drank the milk of Paradise.
Neither Marco Polo, nor Rubruquis, no, nor Raleigh himself, nor any
traveller that existed, ever saw a vision like that !
But we must hasten out of its divine company. Marco resumes
with an account of
KUBLA KHAN'S PERSON AND STATE.
The Great Khan, lord of lords, named Kublai, is of a
fine middle size, neither too tall nor too short ; he has a
beautiful fresh complexion, and well-proportioned limbs.
His colour is fair and vermeil like the rose, his eyes dark
and fine, his nose well formed and placed. He has four
ladies, who always rank as his wives ; and the eldest son,
born to him by one of them, succeeds as the rightful heir
of the empire. They are named empresses ; each bears his
name, and holds a court of her own ; there is not one who
has not three hundred beautiful maidens, with eunuchs, and
many other male and female attendants, so that some of the
courts of these ladies contain 10,000 persons.
Kubla resides in the vast city of Kambalu, three months
in the year, December, January, and February, and has here
his great palace, which I will now describe.
KUBLA KHAN'S PERSON AND STATE. 169
The floor rises ten palms above the ground, and the roof
is exceedingly lofty. The walls of the chambers and stairs
are all covered with gold and silver, and adorned with pic-
tures of dragons, horses, and other races of animals. The
hall is so spacious that 6000 can sit down to banquet ; and
the number of apartments is incredible. The roof is exter-
nally painted with red, blue, green, and other colours, and is
so varnished that it shines like crystal, and is seen to a great
distance around.
The Tartars celebrate a festival on the day of their na-
tivity. The birthday of the Khan is on the 28th of Septem-
ber, and is the greatest of all, except that at the beginning
of the year. On this occasion he clothes himself in robes
of beaten gold, and his twelve barons and 12,000 soldiers
wear, like him, dresses of a uniform color and shape ; not
that they are so costly, but similarly made of silk, gilded,
and bound by a cincture of gold. Many have their robes
adorned with precious stones and pearls, so as to be worth
10,000 golden bezants. The Great Khan, twelve times in
the year, presents to those barons and knights robes of the
same colour with his own ; and this is what no lord in the
world can do.
And now I will relate a most wonderful thing, namely,
that a large lion is led into his presence, which as soon as
it sees him, drops down, and makes a sign of deep humility,
owning him for its lord, and moving about without any
chain.
Chaucer bad certainly read of Kubla. He has described him sitting,
as above, at his table,
" Harking his minstrelles their thingSs play
Before him at his board, deliciously."
And so, leaving him in this proper imperial attitude with his minstrelsy,
8
1 70 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL.
his lords, and his lion, we take leave of Marco and his mighty Khan
Nations in those times appear to have tried what they could do to ag-
gravate the welfare and importance of a single man. It was a very
absurd though a very amusing endeavour. The single man, at his peril,
at least in Europe, must now try what he can do to aggravate the wel-
fare and importance of the people.
We must not quit, however, the old times of travels, and the most
authentic of their illustrators, without quoting some passages in the
narratives of Mandeville, Oderico, and others, whose names, though not
worthy to stand beside the former, are associated with those regions of
wild and preternatural interest which lie between truth and fiction ;
places, of which more is truly related than the narrators have been
given credit for, but with such colouring from the reports of others,
and from their own excited imagination, as give us leave to doubt or to
believe just as much as may be suitable to the frame of mind in which
we read them. The dreadful or delightful sounds, for instance, which
these old travellers heard in deserts, have been reasonably attributed
to winds and other natural causes ; and the terrible "faces" which they
saw, to robbers or gigantic sculpture. But what care we for "pure
reason," when we desire romance ? There is enough mystery in every-
thing, however commonplace, to leave its causes inexplicable ; and if
we choose to have our mysterious music or our terrible face without
the alloy of explanation, " neat as imported," we have all the right in
the world, whether as boys or sages, to have the wish indulged.
FRIAR ODERIC'S RICH MAN WHO WAS FED BY FIFTY VIRGINS.
While in the province of Mangi, or Southern China, I
passed by the palace of a rich man, who is continually at-
tended upon by fifty young virgins, who feed him at every
meal as a bird feeds her young ; and all the time they are
so employed, they sing to him most sweetly. The revenues
of this man are thirty tomans of tagars of rice, each toman
being 10.000 tagars, and one tagar is the burthen of an ass.
His palace is two miles in circuit, and is paved with alter-
nate layers of gold and silver. Near the wall of his palace
there is an artificial mould of gold and silver, having turrets
OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 171
and steeples and other magnificent ornaments, contrived for
the solace and recreation of this great man.
The personal title of the following tremendous old gentleman
(called " Senex" by the first translator of Oderico) means nothing more,
with the "reasonable," than Sheik, or Elder. He is a kind of dreadful
Alderman. But who would part with the words " Old Man of the
Mountain," their wrinkled old vigour and reverend infamy ? He is
first cousin of the shocking old fellow in Sinbad, the Old Man of the
Sea, who rode upon the shoulders of that voyager like a nightmare,
and stuck his knees in his sides. It is proper to retain the " Of " in the
old heading of the story. " 0/"the old man," <fcc., is much more an-
cient and mysterious than the modern custom of beginning with " The."
OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN.
Proceeding on my travels towards the south, I arrived
at a certain pleasant and fertile country, called Melistorte,
in which dwells a certain aged person called the Old Man
of the Mountain. This person had surrounded two moun-
tains by a high wall, within which he had the finest gardens
and finest fountains in the world, inhabited by great numbers
of most beautiful virgins. It was likewise supplied with fine
horses, and every article that could contribute to luxury and
delightful solace ; on which account it was called by the
people of the country, the terrestrial paradise. Into this
delightful residence the old man used to entice all the young
and valiant men he could procure, where they were initiated
into all the delights of the earthly paradise, in which milk
and wine flowed in abundance, through certain hidden con-
duits. When desirous of assassinating any prince or noble-
man, who had offended him, the old man would order the
governor of his paradise to entice into that place some ac-
quaintance or servant of the prince or baron whom he wished
to slay. Allowing this person to take a full taste of the
172 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
delights of the place, we was cast into a deep sleep by means
of a strong potion, in which state he was removed from para-
dise ; on recovering from his sleep, and finding himself ex-
cluded from the pleasures of paradise, he was brought before
the old man, whom he entreated to restore him to the place
from whence he had been taken. He was then told, that if
he would slay such or such a person, he should not only be
permitted to return into paradise, but should remain there
for ever.
By these means the old man used to get all those mur-
dered against whom he had conceived any displeasure ; on
which account all the kings and princes of the east stood in
awe of him and paid him tribute.
When the Tartars had subdued a large portion of the
earth, they came into the country of the old man, and took
from him his paradise. Being greatly incensed at this, he
sent out many of his resolute and desperate dependents, by
whom numbers of the Tartar nobles were slain. Upon this
the Tartars besieged the city of the old man of the moun-
tain ; and making him prisoner, they put him to a cruel and
ignoble death.
The famous Prester John must by no means be omitted in the list
of these remote personages who sit "throned" in old books. Prester,
that is to say, Presbyter, or Priest John, has generally been thought in
later times to mean the Christian King of Abyssinia ; but the most
recent investigators are inclined to restore him his old locality, and con-
eider him as a Tartar king, probably a Mongol of the name of Whang,
who was supposed to have been converted to the Christian faith by
Nestorian missionaries. Whang is almost identical with the pronuncia-
tion of the Spanish form of John Juan; which is very unlike what
we call it in England. The imagination is to consider Prester John as
a compound of priest and sovereign, an eastern pope or Christian
Grand Lama, sitting clothed in white, and holding a cross instead of a
sceptre. lie is a Christian Tartar, subjugating the nations around him.
HO W PEESTER JOHN URNT UP HIS ENEMIES. { 73
till he is conquered by the more famous Zinghis Khan. Little, how-
ever, is known of him beyond his name. The most wonderful anec-
dote we can find of him is one that is related by Friar John de Carpini,
who was sent ambassador to the Tartars by Pope Innocent IV., in the
middle of the thirteenth century. It seems to anticipate the appear-
ance of artillery in Europe.
HOW PRESTER JOHN BURNT UP HIS ENEMY'S MEN AND HORSES.
"When Zinghis and his people had rested some time after
their conquest of Cathay, he divided his army, and sent one
of his sons, named Thosut Khan, against the Comainans,
whom he vanquished in many battles, and then returned
into his own country. Another of his sons was sent with
an army against the Indians, who subdued the Lesser India.
These Indians are the Black Saracens, who are also named
Ethiopians. From thence the Mongol army marched to
fight against the Christians dwelling in the greater part of
India ; and the king of that country, known by the name of
Prester John, came forthwith his army against them. This
prince caused a number of hollow copper figures to be made,
resembling men, which were stuffed with combustibles and
set upon horses, each having a man behind on the horse,
with a pair of bellows to stir up the fire. When approach-
ing to give battle, these mounted images were first sent for-
wards against the enemy, and the men who rode behind set
fire by some means to the combustibles, and blew strongly
with their bellows ; and the Mongol men and horses were
burnt with wild-fire, and the air was darkened with smoke.
Then the Indians charged the Mongols, many of whom were
wounded and slain, and they were expelled from the country
in great confusion, and we have not heard that they ever
ventured to return.
174 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL,
It is a pity we cannot give a hundred other romantic particulars out
of theae old travellers, from the times of Herodotus downwards; but
our limite will not permit us. We must pass, with a due amount of
delight or horror, his semi-annual sleepers and pious cannibals ; the isle
of Nearchus, from which no one returned ; the accounts of Gog and
Magog, and the wall of Doolkarnien ; the one-eyed and one-legged peo-
ple of Mandeville, the latter of whom make an umbrella of their foot ;
isles of giants and rivers of gems ; goblets of wine that came to the
drinker of their own accord ; and the Region of Darkness where there
never appeared sun, moon, or star, <fcc. Sindbad or Ulysses could not
beat them ; sometimes had the same identical experiences, as in valleys
of diamonds and raw-men-eating giants. We must escape from old fic-
tions founded on truth, to modern narratives full of truth and more
touching than fiction. And first for honest^ admirable
LEDYARD.
LEDYARD'S touching praise of women and of the kindness which he
ever experienced at their hands, has been repeated in many a book of
selections ; but who shall be the first person to leave it out ? Certainly
not the compiler of this. Ledyard was a man who possessed every
qualification for a traveller of the highest order, except a little more
composure of purpose. He had health, strength, observation, reflec-
tion, integrity, undauntedness, enthusiasm, but was somewhat too resl-
less and impatient; and this single flaw in his perfections probably
tended to sho, ten his career and leave him without a great practical
name. He was an American, and intended for a missionary ; but he
could not bear to remain at school. He became a sailor, a marine, cir-
cumnavigated the world with Cook (who respected and made use of
him), and finally went to Africa under the auspices of the association
for making discoveries, but died prematurely in Egypt, in the year
1788. When he presented himself at the Institute as a candidate for
discovery, he was asked when he would be ready to set out He an-
swered, " To-morrow morning."
The following passage from a letter which he wrote before embark-
ing for Africa, will show the natural dignity and purity of his charac
ter.
LEDYARWS PRAISE OF WOMEN. 175
" I was last evening in company with Mr. Jarvis, of
New- York, whom I accidentally met in the city, and in-
vited to my lodgings. When I was in Paris in distress, he
behaved very generously to me, and, as I do not want
money at present, I had a double satisfaction in our meet-
ing, being equally happy to see him, and to pay him one
hundred lirres, which I never expected to be able to do,
and I suppose he did not think I should. If he goes to
New-York as soon as he mentioned, I shall trouble him
with this letter to you, and with some others to your ad-
dress for my other friends. I wrote you last from this
place, nearly two years ago, but I suppose you heard from
me at Petersburg, by Mr. Franklin of New- York. I
promised to write you from the remote parts of Siberia. I
promise everything to those I love ; and so does fortune to
me sometimes, but we reciprocally prevent each other from
fulfilling our engagements. She left me so poor in Siberia,
that I could not write you, because I could not frank the
letter."
Ledyard's honest biographer, though a great and intelligent admirer
of his hero, finds fault with his style for its incorrectness. The fault,
if it existed, must be confined to passages in his journal, not given by
Mr. Sparks, for we cannot discover it in those which he has. To us it
appears admirable ; quite correct and pure ; indeed the best we ever
saw for sheer, unaffected eloquence from an American pen. The one
before us is a positive masterpiece, in style as well as feeling.
LEDYAED'S PRAISE OF WOMEN.
FROM " MEMOIRS OF HIS LIFE AND TRAVELS, BY JARED SPARKS."
I HAVE observed among all nations that the women
ornament themselves more than the men ; that wher-
ever found, they are the same civil, kind, obliging, humane
176 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
tender beings ; that they are ever inclined to be gay and
cheerful, timorous and modest. They do not hesitate, like
man, to perform a hospitable or generous action j not
haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy,
and fond of society ; industrious, economical, ingenuous ,
more liable, in general, to err than man, but in general, also.
more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he.
I never addressed myself, in the language of decency and
friendship, to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without
receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has
often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains
of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen
Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia,
and the wide spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if
hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly
to me, and uniformly so ; and to add to this virtue, so
worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have
been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that, if I
was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the
coarse morsel, with a double relish.
MUNGO PARK.
WHAT Ledyard wanted to complete his character, the famous Mungo
Park eminently possessed. He had not so large a grasp of mind as
Ledyard, but he was in no need of it. He had quite enough for his
purpose, and not any of a doubtful sort to distract it. But who needs
to be told what a thorough man for his purpose he was, what sufferings
he went through with the simplest and most touching courage, what
successes he achieved, and what a provoking, mortal mischance befell
him after all ? It was not so mortifying a one as Bruce' s, who broke
his neck down his own staircase ; but it was sadder by a great deal, so
far from home and on the threshold of the greatest of his adventures.
MUNGO PAliK^S BED IN THE DESERT. 177
The reader of the following passages (which are like fine tunes in
the history of men, and bear endless repetition), will bear in mind, that
one of the objects of Park's journey was to discover the real course of
the River Niger, which had been a subject of dispute for ages.
What a passage is the first one to read, when we are going to bed
And what a climax of suffering, fortitude, and piety is the lastl
MUNGO PARK'S BED IN THE DESERT.
FROM HIS "TRAVELS IN AFRICA.
I SADDLED my horse, and continued iny journey. I
. travelled over a level but more fertile country than I
had seen for some time, until sunset, when coming to a path
that took a southerly direction, I followed it until midnight,
at which time I arrived at a small pool of rain water ; and
the wood being open, I determined to rest by it for the
night. Having given my horse the remainder of the corn,
I made my bed as formerly ; but the musquitoes and flies
from the pool prevented sleep for some time, and I was
twice disturbed in the night by wild beasts, which came
very near, and whose howling kept the horse in continual
terror.
July 4th. At daybreak, I pursued my course through
the woods as formerly ; saw numbers of antelopes, wild
hogs, and ostriches ; but the soil was more hilly, and not so
fertile as I had found it the preceding day. About eleven
o'clock, I ascended an eminence, where I climbed a tree and
discovered, at about eight miles' distance, an open part of
the country, with several red spots, which I concluded were
cultivated land ; and, directing my course that way, came to
the precincts of a watering-place about one o'clock. From
the appearance of the place, I judged it to belong to the
Foulahs, and was hopeful that I should meet a better
178 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
reception thad I had experienced at Shrilla. In this I was
not deceived ; for one of the shepherds invited me to come
into his tent, and partake of some dates. This was one of
those low Foulah tents in which is just room sufficient to sit
upright, and in which the family, the furniture. &c., seem
huddled together like so many articles in a chest. When
I had crept upon my hands and knees into this humble
habitation, I found that it contained a woman and three
children ; who, together with the shepherd and myself,
completely occupied the floor. A dish of boiled corn and
dates was produced, and the master of the family, as is
customary in this part of the country, first tasted it himself,
and then desired me to follow his example. Whilst I was
eating, the children kept their eyes fixed upon me ; and no
sooner did the shepherd pronounce the word Nazarani, than
they began to cry, and their mother crept slowly towards
the door, out of which she sprang like a greyhound, and
was instantly followed by her children. So frightened
were they at the very name of Christian, that no entreaties
could induce them to approach the tent. Here I purchased
some corn for my horse, in exchange for some brass but-
tons ; and having thanked the shepherd for his hospitality,
struck again into the woods. At sunset I came to a road
that took the direction for Bambarra, and resolved to fol-
low it for the night ; but about eight o'clock, hearing somo
people coming from the southward, I thought it prudent to
hide myself among some thick bushes near the road. As
these thickets are generally full of wild beasts, I found my
situation rather unpleasant ; sitting in the dark, holding my
horse by the nose with both hands to prevent him from
neighing, and equally afraid of the natives without and
the wild beasts within. My fears, however, were soon dis-
sipated ; for the people, after looking round the thicket and
THE FIRST SIGHT OF THE NIGER. 179
perceiving nothing, went away, and I hastened to the more
open parts of the wood, where I pursued my journey E.S.E.
until midnight, when the joyful cry of frogs induced me once
more to deviate a little from my route, in order to quench
my thirst. Having accomplished this from a large pool of
rain water, I sought for an open spot with a single tree in
the midst, under which I made my bed for the night. I
was disturbed by some wolves towards morning, which in-
duced me to set forward a little before day ; and having
passed a small village called Wassalita, I came about ten
o'clock (July 5th) to a negro town.
THE FIRST SIGHT OF THE NIGER.
Hearing that two negroes were going to Sego, I was
happy to have their company, and we set out immediately.
1 was constantly taken for a Moor, and became the subject
of much merriment to the Bambarrans, who seeing me drive
my horse before me, laughed heartily at my appearance.
" He has been at Mecca," says one ; " you may see that by
his clothes ;" another asked if my horse was sick ; a third
wished to purchase it, &c. ; so that I believe the very slaves
were ashamed to be seen in my company. Just before it
was dark, we took up our lodgings for the night at a small
village, where I procured some victuals for myself and some
corn for my horse, at the moderate price of a button, and
was told that I should see the Niger (which the negroes call
Joliba, or the great water), early the next day. The lions
are here very numerous ; the gates are shut a little after
sunset, and nobody allowed to go out. The thoughts of
seeing the Niger in the morning, and the troublesome buzz-
ing of musquitoes, prevented me from shutting my eyes
during the nigkt, and I had saddled my horse, and was in
180 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
readiness before daylight ; but on account of the wild bea~ts
we were obliged to wait until the people were stirring and
the gates opened. This happened to be a market day at
Sego. and the roads were every where filled with people
carrying different articles to sell. We passed four large
villages, and at eight o'clock saw the smoke over Sego.
As we approached the town, I was fortunate enough to
overtake the fugitive Kaartans, to whose kindness I had
been so much indebted in my journey through Bambarra.
They readily agreed to introduce me to their king ; and
we rode together through the marshy ground, where, as I
was looking anxiously around for the river, one of them
called out geo affilli (see the water) ; and looking forwards,
I saw with infinite pleasure the great object of my mission,
the long-sought for majestic Niger, glittering to the morn-
ing sun, as broad as the Thames at Westminster, and flow-
ing slowly to the eastward. I hastened to the brink, and
having drank of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks in
prayer to the Great Ruler of all things, for having thus fai
crowned my endeavours with success.
KINDNESS OF A WOMAN TO HIM, AND A SONG OVER
HIS DISTRESS.
I waited more than two hours without having an oppor-
tunity of crossing the river ; during which time, the people
who had crossed carried information to Mansong the king,
that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming
to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief
men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see
me until he knew what had brought me into this country ;
and that I must not presume to cross the river without the
king's permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a
KIXDNESS OF A WOMAN TO HIM. 181
distant village, to which he pointed, for the night ; and
said, that in the morning he would give me further instruc-
tions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging.
However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village,
where I found, to my great mortification, that no person
would admit me into his house. I was regarded with as-
tonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without
victuals in the shade of a tree ; and the night threatened to
be very uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was
great appearance of a heavy rain ; and the wild beasts are
so very numerous in the neighbourhood, that I should have
been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting
among the branches. About sunset, however, as I was pre-
paring to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my
horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, return-
ing from the labours of the field, stopped to observe me,
and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into
my situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon,
with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and
bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me
into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the
floor, and told me I might remain there for the night.
Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would pro-
cure me something to eat. She accordingly went out and
returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having
caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me
for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed
towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress
(pointing to the mat, and telling me that I might sleep
there without apprehension) called to the female part of the
family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed
astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in
which they continued to employ themselves great part of
182 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
the night. They lightened their labour by songs, one of
which was composed extempoi'e, for I was myself the sub-
ject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest
joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plain-
tive, and the words, literally translated, were these : " The
winds roared and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint
and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother
to bring him milk ; no wife to grind his corn. Chorus.
Let us pity the white man ; no mother has he, &c. &c. &c."
Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a per-
son in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the
highest degree ; I was oppressed by such unexpected kind-
ness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I pre-
sented my landlady with two of the four brass buttons
which remained on my waistcoat, the only recompense I
could make her.
HE PASSES A LION.
July 28th. I departed from Nyara, and reached Nya-
mee about noon. This town is inhabited chiefly by Foulahs,
from the kingdom of Masina. The dooty (the head man
of the place), I know not why, would not receive me, but
civilly sent his son on horseback to conduct me to Modiboo ;
which, he assured me, was at no great distance.
We rode nearly in a direct line through the woods, but
in general went forwards with great circumspection. I
observed that my guide frequently stopped and looked
under the bushes. On inquiring the reason of this caution,
he told me that lions were very numerous in that part of
the country, and frequently attacked travelling through
the woods. While he was speaking my horse started ; look-
ing round, I observed a large animal, of the cameleopard
HE PASSES A LION. 183
kind, standing at a little distance. The neck and fore-legs
were very long ; the head was furnished with two short
black horns, turning backwards ; the tail, which reached
down to the ham joint, had a tuft of hair at the end. The
animal was of a mouse colour, and it trotted away from us
in a very sluggish manner, moving its head from side to
side to see if we were pursuing it. Shortly after this, as
we were crossing a large open plain, where there were a few
scattered bushes, my guide, who was a little way before me,
wheeled his horse round in a moment, calling out something
in the Foulah language which I did not understand. I in-
quired in Mandingo what he meant. Warra billi billi, a
very large lion, said he ; and made signs for me to ride
away. But my horse was too much fatigued ; so we rode
slowly past the bush from which the animal had given us
the alarm. Not seeing anything myself, however, I thought
my guide had been mistaken, when the Foulah suddenly
put his hand to his mouth, exclaiming, Soubah an alluhi
(God preserve us !) and to my great surprise I then per-
ceived a large red lion, at a short distance from the bush,
with his head couched between his fore paws. I expected
he would instantly spring upon me. and instinctively pulled
my feet from the stirrups to throw myself on the ground,
that my horse might become the victim rather than myself.
But it is probable that the lion was not hungry, for he
quietly suffered us to pass, though we were fairly within his
reach. My eyes were so rivetted upon this sovereign of the
beasts, that I found it impossible to remove them until we
were at a considerable distance. We now took a circuitous
route through some swampy ground, to avoid any more of
these disagreeable rencounters.
184 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
NARROW ESCAPE FROM ANOTHER LION.
In the evening I arrived at a small village called Song,
the surly inhabitants of which would not receive me, nor so
much as permit me to enter the gate ; but as lions were
very numerous in this neighbourhood, and I had frequently,
in the course of the day, seen the impression of their feet
on the road, I resolved to stay in the vicinity of the village.
Having collected some grass for my horse, I accordingly
lay down under a tree by the gate. About ten o'clock I
heard the hollow roar of a lion at no great distance, and
attempted to open the gate ; but the people from within
told me, that no person must attempt to enter the gate
without the dooty's permission. I begged them to inform
the dooty that a lion was approaching the village, and I
hoped he would allow me to come within the gate. I
waited for an answer to this message with great anxiety ;
for the lion kept prowling round the village, and once ad-
vanced so very near me, that I heard him rustling among
the grass, and climbed the tree for safety. About mid-
night the dooty with some of his people opened the gate
and desired me to come in. They were convinced, they
said, that I was not a Moor ; for no Moor ever waited any
time at the gate of a village without cursing the in-
habitants.
THE MOSS IN THE DESERT.
Aug. 25th. I departed from Kooma, accompanied by
two shepherds, who were going towards Sibidooloo. The
road was very steep and rocky, and as my horse had hurt
his feet much in coming from Bammakoo, he travelled
THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. 185
slowly and with great difficulty; for in many places the
ascent was so sharp, and the declivities so great, that if he
had made one false step, he must inevitably have been
dashed to pieces. The shepherds being anxious to proceed,
gave themselves little trouble about me or my horse, and
kept walking on at a considerable distance. It was about
eleven o'clock, as I stopped to drink a little water at a
rivulet (my companions being near a quarter of a mile be-
fore me), that I heard some people calling to each other,
and presently a loud screaming as from a person in great
distress. I immediately conjectured that a lion had taken
one of the shepherds, and mounted my horse to have a better
view of what had happened. The noise, however, ceased ;
and I rode slowly towards the place from whence I thought
it proceeded, calling out, but without receiving any answer.
In a little time, however, I perceived one of the shepherds
lying among the long grass near the road ; and though I
could see no blood upon him, concluded he was dead. But
when I came close to him, he whispered to me to stop,
telling me that a party of armed men had seized upon his
companion, and shot two arrows at himself as he was making
his escape. I stopped to consider what course to take, and
looking round, saw at a little distance a man sitting upon
the stump of a tree ; I distinguished also the heads of six
or seven more, sitting amongst the grass with muskets in
their hands. I had now no hopes of escaping, and there-
fore determined to ride forward amongst them. As I ap-
proached them, I was in hopes they were elephant-hunters,
and, by way of opening the conversation, inquired if they
had shot anything ; but, without returning an answer, one
of them ordered me to dismount ; and then, as if recol-
lecting himself, waved with his hand for me to proceed. I
accordingly rode past, and had with some difficulty crossed
'{86 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OP TRAVEL,
a deep rivulet, when I heard somebody holloa ; and looking
back, saw those I took for elephant-hunters now running
after me, and calling out to me to turn back. I stopped
until they were all come up, when they informed me that
the king of the Foulahs had sent them on purpose to bring
me, my horse, and everything that belonged to me, to
Fooladoo, and that therefore I must turn back, and go
along with them. Without hesitating a moment, I turned
round and followed them, and we travelled together near
a quarter of a mile without exchanging a word. When
coming to a dark place of the wood, one of them said, in
the Mandingo language, " This place will do," and imme-
diately snatched my hat from my head. Though I was by
no means free of apprehension, yet I resolved to show as
few signs of fear as possible, and therefore told them, unless
my hat was returned to me, I should go no farther. But
before I had time to receive an answer, another drew his
knife, and seizing upon a metal button which remained upon
my waistcoat, cut it off. and put it in his pocket. Their in-
tentions were now obvious, and I thought that the easier
they were permitted to rob me of everything, the less I had
to fear. I therefore allowed them to search my pockets
without resistance, and examine every part of my apparcl ;
which they did with scrupulous exactness. But observing
that I had one waistcoat under another, they insisted that I
should cast them both off; and at last, to make sure work,
stripped me quite naked. Even my half-boots (though the
sole of one of them was tied to my foot with a broken bridle-
rein) were narrowly inspected. Whilst they were examining
the plunder, I begged them with great earnestness to return
my pocket compass ; but when I pointed it out to them, as it
was lying on the ground, one of the banditti, thinking I was
about to take it up, cocked his musket, and swore that he
THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. \ 87
would lay me dead on the spot if I presumed to lay my
hand on it. After this some of them went away with my
horse, and the remainder stood considering whether they
should leave me quite naked, or allow me something to
shelter me from the sun. Humanity at last prevailed ;
they returned me the worst of the two shirts and a pair of
trousers ; and, as they went away, one of them threw back
my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums j
and this was probably the reason they did not wish to keep
it. After they were gone, I sat for some time looking around
me with amazement and terror ; whichever way I turned,
nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. I saw myself
in the midst of a vast wilderness in the depth of the rainy
season, naked and alone, surrounded by savage animals, and
men still more savage. I was five hundred miles from the
nearest European settlement. All these circumstances
crowded at once on my recollection ; and I confess, that my
spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as certain,
and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish.
The influence of religion, however, aided and supported
me. I reflected, that no human prudence or foresight could
possibly have averted my present sufferings. I was indeed
a stranger in a strange land, yet I was still under the pro-
tecting eye of that Providence who has condescended to
call himself the stranger's friend. At this moment, painful
as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small
moss in fructification irresistibly caught my eye. I mention
this, to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will
sometimes derive consolation ; for though the whole plant
was not larger than the tip of one of my fingers, I could not
contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves,
and capsule without admiration. Can that Being (thought
I) who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this
188 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small
importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and
sufferings of creatures formed after his own image ? surely
not ! r eflections like these would not allow me to despair ;
I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue,
travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand ; and I
was not disappointed. In a short time I came to a small
village, at the entrance of which I overtook the two shep-
herds who had come with me from Kooma. They were
much surprised to see me, for they said they never doubted
that the Foulahs, when they had robbed, had murdered me.
Departing from this village, we travelled over several rocky
ridges, and at sunset arrived at Sibidooloo, the frontier
town of the kingdom of Manding.
jjijnurwk, a l?a 3J nijnge, unit mi 'iinjite htj tjj?
VOYAGES, for the most part, are not so entertaining as travels. They
are less diversified in subjec^ and less conversant with flesh and blood.
When they are otherwise, no reading is more attractive. Voyages
among icebergs, and to newly discovered lands, combine the charms of
romance with the greatest personal interest ; and few things affect us
more strongly than a well-told and disastrous shipwreck. Such catas-
trophes, however, are in general too painful to warrant isolated extract
into a book of entertainment The compiler seems almost cruel in
making it. It furnishes too great a contrast to the reader's comfort*
without possessing the excuse of utility.
The almost universal defect of Voyages is, that they take little no
tice of the element on which they are made. Most people who jouruey
by sea, have no wish but to get over it as fast as possible. The " won-
ders of the deep " are, for them, as if they did not exist ; and even
those who are more curious, are content to see little. Geology has not
yet been accompanied by its proper amount of Hydrology. The ocean,
physically and intellectually speaking, is comparatively an unploughtd
field, even by the English ; yet what it may produce, let the reader
judge who is acquainted with the narratives of the Cooks, the Scoresbys,
and the Humboldts.
That the perils of shipwreck, however, may not be wanting to the
pleasures of this our Book for a Corner, and that our inland habits may be
refreshed by their due contrast with a sense of being "out at sea," we
have selected, in the first instance, the following brief but comprehen-
sive account of the loss of a Spanish vessel from the pages of Mr. Red
ding's Shipwrecks and Disasters at Sea ; and in the second, with d je
190 SHIPWRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL.
omissions, an abstract of Cook's first voyage to Otaheite, because it
keeps the reader longer and more pleasantly on the water than most
such narratives, besides furnishing a singular peril by the way, and call-
ing to mind Borne of the most interesting reading of one's childhood.
The Spanish vessel was bound from Panama to Caldera, a port in
New Spain ; and both before and after the following mishap, the crew
and passengers encountered much suffering ; but the present is the most
interesting point of the narrative. It is remarkable for answering more
completely than usual to what a landsman's imagination conceives of
such horrors ; that U to say, the suddenness of the danger, the noiae of
the waters, the darkness of the night, the cutting away of masts, and
the frightened awakening of guilty consciences. The loud, confessing
voices, heard even above the loudness of the thunder, is particularly
dreadful
SHIPWRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL.
ABOUT seven, one evening, the crew of a Spanish vessel
of burden, with various goods, bound for Caldera, be-
held the desired port. All was joy in the ship. The cap-
tain presented the sailors with a cask of wine, and a Genoese
merchant on board gave them another. The men were in
too good a temper to postpone tasting the wine until the
next day.
They attacked the cask at once, headed by the pilot, and
it was soon emptied, but not without materially affecting
their heads.
The Genoese merchant, fearing the ill effects that must
arise from such a state of things when so near the shore,
posted himself, in his excess of caution, between the man at
the helm and the pilot, from having remarked that the pilot,
sitting on his seat quite drunk, worked the ship from recol-
lection alone, as he was close to a port perfectly well known
to him. The merchant placed himself in the situation al-
ready mentioned, to repeat with more precision the words
SHIPWRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL. 191
of the pilot to the timoneer (man at the helm), and this act
caused the loss of the ship. The pilot gave the word " north-
west, to the north-west," Al norueste ;" the merchant, who
stammered and spoke bad Spanish, repeated the words " Al
nornorueste," to the north-wort/j-west, which is a different
point of the compass. The timoneer, thinking it was his
master's orders, did as he was told kept away from the
port and yet approached the coast.
In the meanwhile night was approaching fast. The pas-
sengers and the captain were in their beds wrapped in slum-
ber. About two in the morning, the captain was surprised by
hearing the waves breaking upon the rocks. He cried out
to the pilot, " What is this, pilot ? are we entering the port
already?" The pilot, on the question being reiterated,
roused from his lethargy, and saw with astonishment and
terror that the vessel was steering right upon a rock which
could scarcely be seen for the obscurity. Above all a high
mountain towered in shadow, covered apparently with trees.
The pilot called out to come about, but there was now no
time, the vessel was close on the shore, and struck with such
force that one of her sides opened.
A huge wave recoiled from the rock against which it had
dashed, swept over the vessel, and filled her with water.
Then there was nothing heard throughout the ship but
clamorous cries and shrieks of horror. Lamentations suc-
ceeded to sounds of mirth and revelry, which had been heard
so short a time before. Some awaked suddenly from their
sleep, and cried in astonishment as they heard the others
do who were aware of the danger, though they knew not yet
any reason wherefore.
The noise of the vast waves of the Pacific thundering
around and over the ship, the darkness of the night, the dash-
ing of the sea on the rocks, increased the terror of the scene.
192 SHIP }Y RECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL.
What was still more extraordinary, the. vessel was lost none
could tell how or where. This reverse of fortune was terri-
ble to them. They had imagined themselves close to the
entrance of the port. In the terror which came upon the
crew, some fell on their knees in prayer, making vows to
heaven for their safety ; others with uplifted hands de-
manded God's mercy ; while many in a loud voice, heard
even amid the louder thundering of the waves around, re-
vealed their most secret sins.
The captain preserved his presence of mind. Seeing
that all must perish if something were not attempted speed-
ily for the safety of those on board, he encouraged the sailors
to cut away the masts, and to provide themselves with planks,
or any loose timber upon which there was a chance of gain-
ing the shore. Everything above deck contributing to the
breaking up of the ship by its weight, was cut away or flung
overboard.
In this state morning broke upon them. The captain,
when the vessel had opened her planks and was settling in
the water, seeing that the sailors would endeavour to gain
the shore upon anything they could seize that would swim,
advised several of them to fasten themselves to the ends of
a long rope, one at each end, so that whoever got on shore
first might draw after him a second, who might not be so
fortunate in his attempt at reaching it. In this manner the
captain got the pilot safe to land, although he did not de-
serve it. Nearly all the crew escaped. Five or six only,
who were dashed by the waves with great force against the
ship or the rocks head foremost, were lost.
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 193
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTUEE BY THE WAT.
[The narrative of Cook's voyages was drawn up by Hawkesworth,
author of The Adventurer. The Mr. Banks mentioned in it was after-
wards the well known Sir Joseph, President of the Royal Society; and
Dr. Solander became a distinguished botanist.]
HAVING- received my commission, which was dated the
25th of May, 1768, 1 went on board on the 27th, hoisted
the pennant, and took charge of the ship, which then lay in
the basin in Deptford yard. She was fitted for sea with all
expedition ; and stores and provisions being taken on board,
sailed down the river on the 30th of July, and on the 1 3th
of August anchored in Plymouth Sound.
On Friday the 26th of August, the wind becoming fair,
we got under sail, and put to sea. On the 31st we saw
several of the birds which the sailors call Mother Carey's
chickens, and which they suppose to be the forerunners of
a storm ; and on the next day we had a very hard gale,
which brought us under our courses, washed overboard a
small boat belonging to the boatswain, and drowned three
or four dozen of our poultry, which we regretted still more.
On Friday the 2d of September we saw land between
Cape Finisterre and Cape Ortegal, on the coast of Gallicia,
in Spain ; and on the 5th, by an observation of the sun and
moon, we found the latitude of Cape Finisterre to be 42
53' north, and its longitude 8 46' west, our first meridian
being always supposed to pass through Greenwich ; varia-
tion of the needle 21 4 ; west.
During this course, Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander had an
opportunity of observing many marine animals, of which no
naturalist has hitherto taken notice ; particularly a new
species of the oniscus, which was found adhering to the
194 ^ SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
medusa pelagica ; and an animal of an angular figure, about
three inches long, and one thick, with a hollow passing quite
through it, and a brown spot on one end, which they con-
jectured might be its stomach ; four of these adhered to-
gether by their sides when they were taken, so that at first
they were thought to be one animal ; but upon being put
into a glass of water they soon separated, and swam about
very briskly. These animals are of a new genus, to which
Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander gave the name of JDagysa, from
the likeness of one species of them to a gem. Several speci-
mens of them were taken adhering together sometimes to
the length of a yard or more, and shining in the water with
very beautiful colours. Another animal of a new genus they
also discovered, which shone in the water with colours still
more beautiful and vivid, and which indeed exceeded in
variety and brightness anything that we had ever seen.
The colouring and splendour of these animals were equal to
those of an opal, and from their resemblance to that gem,
the genus was called Cardnium Opalinum. One of them
lived several hours in a glass of salt water, swimming about
with great agility, and at every motion displaying a change
of colours almost infinitely various. We caught also among
the rigging of the ship, when we were at the distance of
about ten leagues from Cape Finisterre. several birds which
have not been described by Linnaeus ; they were supposed
to have come from Spain, and our gentlemen called the
species Motacilla velificans (sail-making), as they said none
but sailors would venture themselves on board a ship that
was going round the world. One of them was so exhausted
that it died in Mr. Banks's hand almost as soon as it was
brought to him.
It was thought extraordinary that no naturalist had
hitherto taken notice of the Dagysa, as the sea abounds
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. IQg
with them not twenty leagues from the coast of Spain ; but,
unfortunately for the cause of science, there are but very
few of those who traverse the sea, that are either desposed
or qualified to remark the curiosities of which nature has
made it the repository.
On the 12th we discovered the islands of Porto Santo
and Madeira, and on the next day anchored in Funchiale
road, and moored with the stream-anchor : but in the night
the bend of the hawser of the stream-anchor slipped, owing
to the negligence of the person who had been employed to
make it fast. In the morning the anchor was heaved
up into the boat, and carried out to the southward ; but in
heaving it again, Mr. Weir, the master's mate, was carried
overboard by the buoy-rope, and went to the bottom with
the anchor ; the people in the ship saw the accident, and
got the anchor up with all possible expedition, it was, how-
ever, too late, the body came up entangled in the buoy-rope,
but it was dead.
When the island of Madeira is first approached from
the sea, it has a very beautiful appearance ; the sides of the
hills being entirely covered with vines almost as high as
the eye can distinguish ; and the vines are green when
every kind of herbage, except where they shade the ground,
and here and there, by the sides of a rill, is entirely burnt
up, which was the case at this time.
The refreshments to be had here, are water, wine, fruit
of several sorts, onions in plenty, and some sweetmeats ;
fresh meat and poultry are not to be had without leave from
the governor, and the payment of a very high price.
We took in 270 Ibs. of fresh beef, and a live bullock,
charged at 613 Ibs., 3,032 gallons of water, and ten tons of
wine ; and in the night, between Sunday the 53th and Mon-
9
196 -4 SEA VOYAG, AND AN ADVENTURE.
day the 19th September, we set sail in prosecution of our
voyage.
On Friday, the 23rd of September, we saw the Peak of
Teneriffe bearing W. by S. S. Its appearance at sunset
was very striking ; when the sun was below the horizon, and
the rest of the island appeared of a deep black, the moun-
tain still reflected his rays, and glowed with a warmth of
colour which no painting can express.
On the next day, Saturday the 24th, we came into the
north-east trade-wind, and on Friday, the 30th, saw Bona
Vista, one of the Cape de Verd Islands : we ranged the
east side if it, at the distance of three or four miles from
the shore, till we were obliged to haul off to avoid a
ledge of rocks which stretch out S. W. by W. from the
body, or S. E. point of the island, to the extent of a league
and a half.
During our course from Teneriffe to Bona Vista, we
baw great numbers of flying fish, which from the cabin-win-
dows appear beautiful beyond imagination, their sides
having the colour and brightness of burnished silver ; when
they are seen from the deck, they do not appear to so much
advantage, because their backs are of a dark colour. We
also took a shark, which proved to be the Squalus Carcha-
rias of Linnaeus.
Having lost the trade-wind on the 3rd. in latitude 12
14', and longitude 22 10', the wind became somewhat vari-
able, and we had light airs and calms by turns.
On the 7th, Mr. Banks went out in the boat, and took
what the seamen call a Portuguese man-of-war ; it is the
Holuthuria Physalis of Linnaeus, a'jd a species of the Mol-
lusca. It consisted of a small bladder about seven inches
long, and very much resembling the air-bladder of fishes,
from the bottom of which descended a number of strings of
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 197
a bright blue and red, some of them three or four feet in
length, which, upon being touched, sting like a nettle, but
with much more force. On the top of the bladder is a
membrane which is used as a sail, and turned so as to
receive the wind which way soever it blows. This mem-
brane is marked in fine pink-coloured veins, and the
animal is in every respect an object exquisitely curious and
beautiful.
We also took several of the shell-fishes, or testaceous
animals, which are always found floating upon the water,
particularly the Helix lanthina and Violacea ; they are
about the size of a snail, and are supported upon the surface
of the water by a small cluster of bubbles, which are filled
with air, and consist of a tenacious slimy substance that
will not easily part with its contents ; the animal is ovipa-
rous, and these bubbles serve also as a nidus for its eggs.
It is probable that it never goes down to the bottom, nor
willingly approaches any shore ; for the shell is exceedingly
brittle, and that of few fresh-water snails is so thin. Every
shell contains about a tea-spoonful of liquor, which it easily
discharges upon being touched, and which is of the most
beautiful red-purple that can be conceived. It dyes linen
cloth, and it may perhaps be worth inquiry (as the shell is
certainly found in the Mediterranean), whether it be not
the Pur pur a of the ancients.*
* It is quite impossible to discuss this subject here. But it may be
worth while to refer the learned reader for some curious information
about it, to the illustrious Bochart's work entitled ffierozmcon, part ii.
book v., ch. ii. There are several sorts of sea-shells, that yield the pur-
ple-dye so much esteemed among the ancients. Pliny, who has written
on the subject, divides them into two classes, the buccinum and purpura^
of which the latter was most in request. According to him, the best kinda
were found in the vicinity of Tyre. That city was famous for the manu-
facture of purple. To be Tyrio conspectus in astro, seemed, in the estima-
tion of the Mantuan poet, essential to his due appearance in honour ot
198 <* SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
In the evening of the 29th of October, we observed that
luminous appearance of the sea, which has been so often
mentioned by navigators, and of which such various causes
have been assigned ; some supposing it to be occasioned by
fish, which agitated the water by darting on their prey, some
by the putrefaction of fish and other marine animals, some
by electricity, and others referring it to a great variety of
different causes. It appeared to emit flashes of light ex-
actly resembling those of lightning, only not so considerable ;
but they were so frequent that sometimes eight or ten were
visible almost at the same moment. We were of opinion
that they proceeded from some luminous animal, and upon
throwing out the casting-net our opinion was confirmed. It
brought up a species of the Medusa, which when it came
on board had the appearance of metal violently heated, and
emitted a white light. With these animals were taken
some very small crabs, of three different species, each of
which gave as much light as a glow-worm, though the crea-
ture was not so large by nine-tenths. Upon examination
of these animals, Mr. Banks had the satisfaction to find that
they were all entirely new.*
Augustus, Gcor. 8-17. But several other places in the Mediterranean
afforded this precious article. Thus Horace speaks of Spartan purple,
" Nee Laconicas mihi
Trahunt honestae purpuras clientse."
Od. lib. ii. 18.
The English render will be much pleased with several interesting re-
marks as to the purple and other colours known to the ancients, given in
President Goguet's valuable work on the origin of laws, arts, &c. &c., of
which a translation by Dr. Henry was published at Edinburgh in 1761
HawJcsworih.
* The reader is referred to the account of Captain Krusenstern's cir-
cumnavigation, for a very satisfactory relation of an experiment on this
nubject, which clearly proves the truth of the opinion above stated, as to
the cause of the shining appearance so often noticed at sea. It is too long
for quotation in this place. Kerr.
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 199
On the 6th of November, being in latitude 19 3' south,
longitude 35 50' west, the colour of the water was observed
to change, 'upon which we sounded, and found ground at the
depth of thirty-two fathoms ; the lead was cast three times
within about four hours, without a foot difference in the
depth or quality of the bottom, which was coral rock, fine
sand, and shells ; we therefore supposed that we had passed
over the tail of the great shoal which is laid down in all
our charts by the name of Abrothos, on which Lord Anson
struck soundings in his passage outwards. At four the next
morning we had no ground with 100 fathom.
As several articles of our stock and provisions now
began to fall short, I determined to put into Rio de Janeiro,
rather than at any port in Brazil or Falkland's Islands,
knowing that it could better supply us with what we
wanted.
It is remarkable, that, during the last three or four days
of our staying in the harbour, the air was loaded with but-
terflies. They were chiefly of one sort, but in such numbers
that thousands were in view in every direction, and the
greatest part of them above our mast-head.
The country, at a small distance round the town, which
is all that any of us saw, is beautiful in the highest degree ;
the wildest spots being varied with a greater luxuriance of
flowers, both as to number and beauty, than the best gar-
dens in England.
Upon the trees and bushes sat an almost endless variety
of birds, especially small ones, many of them covered with
the most elegant plumage ; among which were the hum-
ming-bird. Of insects too there was a great variety, and
some of them very beautiful ; but they were much more
nimble than those of Europe, especially the butterflies,
most of which flew near the tops of the trees, and were
200 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
therefore very difficult to be caught, except when the sea
breeze blew fresh, which kept them nearer to the ground.
When the boat which had been sent on shore" returned,
we hoisted her on board, and stood out to sea.
On the 9th of December, we observed the sea to be
covered with broad streaks of a yellowish colour, several of
them a mile long, and three or four hundred yards wide.
Some of the water thus coloured was taken up, and found
to be full of innumerable atoms pointed at the end, of a
"ellowish colour, and none more than a quarter of a line, or
tne fortieth part of an inch long In the microscope they
appeared to be fascicula of small fibres interwoven with
each other, not unlike the nidus of some of the phyganeas,
called caddices ; but whether they were animal or vegetable
substances, whence they came, or for what they were de-
signed, neither Mr. Banks nor Dr. Solander could guess.
The same appearance had been observed before, when we
first discovered the continent of South America.
On the 3d of January, 1769, being in latitude 47o 17*
S. and longitude 61 29' 45" W., we were all looking out
for Pepy's island, and for some time an app'earance was
seen in the east which so much resembled land, that we
bore away for it ; and it was more than two hours and a
half before we were convinced that it was nothing but what
sailors call a fog-bank.
The people now beginning to complain of cold, each of
them received what is called a Magellanic jacket, and a pair
of trowsers. The jacket is made of a thick woollen stuff,
called Fearnought, which is provided by the government.
We saw, from time to time, a great number of penguins,
albatrosses, and sheer-waters, seals, whales, and porpoises ;
and on the llth, having passed Falkland's Islands, we dis-
covered the coast of Terra del Fuego, at the distance oi
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 201
about four leagues, extending from the W. to S.E. by S.
We had here five-and-thirty fathom, the ground soft, small
elate stones. As we ranged along the shore to the S. E. at
the distance of two or three leagues, we perceived smoke in
several places, which was made by the natives, probably as
a signal, for they did not continue it after we had passed by.
At two o'clock on the 15th of January, we anchored in
the bay of Good Success ; and after dinner I went on shore,
accompanied by Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander, to look for a
watering-place, and speak to the Indians, several of whom
had come in sight. We landed on the starboard side of
the bay near some rocks, which made smooth water and
good landing ; thirty or forty of the Indians soon made
their appearance at the end of a sandy beach on the other
side of the bay, but seeing our number, which was ten or
twelve, they retreated. Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander then
advanced about one hundred yards before us, upon which
two of the Indians returned, and, having advanced some
paces towards them, sat down ; as soon as they came up,
the Indians rose, and each of them having a small stick in
his hand threw it away, in a direction both from themselves
and the strangers, which was considered as 'the renunciation
of weapons in token of peace. They then walked briskly
towards their companions, who had halted at about fifty
yards behind them, and beckoned the gentlemen to follow,
which they did. They were received with many uncouth
signs of friendship ; and, in return, they distributed among
them some beads and ribbons, which had been brought on
shore for that purpose, and with which they were greatly
delighted. A mutual confidence and good-will being thus
produced, our parties joined ; the conversation, such as it
was, became general ; and three of them accompanied us
back to the ship. When they came on board, one of them,
202 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
whom we took to be a priest, performed much the same
ceremonies which M. Bougainville describes, and supposes
to be an exorcism. When he was introduced into a new
part of the ship, or when anything that he had not seen
before caught his attention, he shouted with all his force
for some minutes, without directing his voice either to us
or his companions.*
*The incident related by Bougainville, to which the allusion is made,
is somewhat affecting. An interesting boy, one of the savages' children,
had unwarily, and from ignorance of its dangerous nature, put some bits
of glass into his mouth which the sailors gave him. His lips and palate,
&c., were cut in several places, and he soon began to spit blood, and to be
violently convulsed. This excited the most distressing alarm and sus-
picion among the savages. One of them, whom Bougainville denominates
a juggler, immediately had recourse to very strange and unlikely means in
order to relieve the poor child. He first laid him on his back, then kneel-
ing down between his legs, and bending himself, he pressed the child's
belly as much as he could with his head and hands, crying out continually,
but with inarticulate sounds. From time to time he raised himself, and
seeming to hold the disease in his joined hands, opened them at once in-
to the air, blowing, as if he drove away some evil spirit. During those
rites, an old woman in tears howled with great violence in the child's ears.
These ceremonies, however, not proving effectual, but rather, indeed, as
might have been expected, doing mischief, the juggler disappeared for a
little in order, as should seem, to procure a peculiar dress, in which he
might practise his exorcism with greater confidence of success, and to
bring a brother in the trade, similarly apparalled, to aid him in
his labours. But so much the worse for the wretched patient, who was
now pummelled and squeezed all over, till his body was completely bruised.
Such treatment, it is almost unnecessary to say, aggravated his sufferings,
but accomplished no cure. The jugglers at last consented to allow the in-
terference of the French surgeon, but appeared to be very jealous of his
skill. The child became somewhat easier towards night ; however, from
his continual sickness, there was much room to apprehend that he had
ewallowed some of the glass, and died in consequence ; for " about two
o'clock in the morning," says Bougainville, " we on board heard repeated
howls, and at break of day, though the weather was very dreadful, the
savages went off. They doubtless fled from a place defiled by death, and
by unlucky strangers, who, they thought, were come merely to destroy
them." It is very probable that the person whom Cook supposed a priest,
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 203
They ate some bread and some beef, but not apparently
with much pleasure, though such part of what was given
them as they did not eat, they took away with them ; but
they would not swallow a drop either of wine or spirits ;
they put the glass to their lips, but, having tasted the
liquor, they returned it with strong expressions of disgust.
Curiosity seems to be one of the few passions which distin-
guish men from brutes ; and of this our guests appeared to
have very little. They went from one part of the ship to
another, and looked at the vast variety of new objects that
every moment presented themselves, without any expression
either of wonder or pleasure, for the vociferation of our ex-
orcist seemed to be neither.
After having been on board about two hours, they ex-
pressed a desire to go ashore. A boat was immediately
ordered, and Mr. Banks thought fit to accompany them
He landed them in safety, and conducted them to their
companions, among whom he remarked the same vacant in-
difference as in those who had been on board ; for as on one
side there appeared no eagerness to relate, so on the other
side there seemed to be no curiosity to hear, how they had
been received, or what they had seen. In about half an hour
Mr. Banks returned to the ship, and the Indians retired
from the shore.
On the 16th, early in the morning, Mr. Banks and Dr.
Solander, with their astendants and servants, and two sea-
men, to assist in carrying the baggage, accompanied by Mr.
Monkhouse the surgeon, and Mr. Green the astronomer, set
out from the ship with a view to penetrate as far as they
practised the charms spoken of, in order to destroy any ill luck, and to pre-
vent the occurrence of such like misfortutss in his intercourse with the
wonderful strangers. There is an allusion to this incident in a following
section. Krer.
Q*
204 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
could into the country, and return at night. The hills, when
viewed at a distance, seemed to be partly a wood, partly a
plain, and above them a bare rock. Mr. Banks hoped to
get through the wood, and made no doubt but that, beyond
it, he should, in a country which no botanist had ever yet
visited, find alpine plants which would abundantly compen-
sate his labour. They entered the wood at a small sandy
beach, a little to the westward of the watering place, and
continued to ascend the hill, through the pathless wilder-
ness, till three o'clock, before they got a near view of the
places which they intended to visit. Soon after they reach-
ed what they had taken for a plain ; but, to their great disap-
pointment, found it a swamp, covered with low bushes of
birch, about three feet high, interwoven with each other, and
so stubborn that they could not be bent out of the way : it
was therefore necessary to lift the leg over them, which at
every step was buried ankle deep in the soil. To aggravate
the pain and difficulty of such travelling, the weather, which
had hitherto been very fine, much like one of our bright
days in May, became gloomy and cold, with sudden blasts
of a most piercing wind, accompanied with snow. They
pushed forward, however, in good spirits, notwithstanding
their fatigue, hoping the worst of the way was past, and that
the bare rock which they had seen from the tops of the
lower hills was not more than a mile before them ; but when
they had got about two-thirds over this woody swamp, Mr.
Buchan, one of Mr. Banks's draughtsmen, was unhappily
seized with a fit. This made it necessary for the whole com-
pany to halt, and as it was impossible that he should
go any farther, a fire was kindled, and those who were most
fatigued were left behind to take care of him. Mr. Bank?,
Dr. Solander, Mr. Green, and Mr. Monkhouse, went on, and
in a short time reached the summit. As botanists, their
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 205
expectations were here abundantly gratified ; for they found
a great variety of plants, which, with respect to the alpine
plants in Europe, are exactly what those, plants are with
respect to such as grow in the plain.
The cold was now become more sevei*e, and the snow-
blasts more frequent ; the day also was so far spent, that it
was found impossible to get back to the ship, before the
next morning. To pass the night upon such a mountain,
in such a climate, was not only comfortless but dreadful ;
it was impossible, however, to be avoided, and they were to
provide for it as well as they could.
Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander, while they were improv-
ing an opportunity which they had, with so much danger
and difficulty, procured, by gathering the plants which they
found upon the mountain, sent Mr. Green and Mr. Monk-
house back to Mr. Buchan and the people that were with
him. with directions to bring them to a hill, which they
thought lay in a better route for returning to the wood,
and which was therefore appointed as a general rendez-
vous. It was proposed, that from this hill they should push
through the swamp, which seemed by the new route pot to
be more than half a mile over, into the shelter of the wood,
and there build their wigwam, and make a fire. This, as
their way was all down hill, it seemed easy to accomplish.
Their whole company assembled at the rendezvous, and,
though pinched with the cold, were in health and spirits.
Mr. Buchan himself having recovered his strength in a
much greater degree than could have been expected. Tt
was now near eight o'clock in the evening, but still good
day-light, and they set forward fer the nearest valley, Mr.
Banks himself undertaking to bring up the rear, and see
that no straggler was left behind. This may perhaps be
thought a superfluous caution, but it will soon appear to be
206 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
otherwise. Dr. Solander, who had more than once crossed
the mountains which divide Sweden from Norway, well
knew that extreme cold, especially when joined with fatigue,
produces a torpor and sleepiness that are almost irresistible.
He therefore conjured the company to keep moving, what-
ever pain it might cost them, and whatever relief they
might be promised by an inclination to rest. Whoever sits
down, says he, will sleep ; and whoever sleeps, will wake no
more. Thus, at once admonished and alarmed, they set
forward ; but while they were still upon the naked rock,
and before they had got among the bushes, the cold became
suddenly so intense, as to produce the effects that had been
most dreaded. Dr. Solander himself was the first who
found the inclination, against which he had warned others,
irresistible ; and insisted upon being suffered to lie down.
Mr. Banks entreated and remonstrated in vain, down he
lay upon the ground, though it was covered with snow ; and
it was with great difficulty that his friend kept him from
sleeping. Richmond also, one of the black servants, began
to linger, having suffered from the cold in the same manner
as the doctor. Mr. Banks, therefore, sent five of the com-
pany, among whom was Mr. Buchan, forward to get a fire
ready at the first convenient place they could find ; and
himself, with four others, remained with the doctor and
Richmond, whom, partly by persuasion and entreaty, and
partly by force, they brought on ; but when they had got
through the greatest part of the birch and swamp, they both
declared they could go no farther. Mr. Banks had recourse
again to entreaty and expostulation, but they produced no
effect. When Richmond was told, that if he did not go on
he would in a short time be frozen to death, he answered,
that he desired nothing but to lie down and die. The
doctor did not so explicitly renounce his life ; he said he
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN AD VENTURE. 207
was willing to go on, but that he must first take some sleep,
though he had before told the company that to sleep was to
perish. Mr. Banks and the rest found it impossible to carry
them, and there being no remedy, they were both suffered
to sit down, being partly supported by the bushes, and in a
few minutes they fell into a profound sleep. Soon after,
some of the people who had been sent forward returned,
with the welcome news that a fire was kindled about a
quarter of a mile farther on the way. Mr. Banks then en-
deavoured to wake Dr. Solander, and happily succeeded.
But, though he had not slept five minutes, he had almost
lost the use of his limbs, and the muscles were so shrunk
that his shoes fell from his feet ; he consented to go forward
with such assistance as could be given him, but no attempts
to relieve poor Richmond were successful. It being found
impossible to make him stir, after some time had been lost
in the attempt, Mr. Banks left his other black servant and
a seaman, who seemed to have suffered least by the cold,
to look after him ; promising, that as soon as two others
should be sufficiently warmed, they should be relieved. Mr.
Banks, with much difficulty, at length got the doctor to the
fire ; and soon after sent two of the people who had been
refreshed, in hopes that, with the assistance of those who
had been left behind, they would be able to bring Richmond,
even though it should still be found impossible to wake him.
In about half an hour, however, they had the mortification
to see these two men return alone ; they said, that they had
been all around the place to which they had been directed,
but could neither find Richmond nor those who had been
left with him ; and that, though they had shouted many
times, no voice had replied. This was matter of equal sur-
prise and concern, particularly to Mr. Banks, who, while he
was wondering how it could happen, missed a bottle of rum,
208 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
the company's whole stock, which they now concluded to be
in the knapsack of one of the absentees. It was conjectured,
that with this Richmond had been roused by the two persons
who had been left with him, and that, having perhaps drank
too freely of it themselves, they had all rambled from the
place where they had been left, in search of the fire, instead
of waiting for those who should have been their assistants
and guides. Another fall of snow now came on, and con-
tinued incessantly for two hours, so that all hopes of seeing
them again, at least alive, were given up ; but about twelve
o'clock, to the great joy of those at the fire, a shouting was
heard at some distance. Mr. Banks, with four men, imme-
diat* ly went out, and found the seaman with just strength
enough left to stagger along, and call out for assistance.
Mr. Banks sent him immediately to the fire, and, by his
direction, proceeded in search of the other two, whom he
soon after found. Richmond was upon his legs, but not
able to put one before the other ; his companion was lying
upon the ground, as insensible as a stone. All hands were
now called from the fire, and an attempt was made to carry
them to it ; but this, notwithstanding the united efforts of
the whole company, was found to be impossible. The
night was extremely dark, the snow was now very deep,
and, under these additional disadvantages, they found it
very difficult to make way through the bushes and the bog
for themselves, all of them getting many falls in the at-
tempt. The only alternative was to make a fire upon the
spot ; but the snow which had fallen, and was still falling,
besides what was every moment shaken in flakes from the
trees, rendered it equally impracticable to kindle one there,
and to bring any part of that which had been kindled in
the wood thither. They were, therefore, reduced to the sad
necessity of leaving the unhappy wretches to their fate ;
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 2Q9
having first made them a bed of boughs from the trees, and
spread a covering of the same kind over them to a consid-
erable height.
Having now been exposed to the cold and the snow near
an hour and a half, some of the rest began to lose their sen-
sibility ; and one Briscoe, another of Mr. Banks's servants,
was so ill, that it was thought he must die before he could
be got to the fire.
At the fire, however, at length they arrived ; and passed
the night in a situation which, however dreadful in itself,
was rendered more afflicting by the remembrance of what
was past, and the uncertainty of what was to come. Of
twelve, the number that set out together in health and spirits,
two were supposed to be already dead ; a third was so ill,
that it was very doubtful whether he would be able to go
forward in the morning ; and a fourth, Mr. Buchan, was in
danger of a return of his fits, by fresh fatigue, after so un-
comfortable a night. They were distant from the ship a
long day's journey, through pathless woods, in which it was
too probable they might be bewildered till they were over-
taken by the next night; and, not having prepared for a
journey of more than eight or ten hours, they were wholly
destitute of provisions, except a vulture, which they happened
to shoot while they were out, and which, if equally divided,
would not afford each of them half a meal ; and they knew
not how much more they might suffer from the cold, as the
snow still continued to fall, a dreadful testimony of the
severity of the climate, as it was now the midst of summer
in this part of the world, the 21st of December being here
the longest day ; and everything might justly be dreaded
from a phenomenon which, in the corresponding season, is
unknown even in Norway and Lapland.
When the morning dawned, they saw nothing round them
210 A SF' A VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURL.
as far as the eye could reach, but snow, which seemed to lie
as thick upon the trees as upon the ground ; and the blasts
returned so frequently, and with such violence, that they
found it impossible for them to set out. How long this
might last they knew not, and they had but too much reason
to apprehend that it would confine them in that desolate
forest till they perished with hunger and cold.
After having suffered the misery and terror of this situa-
tion till six o'clock in the morning, they conceived some hope
of deliverance by discovering the place of the sun through
the clouds, which were become thinner, and began to break
away. Their first care was to see whether the poor wretches
whom they had been obliged to leave among the bushes were
yet alive ; three of the company were dispatched for that
purpose, and very soon afterwards returned with the melan-
choly news that they were dead.
Notwithstanding the nattering appearance of the sky,
the snow still continued to fall so thick that they could not
venture out on their journey to the ship ; but about eight
o'clock a small regular breeze sprung up, which, with the
prevailing influence of the sun, at length cleared the air ;
and they soon after, with great joy, saw the snow fall in
large flakes from the trees, a certain sign of an approaching
thaw. They now examined more critically the state of their
invalids. Briscoe was still very ill, but said, that he thought
himself able to walk ; and Mr. Buchan was much better than
either he or his friends had any reason to expect. They
were now, however, pressed by the calls of hunger, to which,
after long fasting, every consideration of future good or evil
immediately gives way. Before they set forward, therefore,
it was unanimously agreed that they should eat their vul-
ture ; the bird was accordingly skinned, and, it being thought
best to divide it before it was fit to be eaten, it was cut into
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 211
ten portions, and every man cooked his own as he thought
fit. After this repast, which furnished each of them with
about three mouthfuls, they prepared to set out; but it
was ten o'clock before the snow was sufficiently gone off, to
render a march practicable. After a walk of about three
hours, they were agreeably surprised to find themselves upon
the beach, and much nearer to the ship than they had any
reason to expect. .Upon reviewing their track from the
vessel, they perceived that, instead of ascending the hill in
a line, so as to penetrate into the country, they had made
almost a circle round it. When they came on board, they
congratulated each other upon their safety, with a joy that
no man can feel who has not been exposed to equal danger ;
and as I had suffered great anxiety at their not returning
in the evening of the day on which they set out, I was not
wholly without my share.
On the 1st of March, we were in latitude 38 44' S.
and longitude 110 33' W. Many birds, as usual, were
constantly about the ship, so that Mr. Banks killed no less
than sixty-two in one day ; and what is more remarkable,
he caught two forest flies, both of them of the same species,
but different from any that have hitherto been described ;
these probably belonged to the birds, and came with them
from the land, which we judged to be at a great distance.
Mr. Banks, also, about this time, found a large cuttle-fish,
which had just been killed by the birds, floating in a man-
gled condition upon the water ; it is very different from the
cuttle-fishes that are found in the European seas ; for its
arms, instead of suckers, were furnished with a double row
of very sharp talons, which resemble those of a cat, and,
Jike them, were retractable into a sheath of skin, from which
they might be thrust at pleasure. Of this cuttle-fish wo
made one of the best soups we had ever tasted.
212 * SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
The albatrosses now began to leave us, and after the 8th
there was not one to be seen. We continued our course
without any memorable event till the 24th, when some of
the people who were upon the watch in the night reported
that they saw a log of wood pass by the ship ; and that the
sea, which was rather rough, became suddenly as smooth as
a mill-pond. It was a general opinion that there was land
to windward ; but I did not think myself at liberty to
search for what I was not sure to find ; though I judged we
were not far from the islands that were discovered by Qui-
ros in 1606. Our latitude was 22 \\< S. and longitudu
127 55' W.
On the 25th. about noon, one of the marines, a young
fellow about twenty, was placed as sentry at the cabin door ;
while he was upon this duty, one of my servants was at the
same place preparing to cut a piece of seal-skin into tobacco-
pouches. He had promised one to several of the men, but
had refused one to this young fellow, though he had asked
him several times ; upon which he jocularly threatened to
steal one, if it should be in his power. It happened that
the servant, being called hastily away, gave the skin in
charge to the sentinel, without regarding what had passed
between them. The sentinel immediately secured a piece
of the skin, which the other missing at his return, grew
angry ; but, after some altercation, contented himself with
taking it away, declaring that, for so trifling an affair, he
would not complain of him to the officers. But it happened
that one of his fellow-soldiers, overhearing the dispute, came
to the knowledge of what had happened, and told it to the
rest ; who, taking it into their heads to stand up for the
^honour of their corps, reproached the offender with great
bitterness, and reviled him in the most opprobrious terms ;
they exaggerated his offence into a crime of the deepest
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 213
dye ; they said it was a theft by a sentry when he was upon
duty, and of a thing that had been committed to his trust ;
they declared it a disgrace to associate with him ; and the
sergeant, in particular, said, that if the person from whom
the skin had been stolen would not complain, he would com-
plain himself ; for that his honour would suffer if the offender
was not punished. From the scoffs and reproaches of these
men of honour, the poor young fellow retired to his ham-
mock in an agony of confusion and shame. The sergeant
soon after went to him, and ordered him to follow him to
the deck. He obeyed without reply ; but it being in the
dusk of the evening, he slipped from the sergeant and went
forward. He was seen by some of the people, who thought
he was gone to the head ; but a search being made for him
afterwards, it was found that he had thrown himself over-
board ; and I was then first made acquainted with the theft
and its circumstances. The loss of this man was the more
regretted, as he was remarkably quiet and industrious.*
About one o'clock, on Monday the 10th of April, some
of the people who were looking out for the island to which
we were bound, said they saw land ahead, in that part of
the horizon where it was expected to appear ; but it was so
faint, that, whether there was land in sight or not, remained
a matter of dispute till sunset. The next morning, how-
ever, at six o'clock, we were convinced that those who said
they had discovered land were not mistaken ; it appeared
to be very high and mountainous, extending from W. by S.
\ S. to W. by N. -j N. ; and we knew it to be the same that
Captain Wallis had called King George the Third's Island.
* This poor lad was probably one of the most conscientious persona
among the crew, and had been envied for his good conduct. But his quiet
may have been accompanied with reserve, an unpopular and indeed sus-
picious quality.
214 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE.
We were delayed in our approach to it by light airs and
calms, so that in the morning of the 12th we were but little
nearer than we had been the night before ; but about seven
a breez" sprung up, and before eleven several canoes were
seen making towards the ship. There were but few of them,
however, that would come near ; and the people in those
that did, could not be persuaded to come on board. In
every canoe there were young plantains, and branches of a
tree which the Indians call EMidho ; these, as we after-
wards learned, were brought as tokens of peace and amity ;
and the people in one of the canoes handed them up the
ship's side, making signals at the same time with great
earnestness which we did not immediately understand ; at
length we guessed that they wished these symbols should
be placed in some conspicuous part of the ship ; we, there-
fore, immediately stuck them among the rigging, at which
they expressed the greatest satisfaction. We then pur-
chased their cargoes, consisting of cocoa-nuts, and various
kinds of fruit, which, after our long voyage, were very ac-
ceptable.
We stood on with an easy sail all night, with soundings
from twenty-two fathoms to twelve ; and about seven o'clock
in the morning we came to an anchor in thirteen fathoms in
Port Royal Bay, called by the natives Matavai. We were
immediately surrounded by the natives in their canoes, who
gave us cocoa-nuts, fruit resembling apples, bread-fruit, and
some small fishes, in exchange for beads and other trifles.
They had with them a pig, which they would not part with
for anything but a hatchet, and therefore we refused to pur-
chase it ; because, if we gave them a hatchet for a pig now,
we knew they would never afterwards sell one for less, and
we could not afford to buy as many as it was probable we
should want at that price. The bread-fruit grows on a tree
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 215
that is about the size of a middling oak : its leaves are fre-
quently a foot and a half long, of an oblong shape, deeply
sinuated like those of the fig-tree, which they resemble in
consistence and colour, and in the exuding of a white milky
juice upon being broken. The fruit is about the size and
shape of a child's head, and the surface is reticulated not
much unlike a truffle ; it is covered with a thin skin, and
has a core about as big as the handle of a small knife ; the
eatable part lies between the skin and the core ; it is as
white as snow, and somewhat of the consistence of new
bread. It must be roasted before it is eaten, being first
divided into three or four parts. Its taste is insipid, with
a slight sweetness somewhat resembling that of the crumb
of wheaten bread mixed with a Jerusalem artichoke.
Among others who came off to the ship was an elderly
man, whose name, as we learned afterwards, was Owhaw,
and who was immediately known to Mr. Gore and several
others who had been here with Captain Wallis. As I was
informed that he had been very useful to them, I took him
on board the ship with some others, and was particularly
attentive to gratify him, as I hoped he might also be useful
to us.
As soon as the ship was properly secured, I went on
shore with Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander, a party of men
under arms, and our friend Owhaw. We were received
from the boat by some hundreds of the inhabitants, whose
looks at least gave us welcome, though they were struck
with such awe, that the first who approached us crouched so
low that he almost crept upon his hands and knees. It is
remarkable, that he, like the people in the canoes, present-
ed to us the same symbol of peace that is known to have
been in use among the ancient and mighty nations of tho
northern hemisphere the green branch of a tree. We re
216 A SEA VOYAGE. AND AN ADVENTURE.
ceived it with looks and gestures of kindness and satisfac
tion ; and observing that each of them held one in his hand,
we immediately gathered every one a bough, and carried it
in our hands in the same manner.
They marched with us about half a mile towards the
place where the Dolphin had watered, conducted by Owhaw ;
then they made a full stop, and having laid the ground
bare, by clearing away all the plants that grew upon it, the
principal persons among them threw their green branches
upon the naked spot, and made signs that we should do the
same. We immediately showed our readiness to comply,
and to give a greater solemnity to the rite, the marines
were drawn up, and marching in order, each dropped his
bough upon those of the Indians, and we followed their ex-
ample. We then proceeded, and when we came to the
watering-place it was intimated to us by signs, that we
might occupy that ground, but it happened, not to be fit for
our purpose. During our walk they had shaken off their
first timid sense of our superiority, and were become familiar;
they went with us from the watering-place, and took a cir-
cuit through the woods. As we went along, we distributed
beads and other small presents among them, and had the
satisfaction to see that they were much gratified. Our
circuit was not less than four or five miles, through groves
of trees, which were loaded with cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit,
and afforded the most grateful shade. Under these trees
were the habitations of the people, most of them being only
a roof without walls, and the whole scene realized the poet-
ical fables of Arcadia.
tes, SSnnks, nni Staramit.
IT is a common thing for men of business to say that they are
"fond of books, but have no time for reading." In some instances
this may really be the case ; but> for the most part, they had better
acknowledge that they care little for what they can find no time to do.
In these, as in most other circumstances, " where there is a will there
is a way ;" and it is the design of the following extracts from the life
of William Button to show it. They may be of service both to em-
ployers and the employed. The best workman is he who can do his
work with cheerfulness ; he is the man whose nature is the best and
completest, who has his faculties most about him, and in the most
fitting abundance ; and the way to turn our faculties to the best ac-
count, is to give them fair play to see that the senses of the mind (if
we may so call them) have as much reasonable fruition as those that
contribute to the nourishment and refreshment of the body. Hutton
of Birmingham (as he is familiarly called) combined, in a remarkable
manner, prudence with enterprise, industry with amusement^ and the
love of books with devotion to business, and all because he was a tho-
rough human being of his class, probably from causes anterior to his
birth. Not that his father was a person of any very edifying descrip-
tion. His son gives the following amusing account of him : " Though
my father was neither young, being forty-two, nor handsome, having
lost an eye, nor sober, for he spent all he could get in liquor, nor clean,
for his trade was oily, nor without shackles, for he had five children,
yet women of various descriptions courted his smiles, and were much
inclined to pull caps for him." But this squalid Lothario probably sup-
plied him with wit and address, and his mother with thought and a
good constitution.
10
2 1 8 PASSAGES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON.
William Hutton was the son of a poor wool-worker. He was
brought up as a poor weaver, had not a penny in the world, became a
bookbinder under the poorest auspices, and ended with being a rich
man, and living in wealth and honour to the age of ninety-two. The
passages selected are from a life of him written by himself, and in the
original are accompanied with a great deal of additional matter, all
worth reading, and in the course of which he gives an account of the
rise and progress of his courtship of Mrs. Hutton, here only intimated.
He was one of the sufferers from the Riots of Birmingham (which he
has recorded), and author of amusing Histories of that town and of
Derby. The Robert Bage whom he mentions as his friend and bene-
factor, and who was another man of his sort, though in every respect
of a higher class, is better known by his writings than his name, being
no other than the author of Hermsprong, Man as he IK, and other novels
well known to the readers of circulating libraries, and admired by Wal-
ter Scott Two such men of business as Hutton and Robert Bage have
seldom come together, at least not in the eyes of the world ; and as they
came in the shapes of bookseller and paper-maker, we have special
pleasure in thus bringing them before the reader.
PASSAGES FEOM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIAM HUTTON.
1741. TTTHAT the mind is bent upon obtaining, the
V hand seldom fails in accomplishing. I de-
tested the frame, as totally unsuitable to my temper ; there-
fore I produced no more profit than necessity demanded.
I made shift, however, with a little overwork and a little
credit, to raise a genteel suit of clothes, fully adequate to
the sphere in which I moved. The girls eyed me with
some attention ; nay I eyed myself as much as any of
them.
1743. At "Whitsuntide I went to see my father, and
was favourably received by my acquaintance. One of them
played upon the bell-harp. I was charmed with the sound,
and agreed for the price, when I could raise the sum, half-
a-crown.
PASSA GES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPIIY OF HUTTON. 2 1 9
At Michaelmas I went to Derby, to pay for and bring
back my bell-harp, whose sound I thought seraphic. This
opened a scene of pleasure which continued many years.
Music was my daily study and delight. But, perhaps, I
laboured under greater difficulties than any one had done
before me. I could not afford an instructor. I had no
books, nor could I borrow, or buy ; neither had I a friend
to give me the least hint, or put my instrument in tune.
Thus I was in the situation of a first inventor, left to
grope in the dark to find something. I had first my ear to
bring into tune, before I could tune the instrument ; for the
ear is the foundation of all music. That is the best tune
which best pleases the ear, and he keeps the best time who
draws the most music from his tune.
For six months did I use every effort to bring a tune
out of an instrument which was so dreadfully out, it had no
tune in it. Assiduity never forsook me. I was encouraged
by a couplet I had seen in Dyce's Spelling-book :
" Despair of nothing that you would attain,
Unwearied diligence your point will gain I"
When I was able to lay a foundation, the improvement
and the pleasure were progressive. Wishing to rise, I
borrowed a dulcimer, made one by it, then learned to play
upon it. But in the fabrication of this instrument, I had
neither timber to work upon, tools to work with, nor money
to purchase either. It is said " necessity is the mother of
invention." I pulled a large trunk to pieces, one of the
relics of my family but formerly the property of Thomas
Parker, the first Earl of Macclesfield. And as to tools, I con-
sidered that the hammer-key and the plyers belonging to
the stocking-frame, would supply the place of hammer and
pincers. My pocket-knife was all the edge-tools I could
220 PASSA GES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPHT OF EUTTON.
raise ; a fork, with one limb, was made to act in the double
capacity of spring-awl and gimlet.
I quickly was master of this piece of music ; for if a
man can play upon one instrument he can soon learn upon
any.
A young man, apprentice to a baker, happening to see
the dulcimer, asked if I could perform upon it. Struck
with the sound, and with seeing me play with what he
thought great ease, he asked if I would part with the in-
strument, and at what price ? I answered in the affirmative,
and, for sixteen shillings. He gave it. I told him, " If he
wanted advice, or his instrument wanted tuning, I would
assist him." " Oh no. there's not a doubt but I shall do."
I bought a coat with the money, and constructed a better
instrument. ........
1746. An inclination for books began to expand; but
here, as in music and dress, money was wanting. The first
article of purchase was three volumes of the Gentleman's
Magazine, 1 742, 3, and 4. As I could not afford to pay for
binding, I fastened them together in a most cobbled style.
These afforded me a treat.
I could only raise books of small value, and these in
worn-out bindings. I learned to patch, procured paste,
varnish, &c., and brought them into tolerable order ; erect-
ed shelves, and arranged them in the best manner I was
able.
If I purchased shabby books, it is no wonder that I
dealt with a shabby bookseller who kept his working appa-
ratus in his shop. It is no wonder, too, if by repeated
visits I became acquainted with this shabby bookseller, and
often saw him at work ; but it is a wonder and a fact, that
I never saw him perform one act but I could perform it
myself; so strong was the desire to attain the art.
PASSA GES FROM. A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON. 22 1
I made no secret of my progress, and the bookseller
rather encouraged me, and for two reasons: I bought such
rubbish as nobody else would ; and he had often an oppor-
tunity of selling me a cast-off tool for a shilling, not worth
a penny. As I was below every degree of opposition, a rival-
ship was out of the question.
The first book I bound was a very small one, Shak-
speare's Venus and Adonis. I showed it to the bookseller.
He seemed surprised. I could see jealousy in his eye.
However, he recovered in a moment. He had no doubt
but I should break.
He offered me a worn-down press for two shillings,
which no man could use, and which was laid by for the fire.
I considered the nature of its construction, bought it, and
paid the two shillings. I then asked him to favour me with
a hammer and a pin, which he brought with half a conquer-
ing smile, and half a sneer. I drove out the garter-pin,
which, being galled, prevented the press from working, and
turned another square, which perfectly cured the press. He
said in anger, " If I had known, you should not have had
it." However, I could see he consoled himself with the
idea that all must return in the end. This proved for forty-
two years my best binding press.
I now purchased a tolerably genteel suit of clothes, and
was so careful of them, lest I should not be able to procure
another, that they continued my best for five years.
The stocking-frame being my own, and trade being dead,
the hosiers would not employ me ; they could scarcely em-
ploy their own frames. I was advised to try Leicester, and
took with me half-a-dozen pair of stockings to sell. I visited
several warehouses; but, alas! all proved blank. They
would neither employ me, nor give for my goods anything
near prime cost. As I stood like a culprit before a gentle-
222 PASSAGES FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF I1UTTON.
man of the name of Bennet, I was so affected, that I burst
into tears, to think that I should have served seven years
to a trade at which I could not get bread.
My sister took a house, and to soften the rent, my
brother and I lodged with her.
1747. It had been the pride of my life, ever since pride
commenced, to wear a watch. I bought a silver one for
thirty-five shillings. It went ill. I kept it for four years,
then gave that and a guinea for another, which went as ill.
I afterwards exchanged this for a brass one, which going no
better, I sold it for five shillings; and to complete the
watch farce, I gave the five shillings away, and went with-
out a watch thirty years.
I had promised to visit my father on Whitsun eve, at
Derby. Business detained me till it was eleven at night
before I arrived. Expectation had for some time been on
the stretch, and was now giving way. My father being
elevated with liquor, and by my arrival, rose in ecstasy,
and gave me the first kiss, and, I believe, the last he ever
gave me.
This year I began to dip into rhyme. The stream was
pleasant, though I doubt whether it flowed from Helicon.
Many little pieces were the produce of my pen, which, per-
haps, pleased ; however, they gave no offence, for they slept
on my shelf till the rioters burnt them in 1791.
1748. Every soul who knew me scoffed at the idea of
my book-binding, except my sister, who encouraged and
aided me ; otherwise I must have sunk under it. I con-
sidered that I was naturally of a frugal temper ; that I
could watch every penny, live upon a little ; that I hated
stocking-making, but not book-binding ; that if I continued
at the frame, I was certain to be poor ; and if I ventured
to leave it. I could not be so. My only fear was lest I
PASSAGES FROM. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF BUTTON. 223
should draw in my friends ; for I had nothing of my
own.
I had frequently heard that every man had, some time
or other in his life, an opportunity of rising. As this was
a received opinion, I would not contradict it. I had, how-
ever, watched many years for the high tide of my affairs,
but thought it never yet had reached me.
I still pursued the two trades. Hurt to see my three
volumes of magazines in so degraded a state, I took them
to pieces, and clothed them in a superior dress.
1749. It was now time to look out for a future place of
residence. A large town must be the mark, or there would
be no room for exertion. London was thought of, between
my sister and me, for I had no soul else to consult. This
was rejected for two reasons. I could not venture into such
a place without a capital, and my work was not likely to
pass among a crowd of judges.
My plan was to fix upon some market town, within a
stage of Nottingham, and open shop there on the market
day, till I should be better prepared to begin the world
at Birmingham.
I fixed upon Southwell, as the first step of elevation.
It was fourteen miles distant, and the town as despicable
as the road to it. I went over at Michaelmas, took a shop
at the rate of twenty shillings a-year, sent a few boards for
shelves, a few tools, and about two hundredweight of trash,
which might be dignified with the name of books, and worth,
perhaps, a year's rent of my shop. I was my own joiner,
put up the shelves and their furniture, and in one day be-
came the most eminent bookseller in the place.
During this rainy winter, I set out at five every Satur-
day morning, carried a burden of from three pounds weight
to thirty, opened shop at ten, starved in it all day upon
224 PASSA GES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON.
bread, cheese, and half a pint of ale, took from one to six
shillings, shut up at four, and by trudging through the
solitary night and the deep roads five hours more, I ar-
rived at Nottingham by nine ; where I always found a mess
of milk porridge by the fire, prepared by my valuable sister.
Nothing short of a surprising resolution and rigid eco-
nomy could have carried me through this scene.
1750. Returning to Nottingham, I gave warning to quit
at Southwell, and prepared for a total change of life.
On the 10th of April, I entered Birmingham, for the
third time, to try if I could be accommodated with a
small shop. If I could procure any situation, I should be
in the way of procuring a better. On the 1 1 th I travelled
the streets of Birmingham, agreed with Mrs. Dix for the
lesser half of her shop, No. 6 in Bull Street, at one shilling
a-week ; and slept at Lichfield in my way back to Not-
tingham.
On May 13th, Mr. Rudsdall, a dissenting minister of
Gainsborough, with whom my sister had lived as a servant,
travelling from Nottingham to Stamford, requested my
company, and offered to pay my expenses, and give me
eighteenpence a day for my time. The afternoon was wet
in the extreme. He asked why I did not bring my great-
coat ? Shame forbade an answer, or I could have said I
had none. The water completely soaked through my clothes,
but not being able to penetrate the skin, it filled my boots.
Arriving at the inn, every traveller, I found, was wet; and
every one produced a change of apparel but me. I was
left out because the house could produce no more. I was
obliged to sit the whole evening in my drenched garments,
and to put them on nearly as wet on my return the next
morning! What could I expect but destruction? Fortu-
nately I sustained no injury.
PASSAGES FROM A UTOB10GRAPRY OF HUTTON. 225
It happened that Mr. Kudsdall, now declined house-
keeping, his wife being dead. He told my sister that he
should part with the refuse of his library, and would sell it
to me. She replied, " He has no money." " We will not
differ about that. Let him come to Gainsborough ; he shall
have the books at his own price." I walked to Gainsborough
on the 15th of May, stayed there the 16th, and came back
on the 17th.
The books were about two hundred pounds' weight. Mr.
Rudsdall gave me his corn chest for their deposit ; and for
payment, drew the following note, which I signed :
" I promise to pay to Ambrose Rudsdall, one pound
seven shillings, when I am able." Mr. Rudsdall observed,
" You never need pay this note if you only say you are not
able." The books made a better show, and were more val-
uable than all I possessed beside.
I had now a most severe trial to undergo ; parting with
my friends, and residing wholly among strangers. May
23rd, I left Nottingham, and I arrived at Birmingham on
the 25th. Having little to do but look into the street, it
seemed singular to see thousands of faces pass, and not one
that I knew. I had entered a new world, in which I led
a melancholy life, a life of silence and tears. Though a
young man, and of rather a cheerful turn, it was remarked
" that I was never seen to smile."
The rude family into which I was cast added to the
load of melancholy.
My brother came to see me about six weeks after my
arrival, to whom I observed, that the trade had fully sup-
ported me. Five shillings a-week covered every expense;
as food, rent, washing, lodging, &c. Thus a solitary year
rolled round, when a few young men of elevated character
and sense took notice of me. I had saved about twenty
10*
226 PASSA GES FROM A UTOBIOGltAPHT OF BUTTON.
pounds, and was become more reconciled to my situation.
The first who took a fancy to me was Samuel Salte, a mer-
cer's apprentice, who five years after, resided in London,
where he acquired 100.000. He died in 1797. Our inti-
macy lasted his life.
In this first opening of prosperity, an unfortunate cir-
cumstance occurred which gave me great uneasiness, as it
threatened totally to eclipse the small prospect before me.
The overseers, fearful I should become chargeable to the
parish, examined me with regard to my settlement ; and,
with the voice of authority, ordered me to procure a certifi-
cate, or they would remove me. Terrified, I wrote to my
father, who returned for answer, " That All Saints, in Derby,
never granted certificates."
I was hunted by ill-nature two years. I repeatedly of.
fered to pay the levies, which was refused. A succeeding
overseer, a draper, of whom I had purchased two suits of
clothes, value 10, consented to take them. The scruple
exhibited a short sight, a narrow principle, and the exulta-
tions of power over the defenceless.
Among others who wished to serve me, I had two friends,
Mr. Dowler, a surgeon, who resided opposite me, and Mr.
Grace, a hosier at the Gateway, in the High-street. Great
consequences often arise from small things. The house ad-
joining that of Mr. Grace's, was to be let. My friends both
urged me to take it. I was frightened at the rent, eight
pounds. However, one drew, and the other pushed, till
they placed me there. A small house is too large for a man
without furniture, and a small rent may be too large for an
income which has nothing certain in it but the smallness.
Having felt the extreme of poverty, I dreaded nothing so
much ; but I believed I had seized the tide, and I was un-
willing to stop.
PASSA QES FROM. A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF MUTTON. 227
Here I pursued business in a more elevated style, and
with more success.
No event in a man's life is more consequential than mar-
riage ; nor is any more uncertain. Upon this die his sum
of happiness depends. Pleasing views arise, which vanish
as the cloud ; because, like that, they have no foundation.
Circumstances change, and tempers with them. Let a
man's prior judgment be ever so sound, he cannot foresee a
change ; therefore he is liable to deception. I was de-
ceived myself, but, thanks to my kind fate, it was on the
right side. I found in my wife more than I ever expected
to find in woman. Just in proportion as I loved her, I
must regret her loss. If my father, with whom I only lived
fourteen years, who loved me less, and has been gone forty,
never is a day out of my thoughts, what must be my thoughts
towards her, who loved me as herself, and with whom I
resided an age !
1756. My dear wife brought me a little daughter, who
has been the pleasure of my life to this day. We had now
a delightful plaything for both.
Robert Bage, an old and intimate friend, and a paper-
maker, took me to his inn, where we spent the evening.
He proposed that I should sell paper for him, which I
might either buy on my own account, or sell on his by
commission. As I could spare one or two hundred pounds,
I chose to purchase ; therefore appropriated a room for the
reception of goods, and hung out a sign The Paper Ware-
house. From this small hint I followed the stroke forty
years, and acquired an ample fortune.
1763. We took several pleasurable journeys; among
others, one at Aston, and in a superior style to what we had
done before. This is the peculiar privilege of us Birming-
228 PASSAGES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF BUTTON.
ham men : if ever we acquire five pounds extraordinary, w.
take care to show it.
1764. Every man has his hobby-horse and it is no dis-
grace prudently to ride him. He is the prudent man who
can introduce cheap pleasures without impeding business.
About ten of us, intimate friends, amused ourselves
with playing at tennis. Entertained with the diversion,
we erected a tennis-court and met on fine evenings for amuse-
ment, without expense. I was constituted steward of our
little fraternity.
My family continued their journeys, and were in a pros-
perous state.
THE END.
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND SEEIES.
urn
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS . Mrs. BarbaulcL 7
THE ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE, AND EXPLOITS OF
THE KNIGHT SIB INDUSTRY. From the " Castle of Indolence"
Thomson. 14
STORIES, NOW FIRST COLLECTED, FROM THE " TATLER," " SPECTATOR,"
AND " GUARDIAN" Sir Richard Steele. 39
Valentine and Unnion 42
The Fire 43
The Wedding Day 46
The Shipwreck 48
The Alchemists 50
The Violent Husband 64
Inkle and Yarico 55
The Fits 58
CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH 61
The Spectator's Club . . ; Steele. 65
The Club of the Tatler " 71
Clubs Choice Spirits Muzzy Club Harmonical So-
ciety Goldsmith. 77
COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE IN THE LONE COTTAGE . Smollett. 84
THE HERMIT Parnell. 93
PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE WITH PARSON ADAMS. From "Joseph
Andrews" Fielding. 104
VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY Shenstone. Ill
FIVE LETTERS Gray. 115
To HORACE WALPOLE A Fox-hunter A Poet's Solitude
Southern the Dramatist 116
To RICHARD WEST Bad Spirits Recollections of Hus-
bands and Statesmen at School . .118
VI CONTENTS.
PAOB
To THE REVEREND NORTON NICHOLLS Banter of Formal
Excuses and Fine Exordiums Southampton An
Abbot Sunrise ... 119
To THK SAKE A Mother Scenery of Kent . . . .121
To THE SAME Having a Garden of One's Own Shen-
stone Second Banter of Formal Apologies . . . .123
ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING A TASTE FOR PICTURES Jon. Richardson. 126
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE .... Gray. 136
A LONG STORY " 140
SIR ROGER DE COVERLET. From the " Spectator" . . Addison. 148
Sir Roger's Household Establishment . . .... 148
His Behavior in Church on a Sunday 152
Sir Roger and the Gipsies 155
His Visit to the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . . .159
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH Colonel Pinckney. 164
A HOUSE AND GROUNDS 1*73
Thoughts on a Garden. From a Letter to Evelyn. Cowley. 178
Thoughts on Retirement. From one of his Letters
Sir W. Temple. 183
Old English Garden of the Seventeenth Century " 185
Petition for an Absolute Retreat . . Lady Winchilsea. 188
An Old Country House and an Old Lady. From the
"Lounger" Mackenzie. 192
Love of the Country in the Decline of Life. From the
same 198
Two SONNETS, AND AN INSCRIPTION ON A SPREJU. Thomas Warton. 204
Inscription over a Calm and Clear Spring 205
Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's " Monasticon" . . 205
Written after seeing Wilton House 205
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. From the Notes to Ossian . Macpherson. 207
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. From " Memoirs of The
Right Honorable Charles James Fox" Trotter. 214
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD Gray, 222
Slgninst 3nnmsistet( in nnr <!j{irrtatinn3.
FROM AN ESSAY BY MRS. BARBAULD.
BETTER writing or reasoning than the following it would not be
easy to find. There are some additional remarks in the original,
which, though not without merit, we cannot help thinking by an in-
ferior hand, and have, therefore, omitted. Every sentence here set
down is admirable ; nor is there anything, however vigorous in the
tone, which a noble-minded woman might not utter, without commit-
ting the delicacy of her sex. All is conformable to kindness as well
as zeal, and to the beauty of right thinking.
In reading this excellent piece of advice one feels astonished to
think how so many could have stood in need of it, ourselves perhaps
among the number. But so it is. We feel it to have been necessary,
while we are surprised at its having been so ; and we become anxious
that all the world should be acquainted with it. The good it is cal-
culated to do is evident, and of the greatest importance. We have
heard of reflecting men who are proud to acknowledge their obliga-
tions to it ; who say it has influenced the greater part of their lives ;
and we know of others who have spoken of it with admiration ; Mr,
Hazlitt for one.
At the same time, good as the spirit of the admonition is for every-
body, the line drawn between the seekers of wealth and the cultiva-
tors of wisdom appears to us to be a little too strong ; or at least to
have become so in our days, whatever the case may have been in
those in which it was written. The recognition of the beauty and
8 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY
even the utility of mental accomplishments has latterly been keeping
better pace with commercial industry ; men in trade have influenced
the opinions of the world on the most unexpected and important
points, by means of their share of them ; and in the passages ex-
tracted from the biography of Button, the reader has seen an account
of a man who, in Mrs. Barbauld's own time, rose to wealth from the
humblest beginnings, and whose career was accompanied, neverthe-
less, by a love of books and by liberal feelings, by the regard and
assistance of men of genius, and by the warmest affections of his
family. The instance of his distinguished friend Bage, the novelist
and paper-maker, is still more striking on the side of independence.
But we have noticed them both more at large in the place referred
to, as well as the exceptions to sordid rules that have occurred in all
ages and nations. Still the essay remains necessary to many, useful
and a good caution to all.
Our gratitude must not forget, that the chief honor of the admoni-
tion remains with the good old Stoic philosopher, the following pas-
sage out of whose writings Mrs. Barbauld made the text of her
sermon :
" What la more reasonable than that they who take pains for anything, should
get roost in that particular for which they take pains ? They have taken pains for
power, you for right principles ; they for riches, you for a proper use of the appear-
ance of things. See whether they have the advantage of you in that for which you
have taken pains, and which they neglect. If they are in power, and you not, why
will not you speak the truth to yourself, that you do nothing for the sake of power,
but that they do everything ? No ; but since I take care to have right principles,
it is more reasonable that I should have power. Yes, in respect to what yon take
care about, your principles ; but give up to others the things in which they have
taken more care than you ; else it is just as if, because you have right principles,
you should think it fit that when you shoot an arrow you should hit the mark better
than an archer, or that you should forge better than a smith." CARTER'S Epictetia.
A S most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from
-t* disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is of the
utmost consequence to attain just notions of the laws and
order of the universe, that we may not vex ourselves with
fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless and unreasonable
discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are
tolerably understood and attended to ; and, though we may
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 9
suffer inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in con-
sequence of them. No man expects to preserve oranges
through an English winter ; or when he has planted an
acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few months. The
mind of man naturally yields to necessity, and our wishes
soon subside when we see the impossibility of their being
gratified. Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find
in the moral government of the world, and the order of the
intellectual system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable
as any in Newton's Principia. The progress of vegetation
is not more certain than the growth of habit ; nor is the
power of attraction more clearly proved, than the force of
affection, or the influence of example. The man, therefore,
who has well studied the operations of nature in mind as
well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity
in his claims upon Providence ; he will never be disappointed
either in himself or others ; he will act with precision, and
expect that effect, and that alone, from his efforts, which
they are naturally adapted to produce. For want of this,
men of merit and integrity often censure the dispositions of
Providence for suffering the characters they despise to run
away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased
by such means as a high and noble spirit could never submit
to. If you refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase 1
We should consider this world as a great mart of commerce,
where Fortune exposes to our view various commodities,
riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every-
thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor,
our ingenuity, is so much ready money we are to lay out to
the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject, but
stand to your own judgment, and do not, like children, when
you have purchased one thing, repine that you do not possess
another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of
1*
10 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY
well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion
of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure
success. Would you, for instance, be rich ? Do you think
that single point worth sacrificing everything else to ? You
may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the
lowest beginnings, by toil and patient diligence, and atten-
tion to the minutest articles of expense and profit ; but you
must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a
free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity,
it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high
and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from
schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed with a
baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You
must learn to do hard, if not unjust things ; and as for the
nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is
necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You
must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to
feed your understanding with plain household truths. In
short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish
your taste, or refine your sentiments ; but keep on in one
beaten track, without turning aside either to the right or to
the left. " But I cannot submit to drudgery like this I feel
a spirit above it." 'Tis well : be above it then ; only do not
repine that you are not rich.
Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That, too, may be pur-
chased by steady application and long solitary hours of study
and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. " But,"
says the man of letters, " what a hardship is it, that many an
illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms
on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I
have little more than the common conveniences of life." Et.
tibi magna satis ! Was it in order to raise a fortune that
you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and re-
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. Il
irement ? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the
midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek
and Roman spring ? You have, then, mistaken your path,
and ill employed your industry. " What reward have I then
for all my labors ?" What reward ! A large comprehen-
sive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations,
and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret the works of
man of God ; a rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant
with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection ; a
perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the conscious dignity of
superior intelligence. Good heaven ! and what reward can
you ask besides ?
" But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Prov-
idence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should
have amassed wealth enough to buy a nation ?" Not in the
least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that very
end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for
it ; and will you envy him his bargain ? Will you hang
your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines
you in equipage and show ? Lift up your brow with a noble
confidence, and say to yourself, " I have not these things, it
is true ; but it is because I have not sought, because I have
not desired them. It is because I possess something better.
I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied."
You are a modest man you love quiet and independence,
and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which ren-
ders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world,
and be the herald of your own merits. Be content, then,
with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate
friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate
ingenuous spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the
world to those who can better scramble for them.
The man whose tender sensibility of conscience, and strict
12 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY
regard to the rules of morality, makes him scrupulous and
fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad-
vantages he lies under in every path of honor and profit.
" Could I but get over some nice points, and conform to the
practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair
a chance as others for dignities and preferment." And why
can you not? What hinders you from discarding this
troublesome scrupulosity of yours which stands so grievously
in your way ? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful
mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the
keenest inspection, inward freedom from remorse and per-
turbation, unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners, a
genuine integrity, " pure in the last recesses of the mind,"
if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for
what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a
slave-merchant, a director, or what you please. If these be
motives too weak, break off by times ; and as you have not
spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise enough not to
forego the emoluments of vice.'
I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in
that they never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lowei
the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the in
dulgences of indolence and sensuality. They never thought
of having the bulk of mankind for their disciples, but kept
themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly life ; they
plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and what ad-
vantages they were which might be expected.
Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis
Hoc age deliciis.
If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You
must do thus and thus. There is no other way. If not, go
and be one of the vulgar.
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 13
There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a char-
acter as consistency of conduct. Even if a man's pursuits
be wrong and unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with
steadiness and vigor, we cannot withhold our admiration.
The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose
some one important object and pursue it through life. It was
this made Caesar a great man. His object was ambition ; he
pursued it steadily, and was always ready to sacrifice to ife
every interfering passion or inclination.
There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian's dialogues,
where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though he has had so
many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved. "In order
to be loved," says Cupid, " you must lay aside your aegis and
your thunderbolts, and you must curl your hair and place a
garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume
a winning obsequious deportment." " But," replied Jupiter,
" I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity." " Then,"
returns Cupid, " leave off desiring to be loved." Ho wanted
to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time.
? i^ijari SufonUnre, ml
nf tjj* Unigljt |ir Snhstnf.
FROM THE 'CASTLE OF INDOLENCE," BY THOMSON.
THE sequestered mansion in which, either in reality or in imagi-
nation, we may be reading this poem, must not itself be a Castle of In-
dolence ; yet everybody delights occasionally in being indolent, or in
fancying that he shall have a right to be so some day or other. We
please ourselves with pictures of perfect rest, even when we can nei-
ther enjoy them, nor mean to do so. We would fain have the luxury
without the harm or the expense ; there is a corner in every one's
mind in which we nestle to it ; and hence the enjoyment of such
poems as this by Thomson, in which every delight of the kind is set
before us. The second part is not so good as the first. Thomson
found himself more inspired by the vice than by its consequences.
And we secretly feel as he and his fellow-idlers did, when Sir In-
dustry first interrupted them. We resent the termination of our pleas-
ures, and look upon the reforming knight as a dull and meddling
fellow. Why should he wake us from such a pleasant dream 1 On
reflection, however, we see that the fault is not his, but our own ;
that we should wake up in a far worse manner, if Sir Industry did not
rouse us. There is beautiful poetry in the second part, even exqui-
site indolent bits, or places at least in which we might be indolent ; in
fine, we congratulate ourselves on our virtue, and begin, like the
knight, to abuse the old rascally wizard who had pretended to make
us his victims. We have retained the best passages in both parts, and
ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE. 15
fhe best only ; not without linking them in such a manner as the
stanzas luckily enabled us to do, with no violation to a syllable, ex-
cept the occasional loss of connection with a rhyme. Alteration was
'"-*; **
out of the question ; every word retained is the poet's, and no other
is admitted.
Thomson, who was once seen eating a peach off a tree with his
hands in his waistcoat pockets, was fourteen or fifteen years writing
the Castle of Indolence ; a fitting period \ We are not to suppose he
did nothing between whiles. He was both very indolent and very in-
dustrious, for his mind was always at work on his enjoyments, as the
world has good reason to know in possessing his Seasons. And he
wrote tragedies besides, not so good, but full of humane and generous
sentiments, with passages worth picking out. He had the luck to be
made easy in his circumstances by men in power before it was too
late for him to enjoy what he made others enjoy ; so he lived at Rich-
mond, singing like one of the birds whom he so justly describes as
singing the better, the better they are fed ; that is to say, if the genius
of singing be in them ; for this implies the necessity of giving vent
to it.
" What you observe concerning the pursuit of poetry," says he, in
a letter to a friend. " so far engaged in it as I am, is certainly just.
Besides, let him quit it who can, and ' erit mihi magnus Apollo," or
something as great. A true genius, like light, must be beaming forth,
as a false one is an incurable disease. One would not, however, climb
Parnassus, any more than your mortal hills, to fix forever on the bar-
ren top. No ; it is some little dear retirement in the vale below that
gives the right relish to the prospect, which, without that, is nothing
but enchantment ; and though pleasing for some time, at last leaves
us in a desert. The great fat doctor of Bath* told me that pcTets
should be kept poor, the more to animate their genius. This is like
the cruel custom of putting a bird's eye out that it may sing the
sweeter ; but, surely, they sing sweetest amid the luxuriant woods,
while the full spring blossoms around them."
Beautifully said is this, and well reasoned too. It is a final answer
to all the grudgers of a poet's comfort. Singing, it is true, might
and does console him under any circumstances ; but why should we
Supposed to be Dr. Cheyne, who got fat and melancholy with good living,
whereas Thomson got fat and merry ; for Cheyne was an owl, not a singing bird.
16 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
wish him to be consoled, when he can be made happy ? as happy as
he would make ourselves ?
Thomson is a greater poet than the style of the Seasons would lead
us to suppose. He was too modest to approach Nature in the garb
of his natural simplicity, so he put on a sort of court suit of classical-
ity, stuffed out with " taffeta phrases" and " silken terms precise,"
But the true genius is underneath. Perhaps there was something in
it of a heavy temperament, and of the " indolence" to which it inclined
him. He had a warm heart in a gross body. The Castle of Indolence
has been thought his best poem, because the style was imitated from
that of Spenser. It certainly contains as good poetry as any he wrote j
and the tone of Spenser is charmingly imitated, with an arch but da-
lighted reverence.
CANTO I.
The castle hight of Indolence,
And its false luxury ;
Where for a little time, alas I
We liv'd right jollily.
MORTAL man, who livest here by toil,
Do not complain of this thy hard estate ;
That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil,
Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ;
And, certes, there is for it reason great ;
For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail,
And curse thy star, and early drudge and late,
Withouten that would come a heavier bale,
Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.
In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,
, Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found.
It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground :
And there, a season atween June and May,
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 17
Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd,
A listless climate made ; where, sooth to say,
No living wight could work, ne cared ev'n for play.
"Was naught around but images of rest,
Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest,
From poppies breath'd, and beds of pleasant green,
Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd,
And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ;
That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale :
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.
Full in the passage of the vale, above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ;
Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move,
As Idless fancy'd in her dreaming mood ;
And up the hills, on either side, a wood
Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ;
And where this valley winded out. below,
The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow.
(8 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE.
A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye,
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
Forever flushing round a summer sky ;
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh ;
But whate'er smack'd of noyance and unrest
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.
The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease,
Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight)
Close hid his castle 'mid embowering trees,
That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright,
And made a kind of chequer'd day and night.
******
While solitude and perfect silence reign'd,
So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrain 'd.
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles,
Plac'd far amid the 'melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles.
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell,
Ne cursed knocker ply'd by villain's hand,
Self-opened into halls, where who can tell
What elegance and grandeur wide expand,
The pride of Turkey and of Persia land ?
Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread,
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KXIUHT SIR INDUSTRY. 19
And couches stretch'd around in seemly band,
And endless pillows rise to prop the head ;
So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed.
And everywhere huge cover'd tables stood,
With wines high-flavor'd and rich viands crown'd ;
Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food
On the green bosom of this earth are found,
And all old ocean genders in his round :
Some hand unseen these silently display'd,
E'en undemanded by a sight or sound ;
You need but wish, and, instantly obey'd,
Fair rang'd the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play'd.
The rooms with costly tapestry were hung,
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale.
Such as of old the rural poets sung,
Or of Arcadian or Sicilian vale ;
Reclining lovers in the lonely dale
Pour'd forth at large the sweetly tortur'd heart,
Or, sighing tender passion, swell'd the gale,
And taught charm'd Echo to resound their smart,
While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace impart
Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin'd,
Lull'd the weak bosom, and induc'd to ease ;
Aerial music in the warbling wind,
At distance rising oft, by small degrees
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs
As did, alas ! with soft perdition please :
Entangled deep in its enchanting snares,
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares.
20 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
A certain music, never known before,*
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind ;
Full easily obtain'd. Behooves no more,
But sidelong to the gently-waving wind,
To lay the well-tun'd instrument reclin'd,
From which, with airy-flying fingers light,
Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd,
The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight,
Whence, with just cause, the harp of j33olus it hight.
Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ?
Who up the lofty diapason roll
Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Then let them down again into the soul ?
Now, rising love they fann'd ; now, pleasing dole
They breath'd in tender musings through the heart j
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
As when seraphic hands an hymn impart ;
Wild-warbling Nature all, above the reach of art !
Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state
Of Caliphs old, who, on the Tigris shore,
In mighty Bagdat, populous and great,
Held their bright court, where was of ladies store,
And verse, love, music, still the garland wore.
When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there,
Cheer'd the lone midnight with the Muses' lore :
Composing music bade his dreams be fair,
And music lent new gladness to the morning air.
Near the pavilions where we slept still ran
Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell,
And sobbing waters sigh'd, and oft began
(So work'd the wizard) wintry storms to swell,
* The .flSolian harp, just then invented
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 21
As heaven and earth they would together mell ;
At doors and windows threatening seem'd to call
The demons of the tempest growling fell ;
Yet the least entrance found they none at all,
Where sweeter grew our sleep, secure in mossy hall
One great amusement of our household was,
In a huge crystal magic globe to spy,
Still as you turn'd it, all things that do pass
Upon this ant-hill earth ; where constantly
Of idly-busy men the restless fry
Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste
In search of pleasures vain that from them fly,
Or which obtain'd the caitiffs dare not taste :
When nothing is enjoy 'd, can there be greater waste ?
Of vanity the mirror this was call'd.
Here you a muckworm of the town might see
At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall'd,
Ate up with carking care and penurie,
Most like to carcase parch'd on gallows tree.
" A penny saved is a penny got ;"
Firm to this scoundrel-maxim keepeth he,
Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot,
Till it has quench'd his fire and banished his pot.
Strait from the filth of this low grub, behold !
Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir,
All glossy gay, enamell'd all with gold,
The silly tenant of the summer air.
In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ;
Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile,
And thieving tradesmen him among them share ;
His father's ghost from Limbo Lake the while
Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile.
22 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
Of all the gentle tenants of the place,
There was a man of special grave remark ;*
A certain tender gloom o'erspread his face,
Pensive, not sad ; in thought involv'd, not dark ;
As soot this man would sing as morning lark,
And teach the noblest morals of the heart ;
But these his talents were yburied stark ;
Of the fine stores he nothing would impart,
Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art.
To noontide shades incontinent he ran,
"Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound,
Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began,
Amid the broom he bask'd him on the ground,
Where the wild thyme and camomil are found ;
There would he linger, till the latest ray
Of light sate trembling on the welkin's bound ;
Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray
Sauntering and slow : so had he passed many a day.
Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past ;
For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal'd
Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast,
And all its native light anew reveal'd.
Oft as he travers'd the cerulean field,
And mark'd the clouds that drove before the wind
Ten thousand glorious systems would he build,
Ten thousand great ideas fill'd his mind ;
But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behin i
With him was sometimes join'd in silent walk,
(Profoundly silent, for they never spoke.)
* WJio this person was, does not appear to have been discoTMxd.
AND EXPLOITS OP THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 23
One shier still,* who quite detested talk ;
Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke
To groves of pine and broad o'ershadowing oak ;
There, inly thrill'd, he wanderM all alone,
And on himself his pensive fury wroke,
Ne never utter'd word save when first shone
The glittering star of eve " Thank Heaven, the day is done !"
Here lurk'd a wretch who had not crept abroad *
For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ;
In chamber brooding like a loathly toad,
And sure his linen was not very clean ;
Through secret loop-holes that had practis'd been
Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ;
Unkempt and rough, of squalid face amd mien,
Our Castle's shame ; whence, from his filthy nook,
We drove the villain out, for fitter lair to look.
One day there chaunc'd into these hills to rove
A joyous youth,f who took you at first sight ;
Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove
Before the sprightly tempest tossing light ;
Certes, he was a most engaging wight,
Of social glee, and wit humane tho' keen,
Turning the night to day and day to night ;
For him the merry bells had rung I ween,
If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been.
But not e'en pleasure to excess is good ;
What most elates, then sinks the soul as low ;
* Supposed to be Armstrong.
f Probably the author's friend Patterson, his deputy in the office
of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands.
24 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood,
The higher still th' exulting billows flow,
The farther back again they flagging go,
And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore.
Taught by this son of Joy, we found it so,
Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar
Our madden'd Castle all, the abode of Sleep no more.
As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly,
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along,
Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky,
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song,
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng ;
And oft he sips their bowl ; or, nearly drown'd,
He, thence recovering, drives their beds among,
And scares their tender sleep with trump profound,
Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round.
Another guest there was of sense refin'd,*
Who felt each worth, for every worth he had ;
Serene, yet warm ; humane, yet firm his mind ;
As little touch'd as any man's with bad :
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad,
To him the sacred love of Nature lent,
And sometimes would he make our valley glad ;
When as we found he would not here be pent,
To him the better sort this friendly message sent
" Come, dwell with us, true son of Virtue ! come ;
But if, alas ! we cannot thee persuade
To lie content beneath our peaceful dome
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade s
* Lord Lyttleton.
AND EXPLOITS OP THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 25
Yet when at last thy toils, but ill apaid,
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark,
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade,
There to indulge the Muse, and Nature mark ;
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park."
Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age,*
But call'd by Fame, in soul ypricked deep,
A noble pride restor'd him to the stage,
And rous'd him like a giant from his sleep.
E'en from his slumbers we advantage reap :
With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes,
Yet quits not Nature's bounds. He knows to keep
Each due decorum. Now the heart he shakes,
And now with well-urged sense th' enlightened judgment takes.
A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,t
Who void of envy, guile, or lust of gain,
On Virtue still, and Nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain ;
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat ;
Here quaff 'd encircled by the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.
Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod ;
Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ;
A little, round, fat, oily man of God,!
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry :
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
* Quin, the actor.
f Thomson himself. All but the first line of this stanza is under
stood to have been written by a friend.
$ The Rev. Mr. Murdoch, the poet's first biographer.
2
26 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
If a tight damsel chanc'd to trippen by ;
Which when observ'd, he shrunk into his mew,
And strait would recollect his piety anew.
Nor be forgot a tribe who minded naught
(Old inmates of the place) but state affairs ;
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought,
And on their brow sat every nation's cares.
The world by them is parcel'd out in shares.
When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold,
And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears
Has clear'd their inward eye, then smoke-enroll'd,
Their oracles break forth, mysterious as of old.
Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac'd court :
Bevies of dainty dames of high degree
From every quarter hither made resort,
Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay pour'd out, in ease and luxury :
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas ! and well-a-day ! what can it be ?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom.
Their only labor was to kill the time ;
And labor dire it is, and weary woe :
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme,
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth with tottering step and slow :
This soon too rude an exercise they find ;
Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw ;
Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclin'd,
And court the vapory god, soft breathing in the wind.
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 27
Now must I mark the villany-we found ;
But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown.
A place here was, deep, dreary, underground,
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseas'd and loathsome, privily were thrown.
Far from the light of heaven, they languish' d there
Unpitied, uttering many a bitter groan :
Eor of these wretches taken was no care ;
Fierce fiends and hags of hell their only nurses were.
*Alas ! the change ! from scenes of joy and rest,
To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway.
Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest,
Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay,
Heaving his sides, and snored night and day.
To stir him from his traunce it was not eath ;
And his half-open'd eyne he shut straitway ;
He led, I wot, the softest way to death,
And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.
Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft-swol'n and pale, here lay the Hydropsy :
Unwieldy man ! with belly monstrous round,
Forever fed with watery supply :
For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit,
Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexM was full oft with ugly fit ;
And some her frantic deern'd, and some her deem'd a wit.
A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low ;
* These four concluding stanzas of Canto I. were written by Arm
strong.
28 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
She felt, or fancied, in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humor ever wavering to and fro ;
For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry,
Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.
Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd,
With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ;
Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind,
Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things.
And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings :
The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks ;
A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings :
Whilst Apoplexy cramm'd Intemperance knocks
Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.
CANTO II.
The Knight of Arts and Industry,
And his achievements fair,
That by his Castle's overthrow
Sccur'd and crowned were.
TpSCAP'D the Castle of the Sire of Sin,
J-J Ah ! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find ?
For all around without, and all within,
Nothing save what delightful was and kind,
Of goodness savoring and a tender mind,
E'er rose to view : but now another strain
Of doleful note, alas ! remains behind ;
I now must sing of pleasure turn'd to pain,
of the false enchanter Indolence complain.
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 29
Is there no patron to protect the Muse,
And fence for her Parnassus' barren soil?
To every labor its reward accrues,
And they are sure of bread who swink and moil ;
But a fell tribe th' Aonian hive despoil,
As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee :
Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil,
Ne for the Muses other meed decree,
They praised are alone, and starve right merrily.
I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ;
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening facf j
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve :
Let- health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave :
Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave.
Come then, my Muse ! and raise a bolder song ;
Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth,
Dragging the lazy languid line along,
Fond to begin, but still to finish loath,
Thy half-wit scrolls aL eaten by the moth ;
Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame,
Who with the sons of Softness nobly wroth,
To sweep away this human lumber came,
Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flam*.
The tidings reach'd to where, in quiet hall,
The good old knight enjoy'd well-earnt repose.
" Come, come, Sir Knight, thy children on thee call :
Come save us yet, ere ruin round us close,
30 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
The demon Indolence thy toil o'er throws."
On this the noble color stain'd his cheeks,
Indignant, glowing thro' the whitening snows
Of venerable eld ; his eye full-speaks
His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks.
I will (he cried) so help me, God ! destroy
That villain Archimage. His page then strait
He to him called, a fiery-footed boy,
Benempt Dispatch. " My steed be at the gate ;
My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of Fate."
This net was twisted by the Sisters three,
"Which when once cast o'er hardened wretch, too late
Repentance comes ; replevy cannot be
From the strong iron grasp of vengeful Destiny.
He came, the bard, a little Druid-wight,
Of wither'd aspect ; but his eye was keen,
With sweetness mix'd. In russet gown bedight,
As is his sister of the copses green,
He crept along, unpromising of mien.
Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair,
Bright as the children of yon azure sheen.
True comeliness, which nothing can impair,
Dwells in the mind ; all else is vanity and glare.
" Come" (quoth the knight), " a voice has reach'd mine ear ;
The demon Indolence threats overthrow
To all that to mankind is good and dear :
Come, Philomelus ! let us instant go,
O'erturn his bowers, and lay his Castle low
Those men, those wretched men ! who will be slaves.
Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe ;
But some there be thy song, as from their graves,
Shall raise. Thrice happy he ! who without rigor saves."
EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 31
Thus holding high discourse, they came to where
The cursed carle was at his wonted trade,
Still tempting heedless men into his snare,
In witching wise, as I before have said ;
But when he saw, in goodly gear array'd,
The grave majestic knight approaching nigh,
And by his side the bard so sage and staid,
His countenance fell ; yet oft his anxious eye
Mark'd them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy.
Nathless, with feign'd respect he bade give back
The rabble rout, and welcom'd them full kind ;
Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack
His orders to obey, and fall behind.
Then he resum'd his song, and, unconfin'd,
Pour'd all his music, ran thro' all his strings ;
With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind,
And virtue's tender airs o'er weakness flings.
What pity base his song, who so divinely sings !
Elate in thought he counted them his own,
They listen'd so intent with fix'd delight ;
But they, instead, as if transmew'd to stone,
Marvell'd he could with such sweet art unite
The lights and shades of manners wrong and right.
Meantime the silly crowd the charm devour,
Wide pressing to the gate. Swift on the knight
He darted fierce to drag him to his bower,
Who back'ning shunn'd his touch, for well he knew his power
As in throng'd amphitheatre, of old,
The wary Retiarius trapp'd his foe,
E'en so the knight, returning on him bold,
At once involv'd him in the net of woe,
32 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCh,
Whereof I mention made not long ago.
Enrag'd at first, he scorn'd so weak a jail,
And leapt, and flew, and flounced to and fro ;
But when he found that nothing could avail,
lie sat him felly down, and gnaw'd his bitter nail.
Alarm'd, th' inferior demons of the place
Rais'd rueful shrieks and hideous yells around ;
Black stormy clouds deform'd the welkin's face,
And from beneath was heard a wailing sound,
As of infernal sprights in cavern bound ;
A solemn sadness every creature strook
And lightnings flash'd, and horror rock'd the ground ;
Huge crowds on crowds outpour'd with blemish'd look,
As if on time's last verge this frame of things had shook.
Soon as the short-liv'd tempest was yspent,
Steam'd from the jaws of vext Avernus' hole,
And hush'd the hubbub of the rabblement,
Sir Industry the first calm moment stole.
" There must" (he cried), " amid so vast a shoal,
Be some who are not tainted at the heart,
Not poison'd quite by this same villain's bowl ;
Come then, my Bard ! thy heavenly fire impart ;
Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start."
The bard obey'd ; and taking from his side,
Where it in seemly sort depending hung,
His British harp, its speaking strings he try'd,
The which with skilful touch he deftly strung,
Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung :
Then, as he felt the Muses come along,
Light o'er the chords his raptured hand he flung,
And play'd a prelude to his rising song ;
The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands r ound him throng.
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 33
Thus ardent burst Lis strain " Ye hapless race !
Dire-laboring here to smother Reason's ray,
That lights our Maker's image in our face,
And gives us wide o'er earth unquestion'd sway,
What is th' ador'd Supreme Perfection, say ?
What, but eternal never-resting soul,
Almighty power, and all-directing day,
By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll ;
Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole.
" Is not the field, with lively culture green,
A sight more joyous than the dead morass?
Do not the skies with active ether clean
And fann'd by sprightly Zephyrs, far surpass
The foul November fogs, and slumb'rous mass
With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ?
Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass,
Gay-dancing on, the putrid pool disgrace ?
The same in all holds true, but chief in human race.
" Had unambitious mortals minded naught
But in loose joy their time to wear away,
Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought,
Pleas'd on their pillow their dull heads to lay,
Hude Nature's state had been our state to-day ;
No cities e'er their towery fronts had rais'd,
No arts had made us opulent and gay ;
With brother-brutes the human race had graz'd ;
None e'er had soar'd to fame, none honor'd been, none prais'd.
" Great Homer's song had never fir'd the breast
To thirst of glory and heroic deeds ;
Sweet Maro's muse, sunk in inglorious rest,
Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds :
. 2*
34 ENCHANTMENTS OP THE WIZARD INDOLENCE,
The wits of modern time had told their beads,
And monkish legends been their only strains ;
Our Milton's Eden had lain wrapped in weeds,
Our Shakspeare stroll'd and laugh'd with Warwick swains,
Ne had my master Spenser charm'd his Mulla's plains.
" But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be,
If right I read, you pleasure all require ;
Then hear how best may be obtain'd this fee,
How best enjoy'd this Nature's wide desire.
Toil, and be glad ; let industry inspire
Into your quicken'd limbs her buoyant breath ;
Who does not act, is dead : absorpt entire
In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath ;
leaden-hearted Men, to be in love with death !
" who can speak the vigorous joys of health ;
Unclogg'd the body, unobscur'd the mind ;
The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth,
The temperate evening falls serene and kind ;
In health the wiser brutes true gladness find ;
See ! how the younglings frisk along the meads,
As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ;
Rampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds ;
Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunca
breeds ?
" There are, I see, who listen to my lay,
Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair.
All may be done, (methinks I hear them say,)
E'en death despis'd, by generous actions fair ;
All but for those who to these bowers repair;
Their every power dissolv'd in luxury,
To quit of torpid Sluggishness the lair,
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGH'J. SIR INDUSTRY. 35
And from the powerful arms of Sloth get free
Fis rising from the dead alas ! it cannot be !
' Would you then learn to dissipate the band
Of these huge threat'ning difficulties dire,
That in the weak man's way like lions stand,
His soul appall, and damp his rising fire ?
Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire.
Exert that noble privilege, alone,
Here to mankind indulg'd ; control desire ;
Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne,
Speak the commanding word, I will ! and it is done.
" Heavens ! can you then thus waste, in shameful wise,
Your few important days of trial here ?
Heirs of eternity ! yborn to rise
Through endless states of being, still more near
To bliss approaching, and perfection clear?
Can you renounce a fortune so sublime 1
Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer,
And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime ?
No ! no ! your heaven-touch'd hearts disdain the sordid
crime !"
" Enough ! enough !" they cried. Strait from the crowd
The better sort on wings of transport fly;
As when amid the lifeless summits proud
Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky
Snows pil'd on snows in wintry torpor lie,
The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play,
Th' awaken'd heaps, in streamlets from on high,
Rous'd into action, lively leap away,
Glad warbling throiigh the vales, in their new being gay.
3G ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD -INDOLENCE,
But far the greater part with rage inflam'd,
Dire-mutter'd curses, and blasphem'd high Jove.
" Ye sons of Hate !" (they bitterly exclaim'd),
" What brought you to this seat of peace and love ?
While with kind Nature, here amid the grove,
We passed the harmless sabbath of our time,
What to disturb it could, fell men, emove
Your barbarous hearts ? Is happiness a crime 1
Then do the fiends of hell rule in yon heaven sublime.'
" Ye impious wretches !" (quoth the knight in wrath),
" Your happiness behold !" then strait a wand
He wav'd, an anti-magic power that hath
Truth from illusive falsehood to command.
Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ;
The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found ;
On baleful heaths the groves all blacken'd stand ;
And o'er the weedy, foul, abhorred ground,
Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around
And here and there, on trees by lightning scath'd,
Unhappy wights, who loathed life, yhung ;
Or in fresh gore and recent murder bath'd,
They weltering lay ; or else, infuriate flung
Into the gloomy flood, wbile ravens sung
The funeral dirge, they down the torrent roll'd :
These by distemper'd blood to madness stung,
Had doom'd themselves ; whence oft, when night con-
troll'd
The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl ; d.
Attended by a glad acclaiming train
Of those he rescued had from gaping hell,
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 37
Then turn'd the knight, and to his hall again
Soft pacing, sought of Peace the mossy cell ;
Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell,
To see the helpless wretches that remain'd,
There left through delves and deserts dire to yell ;
Amaz'd, their looks with pale dismay were stain'd,
And spreading wide their hands, they meek repentance feign'd
But, ah ! their scorned day of grace was past ;
For (horrible to tell) a desert wild
Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast,
With gibbets, bones, and carcases defil'd.
There nor trim field nor lively culture smil'd,
Nor waving shade was seen, nor mountain fair ;
But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely pil'd,
Thro' which they floundering toil'd with painful care,
Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, and fir'd the cloudless air.
Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs,
The sadden'd country a gray waste appear'd,
Where naught but putrid streams and noisome fogs
Forever hung on drizzly Auster's beard ;
Or else the ground by piercing Caurus sear'd,
Was jagg'd with frost, or heap'd with glazed snow :
Thro' these extremes a ceaseless round they steer'd,
By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro,
Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moa
The first was with base dunghill rags yclad,
Tainting the gale in which they flutter'd light ;
Of morbid hue, his features sunk and sad ;
His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ;
And o'er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight,
His black rough beard was matted rank and vile ;
38 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE.
Direful to see ! an heart-appalling sight !
Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile,
And dogs, where'er he went, still barked all the while.
The other was a fell despightful fiend :
Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below ;
By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor, keen'd ;
Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe ;
With nose upturn'd, he always made a show,
As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his eye
Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal snow,
And taunts he casten forth most bitterly.
Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry.
E'en so thro' Brentford town, a town of mud,
An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along ;
The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud,
Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song
And oft they plunge themselves the mire among j
But aye the ruthless driver goads them on,
And aye, of barking dogs the biter throng
Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ;
Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone
$taritB taj lit Hirljaru'
NOW FIRST COLLECTED.
THESE stories, with the exception of two, compose the entire set
contributed by this great master of character and sentiment to the
Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian. They are remarkable for going to
the heart of their subjects with a comprehensive brevity ; and are
just such stories as a man might tell over his wine to a party of
friends. Addison's stories are of a more fanciful sort, and more ele-
gant in the style ; some of them are charming ; but they are pieces
of writing these are relations. They have all the warmth as well as
brevity of unpremeditated accounts, given as occasion called them
forth. Steele, indeed, may be said to have always talked, rather
than written ; and hence the beauties as well as defects of his style,
which is apt to be too carelessly colloquial.
Steele, like Fielding, Smollett, Goldsmith in fact, like almost all
our most entertaining wits and novelists, not excepting (on a great scale)
Sir Walter Scott himself was an impulsive and imprudent man, not
attentive enough to his outlays, and too sanguine about his income.
He warranted, perhaps, the remonstrances of his staider friend Ad-
dison ; and was more touched than comforted by them, from feeling
that they were useless. The remonstrances (if they were of the harsh
and practical nature they are said to have been), would have come
with less ungraciousness from a more genial and generous man ; that
is to say, supposing such a man would have thought them advisable.
Objections to men like Steele come indeed with grace from none but
40 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELS.
generous persons, liable to his temptations, and superior to them.
Such persons have made such objections, though not unaccompanied
with assumptions that might have been spared ; probably in conse-
quence of the re-action in Steele's favor in the writings of Hazlitt
and others. The objections, however, deserve to be respectfully re-
plied to ; and the just reply, we think, is, that you must consider
every writer and every man as the result of all the circumstances that
have made him what he is, bodily and mental, and then judge whether
that result is a gain and pleasure to the world, and a compensation
for the less allowable of those circumstances. For a man cannot be
one man and another too ; cannot be Steele and Addison both ; at
least we are not aware that any such person has been met with, how
ever modified the varieties of their like may be. Would you have
had no such thing as Steele's imprudence, and been content to lose
the Toiler and the Guardian ? as Fielding's, and been without Tom
Jones and Amelia? as Smollett's, and had no Roderick Random or
Humphrey Clinker ? Or, if you say that Addison could have written,
and did write, as good and humorous things as those, will you say
that the others did not write with a difference from Addison ; and
with such a difference as the world strongly feels and highly delights
in 1 You will grant this of course. What constitutes, then, the dif-
ference of Steele, of Fielding, and of Smollet, from such a writer as
Addison 1 and could that difference have delighted us as it does, had
it not resulted from the entire natures and circumstances of the
men 1 Very foolish and very presumptuous, we grant, would it be in
any given imprudent person to quote their example in his defence,
even though he should turn out some day to have had warrant for it,
or be regarded with indulgence meantime by such as think he has.
Those who have nothing in them to justify such an exceptional con-
sideration, come under another category altogether, whatever may be
said in their excuse ; and those who have something, must be content
modestly to await the chance of its recognition, and to pay in the
meantime the penalty of its drawbacks.
If there were no worse men in the world than Steele, what a planet
we should have of it 1 Steele knew his own foibles as well as any
man. He regretted, and made amends for them, and left posterity a
name for which they have reason to thank and love him. Posterity
thanks Addison too ; but it can hardly be said to love him, even by the
help of the good old knight Sir Roger, whom Steele invented for him.
STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 41
Perhaps they would have loved him more, had he too confessed his
faults ; or even had he told them in what the only one consisted, at
which he hinted when he sent for Gay on his death-hed, and asked
his pardon for having done him some wrong. Steele asked pardon
for wrong, long before he died. The last thing we hear of him is
neither a solitary acknowledgment nor a Christian vaunt, but his sit-
ting out of doors in his retirement, giving the village maidens prizes
to contend for. He said modestly of his life (far too modestly, for
he was a loving husband and father, and a disinterested patriot), that
it " was but pardonable ;" and in his beautiful effusion to the memory
of his friend Estcourt the comedian, he expressed his gratitude to that
honest mimic for having made him sensible of his defects, and taught
him to care for nothing but the subjection of his will.
The reader will find the passage below.*
Truly curious was it, and lucky for the world that Dick Steele and
Joseph Addison should have grown up together from childhood, and
become the Beaumont and Fletcher of social ethics. But they had
" What was peculiarly excellent in this memorable companion was, that in the
accounts he gave of persons and sentiments he did not only hit the figure of their
faces and manner of their gestures, but he would, in his narrations, fall into their
way of thinking, and this when he recounted passages wherein men of the best wits
were concerned, as well as such wherein were represented men of the lowest rank
of understanding. It is certain as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to
be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be imagined. There were none but the
vain, the formal, the proud, or those who were incapable of amending their faults,
dreaded him ; to others he was in the highest degree pleasing : and I do not know any
satisfaction of any different kind I ever tasted so much, as having got over an im-
patience of seeing myself in the air he could put me when I had displeased him. It
is indeed owing to his exquisite talent this way, more than any philosophy I could
read ot he subject, that my person is very little of my care ; and it is indeffersnt to
me what is said of my shape, my air, my manner, my speech, or my address. It is to
poor Estcourt I chiefly owe, that I am arrived at the happiness of thinking nothing
H diminution to me, but what argues a depravity of my will.
* * *
" I have been present with him among men of the most delicate taste the whole
night, and have known him (for he saw it was desired) keep the discourse to him-
self the most part of it, and maintain his good-humor with a countenance and in
a language so delightful, without offence to any person or thing upon earth, still
preserving the distance his circumstances obliged him to ; I say, I have seen him
do all this in such a charming manner, that I am sure none of those I hint at will
read this, without giving some sorrow for their abundant mirth, and one gush of
tears for so many bursts of laughter. I wish it were any honor to the pleasant
creature's memory, that my eyes are too much suffused to let me go on "
42 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
tastes in common, and admirable was the result ; a music more
charming for the counter-point ; Addison's hand the staider and the
calmer, the more artful, the more informed, yet playful withal, though
never losing its self-possession ; Steele's the more wandering and
capricious, the lighter, the less solemn, yet now and then touching
forth notes of a more tender sweetness, and such as fill the eyes with
tears. Addison knew nothing of those.
The reader will find evidences of this pathos in most of the follow-
ing stories. Those of Valentine and Unnion, and Inkle and Yarico, he
has probably been acquainted with from childhood ; but they are re-
peated for that reason. Both are master-pieces ; the latter would
be not unworthy of perusal after one of Chaucer's. The Dream is
lovely ; and the Fire, and the Wedding Day, heart-rending. It is re-
markable, considering the gaiety of most of Steele's writings, that
there should be only one comic story out of the eight. The husband's
flopping down by the side of his wife, and whispering in her insensible
ear, is very ludicrous.
VALENTINE AND UNNION.
AT the siege of Namur by the allies, there were in the
ranks of the company commanded by Captain Pincent,
in Colonel Frederick Hamilton's regiment, one Unnion a cor-
poral, and one Valentine a private sentinel ; there happened
between these two men a dispute about a matter of love,
which upon some aggravations grew to an irreconcilable
hatred. Unnion, being the officer of Valentine, took all op-
portunities even to strike his rival, and profess the spite and
revenge which moved him to it. The sentinel bore it with-
out resistance, but frequently said he would die to be re-
venged of that tyrant. They had spent whole months thus,
one injuring, the other complaining, when in the midst of
this rage towards each other they were commanded upon the
attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot in
the thigh, and fell ; the French pressing on, and he expect-
THE FIRE. 43
ing to be trampled to death, called out to his enemy, " Ah,
Valentine ! can you leave me here ?" Valentine immediately
ran back, and in the midst of a thick fire of the French took
the corporal upon his back and brought him through all that
danger as far as the Abbey of Salsine, where a cannon ball
took off his head : his body fell under his enemy, whom he
was carrying off. Unnion immediately forgot his wound,
rose up, tearing his hair, and then threw himself upon the
bleeding carcase, crying, " Ah, Valentine ! was it for me who
have so barbarously used thee, that tbou hast died ? I will
not live after thee." He was not by any means to be forced
from the body, but was removed with it bleeding in his arms,
and attended with tears by all their comrades who knew their
enmity. When he was brought to a tent his wounds were
dressed by force ; but the next day, still calling upon Valen-
tine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs
of remorse and despair.
THE FIRE.
and Chloe, two very fine women, were bred
^ up as sisters in the family of Romeo, who was the father
of Chloe and guardian of Clarinda. Philander, a young gen-
tleman of a good person and charming conversation, being a
friend of old Romeo, frequented his house, and by that means
was much in conversation with the young ladies, though still
in the presence of the father and the guardian. The ladies
both entertained a secret passion for him, and could see well
enough, notwithstanding the delight which he really took in
Romeo's conversation, that there was something more in his
heart which made him so assiduous a visitant. Each of them
thought herself the happy woman, but the person beloved
44 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELL.
was Chloe. It happened that both of them were at a play
on a carnival evening, when it is the fashion there,* as well
as in most countries of Europe, both for men and women, to
appear in masks and disguises. It was in that memorable
night in the year 1679, when the playhouse by some unhappy
accident was set on fire. Philander, in the first hurry of the
disaster, immediately ran where his treasure was, burst open
the door of the box, snatched the lady up in his arms, and
with unspeakable resolution and good fortune carried her off
safe. He was no sooner out of the crowd but he set her
down, and grasping her in his arms with all the raptures of a
deserving lover, " How happy am I," says he, " in an oppor-
tunity to tell you I love you more than all things, and of
showing you the sincerity of my passion at the very first
declaration of it." " My dear, dear Philander," says the
lady, pulling off her mask, " this is not the time for art ; you
are much dearer to me than the life you have preserved, and
the joy of my present deliverance does not transport me so
much as the passion which occasioned it." Who can tell the
grief, the astonishment, the terror, that appeared in the face
of Philander when he saw the person he spoke to was Cla-
rinda ! After a short pause, " Madam," says he, with the
looks of a dead man, " we are both mistaken ;" and imme-
diately flew away, without hearing the distressed Clarinda,
who had just strength enough to cry out, " Cruel Philander !
why did you not leave me in the theatre ?" Crowds of peo-
ple immediately gathered about her, and after having brought
* In Denmark. Philander, Chloe, &c. sound very absurd as Dan-
ish people, but this application of ancient names to modern persons
was the taste of the age. Romeo, however, was an innovation still
more fantastical. Steele, I suppose, in despair for some fresh name,
had it suggested to him by the theatrical ground of this most affect-
ing story.
THE FIRE. 45
her to herself, conveyed her to the house of the good old un-
happy Romeo. Philander was now pressing against a whole
tide of people at the doors of the theatre, and striving to
enter with more earnestness, than any there endeavored to
get out. He did it at last, and with much difficulty forced
his way to the box where his beloved Chloe stood, expecting
her fate, amidst this scene of terror and distraction. She re-
vived at the sight of Philander, who fell about her neck with
a tenderness not to be expressed, and amidst a thousand sobs
and sighs told her his love and his dreadful mistake. The
stage was now in flames, and the whole house full of smoke ;
the entrance was quite barred up with heaps of people who
had fallen upon one another as they endeavored to get out.
Swords were drawn, shrieks heard on all sides, and in short
there was no possibility of an escape for Philander himself,
had he been capable of making it without his Chloe. But
his mind was above such a thought, and wholly employed
in weeping, condoling, and comforting. He catches her in
his arms the fire surrounds them, while .... I cannot go
on ....
"Were I an infidel, misfortunes like this would convince
me that there must be an hereafter ; for who can believe that
so much virtue could meet with so great distress without a
following reward ? For my part, I am so old-fashioned as
firmly to believe, that all who perish in such generous enter-
prises are relieved from the further exercise of life. ; and
Providence, which sees their virtue consummate and mani-
fest, takes them to an immediate reward, in a being more
suitable to the grandeur of their spirits.
46 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
THE WEDDING DAY.
A GENTLEMAN who had courted a most agreeable
young woman and won her heart, obtained also the con-
sent of her father, to whom she was an only child. The old
man had a fancy that they should be married in the same
church where he himself was, in a village in Westmoreland,
and made them set out while he was laid up with the gout in
London! The bridegroom took only his man, the bride her
maid : they had the most agreeable journey imaginable to the
place of marriage, from whence the bridegroom writ the fol-
lowing letter to his wife's father :
"March 18, 1672.
K SIR, After a very pleasant journey hither, we are pre-
paring for the happy hour in which I am to be your son. I
assure you that the bride carries it, in the eye of the vicar
who married you, much beyond her mother ; though, he says,
your open sleeves, pantaloons, and shoulder-knot, made a
much better show than the finical dress I am in. However,
I am contented to be the second fine man this village ever
saw, and sliall make it very merry before night, because I
shall write myself from thence
" Your most dutiful son,
" T. D.
" The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an
angel. I am the happiest man breathing."
The villagers were assembling about the church, and the
happy couple took a walk in a private garden. The bride-
groom's man knew his master would leave the place on a
sudden after the wedding, and seeing him draw his pistols
the night before, took this opportunity to go into his chamber
THE WEDDING DAY. 47
and charge them. Upon their return from the garden, they
went into that room ; and after a little fond raillery on the
subject of their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which
he knew he had unloaded the night before, and, presenting it
to her, said, with the most graceful air, whilst she looked
pleased at his agreeable flattery : " Now, madam, repent of
all these cruelties you have been guilty of to me ; consider,
before you die, how often you have made a poor wretch freeze
under your casement; you shall die, you tyrant, you shall
die, with all those instruments of death and destruction
about you, with that enchanting smile, those killing ringlets
of your hair." " Give fire !" said she, laughing. He did so,
and shot her dead. Who can speak his condition ? but he
bore it so patiently as to call upon his man. The poor wretch
entered, and his master locked the door upon him. " Will,"
said he. " did you charge these pistols?" He answered " Yes."
Upon which he shot him dead with that remaining. After
this, amidst a thousand broken sobs, piercing groans, and
distracted motions, he writ the following letter to the father
of his dead mistress :
" SIR, I, who two hours ago, told you truly I was the
happiest man alive, am now the most miserable. Your
daughter lies dead at my feet, killed by my hand, through a
mistake of my man's charging my pistols unknown to me.
Him have I murdered for it. Such is my wedding-day. I
will immediately follow my wife to her grave ; but before I
throw myself on my sword, I command my distraction so far
as to explain my story to you. I fear my heart will not keep
together until I have stabbed it. Poor, good old man ! Re-
member he that killed your laughter, died for it. In the
article of death, I give you my thanks, and pray for you,
though I dare not for myself. If it be possible, do not curse
we."
48 STORJES BY SIR RICHARD STEEL'S.
THE SHIPWRECK.
A YOUNG gentleman and lady, of ancient and honorable
houses in Cornwall, had from their childhood entertained
for each other a generous and noble passion, which had been
long opposed by their friends, by reason of the inequality of
their fortunes ; but their constancy to each other, and obe-
dience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much
upon their relations, that these celebrated lovers were at
length joined in marriage. Soon after their nuptials, the
bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country to take
care of a considerable fortune that had been left him by a
relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moder-
ate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all
the country on the occasion ; and I remember it was a com-
mon sentence in every one's mouth, " You see how faithful
love is rewarded."
He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home, every post,
fresh accounts of his success in his affairs abroad ; but at last,
though he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented,
in his letters, 'that "business would detain him some time
longer from home," because he would give himself the pleas-
ure of an unexpected arrival.
The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked every
evening on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a fa-
miliar friend, her husband's kinswoman ; and diverted herself
with what objects they met there, or upon discourses of the
future methods of life, in the happy change in their circum-
stances. They stood one evening on the shore together in
a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the sun, the
calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves
which gently rolled towards them, and broke at their feet ;
THE SHIPWRECK. 49
when, at a distance, her kinswoman saw something float on
the waters, which she fancied was a chest, and with a smile
told her, " she saw it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels,
she had a right to it." They both fixed their eyes upon it,
and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck,
the cousin still asserting her right ; but promising, " if it was
a prize, to give her a very rich coral for the child of which
she was then big, provided she might be god-mother." Their
mirth soon abated, when they observed, upon the nearer ap-
proach, that it was a human body. The young lady, who had
a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many
melancholy reflections on the occasion. " Who knows," said
she, " but this man may be the only hope and heir of a
wealthy house, the darling of indulgent parents, who are now
in impertinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with the
thoughts of offering him a bride they have got ready for
him ? or may he not be the master of a family that wholly
depended upon his life 1 There may, for aught we know, be
half-a-dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, now ex-
posed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have
promised himself in the different welcome he was to have
from her and them 1 But let us go away ; it is a dreadful
sight ! The best office we can do, is to take care that the
poor man, whoever he is, is decently buried." She turned
away, when a wave threw the carcase on the shore. The
kinswoman immediately shrieked out, " Oh my cousin !" and
fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her
friend, when she saw her own husband at her feet, and dropped
in a swoon upon the body. An old woman, who had been
the gentleman's nurse, came out about this time to call the
ladies in to supper, and found her child, as she always called
him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman both
lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her
50 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELS.
young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her trance ;
but the wife was gone forever.
When the family and neighborhood got together round
the bodies, no one asked any questions, but the objects be-
fore them told the story.
THE ALCHEMISTS.
"OASILIUS Valentinus was a person who had arrived at
J-' the utmost perfection in the hermetic art, and initiated
his son Alexandrinus in the same mysteries ; but, as they
are not to be attained but by the painful, the pious, the
chaste, and the pure of heart, Basilius did not open to him,
because of his youth and the deviations too natural to it, the
greatest secrets of which he was master, as well knowing that
the operation would fail in the hands of a man so liable to
errors in life as Alexandrinus. But believing, from a cer-
tain indisposition of mind as well as body, his dissolution was
drawing nigh, he called Alexandrinus to him, and as he lay
on a couch over against which his son was seated, and pre-
pared by sending out servants one after another, and admo-
nition to examine that no one overheard them, he revealed
the most important of his secrets with the solemnity and lan-
guage of an adept. " My son," said he, " many have been
the watchings, long the lucubrations, constant the labors of
thy father, not only to gain a great and plentiful estate to his
posterity, but also to take care that he should have no pos-
terity. Be not amazed, my child ; I do not mean that thou
shalt be taken from me, but that I will never leave thee, and
consequently cannot be said to have posterity. Observe this
small phial and this gallipot ; in this an unguent, in the other
a liquor. In these, my child, are collected such powers as
THE ALCHEMISTS. 51
shall revive the springs of life when they are yet but just
ceased, and give new strength, new spirits, and in a word
wholly restore all the organs and senses of the human body,
to as great a duration as it had before enjoyed from its birth
to the day of the application of these my medicines. But,
my beloved son, care must be taken to apply them within ten
hours after the breath is out of the body, while yet the clay
is warm with its late life, and yet capable of resuscitation.
I find my frame grown crazy with perpetual toil and medita-
tion, and I conjure you, as soon as I am dead, to anoint me
with this unguent ; and when you see me begin to move, pour
into my lips this inestimable liquor, else the force of the oint-
ment will be ineffectual. By this means you will give me
life, as I have you, and we will from that hour mutually lay
aside the authority of having bestowed life on each other, but
live as brethren, and prepare new medicines against such an-
other period of time as will demand another application of
the same restoratives." In a few days after these wonderful
ingredients were delivered to Alexandrinus, Basilius departed
this life ; but such was the pious sorrow of the son at the
loss of so excellent a father, and the first transports of grief
had so disabled him from all manner of business, that he
never thought of the medicines till the time to which his
father had limited their efficacy was expired. To tell the
truth, Alexandrinus was a man of wit and pleasure, and con-
sidered his father had lived out his natural time his life was
long and uniform suitable to the regularity of it but that
he himself, poor sinner, wanted a new life, to repent of a
very bad one hitherto ; and in the examination of his heart
resolved to go on as he did with this natural being of his,
but repent very faithfully, and spend very piously, the life to
which he should be reduced by application of these rarities
when time should come, to his own person.
52 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
It has been observed, that Providence frequently pun-
ishes the self-love of men who would do immoderately for
their offspring, with children very much below their charac-
ters and qualifications ; insomuch that they only transmit
their names to be borne by those who give daily proofs of
the vanity of the labor and ambition of their progenitors.
It happened thus in the family of Basilius; for Alexan-
drinus began to enjoy his ample fortune in all the extremi-
ties of household expenses, furniture, and insolent equipage ;
and this he pursued, till the departure began, as he grew sen-
sible, to approach. As Basilius was punished with a son
very unlike him, Alexandrinus, besides that jealousy, had
proofs of the vicious disposition of his son Kenatus, for that
was his name.
Alexandrinus, as 'I observed, having very good reasons
for thinking it unsafe to trust the real secret of his phial and
gallipot to any man living, projected to make sure work, and
hope for his success depending from the avarice, not the
bounty, of his benefactor.
With this thought he called Kenatus to his bedside, and
bespoke him in the most pathetic gesture and accent. " As
much, my son, as you have been addicted to vanity and pleas-
ure, as I also have been before you, you nor I could escape
the fame or the good effects of the profound knowledge of
our progenitor, the renowned Basilius. His symbol is very
well known in the philosophic world, and I shall never forget
the venerable air of his countenance when he let me into the
profound mysteries of the table of Hermes. ' It is true,'
said he, ' and far removed from all color of deceit, that which
is inferior is like that which is superior, by which are ac-
quired and perfected all the miracles of a certain work ; tho
father is the sun, the mother is the moon, the wind is tho
womb, the earth is the nurse of it, and the mother of all per
THE ALCHEMISTS. 53
fection.' All this must be received with modesty and wis-
dom. The chemical people carry in all their jargon a whim-
sical sort of piety which is ordinary with great lovers of
money, and is no more but deceiving themselves, that theL
regularity and strictness of manners, for the ends of- the
world, has some affinity to the innocence of heart which must
recommend them to the next." Kenatus wondered to hear
his father talk so like an adept, and with such a mixture of
piety, while Alexandrinus observing his attention fixed, pro-
ceeded. " This phial, child, and this little earthen pot, will
add to thy estate so much as to make thee the richest man in
the German empire. I am going to my long home, but shall
not return to common dust." Then he resumed a countenance
of alacrity, and told him that if within an hour after his
death he anointed his whole body, and poured down his
throat that liquor which he had from old Basilius, the corpse
would be converted into pure gold. I will not attempt to
express to you the unfeigned tenderness that passed between
these two extraordinary persons,; but if the father recom-
mended the care of his remains with vehemence and affection,
the son was not behindhand in professing that he would not
cut off the least bit of him but upon the utmost extremity, or
to provide for his younger brothers and sisters.
Well, Alexandrinus died, and the heir of his body, as
our term is, could not forbear in the wantonness of his
heart to measure the length and breadth of bis beloved
father, and cast up the ensuing value of him before he pro-
ceeded to operation. When he knew the immense reward
of his pains, he began the work : but lo ! when he had
anointed the corpse all over, and began to apply the liquor
the body stirred, and Kenatus, in a fright, broke the phial.
54 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
THE VIOLENT HUSBAND.
MR. EUSTACE, a young gentleman of good estate near
Dublin, in Ireland, married a lady of youth, beauty,
and modesty, and lived with her, in general, with much ease
and tranquillity ; but was in his secret temper impatient of
rebuke. She was apt to fall into little sallies of passion ;
yet as suddenly recalled by her own reflection on her fault,
and the consideration of her husband's temper. It happened,
as he, his wife, and her sister, were at supper together about
two months ago, that in the midst of a careless and familiar
conversation the sisters fell into a little warmth and contra-
diction. He, who was one of that sort of men who are never
unconcerned at what passes before them, fell into an out-
rageous passion on the side of the sister. The person about
whom they disputed was so near, that they were under no
restraint from running into vain repetitions of past heats ; on
which occasion all the aggravations of anger and distaste
boiled up, and were repeated with the bitterness of exasper-
ated lovers. The wife, observing her husband extremely
moved, began to turn it off, and rally him for interposing be-
tween two people, who from their infancy had been angry and
pleased with each other every half-hour. But it descended
deeper into his thoughts, and they broke up with a sullen
silence. The wife immediately retired to her chamber,
whither her husband soon after followed. When they were
in bed he soon dissembled a sleep ; and she, pleased that his
thoughts were composed, fell into a real one. Their apart-
ment was very distant from the rest of their family in a lone-
ly country house. He now saw his opportunity, and with a
dagger he had brought to bed with him, stabbed his wife in
the side. She awaked in the highest terror ; but immediately
INKLE AND YARICO. 55
imagining it was a blow designed for her husband by ruffians,
began to grasp him, and strove to awake and rouse him to
defend himself. He still pretended himself sleeping, and
gave her a second wound.
She now drew open the curtain, and, by the help of moon-
light, saw his hand lifted up to stab her. The horror dis-
armed her from further struggling ; and he, enraged anew at
being discovered, fixed his poniard in her bosom. As soon
as he believed he had despatched her, he attempted to escape
out of the window ; but she, still alive, called to him not to
hurt himself, for she might live. He was so stung with the
insupportable reflection upon her goodness, and his own vil-
lany, that he jumped to the bed, and wounded her all ovei
with as much rage as if every blow was provoked by new
aggravations. In this fury of mind he fled away. His wife
had still strength to go to her sister's apartment, and give an
account of this wonderful tragedy ; but died the next day.
Some weeks after, an officer of justice, in attempting to seize
the criminal, fired upon him, as did the criminal upon the
officer. Both their balls took place, and both immediately
expired.
INKLE AND YARICO.
MR. THOMAS INKLE, of London, aged twenty years,
embarked in the Downs on the good ship called the
Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on the 16th of June,
1674, in order to improve his fortune by trade and merchan-
dise. Our adventurer was the third son of an eminent citizen,
who had taken particular care to instil into his mind an early
love of gain by making him a perfect master of numbers, and
consequently giving him a quick view of loss and advantage,
and preventing the natural impulse of his passions, by pre
56 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
possession towards his interests. "With a mind thus turned,
young Inkle had a person every way agreeable, a ruddy
vigor in his countenance, strength in his limbs, with ringlets
of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened, in
the course of the voyage, that the Achilles in some distress
put into a creek on the main of America, in search of provis-
ions. The youth, who is the hero of my story, among others,
went ashore on this occasion. From their first landing they
were observed by a party of Indians, who hid themselves in the
woods for that purpose. The English unadvisedly marched a
great distance from the shore into the country, and were inter-
cepted by the natives, who slew the greatest aumber of them.
Our adventurer escaped among others by flying into a forest.
Upon his coming into a remote and pathless part of the wood,
he threw himself, tired and breathless, on a little hillock,
when an Indian maid rushed from a thicket behind him.
After the first surprise, they appeared mutually agreeable to
each other. If the European was highly charmed with the
limbs, features, and wild graces of the naked American, the
American was no less taken with the dress, complexion, and
shape of an European, covered from head to foot. The In-
dian grew immediately enamored of him, and consequently
desirous for his preservation. She therefore conveyed him
to a cave, where she gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and
led him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the midst of these
good offices, she would sometimes play with his hair, and de-
light in the opposition of its color to that of her fingers.
Then open his bosom, then laugh at him for covering it. She
was, it seems, a person of distinction, for she every day came
to him in a different dress, of the most beautiful bugles,
shells, and bredes. She likewise brought him a great many
spoils, which her other lovers had presented to her, so that
his cave was richly adorned with all the spotted skins of
INKLE AND YARICO. 57
beasts, and most fancy-colored feathers of fowls, which that
world afforded. To make his confinement more tolerable,
she would carry him in the dusk of the evening, or by the
favor of moonlight, to unfrequented groves and solitudes, and
show him where to lie down in safety, and sleep amidst the
falls of waters, and melody of nightingales. Her part was to
watch and hold him awake in her arms, for fear of her coun-
trymen, and awake him on occasion to consult his safety. In
tLis manner did the lovers pass away their time, till they
had learned a language of their own, in which the voyager
communicated to his mistress how happy he should be to have
her in his country, where she should be clothed in such silks
as his waistcoat was made of. and be carried in houses drawn
by horses without being exposed to wind or weather. All
this he promised her the enjoyment of, without such fears and
alarms as they were tormented with. In this tender corres-
pondence these lovers lived for many months, when Yarico,
instructed by her lover, discovered a vessel on the coast, to
which she made signal ; and in the night with the utmost joy
and satisfaction accompanied him to a ship's crew of his
countrymen bound for Barbadoes. When a vessel from the main
arrives in that island, it seems the planters come' down to the
shore, where there is an immediate market of the Indians and
other slaves, as with us of horses and oxen.
To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now coming into English
territories, began seriously to reflect upon his loss of time,
and to weigh with himself how many days' interest of his
money he had lost during his stay with Yarico. This thought
made the young man very pensive, and careful what account
he should be able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon
which consideration, the prudent and frugal young man sold
Yarico to a Barbadian merchant, notwithstanding that the
poor girl, to incline him to commiserate her condition, told
3
58 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE.
him she was with child by him; but he only male use of the
information to rise in his demands upon the purchaser.
THE FITS.
A FINE town-lady was married to a country gentleman of
ancient descent in one of the counties of Great Britain,
who had good-humor to a weakness, and was that sort of per-
son, of whom it is said, he is no man's enemy but his. own ;
one, who had too much tenderness of soul to have any au-
thority with his wife ; and she too little sense to give him
any authority, for that reason. His kind wife observed this
temper in him, and made proper use of it. But knowing it
was beneath a gentlewoman to wrangle, she resolved upon an
expedient to save decorum, and wean her dear to her point
at the same time. She therefore took upon her to govern
him, by falling into fits whenever she was repulsed in a re-
quest, or contradicted in a discourse. It was a fish-day,
when, in the midst of her husband's good-humor at table, she
bethought herself to try her project. She made signs that
she had swallowed a bone. The man grew pale as ashes, and
ran to her assistance, calling for drink. " No, my dear," said
she, recovering, "it is down, do not be frightened." This
accident betrayed his fondness enough. The next day she
complained, a lady's chariot, whose husband had not half his
estate, had a crane-neck, and hung with twice the air that
hers did. He answered, " Madam, you know my income :
you know I have lost two coach-horses this spring," down
she fell. " Hartshorn ! Betty, Susan, Alice, throw water in
her face." With much care and pains, she was at last brought
to herself and the vehicle in which she visited was amended
in the nicest manner to prevent relapses ; but they frequently
THE FITS. 59
happened during that husband's whole life, which he had the
good fortune to end in a few years after. The disconsolate
widow soon pitched upon a very agreeable successor, whom
she very prudently designed to govern by the same method.
This man knew her little arts, and resolved to break through
all tenderness, and be absolute master as soon as occasion
offered. One day it happened that a discourse arose about
furniture ; he was very glad of the occasion, and fell into an
invective against china, protesting, that he " would never let
five pounds more of his money be laid out that way as long
as he breathed." She immediately fainted. He starts up as
amazed, and calls for help. The maids run to the closet. He
chafes her face, bends her forward, and beats the palms of
her hands ; her convulsions increase ; and down she stumbles
on the floor, where she lies quite dead, in spite of what the
whole family, from the nursery to the kitchen, could do for
her relief. '
While every servant was there helping or lamenting their
mistress, he, fixing his cheek to hers, seemed to be following
in a trance of sorrow ; but secretly whispers her, " My dear,
this will never do : what is within my power and fortune you
may always command ; but none of your artifices ; you are
quite in oth*r hands than those you passed these pretty pas-
sions upon." This made her almost in the condition she
pretended ; her convulsions now came thicker, nor was she
to be held down. The kind man doubles his care, helps the
servants to throw water in her face by full quarts ; and when
the sinking part of the fit came again, " Well, my dear," said
he, " I applaud your actions ; but I must take my leave of
you till you are more sincere with me ; farewell forever ; you
shall always know where to hear of me, and want for noth-
ing." With that he ordered her maids to keep plying her
with hartshorn, while he went for a physician ; he was scarce
60 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELS.
at the stair-head when she followed, and pulling him into a
closet, thanked him for her cure ; which was so absolute,,
that she gave me this relation herself, to be communicated
for the benefit of all the voluntary invalids of her sex.
nf Ittdf milt
THE primary signification of the word Club, in its sense of a meet-
ing of companions, appears to be derived from the same root as that
of the massy stick, and means a consolidated body of persons large
enough to amount to something substantial ; something more than
accidental and of no account.
A club appears formerly to have meant any such body organized
for a common object. It may now be defined to be a set of persons
associated for companionable enjoyment, at stated times and with a
division of expenses.
Clubs of this kind are thought to be of very modern origin. We
suspect they are as old as flourishing communities. Traces of them
are discernible in the literature of Greece and Rome, and the East,
especially in bacchanalian poetry. Indeed it would be strange if such
had not been the case, considering in how many respects men are alike
in all ages, and that where good cheer is to be found, they naturally
flock together. We are not aware, however, of any ascertained in-
stance of a club, earlier than the famous one at the Devil Tavern, for
which Ben Jonson wrote his Latin rules ; and perhaps the name, in
the modern sense, is hardly appropriate even to this. It is not certain
that the rules applied to an organized body of contributors to the
expense, in contradistinction to a permitted range of payers. Clubs
thickened in the time of the Commonwealth, and exhibited their un-
doubted modern character in that of Steele and Addison. The meet-
ing of wits in Dryden's time appears to have taken place in the open
coffee-room. It is in the clubs of the Tatkr and Spectator, that wo
62 CLUBS OP STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
first meet with all the characteristics of the modern club its closed
doors, regular members, and " creature comforts."
" Supper and friends expect me at the Rose."
Addison, whose home was not happy, and whose blood required a
stimulus to set his wit flowing, found his greatest enjoyment in the
tavern-room ; Steele was born for one ; and except wit, ladies, gal-
lants, and good morals, there is nothing you hear more of in their
periodicals, than clubs. The circumstances which brought people to-
gether in this kind of society, were often of so fantastic a nature, that
it is not easy to distinguish the real from the imaginary sort in tne
pages of these writers ; but some of the names are historical. There
is, in the first place, the Spectator's own club, with immortal Sir
Roger de Coverley, and Will Honeycomb. Then come the Fat Club,
the Thin Club, the Club of Kings (that is to say, of people of the name
of King) ; the St. George's Club, who swore " Before George" (which
would seem to be Jacobitical, if they had not met on St. George's
day) ; Street Clubs (composed of members residing in the same
street) ; the Hum-Drum and Mum Clubs (who ingeniously smoked
and held their tongues) ; the Duellists (famous for being killed and
" hung") ; the Kit-Cat (the great Whig Club, whose name originated
in tarts made by Christopher Katt) ; the Beef-Steak (founded by Est-
court the comedian) ; the October (a club of Tory country-gentlemen
and beer-drinkers) ; the Ugly Club ; the Sighing or Amorous Club ;
the Fringe-Glove Club (a set of fops) ; the Hebdomadal (a set of quid-
nuncs) ; the Everlasting (some of whom were always sitting) ; the
Club of She-Romps, who once a month " demolished a prude" (this
looks like a foundation of Steele's acquaintance, Lady Mary Wortley
Montague) ; the Mohochs, who demolished windows and watchmen,
and ran their swords through sedan-chairs (really) ; the Little or Short
Club (an invention of Pope's) ; the Tall (an invention of Addison's) ;
the Terrible (Steele's) ; the Silent, who had loud wives, and whose
motto was, " Talking spoils company" (an invention of Zachary
Pearce's, bishop of Rochester) ; and last not least, the Club at the
Trumpet, in Shire Lane, of which more anon. These, we believe, are
all the Clubs mentioned in the Taller, Spectator, and Guardian.
Brookes's, and (we think) White's, which are still places of meeting
for the wits, politicians, and gamblers of high life, arose before the
CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 63
dissolution of some of them. Then there is the second Beef-Steak
Club (founded by Rich the harlequin) ; the famous Literary Club
(originating with Dr. Johnson) ; the Club of Monks at Medmenham
Abbey (a profligate mistake) ; the King of Clubs (Bobus Smith's,
" himself a club," brother of Sydney) ; and the high quality club en-
titled Nulli Secundus, or Second to None (which a metaphysical wag
might translate, Worse than Nothing). Endless would be the enu-
meration, even if they could be discovered, of the Freemason and
other clubs, which have attained a minor celebrity, and imitations of
which branch off through all the gradations of tavern and public-
house, and are to be found all over the kingdom, such as Odd Fel-
lows, Merry Fellows, Eccentrics, Free and Easys, Lords and Com-
mons, &c. &c., illustrious at Cheshire Cheeses, and Holes in the Wall ;
and often better than best for comfort. We must not forget one, how-
ever, of which we have read somewhere, called the Livers, which had
bottles shaped like inverted cones, so that the wine would " stand"
with nobody, but was forced to be always in circulation. The reader
will not be surprised to hear, that these " Livers" were famous for
dying before their time.
Johnson said, that a tavern chair was the " throne of human felici-
ty." That to him it was, we have no doubt ; and with admirable wit
and sense he filled it. Yet the word " throne" betrays a defect in the
right club notion. His felicity consisted in laying down the law, and
having the best of the argument. There was too much in it of his
illustrious namesake the poet. We suspect, however, that although
Johnson was greatest among his great friends, he was pleasantest
among his least. He had to make the most of them in his turn, and
to set them a good example. He has the merit of having invented
the word " clubable." Boswell, said he, is a " clubable man." He
meant intelligent, social, and good tempered. These are the three
great requisites for a clubbist ; and it is better to miss the intelli-
gence than the sociality, and the sociality than the good temper. The
great end of a club is the refreshment to the spirits, after the cares of
business or of home, whether those cares be of a bad or a good sort ;
and though intellect may be everything with some, and sociality with
others, better is the merest puff of a tobacco-pipe with peace, than
Johnson himself or Burke without it. We are for the Hum- Drums
in preference to the Duellists ; for a little noise with good fellowship
to the Hum-Drums ; for good fellowship and wit without the noise to
64 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
anything. But if we cannot have all we desire in those respects, give
us a few chatty, cordial people, neither geniuses nor fools, with whom
the news of the day and questions of personal interest can be ex-
changed, with the certainty that there will at least be peace and har-
mony, if little wit. Intellect and wit enough can be got from books ;
perhaps too much of them may have been met with in the course of
the day. But a club is the next thing before a pillow ; and if it is to
refresh you after the day's employment, it should do it in a manner
that at all events dismisses you tranquilly to your repose for the night.
We suspect, upon the whole, that the Street and Village Clubs have
been most successful ; meetings established by the natural course of
things, and expecting nothing but a comparison of daily notes and a
little cheerful refreshment. As to great Reform and Conservative
Clubs, Athenaeums, &c., they may be good for public objects, but
publicity has nothing to do with the comfort suitable to the club
proper; and those institutions in fact, club- wards, are but escapes
from domesticity into ch'eapness and solitude. A man may be a great
frequenter of them, and club with nothing but callers on business and
a lonely dinner-table. The club to belong to, of all others, would be
one composed of good-natured men of genius, such as Steele, Fielding,
and Thomson, who had reflection enough for all subjects, enthusiasm
enough to give them animation, good breeding enough to hinder the
animation from becoming noisy, and humanity enough to make allow-
ance for honest occasional departures from any rule whatever. Shak-
speare would include such men in his all-comprehensive person ; but
we are not sure that he would not over-inform the club with intellect ;
set it too abundantly thinking ; and besides, it is difficult, as modern
clubbists, to take to the idea of a man of a distant period, with a dif-
ferent style of language, and retrospective meats and drinks. Other-
wise Chaucer would surely be a perfect member ; and who would not
rejoice in the company of Suckling and Marvell 1
We have selected the following clubs from the writings of Steele
and Goldsmith, as exemplifying the three main varieties ; the well-
bred, humorsome, but intellectual club (for though Sir Roger de Cov-
eilcy and Will Honeycomb make the principal figures in the account
of it, it is to be recollected that the Spectator is there) ; the Trumpet
Club in Shire Lane, frequented by the Tatler, which is the ordinary
common-place club of smokers and old story-tellers, by way of opiate,
bedwards ; and the clubs of low life, which Goldsmith, as a cosmopo-
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB. 65
lite, delighted to paint, and which had probably often seen him as a
visitor, without suspecting that the simple-looking Irishman was a
genius come to immortalize it. Steele's delineations are exquisite ;
but Goldsmith's are no less so.
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB.*
BY STEELE.
THE first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire,
of ancient descent, a baronet, his name Sir Roger de Cov-
erley. His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous
country-dance which is called after him. All who know that
shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of
Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his
behavior, but his singularities proceed from his good sense,
and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as
he thinks the world is^ in the wrong. However, this humor
creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or
obstinacy ; and his being unconfined to modes and forms
makes him but the readier and more capable to please and
oblige all who know him. When he is in town he lives in
Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by rea-
son he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of
the next county to him. Before this disappointment Sir
Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped
with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a
duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson
in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster, f But be-
* No. 2.
f This has been thought inconsistent with Sir Roger's character
for simplicity ; but it is not so. It only shows that simplicity is com-
patible with the imitation of anything in vogue during the outset of
life. Collins, the poet, whose subsequent appearance Johnson de-
66 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
ing ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, he was very se-
rious for a year and a half ; and though, his temper being
naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of
himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to
wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion
at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, he
tells us has been in and out twelve times since he first wore
it. 'Tis said Sir Roger grew humble in his desires after he
had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch that it is reported he
has frequently offended in point of chastity with beggars and
gipsies ; but this is looked upon by his friends rather as a
matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth
year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in
town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there is
such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that he is rather beloved
than esteemed. His tenants grow rich ; his servants look
satisfied ; all the young women profess love to him, and the
young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a
house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the
way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Roger is
Justice of the Quorum ; that he fills the chair at a Quarter
Session with great ability ; and three months ago gained
universal applause by explaining a passage in the Game Act.
The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is
another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple ; a
man of great probity, wit, and understanding ; but he has
chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of
scribes as " decent and manly, "astonished his friends by the foppish-
ness of his dress on his first coming to town ; and Charles Fox, the
simplest of men, was at one time a beau of the first fashion. At least
he undertook to appear such. We suspect that the fopperies of Sir
Roger, and of the poet, and the statesman, might all hare beon seen
through by discerning eyes.
THE SPECTATORS CLUB. 67
an old humorsom'e father, than in pursuit of his own inclina-
tions. He was placed there to study the laws of the land,
and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the
stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much better understood
by him than Littleton or Coke. The father sends up, every
post, questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and ten-
ures, in the neighborhood ; all which questions he agrees
with an attorney to answer in the lump. He is studying the
passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the de-
bates among men which arise from them. He knows the
argument of each of the Orations of Demosthenes and Tully,
but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one
ever took him for a fool ; but none, except his most intimate
friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes
him at once both disinterested and agreeable. As few of his
thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit
for publication. His taste for books is a little too just for the
age lives in. Pie has read all, but approves of very few. His
familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writings
of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of what
occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent
critic ; and the time of the play is his hour of business.
Exactly at five he passes through New Inn, crosses through
Russell Court, and takes a turn at Will's* till the play be-
gins. He has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at
the barber's, as you go in to the Rose.f It is for the good of
the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an am-
bition to please him.
* A coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, frequented by
the wits. It occupied the south-west corner of Bow Street ; and was
the house that Dryden had frequented.
f The tavern mentioned in the pleasant story of tho " Medicine" in
the first volume of the Taller, No. 2. We know not where it stood ;
probahly in Rose Street, in the above neighborhood.
68 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport,
a merchant of great eminence in the city of London ; a per-
son of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great ex-
perience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and
(as every rich man has some sly way of jesting, which would
make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea
the British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in
all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbar-
ous way to extend dominion by arms ; for true power is to
be got by arts and industry. He will often argue, that if
this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain
from one nation ; and if another, from another. I have
heard him prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisi-
tions than valor ; and that sloth has ruined more nations
than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims,
amongst which the greatest favorite is " A penny saved is a
penny got." A general trader of good sense is pleasanter
company than a general scholar ; and Sir Andrew having a
natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse
gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He
has made his fortune himself, and says that England may be
richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he him-
self is richer than other men ; though, at the same time, I can
say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass but
blows home a ship in which he is an owner.
Next to Sir Andrew Freeport in the club-room sits Cap-
tain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understand-
ing, but of invincible modesty. He is one of those that de-
serve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents
within the observation of such as should take notice of them.
He was some years a captain, and behaved with great gallan-
try in several engagements, and at several sieges ; but, having
a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger,
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB. 69
he has quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably
to his merit who is not something of a courtier as well as a
soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a profession
where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence
should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to
this purpose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but
frankly confess that he left the world, because he was not fit
for it. A strict honesty, and an even regular behavior, are
in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds,
who endeavor at the same end with himself the favor of a
commander. He will, however, in his way of talk, excuse
generals for not disposing according to men's desert, or in-
quiring into it ; for, says he, that great man who has a mind
to help me, has as many to break through to come at me, as
I have to come at him. Therefore he will conclude that the
man who would make a figure, especially in a military way,
must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against
the importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in
his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be
backward in affecting what you ought to expect, as it is a
military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty.
With this candor does the gentlemen speak of himself and
others. The same frankness runs through all his conversa-
tion. The military part of his life has furnished him with
many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agree-
able to the company ; for he is never overbearing, though
accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him ;
nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly
above him.
But that our society may not appear a set of humorists,
unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age,
we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman
who ; according to his years, should be in the decline of his
70 CLUBS OF STEELS AND GOLDSMITH.
life, but having ever been very careful of his person, and al-
ways had a very easy fortnne, Time has made but a very little
impression upon him, either by wrinkles on his forehead or
traces on his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good
height He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which
men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed
very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can
smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows
the history of every mode, and can inform you from which
of the French king's wenches our wives and daughters had
this manner of curling their hair, or that way of placing their
hoods ; whose frailty was covered with such a sort of petti-
coat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of
the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conver-
sation and knowledge have been in the female world. As
other men of his age will take notice to you what such a
minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you,
when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman
was then smitten ; another was taken with him at the head
of his troop in the park. In all these important relations, he
has ever about the same time received a kind glance or blow
of the fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present
Lord Such-a-one. . . .
I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am
next to speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but
seldom ; but when he does, he adds to every man else a new
enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic
man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most
exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very
weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such
cares and such business as preferments in his function would
oblige him to. He is therefore among divines what a cham-
ber counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind,
THE CLUE OF THE TATLER. 71
and the integrity of his life, create him followers ; as being
eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the
subject he speaks upon ; but we are so far gone in years, that
he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him
fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much
authority, as one who has no interest in this world ; as one
who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives
hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordi-
nary companions.
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER.*
BY THE SAME.
" Habeo senectnti magnam gratiam, quae mihi sermonis aviditatem auxit, po-
tionis ut cibi sustulit." TULL. DK SEN.
" I am much beholden to old age, which has increased my eagerness for conver
Bation, in proportion as it has lessened my appetite of hunger and thirst."
AFTER having applied my mind with more than ordinary
attention to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax
and unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy
than shining companions. This I find particularly necessary
for me before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers
upon me by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. This is the
particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with
whom I have passed many hours with much indolence, though
not with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of pre-
parative for sleep. It takes the mind down from its abstrac-
tions, leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it
into that state of tranquillity which is the condition of a
thinking man when he is but half awake. After this my
reader will not be surprised to hear the account which I am
about to give of a club of my own contemporaries, among
* No. 132.
72 CLUBS OF STEELS AND GOLDSMITH
whom I pass two or three hours every evening. This I look
upon as taking my first nap before I go to bed. The truth
of it is, I should think myself unjust to posterity, as well as
to the society at the Trumpet,* of which I am a member, did
not I in some part of my writings give an account of the per-
sons among whom I have passed almost a sixth part of my
time for these last forty years. Our club consisted originally
of fifteen ; but, partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary
times, and partly by the natural effects of old age, we are at
present reduced to a third part of that number ; in which,
however, we have this consolation, that the best company is
said to consist of five persons. I must confess, besides the
afore-mentioned benefit which I meet with in the conversa-
tion of this select society, I am not the less pleased with
the company in which I find myself the greatest wit among
them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of learning
and diificulty.
Sir Jeoffry Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has beeu
in possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and
is the only man among us that has the liberty of stirring the
fire. This, our foreman, is a gentleman of an ancient family
that came to a great estate some years before he had discre-
tion, and run it out in hounds, horses, and cock-fighting ; for
which reason he looks upon himself as an honest worthy
gentleman, who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls
every thriving man an upstart.
* The Trumpet was a public-house in the lane in which Steele, as
the Tatler or Mr. Bickerstaff, pretended to live. This lane was no
greater locality than Shire Lane, lately so called, close to Temple
Bar, now Great Shire Lane ; and the Trumpet is still extant as a pub-
lic-house, called the Duke of York. Here; in the drawing-room (for
the dignity's sake), we may fancy Major Matchlock and old Dick
Reptile doling forth their respective insipidities.
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER. 73
Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the
last civil wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does
not think any action in Europe worth talking of since the
fight of Marston Moor ;* and every night tells us of his
having been knocked off his horse at the rising of the
London apprentices ;f for which he is in great esteem
amongst us.
Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society. He
is a good-natured indolent man, who speaks little himself,
but laughs at our jokes ; and brings his young nephew along
with him, a youth of eighteen years old, to show him good
company, and give him a taste of the world. This young
fellow sits generally silent, but whenever he opens his mouth,
or laughs at anything that passes, he is constantly told by
his uncle, after a jocular manner, " Ay, ay, Jack, you young
men think us fools; but we old men know you are."
The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a
Bencher of the neighboring Inn, who in his youth frequented
the ordinaries about Charing Cross, and pretends to have
been intimate with Jack Ogle.| He has about ten distichs
of Hudibras without book, and never leaves the club until
he has applied them all. If any modern wit be mentioned,
or any town frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the dul-
ness of the present age, and tells us a story of Jack Ogle.
For my part, I am esteemed among them because they
* In 1644, where Cromwell's cavalry turned the day against
Charles I.
f Probably in 1647, when they forced their way into the House
of Commons with a petition signed by ten thousand citizens. But as
the date of the club is 1709, the Major must have been a very old
gentleman indeed, if his memory served him rightly.
| Jack Ogle was a wild fellow about town, whose sister is said to
have been one of the mistresses of the Duke of York (James II.)
4
74 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
see I am something respected by others ; though at the same
time I understand by their behavior that I am considered
by them as a man of a great deal of learning, but no knowl-
edge of the world ; insomuch that the Major sometimes, in
the height of his military pride, calls me the philosopher ;
and Sir Jeoffry, no longer ago than last night, upon a dispute
what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his
pipe out of his mouth, and cried, " What does the scholar say
to it?"
Our club meets precisely at six o'clock in the evening ;
but I did not come last night until half an hour after seven,
by which means I escaped the battle of Naseby, which the
Major usually begins at about three quarters after six. I
found also that my good friend the Bencher had already
spent three of his distichs, and only waited an opportunity
to hear a sermon spoken of, that he might introduce the
couplet* where " a stick" rhymes to " ecclesiastic." At my
entrance into the room, they were naming a red petticoat and
a cloak, by which I found that the Bencher had been divert-
ing them with a story of Jack Ogle.f
I had no sooner taken my seat, but Sir Jeoffry, to show
his good-will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco,
and stirred up the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality
* In Hudibras.
f The story is thus given in the notes to the variorum edition of
the Tatler, published in 1797. Ogle once rode " as a private gentle-
man, in the first troop of foot-guards, at that time under the command
of the Duke of Monmouth. He had pawned his trooper's cloak, and
to save appearances at a review, had borrowed his landlady's red pet-
ticoat, which he carried rolled up en croupe behind him. The Duke
of Monmouth smoked it, and willing to enjoy the confusion of a de-
tection, gave order to cloak all, with which Ogle, after some hesita-
tion, was obliged to comply. Although he could not cloak, he said ho
would petticoat with the best of them." Vol. iii. p. 124.
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER. 75
to be obliged by those who endeavor to oblige me ; and
therefore, in requital for his kindness, and to set the conver-
sation a-going, I took the best occasion I could to put him
upon telling us the story of old Gantlett, which he always
does with very particular concern. He traced up his descent
on both sides for several generations, describing his diet and
manner of life, with his several battles, and particularly the
one in which he fell. This Gantlett was a game-cock, upon
whose head the knight, in his youth, had won five hundred
pounds and lost two thousand. This naturally set the Major
upon the account of Edge-hill fight, and ended in a duel of
Jack Ogle's.
Old Reptile was extremely attentive to all that was said,
though it was the same he had heard every night for these
twenty years, and upon all occasions winked upon his nephew
to mind what passed.
This may suffice to give the world a taste of our innocent
conversation, which we spun out till about ten of the clock,
when my maid came with a lantern to light me home. I
could not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon
the talkative humor of old men, and the little figure which
that part of life makes in one who cannot employ his natural
propensity in discourses which would make him venerable.
I must own it makes me very melancholy in company when
I hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed,
that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and-
twenty, gathers circumstances every time he tells it, until it
grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by the time
he is threescore.
The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old
age. is to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge
and observation as make us useful and agreeable in our de-
clining years. The mind of man in a long life will become a
76 CLUBS OF STEELS AND GOLDSMITH.
magazine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge
itself in something impertinent or improving. For which
reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling
story-teller, so there is nothing more venerable than one who
has turned his experience to the entertainment and advan-
tage of mankind.
In short, we, who are in the last stage of life, and are apt
to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider if what we
speak be worth being heard, and endeavor to make our dis-
course like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to the
flowing of honey for its sweetness.
I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am
speaking of, when I cannot conclude without observing, that
Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when, in
his description of an eloquent spirit, he says
" His tongue dropped manna."*
* We cannot miss the opportunity of adding to this account of
the members of the Trumpet Club, that of another associate, whose
character is drawn by Steele in a previous number, and is one of the
finest that ever proceeded from his pen. It shows his contempt of
that rfbsurdest of all the passions of mortality Pride. The reader
will take notice of the exquisite expression " insolent benevolence ;''
and the " very insignificant fellow, but exceeding gracious."
" The most remarkable (he says) of the persons whose disturbance
arises from Pride, and whom I shall use all possible diligence to cure,
are such as are hidden in the appearance of quite contrary habits and
dispositions. Among such, I shall in the first place take care of one
who is under the most subtle species of pride that I have observed in
my whole experience.
" This patient is a person for whom I have great respect, as being
an old courtier and a friend of mine in my youth. The man has but
a bare subsistence, just enough to pay his reckoning with us at the
Trumpet; but, by having spent the beginning of his life in the hearing
of great men and persons in power, he is always promising to do good
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 77
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS.
FROM THE ESSAYS.
rriHE first club I entered upon coming to town was that of
-L the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my
taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humor, and even some-
times of fun, from my childhood.
As no other passport was requisite but the payment of
two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without farther
ceremony to the members, who were already assembled, and
had for some time begun upon business. The grand, with a
mallet in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I could
not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in
physiognomy, in order to discover that superiority of genius
in men who had taken a title so superior to the rest of man-
kind. I expected to see the lines of every face marked with
strong thinking ; but, though I had some skill in this science,
I could for my life discover nothing but a pert simper, fat
or profound stupidity.
My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, who
offices, to introduce every man he converses with into the world ; will
desire one of ten times his substance to let him see him sometimes,
and hints to him that he does not forget him. He answers to matters
of no consequence with great circumspection ; but, however, maintains
a general civility in his words and actions, and an insolent benevo-
lence to all whom he has to do with. This he practises with a grave
tone and air ; and though I am his senior by twelve years, and richer
by forty pounds per annum, he had yesterday the impudence to com-
mend me to my face, and tell me ' he should always be ready to en-
courage me.' In a word, he is a very insignificant fellow, but exceeding
gracious. The best return I can make him for his favors is to carry
him myself to Bedlam, and see him well taken care of." Tatter,
No. 127.
78 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I was upon
this whispered by one of the company who sat next me, that
I should now see something touched off to a nicety, for Mr.
Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory.
Mr. Spriggins endeavored to excuse himself; for, as he was
to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through
the part properly without a crown and chains. His excuses
were over-ruled by a great majority, and with much vocifera-
tion. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead
of a crown, our performer covered his brows with an inverted
Jordan. After he had rattled his chain and shook his head,
to the great delight of the whole company, he began his song.
As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in company
that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappoint-
ment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number : how-
ever, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat in rapture,
cried out, " Bravo ! encore !" and slapped the table as loud
as any of the rest.
The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased
with my taste, and the ardor of my approbation ; and, whis-
pering, told me I had suffered an immense loss, for, had I
come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard " Geeho
Dobbin" sung in a tip-top manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit
at the president's right elbow ; but he was evaporated before
I came.
As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint-
ment, I found the attention of the company employed upon
a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the Stafford-
shire giant's, was giving us the "Softly sweet, in Lydian
measure," of Alexander's Feast. After a short pause cf ad-
miration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, with the hu-
mors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came on Old Jackson,
with a story between every stanza ; next was sung the Dust-
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 79
Cart, and then Solomon's Song. The glass began now to
circulate pretty freely ; those who were silent when sober
would now be heard in their turn ; every man had his song,
and he saw no reason why he should not be heard as well as
any of the rest ; one begged to be heard while he gave Death
and the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate which he
kept trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but
singing ; voice rose above voice, and the whole became one
universal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com-
pany that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the
moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melan-
choly of our lives ; never was so much noise so quickly
quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of our landlord.
' ; Drunk out !" was echoed in a tone of discontent round the
table ; " drunk out already ! that was very odd ! that so much
punch could be drunk out already ! impossible !" The land-
lord, however, seeming resolved not to retreat from his first
assurances, the company was dissolved, and a president chosen
for the night ensuing.
A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some time
after of the entertainment I have been describing, proposed
to bring me to the club that he frequented, which he fancied
would suit the gravity of my temper exactly. " We have, at
the Muzzy Club," says he, " no riotous mirth, nor awkward
ribaldry, no confusion or bawling, all is conducted with wis-
dom and decency ; besides, some of our members are worth
forty thousand pounds, men of prudence and foresight every
one of them ; these are the proper acquaintance 3 and to such
I will to-night introduce you." I was charmed at the pro-
posal. To be acquainted with men worth forty thousand
pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that
threw me into rapture.
At seven o'clock I was accordingly introduced by my
80 CLUBS OF STSELE AND GOLDSMITH.
friend ; not indeed to the company, for, though I made my
best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach ; but to the
table at which they were sitting. Upon my entering the
room, I could not avoid feeling a secret veneration, from the
solemnity of the scene before me ; the members kept a pro-
found silence, each with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter
pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be construed
into absolute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself,
where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing
rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other, pregnant
with meaning, and matured by reflection.
In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half-hour,
expecting each moment that somebody would begin to open
his mouth. Every time the pipe was laid down, I expected
it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At length, resolving
to break the charm myself, and overcome their extreme
diffidence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed my
hands, and, looking as wise as possible, observed that the
nights began to grow a little coolish at this time of the
year. This, as it was directed to no one of the company in
particular, none thought himself obliged to answer; where-
fore I continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My
next effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next me ;
to whom I observed that the beer was extremely good ; my
neighbor made no reply, but by a large puff of tobacco-
smoke.
I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one
of them a little relieved me by observing, that bread had not
risen these three weeks. " Ah !" says another, still keeping
the pipe in his mouth, " that puts me in mind of a pleasant
story about that hem very well ; you must know but, be-
fore I begin sir, my service to you where was I ?"
My next club goes by the name of the Harmonical So
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 81
ciety ; probably from that love of order and friendship which
every person commends in institutions of this nature. The
landlord was himself founder. The money spent is four-
pence each, and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning.
To this club few recommendations are requisite except the
introductory fourpence and my landlord's good word, which
as he gains by it, he never refuses.
We all here talked and behaved as everybody else usu-
ally does on his club-night. We discussed the topic of the
day, drank each other's healths, snuffed the candles with our
fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate of tobacco.
The company saluted each other in the common manner.
Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Curry-comb-maker had not
caught cold going home the last club -night ; and he returned
the compliment by hoping, that young Master Bellows-
mender had got well again of the chincough. Dr. Twist told
us a story of a parliament-man, with whom he was intimately
acquainted ; while the bagman, at the same time, was telling
a better story of a noble lord, with whom he could do any-
thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at
the other end of the table was engaged in a long narrative
of the ghost in Cock Lane ;* he had read it in the papers of
the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him who
could not read. Near him, Mr. Dibbins was disputing on
the old subject of religion with a Jew pedler over the table ;
while the president vainly knocked down Mr. Leathersides
for a song. Besides the combination of these voices, which
I could hear altogether, and which formed an upper part to
the concert, there were several others playing under-parts by
* An impudent imposture of that day, in which it was pretended
that a ghost scratched at a bed. Johnson was weak enough to be one
of its grave investigators, and Churchill's Ghost was written in deri-
sion of it.
4*
82 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH.
themselves, and endeavoring to fasten on some luckless
neighbor's ear, who was himself bent upon the same design
against some other.
We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and
this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in
short-hand, word for word, as it was spoken by every mem-
her of the company. It may be necessary to observe, that
the man who told us of the ghost had the loudest voice, and
the longest story to tell ; so that his continuing narrative
filled every chasm in the conversation.
" So, sir, d'ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud
raps at the bed-post" " Says my lord to me, my dear Smoke-
urn, you know there is no man on the face of the yearth for
whom I have so high" "A false heretical opinion of all
sound doctrine and good learning ; for I'll tell it aloud and
spare not, that" " Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for
a song" " As I was walking upon the highway, I met a
young damsel" " ' Then what brings you here ?' said the
parson to the ghost" " Sanconiathon, Manetho, and Berosus"
" The whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar"
" As for Abel Drugger, sir, he's low in it ; my 'prentice
boy has more of the gentleman than he"* " For murder will
out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you know,
gentlemen, can" " For my friend, whom you know, gentle-
men, and who is a parliament-man, a man of consequence, a
dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night
at" " Upon all his posterity, by simply, barely tasting"
" Sour grapes, as the fox said once when he could not reach
them ; and I'll, I'll tell you a story about that, that will
make you burst your sides with laughing. A fox once" '
' ; Will nobody listen to the song?" " As I was walking upon
* A compliment to Goldsmith's friend, Garrick, in the part vf
Abel Drugger, which was a very low one.
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 83
the highwa) ; I met a young damsel both buxom arid gay"
" No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered ; nor did I ever
hear of but one ghost killed in all my life, and that was
" Soul if I don't"" Mr. Bellows-mender, I have the
honor of drinking your very good health" " Fire"
" Whizz"" Blid" " Tit"" Rat"" Trip" the rest all
riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion.
Were I to be angry at men for being fools (concludes
Goldsmith, with touching pleasantry), I could here find
ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have been a fool
myself, and why should I be angry with them for being some-
thing so natural to every child of humanity ?
Cnnnt /atjjom's fliwuto in tjii Ite Cnttagt
BY SMOLLETT.
THE Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom is one of those rare
works of genius, in a very unusual sense of the epithet, which a read-
er of a well-constituted mind is at a loss whether to admire or to dis-
like. It is a history of such elaborate and unmitigated rascality, that
one is surprised how the author's imagination could have consented
to keep such a scoundrel company for so long a period. But there is
one scene in it, which by universal consent is a masterpiece of inter-
est ; a mixture of the terrible and the probable that has often since
been emulated, but never surpassed. It is to real life what the frag-
ment of Sir Bertrand is to the ideal ; and the writing is as fine as the
conception. Smollett takes a delight in showing that the powers of his
pen are equal to the most formidable occasions. He rejoices in " pil-
ing up an agony," especially on a victim not so courageous as himself;
and by a principle of extremes meeting, a mischievous sarcasm, and
strokes of humor itself, contribute to aggravate and envenom the
impression of terror.
TjlATHOM departed from the village that same afternoon
-L under the auspices of his conductor, and found himself
benighted in the midst of a forest, far from the habitations
of men. The darkness of the night, the silence and solitude
of the place, the indistinct images of the trees that appeared
C UNT FA THOM'S AD VENTURE. 85
on every side stretching their extravagant arms athwart the
gloom, conspired with the dejection of spirits occasioned by
his loss to disturb his fancy, and raise strange phantoms in
his imagination. Although he was not naturally supersti-
tious, his mind began to be invaded with an awful horror,
that gradually prevailed over all the consolations of reason
and philosophy ; nor was his heart free from the terrors of
assassination. In order to dissipate these disagreeable rev-
eries, he had recourse to the conversation of his guide, by
whom he was entertained with the history of divers travellers
who had been robbed and murdered by ruffians, whose retreat
was in the recesses of that very wood.
In the midst of this communication, which did not at
all tend to the elevation of our hero's spirits, the conductor
made an excuse for dropping behind, while our traveller
jogged on in expectation of being joined again by him in a
few minutes ; he was, however, disappointed in that hope ;
the sound of the horse's feet by degrees grew more and
more faint, and at last altogether died away. Alarmed at
this circumstance, Fathom halted in the road, and listened
with the most fearful attention ; but his sense of hearing
was saluted with naught but the dismal sighings of the trees,
that seemed to foretell an approaching storm. Accordingly,
the heavens contracted a more dreary aspect, the lightning
began to gleam, the thunder to roll, and the tempest, rais-
ing its voice to a tremendous roar, descended in a torrent
of rain.
In this emergency, the fortitude of our hero was almost
quite overcome. So many concurring circumstances of dan-
ger and distress might have appalled the most undaunted
breast ; what impression then must they have made upon the
mind of Ferdinand, who was by no means a man to set fear
at defiance ? Indeed he had well nigh lost the use of his re-
86 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE
flection, and was actually invaded to the skin, before he could
recollect himself so far as to quit the road, and seek for shel-
ter among the thickets that surrounded him. Having rode
some furlongs into the forest, he took his station under a
tuft of tall trees, that screened him from the storm, and in
that situation called a council with himself, to deliberate upon
his next excursion. He persuaded himself that his guide had
deserted him for the present, in order to give intelligence of
a traveller to some gang of robbers with whom he was con-
nected ; and that he must of necessity fall a prey to those
banditti, unless he should have the good fortune to elude
their search, and disentangle himself from the mazes of the wood.
Harrowed with these apprehensions, he resolved to com-
mit himself to the mercy of the hurricane, as of two evils the
least, and penetrate straight forwards through some devious
opening, until he should be delivered from the forest. For
this purpose he turned his horse's head in a line quite con-
trary to the direction of the high road which he had left, on
supposition that the robbers would pursue that tract in quest
of him, and that they would never dream of his deserting
the highway to traverse an unknown forest amidst the dark-
ness of such a boisterous night. After he had continued in
this progress through a succession of groves, and bogs, and
thorns, and brakes, by which not only his clothes, but also
his skin suffered in a grievous manner, while every nerve
quivered with eagerness and dismay, he at length reached an
open plain, and pursuing his course, in full hope of arriving
at some village where his life would be safe, he descried a
rushlight, at a distance, which he looked upon as the star of
his good fortune ; and riding towards it at full speed, arrived
at the door of a lone cottage, into which he was admitted by
an old woman, who, understanding he was a bewildered travel-
ler, received him with great hospitality.
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. 37
When he learned from his hostess that there was not
another house within three leagues, and that she could ac-
commodate him with a tolerable bed, and his horse with
lodging and oats, he thanked Heaven for his good fortune in
stumbling upon this humble habitation, and determined to
pass the night under the protection of the old cottager, who
gave him to understand, that her husband, who was a fagot-
maker, had gone to the next town to dispose of his merchan-
dise, and that in all probability he would not return till the
next morning, on account of the tempestuous night. Ferdi-
nand sounded the beldame with a thousand artful interroga-
tions, and she answered with such an appearance of truth and
simplicity, that he concluded his person was quite secure ;
and, after having been regaled with a dish of eggs and bacon,
desired she would conduct him into the chamber where she
proposed he should take his repose. He was accordingly
ushered up by a sort of ladder into an apartment furnished
with a standing bed, and almost half filled with trusses of
straw. He seemed extremely well pleased with his lodging,
which in reality exceeded his expectations ; and his kind
landlady, cautioning him against letting the candle approach
the combustibles, took her leave, and locked the door on the
outside.
Fathom, whose own principles taught him to be suspicious,
and ever upon his guard against the treachery of his fellow-
creatures, could have dispensed with this instance of her care
in confining her guest to her chamber ; and began to be seized
with strange fancies, when he observed that there was no bolt
on the inside of the door, by which he might secure himself
from intrusion. In consequence of these suggestions, he
proposed to take an accurate survey of every object in the
apartment, and, in the course of his inquiry, had the mortifi-
cation to find the dead body of a man, still warm, who had
88 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE
been lately stabbed, and concealed beneath several bundles
of straw.
Such a discovery could not fail to fill the breast of our
herewith unspeakable horror; for he concluded that he him-
self would undergo the same fate before morning, without
the interposition of a miracle in his favor. In the first trans-
ports of his dread he ran to the window, with a view to
escape by that outlet, and found his flight effectually ob-
structed by divers strong bars of iron. Then his heart began
to palpitate, his hair to bristle up, and his knees to totter :
his thoughts teemed with presages of death and destruction',
his conscience rose up in judgment against him ; and he un-
derwent a severe paroxysm of dismay and distraction. His
spirits were agitated into a state of fermentation that pro-
duced an energy akin to that which is inspired by brandy or
other strong liquors ; and, by an impulse that seemed super-
natural, he was immediately hurried into measures for his
own preservation.
What upon a less interesting occasion his imagination
durst not propose, he now executed without scruple or re-
morse. He undressed the corpse that lay bleeding among
the straw, and conveying it to the bed in his arms, deposited
it in the attitude of a person who sleeps at his ease ; then he
extinguished the light, took possession of the place from
whence the body had been removed, and, holding a pistol
ready cocked in each hand, waited for the sequel with that de-
termined purpose which is often the immediate production of
despair. About midnight he heard the sound of feet ascend-
ing the ladder; the door was softly opened; he saw the
shadow of two men stalking towards the bed ; a dark lantern
being unshrouded, directed their aim to the supposed sleeper ;
and he that held it thrust a poniard to his heart. The force
of the blow made a compression on the chest, and a sort of
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. 89
groan issued from the windpipe of the defunct ; the stroke
w^fcepeated without, producing a repetition of the note, so
that the assassins concluded the work was effectually done,
and retired for the present, with a design to return and rifle
the deceased at their leisure.
Never had our hero spent a moment in such agony as he
felt during this operation. The whole surface of his body
was covered with a cold sweat, and his nerves were relaxed
with an universal palsy. In short, he remained in a trance,
that in all probability contributed to his safety ; for had he
retained the use of his senses, he might have been discovered
by the transports of his fear. The first use he made of his
retrieved recollection, was to perceive that the assassins had
left the door open in their retreat ; and he would have in-
stantly availed himself of this their neglect, by sallying out
upon them at the hazard of his life, had not he been restrained
by a conversation he overheard in the room below, importing
that the ruffians were going to set out upon another expedi
tion. in hopes of finding more prey. They accordingly de-
parted, after having laid strong injunctions on the old woman
to keep the door fast locked during their absence ; and Ferdi-
nand took his resolution without further delay. So soon as,
by his conjecture, the robbers were at a sufficient distance
from the house, he rose from his lurking-place, moved softly
towards the bed, and rummaging the pockets of the deceased,
found a purse well stored with ducats, of which, together with
a silver watch and a diamond ring, he immediately possessed
himself without scruple ; and then, descending with great
care and circumspection into the lower apartment, stood be
fore the old beldame, before she had the least intimation of
his approach.
Accustomed as she was to the trade of blood, the hoary
hag did not behold "this apparition without giving signs of
90 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE
infinite terror and astonishment. Believing it was no other
than the spirit of her second guest, who had been murdered,
she fell upon her knees, and began to recommend herself to
the protection of the saints, crossing herself with as much
devotion as if she had been entitled to the particular care and
attention of Heaven. Nor did her anxiety abate when she
was undeceived in this her supposition, and understood it was
no phantom, but the real substance of the stranger ; who,
without staying to upbraid her with the enormity of her
crimes, commanded her, on pain of immediate death, to pro-
duce his horse ; to which being conducted, he set her on the
saddle without delay, and mounting behind, invested her with
the management of the reins, swearing, in a most peremptory
tone, that the only chance for her life was in directing him
to the next town ; and that as soon as she should give him
the least cause to doubt her fidelity in the performance of
that task, he would on the instant act the part of her exe-
cutioner.
This declaration had its effect on the withered Hecate,
who, with many supplications for mercy and forgiveness,
promised to guide him in safety to a certain village at the
distance of two leagues, where he might lodge in security,
and be provided with a fresh horse, or other conveniences
for pursuing his route. On these conditions he told her sho
might deserve his clemency ; and they accordingly took their
departure together, she being placed astride upon the saddle,
holding the bridle in one hand, and a switch in the other,
and our adventurer sitting on the crupper, superintending
her conduct, and keeping the muzzle of a pistol close at her
ear. In this equipage they travelled across part of the same
wood in which his guide had forsaken him : and it is not to
be supposed that he passed his time in the most agreeable
reverie, while he found himself involved in the labyrinth of
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. 91
those shades, which he considered as the haunts of robbery
and assassination.
Common fear was a comfortable sensation to what he felt
in this excursion. The first steps he had taken for his pres-
ervation were the effect of mere instinct, while his faculties
were extinguished or suppressed by despair ; but now, as his
reflection began to recur, he was haunted by the most intol-
erable apprehensions. Every whisper of the wind through
the thickets was swelled into the hoarse menaces of murder ;
the shaking of the boughs was construed into the bran-
dishing of poniards ; and every shadow of a tree became the
apparition of a ruffian eager for blood. In short, at each of
these occurrences he felt what was infinitely more tormenting
than the stab of a real dagger ; and at every fresh fillip of
his fear, he acted as a remembrancer to his conductress in a
new volley of imprecations, importing, that her life was abso-
lutely connected with his opinion of his own safety.
Human nature could not long subsist under such compli-
cated terror ; but at last he found himself clear of the forest,
and was blessed with a distant view of an inhabited place.
He then began to exercise his thoughts on a new subject.
He debated with himself whether he should make a parade
of his intrepidity and public spirit, by disclosing his achieve-
ment, and surrendering his guide to the penalty of the law,
or leave the old hag and her accomplice to the remorse of
their own consciences, and proceed quietly on his journey to
Paris, in undisturbed possession of the prize he had already
obtained. This last step he determined to take upon recol-
lecting, that, in the course of his information, the story of the
murdered stranger would infallibly attract the attention of
justice, and, in that case, the effects he had borrowed from
the defunct must be refunded for the benefit of those who
had a right to the succession. This was an argument which
92 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE.
our adventurer could not resist : he foresaw that he should
be stripped of his acquisition, which he looked upon as the
fair fruits of his valor and sagacity ; and moreover, be detain-
ed as an evidence against the robbers, to the manifest detri-
ment of his affairs. Perhaps, too, he had motives of con-
science that dissuaded him from bearing witness against a
set of people whose principles did not much differ from his
own.
Influenced by such considerations, he yielded to the first
importunity of the beldame, whom he dismissed at a very
small distance from the village, after he had earnestly exhort-
ed her to quit such an atrocious course of life, and atone for
her past crimes by sacrificing her associates to the demands
of justice. She did not fail to vow a perfect reformation, and
to prostrate herself before him for the favor she had found ;
thet she betook herself to her habitation, with the full pur-
pose of advising her fellow-murderers to repair with all de-
spatch to the village and impeach our hero ; who. wisely dis-
trusting her professions, stayed no longer in the place than to
hire a guide for the next stage, which brought him to the
city of Chalons-Sur-Marne
Iwmit.
BY PARNELL.
WE know not how it is with others, but we never think of Par*
ticlVs Hermit without tranquillizing and grateful feelings. Parnell was
a true poet of a minor order ; he saw nature for himself, though ho
wrote a book style ; and this, and one or two other poems of his, such
as the eclogue on Health, and the Fairy Tale, have inclined us to
believe that there is something in the very name of " Parnell" pecu-
liarly gentle and agreeable. Hermits themselves, in poetry, are al-
most always interesting and soothing people. We see nothing but
their brooks, their solitude, and their resignation, their hermitage and
their crust ; and long to be like them, and play at loneliness.
"And may at lost my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown, and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell
Of every star that heaven doth show,
And every herb that sips the dew,
Till old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain."
So, who does not love Goldsmith's Edwin and Angelina, and tho
gentle line with which it sets out 7
"Turn, gentle hermit of the dale."
Dravton tears himself away with reluctance from a long list of herbs,
94 THE HERMIT.
which he describes a hermit gathering, in his Polyolbion. The follow-
ing are some of the verses. " The Hermit," he says,
-" leads a sweet retired life.
Suppose, 'twixt noon and night, (the sun his half-way wrought.)
The shadows to be large, by his descending brought,
Who with a fervent eye looks through the twyring* glades,
And his dispersed rays commixeth with the shades,
Exhaling the milchf dew, which there had tarried long,
And on the ranker grass till past the noon-stead hung ;"
" 'Tis then," he says,
"the hermit comes out of his homely cell,
Where from all rude resort, he happily doth dwell ;
And in a little maundt (being made of osiers small),
Which serveth him to do full many a thing withal,
He very choicely sorts his simples, got abroad.
Here finds he on an oak rheum-purging polypode ;|
And in some open place that to the sun doth lie,
He fumitory gets, and eyebright for the eye ;
And from the falling-ill by five-leaf] doth restore,
And melancholy cures by sovereign hellebore."
But Parnell's hermit is not only a proper hermit, with a " cave"
for his " cell,"
" His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ;"
he is a questioning philosopher. Resigned as he is to Providence, he
is not without doubts as to its attributes, occasioned by the sufferings
of virtue and the seeming triumphs of vice ; and an angel is sent to
restore peace to his mind. The way in which this is done, though it
does not go into the permission of evil in the abstract (one of the se-
crets of good, which Heaven seems to keep in reserve for us, in order
to enhance the joys of retrospection), furnishes, nevertheless, a far
better and more Christian answer, than the assumptions of many a
graver authority. It is not Parnell's own. The story is as old, at
least, as the Koran, probably a great deal older ; and has most likeh
* Turning and winding.
t Soft. Perhaps in pastoral analogy with milk.
J Basket.
Polypodium (Many-foot), a genus of fern.
| Cinque-foil Potentilla (from its medical powers) a flower of the order
Roaacets.
THE HERMIT. 95
been told in the languages of all civilized countries. But Parnell's
is the most pleasing version of it we know. The undertone of thought
and wonder, on the hermit's part, is well preserved ; the touches of
scenery evince the author's taste for nature ; and even the sweet
monotony of the versification (so like Pope's, that he has been invidi-
ously said to have had a hand in it), is not unsuitable to the eremeti-
cal ground- work of the subject and the lesson of resignation.
Parnell was a gentle clergyman, who, with all his inculcations of
patience and retirement, found it difficult to reconcile himself to a
desolate spot in Ireland, and impossible (it is said) to bear the loss of
his wife. We often preach what we cannot practise, not out of hypoc-
risy, but from opposing frailties and unavailing desire. Parnell ad-
mired his hermit the more, because he could not settle down to his
solitude and his bin of water. There is a touching passage about him
in one of the letters of Swift. Bolingbroke's second wife was like the
one that Parnell had lost. The poor poet saw her, for the first time,
on a visit at Bolingbroke's house ; and when she came into the room,
Swift says, he could not take his eyes off her, and seemed very
melancholy.
THE HERMIT.
FAR in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ;
Remote from men, with God he pass'd his days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ;
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey,
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway ,
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast,
96 THE HERMIT.
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colors glow :
But if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side ;
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right,
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew.)
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore,
And fix'd the scallop in his hat before ;
Then with the sun a rising journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.
The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ;
But when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets wav'd his hair.
Then, near approaching, " Father, hail !" he cried,
And " Hail, my son," the reverend sire replied ;
Words followed words, from question answer flow'd,
And talk of various kind deceiv'd the road ;
Till each with other pleas'd, and loth to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm, in ivy bound ;
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around.
Now sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ;
Nature in silence bid the world repose,
Wbon near the road a stately palace rose ;
THE HERlK T. 97
There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides of grass.
It chanc'd the noble master of the dotne
Still made his house the wandering stranger's homo ;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Prov'd the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait,
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play :
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests obedient to the call,
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ;
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac'd,
Which the kind master forc'd the guests to taste.
Then pleas'd and thankful from the porch they go ;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe :
His cup was vanished ; for, in secret guise,
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near,
Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ;
So seem'd the sire, when far upon the road
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd.
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to part ;
5
08 THE HERMIT.
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds.
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ;
A sound in air presag'd approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plaiu.
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair retreat
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat.
'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around ;
Its owner's temper timorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there.
As near the miser's heavy doors they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ;
The nimble lightning mix'd with showers began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunder ran.
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain.
At length some pity warm'd the master's breast
('Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ;
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair :
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervor through their limbs recalls ;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,*
(Each hardly granted) serv'd them both to dine ;
And when the tempest first appear'd to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark the pondering hermit view'd,
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ;
* The word eager is here used in its old sense of " sour" aigre ,-
and if we interpret " wine" accordingly, " eager wine" should be
vinegar vin-aigre.
THE HERMIT. 99
And why should such within himself, he cried,
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ?
But what new marks of wonder soon took place
In every settling feature of his face,
When from his vest the young companion bore
The cup the generous landlord own'd before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl
The stinted kindness of his churlish soul !
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ;
The sun emerging opes an azure sky ;
A fresher green the smiling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ;
The weather courts them from the poor retreat,
And the glad master bolts the wary gate.
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travel of uncertain thought ;
His partner's acts without their cause appear,
'Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here ;
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky,
Again the wanderers want a place to lie ;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improv'd around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great,
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind.
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ;
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies :
" Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part ;
100 THE HERMIT.
From him you come, from him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer."
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
They talk of virtue till the time of bed ;
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with prayer.
At length the world, renew'd by calm repose,
Was strong for toil ; the dappled morn arose ;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near the clos'd cradle where an infant slept,
And writh'd its neck ; the landlord's little pride,
strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, and died.
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son !
How look'd our hermit when the fact was done ;
Not hell, though hell's black jaws in sunder part,
And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart.
Confus'd, and struck with silence at the deed,
He flies ; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed j
His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay
Perplex'd with roads ; a servant show'd the way ;
A river cross'd the path, the passage o'er
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ;
Long arms of oak an oaken bridge supplied,
And deep the waves beneath the bending glide ;
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin,
Approach'd the careless guide and thrust him in ;
Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head,
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead.
Wild sparkling rage inflame the father's eyes,
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries,
" Detested wretch !" but scarce his speech began,
When the strange partner seemed no longer man ;
THE HERMIT. 101
His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ;
His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet ;
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ;
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ;
And wings, whose colors glittered on the day,
Wide at his back their gradual plumes display ;
The form ethereal burst upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light.
Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew,
Sudden he gaz'd, and wist not what to do ;
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends,
And in a calm his settling temper ends.
But silence here the beauteous angel broke
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke).
" Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown.
In sweet memorial rise before the throne ;
These charms success in our bright region find,
And force an angel down to calm thy mind ;
For this commission'd, I forsook the sky ;
Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow-servant I.
" Then know the truth of government divine,
And let these scruples be no longer thine.
" The Maker justly claims that world he made,
In this the right of Providence is laid ;
Its sacred majesty through all depends
On using second means to work his ends :
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye,
The Power exerts his attributes on high ;
Your actions uses, nor controls your will,
And bids the doubting sons of men be still.
" What strange events can strike with more surprise
Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ?
102 THE HERMIT.
Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just,
And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust !
" The great, vain man, who far'd on costly food,
Whose life was too luxurious to be good,
Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine,
And forc'd his guests to morning draughts of wine,
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost,
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.
" The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted dooi
Ne'er mov'd in duty to the wandering poor ;
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind.
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl,
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul.
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead,
With heaping coals of fire upon its head ;
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow,
And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.
" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod,
But now the child half wean'd his heart from God ;
Child of his age, for him he liv'd in pain,
And measured back his steps to earth again.
To what excesses had his dotage run ?
But God, to save the father, took the son.
To all, but thee, in fits he seemed to go,
And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :
The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust,
Now owns, in tears, the punishment was just.
" But now had all his fortune felt a wrack,
Had that false servant sped in safety back :
This night his treasur'd heaps he meant to steal,
And what a fund of charity would fail !
THE HERMIT. 103
Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o'er,
Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more."
On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
Tiio sage stood wondering as the seraph flew.
Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high,
His master took the chariot of the sky ;
The fiery pomp ascending left to view ;
The prophet gaz'd, and wish'd to follow too.
The bending hermit here a prayer begun,
Lord ! as in heaven, on earth thy will be done :
Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place,
And pass'd a life of piety and peace.
'a Dialngnt mitlj parson
FROM FIELDING S " JOSEPH ANDREWS.
THERE was once in great vogue a book called Pamela, or Virtue
Jteivardcd, the object of which was to show how a servant-maid might
be very virtuous, in the heavenly sense of the word, and very prosper-
ous, in the worldly ; a combination which, in the author's opinion, was
effected by making her resist all the efforts of a vicious master to ruin
her, and then accept his hand in marriage when he found he could
obtain her in no other way. Society is so much advanced in reflec-
tion since the writing of that book, that a moral so bad would now
meet with contempt from critics of all classes, even though recom-
mended by as rare and affecting a genius as his who taught it, and
who was no less a person than Samuel Richardson, author of Clarissa
Harlowe. With much that is admirable and noble, there is a great
deal of false morality even in Clarissa ; a dangerous exaltation of the
formal, and literal, and self-worshipping, above the heartier dictates
of prudence itself. But the moral in Pamela (with leave of a great
name, be it said), was a pure vulgar mistake. The master was a
scoundrel to whom an honest girl -ought not to have been given in
marriage at all ; and the heroine was a prig and a schemer, with no
real respect for the virtues she professed, otherwise she would not
have jumped at the first " honorable" offer from one who had done all
he could to destroy her.
The healthier genius of Fielding saw the folly of these ethics ; and,
seasoning his wish to counteract them with a spice of no ill-natured
malice against the author (who was in the habit of making another
PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE. 105
vulgar mistake, and applying that epithet to all who wrote of humble
life not in his own manner, particularly Fielding himself), produced
the exquisite novel of Joseph Andrews. In this, not his greatest, but
in our opinion most delightful work, he has contrived, with a most
unexpected, successful, and (to Richardson, we fear) most provoking
admission of the value of his moral when put into right action, to
make Joseph Andrews Pamela's own brother, both in blood and vir-
tue ; to maintain his manly character nevertheless, in spite of conven-
tional jests and prejudices ; and, at the same time, to show how little
of her pretended purity and humility was in the sister, who in admi-
rable keeping with the spirit of her matrimonial virtue, objects to her
brother's marrying a girl in her own former condition of society, be-
cause it was lowering the family which her " dear Mr. B." had
" raised." As a pleasant instance of Fielding's quickness and vivacity
in small matters as well as great, this " Mr. B." of Richardson (for his
name never appears in that author except as an initial) is assumed by
Fielding to have been a Mr. " Booby." Mr. Booby's fine town-lady
aunt, Lady B., thus becomes Lady Booby. She and her nephew ena-
ble us to see, that people of no real heart and goodness, whatever be
their rank, riches, or gaiety, may deserve the appellation of fool, as
well as humbler or more solemn pretenders ; and this is one of the
many instances, we think, in which an exception should be made in
favor of those characteristical names of persons in works of fiction, to
Avhich critics make wholesale objection. Names of the kind often oc-
cur in real life, sometimes with ludicrous propriety ; and if similar
ones could be taken away from the novels in which we have been
used to them, .people would reasonably miss the Boobies palmed upon
Richardson, the Pickles and Boivlings of Smollett, the Snakes and Sir
Anthony Absolutes of Sheridan, and the Marplots and Aimwells of Cent-
livre and Farquhar. We confess we should be loth to lose even the
Dryasdusts of Sir Walter, excessive as they may appear. Fortune
herself, (not to say Nature) seems to take pleasure in these whims of
cognomination. Who has not met with stout gentlemen of the name
of Onslow and Heaviside ; lively Miss Quicks, and languishing Mrs.
Sweets ?
Joseph Andrews is a footman who marries a maid-servant. They
are excellent persons, and have a delicious friend in Mr. Abraham
Adams, a country curate, who prefers his ^Jschylus to everything but
liis duty. He is one of the simplest but at the same time manliest
5*
100 PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE
of men ; is anxious to read a man of the world his sermon on " van-
ity ;" preaches patience under affliction, and is ready to lose his sen-
ses on the death of his little boy ; in short, has " every virtue under
heaven," except that of superiority to the common failings of human-
ity, or of being able to resist knocking a rascal down when he insults
the innocent. He is very poor ; and, agreeably to the notions of re-
finement in those days, is treated by the rich as if he were little bet-
ter than a servant himself. Even their stewards think it a condescen-
sion to treat him on equal terms. In the following scene, which is
one of the most exquisite in all novel-writing, the reader experiences
a delightful triumph in seeing how a vulgar upstart of this class is led
to betray his baseness while he thinks he is most exalting himself
Adams, on the other hand, rising and becoming glorious out of the
depths of his humble honesty. The picture gives you such a vivid
idea of the two men, that not having read it for some years, we had
fancied, in the interval, that when Pounce throws the curate's hat
after him out of the window, Fielding had represented Adams as
clapping it triumphantly on his head, and snapping his fingers at him.
But this is the way with fine writers. In suggesting more than thoy
say, they write more than they do.
T)ETEK POUNCE, being desirous of having some one to
-*- whom he might communicate his grandeur, told the par-
son he would convey him home in his chariot. This favor
was, by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, ac-
cepted, though he afterwards said he ascended the chariot
rather that he might not offend, than from any desire of rid-
ing in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian
even to the vehicular expedition.
The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams ob-
served it was a very fine day.
" Aye, and a very fine country, too," answered Pounce.
" I should think so more," returned Adams, " if I had not
lately travelled over the Downs, which I take to exceed this,
and all other prospects in the universe."
WITH PARSON ADAMS. 107
" A fig for prospects," answered Pounce ; " one acre here
is worth ten there ; for my part, I have no delight in the
prospect of any land but my own."
" Sir," said Adams, "you can indulge yourself in many
fine prospects of that kind."
" I thank God I have a little," replied the other, " with
which I am content, and envy no man. I have a little, Mr.
Adams, with which I do as much good as I can."
Adams answered, "That riches, without charity, were
nothing worth ; for that they were a blessing only to him
who made them a blessing to others."
" You and I," said Peter, " have different notions of char-
ity. I own, as it is generally used, I do not like the word,
nor do I think it becomes one of us gentlemen ; it is a mean,
parson-like quality ; though I would not infer that many par-
sons have it neither."
" Sir," said Adams, " my definition of charity is a generous
disposition to relieve the distressed."
" There is something in that definition," answered Peter,
" which I like well enough ; it is, as you say, a disposition
and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition
to do it ; but, alas ! Mr. Adams, who are meant by the
distressed ? believe me, the distresses of mankind are mostly
imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to re-
lieve them."
" Sure, sir," replied Adams, " hunger and thirst, cold and
nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can
never be said to be imaginary evils."
" How can any man complain of hunger," said Pounce,
' in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered
almost in every field ? or of thirst, where every stream and
river produce such delicious potations ? and as for cold and
nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom.
108 PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE
A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any
other animal ; and there are whole nations who go without
them. But these are things, perhaps, which you, who do not
know the world "
" You will pardon me, sir," returned Adams ; " I have
read of the Gymnosophists."
" A plague of your Jehosaphats," cried Peter ; " the great-
est fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor,
except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not
an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to
the poor as to the land-tax ; and I do assure you I expect
myself to come to the parish in the end."
To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus
proceeded : " I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are one of those who
imagine I am a lump of money ; for there are many who I
fancy believe that not only my pockets, but my whole clothes,
are lined with bank bills ; but, I assure you, you are all mis-
taken ; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I can
hold my head above water, it is all I can. I have injured
myself by purchasing ; I have been too liberal of my money.
Indeed I fear my heir will find my affairs in a worse situa
tion than they are reputed to be. Ah ! he will have reason te
wish I had loved money more and land less. Pray, mj
good neighbor, where should I have that quantity of money
the world is so liberal to bestow on me ? Where could I
possibly, without I had stole it, acquire such a treasure ?"
" Why truly," said Adams, " I have been always of youi
opinion ; I have wondered, as well as yourself, with what con
fidence they could report such things of you, which have fa
me appeared as mere impossibilities ; for you know, sir, and
I have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own
acquisition ; and can it be credible that in your short timo
vou should have amassed such a heap of treasure as these
WITH PARSON ADAMS. 109
people will have you are worth ? Indeed, had you inherited
an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in
your family through many generations, they might have had
a color for their assertions."
" Why, what do they say I am worth ?" cries Peter, with
a malicious sneer.
" Sir," answered Adams, " I have heard some aver you
are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds." At which
Peter frowned.
" Nay, sir," said Adams, " you ask me only the opinion
of others ; for my own part, I have always denied it, nor
did I ever believe you could possibly be worth half that
sum."
" However, Mr. Adams," said he, squeezing him by the
hand, " I would not sell them all I am worth for double that
sum ; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not
* fig. I am not poor, because you think me so, nor because
you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the
envy of mankind very well ; but I thank heaven I am above
them. It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I
have not an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, that hath descend-
ed in my family through many generations ; but I know heirs
of such estates, who are forced to travel about the country,
like some people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to ac-
cept of a pitiful curacy, for what I know ; yes, sir, as shabby
fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that
vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride in a char-
iot with him."
" Sir," said Adams, " I value not your chariot of a rush ;
tnd if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would
have walked to the world's end on foot, ere I would have
accepted a place in it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of
that inconvenience !" And so saying, he opened the chariot
1 10 PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE.
door, without calling to the coachman, and leaped out into
the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him ;
which, however, Mr. Pounce threw after him with great
violence.
umttnr at an San lit
BY SHENSTONE.
" SHAH, I not take," said Falstaff, with an exquisite duplication
of the personal pronoun, " mine EASE at mine INN 7"
The question might induce us to fancy, that he had another
abode ; that it was as much as to say, " Must I go and encounter my
difficulty at my lodgings V But he meant it as an appeal to the ex-
pectations of everybody. Everybody, the moment he entered an
inn, looked to being thoroughly at his ease ; to possess comfort and
security as surely as he did the things he paid for.
And this is the feeling we all have of an inn. It is not comparable
with home, on the very gravest or the very gayest occasions ; much
less as a place to reside in ; but as a place to visit, there is nothing
like it. It is like being abroad and at home at the same time ; abroad,
in respect to the novelty ; and at home, as regards doing what we
please. We are not sufficiently used to it, to feel a thankless indiffer
ence ; neither do we entertain such affection for it, as converts interest
into anxiety. But we do it injustice in writing sentences about it.
There is nothing sententious at an inn (except on the window-panes) ;
it is only free and easy. If you are wise, it is with mirth : if you run
the whole round of philosophy with some " learned Theban" of a
friend, it is after dinner, when the blood is running the finer round of
cheerfulness, to which you feel that the other round is only subordi-
nate. The top things throughout are the dinner, and the inn, and the
reciprocity ; and you only wish that all the world were as happy as
yourselves, wondering that they are not so, and that everybody does
112 VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY.
not do as he pleases upon the strength of the <: Rose and Crown'' and
universal benevolence.
By an inn, however, we do not mean any inn ; no, not even with
companions who can make us forget everything else ; for on their ac-
count also we desire an inn perfect of its kind ; and this, we take it,
is an old inn that has been a country-house, with at least a bit of the
old garden to it, parterres of flowers, lavender, &c., and good sized old-
fashioned rooms, with smaller ones in corners, to choose according as
you are few or many, or wish to be roomy or snug. Hazlitt, who loved
to escape from his irritabilities into an inn, has noticed such a one in
a charming passage. He is speaking of the delight of reading favorite
authors.
" The last time," he says, " I tasted this luxury in its full perfec-
tion, was one day after a sultry day's walk between Farnham and
Alton. I was fairly tired out ; I walked into an inn-yard (I think at
the latter place) ; I was shown by the waiter to what looked at first
like common out-houses at the other end of it, but they turned out to
be a suite of rooms, probably a hundred years old the one I entered
opened into an old-fashioned garden, embellished with beds of lark-
spur and a leaden Mercury ; it was wainscoted, and there was a grave-
looking dark-colored portrait of Charles II. hanging up over the tiled
chimney-piece. I had Love for Love in my pocket, and began to read ;
coffee was brought in, in a silver coffee-pot ; the cream, the bread and
butter, everything was excellent, and the flavor of Congreve's style
prevailed over all. I prolonged the entertainment till a late hour, and
relished this divine comedy better even than when I used to see it
played by Miss Mellon, as Miss Prue ; Bob Palmer, as Tattle ; and
Bannister as honest Ben. This circumstance happened just five years
ago, and it seems like yesterday. If I count my life so, by lustres, it
will soon glide away ; yet I shall not have to repine, if, while it lasts,
it is enriched by a few such recollections."*
The Henley at which Shenstone wrote his lines on an inn was the
Henley on the road to Stratford-on-Avon. Johnson slept at it one
night with Boswell, and had quoted a stanza from the lines in the
course of the day, when they were dining at an " excellent inn at
Chapelhouse."
" We dined," Boswell says, " at an excellent inn at Chapelhouse.
where he (Johnson) expatiated on the felicity of England in its taverns
Plain Speaker, vol. i. p. 302.
VERSES WR ITT EN A T AN INN A T HENLE Y. 113
and inns, and triumphed over the French for not having, in any per-
fection, the tavern life. ' There is no private house,' said he, ' in which
people can enjoy themselves so well, as at a capital tavern. Let there
be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever
so much elegance, ever so much desire that everybody should be
easy, in the nature of things it cannot be ; there must always be some
degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to
entertain his guests ; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him ;
and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command
what is in another man's house, as if it were his own. Whereas, at a
tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you
are welcome ; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you
give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No
servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are
incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they
please. No, sir ; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by
men, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or
inn.' He then repeated with great emotion Shenstone's lines :
" ' Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er hia stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
His warmest welcome at an inn.' "*
Johnson was so fond of this little poem, that Miss Re} r nolds (sister
of Sir Joshua) said she had learnt it by heart from hearing him re-
peat it. Some exclusive admirers of great poetry would see nothing
in it ; but let them try to write as good a one, and they would dis-
cover that some portion of the poetical facility was necessary to
express and modulate even thoughts like these.
TO thee, fair Freedom ! I retire,
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble Inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign ;
And every health which I begin
Koswcll, Murray's Edition, vol. vi. p. 81.
1 1 4 VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLET.
Converts dull port to bright champagne ;
Such freedom crowns it at an Inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate !
I fly from Falsehood's specious grin !
, Freedom I love and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings at an Inn,
Here, waiter, take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win |
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me freedom at an Inn.
Whoe'er has travelled life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been.
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an Inu.
f'm Itfta nf
GRAY appears to us to be the best letter-writer in the language.
Others equal him in particular qualities, and surpass him in amount
of entertainment ; but none are so nearly faultless. Chesterfield wants
heart, and even his boasted " delicacy ;" Bolingbroke and Pope want
simplicity ; Cowper is more lively than strong ; Shenstone reminds
you of too many rainy days, Swift of too many things which he af-
fected to despise, Gibbon too much of the formalist and the litterateur.
The most amusing of all our letter-writers are "Walpole and Lady
Mary Wortley Montagu ; but though they had abundance of wit, sense,
and animal spirits, you are not always sure of their veracity. Now,
" the first quality in a companion," as Sir William Temple observes,
" is truth ;" and Gray's truth is as manifest as his other good quali-
ties. He has sincerity, modesty, manliness (in spite of a somewhat
effeminate body), learning, good-nature, playfulness, a perfect style ;
and if an air of pensiveness breathes over all, it is only of that re-
signed and contemplative sort which completes our sympathy with
the writer.
Mark what he says in these letters about his sitting in the forest ;
about Southern ; about lords and their school-days ; about Shaftes-
bury ; about having a " garding" of one's own ; about Akenside com-
pared with himself; about the Southampton Abbot, the Grand Duch-
ess of Tuscany, &c. &c.; and about sunrise wondering " whether
anybody ever saw it before," he is so astonished at their not having
said more on the subject.
Gray is the " melancholy Jaques" of English literature, without
the sullenness or causticity. His melancholy is of the diviner sort of
Milton and Beaumont and is always ready to assume a kindly cheer
fulness.
116 FIVE LETTERS OF GRATt.
TO HORACE WALPOLE.*
[A FOX-HUNTER A POET'S SOLITUDE SOUTHERN THE
DRAMATIST.]
SEPTEMBER, 1737.
I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you all
the trouble I would have done. The description of road
which your coach-wheels have so often honored, it would be
needless to give you. Suffice it, that I arrived safe at my
uncle's, who is a great hunter in imagination. His dogs take
up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this
present writing ; and though the gout forbids him galloping
after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears
and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. f He holds
me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride,
and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all
this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, through a
green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common), all my
own ; at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it
but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices
mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the
* Walpole and Gray had been school-fellows at Eton ; and. though
differing greatly in some respects, had tastes alike in others, particu-
larly a love for romantic fiction and Gothic architecture. Their differ-
ences were found to render them unsuitable as fellow-travellers, when
they visited Italy ; but they renewed their intercourse at home, and
continued correspondents as long as Gray lived.
At the date of the letter before us, Walpole was a youth of twenty,
residing with his father, Sir Robert, at Haughton ; Gray, twenty-one,
on a visit to an uncle, at Burnham, in Buckinghamshire. The reader
will observe the mature manliness of his style.
f Some readers of the present day might suppose that coarse hab-
its are here but coarsely described by the delicate young poet. But
such language was not considered coarse in the time of Gray.
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 117
clouds ; nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover
cliff ; but just such hills as people who love their necks as
well as I do may venture to climb ; and crags that give the
eye as much pleasure as if they were dangerous. Both vale
and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other
very reverend vegetables,* that, like most other ancient peo-
ple, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds :
" And as they bow their hoary tops, relate
In murmuring sounds the dark decrees of fate ;
While visions, as poetic eyes avow,
Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough."
At the foot of one of these squats me I (il pemeroso), and
there I grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timo-
rous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me, like
Adam in paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I think he did
not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do there. In this sit-
uation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too ; that is,
talk to you ; but I do not remember that I ever heard you
answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to
myself; but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr.
Southern! at a gentleman's house, a little way off, who often
comes to see us ; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has
almost wholly lost his memory, but is as agreeable as an old
man can be ; at least I persuade myself so when I look at
him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I shall be in
town in about three weeks. Adieu."
* " Reverend vegetable" is a phrase of Steele's for a common-place
old man.
f Southern lived nine years longer. When he was a young man,
he knew Dryden ; and here is Gray, a youth, in company with Dry-
den's acquaintance. It is always pleasant to observe these links of
celebrity.
18 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY.
TO RICHARD WEST.*
[BAD SPIRITS RECOLLECTIONS OF HUSBANDS AND STATESMEN
AT SCHOOL.]
LONDON^ May 27th, 1742.
MINE, you are to know, is a white melancholy, or rather
leucocholy,f for the most part ; which, though it seldom
laughs, or dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls joy or
pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and $a ne laisse
que de s'amuser.% The only fault of it is insipidity ; which
is apt now and then to give a sort of ennui, which makes
one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But
there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and
then felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian's rule of
faith, " credo quia impossible est" for it believes, nay, is
sure of everything that is unlikely, so it be but frightful ;
and, on the other hand, excludes and shuts its eyes to the
most possible hopes, and everything that is pleasurable.
From this, the Lord deliver us ; for none but he and sun-
shiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of
weather, I am going into the country for a few weeks, but
shall be never the nearer any society, so if you have any
* Son of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, by a daughter of Bishop
Burnet. His tastes were very like Gray's, and he promised to attain
celebrity, but died of a consumption the year following the date of
this letter, at the age of twenty-six.
f Melancholy signifying black choler, leucocholy wonld be white
choler. Gray pleasantly coins the word for the occasion.
Does nothing but trifle.
$ I believe because it is impossible. Gray might have added (and
perhaps he meant to do so by what follows) that Tertullian, who was
a cruel bigot, held another rule of faith, equally reasonable, namely,
/ beliert because it is horrible.
FIVE LE TTRS OF GRA Y. 119
charity you will contrive to write. My life is like Harry
the Fourth's supper of hens: "pouletsd la brocfie, paulets
en ragout, paulets en Jidchis, poulets en fricasees ;* reading
here, reading there ; nothing but books with different sauces.
Do not let me lose my dessert then ; for though that be read-
ing too, yet it has a very different flavor. The May seems
to be come since your invitation ;f and I promise to bask in
her beams, and dress me in her roses :
" Et caput in verna semper habere rosa."|
I shall see Mr. and his wife, nay, and his child
too, for he has got a boy. Is it not odd to consider one's
contemporaries in the grave light of husband and father?
There are my Lords and , they are statesmen ; do
not you remember them dirty boys playing at cricket ? As
for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the
wiser than I was then ; no, not for having been beyond sea.
Pray, how are you ?
TO THE REVEREND NORTON NICHOLLS.
[BANTER OF FORMAL EXCUSES AND FINE EXORDIUMS SOUTH-
AMPTON AN ABBOT SUNRISE.]
Nov. 19, 1764.
I RECEIVED your letter at Southampton ; and as I would
wish to treat everybody according to their own rule and
measure of good breeding, have, against my inclination,
waited till now before I answered it, purely out of fear and
* Roast chicken, ragooed chicken, hashed chicken, fricaseed
chicken.
t West had written an ode to May, addressed to his friend.
\ " And have my head forever in spring roses."
A line in " Propertius," lib. iii. v. 22.
120 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY.
respect, and an ingenuous diffidence in my own abilities. It
you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well-
turned period, which is always my principal concern.*
So I proceed to tell you, that my health is much improv-
ed by the sea. Not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the
common people do ; no ! I only walked by it, aod looked
upon it. The climate is remarkably mild, even in October
and November ; no snow has been seen to lie there for these
thirty years past ; the myrtles grow in the ground against the
houses, Guernsey lilies bloom in every window ; the town,
clean and well-built, surrounded by its old sjone walls, with
their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula,
and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having form-
ed two beautiful bays on each hand of it stretches away in
direct view, till it joins the British Channel. It is skirted
on either side with gently rising grounds, clothed with thick
wood ; and directly across its mouth rise the high lands of
the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the
bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie hid ih*
ruins of Nettley Abbey ; there may be richer and greater
houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation.
See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade
of those old trees that bend into a half-circle about it, he is
walking slowly (good man !) and bidding his beads for the
souls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile that
lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descending)
nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have ex-
cluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye ; only
on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering
sea. Did you not observe how, as that white sail shot by arid
was lost, he turned and crossed himself, to drive the tempter
* A banter probably of some apologetical formality on the part
of Nicholls.
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 121
from him that had thrown that distraction in his way ? I
should tell you that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty
young fellow, told me that he would not for all the world
pass a night at the Abbey (there were such things seen near
it), though there was a power of money hid there. From
thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge : but of
these things I say no more. They will be published at the
University press.
P.S. I must not close my letter without giving you one
principal event of my history ; which was, that (in the course
of my late tour) I set out one morning before five o'clock, the
moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and
got to the sea-coast time enough to be at the sun's levee. I
saw the clouds and dark vapors open gradually to right and
left, rolling over one another in great smoky wreaths, and the
tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sands) first whitening,
then slightly tinged with gold and blue, and all at once a
little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write
these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a
whole one too glorious to be distinctly seen. It is very odd
it makes no figure on paper ; yet I shall remember it as long
as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder whether
anybody ever saw it before ? I hardly believe it.
TO THE SAME.
[A MOTHER SCENERY OF KENT.]
1765.
IT is a long time since, that I heard you were gone in hast
into Yorkshire on account of your mother's illness ; an
the same letter informed me that she was recovered, other
wise I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take
care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thing
6
122 FIVE BETTERS OF GRAY.
very little known, which is, that in one's whole life one can
never have any more than a single mother. You may think
this is obvious, and (what you call) a trite observation. You
are a green gosling ! I was at the same age (very near) as
wise as you ; and yet I never discovered this (with full evi-
dence and conviction, I mean) till it was too late. It is thir-
teen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I
live it sinks deeper into my heart. Many a corollary could
I draw from this axiom for your use (not for my own), but I
will leave you the merit of doing it for yourself. Pray tell
me how your health is ; I conclude it perfect, as I hear you
offered yourself as a guide to Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra
Morena of Yorkshire. For me, I passed the end of May, ard
all June, in Kent, not disagreeably. In the west part of it,
from every eminence, the eye catches some long reach *>f the
Thames or Medway, with all their shipping : in the east, the
sea breaks in upon you, and mixes its white tranient sails,
and glittering blue expanse : with the deeper and brighter
green of the woods and corn. This sentence ii so fine I am
quite ashamed, but no matter ! You must translate it into
prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, would co"er his face with
his pudding sleeve.* I do not tell you of the great and
small beasts, and creeping things innuir arable, that I met
with, because you do not suspect that this world is inhabited
by anything but men, and women, and clergy, and such two-
legged cattle. Now I am here again, ve*y disconsolate and
all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, and the cares of this world
are coming thick upon me ; you, I hope, are better off, riding
and walking in the woods of Studley, &<* &c. I must no*
wish for you here ; besides, I am going to town at Michae
mas, by no means for amusement.
* He was a clergyman ; rector of Palgrare and Thrandeston, in
Suffolk.
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 123
TO THE SAME.
[HAVING A GARDEN OF ONE'S OWN SHENSTONE SECOND BAN-
TER ON FORMAL APOLOGIES.
PEMBROKE COLLEGE, June 24th, 1769.
AND so you have a garden of your own, and you plant and
transplant, and are dirty and amused. Are not you
ashamed of yourself? Why, I have no such thing, you
monster ; nor ever shall be either dirty or amused as long as
I live.* My gardens are in my windows, like those of a
lodger up three pair of stairs in Petticoat Lane, or Camomile
Street, and they go to bed regularly under the same roof that
I do. Dear ! how charming it must be to walk out in one's
own garding, and sit on a bench in the open air, with a foun-
tain and leaden statue, and a rolling-stone, and an arbor I
Have a care of sore throats though, and the agoe.
However, be it known to you, though I have no garden,
I have sold my estate,f and got a thousand guineas and
fourscore pounds a-year for my old aunt, and a twenty-pound
prize in the lottery, and Lord knows what arrears in the
treasury, and am a rich fellow enough, go to ; a fellow that
hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every-
thing handsome about him ;| and in a few days shall have
new window-curtains : are you avized of that ? Aye, and a
new mattress to lie upon.
* This pleasantry becomes the more charming, when read in con-
nection with some previous letters to Nicholls, which were in a strain
of serious and somewhat remonstrating advice on carelessness in his
affairs, though full of the most touching kindness.
f Some houses on the west side of Hand Alley, in Cornhill.
$ From Dogberry's speech in Much ado about Nothing, Act iv. sc. 2
124 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY.
My Ode* has been rehearsed again and again, and th<
scholars have got scraps by heart. I expect to see it torn
piecemeal in the North Briton,f before it is born. If you
will come, you shall see it, and sing in it amidst a chorus
from Salisbury and Gloucester music-meeting, great names
there, and all well versed in Judas Maccabaeus.J I wish it was
once over, for then I immediately go for a few days to Lon-
don, and so with Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will
rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will be invisible and
inaccessible to mortals.
I have got Be la Lande's Voyage through Italy in eight
volumes. He is a member of the Academy of Sciences, and
pretty good to read. I have read, too, an octavo volume of
Shenstone's Letters. Poor man ! he was always wishing for
money, for fame, and other distinctions ; and his whole phi-
losophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and
in a place which his taste had adorned, but which he only
enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it.
His correspondence is about nothing else but this place and
his own writings, with two or three neighboring clergymen
who wrote verses too.
* " On the Installation of the Duke of Grafton as Chancellor of the
University of Cambridge."
t A periodical publication now forgotten.
\ Handel's Oratorio of that name.
This is a true view of the weak side of Shenstone's character;
and Gray, perhaps, confined himself to that side of it for some purpose
connected with his correspondent. Otherwise Shenstone must inevi-
tably have reaped great enjoyment from the lovely and surprising
landscapes he created on his estate, which were the admiration of the
best judges, and the site of his own gentle verse-making. Shenstone,
like most people, was a different man under different phases of health.
Gray was a warm admirer of the poem in these volumes, Tke School-
mistress. He pronounced it " excellent in its kind, and masterly."
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAJ. 125
I have just found the beginning of a letter, which some-
body had dropped : I should rather call it first-thoughts for
the beginning of a letter, for there are many scratches and
corrections. As I cannot use it myself (having got a begin-
ning already of my own), I send it for your use on some
great occasion.
" Dear Sir,
" After so long silence, the hopes of pardon, and prospect
of forgiveness, might seem entirely extinct, or at least very
remote, was I not truly sensible of your goodness and can
dor, which is the only asylum that my negligence can fly to,
since every apology would prove insufficient to counterbalance
it, or alleviate my fault : how then shall my deficiency pre-
sume to make so bold an attempt, or be able to suffer tha
hardships of so rough a campaign ?" &c. &o. &c *
* See note * p. 125.
nf (Minuting a &mlt far firtas.
BY JONATHAN RICHARDSON.
JONATHAN RICHARDSON was a portrait-painter and critic in the time
of Pope, whom he knew. He was esteemed in his art, and still more
for his knowledge and admiration of art in others. He wrote treatises
on Painting, notes on Milton, a poem in Nichols's Collection, evincing
his inquiring and amiable turn of mind, called an Address to tke Morn-
ing Star ; and he was famous for his industry, early-rising, and the
affection existing between him and his son. His writings have perhaps
created more enthusiasm for pictures than those of any other man in
England. He is not an accomplished writer, like Sir Joshua ; nor has
he the depth of Hazlitt ; much less any of the transcendental insights
of the promising critical genius who has lately made his appearance
among us under the title of the " Oxford Graduate." His style is col-
loquial, to a degree of slovenliness : and, with the tendencies natural
perhaps to his art in a professional point of view, he is too much in-
clined to confound prosperity with success. But he would interest us
less if he did not pour forth all he thought. Candor, honesty, good-
ness, vivacity, and a considerable amount of taste and knowledge,
constitute the charms of his writing. Sir Joshua respected him ;
Pope, who dabbled in painting himself, was attached to him ; Hazlitt
quoted him with delight.
The following remarks are on a subject which is yet far too little
appreciated, but which is destined, we suspect, to play a great and
delightful part in the universal world of civilization. " Knowledge is
power ;" but it is not only power to command (which is the sense in
CULTIVATING A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 127
which the axiom is generally taken), it is also power to enjoy. Every-
body who knows anything of anything, knows how much that knowl-
edge adds to the sum of his ordinary satisfaction ; what strength it
gives him, what ennui and vacuity it saves him. The smallest bota-
nist or geologist knows it, by the way-side ; the least meteorologist,
as he gazes at a rack of clouds. Pictures make themselves known at
once, more or less ; yet nobody, who has not in some measure thought
on the subject as Richardson here teaches to think, has any concep-
tion how much is to be got out of a good picture, the more he knows
of the art, and of nature. He learns to know everything which the
painter intends ; everything which he intimates ; and thus to discover
volumes of meaning and entertainment where others see little but a
colored page. And the more we know of pictures, the more we come
to value engravings, and to know what companions they can be made ;
what little treasures of art we may possess, even in those faint repre-
sentations, compared with the nothing to be got out of the finest paint-
ings by the eyes of ignorance.
And then there is the reflex of Painting itself on Nature ; the
grateful light which she throws in her turn on the source of her in-
spiration ; so that the more we know of objects on canvas, the more
we learn to know of the objects themselves, and thus become qualified
to discern pictures in everything, and to be critics of our instructor.
But Richardson has touched on this point also, and the reader must
not be detained from him. We would only beg leave to add, by way
of individual experience in such matters, without pretending to any
remarkable insight into them, either natural or acquired, that Mr.
Hazlitt, whom we had the pleasure of knowing, converted us from a
wrong admiration of white cottages in landscapes to the right one of
the honest old red ; that Mr. Haydon (whom we will not call " unfor-
tunate," even for his end, knowing what pleasure he got out of his
art in life) was the first, in our youth, to give us an eye to the atti-
tudes and groups of people in company ; and that we have reason to
regard the having been conversant with a house full of paintings
during childhood as one of the blessings of our existence. , We have
never since entered a room of that sort without a tendency to hush
and move softly, as if in the presence of things above the ordinary
course of nature, of spirits left behind them by great men. looking at
us with divine eyes, or informing the most beautiful visions of naturo
with art as wonderful. And we are so.
128 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING
WHAT is beautiful and excellent, is naturally adapted to
please : but all beauties and excellencies are not, natu-
rally, seen. Most gentlemen see pictures and drawings as the
generality of people see the heavens in a clear, starry night ;
they perceive a sort of beauty there, but such a one as pro-
duces no great pleasure in the mind ; but when one considers
the heavenly bodies as other worlds, and that there are an
infinite number of these in the empire of God (Immensity),
and worlds which our eyes, assisted by the best glasses, can
never reach, and so far remote from the most distant of what
we see, that these visible ones are as it were our neighbors,
as the continent of France is to Great Britain ; when one
considers farther, that as there are inhabitants on this conti-
nent, though we see them not when we see that, it is alto-
gether unreasonable to imagine that those innumerable worlds
are uninhabited and desert ; there must be beings there, some
perhaps more, others less noble and excellent than man.
When one thus views this vast prospect, the mind is other-
wise affected than before, and feels a delight which common
notions never can administer. So those who at present can-
not comprehend there can be such pleasure in a good picture
or drawing as connoisseurs pretend to find, may learn to see
the same thing themselves ; their eyes being once opened,
they may be said to obtain a new sense ; and new pleasures
flow in as often as the objects of that superinduced sight
present themselves, which (to people of condition especially)
very frequently happens, or may be procured, whether here
at home, or in their travels abroad. When a gentleman has
learned to see the beauties and excellencies that are really
in good pictures and drawings and which may be learnt by
conversing with such, and applying himself to the considera-
tion of them, he will look upon that with joy which he now
passes over with very little pleasure, if not with indifference ;
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 129
nay, a sketch, a scrabble of the hand of a great master, will
be capable of administering to him a greater degree of pleas-
ure than those who know it not by experience can have any
conception of. Besides the graceful and noble attitudes, the
beauty of colors and forms, and the fine effects of light and
shadow, which none sees as a connoisseur does, such a one
enters farther than any other can do into the beauties of the
invention, expression, and other parts of the work he is con-
sidering. He sees strokes of art, contrivances, expedients, a
delicacy and spirit, that others see not, or very imperfectly.
He sees what force of mind the great masters had to
conceive ideas ; what judgment to see things beautifully, or
to imagine beauty from what they saw ; and what a power
their hands were endued withal, in a few strokes and with
ease, to show to another what themselves conceived.
What is it that gives us pleasure in reading a history or
poem, but that the mind is thereby furnished with a variety
of images? And what distinguishes some authors, and sets
them above the common level, but their knowing how to
raise their subject? The Trojan or Peleponnesian wars
would never have been thought of by us, if a Homer or
Thucydides had not told the stories of them, who knew how
to do it so as to fill the minds of their readers with great and
delightful ideas. He who converses with the works of the
best masters is always reading such admirable authors ; and
his mind consequently, in proportion, entertained and delight-
ed with the histories, fables, characters, the ideas of magnifi-
cent buildings, fine prospects, &c.
And he sees these things in those different lights which
the various manners of thinking of the several masters sets
them ; he sees them as they are represented by the capri-
cious but vast genius of Leonardo da Vinci ; the fierce and
gigantic one of Michael Angelo ; the divine and polite one
130 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING
of Raphael ; the poetical fancy of Gruido ; the angelical mind
of Corregio, or Parmegiano ; the haughty, sullen, but accom-
plished Annibal, the learned Augustino Caracci.
A connoisseur hath this further advantage, that he not
only sees beauties in pictures and paintings, which to common
eyes are invisible ; but he learns by these to see such in na-
ture, in the exquisite forms and colors, the fine effects of
lights, and shadows, and reflections, which in her are always
to be found, and from whence he hath a pleasure which other-
wise he could never have had, and which none with untaught
eyes can possibly discern : he has a constant pleasure of this
kind even in the most common things, and the most familiar
to us, so that what people usually look upon with the utmost
indifference, creates an home-felt delight in his mind. The
noblest works of Raphael, the most ravishing music of Han-
del, the most masterly strokes of Milton, touch not people
who are without discernment.
So, the beauties themselves of those all-perfect works of
the great author of nature are not seen but by enlightened
eyes, that is, those eyes which are taught to see ; to those
they appear far otherwise than before they were ; so, so fur
otherwise ! that one sees through a glass darkly (through the
gross medium of ignorance) ; the other, that of a connoisseur,
as when the angel had removed the film from Adam's eyes,
and purged with euphrasy and rue, the visual nerve, seeth
beauty divine and human, as far as human may, as we hope
to see everything, still nearer to its true beauty and perfec-
tion, in a better state ; when we shall " see what eye
hath not seen, neither hath it entered the heart of man to
conceive."
By conversing with the works of the best masters, our
imaginations are impregnated with great and beautiful
images, which present themselves on all occasions in
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 131
reading an author, or ruminating upon some great action,
ancient or modern ; everything is raised, everything improved
from what it would have been otherwise. Nay, those lovely
images with which our minds are thus enriched, arise there
continually, and give us pleasure, with or without any par-
ticular application.
What is rare and curious, exclusive of any other consider-
ation, we naturally take pleasure in ; because, as variable as
our circumstances are, there is so much of repetition in life
that more variety is still desirable. The works of the great
masters would thus recommend themselves to us, though
they had not that transcendent excellency that they have ;
they are such as are rarely seen ; they are the works of a
small number of the species in one little country of the world,
and in a short space of time. But their excellency being put
into the scale makes the rarity of them justly considerable.
They are the works of men like whom none are now to be
found, and when there will be, God only knows !
" Art et guides, tout est dans les Champs Elysees."
LA FONTAINE.
What the old man Melanthius says of Polygnotus (as he
is cited by Plutarch in the life of Cimon), may, with a little
alteration, be applied to these men in general ; it is thus al-
ready translated :
" This famous painter, at his own expense,
Gave Athens beauty and magnificence ;
New life to all the heroes did impart ;
Embellish'd all the temples with his art ;
The splendor of the state restor'd again ;
And so he did oblige both gods and men."
What still adds to the rarity of the excellent works we
132 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING
are speaking of is. their number must necessarily diminish
by sudden accidents, or the slow, but certain injuries of
time.
Another pleasure belonging to connoissance is when we
find anything particular and curious ; as the first thoughts
of a master for some remarkable picture ; the original of a
work of a great master, the copy of which we have already
by some other considerable hand ; a drawing of a picture, or
after an antique very famous, or which is now lost ; or when
we make some new acquisition upon reasonable terms, chiefly
when we get for ourselves something we much desired, but
could not hope to be masters of; when we make some new
discovery, something that improves our knowledge in connois-
sance or painting, or otherwise ; and abundance of such like
incidents, and which very frequently happens to a diligent
connoisseur.
The pleasure that arises from a knowledge of hands is
not like, or equal to that of the other parts of the business
of a connoisseur, but neither is this destitute of it. When
one sees an admirable piece of art, it is part of the connois-
seur to know to whom to attribute it, and then to know his
history ; which arises, I hope, from a natural justice in the
human mind that loves and desires to pay a little tribute of
gratitude where it discovers it to be due to that merit of
another which it is actually enjoying. The custom of put-
ting the author's portrait or life at the beginning of his book,
is kindly giving us an opportunity of doing this.
When one is considering a picture or a drawing,* and at
the same time thinks this was done by him who had many
* The passage here commencing is one enormously long sen-
tence, continued to the words " these reflections," at p. 140. It
may be supposed, however, to be very agreeably poured forth in the
heat of conversation.
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 133
extraordinary endowments of body and mind, and was withal
a virtuous man and a fine gentleman in his whole life, and
still more at his death* expiring in the arms of one of the
greatest princes of that age, Francis I., king of France, who
loved him as a friend ;* another is of him who lived a long
and happy life beloved of the Emperor Charles V., and
many others of the first princes of Europe ;f when one has
another in his hand, and thinks that this was done by one
who so excelled in three arts, as that any one of them, in that
degree he possessed them all, had rendered him worthy of
immortality, and who moreover dared to contend with his
sovereign (one of the haughtiest popes that ever was) upon
a slight offered to him, and extricated himself with honor \\
another is the work of that great self-formed, authentic
genius, who was the model of supernatural grace ; who alone
painted heaven, as surely it is ; and hath represented to hu-
man weakness the angelic nature ; this, too, by inspiration !
not having had any master, or none but whom he left quite
out of sight in the earliest progresses of his divine pencil ; he
even never saw the works of other great masters, having always
confined himself to his native Lombardy, except one single
one of Raphael, and a great one indeed that was, his St. Ce-
cilia when brought to Bologna ; and then, after considering
it with long attention, and the admiration it deserved, he had
the spirit (and he had a right to that spirit) to say, " Well, I
am a painter, too ;" he was so little known to the rest of
Italy, that he passed till very lately, in the opinion of the
world, for a low, poor, indigent creature, from the ill-informa-
tion or malice of Vasari, always prejudiced against the Lom-
bard painters, when his character was rescued from its affect-
ed obscurity, and his noble birth and connections, and splen-
* Leonardo da Vinci. f Titian.
J Michael Angelo. $ Corregio.
1 34 AD VANTA GES OF C UL TIVA TING
did wealth, asserted boyond all possibility and dispute by the
indefatigable industry of Ludiovico Antonio David, a Milan-
ese painter, and published at Bologna ; another we shall
consider as the work of him who restored painting when it
was almost sunk ; of him whom his art made honorable ; but
who neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical
pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not
to his intrinsic merit ; which not having philosophy enough
to bear, it broke his heart ;* another is performed by one.
who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman, and of great
magnificence, and was much honored by his own and foreign
princes ; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter ; and
BO much all these, that when he acted in either character,
that seemed to be his business, and the others his diversion ;f
when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from
the beauties and excellencies of the work, the fine ideas it
gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking one finds
in it, and the pleasing thoughts it may suggest to us, an ad-
ditional pleasure results from these reflections.
But, oh ! the pleasure ! when a connoisseur and lover of
art has before him a picture or drawing, of which he can say,
this is the hand, these the thoughts of him who was one of
the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was ; who was
beloved and assisted by the greatest wits, and the greatest
men then at Rome, at a time when politeness and all those
arts which make life taste truly agreeable, were carried to a
greater height than at any period since the reign of Augus-
tus : of him who lived in great fame, honor, and magnificence,
and died universally lamented ; and even missed a cardinal's
hat only by dying a few months too soon ; but was, above
all, highly esteemed and favored by frwo popes, the only ones
* Caravaggio? f Rubens.
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 185
who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time ; one (in short)
who could have been a. Leonardo, a Michael Angclo, a Ti-
tian, a Corregio, a Parmegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any
other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have
been a Raphael
nn a Distant |5ros|irrt nf (Eton
THIS poem has been noticed in our preface, and in the introduc-
tion to the Long Story. It is full of thought, tenderness, and music,
and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, es-
pecially those who know what it is to visit the scenes of their school-
days. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light ;
but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray's lines will
fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm.
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade ;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way.
Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,
Ah, fields beloved in vain,
ODE ON A PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 137
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain ?
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.
Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green.
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ?
The captive linnet which enthrall?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase tne rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball ?
While some, on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty,
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry j
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest ;
138 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast :
Theirs, buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigor born ;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play !
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day :
Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black misfortune's baleful train ;
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band '
Ah, tell them they are men !
These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful anger, pallid fear,
And shame that skulks behind ;
Or pining love shall waste their youth
Or jealousy, with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart ,
And envy wan, and faded care,
Grim-visag'd comfortless despair,
And sorrow's piercing dart
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
OF ETON COLLEGE. 139
To bitter scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning infamy ;
The stings of falsehood those shall try,
And hard unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ;
And keen remorse, with blood defil'd,
And moody madness laughing wild
Amidst severest woe.
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of death,
More hideous than their queen ;
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every laboring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo, poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow consuming age.
To each his sufferings ; all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan ;
The tender for another's pain,
The unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate !
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies :
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more. Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.
long |tnn|.
THE Long Story is so entitled in deprecation- of any tedium which
the reader might experience in perusing a personal adventure of the
author's who was too sensitive on such points. He pleasantly pre-
tends that he has omitted five hundred stanzas. The occasion of the
poem was a visit paid him by two ladies, who did him the honor of
being their own introducers. Gray was at the house of his aunt, in
his native village of Stoke Pogeis, near Windsor. His mother was
there also. The Viscountess Cobham,* who possessed the mansion-
house of the place, wished to make the poet's acquaintance. The la-
dies in question undertook to break the ice for her. Not finding him
at home, they left a card, intimating that they came to tell him of the
good health of a Lady Brown, a friend of his. Shy and sequestered
as he was, the poet returned the visit ; and he takes the opportunity
of describing the house, and complimenting its inmates.
Walpole Siiid of Gray, that, however well he might write in moods
altogether sen ms, his real forte was pleasantry. Undoubtedly Gray's
pleasantry is of a more original cast than his seriousness ; less indebt-
ed to that of his predecessors. Yet there is reason to believe that
every thought which he transferred to paper had passed through his
own mind, though his love of the writings of others too often induced
him to express it in their words. Half his verses are centos ; and yet
we feel them to be rather sympathies than echoes. His Ode on the
Prospect of Eton College, and his Elegy in a Country Churchyard, are
the regrets of all his fellow-mortals, and of himself. Gray was a
scholarly, thoughtful, affectionate man ; a little effeminate in his hab-
* Sister of Pope's Lord Cobham, and subsequently Countess Temple.
A LONG STORY. 141
Us, owing to a feeble constitution ; but manly in his judgments, and
superior to every kind of sophistry and meanness.
Gray's pleasantry came to him through his melancholy, assisted by
the general delicacy of his perceptions, and his willingness to be
pleased. Though a little too cautious of committing his dignity, he
was not one of those who " take a calamity for an affront." He was
willing to give and to receive pleasure, and this is a disposition which
Nature is sure to reward. In the Long Story we see him hesitating
at first whether he should go to the " great house." He was not only
loth to be disturbed in his sequestered habits ; he was jealous of what
might be thought of his humble independence, and his footing as a
"gentleman." (He was the son of a scrivener.) But good-nature
prevails, not unaccompanied by a willingness to find himself among
ladies of rank and elegance; and though he might as well have
dropped the circumstance of his secreting himself, he has made a
charming picture both of the interview of the ladies with his mother
and aunt (whom he pretends they pinched and " rummaged" like
fairies), and of the great Elizabethan house, with its old associa-
tions, things in which he delighted ; for he was an antiquary with all
the zest of a poet. The whole poem is full of picturesqueness, fancy,
and wit.
IN Britain's isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands ;
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of fairy hands
To raise the ceiling's fretted height,
Each panel in achievements clothing,
Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages that lead to nothing.*
Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
* A line that has become a favorite quotation with critics, es-
pecially as applied to passages in music.
142 A LONG STORY.
My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls ;*
The seal and maces danc'd before him.
His bushy beard and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet,
Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,
Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it
What, in the very first beginning?
Shame of the versifying tribe !
Your history whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe ?
A house there is (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriors, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.
The firstf came cap-a-pie from France,
Her conquering destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.
* The brawl (brank) was a fashionable dance. The Lord Keeper
is Sir Christopher Hatton, a handsome man, who is said to have danced
himself into the office. It is unquestionable that he made way some-
how into the heart of Elizabeth. Dancing, however, appears to have
been so much admired by this great queen, that another and graver
lawyer, Sir John Davies, no mean philosophical poet, who was also
one of her most devoted panegyrists, divided his leisure thoughts be-
tween metrical treatises on the Art of Dancing and on the Immortality
of the Soul. Biographers, by the way, tell us, that Hatton never
possessed a house at Stoke Pogeis. Gray, however, says he did ; and
there he is in consequence, living forever.
f Lady Schaub.
A LONG STORY. 143
Jhe other Amazon* kind heav'n
Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire ;
*Jut Cobhain had the polish giv'n,
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.
To celebrate her eyes, her air
Coarse panegyrics would but tease her :
Melissa is her nom de guerre ;
Alas ! whc would not wish to please her ?
With bonnet blue, and capuchin,
And aprons long, they hid their armor,
And veil'd their weapons bright and keen
In pity to the country farmer.
Fame in the shape of Mr. P 1
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked imp they call'd a poet,f
Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dry'd up the cows and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs and kill'd the pheasants.
My Lady, heard their joint petition.
Swore, by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.
* Miss Harriett Speed. She was a descendant of the historian,
and became the wife of the Sardinian ambassador, the Count de Veri.
f Mr. P was a Mr. Purl or Purkt, He is said to have been
displeased with this allusion, Mason thinks unreasonably ; but no-
body likes to be thought a gossip. Mason knew that Gray was a
good-natured man ; but of this. Mr. P. might not have been so sure.
144 A LONG STORY.
The heroines undertook the task ;
Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd,
Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,
But bounce into the parlor enter'd.
The trembling family they daunt ;
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle ;
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.
Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry-skurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber ;
Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ;
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creas'd, like dogs-ears, in a folio.
On the first marching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Conveyed him underneath their hoops
To a small closet in the garden.
So Rumor says (who will, believe) ;
But that they left the door ajar,
Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve,
He heard the distant din of war.
Short was his joy ; he little knew
The power of magic was no fable ;
Out of the window whisk they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.
A LONG STORY. 145
The words too eager to unriddle,
The poet felt a strange disorder ;
Transparent bird-lime form'd the middle,
And chains invisible the border.
So cunning was the apparatus,
The powerful pot-hooks did so move him,
That will-he, nill-he, to the great house
He went as if the devil drove him.
Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phoebus he preferr'd his case,
And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.
The godhead would have back'd his quarrel ;
But, with a blush, on recollection,
Own'd that his quiver and his laurel
'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.
The court was set, the culprit there ;
Forth from their gloomy mansion creeping
The Lady Janes and Joans repair,
And from the gallery stand peeping :
Such as in silence of the night
Come (sweep) along some winding entry
(Styack* has often seen the sight),
Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ;
In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd,
Sour visages enough to scare ye,
High dames of honor once that garnish'd
The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary f
* The housekeeper.
7
146 A LONG STORY.
The peeress comes ; the audience stare,
And doff their hats with due submission ;
She curt'sies, as she takes her chair,
To all the people of condition.
The bard with many an artful fib
Had in imagination fenc'd him,
Disprov'd the arguments of Squib,*
And all that Groomf could urge against him ;
But soon his rhetoric forsook him,
When he the solemn hall had seen ;
A sudden fit of ague shook him
He stood as mute as poor Macleane.J
Yet something he was heard to mutter
" How in the park, beneath an old tree,
Without design to hurt the butter,
Or any malice to the poultry,
He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet,
Yet hop'd that he might save his bacon ;
Numbers would give their oath upon it,
He ne'er was for a conj'rer taken."
The ghostly prudes with hagged face
Already had condemn'd the sinner ;
My Lady rose, and with a grace
She smil'd, and bid him come to dinner.
" Jesu Maria ! Madam Bridget,
Why what can the Viscountess mean ?"
* The groom of the chamber. f The steward.
$ A famous highwayman who had just been executed^
A LONG STORY. 147
Cry'd the square hoods in woful fidget ;
" The times are alter'd, quite and clean :
" Decorum's turn'd to mere civility !
Her air and all her manners show it.
Commend me to her affability !
Speak to a commoner and poet !"
\Here 500 Stanzas are lost.']
And so God save our noble King,
And guard us from long-winded lubbers,
That to eternity would sing,
And keep my lady from her rubbers.
|ir IxngBt he Cnnrrlrq.
FROM ADDISON'S PAPERS IN THE " SPECTATOR."
SIR KOGER DE COVERLEY is one of those truthful types of charac-
ter, which, though created by the mind of man, yet, by the ordination
of Nature herself (for Nature includes art among her works), outlasts
the successive generations of flesh and blood which it represents.
The individuals perish, and leave no memorial ; nay, we hardly care
to know them while living. We might find them tiresome. We fee]
that Nature has done well in making them ; we are grateful for the
race ; especially on behalf of others, and of the poor ; but we do not
particularly see the value of their society ; when, lo ! in steps one of
Nature's imitators called men of genius and, by the mere fact of
producing a likeness of the species to the mind's eye, enchants us for-
ever both with it and himself. A little philosophy may easily explain
this ; but perhaps a little more may still leave it among the most in-
teresting of mysteries.
We have said a word elsewhere (see Gradations of Clubs) respect-
ing the first invention of Sir Roger by Steele, and the compatibility
of his early fopperies with a genuine simplicity. But unquestionably
Addison took up the invention of Steele, and enriched and completed
it in a way that left the invention itself at a distance. The whole of
the following papers are from his exquisite pen. They render com-
ment superfluous. One has nothing to do but repeat passages, and
admire them.
SIR ROGER'S HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT.
O ften received an invitation from my friend Sir
*-*- Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in
the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am
HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT. 149
settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I
intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger,
who is very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and
go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my own
chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bid-
ding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country
come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have
been walking in his fields I have observed them stealing a
sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the knight desir-
ing them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be
stared at.
I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it
consists of sober and staid persons ; for, as the knight is the
best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ;
and as he is beloved by all about, his servants never care
for leaving him ; by this means his domestics are all in years,
and grown old with their master. You would take his valet-
de-chambre for his brother ; his butler is gray-headed, his
groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and
his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see
the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in
a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care and ten-
derness, out of regard for his past services, though he has been
useless for several years.
I could not but observe, with a great deal of pleasure, the
joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient do-
mestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some
of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old
master ; every one of them pressed forward to do something
for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed.
At the same time, the good old knight, with a mixture of a
father and the master of a family, tempered the inquiries
after his own affairs with several kind questions about them-
150 SIR ROGER DE COVERLETS
selves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody
to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his
family are in good-humor, and none so much as the person he
diverts himself with. On the contrary, if he coughs, or be-
trays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to
observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.
My worthy friend has put me under the particular care
of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the
rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing
me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as
his particular friend.
My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself
in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is
ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature
of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a per-
son of good sense and some learning ; of a very regular life
and obliging conversation : he heartily loves Sir Roger, and
knows that he is very much in the old knight's esteem, so
that he lives in the family rather as a relation than as a de-
pendant.
I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend
Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an
humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are,
as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance which makes
them particularly his, and distinguishes them from those of
other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very inno-
cent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable,
and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue
would appear in their ordinary colors. As I was walking with
him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man I have
just now mentioned ? And without staying for an answer told
me, " That he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and
Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired a par-
HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT. 15 1
ticular friend of his at the University to find him out a
clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning ; of a
good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possiblej
a man that understood a little of backgammon. My friend,"
says Sir Roger, " found me out this gentleman, who, besides
the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good
scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the
parsonage of the parish ; and, because I know his value, have
settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me,
he shall find that b,e was higher in my esteem than perhaps
he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years, and
though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never
in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is
every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other
of my tenants his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit
in the parish since he has lived among them : if any dispute
arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do
not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened
above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first
settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons
that have been printed in English, and only begged of him,
that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the
pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series,
that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued
series of practical divinity."
As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman
we were talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight
asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday
night), told us the Bishop of St. Asaph* in the morning, and
Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of
preachers for the year, where I saw, with a great deal of
pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Bar-
* Dr. Flcetwood, afterwards Bishop of Ely.
152 SIR ROGER DE COVERLETS
row, Dr. Calamy, with several living authors who have pub-
lished discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this
venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my
friend's insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and
a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of
his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pro-
nounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my
satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like
the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor.
I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy
would follow this example ; and, instead of wasting their
spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeav-
or after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents
that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater
masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves,
but more edifying to the people.
SIR ROGER'S BEHAVIOR IN CHURCH ON A
SUNDAY.
I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and
think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human
institution, it would be the best method that could have been
thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It
is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a
kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent
returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet to-
gether with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits,
to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear
their duties explained to them, and join together in adora-
tion of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust
of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds
BEHAVIOR IN CHURCH. 153
the notions of religion, but as it puts both sexes upon ap-
pearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such
qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the
village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in
the churchyard as a citizen does upon 'Change, the whole
parish politics being generally discussed there, either after
sermon or before the bell rings.
My friend Sir Roger, being a good church-man, has beau-
tified the inside of his church with several texts of his own
choosing : he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and
railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He has
often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his
parishioners very irregular ; and that, in order to make them
kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them
a hassock and a common-prayer book ; and at the same time
employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the
country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the
tunes of the psalms ; upon which they now Very much value
themselves, and outdo most of the country churches that I
have ever heard.
As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he
keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to
sleep in it besides himself ; for if by chance he has been sur-
prised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it
he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody
else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servants
to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities
break out upon these occasions ; sometimes he will be length-
ening out a verse in the singing-psalms, half a minute after
the rest of the congregation have done with it ; sometimes,
when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro-
nounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer ; and
sometimes stands up when everybody else is on their knees,
154 SIR ROGER DE COVERLETS
to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants aie
missing.
I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old
friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John
Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the
congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable
for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his
heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though
exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all
circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish,
who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his
behavior ; besides that the general good sense and worthi-
ness of his character makes his friends observe these little
singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good
qualities.
As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to
stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight
walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double
row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side,
and every now and then inquires how such an one's wife, or
mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church ;
which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that
is absent.
The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechizing
day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that an-
swers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him next day
for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with
a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise
added five pounds a-year to the clerk's place : and that he
may encourage the young fellows to make themselves per-
fect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of
the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it accord-
ing to merit
SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 155
The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chap-
lain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the
more remarkable, because the very next village is famous
for the differences and contentions that rise between the par-
son and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war.
The parson is always preaching at the squire, and the squire,
to be revenged on the parson, never comes to church. The
squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers ;
while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity
of his order, and insinuates to them, in almost every sermon,
that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters
are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said
his prayers either in public or private this half-year ; and
that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his man-
ners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation.
Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country,
are very fatal to the ordinary people ; who are so used to be
dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the
understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning ;
and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how impor-
tant soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they
know there are several men of five hundred a-year who do
not believe it.
SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES.
A S I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend
" Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop of
gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my friend was in
some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the
peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants, but not having
his clerk with him, who is a necessary counsellor on these oo
156 SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES.
casions, and fearing that his poultry might fare the worse for
it, he let the thought drop ; but, at the same time, gave me
a particular account of the mischief they do in the country,
in stealing people's goods and spoiling their servants. " If a
stray piece of linen hangs on the hedge," says Sir Roger,
" they are sure to have it ; if the hog loses his way in the
field, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey ; our geese
cannot live in peace for them ; if a man prosecutes them with
severity, his hen-roost is sure to pay for it : they generally
straggle into these parts about this time of the year ; and set
the heads of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we
do not expect to have any business done as it should be
whilst they are in the country. I have an honest dairy-maid
who crosses their hands with a piece of silver every summer,
and never fails being promised the handsomest young fellow
in the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been
fool enough to be seduced by them, and although he is sure
to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every time his fortune is
told him. generally shuts himself up in the pantry with an old
gipsy for about half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweet-
hearts are the things they live upon, which they bestow very
plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to them. You
see now and then some handsome jades amongst them ; the
sluts have very often white teeth and black eyes."
Sir Roger observing that I listened with great attention
to his account of a people who were so entirely new to me,
told me, that if I would, they should tell us our fortunes.
As I was very well pleased with the knight's proposal, we
rid up and communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra
of the crew, after having examined my lines very diligently,
told me. that I loved a pretty maid in a corner, that I was
a good woman's man, with some other particulars, which I
do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger alight-
SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 157
ed from his horse, and exposed his palm to two or three that
stood by him ; they crumpled it into all shapes, and dili-
gently scanned every wrinkle that could be made in it ;
when one of them, who was older and more sun-burnt than
the rest, told him, that he had a widow in his line of life :
upon which the knight cried, " Go, go, you are an idle bag-
gage ;" and at the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy,
finding he was not displeased in his heart, told him, after a
farther inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was constant,
and that she should dream of him to-night ; my old friend
cried pish, and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he
was a bachelor, but would not be so long ; and that he was
dearer to somebody than he thought : the knight still repeat-
ed " she was an idle baggage," and bid her go on. " Ah,
master," says the gipsy, " that roguish leer of yours makes a
pretty woman's heart ache ; you han't that simper about the
mouth for nothing." The uncouth gibberish with which all
this was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us more
attentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money with
her that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on
his horse.
As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me, that he knew
several sensible people who believed these gipsies now and
then foretold very strange things ; and for half an hour to-
gether appeared more jocund than ordinary. In the height
of his good-humor, meeting a common beggar on the road
who was no conjurer, as he went to relieve him he found his
pocket was picked ; that being a kind of Palmistry at which
this race of vermin are very dexterous.
I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks
on this idle profligate people, who infest all the countries of
Europe, and live in the midst of governments in a kind of
Commonwealth by themselves. But instead of entering into
158 SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES.
observations of this'nature, I shall fill the remaining part of
my paper with a story which is still fresh in Holland, and
was printed in one of our monthly accounts, about twenty
years ago. " As the Trekschuyt or Hackney-boat which car-
ries passengers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off,
a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken
in, which the master refused, because the lad had not quite
money enough to pay his fare. An eminent merchant, being
pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with
compassion towards him, paid the money for him, and order-
ed him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him after-
wards, he found that he could speak readily in three or four
languages, and learned upon further examination that he had
been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had
rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up and
down several parts of Europe. It happened that the mer-
chant, whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy
by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child some
years before. The parents, after a long search for him, gave
him for drowned in one of the canals with which that country
abounds ; and the mother was so afilicted at the loss of a fine
boy, who was her only son, that she died for grief of it.
Upon laying together all particulars, and examining the sev-
eral moles and marks by which the mother used to describe
the child when he was first missing, the boy proved to be the
son of the merchant whose heart had so unaccountably melt-
ed at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a
father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate ;
the father, on the other hand, was not a little delighted to
see a son return to him, whom he had given for lost, with
^such a strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding,
and skill in languages." Here the printed story leaves off;
but if I may give credit to reports, our linguist, having re-
SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 159
ceived such extraordinary rudiments towards a good educa-
tion, was afterwards trained up in everything that becomes a
gentleman ; wearing off, by little and little, all the vicious
habits and practices that he had been used to in the course
of his peregrinations : nay, it i.s said, that he has since been
employed in foreign courts upon national business, with great
reputation to himself and honor to those who sent him, and
that he has visited several countries as a public minister, in
which he formerly wandered as a gipsy.
SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO THE TOMBS IN
WESTMINSTER ABBEY.
MY friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t'other night,
that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster
Abbey, in which, says he, there are a great many ingenious
fancies. He told me, at the same time, that he observed I
had promised another paper upon the tombs, and that he
should be glad to go and see them with me, not having
visited them since he had read history. I could not imagine
how this came into the knight's head, till I recollected he had
been very busy all last summer upon Baker's Chronicle,
which he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir
Andrew Freeport, since his last coming to town. According-
ly, I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we
might go together to the abbey.
I found the knight under his butler's hands, who always
shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a
glass of the Widow Truby's Water, which he told me he al-
ways drank before he went abroad. He recommended me to
a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that
[ could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got it
.60 SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO THE TOMBS
down, I found it very unpalatable ; upon which the knight,
observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he
knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best
thing in the world against the stone or gravel.
I could have wished indeed that he had acquainted me
with the virtues of it sooner ; but it was too late to complain,
and I knew what he had done was out of good-will. Sir
Roger told me further, that he got together a quantity of it
upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzick ; when,
of a sudden turning short to one of his servants who s-tood
behind him, he bid him call a hackney coach, and take care
it was an elderly man that drove it.
He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby's Water,
telling me that the Widow Truby was one who did more good
than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country ; that she
distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her ; that
she distributed her water gratis among all sorts of people :
to which the knight added that she had a very great jointure,
and that the whole country would fain have it a match be-
tween him and her ; " and truly," says Sir Roger, " if I had
not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better."
His discourse was broken off by his man's telling him he
had called a coach. Upon our going to it. after having cast
his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle-
tree was good ; upon the fellow's telling him he would war-
rant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an
honest man, and went in without farther ceremony.
We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his
head, called the coachman down from his box. and upon pre-
senting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As
I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by
the way at any good tobacconist's, and take in a roll of their
best Virginia. Nothing material happened in the remaining
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 161
part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of
the abbey.
As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed
at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried
out, " A brave man, I warrant him !" Passing afterwards by
Sir Cloudesly Shovel, he flung his hand that way, and cried,
" Sir Cloudesly Shovel ! a very gallant man." As we stood
before Busby's tomb, the knight uttered himself again after
the same manner : " Dr. Busby ! a great man ! he whipped
my grandfather : a very great man ! I should have gone to
him myself, if I had not been a blockhead : a very great man !"
We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on
the right hand. Sir Roger, planting himself at our historian's
elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly
to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the
King of Morocco's head. Among several other figures, he
was very much pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his
knees : and concluding them all to be great men, was con-
ducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good
housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our
interpreter's telling us that she was maid of honor to Queen
Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive about her name
and family : and, after having regarded her finger for some
time, " I wonder," says he, " that Sir Richard Baker has said
nothing of her in his Chronicle."
We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs,
where my old friend, after having heard that the stone under-
neath the most ancient of them, which was brought from
Scotland, was called Jacob's pillar, sat himself down in the
chair, and, looking like the figure of an old Gothic king, asked
our interpreter, what authority they had to say that Jacob
had ever been in Scotland ? The fellow, instead of returning
him an answer, told him that he begged his honor would pay
162 SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO THE TOMBS
his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon
being thus trepanned ; but our guide not insisting on his de-
mand, the knight soon recovered his good-humor, and whis-
pered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw
those chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco-
stopper out of one or t'other of them.
Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward
the Third's sword, and leaning upon the pummel of it, gave
us the whole history of the Black Prince ; concluding, that
in Sir Richard Baker's opinion, Edward the Third was one
of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne.
We were then shown Edward the Confessor's tomb ; upon
which Sir Roger acquainted us. that he was the first who
touched for the evil; and afterwards Henry the Fourth's,
upon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine
reading in the casualties of that reign.
Our conductor then pointed out that monument where
there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head :
and upon giving us to know, that the head, which was of
beaten silver, had been stolen away several years since ;
" Some Whig, I'll warrant you," said Sir Roger ; " you ought
to lock up your kings better : they will carry off the body
too, if you don't take care."
The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen Eliz-
abeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of
doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight ob-
served with some surprise, had a great many kings in him
whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey.
For my own part. I could not but be pleased to see the
knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his coun-
try, and such a respectful gratitude for the memory of its
princes.
I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 163
friend which flows out towards every one he converses with,
made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon
as an extraordinary man ; for which reason he shook him by
the hand at parting, telling him that he should be very glad
to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over
these matters with him more at leisure.
nf tlje
ABOUT thirty years ago a volume appeared from the pen of a trav-
eller in France, which set " all the world" in England upon going to
that country, and living on the charming " banks of the Loire ;" a
river not so well known then, as it has lately been, for an ugly trick it
has of overflowing its banks, and frightening its Paradisaical inhabit-
ants out of their wits. We allude to the travels of Lieutenant-Colonel
Pinckney, an officer in the American service, who made the greater
part of his tour in company with another American gentleman and
two French ladies, one of whom was his friend's wife. This circum-
stance will account for the different modes in which he speaks of him-
self in the following extracts, one of them implying that he was alone
Our extracts are what the reviewers would call " favorable specimens ;"
that is. of French character ; and we make them advisedly such, for
neighborly purposes. Englishmen like to see favorable specimens of
their own travellers in the accounts given of them by Frenchmen ;
and we therefore do as we would be done by. Both Englishmen and
Frenchmen have faults to mend and customs to get rid of; and they
cannot do better than by regarding with kindness what is best on
both sides.
rpHE main purpose of my journey (says the gallant Colo-
-*- nel) being rather to see the manners of the people, than
the brick and mortar of the towns, I had formed a resolution
to seek the necessary refreshment as seldom as possible at
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 165
inns, and as often as possible in the houses of the humbler
farmers, and the better kind of peasantry. About fifteen
miles from Calais my horse and myself were looking out for
something of this kind, and one shortly appeared about three
hundred yards on the left side of the road. It was a cot-
tage in the midst of a garden, and the whole surrounded by
a hedge, which looked delightfully green and refreshing. The
garden was all in flower and bloom. The walls of the cot-
tage were robed in the same livery of nature. I had seen
such cottages in Kent and Devonshire, but in no other part
of the world. The inhabitants were simple people, small far-
mers, having about ten or fifteen acres of land. Some grass
was immediately cut for my horse, and the coffee which I
produced from my pocket was speedily set before me, with
cakes, wine, some meat, and cheese the French peasantry
having no idea of what we call tea. Throwing the windows
up, so as to enjoy the scenery and freshness of the garden ;
sitting upon one chair, and resting a leg upon the other ; al-
ternately pouring out my coffee, and reading a pocket edition
of Thomson's Seasons, I enjoyed one of those moments which
gave a zest to life ; I felt happy, and in peace and in love
with all around me.
Proceeding upon my journey, two miles on the Calais
side of Boulogne I fell in with an overturned chaise, which
the postilion was trying to raise. The vehicle was a chaise
dc paste, the ordinary travelling carriage of the country, and
a thing in a civilized country wretched beyond conception.
It was drawn by three horses, one in the shafts, and one on
each side. The postillion had ridden on the one on the
driving side ; he was a little punch fellow, and in a pair of
boots like fire buckets. The travellers consisted of an old
French lady and gentleman ; madame in a high crimped cap,
and stiff long whalebone stays. Monsieur informed mo very
166 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH.
courteously of the cause of the accident, whilst madame al
ternately curtsied to me, and menaced and scolded the pos
tilion.
A single cart, and a wagon, were all the vehicles that I
saw between Boulogne and Abbeville. In England, in the
same space, I should have seen a dozen or score.
Not being pressed for time, the beauty of a scene at some
little distance from the road-side tempted me to enter into a
bye-lane, and take a nearer view of it. A village church,
embosomed in a chestnut-wood, just rose above the trees on
the top of a hill ; the setting sun was on its casements, and
the foliage of the wood was burnished by the golden reflec-
tion. The distant hum of the village green was just audible ;
but not so the French horn, which echoed in full melody
through the groves. Having rode about half a mile through
a narrow sequestered lane, which strongly reminded me of
the half-green and half-trodden bye-roads in Warwickshire, I
came to the bottom of the hill, on the brow and summit of
which the village and church were situated. I now saw
whence the sound of the horn proceeded. On the left of the
road was an ancient chateau, situated in a park or very ex-
tensive meadow, and ornamented as well by some venerable
trees, as by a circular fence of flowering shrubs, guarded on
the outside by a paling on a raised mound. The park or
meadow having been newly mown, had an air at once orna-
mented and natural. A party of ladies were collected under
a patch of trees situated in the middle of the lawn. I stopped
at the gate to look at them, thinking myself unperceived ;
but in the same moment the gate was opened to me by a gen-
tleman and two ladies, who were walking the round. An ex-
planation was now necessary, and was accordingly given. The
gentleman informed me, upon his part, that the chateau be-
longed to Mons. St. Quentin, a member of the French senate,
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 167
and a judge of the district ; that he had a party of friends
with him upon the occasion of his lady's birthday, that they
were about to begin dancing, and that Mons. St. Quentin
would highly congratulate himself on my accidental arrival.
One of the ladies, having previously apologized and left us,
had seemingly explained to Mons. St. Quentin the main cir-
cumstance belonging to me ; for he now appeared, and re-
peated the invitation in his own person. The ladies added
their kind importunities. I dismounted, gave my horse to a
servant in waiting, and joined this happy and elegant party
for such it really was.
I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of forming
an opinion of French beauty, the assemblage of ladies being
very numerous, and all of them most elegantly dressed.
Travelling, and the imitative arts, have given a most surpris-
ing uniformity to all the fashions of dress and ornament ; and
whatever may be said to the contrary, there is a very slight
difference between the scenes of a French and English polite
assembly. If anything, however, be distinguishable, it is
more in degree than in substance. The French fashions, as
I saw them here, differed in no other point from what I had
seen in London, but in degree. The ladies were certainly
more exposed about the necks, and their hair was dressed
with more fancy ; but the form was in almost everything the
same. The most elegant novelty was a hat, which doubled
up like a fan, so that the ladies carried it in their hands.
There were more colored than white muslins ; a variety
which had a very pretty effect amongst the trees and flowers.
The same observation applies to the gentlemen. Their
dresses were made as in England ; but the pattern of the
cloth, or some appendage to it, was different. One gentle-
man habited in a grass-colored silk coat, had very much the
appearance of Beau Mordecai in the farce : the ladies, how-
168 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH.
ever, seemed to admire him ; and in some conversation with
him I found him, in spite of his coat, a very well-informed
man. There were likewise three or four fancy dresses ; a
Dian, a wood-nymph, and a sweet girl playing upon a flute,
habited according to a picture of Calypso by David. On the
whole, there was certainly more fancy, more taste, and more
elegance, than in an English party of the same description ;
though there was not so many handsome women as would
have been the proportion of such an assembly in England.
From La Fleche to Angers, and thence to Ancennis, the
country is a complete garden. The hills were covered with
vines ; every wood had its chateau, and every village its church.
The peasantry were clean and happy, the children cheerful
and healthful looking, and the greater part of the younger
women spirited and handsome. There was a great plenty
of fruit ; and as we passed through the villages, it was invari-
ably brought to us, and almost as invariably any pecuniary
return refused with a retreating curtsey. One sweet girl, a
young peasant, with eyes and complexion which would be es-
teemed handsome even in Philadelphia, having made Mr.
Young and m3 r sclf an offering of this kind, replied very pret-
tily to our offer of money, that the women of La Fleche
never sold either grapes of water ; as much as to say that the
one was as plentiful as the other. Some of these young girls
were dressed uot only neatly but tastily. Straw hats are the
manufacture of the province ; few of them, therefore, but had
a straw bonnet, and few of these bonnets were without rib-
bons or flowers.
We remained at Oudon till near sunset, when we resum-
ed our road to Ancennis, where we intended to sleep. As
this was only a distance of seven miles, we took it very lei-
surely, sometimes riding and sometimes walking. The even-
ing was as beautiful as is usual in the southern parts of
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 1G9
Europe at this season of the year. The road was most ro-
mantically recluse, and so serpentine as never to be visible
beyond a hundred yards. The nightingales were singing in
the adjoining woods. The road, moreover, was bordered
on each side by lofty hedges, intermingled with fruit-trees,
and even vines in full bearing. At every half-mile a cross-
road, branching from .the main one, led into the recesses of
the country, or to some castle or villa on the high grounds
which look to the river. At some of these bye-ways were
very curious inscriptions, painted on narrow boards affixed to
a tree. Such were, " The way to ' My Heart's Content' is half
a league up this road, and then turn to the right, and keep on
till you reach it." And another, " The way to 'Love's Her-
mitage' is up this lane, till you come to the cherry-tree by
the side of a chalk-pit, where there is another direction."
Mademoiselle Sillery informed me, that these kind of inscrip-
tions were characteristic of the banks of the Loire.
" The inhabitants along the whole of the course of this
river," said she, " have the reputation, from time immemorial,
of being all native poets ; and the reputation, like some pro-
phecies, has perhaps been the means of realizing itself. You
do not perhaps know that the Loire is called in the provinces
the River of Love : and' doubtless its beautiful banks, its
green meadows, and its woody recesses, have what the musi-
cians would call a symphony of tone with that passion." I
have translated this sentence verbally from my note-book, as
it may give some idea of Mademoiselle Sillery. If ever a
figure was formed to inspire the passion of which she spoke,
it was this lady. Many days and years must pass over be-
fore I forget our walk on the green road from Oudon to An-
cennis one of the sweetest, softest scenes in France.
We entered the forest of Ancennis as the sun was setting
This forest is celebrated, in every ancient French ballad, as
8
170 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH.
being the haunt of fairies, and the scene of the ancient
archery of the provinces of Bretagne and Anjou. The road
through it was over a green turf, in which the marks of a
wheel were scarcely visible. The forest on each side was
very thick. At short intervals, narrow footpaths struck
into the wood. Our carriage had been sent before to
Ancennis, and we were walking merrily on, when the well-
known sound of the French horn arrested our steps and
attention. Mademoiselle Sillery immediately guessed it to
proceed from a company of archers ; and in a few moments
her conjecture was verified by the appearance of two ladies
and a gentleman, who issued from one of the narrow paths.
The ladies, who were merely running from the gentleman,
were very tastily habited in the favorite French dress after
the Dian of David ; whilst the blue silk jacket and hunting-
cap of the gentleman gave him the appearance of a groom
about to ride a race. Our appearance necessarily took their
attention; and after an exchange of salutes, but in which
no names were mentioned on either side, they invited us to
accompany them to their party, who were refreshing them-
selves in an adjoining dell. ' ; We have had a party at arch-
ery," said one of them, " and Madame St. Amande has won
the silver bugle and bow. The party is now at supper, after
which we go to the chateau to dance. Perhaps you will not
suffer us to repent having met you. by refusing to accompany
us." Mademoiselle Sillery was very eager to accept this
invitation, and looked rather blank when Mrs. Young declin-
ed it, as she wished to proceed on her road as quickly as pos-
sible. " You will at least accompany us, merely to see the
party." "By all means," said Mademoiselle Sillery. U I
must really regret that I cannot," said Mrs. Young. " If it
must be so," resumed the lady who was inviting us, " let us
exchange tokens, and we may meet again." This proposal,
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 171
so perfectly new to me, was accepted : the fair archers gave
our ladies their pearl crescents, which had the appearance of
being of considerable value. Madame Young returned some-
thing which I did not see : Mademoiselle Sillery gave a silver
Cupid, which had served her for an essence-bottle. The
gentleman then shaking hands with us, and the ladies embrac-
ing each other, we parted mutually satisfied. " Who are these
ladies ?" demanded I. " You know them as well as we do,"
replied Mademoiselle Sillery. "And is it thus," said I,
" that you receive all strangers indiscriminately ?" " Yes,"
replied she, " all strangers of a certain condition. Where
they are evidently of our own rank, we know of no reserve.
Indeed, why should we ? It is to general advantage to be
pleased, and to please each other." " But you embraced
them as if you really felt an affection for them." " And I
did feel that affection for them," said she, " as long as I was
with them. I would have done them every service in my
power, and would even have made sacrifices to serve them."
" And yet if you were to see them again, you would perhaps
not know them." " Very possibly," replied she. " But I can
see no reason why every affection should be necessarily per-
manent. We never pretend to permanence. We are cer-
tainly transient, but not insincere."
In this conversation we reached Ancennis, a village on a
green surrounded by forests. Some of the cottages, as we
saw them by moonlight, seemed most delightfully situated;
and the village had altogether that air of quietness and of
rural retreat, which characterizes the scenery of the Loire.
Our horses having preceded us by an hour or more, every-
thing was prepared for us when we reached our inn. A
turkey had been put down to roast, and I entered the kitchen
in time to prevent its being spoilt by French cookery.
Mademoiselle Sillery had the table provided in an instant
172 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH.
with silver forks and table-linen. Had a Parisian seen a
table thus set out at Ancennis, without knowing that we had
brought all these requisites with us, he would not have
credited his senses. The inns in France along the banks of
the Loire are less deficient in substantial comforts than in
these ornamental appendages. Poultry is everywhere cheap,
and in great plenty ; but a French inn-keeper has no idea of
a table-cloth, and still less of a clean one. He will give you
food and a feather-bed, but you must provide yourselves with
sheets and table-cloths.
Jta* null
FROM COWLEY, SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, LADY WINCHILSEA,
AND MACKENZIE.
" I've often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river ut my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood."
FEW indeed are the persons that in the course of their lives have
not entertained wishes of the like sort. Sometimes they have realized
them ; sometimes been disappointed by the realization itself. In the
latter case, the fault is neither in the wish nor in the things wished
for. The wish is good, if only as a pleasure of the imagination and
an encouragement to the means for attaining its object; and the
things are found to be very good indeed, by those whose tempera-
ments and habits qualify them for the enjoyment. Stories of unhappy
millionaires who retire only to find the country tedious, of tallow-
chandlers who yearn for their melting days, and even of poets discon-
tented with their "groves," prove but the want of previous fitness, or
of sufficient good health. The tallow-chandler should have cultivated
something besides long-sixes, and the poet should not have sate read-
ing about his groves till the state of his biliary vessels hindered his
enjoyment when he got them. There is, however, a great deal of
difference in those cases. That of the tallow-chandler, if he knows
174 A HOUSE AND GROUNDS.
nothing but tallow and is not in a patient state of health, is hopeless,
for he is neither clever nor poor enough to be able to go and help the
village carpenter. He must needs quit his roses for the melting-tub,
and in very desperation grows richer than he was before. But the
love of groves and gardens being a habit of the poet's mind, he bears
ill-health better with them than without them; complaint itself com-
forts him more than it does other men, for he complains in verse ; and
it is not to be supposed that Shenstoue, with all his desire of visitors,
and Cowley, with all his child-like disappointments as to "rustic in-
nocence," did not pass many happy, or at least many soothing, days
in their country abodes. Shenstone, in particular, must have largely
partaken of the pleasures of a creator, for he invented the lovely
scenes about his house, and saw to their execution.
It would be a good work in some writer to collect instances of this
kind of disappointment and the reverse, and show how entirely each
was to be attributed to particular circumstances, and not to that uni-
versal doom so falsely predicated of all human expectations. Great
names prove nothing against counter-examples. Solomon himself
may have been disappointed; but it was not because he was the
" wisest of men ;" it was because he had been too rich and luxurious,
and so far one of the foolishest. We do not find that his brother phi-
losopher, Epicurus, was disappointed ; for he was poor and temperate,
and thus was enabled to enjoy his garden to the last. There have been
abdicated monarchs who wished to resume their thrones royal tal-
low-chandlers who could not do without their melting levee-days ;
but such was not the case with Diocletian, who had a taste for gar-
dening. On the contrary, he told the ambassadors who came to tempt
him back to power, that if they knew what pleasure he took in his
" cabbages," they would hate to go back themselves. Swift, who imi-
tated from Horace the verses at the head of this article, would never
have been happy in retirement, for he had a restless blood, and his
good consisted in the attainment of power. He must have written
with greater zest the lines a little further on :
" Bui here a grievance seems to lie,
All this id mine but till I die:
I can't but think 'twould sound more clever,
To me and to my heirs forever."
But his friend Pope set up his rest early in life at Twickenham, and
never desired to leave it. Ill-health itself in him was luckily of a kind
A HOUSE' AND GROUNDS. 175
that made him tranquil. The author of the Seasons never tired of
the country. White of Selborne never tired of it. Both found inces-
sant occupation in watching the proceedings of the Nature they loved.
It must be observed of Thomson, however, that he lived so near
town as to be able to visit it whenever he chose. His house was at
beautiful Richmond. I doubt not he would have been happy any-
where with a few trees and friends ; but he liked a play also, and
streets, and human movement. He would fain not go so far from
London as not to be able to interchange the delights of town and
country. And why should anybody that can help it 1 The loveliest
country can be found within that reasonable distance, especially in
these days of railroads. You may bury yourself in as healthy, if not
as wide, a solitude as if you were in the Highlands ; and, in an hour
or two, you can enhance the pleasures of returning to it, by a book
of your own buying, or a toy for your children. To resign forever the
convenience and pleasures of intercourse with a great city would be
desired by few ; and it would be least of all desired (except under
very particular circumstances) by those who can enjoy the country
most ; because the power to discern, and the disposition to be pleased,
are equally the secrets of the enjoyment in both cases. These, and a
congenial occupation, will make a conscientious man happy anywhere
if he has decent health ; and if he is sickly, no earthly comforts can
supply the want of them, no, not even the affection of those about
him : for what is affection, if it show nothing but the good hearts of
those who feel it, and is wasted on a thankless temper 1 Acquire-
ment of information, benignity, something to do, and as many things
as possible to love, these are the secrets of happiness in town or coun-
try. If White of Selborne had been a town instead of a country cler-
gyman, he would have told us all about the birds in the city as well
as the suburbs. We should have had the best reason given us why
lime-trees flourish in London smoke ; lists of flowers for our windows
would have been furnished us, together with their times of bloom-
ing ; we should have been told of the Ratopolis under ground, as well
as of the dray-horses above it ; and perhaps the discoverer of the
double spiracida in the floses of stags would have found out the reason
why tallow-chandlers have no noses at all.
Now, what sort of house would most take the fancy of readers who
enjoy a book like the present 1 We mean for repose and comfort,
apart from the nobler and severer pleasures (very rare ones) arising
176 A HOUSE AND GROUNDS.
from discharging the duties belonging to a large estate. Certainly not
the house belonging to such an estate ; not a house like Pliny's, the
size and " set out" of which it is a labor to read of; not the cold
southern halls of the Romans or Italians, unfit for this climate ; nor an
ancient Greek, nor modern Eastern house, with the women's aparb-
ments imprisoned off from the rest ; nor an old French chateau (ex-
cept in Mrs. Radclifle's romances) for though pretty to read of, as
belonging to the Montmorencys or the Rambouillets, it was inconve-
nient inside, and had formal grounds without ; nor the lumbering old
German house, such as Goethe describes it, though habit and love
may have sanctified all these ; no, nor even the princely palace of
Chatsworth, though it be as full of taste as the owner, and of fra-
grance from conservatories as of blessings from the poor. Comfortable
rooms, doubtless, are to be found in that palace ; nay, snug ones ; for
the height of taste implies the height of good sense ; and such a nest
and corner-loving mood of the mind as that epithet designates, we
may be sure is not unprovided for. Yet the corner still is in the great
house ; is a part of it ; cannot get rid of it ; is shouldered and (of any
other such mansion you might say) scorned by it. We must have
been used to such houses all our lives (which is seldom the case with
those whose luxuries lie in books), otherwise we cannot settle our-
selves comfortably in idea to the extent and responsibilities of all those
suits of apartments, those corridors, pillars, galleries, looks out and
looks in, and to the visitations of the steward. It is not a house, but
a set of houses thrown into one ; not a nest, but a range under cover ;
not a privacy, but a publicity and an empire ! Admiration and bless-
ing be upon it, for it is the great house of a good man and his large
heart fits it well ; and yet assuredly, in the eyes of us lovers of nooks
and books, the idea of him never seems so happy as when it con-
tracts its princely dimensions, and stoops into such cottage rooms as
some in which we have had the pleasure of beholding him.
But we must not digress in this manner, with an impertinence how-
ever respectful.
The house to be desiderated by the lover of books in ordinary, is
a warm, cosy, picturesque, irregular house, either old but not fragile,
or new but built upon some good principle ; a house possessing, never-
theless, modern comforts ; neither big enough to require riches, nor
small enough to cause inconvenience; more open to the sun than
otherwise ; yet with trees about it, and the sight of more ; a prospect
A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. 177
on one of the sides, to give it a sense of freedom, but a closer
scene in front, to insure the sense of snugness ; a garden neither
wild nor formal; or rather two gardens, if possible, though not of ex-
pensive size ; one to remind him of the time of his ancestors, a " trim
garden," with pattern beds of flowers, lavender, &c., and a terrace
the other of a freer sort, with a shrubbery, and turf and trees ; a
bowling-green by all means ; (what sane person would be without a
bowling-green ?) a rookery ; a dove-cote ; a- brook ; a paddock ; a
heath for air ; hill and dale for variety ; walks in a forest, trunks of
trees for seats ; towers " embosomed" in their companions ; pastures,
cottages ; a town not far off; an abbey close by ; mountains in the
distance ; a glimpse of sails in a river, but not large sails ; a combina-
tion, in short, of all which is the most
But hold. One twentieth part of all this will suffice, if the air be
good, and the neighbors congenial ; a cottage, an old farm-house, any-
thing solid and not ugly, always excepting the mere modern house,
which looks like a barrack, or like a workhouse, or like a chapel, or
like a square box with holes cut into it for windows, or a great bit of
cheese er hearth-stone, or yellow ochre. It has a gravel walk up to
the door, and a bit of unhappy creeper trying to live upon it ; and
(under any possible circumstances of quittal) is a disgrace to inhabit.
As to the garden, the only absolute sine qua nan is a few good
brilliant beds of flowers, some grass, some shade, and a bank. But
if there is a bee-hive in a corner it is better; and if there is a
bee-hive, there ought to be a brook, provided it is clear, and the soil
gravelly.
" There, in some covert, by a brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye ;
While the bee wiih honied thigh,
That at her flowery work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep."
Beware, though, as Gray says, " of agoes." It is good in the land ot
poetry, to sleep by a brook ; but in Middlesex it is best to do it in
one's chamber. The best place to take a nap in, out of doors, in this
lovely but moist country, is a hay-field.
But we are detaining the reader from the houses and gardens pro-
vided for him by his books. What signify any others, while the en-
8*
.78 THOUGHTS OF COW LEY ON A GARDEN.
joyment of these is upon us ? May-Fair or Saint Mary Axe can alike
rejoice in them. The least luxurious room in a street, provided there
be but quiet enough to read by, or imagination enough to forget one's
self enables us to be put in possession of a paradise.
We shall begin with the modest retreat desiderated by Cowley, and
the eulogy which he has delivered on gardens in general. His style is
as sweet and sincere as his wishes. The poetical portion of his essay is
addressed to the famous English country gentleman and sylvan patriot,
his friend Evelyn, who realized all and more than the sensitive poet
did, because his means were greater and his complexion more healthy.
But Cowley must have had delicious moments both in fancy and pos-
session ; and if there be gardens in heaven resembling those on earth
(which some have thought, and which is not so unheavenly a notion
as many that are held divine), his innocent heart is surely the inhabi-
tant of one of the best of them.
THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN.
FROM A LETTER TO EVELYN.
I NEVER had any other desire so strong, and so like to
covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I
might be master at last of a small house and large garden,
with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there
dedicate the remainder of my life, only to the culture of them,
and study of nature ;
" And there (with no design beyond my wall) whole and entire to lie,
In no unactive case, and no unglorious poverty."
Or, as Virgil has said, shorter and better for me, that I
might there
" Studiis florere ignobilis oti ;"*
though I could wish that he had rather said, " Nobilis oti,"
when he spoke of his own.
* [Take studious flower in undistinguished ease.]
THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN. 170
Among many other arts and excellences which you en-
joy, I am glad to find this favorite of mine the most predom-
inant. I know nobody that possesses more private happi-
ness than you do in your garden ; and yet no man who
makes his happiness more public, by a free communication
of the art and knowledge of it to others. All that I myself
am able yet to do, is only to recommend to mankind the
search of that felicity, which you instruct them how to find
out and to enjoy.
Happy art thou, whom God does bless
With the full choice of thine own happiness ;
And happier yet, because thou'rt blest
With prudence how to choose the best.
In books and gardens, thou hast plac'd aright
(Things which thou well dost understand,
And both dost make with thy laborious hand)
Thy noble innocent delight :
And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet
Both pleasures more refin'd and sweet,
The fairest garden in her looks,
And in her mind the wisest books.
Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys,
For empty shows, and senseless noise ;
And all which rank ambition breeds,
Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous
weeds 1
When Epicurus to the world had taught
That pleasure was the chiefest good,
(And was perhaps i' th' right, if rightly understood),
His life he to his doctrine brought,
And in a garden's shade that sovereign pleasure sought :
180 THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN.
Whoever a true epicure would be,
May there find cheap and virtuous luxury
Vitellius' table, which did hold
As many creatures as the ark of old,
That fiscal table to which every day
All countries did a constant tribute pay,
Could nothing more delicious afford,
Than nature's liberality
Help'd with a little art and industry
Allows the meanest gard'ner's board.
The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose,
For which the grape or melon she would lose
Though all th' inhabitants of sea and air
Be listed in the glutton's bill of fare,
Yet still the fruits of earth we see
Plac'd the third story high in all her luxury.
Where does the wisdom and the power divine
In a more bright and sweet reflection shine,
Where do we finer strokes and colors see
Of the Creator's real poetry,
Than when we with attention look
Upon the third day's volume of the book ?
If we could open and intend our eye,
We all, like Moses, should espy,
Ev'n in a bush, the radiant Deity.
But we despise these his inferior ways
(Though no less full of miracle and praise) :
Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze ;
The stars of earth no wonder in us raise,
Though these perhaps do, more than they.
The life of mankind sway.
Although no part of mighty nature be
181
More stor'd with beauty, power and mystery,
Yet, to encourage human industry,
God has so order'd, that no other part
Such space and such dominion leaves for art.
We nowhere art do so triumphant see,
As when it grafts or buds the tree :
In other things we count it to excel,
If it a docile scholar can appear
To nature, and but imitate her well ;
It over-rules and is her master here.
It imitates her Maker's power divine,
And changes her sometimes and sometimes does refine
It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore,
To its blest state of Paradise before.
Who would not joy to see his conquering hand
O'er all the vegetable world command 1
And the wild giants of the wood receive
What law he's pleas'd to give ?
lie bids th' ill-natur'd crab produce
The gentler apple's winy juice,
The golden fruit that worthy is
Of Galatea's purple kiss :
lie does the savage hawthorn teach
To bear the medlar and the pear ;
He bids the rustic plum to rear
A noble trunk, and be a peach.
Even Daphne's coyness he doth mock,
And weds the cherry to her stock.
Though she refus'd Apollo's suit,
Even she, that chaste and virgin tree,
Now wonders at herself to see
That she's a mother made, and blushes in her fruit.
182 THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN.
Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk
In the Salonian garden's noble shade,
Which by his own imperial hands was made ;
I see him smile (inethinks) as he does talk
With th' ambassadors who come in vain
T' entice him to a throne again.
If I, my friends (said he), should to you show
All the delights which in these gardens grow,
'Tis likelier much that you should with me stay,
Than 'tis that you should carry me away.
And trust me not, my friends, if every day
I walk not here with more delight
Than ever, after the most happy fight,
In triumph to the capitol I rode,
To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god.
A noble finish that, to a sometimes prosaical, often poetical, and
always engaging and thoughtful effusion.
The garden possessed by Cowley's friend Evelyn was at his seat
of Sayes Court, Deptford. It contained, among other beauties, an
enormous hedge of holly, which made a glorious show in winter time
with its shining red berries. The Czar Peter, who came to England
in Evelyn's time, and occupied his house, took delight (by way of
procuring himself a strong Russian sensation), in being drawn through
this hedge " in a wheel-barrow !" He left it in sad condition accord-
ingly, to the disgust and lamentation of the owner. The garden cuts
rather a formal and solemn figure, to modern eyes, in the engravings
that remain of it. But such engravings can suggest little of color and
movement of flowers and the breathing trees ; and our ancestors had
more reason to admire those old orderly creations of theirs than mod-
ern improvement allows. We are too apt to suppose that one thing
cannot be good, because another is better ; or that an improvement
cannot too often reject what it might include or ameliorate. There
was no want of enthusiasm in the admirers of the old style, whether
they were right or wrong. Hear what an arbiter of taste in the next
age said of it, the famous Sir William Temple. He was an honest
THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT. 183
statesman and mild Epicurean philosopher, in the real sense of that
designation ; that is to say, temperate and reflecting, and fonder of a
garden and the friends about him than of anything else. He was a
great cultivator of fruit. He had the rare pleasure of obtaining the
retirement he loved ; first at Sheen, near Richmond, in Surrey, which
is the place alluded to in the following " Thoughts on Retirement ;"
and, secondly, at Moor Park, near Farnham, in the same county a
residence probably named after the Moor Park which he eulogizes in
the subsequent description of a garden. In the garden of his house
at Farnham he directed that his heart should be buried ; and it was.
The sun-dial, under which he desired it might be deposited, is still
remaining.
SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE'S THOUGHTS ON
RETIREMENT.
FROM ONE OF HIS LETTERS.
AS the country life, and this part of it more particularly
(gardening), were the inclination of my youth itself, so
they are the pleasure of my age ; and I can truly say, that,
among many great employments that have fallen to my share,
I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often
endeavored to escape from them into the ease and freedom
of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his
own pace, in the common paths or circles of life.
" Inter cuncta leges et per cunctabere doctos
Qua ratione queas traducere leniter aevum,
Quid minuat curae, quid te tibi reddet amicum ; .
Quid pure tranquillet, honos, an dulce lucellum,
An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae."
But above all the learned read, and ask
By what means you may gently pass your age,
What lessens care, what makes thee thine own friend,
What truly calms the mind ; honor, or wealth,
Or else a private path of stealing life
184 THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT.
These are the questions that a man ought at least to ask
himself, whether he asks others or no, and to choose his
course of life rather by his own humor and temper, than by
common accidents, or advice of friends ; at least if the
Spanish proverb be true, That a fool knows more in his own
house than a wise man in another's.
The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes
what he has chosen ; which, I thank God, is what has be-
fallen me ; and though among the follies of my life, building
and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more
than I have the confidence to own, yet they have been fully
recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat,
where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into
any public employments, I have passed five years without
ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it
and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor
has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought
it, but a mere want of desire or humor to make so small a
remove: for when I am in this corner, I can truly say with
Horace,
" Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus,
Quid sentire putas, quid credis, amice, i>:ecari 1
Sit mihi, quod nunc est, etiara minus, at mihi vivam
Quod superest aevi, si quid superesse volunt Di.
Sit bona librorum, et provisae frugis in annum
Copia, ne fluitem dubiae spe pendulus horje ;
Hoc satis est orare Jovem, qui donat et aufert."
Me when the cold Digentian stream revives,
What does my friend believe I think or ask 1
Let me yet lesf possess, so I may live,
Whate'er oflif remains, unto myself.
May I have books enough, and one year's store,
Not to depend upon each doubtful hour ;
This is enough of mighty Jove to pray,
Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away.
AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN. 185
AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN OF THE SEVEN-
TEENTH CENTURY.
FROM THE ESSAYS OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE.
fTIHE perfectest figure of a garden I ever saw, either at
-L home or abroad, was that of Moor Park in Hertfordshire,
when I knew it about thirty years ago. It was made by the
Countess of Bedford, esteemed among the greatest wits of
her time, and celebrated by Dr. Donne. I will describe it
for a model to those that meet with such a situation, and are
above the regards of common expense. It lies on the side
of a hill (upon which the house stands), but not very steep.
The length of the house, where the best rooms and of most
use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden.
The great parlor opens into the middle of a terras gravel-
walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as I remember,
about three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion ;
the border set with standard laurels, and at large distances,
which have the beauty of orange-trees, out of flower and fruit.
From this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in
the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. This
is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned by two
fountains and eight statues in the several quarters. At the
end of the terras-walk are two summer-houses, and the sides
of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters, open to
the garden, upon arches of stone, and ending with two other
summer-houses even with the cloisters, which are paved with
stone, and designed for walks of shade, there being none
other in the whole parterre. Over these two cloisters are
two terrasses covered with lead, and fenced with balusters ;
and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two sum-
mer-houses at the end of the first terras-walk. The cloister
186 AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN
facing the south is covered with vines, and would have been
proper for an orange-house, and the other for myrtles, or
other more common greens,* and had, I doubt not, been cast
for that purpose, if this piece of gardening had been in as
much vogue as it is now.
From the middle of the parterre is a descent by many
steps, flying on each side of a grotto that lies between them
(covered with lead, and flat) into the lower garden, which is
all fruit-trees, ranged about the several quarters of a wilder-
ness which is very shady. The walks here are all green, the
grotto embellished with figures of shell-rock-work, fountains,
and water-works. If the hill had not ended with the lower
garden, and the wall were not bounded by a common way that
goes through the park, they might have added a third quar-
ter of all greens ; but this want is supplied by a garden on
the other side the house, which is all of that sort, very wild
very shady, and adorned with rough rock-work and fountains.
This was Moor Park when I was acquainted with it, and
the sweetest place, I think, that I have seen in my life, either
before or since, at home or abroad. What it is now I can
give little account, having passed through several hands that
have made great changes in gardens as well as houses ; but
the remembrance of what it was is too pleasant ever to forget.
The taste of Sir William Temple in gardening prevailed more or
less up to the time of George the Third ; but though Milton had in
some degree countenanced it, or appeared to do so, in the couplet in
which he speaks of
"Retired leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure,"
yet the very universality of right feeling natural to a poet could not
help running out of such bounds, when he came to describe a garden
fit for paradise. Spenser had set him the example in his " Bower of
Greens formerly meant plants in general.
OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 187
Bliss ;" and Tasso, who is supposed to have drawn from some actual
gardens in his own time, had set Spenser himself the example in his
beautiful account of the bowers of Armida. The probability is, that
in all great ages Nature had spoken on the sutject, in particular in-
stances, to the feelings of genius. Even the Chinese are thought to
have anticipated the modern taste, though with their usual semi-bar-
barous mixture of clumsy magnificence and petty details ; possibly
not always so much so, as the startled invidiousness of their betters
has supposed. The Chinese, at all events, are very fond of flowers,
and show a truly poetical appreciation of their merits, as may be seen
in the charming novel of Ju-Kiao-Li. Milton's garden of Eden made
a great impression, when Addison dug it up for the general benefit in
his articles on the great poet in the Spectator. Pope's good sense was
naturally on the side of it ; and Shenstone gave into it with practical
and masterly enthusiasm. Hence the rise of what is called landscape
gardening. The new taste ran a little wild at first in the hands of
" Kent and Nature ;" then incurred another danger in more mechani-
cal hands ; but has finally become the best that ever existed, by the
combination of a liberal feeling for nature with the avowed and local
reasonableness of art. Gardens are now adapted to places, to climates,
and to the demands of the presence of a house ; that is to say, to the
compromise which the house naturally tends to make between some-
thing like the orderliness and comfort inside of it. and the nature
which art goes forth to meet. This is the reason why we have said
we should like to have two gardens, if possible : one modified from the
old terraces and parterres and formal groves of our ancestors, and the
other from the wildness of " Kent and Nature." If required to choose
between the two, we should say, Give us anything comprising a few
trees, a few flowers, a plot of grass, a bench, and seclusion ; anything
in which we could pace up and down, sit when we pleased, see a little
brilliant color, a good deal of green, and not be overlooked. What-
ever did this best, we should like best, whether made by art or nature.
There was a lady in the time of Pope, a true poetess (if she had
but known it and taken pains), Lady Winchilsea, a friend of his, who
had as thorough a taste for seclusion on the romantic side as ever ex-
isted. Her maiden name was Kingsmill ; her husband the fifth Earl
of Winchilsea, of the same family that now possess the title. Anne
Kingsmill was an open-hearted, excellent creature ; she made a loving
friend and wife ; is one of the very few original c t servers of nature
188 PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT.
(as Wordsworth has remarked) who appeared in an artificial age ; and
deserves to have been gathered into collections of English verse far
more than half of our minor poets. We will give a taste or two of
this lady's style from her poem on the subject of retirement, and then
conclude the present department of our book with two papers out of
the periodical works of Mackenzie, worthy to have been read by her-
self, and more suited to the desires of readers in general. There is a
great deal more of the poem, all creditable to the writer's turn of
mind, but not choice enough in style for a book of selection. We beg
the reader's admiration for the burden at the close of each paragraph.
PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT.
FROM A POEM BY THE COUNTESS OF WINCHILSEA.
p IVE me, indulgent Fate,
* ^-* Give me yet before I die,
A sweet, but absolute retreat,
'Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high,
That the world may ne'er invade,
Through such windings and such shade,
My unshaken liberty.
No intruders thither come,
Who visit but to be from home ;
None who their vain moments pass
Only studious of their glass.
News, that charm to listening ears,
That false alarm to hopes and fears,
That common theme for every fop
From the statesman to the shop,
In these coverts ne'er be spread ;
Of who's deceas'd or who's to wed
Be no tidings thither brought ;
But silent as a midnight thought,
PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 189
Where the world may ne'er invade,
Be those windings and that shade.
Courteous Fate ! afford me there
A table spread, without my care,
With what the neighb'ring fields impart,
Whose cleanliness be all its art.
When of old the calf was drest
(Though to make an angel's feast)
In the plain, unstudied sauce
Nor truffle, nor morillia was,
Nor cou'd the mighty patriarch's board
One far-fetch'd ortolan afford.
Courteous Fate, then give me there
Only plain and wholesome fare.
Fruits indeed (wou'd Heaven bestow)
All that did in Eden grow,
All, but the forbidden tree,
Wou'd be coveted by me ;
Grapes with juice so crowded up,
As breaking thro' the native cup ;
Figs (yet growing) candy'd o'er
By the sun's attracting pow'r ;
Cherries, with the downy peach,
All within my easy reach ;
Whilst creeping near the humble ground
Shou'd the strawberry be found,
Springing wheresoe'er I stray'd
Thro' those windings and that shade.
Give me there (since Heaven has shown
It was not good to be alone)
A partner suited to my mind,
Solitary, pleas'd, and kind ;
190 PETJTION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT.
Who, partially, may something see
Preferr'd to all the world in me ;
Slighting, by my humble side,
Fame and splendor, wealth and pride.
When but two the earth possest,
'Twas their happiest days, and best ;
They by business, nor by wars,
They by no domestic cares,
From each other e'er were drawn,
But in some grove or flow'ry lawn
Spent the swiftly flying time,
Spent their own and nature's prime
In love, that only passion given
To perfect man, whilst friends with Heaven.
Rage, and jealousy, and hate,
Transports of his fallen state,
When by Satan's wiles betray'd,
Fly those windings, and that shade !
Let me then, indulgent Fate !
Let me still in my retreat
From all roving thoughts be freed,
Or aims that may contention breed ;
Nor be my endeavors led
B\ goods that perish with the dead !
Fitly might the life of man
Be indeed esteem'd a span,
If the present moment were
Of delight his only share ;
If no other joys he knew
Than what round about him grew :
But as those whose stars would trace
From a subterranean place,
PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 191
Through some engine lift their eyes
To the outward glorious skies ;
So th' immortal spirit may,
When descended to our clay,
From a rightly govern'd frame
View the heigh! from whence she came ;
To her Paradise be caught,
And things unutterable taught.
Give me, then, in that retreat,
Give me, indulgent Fate 1
For all pleasures left behind,
Contemplations of the mind.
Let the fair, the gay, the vain,
Courtship and applause obtain ;
Let th' ambitious rule the earth ;
Let the giddy fool have mirth ;
Give the epicure his dish,
Every one their several wish ;
Whilst my transports I employ
On that more extensive joy,
When all Heaven shall be survcy'd
From those windings and that shad*
Stt.Blft (tantn; Ions? miii an nft
FROM MACKENZIE'S " LOUNGER," N.-. 87.
THE old lady described in the following charming paper of Mac-
kenzie (which was a favorite with Sir Walter Scott), is not of so largo-
minded an order as Lady Wiuchilsea, but she has as good a heart ; is
very touching and pleasant ; and her abode suits her admirably. It
is the remnant of something that would have been greater in a greater
age. We fancy her countenance to have been one that would have re-
minded us of the charming old face in Drayton :
" Ev'n in the aged'st face where beauty once did dwell,
And Nature iu the least but seemed to excel,
Time cannot make such waste, but something will appear
To show some little tract of delicacy there."
Polyolbion.
The reader, perhaps, hardly requires to be told that Mackenzie,
whose writings have been gathered into the British classics, was a
Scottish gentleman, bred to the bar, who in his youth wrote the once
popular novel called the Man of Feeling, and died not long ago at a
reverend age, universally regretted. He was the editor and principal
writer of the two periodical works called the Mirror and Lounger, to
which several of the reigning Scottish wits contributed. He was not
a very original or powerful writer, but he was a very shrewd, elegant,
and pleasing one, a happy offset from Addison ; and he sometimes
showed great pathos. His stories of La Roche and Louisa Venoni are
among the most affecting in the world, and free from the somewhat
^Y OLD COUNTRY HOUSE. 193
morbid softness of his novel. We are the happier in being able to do
this tardy, though very unnecessary justice to the merits of a good
man and a graceful essayist, because in the petulance and presumption
of youth we had mistaken our incompetence to judge them for the
measure of their pretensions.
I HAVE long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man
of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair ;
of transporting myself, without stirring from my parlor, to
distant places and to absent friends ; of drawing scenes in
my mind's eye ; and of peopling them with the groups of
fancy, or the society of remembrance. When I have some-
times lately felt the dreariness of the town, deserted by my
acquaintance ; when I have returned from the coffee-house,
where the boxes were unoccupied, and strolled out from my
accustomed walk, which even the lame beggar had left, I
was fain to shut myself up in 'my room, order a dish of my
best tea (for there is a sort of melancholy which disposes
one to make much of one's self), and calling up the powers
of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a
solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed
in the country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not
wish to be undeceived, was the most Elysian spot in the
world.
'Twas at an old lady's, a relation and godmother of
mine, where a particular incident occasioned my being left
during the vacation of two successive seasons. Her house
was formed out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of
which one tower was still almost entire ; it was tenanted
by kindly daws and swallows. Beneath, in a modernized
part of the house, resided the mistress of the mansion. The
house was skirted by a few majestic elms and beeches, and
the stumps of several others showed that once they had been
9
194 AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE
more numerous. To the west a clump of firs covered a rug
ged rocky dell, where the rooks claimed a prescriptive seign
ory. Through this a dashing rivulet forced its way, which
afterwards grew quiet in its progress ; and gurgling gently
through a piece of downy meadow-ground, crossed the bottom
of the garden, where a little rustic paling enclosed a washing-
green, and a wicker seat, fronting the south, was placed for
the accommodation of the old lady, whose lesser tour, when
her fields did not require a visit, used to terminate in this
spot. Here, too, were ranged the hives for her bees, whose
hum, in a still warm sunshine, soothed the good old lady's
indolence, while their proverbial industry was sometimes
quoted for the instruction of her washers. The brook rat
brawling through some underwood on the outside of the gar-
den, and soon after formed a little cascade, which fell into
the river that winded through a valley in front of the house.
When hay-making or harvest was going on, my godmother
took her long stick in her hand, and overlooked the labors of
the mowers or reapers ; though I believe there was little
thrift in the superintendency, as the visit generally cost her
a draught of beer or a dram, to encourage their diligence.
Within doors she had so able an assistant, that her labor
was little. In that department an old man-servant was her
minister, the father of my Peter, who serves me not the less
faithfully that we have gathered nuts together in my god-
mother's hazel-bank. This old butler (I call him by his
title of honor, though in truth he had many subordinate
offices) had originally enlisted with her husband, who went
into the army a youth (though he afterwards married and be-
came a country gentleman), had been his servant abroad, and
attended him during his last illness at home. His best hat,
which he wore on Sundays, with a scarlet waistcoat of his
master's, had still a cockade in it.
AND AN OLD LADY. 195
Her husband's books were in a room at the top of a screw
staircase, which had scarce been dpened since his death ; but
her own library, for Sabbath or rainy days, was ranged in a
little book-press in the parlor. It consisted, so far as I can
remember, of several volumes of sermons, a Concordance,
TJiomas a Kempis, Antoninus's Meditations, the works of
the author of the Whole Duty of Man, and a translation of
Boethius ; the original editions of the Spectator and Guar-
dian, Cowley's Poems (of which I had lost a volume soon
after I first came about her house), Baker's Chronicle, Bur-
net's History of his own Times, Iamb's Royal Cookery, Aber-
cromby's Scots Warriors, and Nisbet's Heraldry.
The subject of the last-mentioned book was my god-
mother's strong ground ; and she could disentangle a point
of genealogy beyond any one I ever knew. She had an ex-
cellent memory for anecdotes ; and her stories, though some-
times long, were never tiresome ; for she had been a woman
of great beauty and accomplishment in her youth, and had
kept such company as made the drama of her stories respec-
table and interesting. She spoke frequently of such of her
own family as she remembered when a child, but scarcely
ever of those she had lost, though one could see she thought
of them often. She had buried a beloved husband and four
children. Her youngest, Edward, " her beautiful her brave,"
fell in Flanders, and was not entombed with his ancestors.
His picture, done when a child, an artless red and white por-
trait, smelling at a nosegay, but very like withal, hung at her
bed-side, and his sword and gorget were crossed under it.
When she spoke of a soldier, it was in a style above her usual
simplicity ; there was a sort of swell in her language, which
sometimes a tear (for her age had not lost the privilege of
tears) made still more eloquent. She kept her sorrows, like
her devotions that solaced them, sacred to herself. They
196 AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE
threw nothing of gloom over her deportment ; a gentle shade
only, like the fleckered clouds of summer, that increase, not
diminish, the benignity of the season.
She had few neighbors, and still fewer visitors ; but her
reception of such as did visit her was cordial in the extreme.
She pressed a little too much, perhaps ; but there was so
much heart and good-will in her importunity, as made her
good things seem better than those of any other table. Nor
was her attention confined only to the good fare of her guests,
though it might have flattered her vanity more than that of
most exhibitors of good dinners, because the cookery was
generally directed by herself. Their servants lived as well
in her hall, and their horses in her stable. She looked after
the airing of their sheets, and saw their fires mended if the
night was cold. Her old butler, who rose betimes, would
never suffer anybody to mount his horse fasting.
The parson of the parish was her guest every Sunday,
and said prayers in the evening. To say truth, he was no
great genius, nor much a scholar. I believe my godmother
knew rather more of divinity than he did ; but she received
from him information of another sort : he told her who were
the poor, the sick, the dying of the parish, and she had some
assistance, some comfort for them all.
I could draw the old lady at this moment ! dressed in
gray, with a clean white hood nicely plaited (for she was
somewhat finical about the neatness of her person), sitting in
her straight-backed elbow-chair, which stood in a large win-
dow, scooped out of the thickness of the ancient wall. The
middle panes of the window were of painted glass the story
of Joseph and his brethren. On the outside waved a honey-
suckle tree, which often threw its shade across her book or
her work ; but she would not allow it to be cut down. " It
has stood there many a day," said she, " and we old inhabi
AND AM OLD LADY. 197
tants should bear with one another." Methinks I see her
thus seated, her spectacles on, but raised a little on her brow
for a pause of explanation, their shagreen case laid between
the leaves of a silver-clasped family Bible. On one side, her
bell and snuff-box ; on the other, her knitting apparatus in a
blue damask bag. Between her and the fire an old Spanish
pointer, that had formerly been her son Edward's, teased, but
not teased out of his gravity, by a little terrier of mine.^-All
this is before me. and I am a hundred miles from town, its
inhabitants, and its business. In town I may have seen such
a figure : but the country scenery around, like the tasteful
frame of an excellent picture, gives it a heightening, a relief,
which it would lose in any other situation.
Some of my readers, perhaps, will look with little relish
on the portrait. I know it is an egotism in me to talk of
its value ; but over this dish of tea, and in such a temper of
mind, one is given to egotism. It will be only adding another
to say, that when I recall the rural scene of the good old
lady's abode, her simple, her innocent, her useful employ-
ments, the afflictions she sustained in this world, the comforts
she drew from another, I feel a serenity of soul, a benignity
of affections, which I am sure confer happiness, and I think
must promote virtue.
This delightful paper appears to have had its just effect on the
readers of the Lounger. It produced some pleasant remarks from a
correspondent who signed himself " Urbanus ;" and these remarks
produced a letter from the Editor himself, under the signature of
" Adrastus," which contains a sort of character of an Old Gentleman
to match that of the Old Lady, and has also a tone of reflection that
will sensibly affect most readers, especially those at a similar time
of life.
198 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY
LOVE OF THE COUNTRY IN THE DECLINE
OF LIFE.
FROM THE SAME, NO. 93."
SIR. I, as well as your correspondent Urbanus, was very
much pleased with your late paper on the moral use of
the country, and the portrait of the excellent lady it contain-
ed. I am an old man, sir, but thank God, with all my facul-
ties and feelings entire and alive about me ; and your de-
scription recalled to my memory some worthy characters with
which my youth was acquainted, and which, I am inclined to
believe, I should find it a little difficult, were I even disposed
to look out for them, to supply now. At my time of life,
friends are a treasure which the fortunate may have preserv-
ed, but the most fortunate can hardly acquire ; and if I am
not mistaken in my opinion of the present race, there are not
many friendships among them which I would be solicitous to
acquire or they will be likely to preserve. It is not of their
little irregularities or imprudencies I complain ; I know these
must always be expected and pardoned in the young ; and
there are few of us old people who can recollect our youthful
days without having some things of that sort to blush for.
No, Mr. Lounger, it is their prudence, their wisdom, their
foresight, their policy, I find fault with. They put on the
livery of the world so early, and have so few of the weaknesses
of feeling or of fancy ! To this cause I impute the want of
that rural sentiment which your correspondent Urhanus seems
to suppose is banished only from the country retreats of
town dissipation, from the abodes of fashionable and frivolous
people, who carry all the follies and pleasures of a city into
scenes destined for rural simplicity and rural enjoyment.
But in truth, sir, the people of the country themselves, who
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 199
never knew fashionable life, or city dissipation, have now ex-
changed the simple-hearted pleasures which in my younger
days were common among them, for ideas of a much more
selfish sort. Most of my young acquaintance there (and I
spend at least eight months of the year in the country) are
really arrived at that prudent way of estimating things which
we used to be diverted with in Hudibras :
" For what's the value of a thing,
But as much money as 'twill bring 1"
Their ambition, their love, their friendship, all have this ten-
dency ; and their no-ambition, their no-love, their no-friend-
ship, or, in one word, their indifference about every object
from which some worldly advantage is not to be drawn, is
equally observable on the other hand. On such a disposition,
Mr. Lounger, what impression is to be made by rural objects
or rural scenery ? The visions which these paint in fancy, or
the tender ties they have on remembrance, cannot find room
in an imagination or a heart made callous by selfish and in-
terested indifference. 'Tis with regret rather than resent-
ment that I perceive this sort of turn so prevalent among
the young people of my acquaintance, or those with whom
I am connected. I have now, alas ! no child of my own in
whom I can either lament such a failing, or be proud of the
want of it.
I think myself happy, sir, that, even at my advanced pe-
riod of life, I am still susceptible of such impressions as those
which our 87th Number imputes to rural contemplation. At
this season, above all others, methinks they are to be enjoy-
ed. Now in this fading time of the year, when the flush of
vegetation and the glow of maturity is past, when the fields
put on a sober or rather saddened appearance, I look on the
well-known scenery around my country dwelling, as I would
ft
200 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY
on a friend fallen from the pride of prosperity to a more
humble and more interesting situation. The withering grass
that whistles on the unsheltered bank ; the fallen leaves
strewed over the woodland path ; the silence of the almost
naked copse, which not long ago rung with the music of the
birds ; the flocking of their little tribes that seem mute with
the dread of ills to come ; the querulous call of the partridge
in the bare brown field, and the soft low song of the red-
breast from the household shed ; this pensive landscape, with
these plaintive accompaniments, dimmed by a gray October
sky, which we look on with the thoughts of its shortened and
still shortening light ; all this presses on my bosom a certain
still and gentle melancholy, which I would not part with for
all the pleasure that mirth could give, for all the luxury that
wealth could buy.
You say, truly, in one of your late papers, that poetry is
almost extinguished among us : it is one of my old-fashioned
propensities to be fond of poetry, to be delighted with its
descriptions, to be affected by its sentiments. I find genuine
poetry a sort of opening to the feelings of my mind, to
which my own expression could not give vent ; I see in its
descriptions a picture more lively and better composed, than
my own less distinct and less vivid ideas of the objects
around me could furnish. It is with such impressions that
I read the following lines of Thomson's Autumn introduc-
tive of the solemn and beautiful apostrophe to philosophic
melancholy :
" But see the fading many-color'd woods,
Shade deepening over shade, the country round
Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,
Of every hue, from wan declining green
To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse,
Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks,
And give the season in its latest view.
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 201
" Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm
Fleeces unbounded ether ; whose least wave
Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn
The gentle current ; while illumined wide
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,
And through their lucid veil his soften'd force
Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time,
For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm,
To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,
And soar above this little scene of things ;
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet,
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,
And woo lone quiet in her silent walks."
About this time three years, sir, I had the misfortune to
lose a daughter, the last survivor of my family, whom her
mother, dying at her birth, left a legacy to my tenderness,
who closed a life of the most exemplary goodness, of the
most tender filial duty, of the warmest benevolence, of the
most exalted piety, by a very gradual but not unperceived
decay.
When I think on the returning season of this calamity,
when I see the last fading flowers of autumn, which my
Harriet used to gather with a kind of sympathetic sadness,
and hear the small chirping note of the flocking linnets, which
she used to make me observe as the elegy of the year ! when
I have drawn her picture in the midst of this rural scenery,
and then reflected on her many virtues and accomplishments,
on her early and unceasing attention to myself, her gentle
and winning manners to every one around her ; when I re-
member her resignation during the progress of her disorder,
her unshaken and sublime piety in its latest stages ; when
these recollections filled my mind, in conjunction with the
drooping images of the season, and the eense of my own
waning period of life I feel a mixture of sadness and of com
9*
202 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY
posure, of humility and of elevation of spirit, which I think,
sir, a man would ill exchange for any degree of unfeeling
prudence, or of worldly wisdom and indifference.
The attachment to rural objects is like that family affec-
tion which a warm and uncorrupted mind preserves for its
relations and early acquaintance. In a town, the lively par-
tiality and predilections for these relations or friends is
weakened or lost in the general intercourse of the multitude
around us. In a town, external objects are so common, so
unappropriated to ourselves, and are so liable to change and
to decay, that we cannot feel any close or permanent connec-
tion with them. In the country we remember them un-
changed for a long space of time, and for that space known
and frequented by scarce any but ourselves. " Methinks I
should hate," says a young lady, the child of fiction, yet drawn
with many features like that excellent girl I lost, "methinks
I should hate to have been born in a town. When I say my
native brook, or my native hill, I talk of friends, of whom
the remembrance warms my heart." When the memory of
persons we dearly loved is connected with the view of those
objects, they have then a double link to the soul. It were
tender enough for me to view some ancient trees that form
my common evening walk, did I only remember what I was
when I first sported under their shade, and what I am when
I rest under it now ; but it is doubly tender when I think
of those with whom I have walked there ; of her whom but
a few summers ago I saw beneath those beeches, smiling in
health, and beauty, and happiness, her present days lighted
up with innocence and mirth, and her future drawn in the
flattering colors of fancy and of hope.
But I know not why I should trouble you with this re-
cital of the situation and feelings of an individual, or indeed
why I should have written to you at all, except that I catched
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 203
a sort of congenial spirit from your 87tli Number, and was
led by the letter of Urbanus to compare your description of
a personage in former times with those whose sentiments I
sometimes hear in the present days. I am not sure that
these have gained in point of substance what they have lost
in point of imagination. Power, and wealth, and luxury, are
relative terms ; and if address, and prudence, and policy, can
only acquire us our share, we shall not account ourselves
more powerful, more rich, or more luxurious, than when in
the little we possessed we were still equal to those around us.
But if we have narrowed the sources of internal comfort and
internal enjoyment, if we have debased the powers of purity
of the mind, if we have blunted the sympathy or contracted
the affections of the heart, we have lost some of that treasure
which was absolutely our own, and derived not its value from
comparative estimation. Above all, if we have allowed the
prudence or the interests of this world to shut out from our
souls the view or the hopes of a better, we have quenched
that light which would have cheered the darkness of affliction
and the evening of old age, which at this moment, Mr. Loun-
ger (for like an old man I must come back to myself), I feel
restoring me my virtuous friends, my loved relations, my
dearest child ! I am, &o. ADRASTUS.
ton inunrts, unit m Snstrijitinn on a Ipring.
BY THOMAS WARTON.
IT is curious that Warton, who was by no means a great poet,
should have written some of the most favorite sonnets in the lan-
guage. The reason is, that they were upon subjects he understood,
and that the writer was in earnest. Upon most, indeed upon any oc-
casions. Warton's mind was not sufficiently active or excitable to be
moved into much eloquence of expression. The Fellow of Trinity
College, Oxford, was a luxurious Protestant monk, who found some-
thing to minister to his satisfaction in everything around him, Gothic
architecture, books, country walks, &c., not omitting the club-room
and the pipe ; but he was content, in general, to admire them through
the medium of the thoughts of others, and so let the companions of
his mind speak for him. He was susceptible, however, of strong
general impressions ; and as these, in the instances before us, were
made by his favorite subjects, they are given with corresponding
truth. Almost all his sonnets (they are only nine), but especially
these two, notwithstanding conventional phrases, have elegance, sim-
plicity, and a touching fervor. Nobody had written on the particular
topics before him, at least not poetically ; so that his modesty was
not tempted into imitation. It makes us regret that he did not oftener
take up new subjects, especially when we see the original eye for na-
ture which is discernible even in his half centos from the poets he ad-
mired. It must be allowed, nevertheless, that the good comfortable
collegian was made rather to feel sentiment in others, than to express
it in his own sturdy person.
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE. 205
INSCRIPTION OVER A CALM AND CLEAR SPRING.
TERE, quench your thirst, and mark in me
" An emblem of true charity ;
"Who, while my bounty I bestow,
Am neither heard, nor seen, to flow.
WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S
"MONASTICON."*
DEEM not devoid of elegance the sa^e,
O 7
By fancy's genuine feelings unbeguil'd,
Of painful pedantry the poring child,
Who turns of these proud domes th' historic page,
Now sunk by time and Henry's fiercer rage.
Thiuk'st thou the warbling muses never smil'd
On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl'd,
Intent. While cloistered piety displays
Her mouldering rolls, the piercing eye explores
New manners and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSKf
TjlROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic art
J- Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start,
* The Monasticon is an account of the monasteries existing in
England before the Reformation.
f The seat of the Pembroke family ; where there was, and is, a
fine collection of pictures.
206 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE.
How to life's humbler scene can I depart,
My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers ?
In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ?
Vain the complaint. For fancy can impart
(To fate superior and to fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately storied hall.
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,
Can dress the graces in their Attic pall ;
Bid the green landskip's vernal beauty bloom,
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight walL
DrsrriptinnB nf jSigljt.
FROM THE NOTES TO OSSIAN.
THE dispute respecting the merits and authenticity of the poems
of Ossian has long settled down, we believe, into an admission of the
former, and a conclusion that Macpherson invented them, assisted by
traditional fragments. It is a pity Macpherson ever suffered the dis-
pute to take place ; for it has left him a doubtful reputation both for
genius and honesty, when perhaps nobody would have questioned
either. The fragments may have excelled the inventions ; but hardly
any one, except a man of genius, could have put them so well together,
notwithstanding the violation of times and manners. There is a great
deal of repetition and monotony ; yet somehow these faults them-
selves contribute to the welcome part of the impression. They affect
us like the dreariness of the heaths and the moaning of the winds.
But the work would not have stood its ground, and gained the admir-
ers it has, did it not possess positive beauties ; veins of genuine feel-
ing and imagination. It is understood that an Italian translation was
a favorite with Bonaparte and his officers during the early republican
times. The present king of Sweden, Oscar Bernadotte, is said, we be-
lieve, to have been named after the son of Ossian. But even these
illustrious testimonies to its merit are unnecessary after the single one
of Gray, who in his Letters repeatedly expresses his admiration, par-
ticularly of the passages before us. We shall extract his notice of
them by way of argument as well as critique. It is hardly requisite
to mention, that Macpherson does not attribute these passages to Os-
sian. He has put them in a note, and says they were written by some
imitator " a thousand years afterwards !" Gray takes no notice of
208 DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT.
this ; nor shall we. If they are not of the same manufacture as th
rest, ghost is not like ghost, nor a wind a wind.
Observe how beautifully Gray talks of the gust of wind " recollect-
ing itself," and resembling the voice of a spirit.
" I have received," he says to his friend Mr. Stonhewer, " another
Scotch packet with a third specimen, inferior in kind (because it is
merely description), but full of nature and noble wild imagination.
Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief (himself a principal
bard) ; each goes in his turn to observe the face of things, and returns
with an extempore picture of the changes he has seen (it is an October
night, the harvest month of the Highlands). This is the whole plan ;
yet there is a contrivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would
not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of them sees ghosts
(more or less). The idea that struck me and surprised me most, is
the following : One of them (describing a storm of wind and rain)
says,
" Ghosts rido on the tempest to-night ;
Sweet is thoir voice between the gusts of wind ;
Their songs are of other worlds !"
Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud) that
pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a
shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an ^Eolian harp 1 I do as-
sure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit.
Thomson had an ear sometimes : he was not d*af to this ; and has de-
scribed it gloriously, but given it another different turn, and of more
horror. I cannot repeat the lines : it is in his Winter. There is
another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking
of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when
the moon is seen by short intervals.
" The waves are tumbling on the lako,
And lash the rocky sides,
The boat is brimful in ihe covo,
The oars on the rocking tide.
Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff,
And eyes the rolling stream ;
Her lover promised to come.
She eaw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake;
Are these his groans on the gale ?
Is this his broken boat on the shore ?"
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 209
Note, that Gray has written out these sentences in distinct lines,
as though they hud been metrically disposed in the original, and not
prose. And indeed it is difficult not to discern a music in them, or to
think they want a music of any other sort. But the effect would be
different in long compositions.
FIRST BARD.
TVTICrHT is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills.
-L ' No star with green trembling beam, no moon, looks
from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood ; but I hear it
distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs ; but its
murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of
the dead the long-howling owl is heard. I see a dim form
on the plain ! It is a ghost ! it fades, it flies. Some funeral
shall pass this way ; the meteor marks the path.
The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill
The stag lies on the mountain moss : the hind is at his side
She hears the wind in its branching horns. She starts, but
lies again.
The roe is in the cleft of the rock : the heath-cock's
head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but
the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree ; he in
a cloud on the hill.
Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his
way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes along the
gurgling rill, He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the
ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast ; the fall
ing branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs,
clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a
ghost ! He trembles amidst the night.
Dark, dusky, howling is night, cloudy, windy, and full of
ghosts ! The dead are abroad ! My friends, receive me from
the night.
2 1 D ESC RIP TIONS OF NIGHT.
SECOND BARD.
The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of
the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from high. Windows
flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the
ford. Hark ! that shriek ! he dies ! The storm drives the
horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble
as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank.
The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut ; he wakes
the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills
the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain-streams
which meet beside his booth.
Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits.
The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the
rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his
home.
Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their
voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of
other worlds.
The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar,
and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the
starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is
gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal ; receive me,
my friends, from night.
THIRD BARD.
The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles
through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place.
The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky,
and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death !
flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 2 1 1
BCC the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen
oak. Who is that in his -shroud beneath the tree, by the
stream ?
The waves dark tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky
sides. The boat is brimful in the cove ; the oars on the
rocking tide. A maid sits sad before the rock, and eyes the
rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw
his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his
broken boat on the shore ? Are these his groans on the
wind?
Hark ! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow de
seends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy winds
abate. Various is the night and cold ; receive me, my friends,
from night.
FOURTH BARD.
Night is calm and fair : blue, starry, settled is night !
The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind
tho hill. The moon is upon the mountains. Trees glister :
streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake :
bright the stream of the vale.
I see the trees overturned ; the shocks of corn on the
plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds' the shocks, and whistles on
the distant field.
Calm, settled, fair is night ! Who comes from the place
of the dead ? That form with the robe of snow-white arms,
and dark-brown hair ! It is the daughter of the chief of
the people : she that lately fell ! Come, let us view thee,
maid ! thou that hast been the delight of heroes ! The
blast drives the phantom away : white without form, it as-
cends the hill.
The breezes drive the blue mist slowly over the narrow
Q 1 2 DE 'SCRIP TIONS OF NIGHT.
vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven.
Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon. Re-
ceive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night.
FIFTH BARD.
Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in
the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill.
The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the
rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half
the night is past. The housewife, groping in the gloom, re-
kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day ap-
proaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill,
and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud : he
sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to
pass. He nods by the mossy rock.
Hark ! the whirlwind is in the wood. A low murmur in
the vale ! It is the mighty army of the dead, returning from
the air.
The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on
that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now
it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark ; re-
ceive me, my friends, from night.
THE CHIEF.
Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers
fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms
descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged
meteors fly ! Rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or
enclose her head in clouds ! Night is alike to me, stormy or
gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it 13
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 213
poured on the hill The young day returns from his clouds,
but we return no more.
Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of
mighty name ? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce
their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This
lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins
in grass. They shall ask of the aged, " Where stood the
walls of our fathers ?"
liaise the song, and strike the harp ; send round the
shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths
and maids begin the dance. Let some graybeard be near
me, to tell the deeds of other times ; of kings renowned in
our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night
pass, until morning shall appear in our hall. Then let the
bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall
ascend the hill with day, and awake the deer.
Dffitij nf n
PASSAGES SELECTED FROM TROTTER'S MEMOIRS OF FOX.
POLITICS have nothing to do with this volume. The reader will
have seen, that the questions between Whig and Tory are of no moro
concern to us, in these delightful lands of compilation, than any other
interference which should limit their extent and freedom. There
have been amiable and large-hearted men on both sides. Mr. Fox
was one of them ; and we repeat these accounts of him, as we should
of any other human being under the like circumstances, because they
suit this portion of our work, and the whole genial intention of it.
Mr. Trotter's book has some faults of style, but not in the passages
extracted. He has given a valuable report of the way in which the
great statesman passed his time at Saint Anne's Hill ; and the account
of his own feelings, while occupied in waiting his patron's last hour,
especially during the visit to the dressing-room once occupied by the
Duchess of Devonshire, is very striking. Saint Anne's Hill is in the
neighborhood of Chertsey.
ST. Anne's Hill is delightfully situated ; it commands a
rich and extensive prospect. The house is embowered in
trees, resting on the side of a hill, its grounds declining grace-
fully to a road, which bounds them at bottom. Some fine
trees are grouped round the house, and three remarkably
beautiful ones stand on the lawn ; while a profusion of shrubs
are distributed throughout with taste and judgment. Here
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 215
Mr. Fox was the tranquil and happy possessor of about thirty
acres, and the inmate of a small but pleasant mansion. The
simplicity and benignity of his manners, speaking the integri-
ty of bis character, soon dispelled those feelings of awe,
which one naturally experiences on approaching what is very
exalted.
The domestic life of Mr. Fox was equally regular and
agreeable. In summer he rose between six and seven ; in
winter before eight. The assiduous care and excellent man-
agement of Mrs. Fox rendered his rural mansion the abode
of peace, elegance, and order, and had long procured her the
gratitude and esteem of those private friends whose visits to
Mr. Fox, in his retirement at St. Anne's Hill, made them
witnesses of this amiable woman's conduct. I confess I car-
ried with me some of the vulgar prejudices respecting this
great man ! How completely was I undeceived ! After
breakfast, which took place between eight and nine in sum-
mer, and at a little after nine in winter, he usually read some
Italian author with Mrs. Fox. and then spent the time pre-
ceding dinner at his literary studies, in which the Greek poets
bore a principal part.
A frugal but plentiful dinner took place at three, or half-
past two, in summer, and at four in winter : and a few glasses
of wine were followed by coffee. The evening was dedicated
to walking and conversation till tea-time, when reading aloud
in history commenced, and continued till near ten. A light
supper of fruit, pastry, or something very trifling, finished the
day ; and at half-past ten the family were gone to rest.
At breakfast the newspaper was read, commonly by Mr.
Fox, as well as the letters which had arrived ; for such was
the noble confidence of his mind, that he concealed nothing
from his domestic circle, unless it were the faults or the se-
crets of his friends. At such times, when the political topics
216 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN.
of the day were naturally introduced by the paper, I never
could observe the least acrimony or anger against that party
which so sedulously, and indeed successfully, had labored to
exclude him from the management of affairs, by misrepresen-
tations of his motives, rather than by refutations of his ar-
guments.
In private conversation, I think, he was rather averse to
political discussion, generally preferring subjects connected
with natural history, in any of its branches : above all, dwel-
ling with delight on classical and poetical subjects. It is not
to be supposed, however, that, where the interests and happi-
ness of millions were concerned, he preserved a cold silence.
About the end of May, Mrs. Fox mentioned slightly to
me that Mr. Fox was unwell ; but at this time there was no
alarm or apprehension. In the beginning of June I received
a message from her, requesting me to come to him, as he had
expressed a wish for me to read to him, if I was disengaged,
It was in the evening, and I found him reclining upon a
couch, uneasy and languid. It seemed to me so sudden an
attack, that I was surprised and shocked. He requested me
to read some of the .ZEneid to him, and desired me to turn to
the fourth book : this was his favorite part. The tone of
melancholy with which that book commences, was pleasing to
his mind : he appeared relieved, and to forget his uneasiness
and pains ; but I felt this recurrence to Virgil as a mournful
omen of a great attack upon his system, and that he was al-
ready looking to abstract himself from noise, and tumult, and
politics. Henceforth his illness rapidly increased, and was
pronounced a dropsy ! I have reason to think that he turned
his thoughts very soon to retirement at St. Anne's Hill, as
he found the pressure of business insupportably harassing ;
and I have ever had in mind those lines, as very applicable
to him at this time :
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 217
" And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the goal, from whence at first she flew,
I still had hopes my long vexations past
Here to return, and die (at home) at last."
Another of these symptoms of melancholy foreboding, 1
thought, was shown in his manner at Holland House. Mrs.
Fox, he, and I, drove there several times before his illness
confined him, and when exercise was strongly urged. He
looked around him the last day he was there with a farewell
tenderness that struck me very much. It was the place
where he had spent his youthful days. Every lawn, garden,
tree, and walk, were viewed by him with peculiar affection.
He pointed out its beauties to me, and, in particular, showed
me a green lane or avenue, which his mother, the late Lady
Holland, had made by shutting up a road. He was a very
exquisite judge of the picturesque, and had mentioned to me
how beautiful this road had become, since converted into an
alley. He raised his eyes in the house, looking around, and
was earnest in pointing out everything he liked and remem-
bered.
Soon, however, his illness very alarmingly increased ;
he suffered dreadful pains, and often rose from dinner with
intolerable suffering. His temper never changed, and was
always serene and sweet : it was amazing to behold so much
distressing anguish, and so great equanimity. His friends,
alarmed, crowded round him, as well as those relatives who,
in a peculiar degree, knew his value and affectionate nature.
Mrs. Fox, whose unwearied attentions were the chief
comfort of the sufferer, and myself, read aloud a great deal
to him. Crabbe's poems, in manuscript, pleased him a great
deal ; in particular, the little episode of Phoebe Dawson. He
did not, however, hear them all read, and there are parts in
which he would have suggested alterations. We thus read,
10
21 8 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN.
relieving each other, a great number of novels to him. He
' now saw very few persons. In truth, he had now every reason
to do so, visitors fatigued and oppressed him. He lan-
guished for St. Anne's Hill, and there all his hopes and
wishes centered ; he thought of a private life, and of resign-
ing his office, and we had hopes that he might be restored
sufficiently to enjoy health by abstaining from business. The
Duke of Devonshire offered him the use of Chiswick House
as a resting-place, from whence, if he gained strength enough,
he might proceed to St. Anne's. Preparations for his de-
parture began, therefore, to be made, which he saw with visi-
ble and unfeigned pleasure.
Two or three days before he was removed to Chiswick
House, Mr. Fox sent for me, and with marked hesitation and
anxiety, as if he m*ch wished it, and yet was unwilling to ask
it, informed me of his plan of going to Chiswick House, re-
questing me to form one of the family there. There was no
occasion to request me ; duty, affection, and gratitude, would
have carried me wherever he went. About the end of July,
Mrs. Fox and he went there, and on the following day I
joined them. No mercenary hand approached him. Mrs.
Fox hung over him every day with vigilant and tender affec-
tion : when exhausted I took her place ; and at night, as his
disorder grew grievously oppressive, a confidential servant
and myself shared the watching and labors between us. I
took the first part, because I read to him, as well as gave him
medicine or nourishment.
We continued our reading of Johnson's Lives ofilte Poets.
How often at midnight, as he listened with avidity, and made
the remarks that occurred, he apologized to me for keeping
me from my rest, but, still delighted with our reading, would
say, " Well, you may go on a little more," as I assured him
that I liked the reading aloud. At these times he would de
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 219
fend Johnson, when I blamed his severity and unwillingness
to allow, and incapacity to appreciate, poetical merit, would
refer me to his life of Savage, and plainly showed much par-
tiality for Johnson. Of Dryden, he was a warm and almost
enthusiastic admirer. He conversed a great deal about that
great English poet ; and indeed I never perceived, at any
time, a stronger relish for, or admiration of, the poets, than
at this afflicting period. I generally read to him till three
or four in the morning, and then retired for a few hours : he
showed always great uneasiness at my sitting up, but evident-
ly was soothed and gratified by my being with him. At first
he apologized for my preparing the nourishment, which re-
quired to be warmed in the night ; but seeing how sincerely
I was devoted to him, he ceased to make any remark. Once
he asked me, at midnight, when preparing chicken panade for
him, " Does this amuse you ? I hope it does." He was so
far from exacting attendance, that he received every little
good office, every proper and necessary attention, as a favor
and kindness done him. So unvitiated by commerce with
mankind, so tender, so alive to all the charms of friendship,
was this excellent man's heart ! His anxiety also, lest Mrs.
Fox's health should suffer, was uniformly great till the day
he expired.
Lord Holland and General Fitzpatrick, as he grew worse,
came and resided at Chiswick House entirely. Miss Fox
also remained there. Thus he had around him, every day,
all he loved most ; and the overwhelming pressure of his
disorder was as much as possible relieved by the converse
and sight of cherished relatives and friends. Lord Holland
showed how much he valued such an uncle. He never le'ft
him ; the hopes of power or common allurements of ambi
tion, had no effect upon him. His affectionate attention to
Mr. Fox, and his kindness to all who assisted that great man,
220 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN.
were endearing in a high degree. Miss Fox calm and re-
signed, grieving, wrthout uttering a word would sit at the
foot of his bed, and often reminded me of the fine heads of
females, done by masterly hands, to express sorrow, dignity,
and faith in G-od.
There was now a plaintiveness in his manner very inter-
esting, but no way derogating from his fortitude and calm-
ness. He did not affect the stoic. He bore his pains as a
Christian and a man. Till the last day, however, I do not
think he conceived himself in danger. A few days before
the termination of his mortal career, he said to me at night,
" Holland thinks me worse than I am ;" and, in fact, the ap-
pearances were singularly delusive not a week before he ex-
pired. In the day, he arose and walked a little, and his looks
were not ghastly or alarming by any means. Often did he
latterly walk to his window to gaze on the berries of the
mountain ash. which hung clustering on a young tree at Chis-
wick House ; every morning he returned to look at it he
would praise it, as the morning breeze, rustling, shook the
berries and leaves ; but then the golden sun, which played
upon them, and the fresh air that comes with the dawn, were
to me almost heart-sickening, though once so delightful : he
whom I so much cherished and esteemed, whose kindness
had been ever unremitting and unostentatious, he whose so-
ciety was to me happiness and peace. was not long to enjoy
this sun and this morning air. His last look on that moun-
tain-ash was his farewell to nature.
I continued to read aloud to him every night, and as he
occasionally dropt asleep, I was then left to the awful medita-
tions incident to such a situation. No person was awake be-
side myself; the lofty rooms and hall of Chiswick House
were silent, and the world reposed. In one of those melan
choly pauses, I walked about for a few moments, and found
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 221
myself involuntarily and accidentally in the late Duchess of
Devonshire's dressing-room. Everything was as that amiable
and accomplished lady had left it : the music-book still open,
the books not restored to their places, a chair as if she had but
just left it, and every mark of a recent inhabitant in this ele-
gant apartment. The Duchess had died in May, and Mr.
Fox had very severely felt her loss. Half-opened notes lay
scattered about. The night was solemn and still ; and at
that moment, had some floating sound of music vibrated
through the air, I cannot tell to what my feelings would have
been wrought. Never had I experienced so strong a sensa-
tion of the transitory nature of life, of the vanity of a fleeting
world ! I stood scarce breathing, heard nothing, listened.
Scarcely knowing how I left the dressing-room, I returned.
All was still. Mr. Fox slept quietly. I was deluded into
a tranquil joy to find him still alive, and breathing without
difficulty. His countenance was always serene in sleep : no
troubled dreams ever agitated or distorted it, it was the
transcript of his guileless mind.
Mr. Fox expired between five and six in the afternoon
of the 13th of September, 1806. The Tower guns were
firing for the capture of Buenos Ayres, as he was breathing
his Iflsfc
<0rmj'
n n
WE desire to say as little as possible about this affecting and noble
poem. It is so sweet, so true, and so universally appreciated, that \ve
feel inclined to be as silent before it, as if listening to the wind over
the graves. It is the fit conclusion for our book, both in the subject
and spirit serious, calm, and hopeful.
The epitaph is on the author ; and never did a man speak of himself
with a truth more beautifully combining dignity with humility, a sense
of all that he felt worthy and all that he felt weak. We suspect, that
the " cross'd in love" of the previous lines might very well apply to
Gray. He had secret griefs of some kind, perhaps of disease, perhaps
of sympathy with a good mother, and distress at having a bad father
(for such, alas ! was the case) ; but whatever they were, we may be
sure that they were those of a good and kind man.
The poem before us is as sweet as if written by Coleridge, and as
pious and universal as if religion had uttered it, undisturbed by po-
lemics. It is a quintessence of humanity.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 223
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ;
No children run to lisp their sire's return.
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke '
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
^4 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
Await alike the inevitable hour
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, yr proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness in the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise.
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 225
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learnt to stray ;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a' holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious hand the closing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
10*
226 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
' : There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove,
Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
" One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree :
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ;
" The next with dirges due, in sad array,
Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne-
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
ELZGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 225
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ;
He gave to misery all he had a tear ;
He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his Father and his God.
THE END
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