\ w o u ^T. o \)c '\ ^1 •i^' it^' •7 C ^^ ^ \ \^ THE. COMFORTS OP HUMAN LIFE; OR SMILES AND LAUGHTER OF CHARLES CHEARFUL AND MARTIN MERRYFELLOW. IN SEVEN DIALOGUES. totiaonx PRINTED FOR ODDY AND CO, 9,J, OXFORD STREET, IT J. AND W, tiriTH^ riNO STKXftT, tXVXN BIAtl. 1807. TABLE OF CONTENTS DIALOGUE THE FIRST. rAGB Meeting of Mr. Charles Chearful and Mr. Martin Merryfellow, with Mr. Samuel Sensitive and Mr. Timothy Testy — in which a contrast of their Characters is exhibited '1 DIALOGUE THE SECOND. Comforts of the Country 11 DIALOGUE THE THIRD. Comforts of London 43 DIALOGUE THE FOURTH. Comforts of Sports and Games 102 DIALOGUE THE FIFTH. Comforts of Travelling 126 DIALOGUE THE SIXTH, Personal Comforts 143 DIALOGUE THE SEVENTH. Comforts of Social Life 183 Jvil5ii21 Digitized by tlie Internet Arcliive in 2007 witli funding from Microsoft Corporation littp://www.arcliive.org/details/comfortsofliumanlOOIieroricli ADVERTISEMENT. ' -It is the pleasing apologue of Trajano BoccALiNi ; that, '^ to a famous Critic *^ who presented all the faults of a cele- *' brated poet to Apollo, — Apollo gave li '' sack of undressed wheat, — desired the '' Critic to separate the chaff from the ^' wheat, — and when the good man had, '* with solemn and impatient industry, ^' done so, bestowed on him, the chaff " for his pains." Nearly similar, I much suspect, is the fate of those who have peculiar quick- sigh tedoess to discern the minute and evanescent miseries of human existence, that elude the grosser sense of the great body of mankind. He who can, with microscopic eye, discover freckles, rough- VJ ADVERTISEMENT. iiess', wrinkles^ and squalid colours^ on a face that is to me bewitchingly beautiful, lias only the misfortune to be frightened by ugliness where I am ravished with charms. He that is so nice a connoisseur in good-eating, as to find, that, of twenty dishes, of any one of which I eat with appetite, there is none so dressed as to be fit to be tasted by an Epicure of his nice «kill, has, by this, only the misluck to make a bad dinner, while I, at the same table, enjoy a very good one. I heartily ])ity the poor man to whom the pleasure of a walk is quite spoiled, if but the smallest bit of gravel get into the foot of his boot. As many new pleasures as you will — if they be but genuine; But, let us leave it to the Testys and Sensitives of the world — and they are, God knows, a mighty number — to refine upon wretch- edness — to inflame every scratch with ja |jin to the torture and danger of the breast ADVERTISEMENT. vH pierced with a poisoned arrow — to shrink from the coming storm before its visible approach — to enjoy, like a Highland seer, a second sight, that entertains the mind with none but visions of death and hor- ror ! — Ah 1 to me, ten thousand times dearer is the resolution of the vulgar pro- verb, '' To LIVE, LOVE, AND LAUGH, ALL THE DAYS OF ONE*S LIFe!" The reverend Author of the " Miseries OF Human Life," has evinced, in tliat popular work, a knowledge, admirably exr tensive and correct, of those minute in- cidents and circumstances which are, to numbers of men, the sources of occasional vexation, and which have actually power to render some very peevish or very feeble minds perpetually miserable. One should judge, that he wished rather to make a sport of that host of petty vexations, than by mustering them, by disciplining them by drawing them out Vm ADVERTISEMENT. in rank and file, by improving the reach of their bayonets^ and the level of their musketry, to render their invasion of hu- man happiness more formidable and fatal. Yet_, if the former was his aim ; he has, perhaps, to a certain degree, missed it. His book is illumined by many flashes o/ wit : and it unfolds, here and there, much of the irresistibly ludicrous imagery of Hogarthian humour. In the whole, how- ever, his enumeration of the ^' Miseries of Human Life," is too much a plain, dry catalogue. The vein of irony is not sufficiently rich, nor sufficiently conti- nuous. Swift, Sterne, or Voltaire, would have hitched in — something slyly and oddly humorous, into the description of every particular Misery in the whole List, that should have made the burthen and point of the jest to turn against the folly of the person who could make a Misery to himself of such a circumstance ADVERTISEMENT. IX or incident^ — something that should have transformed the nominal Misery into a Comfort, in the very moment of its ex- hibition. The reverend Author seems to be, almost all along, in sober earnest. I doubt not but his Catalogue must have made many more persons cry than laugh. I shrewdly suspect, that even the joys of his own existence have not been multiplied by his pains-taking and successful hunt after Miseries. Lemuel Gulliver found not even a Brobdignaggian more formida- ble than was a multitude of Lilliputians, surrounding him with bows not stouter than wheat-straws, and arrows not more powerful than sweet-briar prickles. And, it were not surprizing, — if, much in the same manner, persons who bear one or ' two of the greater ills of life, without being driven to wrong-headed despon- dency, should feel inclined to *' make their quietus" under the " siege of minute at ADVERTISEMENT. troubles" which this author brings against them — even — " mith a bare bodkin ! " It is for these reasons, that I have at- tempted to contrast this detail of Mise- ries with an exposition of some of the " Comforts of Life/* gay or serious. It is said, that John Bull is best pleased with those who take the greatest pains to convince him that he is Miserable, — that he is utterly undone. — Yet, one should liope, that a book of Comforts may be not unacceptable, as a second course or a des- » sert after a book of Miseries. The follow- ing pages will possibly be found to shew, that most of those incidents, from which the reverend Author extracts Miseries, must, when seen in tlieir due light, and when met with the proper spirit, become \ absolutely matter of Comfort. It is not denied, tliat, to him is due, as the first author of the general idea, a praise which the writer of this view of the ADVEBTISBMENT. Zl Comforts ov Life has no pretensions to claim. I have naturally availed myself of the Public's previous acquaintance with Mes- sieurs Testy and Sensitive. I should be fortunate indeed^ if my friend Merry- fellow and I^ who am^ after all, but amanuensis to the party, might share with them, the kindness of such as love occa- sionally to meditate, in a lounging pick- tooth humour, over the concerns of Hu- man Life. We detail but a small share of its Com- forts. — When the reverend Author shall complete, according to his promise, the Catalogue of Miseries ; we may then pro- bably be induced to enlarge our display of Human Joys. CHARLES CHEARFUL. COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Scene— Tub Paric. DIALOGUE THE FIRST. 7b Samuel Sensitive and Timothy Testy, enter Charles Chearful and Martin Merryfellow. H Merri/Jellow, .A! whom have we here ? Peevish and Deplorable, arm in arm ? The very phizzes of unappeasable Discontent and sneaking Despondency close together, like those of Philip and Mary on a shilling! Did you ever before see two such figures, Chearful'^ That meagre person, that withered brow, those ferret eyes, those cheeks shrivelled as a bit of parchment forsaking the paste- board on the cover of an old book, tha^ B V '* 'cOMFOBtS OF HUMAN LIFE. short peaked nose, that pursed, pouting mouth, bespeak a mind that has deformed and worn out the frame it animates, by incessant toil, to extract from every sub-*- ject of thought, continual matter of dis- satisfaction. To what a mixed expression of sourness and affected wisdom he twists his features! Chearful. But, how rueful the look of his companion! What a sunken eye! What a droop of the chin ! What a lifeless stoop in the shoulders ! With what lan- guid, painful effort he drags his legs ! He starts at that fly alighting on his hand, as if its touch were the bite of a scorpion. His comrade seems to inthral him with the power of an evil genius. He shrinks from every grasp of the other, — and shud- ders at his every word, — yet still cleaves to him. Merry. Sure, I have seen that figure be- fore. Is it not our old college-companion, Samuel Sensitive ? Chekr. Sensitive?— Ha! It is, indeed! — And the other is, positively. Sensitive's* constant chum at college, Tim Testy. ' COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. 5 Merri/. Mr. Testy ! Mr. Sensitive ! Old friends ! How have you fared these twenty 3'ears ? Testi/. Very miserably! Most miser- ably ! It seemed that nothing could be so bad as the plagues of the life we led at college. But, the world is the same, every where : a pitfal beset with snares ; a wilderness of thorns, briars, thistles, nettles, and prickly pear trees, tearing one's flesh in the ten- derest parts at every movement one makes, however slight ; at the best, a bed of down bespread with cow-itch between the sheets; Chear. What afflictions have my old friends experienced ? Have you been rob- bed of your fortunes ? Have you been pre- cipitated into unmerited infamy? Have your friends proved unfaithful, or your re- lations unkind? Have you been disap- pointed in love, or cuckolded in marriage? Have your children died by sudden illnessi? Or, have your mortal enemies undeservedly risen to wealth and honours, by those very events which were the springs of your mis- fortunes ? I address you both : for, it is but B 2 4 CeMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. too plain, that good Mr. Sensitive does not find himself at all happier than Mr. Testy ! Sensitive. Indeed, I do not! It is but about twenty years since we were together at college, where you used so often to rally me on the refinement and delicacy of my feelings. But, I am, in spirits and consti- tution, full sixty years older. Every thing shakes my nerves to anguish, and writhes the tender sensibihties of my soul. No man of genius can find it otherwise in the world. I am always touched with miseries of my own, or trembling with sympathy in the distresses of others. When thunder does not stun my ears ; they are affected still more disagreeably —by the grating, perhaps, of a fork on an earthen plate— or, by the murmurs of a company of amor- ous cats. Even the twang of a bit of lea- ther on a rusty key, is enough to spoil a whole hogshead of the best old wine to the delicacy of my palate. The Sybarites, whose slumbers were broken by the rose- leaves folded under them, were coarse and torpid in their sensations of touch com- COMFORTS OF HUMAN LlFEv O jmred to mine. 1 know not a single smell that is not, to my nostrils, mawkishly faint, or oppressively strong — no fragrance at once sufficiently freah and sufficiently pow- erful. jMy eyes are but inlets to perjccp- tions of disgust — Lights, shades, colours, forms, exhibit, all, but some slight vestiges of the essence of order and beauty, dis- torted, stained, mutilated, confounded, de- faced, ever, to that degree, that it is more painful to contemplate such imperfection of beauty, than if all were but one waste t)f absolute privation and deformity. Such are the impressions to which my feelings have, from infancy, become continually more and more subject. This is the price at which Natm'e confers the true sensibili- ties of genius. To want them, were to be a brute: to know them, is to be superla- tively wretched. JMr. Testy's skill in mi^ sery i«^, by the keen and v.ise direction of a penetrating and active understanding: Mine depends on the native constitution of my senses, spirits, and vital energies. His vigilance and discernment in the discovery of those nicer evils of life, which elude B 'J 6 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. the observation of common minds^ conti- nually rouse my sensibilities of misery, and, by their influence on me, prove their own delicacy and rectitude. My nature, so tremblingly alive to woe, gratifies him with evidence, that his theories of human wretchedness are not groundless. It is true, that neither of us has had any ex- perience of those things, which are misfor- tunes even to the rudest and most vulgar of mankind. Our fortunes are entire. Our families are healthy, and, as the ^yorld deems it, prosperous. We are not suffer- ers by any of the common afflictions of humanity. Ours are the Sorrows of which only men of extraordinary discernment and feeling can become conscious. Merry. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Are not you the very Samuel Sensitive and Timothy Testy, whose Groans and Sighs, whose Dialogues of Miseries, whose whole muster-rolls of ills, have lately awakened so many unlucky souls to a sense of woes, of which, but for your d — d good-natured kindness, they would have remained utterly unconscious ? Ah ! you old fools ! Do you still cherish the odd COMFOETS OF HUMAN LIFE. 7 humours which made one of you so ridi- culous, the other odious and ridiculous too, at college ? You must go about, must you, with a murrain upon you — singing, with the cracked voices of a couple of maudlin ballad-singers, ^'^ Let us all be unhappy to- " ^vasp, and other noxious insects, to extract poison from the essence of every flower ? You, Tcst(^ and Semitite, have, by your own accounts, had all those advantages which constitute prosperity and good fortune in the common estimation of mankind at large. Merrrjfdloii) and I, on the contrary, after a multitude of efforts, and a series of most provoking disappointments, find our- selves, each, not now in possession of more than will supply him with a clean shirt, every day, and a neck of mutton, But^ we have such a sanguineness of tem* COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. 9 per, that we find hope start constantly up to us, out of the bosom of disappoint- ment. He possesses such a knack at de- tecting the gay and ridiculous, that he dis- covers matter of laughter in every incident, and in every appearance that comes before him. Nor is there an incident in my owii fortune, or in that of others, in whicli I do not, without effort, and by the natural turn of my mind, find occasions of chearful- ness. In the town, we find the wgrks of Art, and the charms of refined social life. In the country, are the beauties of Nature, and the reliefs of retirement. Riches give the luxuries of fife. Poverty is favourable to its energies and its virtues. In travel-i ling, we are amused with perpetual variety of exercise, society, views of nature, and intelligence of affairs. Residence quietly in one place is favourable to composure, ease, and continued meditation. Books are inoffensive companions of all hours-^ Conversation has, in it, an interest and a vivacity which books do not always give. Testy, A truce with youv common -place 10 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE^ details. Can you deny the truth of wbat we have stated in our Dialogues ? Merry, The terrible evils of your Dia- logues are merely excitements to enliven pleasure by diversifying it. They are sti- muli to awaken sensibility. They are mus- tard and Cayenne pepper to give the ge- nuine seasoning to happiness. — What say you? Shall we compare our catalogue of Comforts with your Mountain of miseries ? Sen, Agreed. — -My nerves are so worn out by sensations of refined distress, that I should almost wish to forfeit the privilege of genius, for the sake of relief from the agonies under which I am dying over again, every hour ! — Tcs, And agreed — say I — Your disap- pointments in the comparison will only fidd another chapter to those Miseries of life which our Dialogues have enumerated. Chear, Well, then ! we four meet here, at the same hour, to-morrow. Merry^ We meet. Sen \ ^^^^ morning, gentlemen* Chm' } Good morning. tOMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 11 DIALOGUE THE SECOND. COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. Chcarful, Merrt/feUow, Test^, and Sensilhe. 5cene— Hyde-Park. Y, on find us punctutil to our appointment^ gentlemen ! 1 was impatient to hear what you coukl say in support of pretences to happiness, which I doubt not but I should find your emotions, in the course of any twenty-four hours, and in spite of any pains you might use for their concealment, — to belie. Meny. Ah ! M v. Testy ! we shall teach you to be happy, in spite of your teeth ! Sen. I have done nothing but dream of the relief you promised, since we separated 12 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. yesterday morning. Last night, in sleep^ methought I saw my old friend Testy in the form of an enormous toad^ feeding on my entrails, and instilling his poison while lie fed, — till you, Chearful, in the figure of a Stork, as my dream represented it, came to destroy the filthy, noxious reptile. At the effort, with which it seemed, that the stork made away with the toad, my sleep forsook me. Propitious be the omen ! — No offence to my dear friend Testy. — But, it cannot be ! — Genius can never see the ca- lamities of life in another light than that I see them in ! — Nor is it possible for my sensibilities to be deadened by any opiate, to the torpor of dulness ! ^ Chear, Take courage, man ! We shall quickly undeceive 3^ou. Your morbid sen- sibility shall be restored to soundness. Tes, Gome on! The pleasures of the country — if you please ? In this rural scene —hid from every appearance of the town, as if we were at any remote distance from it — with so pleasing a diversity of wood, water, and verdure before us — while these animals play around — while the scene is sp COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. IS unusually free from the approach of men — while the gentle, yet natural varieties of its level, deceive the eye and the fancy, and make it seem as if the whole were a landscape in the creation of which. Art had no share,— -what better subject can you chuse, than the Comforts of the Country ? Merry. Ay! comforts the country has— sufficient, it appears, to warm the imagi- nation of old Testy himself— and to de- ceive him out of his croak of misery ! — Ha! ha! ha!— (1. C.) Chear. Its general comforts tran- scend every praise with which even the raptures of sensibility and genius have yet extolled them. Its atmosphere gives light- ness and activity to the play of the lungs which inhale it. It presents an endless va- riety of lights, shades, colours, and na- tive forms, the most delightful to the heart and imagination of man. It salutes the nostrils with perpetual freshness and fra- grance. Its air, its water, its genial sun- c 14 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LtFE. Bbine flow round the surface of the body, in a manner the most refreshing and invi- gorating to the sense of touch. The ears are charmed with constant choruses of voices, giving all the possible varieties in the expressions of animal joy. Milk, fruits, animal food prepared with the utmost sim- plicity compatible with cleanliness, there afford the most exquisite gratifications to the taste. All is animated; and yet, with a diversity of animation, more interest- ing than if there were nothing before us but one vast multitude of human beings. How interestin«; the varieties of vesjetable life, in the springing grass, the flowering shrubs, the leafy aspiring forest-trees, the yellowing com, and the falling fruits ! In the very breezes which agitate the air ; iix the rains which descend with refreshment and new animation to vegetate life ; in the incessant transitions of heat; in the eftu- »ion of light from the Sun_, and in all its varieties of refraction and reflection ; as ia the agitation of the waters of the rivers, the lakes, and the ocean ; and in all tha great changes of exterior nature j there is COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 15 an appearance of vital activity the mosi pleasing and elevating to the heart of man. What enchantment — to contemplate the diversities of animal character and manners^ in the peasants and their more enlightened masters, in the sheep, the cattle, the horses, the dogs, the beasts, and birds of game, the fishes of the lakes and rivers, the geese, turkies, pigeons, and all the fowls of the poultry-yard! How interesting the diver- sities of surface — hill, dale, vales, dells, knolls, craggy heights, wide expanding plains, and lofty masses of mountains- lakes, rivers, springs, brooks, pools, and cataracts ! The diversions — hunting, fish« ing, horse-racing, and so many games of agility and strength, — are the most favour- able to health and spirits. The very la- bours of the country — plowing, reaping, the keeping of sheep, the management of cattle, the attentions given to the progres- sive growth of all cultivated vegetables, are delightful to all whose strength is not unnecessarily oppressed by them. All the energies of fancy acquire in the country their proper elasticity ancl force. The feeU c 11 16 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. ings, the appetites^ the passions, and all die vital powers gain, in the country, their proper tone* All the^arts, whose practice and works are the most adapted to the ge-» nuine utilities of life, are to be seen in the country. In the country, w^e hold that converse 'with Nature, which insensibly ele-f vates us into the presence of God ! — Tes, Rhapsody! declamation! the mad- ness of poetry, without the inspiration! Merry. Nay, you shall quickly hear somewhat much more provoking to a tem- per likeyour's. What say you to the. Com- forts of an East Wind in a cold AvRih Day?— Sen, An East Wind on a cold April Day ! Oh 1 my poor nerves ! Oh I my nerves J <2. C.) Merrif. Ay ! an East wind in the month of April, however it may shake your nerves, is not so ill a wind, as not to blow good to many an one. — It rouses the frame which, at first, shivers under it, to a con- sciousness of lively sensibility. It awaken* COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 17 torpor to vivacity. It furnibbes a man with a portable baromctcr_, which he can no more lose, than drop his own bones out of his body. It improves the charms of a flan- nel waistcoat, a Welsh wig, a warm great- coat, and a snug place at the chimney- comer. It gives, by deep-felt contrast, more genial freshness, and softness, and balmy fragrance to the breezes from the West. It presents, by its influence on the over-Sensitive and the Testy, appearances so ridiculously impatient and deplorable, tliat it is impossible for even sympathetic tenderness not to be roused by them to merriment. It teaches us to take timely caie of our health, by convincing us — how easily that may be sliaken. It heightens the eagerness of our expectation of the genuine Summer of June; and renders the delights of that month doubly dear to us when they arrive. Above all, it furnishes, matter of condolence, carping, and com- plaint to multitudes of persons who cannot live without thcra, and whom Spring might, otherwise, deprive of subjects over which to murmur ! c 3 IS COMFOKTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Tes, Deuce take such comforts! Do you think to insult me ? I could have said ten times more against an east wind^ than you have mentioned in its favour. Be- sides, I cannot well perceive, whether you be in jest or in earnest. Se7i, Oh! in earnest, most certainly! I find my spirits wonderfully revived by what he has represented. At his first mention of an east wind, I felt my bones to ache, as if all the witches in Lapland had been, in one assembly, muttering their pra3'ers backwards, and sticking pins into a waxen image of me. My limbs and teeth shivered, as if by the attack of fifty tertian agues. But my heart is encou- raged by Merryfellow's observations. I, for my own part, never do enjoy a snug seat in the chimney corner, so much as when a cold April east wind is blowing. And you, Mr. Testy, are never half so pathetic and sarcastic in your complaints, nor ever complain with such an air of self- complacency, as when an east wind makes you to shiver and shrug your shoulders. A crumb or two of comfort are better COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 19 than unappeasable vexation and perpetual agonies. (3. C.) Chcar, But the comforts of a rainy DAY in the country _, — especially if the rain begin to fall suddenly, after one has pre- pared for an excursion of pleasure, which is thus disappointed, — are among the true felicities of life.— You enjoy, perhaps for some hours, that charming flutter of soli- citude between hope and fear, which con- stitutes the crisis of interest to the human mind. While you now imagine that the rain may cease in time for your excur- sion, — now fear that it cannot, — now fancy that a particular part of the horizon begins to clear, — now see cloud thickening upon cloud, till you must hope no more. This is that charming suspense, for the sake of which men frequent the theatre, read books of history and of fiction, study the works of a Shakspeare and a Homer, crowd to coffee-houses to await the aiTival of the mails when the news of some eventful battle is expected. How cheap ♦50 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. is tliis dear suspense purchased, when one can be made to feel it all by no mightier cause than a few hours fall of rain ! And tlien, when, by a small effort, the mind turns to within-doors amusement, how pleased it feels with itself for the triumph over its disappointment! The resources are most comic to which a family will, on. such an occasion, apply themselves, in Order to find at home what they cannot go to seek abroad. The very endeavour, even though awkward, and in part suc- cessless, excites general merriment. All sullenness is put out of countenance. The amusements increase. The day seldom ends without having made every one hap- pier, than was to have been expected from any out-of-doors diversion! — ^To the serious and musing, a rainy day in the country is ever the favourite time for in- vention — to woo tlie muse, to produce improvements in the arts, to indulge those pensive waking reveries in which the tender and ingenuous mind takes peculiar delight ! Such a day, too, reconciles one to many a book, which would otherwis-e COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. CI "be thrown aside, «is dry and musty. It irives new consequence to the games of Hiint 'the- Slipper and Blindman's-Buff', It gives interest to a country dance, even "with my lady's woman and the butler, not without the help of a chair or two, as dumb partners, to make out the set. It is more favourable to love, than even the meeting at a horse-race or a county -ball. It arms the eyes of maidens of thirty-five with new powers to kill. And it procures hearers to bed-rid grand-dames and story- telling grandfathers, when they would otherwise be left without a soul to smooth the pillow, or wheel about the great chair. It Sett, (rubbing his hands, and looking up with great animation) Oh ! the delights of a rainy day ! Oh 1 O the delights of a rainy day! And then, how charming! in the country it never rains, but it pours ! I am your convert, Mr. Chearful ! In- deed, indeed, Mr. Testy! you and I are^ like two old fools, entirely in the wrong ! Tts, Take the Tool to yourself, Mr. Sensitive! I disclaim him. It is all buf- a^ COMFORTS OF HUMAN UFfe. foonery, man! 'Sdeathl it^puts me mad to hear persons talk, who dare thus to make a sport of their own wretch- edness 1 You might just as well take up Petrarch's mock praises of the ztch, or repeat the Dutchman's eulogy on an ague -Pray, my masters, cannot you as well reckon it among your eural felicities, to he exposed in a country retirement, m which you had thought of findmg only pastoral innocence, benevolence, simpli- city, and virtue, to be there exposed to all the knaveries and tricks of vulgar malice and ill-humour, just as if you were hustled among a party of American sailors at Wapping, or of Irish labourers, on a Sunday evening, in St. Giles's? (C. 4.) Mern/, Even from those knaveries ^7d impertinences of RUSTICS, It 1! «asy enough to extract very comfortable amusement. They spring from a vulgarity and i coarseness of sentiment, to which one i jproud to feel one's self superior. The; COMFORTS OP THE COtJNTRT. Q3 display a want of honesty, which flatters one with the consciousness of superior virtue. Their low cunning betrays, ever, a narrowness of understanding, which ena- bles him who defeats them to please him- self in the knowledge of his superior wisdom. They acquaint one, in the most effectual manner, with the humours, caprices, and selfishnesses of rustic character. They enlarge one's knowledge of human nature, and thus qualify one more and more foi' the practice of life. They are merely the originals of those teizing incidents in rural life, of which the imitation is the most diverting, laughter- provoking part of the comic drama. He who laughs at Tony Lumpkin and mine host of the Three Jolly Pigeons on the stage, must surely laugh much more, xjiea be meets the real characters in country life. How charmingly, too, one's patience b exercised by intercourse with such cha- racters ! By such a rusticating probation^ the min^ ^^ formed to a fortitude, witk 24 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIPE. which it can encounter the vexations of matrimony, the tumults of a route, ike bustle and clamours of the entrances to the theatres on a benefit night, the riots of the box lobby loungers, or even aa insurrection among the gods in the upper galleries ! Besides, the wit, the cunning, and the malicious merriment of impudent and tricking rustics, are precisely those effoits of mind, which most Englishmen would sacrifice almost any thing to gain an ac- quaintance with. The selling of bargains; the grossly smutty jest; the mimickry of irremediable personal defects ; the re- proach on account of qualities implying nothing dishonourable ; the archness of which malice and villany are the sole distinctions: — are not these the species of wit, humour, and cleverness, by which an Englishman is ever the most delighted, and the most ambitious to distinguish himself ? And then, what can be so insipid as the mere milk and water of country simplicity and innocenee, unmixed and unvaried ! COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 25 A dash of the pungent, the saltish, the sour, and the bitter, is ever necessary to give a due reUsh to the sweet, and to the mild. One would as soon prefer a bottle of mawkish capillaire for drinking, to a bottle of old port — or apple sauce for fish, to soy and anchovies, as be content, in the country, with the mere Golden Age manners of pastoral Phillips ! 2>s. Well, gentlemen ! much good may they do you — these joys which you prize so high, — of converse with rude and knavish rustics ! I envy you them not. But I own I should be not a little diverted to see you both in the enjoyment of this favourite rural pleasure of yours ! You might affect to appear happy ! But, you would certainly be in the very situation of the German Baron at the feast of the ancients, in Peregrine Pickle, whose eyes were watering, his stomach in the throes of vomiting, and his whole frame almost in convulsions, by the effect of the phy- sician's Lacedaemonian broth, at the very moment when he was struggling to praise •it the most lavishly. SB COMFORtS 01' HUMAN LIFE. Sen. I know not very well, what to think of this sort of pleasure. I should imagine it a genuine one. But I fear I shall never be able to brace up my nerves to the enjoyment of it. Tes. (with a sneer) Pray, Mr. Chearful, have you not been able to find out a Comfort, '^ in the attempt to lay out one's " PLEASURE GROUNDS, on a plan which *' your ornamental gardener and his la- " bourers entirely defeat, in carrying it " into effect?" or " in labouring to im- '^ pROVE^owr fer^eflfso/* SHEEP and cattle '^ at a similar prodigality of expense, and '^ with equally disappointment?" (C. 5.) Cheai\ I have, indeed ! — ^The pleasure of forming your plan, of anticipating your -future groves, belts, clumps, lawns, knolls, ruins, trickling rills, foaming cascades, winding walks, and basons expanding into artificial lakes, no mortal can deprive you of. You possess it in spite of both orna- mental gardener and obstinate blockhead labourer^. It is a pleasure of iraagina- COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 27 lion — in its nature one of the most ex- quisite. How delightful to expend one's money upon a design in any of tlie arts of refine- ment and genius, which is of one's own contrivance ! The more capriciously sin- gular and fantastic the design, so much the more does its author usually delight to lavish a boundless expense in carrying it into effect. What is sarcastically termed this or that man's folly, is commonly that which it has been the very pride and charm of his life to create. There is a pleasure, which much more than counterbalances the vexation, when one's designs in ornamental gardening ap- pear to be frustrated, only because the genius of every person one can employ, is so exceedingly below one's own, as to be incapable to carry them into effect. . It is the very consummation of pride, to find one's self thus without a second and withr out a judge ! But, the greatest felicity of all is, that the disappointment of such a design, by Uicans of which its author is innocent, 02 t8 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE, becomes his defence against the censures,^ to which its success might have exposed him. A gentleman can insist, that it tvould have been, not a Folly, but a Pa- radise, which his manager and workmen have hindered from being either the one or the other. He can still lead his visi- tors over his bogs, crags, and quagmires ; and, with the prophetic eye of taste, ex- plain their wonderous capabilities. He can renew his complaints perpetuall}-, that designs so noble were defeated so miser- ably I And, while he prepares new funds, he can have the delight of meditating^ plans much more magnificent! (C. 6.) Merry. And, for successless attempts to improve the breeds of cattle,— cannot the disappointed improver console himself, as did old Mr. Shandy, when the mare, from which he expected a fine pad, pro- duced a mule.— ^^ See, Obadiah, what " you have done !"— *^ It was not I that '' did it, please your honour !"— ^^ How COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 29 ^' do I know that?" — witli a look and h laugh of triunjph. (C. 7.) Tes, But I defy you to enjoy ainusc- iiient m the most enchanting rural walk in England, if your toes be covered with corns, your shoes tight, and your feet over-heated. Cliear, Why not: It is not only when we are quite free from pain, that we enjoy comfort. To be in that condition is rarely, if ever, the lot of man. But we are so constituted, as to be capable of enjoyment whenever our sensations or sentiments of pleasure are more numerous and more intense than those which affect us with pain. If one's corns give more of pain than one derives of pleasure from the views of nature, the society, the glow of energetic activity, which constitute the charms of the walk ; why should not one instantly stop, release the imprisoned foot^ and enjoy that repose which becomes peculiarly pleasing the moment any one begins to find activity uneasy r Now, the d3 so COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. pinching of the shoes — the shooting pairi of the corns — what are they but useful stimuli to excite the walker to a keener enjoyment of the pleasures before him ? Besides, how many little sarcastic jokes does not such a condition of the foot na- turally prompt the walker's wit to? The fancy is the most fertile in the invention of incidents, sentiments, and imagery of grandeur and beauty, at those times when one's mind feels none of those which are called the petty vexations of life. On the contrary, the wit is the readiest and brightest, when those very teizing vexations are perpetually striking new scintillations from its edge. And who would not be a wit, at so trivial a charge as that of suf- fering a little by a corn and a tight shoe? Such a condition of the foot, too, af- fords a good occasion of paying a gallant and liberal compliment to one's company, whether one proclaim or bravely hide one's sufterings in the extremities! And the consciousness of having, in one instance, conquered pain, arms one with new fortitude to keep it, on future COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 31 occasions, more at a distance from inter- meddling in one's pleasures. Merry. So, your advice is, Mr. Chear- ful Tu ne cede cornuj Sedt contra audentior ito. Chear, Most certainly. (C. 8.) Sen. But *' the torment of gravel in ^' the boot, which you have endured till it *' becomes absolutely intolerable I" Mern/. Tis nothing. Take off your boot. Use your hands ** Hi motus animorum, et haec certamina tanta, *' Exiguijactu pulveris, corapressa, quiescent.'* The pleasure of finding that one can so easily rid one's self of such an annoyance, much more than compensates for the slight mieasiness it has given. (C. 9.) Tes. '', Newspapers delayed— till their intelligence is old ?" Merry, A vexation annihilated, trans 32 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. muled into a comfort — by the charming suspense it creates— by the anticipation it allows— by the inventive conjectures to which, in the interval of delay ;, it pushes the mind ! (C. 10.) Tes. " Following a slow cart, on horse- ^' back, through a long and narrow lane?'* Chear. Charming opportunity — to mark narrowly the produce, culture, and beau- ties of the scenery on either hand — to watch the flittings of the clouds on the sky above — to distinguish the limits of the horizon around— to view the perpetually varied colouring with which the rays of the setting sun are reflected from the clouds, and diffused, with faint lustre, over the plains and mountains— to listen to the mingled noises of the joy, vexation, and other natural sounds of men and other animals, arising from the hamlets, villages, and farms — to mark the rising smoke, with whose ascent so many pleasing ideas are naturally associated — to suffer the mind to glide insensibly into that stream of reverie COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. 33 into which such a concurrence of objects tends naturally to lead it I (C. u.) Sen, ^' A sluggish attempt to amuse " yourself by working in your garden, ^* when it is against your feelings to *' make an effort, to which good sense " powerfully induces you — what comfort *' is in this ?"— Merry, A great deal of comfort. — It is a comfort that never fails of pleasing the mind — when it makes an effort to submit inclination to duty. The consciousness of having made such an effort, inspirits the mind to continue it. Its continuance augments the pleasure* The energies of the body are enUvened by sympatiiy with those of the mind. The irst listlessness is shaken off. And, in the end, the working in the garden proceeds with a conscious triumph of activity over spleen and languor, than which nothing can well be more grateful. So ridiculously wrong, Mr. Testy, are you and Mr. Sensitive in your selection of 34 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. the themes of Misery in your Dialogues — that there is not one of your Miseries, butj^ like this, must, to every mind, free from morbid peevishness and irritability, prove a source of happiness ! Tes, *' But, were you a farmer, Mr. *' Merryfellovv, and had your hay deluged *^ with rain, jwst when you had got it quite **" dry enough to be taken in, and had " made all the requisite preparations for '' that work; — should you feel so very *' comfortable r" — (C. 12.) Merry. Assuredly, I should not feel uncomfortable. — I should laugh at such an example of the vanit}^ of human hopes and human preparations. I should satisfy my- self with dismissing my work-people to suitable within-door tasks. I should re- member, that — No?i semper imhres manant. — And, if I had your turn of mind, Mr. Testy, I should, no doubt, please myself with the reflexion, that — if the hay-har- vest prove bad, hay will but be, in pro- portion, so much the dearer; — and thut^ COMFORTS OF THE COUNTRY. S5 the more my crop is spoiled, so much the more must my gains be enhanced ! Sen» Very well! Mr. Merry fellow- Very well, indeed ! You give new life to my heart ! Do, lubens, manus I I am convinced. I am satisfied, that almost every one of our fancied Miseries is to you, and may become to me, a source of pure and genuine joy ! (C. 13.) Tes, Have you, Chearful or Merryfel- lovv, ever, in the country, met the vexa- tion of receiving a parcel of tenants at an annual dinner, when they pay their rents, urge their grievances, and make their numberless requests — just before you leave the country on your return to town for the season ? Have you found it possible to take pleasure in the awkward bashfulness of orae of them — the rude impudence of others — the fulsome flatteries of a third party — the growlings and coarse sarcasms of a fourth— iheir retchings and spittings, their management of knives, forks, spoons, so filthily at cross-purposes — the voracious 36 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. rapacity of their eating — the eagerness of their drinking — their conspicuousjealousies of one another — their mutual quarrels, which even your presence cannot restrain — and, at last, the general intoxication which lays some senseless and speechless under the table, sets others to boxing, sends some off on horseback, with a haste and an incapacity of steadiness that threaten to break their necks by the way? Chear. Neither Mr. Merryfellow, nor myself is so opulent as to have ever had opportunity to experience, in his own per- son, the vexations, if they be not rather amusements, of the scene you describe. Merry. But, I have been often present while my excellent friend met hi^ tenants, on such an annual day of busi- ness as Mr. Testy mentions — and enter- tained theiil at a farevvel dinner, before his departure for town. He accomits it ever the happiest day he ;Spends in the country. The kindness of his manner conciliates their general good- wilL Its dignity represses the out-break- ings of rustic insolence. A bashfulness, COMPORTS or THE COUNTRY. 3/ an esteem, a modesty pervade their whole conduct, which render its awkwardness and rusticity rather interesting than dis- agreeable. To such a landlord, there are no angry complaints to be made. His stewards commit no mischievous abuses. Mutual mistakes are no sooner explained, than they are corrected. The rack-rents are moderate : And, none are received, as tenants on his estates, but persons of probity, industry, and adequate capital. Hence, the payments are always punctual. Not a tenant tears the day of payment. Not one comes empty-handed. There are, among them, no illiberal jealousies. They meet round their landlord's table, as if they were all children of the same family. They behave with none of that grossness and indelicac}^ which might, in other cir- cumstances, be expected from persons of their condition. They listen, with defer- ence, when he addresses them. They scarce speak, but to answer his questions, or to pursue a train of conversation which he wishes to lead them into. They neither eat nor drink with intemperance. Though S3 COMFORTS or HUMAN LIFE, willing to enjoy his society to the last mi- nute to which they can suppose that therf presence will not be intrusion ; yet they leave him as soon as he can have any in- clination to see them retire. The simpli- city of their manners, the characteristic diversities oF their elocution and converse, tender enquiries after their absent wives and families, the discussion of subjects in the practice of husbandry, gentle, unassuming^ examinations into the industry and morab of the neighbourhood, interest his mind, while he holds them in convivial society at his table. — Such a day never ends, without leaving jmade them all reciprocally dearer to one another. Tes. Enough of the Country. — But, should you find it pleasant to come sud- denly to town, in the promiscuous com- pany, and indifferent accommodation, of a mail-coach j* (C. 18.) Chear. Why not ? A mail-coach gives th^ comfort of prompt and safe convey- ance. fOM FORTS 6t THE COUNTRY, 5^ It is quicker and more safe than private carriages can, in general, be. It gives you the benefit and honour of early rising. It shakes one into habits of subordination and obedience, by subjecting you, for the journey, to the command, in fact, of the mail-coach driver and liis horses. It teaches temperance, by allowing you but a few minutes in which to swallow a few mouthfuls of ill-dressed dinner, a cup or two of milk and water, with a slice of dirty bread and butter for a breakfast, and perhaps, at a different hour, a few glasses of log-wood water, instead of port-wme. It instructs us, not to be squeamishly over delicate in favour of sweet odouri. Crammed up in a mail-coach, with males and females of every diversity of years, health, and condition, we necessarily learn fortitude, in the exercise of all our senses, but especially the sense of smell. It affords one occasion to learn to sit t)ackward in a coach. Jt brings us into an acquaintance with £ 2 40 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. manners and characters, interesting by their comic humour and dramatic effect, which it would be difficult for most persons to gain a knowledge of, in any other cir- cumstances. It yields such opportunity of recover- ing damages for the fracture of a leg, or the dislocation of a shoulder, as it would be impossible to obtain, if one met with a similar accident from his own carriage. If the weather be fair — and you dare venture yourself among the plebeians on the top of the coach — you may enjoy the prospects of the circumjacent scenery, "with higher satisfaction, than it is easy to obtain from any other advantage for the survey of rural landscapes. And when, at last, you alight at Hat- ch ett's in Piccadilly — how agreeable to be warned by the crowd and bustle at the doors, by the ready civility of the waiters, by the elegant fitting up of the coflee- Tooms, by the excellence of the entertain- ment, and by the enormous dearness of every thing, — that you are, now in Lon- don! COM TOUTS OP THE COUNTRY. 41 Sen. In tiuih, my dear old friends, I cannot but like your excursion to the country, much more than those, of which the results are exhibited in one of the Dialogues between Mr. Testy and myself. Hut, there was, perhaps, a good deal of Comfort in our Miseries: And 1 am in- inchned to suspect, that there may be Misert/ in your Comforts, Yet, what with iaughing at what are to others, calamities, — what with discovering grounds of Comfort, which tempers like mine and Testy *s are not forward to discern, — you certainly con- trive to make human life appeav much less unhappy in the Country, than I had, hi-t therto, conceived it to be. Tes, Enough of all this, for the pre- sent. — It is, now, lato in the morning. — » Let us separate. — To-morrow, I shall be glad to hear what you have to say of London. Chear, I will, with all my heart, give you the meeting. You, Mr. Testy, what- ever you may sometimes endeavour to per- suade yourself, are already, as appears from your habits of life, and your dislike of E 3 4a COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. the (iountry, not a little partial to London, You shall find that, in favour of its Com- forts, we have at least not less to say, than we have already represented in commen- dation of the beauties and pleasures of the Country. Shall we meet here, at the same hour, to-morrow morning ? Sen, No;— rather dome the favour to make my library, at my house in St. James's Square, the scene of our meeting and conversation. ^hear. — Merry, Willingly. Tes. I have no objection. There was something congenial between this scene find the subject of our conversation of to-day, which rendered it peculiarly pro- per for us to meet^ on this occasion, in this charming Park. Speaking of the Comforts of London, we may just as well remain within doors. — COMFORTS OF LONDON. 4^ DIALOGUE THE THIRD, COMFORTS OF LONDON. Testy, Sensitive, Chearful, and Merrijfellow* Scene — Sensitive^ s Home in St. James' S' Square, Sensitive, Tr ELCOME, gentlemen ! I am glad to find you, all, punctual to your appointment. I was, myself, impatient to see 3'ou. I have not slept sounder these twenty years, nor had more pleasant dreams, than last night. AVhen I went to bed, I fell, almost instantly, into a deep, refreshing sleep. Towards the dawn, I awoke, in a pleasing state of the spirits. After reflecting on what passed in our conversation of yester- dfiy, I, turned my thoughts^ for some mi- 44 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE, nutes, or\ what I >vas to expect to-day. T dropped asleep, again. Asleep, I sooi% imagined myself in a Pfvradise, in which all was abundance, beauty, chearfulness, constancy, dnd gay good-humoUr, Sfe- thought, there was no subject of vexation known in that spacious, rural scenCj, but such things as — getting a little sand in the boot in walking — -a pinch of snult" acat^ lered from the fingers by the wind, am.], getting partly into the eyes — now and then, an unseasonable ring of bells— and other such embryo miseries — as made the bur- then of the famous rural Dialogue betweeii Testy and myself. But, they seemed not miseries. They were occasions of gaiety, springs of exertion, topics of converse, points upon which the mutual sympathies of all, were lightly and most agreeably ex- ercised. Tes» Don*t fancy, Mr. Sensitive, that T am unwilling to see you deceived into a dream of vain felicity. Make yourself as happy as you can. Sacrifice your senses and your reason to the vainest of delu- sions. Depart to Fairy-land, if you can—- COMFORTS OF LONDON. 4.7 Allow Ches, the furniture, pre- sent forms and colours the most agreeable to the eyes, that it is possible for objects of such accommodation to become. — And then — how charming to see the lions! how delightful to ascend the monument ! how interesting, a walk in the Park ! how agree- able to visit the palaces, the collections of paintings, the monuments of sculpture, the public libraries, the halls of commerce, the >vharfs, the docks, the forests of masts in the river, the light boats in continual mos^ement upon it! What so pleasing to the eyes, as that immense variety of com- modities which meets the view at the doors and windows of the shops from the Ex-* change to Charing Cross ! How convenient the assistances to the sight, provided by so many opticians and oculists, the most emi- hent in the world ! F 3 54 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Chear. The social, the intellectual COMFORTS of London are infinitely more valuable, than those which address them- selves to the Senses merely. You can contemplate, here, all the di- versity of Human Characters and Manners. In the streets, in the coffee-houses, in the Exchange, and other great market places, at all the great theatres of public amuse- ment, in this metropolis, we meet, as it were, men of every nation, tongue, and kindred under Heaven. Nothing so en- gages human curiosity, sympathy, hope, and fear, as the contemplation of the di- versities of human Character. In the immense assemblaoe of these diversities which London presents, it has, therefore, a charm of unrivalled power to exercise an animating, gladdening influence on the heart of man. Not only the exterior and superficial dis- tinctions of character and appearance are more easily to be contemplated in London than elsewhere. The radical, permanent distinctions of humour, passion, and in- tellect, are, here, the most coiiveni<'ntly COMFORTS OF LONDON. 55^ studied. Mark the emotions of the spec-, tators at our theatres; view the scenes of vulgar contention, which occur in the streets; enter the Courts of Justice, and mark the play of character and passions ; attend the scenes of puhlic business ; hsten to the Debates in the great legislative Courts of the Nation ; enter into the meet- ings of private society ; visit the hospitals and the prisons; observe some of those many unfortunate accidents which occur continually in the course of trade, labour, and pleasurable activity : — You shall have, in these, a school of human nature and of general manners, the interest and the charm of which are as unrivalled as the instruc- tion that they afford. The FORTUNES of life are illustrated in liOndon, in a manner perhaps still more interesting. The rich to-day is poor to-p morrow. The great man is, before your €yes, degraded : The mean is suddenly ex- alted : Vigorous life is extinguished in sud- den death : Recoveries from the gates of death, the most extraordinary, are conti- nually surprizing our observation, and ma** 56 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. nifesting a new power of human art over the misfortunes and infirmities of nature : In the streets, on the river, on the Stock- Exchange, in the transactions of the Mer- chants, in the successions of great families, every variety of humiin fate, presents it- self to our eyes. — It is not merely good fortune that interests and charms our feel- ings. Nothing charms, engages, and sus- pends our sympathies, more than those in- cidents of w^iich it is expressively said — ** Sunt lacryma?, rerum, et mentcm, mortalia, *' tangunt." — London is the favourite seat of that in- telligence and those Fine Arts which are the pride of man, and which yield the greater proportion of the rational pleasure of w^hich his mind is susceptible. Its li- braries, its schools, its public institutions for instruction, the assemblies for conver- sation at the houses of men of distinction and hberal curiosity, the Lectures read here upon subjects in every department of knowledge or scientific art, yield a nourish- ment to the intellect^ the most various and C0MF0RT5 OF LONDON. 57 the richest that it can enjoy. London is the seat of a traffic in literary publications, and the centre of a general correspondence, by which its inhabitants are enabled to drink of every spring of knowledge, the moment its waters burst up into the light. Its coffee-houses become much rather schools of intelligence than butteries of mere sensual refreshment. Its Post-office is a grand central bason, incessantly re- ceiving and distributing the Streams of Knowledge. Its theatres associate almost all the other Fine Arts with the incessant culture of the most airy and interesting branch of our classic literature. Its Houses of Parliament, its Courts of Justice, its Churches, are the best and most inte- resting schools of political and legisla- tive science, of the rules of distributive justice, of the truths of religion, and of the principles of morality throughout all their applicaiions, which the world affords. It teems with the works of the Me- chanic Arts. These are exercised here in a refinement and ingenuity which h^vo 53 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. ii^ver been excelled elsewhere. It is ever pleasing not less than instructive to con- template the efforts of ingenious industry. Enter the manufactures dispersed through- out London, — and in its environs — and you shall find every where the active practice of those Arts in their highest perfection^ which do not elsewhere exist but in a ruder and inferior state. All the elegancies of foreign Art are imported into it ; and no €Ooner imported, than, if liked, they are imitated and excelled by its native artisans. Its quays exhibit, in the goods there con- tinually laden and unladen, all the triumph and the various magnificence of its Arts. The new inventions brought from time to time, into practice in it, are more in num- ber than those afforded by all the other countries of Europe together. You may wander from work-shop to work-shop, day after day, and find ever new matter of amusement the most instructive! Such are some of the general Com- forts which London presents for the so- lace of human life. It gives all the inte- resting glow of the passions — all the af- COMPOKTS or LONDON. 5^ fecting vicissitudes of fortune — all the energies of intellect — all the endless diver- sity of the bounties of nature, accommo- dated by ingenious Art to the best utilities of human existence. It exhibits that tur- moil of life, that ferment of activity, that mixture of the projects, thie successes, the animated enjoyments, the virtues, the' vices, the solicitudes, the sufferings, that association of pleasures sensual and intel- lectual, in which it is the delight of the human heart, by s}Tiipathy or by pei-soYial interests, to take a part. 2'es. What are these general Comforts, but a mountain of Miseries ? Merry, Mountain of Miseries ? Pray,' Mr. Testy ! — Single' out some of ihein ! (C. Q.) TeSv Single out ! What can be a greater Misery than to face the dust and dilt of the roads, the crowding of waggons, the lushings, the encounters, the ruins of' coaches, the march of bullocks, drays, and maxket-wpnxen, jthe foggy stpiosphere op- (So COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. pressing the lungs almost to •suffocation, the smoke, the smells, the jolting on the jstones, and all the etca^tera of concomi- tant ills, which muster against a stranger at his first access to this Babylon of human crimes, follies, and misfortunes ? Merri/, Most amazing ills, no doubt ! The bustle of industry and civilized life, a Misery to the spectator when he first be- beholds it! — What young beauty, coming to town, for the first time, to try the power of her form and her eyes at Court, and in the other grand scenes of fashionable re- sort, ever found such distresses as you figure to yourself in the enti-ance to Lon- don ? What young heir, arriving, for the first time, to pass a winter amid the bustle and broil of London amusements and pleasures, ever failed of finding a charm exhilarating to his spirits, in those objects of obstruc- • tion, distress, and terror, over which your imagination is so deeply afflicted ? What statesman, hastening to London to assert the importance of his influence aud talents^ ever suffered l^imself to be an- CoMfOKtS OF LONDON* 6l iioyed by the coaches he met? — or snuffed the smoke, without feeling it to enliven his brain more than the best Strasburgh ? or respired the air of London from his lungs, without finding it to affect him with sensa- tions more extatic than the famous trans- sport-giving gas of the chemist can com- municate? \^ hat matron, a leader of the fashion,—* weary of Christmas festivity in the country, —tired of rural society, — impatient to lead^ to shine, to dazzle, to blaze, — hopeful to gain prodigious sums by gaming, to set the fashion of routes^ assemblies, theatres, masquerades, — studious to get by intrigue, great matches for her daughters, — resolved to outshine every rival in the splendour of horses, carriages, and dashing smartness* of dress in the ring in Hyde-Park — What matron, what titled dame of fashion, en- tering London, with such views, and after a tedious rustication— ever felt aught but the liveliest joy, when she arrived within the perception of those genuine marks which you enumerate, that she entered the G 6^ COMFOHTS OF HUMAN tlFE. very immediate accesses to the scene of her expected glories, successes,, and joys? The gardener, bringing his produce to market, the nearer he approaches to Lon- don and to the market, is but so much the more pleased. — The shopkeeper, returning ft'om Brighton, or any other favourite wa- tering place, is delighted when he arrives again within the sound of Bow-bells, and meets all those obstacles and that confusion which bespeak the town to be full. — The Merchant from the country, coming to make sales and purchases from which he expects vast profits, enters Tendon in an eagerness of activity and satisfaction which renders all the smells, obstructions, and feelings of which you complain, the most grateful to his heart. No ! no ! — It is but to the Testy, to the morbid!}^ Sensitive, to those whose suscep- tibilities of joy are exhausted, that your fancied disagreeables, in the immediate ap- proach to London, do not, by association, if not by direct natural effect, give senti- ments of joy. They can do much to mi-* nister to a mind diseased — though the^ COMFOKTS OF LONDON. Cj have not precisely the Quack physician's power of curing the incurahle — though they cannot force comfort in upon a mind in which the corresponding sensihihties have heen entirely destroyed. Is it so sur- prizing, that he who has long endeavoured to persuade himself, that the odour of a rose is the fcetor of assa-fcctida, should, at last, sink into an hypochondria, by which the imagination shall entirely pervert jthe Sense ? Sen. But, the sight of accidents of wickedness, embarrassment, or personal injury in the streets — what comfort is it possible to extract from this ? Or, how ven- ture along the streets of London at all, without encountering such ? Or, how, in- deed, view them, without enduring all the agonies that whether self-love or philan- thropy can inflict? (C. 3.) Chear. Be not so hasty in unpleasant conclusions. A coach breaks down; the company within, are thrown out ; one has a leg broken, G 2 64 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFI^. another an arm dislocated^ a third, a fine woman, her face bruised and irrecoverably disfigured. A bustle ensues. You ap- proach at the moment of tumult and distress — and are a spectator of the whole ! And is there no comfort, think you, to be extracted from the sight ? It affords, ir\ truth, a great deal of comfort. — One feels an instinctive sentiment of satisfaction, that the misfortune is not one*s own.-— Even the most tenderly beneficent cannot but indulge some complacent emotion of emulation or pride, at sight of any thing, that in any respect, humbles another, if but for a moment, beneath ourselves. — The surprize of the accident interests our cu- riosity. — What is painful and piteous in it, to the sufferers, soothes our hearts with that self-approbation which ever accompa- nies the consciousness of virtuous sensi^. bility. We acquire from the sight of the fear, suffering, weakness, and fortitude, ix new acquaintance with their varied imagery by which our knowledge of human clia« racter and fortunes is necessarily enlarged . — ^ Tlfere is ever something ludicrously coiiiig COMFORTS OF LONDON. 6o that intermingles itself with the seriousness and the distress of such a scene : — the rueful looks and odd exclamations of the coachman, the awkwardness of the situa- tions in which the persons fall, the insen- sibility of some part of the surrounding mob, the droll expressions of sympathy which escape from others of them, the hur- ry and confusion in which they interpose to give their assistance ! Consider_, also, what a subject of conversation the accident affords to him wlio was an eye-witness of it, for all the rest of the day ! What con- sequence does it not give him in every coflee-house or private company, in wliicli he tells the tale ? If he be a person other- wise of barren intellect, and slender powers of converse — it rouses him, even for a day or two, to all the importance of a Genius and an Orator — proud and unex- pected elevation ! 'fes. Admirable ! Admirable ! I mnst confess, that you have made it out very well ! This is a pleasure quite to my own heart. I think that I could, indeed, at any time, participate with you, in this comfort. G 3 G6 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LlFEl. (C. 4.) Chear. What should vou think of tlie comfort of going to the threatre on the first night of a new play or of a performer of extraordinary fame aqd expectation, — a SiDDONS, a Kemble, a Cooke, or a Betty! — then, finding — that you have come too late — that all the avenues leadr ing to the threatre are crowded so as to render access impossible — or after forcing- way in for a certain length, and being squeezed into the slenderest dimensions of a weasel, being at last fixed, so as to be incapable either to advance or retreat, and all but crushed absolutely to death before the crowd begins to disperse; — Or, worse still — you will say — -getting actually into the House, but in a situation too distant to allow a view of the stage, where you now faint with intolerable heat, are now chilled to death by blasts cold as if they bore on their wings all the ices of the frozen Oceanji have your ears rent with ignorant bursty of applause, loud as the wolves on Oica^s stormy shore ^ are now terrified as if by the COMFORTS OF LONDON". 6? hisses of myriads of angry cats reinforced with legions of r^t\e snakes, now shrink from an insurrection to violence te»*rible as when the eartli-born giants heaped moun- tain upon mountain, and planted their batteries against the Deities of Heaven? Sen, Horrible! Horrible! I once ex- perienced all this! When, even now, I think of it, — my very flesh creeps at the remembrance. I can hardly believe my- self safe at this moment. It is astonishing to me to think, that I could survive it ! Merry, Survive it! Survive it! How came you to be so eager to run yourself into it? How came such crowds of old and young, rich and poor, stout and sickly, males and females, to press themselves into the same situation? With a knowledge, chat the house would be almost empty, — would any one of all those be so anxious to get, for that night, a seat in it? fs it not the fame of the crowd that contributes the most to augment it? Tell the same multitude separately, that, performers even greater than those 1 named, are to grace he scene^ but that httle or no company is 6s COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. to be attractefl to see them; — not Garrick, nor Roscius himself from the dead shall have power to draw them' together! It is, then, the very crowd, the ver}^ difficulty, the very squeezing, the very noise of ap- plauses, the very discord of hisses and disapprobation, that constitutes the grand cliarra of public entertainments like these. It is a charm adapted to the feelings and the temper of every age. What though death, the fracture of limbs, or disease never aftenvards to be subdued, may be the frequent consequence? All joy hovers over the verge of misfortune. Man de- lights to pursue his pleasures to those extreme limits at which they border ou suffering. Tlie misfortune is accident; — the joy, the comfort is of the essential nature of the thing! — Men have died of laughing; some, amidst the joys of a wedding night; others of the ecstacy of recovered liberty ; others, of the satisfac- tion which has been shed over their minds upon learning, that a wife, a husband, or a child supposed to have been lost, still lived in health and to their wishes. But, COMFOHTS OF LONDON. 69 the joys which thus ended in misfortune, were not, for ithat, the less sincerely joys ! Nor are any ^-iccidents attending a crowd, upon a grand occasion, at the theatres, more capable to ajter the true nature of those joys to which they prove, at times, the natural catastrophe | Seti. If 1 had not felt so much bruised, and hypM, and frightened upon the oc- casion I mentioned to you; I might have been convinced by the truths you state, that it was an occasion of joy. But, I find it difficult to reconcile my recollections ivith your reasonings. And yet, I will Veely own, that you have awakened in ne, a strong curiosity to make a new ex- eriment of this comfort of yours. And, f Cooke, or Kemble, or Betty shall ver again be able to assemble a crowd at [Ither of our Winter-theatres; I shall not lillingly fail to be in the midst of it. (C. 5.) Tes. Among the out-of-door Comforts London and its environs — what think t'u of finding your favourite field, in the 7P COMFORTS OF HUi>IAN LIFE. most pleasing month of the year^ manured )\'ith soil from the Nightmen's carts, that infects the air to a distance, with an in- sufferable stench, such as shall not cease to be felt for six or seven weeks together? Merri/. Ah! Mr. Testy! Mr. Testy! Sure! You cannot but have read Burke on *' the Sublime and the Beautiful." Does not he inform you, that noisome stench is one grand source of the Sublime? What though the Sublime do not communicate exactly that sort of Delight which is de- rived from the perception of the Beautiful? You know that the sentiments of the Sub- lime, however, they may differ from those of the Beautiful, are the most elevating, the most expanding, the most adapted to please the mind with a consciousness of tlie force and grandeur of its own energies, of any that can possibly touch the heart or the imagination of man. Y'our field was before but beautiful! The care of the farmer has suddenly transformed it; for your pleasure, into a scene of sublimity- sublime even as the fauces of the lake COMFORTS OF LCTNDON. t^ Avernus itself! How convenient, how interesting the change ! Besides, while you pass through snch a scene,^ — how pleasing to reflect, that the vilest things on earth are capable of being rendered the most admirably conducive to its fertility and beauty! When the filtli 6f our streets and houses is thus made to become the parent of rich, abundant ver- •dure, freshness, and fragrance to our fields and pastures — what is it that we may not presume to hope from the bounty of Nature, and the Art of Man? How pleasing to reflect on the metamorphosis w'lich you are, here, in a- few months, to ! xpect, of this filth to fragrance! Tes. Ha! ha! ha! — Very well, indeed ! 'Fhcre is nothing, I find, out of which, ji roolutely sanguine and contented mind iiay not extract matter of happiness, f lope Mr. Merryfellow is able to bring his lose to sympathize with his imagination, vhen the stench of such a manured field (wells his soul with emotions of Sublimity, 1 leads out his intellect into a train of reeable liieditation on the bounties^ of 72 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE^ Kature, and the beneficient utilities of* human Art? Eh? Chenr, Oh ! He takes care to look for- Zi^ard ^ farther than his Nose f — -But let us change the topic. What should you thinks Gentlemen^ of the Comfort of — stopping with eager curiosity — to discover what it was so very extraordinary, that arrested the attention of a whole multitude of pas- sengers in the street, — and finding, after many enquiries, to many of which you had insolent quizzing, to all unsatisfactory, answers, — that it was only an old apple- wo- man who had dropped half-a-dozen goldea rennets from her baskets, — or two drunkea wenches of the town, that had loudly accosted one another by the appellative name that belonged the most properly tO' them both,— or a seemingly lame and a seemingly blind beggar whose association had been suddenly broken, so that each betraj^ed the other's secret, — and the lame w^as made to run, and the blind re- covered his sight? Sen» Pnovoking enough ! Chear. Bui, the proYocation may well eOMFORtS OF LONDON. 73 be suppressed for the sake of the amuse- ment. A remarkable contrast of puny causes with operose and magnificent effects, or of slight effects with a mighty preparation of causes, is ever among those sources of Humour and Ridicule which prove the most divert ing to the mind of man. To see a crowd at gaze over an incident or appearartce, that, truly known, is not of a nature to rouse wonder or to interest curiosity — can- not but dispose the person to laugh, who feels himself in regard to such objects^ quite secure in the Nil admirari. He views the whole crowd, as fools in comparison |with himself. It is pleasing to find, where you were, at first, led to dread some melancholy acr L'ident, that nothing such has taken place. You fancied, that, perhaps, a child had peen killed, or some portly alderman had flropped down dead in a fit of apoplexy : ou find, that it is only something too tri#- jial to move either joy or sorrow : — To a ood heart what an agreeable disappoint* lentl 74 COMFORTS OF HUMAN tlFE. The sympathy of gaping wonder, which you, in such an instance, witness among the crowd, affords a pleasing comic proof of the- community of the nature of men— r of the manner in which the chords, whe- ther of mirth or of melancholy, vibrate, in almost all hearts, in unison. There are always in your apart- ments — and walking abroad, at noon, with a dark lanthorn ! Sen, But, the ludicrous, unfortunate accidents that are apt, in such darkness, to befal one in the streets ? Merry, Why, what though you should run your nose against a post, at a time when your neighbour cannot see your mis- adventure, to laugh at it r And, if acci- dents of more serious misfortune happen to Others; your feelings are not distressed by the sympathy which, in light, they might excite — for, you cannot see them ! (C. 7.) Te§, Well, then ! what think you of the annoyances of Coffee-house conversa- tion in London ? Does not every foolish and stupid fellow infest the Coffee-houses to which he may have heard, that men of genius and intelligence occasionally resort ? COMFORTS OF LONDON. 77 Do not such persons the most eagerly and pertinaciously obtrude their conversation, in the hope to be distinguished as having talked well in such a Coffee-house ? Does not a certain degree of intoxication often animate the conversation to boisterousness ? Is it not common to meet, in such places— perhaps one old fool that, without sense to distinguish a pear from a potatoe, shall boast to have been against the Government 3ver since the American war, — and who Knows no rule for his opinion, but to be ever against— against — perhaps another, who af- fects on every subject peculiar refinement of :aste, and a fiery rectitude of opinion, nei- her the one nor the other of which he can evince but by bursts of maniac passion, by ncessant puffings of morbid irritability, by ke most absurd paradoxes ever cxpres- ed in articulate speech? Does there nut eign in such Coffee-house-conversation,— -- . familiarity as free as that of intimate liendly, domestic converse, — and a rude- ess and a pertinacious disobligingness, as ■ all were the fierce railings of inveterate iiemies ? — And yet, is not such amuse- K 3 78 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIBE. naent as CofTee-houses afford, a resource of indispeiisible necessity to relieve one from so many other evils of London? — Wliat comfort is there to he discovered in all this ? Chear, A great deal of comfort.— r-The Ups and Downs, the Roughs, and Smooths, the Bitters and Sweets, form the grand charm of life and of conver^tion. There is said to be a pleasure in madness, that none but madmen know. And there is a pleasure in, now and then, meeting testy contradiction, which tlie mind while it enjoys it, will scarce own to be a pleasure. The affectations of the stupid, silly and vain ; the curmudgeon selfishness of the miserly ; the proaks and groans of the un- reasonably discou tended ;. the qo^combr briskness of the unconsciously sl$pejficiai ; the mischievous sneers of those who ex- press contempt of that which they canuot, understand ; the surly self conceit of per- sons who are proud only of prejudices and of an emptiness of mind which render? , them ridiculous to others; the affectation and the morbid irritability of those who COMFORTS or tONDON. 79 come abroad only to make a parade of cankered criticism of every >vord that is uttered and every incident which passes be-* fore them: — All these are, by the order of nature, destined for the comic amuse- ment of the men whose talents, whose feelings, whose taste, whose habitual dis-. positions qualify them for the enjoyment of every moral and physical appearance, out of which the springs of joy and comfort may be educed. The Boisterous at a Coffee-house gives the blubter of rude Boreas in a storm at sea, without his ^jhipwrocks. It affords a mirth-r moving illustration of the inanity of noise and of the powers of wine. It is Bacchus and iEolus combining their forces to raisQ a tempest— and most impotently failing! When the ignorant Fool obtrudes him- self into Society which he supposes en-r lightened ; and strives, by talking avvay^j to make a figure in it; — there is that in-r consistency which Akens|dk mark^ for one of the grand sources of the ridiculouSj^ -^between the confidence of the pretenrr sion and the e^^trewe insufl^ciencv of \k^ 80 COMPORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. means to support it. The coxcomb relieves us from any painful feelings of compas- sion, by the presumption of his claims. The ridicule of the contrast between his demands and his abilities, is, of course, enjoyed in all its purity. The incongruity excites the liveHest merriment. The poor creature is perhaps heard with a patience which deludes him, continually, into new follies. Or, if, on the other hand, he is, at last, driven from the scene, bj^ general and unequivocal symptoms of merry con- tempt; the correction which his manners and his self-conceit receive, compensates to our benevolence for the pain he is made to undergo. The absurdity of his reason- ings, the falsehood of his facts, the awk- ward uneasinesses into which he betrays himself, are those which Comedy and Farce find their very triumph in mimick- ing ' The Testy Old Fool, who claims the praise of discernment, — and a right to af- fect consequence,^ — because he has studied for half a century, to profess an opinion against the interests and wishes of his COMFORTS OF LONDON. 81 country, — and has, constantly, made an- swer with a shrug of the slioulders and a hard, dry, unintelhgent laugh, to every impressive argument that could be urged for his conviction, — is not less, a fair ob- ject of that ridicule which is ever amusing. — To be old without the benefits of expe- rience—can never fail to move merry con- tempt, where that contempt is not pre- vented by compassion. — To have continued in the wrong, for a series of years, with obstinacy, which neither reason nor con- spicuous, impressive events could soften-^ can, in such light matters as the topics, and the strain of Coffee-house chat, — ex- pose a man to no sentiments in others more to them unpleasant than gay contempt. — To have continued so long, in sentiments maliciously hostile to the welfare of his country— and with reasons for such hosti- lity, the most sillily absurd — must operate, as a cause still more powerful, to rouse that men*}' delight which it is in the elementary nature of the Ridiculous to yield. But, to rejoice in this error of reason, and in this malignant pravity of sentiment, as th^ 62 COMFOHTS OF HUMAN LIFE. pride of wit and wisdom — is — wherever compassion and indignation can be sup- pressed — the very consummation of the ridicule, and the last heightening of its power to divert ! For the crabbed irritability of the Critic who pretends to hold forth the morbid impatience of his feelings, as a proof of superior discernment; — this, also, is one of the amusements, the comforts of Coffee-house intercourse,— -not at all one of its chagrins. You mark his irritability, and the absurdity of reasonings and of judgment into which it betrays him. The absurdity is too glaring to leave it possible for you to do aught but smile or laugh. The absurdity which suppresses serious op- position, equally extinguishes serious com- passion. These sentiments withdrawn; no- thing but the pure gaiety, the necessary result from the excited sense of wit and ridicule, remains. — No sweet is to him, sweet enough; no sour, duly sour; light is to him not sufficiently lucid; nor air sufficiently colourless and impala- t)le. — On whatever subjects, the exercise of COMFOKTS OF LONDON. 83 this humour may turn, it is still enter- taining. — Even where to laugh — may im- ply some want of goodness or of grace — yet to be grave'^must exceed all pozver of face. Ridicule, then, and gaiety — are the principal sentiments excited by those which you account the most conspicuous nui- sances of Coffee-house conversation. These emotions, as springing, naturally, from the modes of reflexion to which our minds have been moulded, — and as being without pre- meditated malice or evil intrigue, — are fair, ingenuous ingredients, in the general mix- tures; in the PUNCH of the Comforts of Life. We may be allowed to take them then, to give a poignancy to the flavour of our Coffee, to serve as salt and water-cresses o our bread and butter, to improve the rehsh and the fragrance of a pot of green i)r black tea! — They have the eflfect of hading* to that conversation, modest, iyftly, natural, and in its information and [listinctions, correct, which constitutes the tictter part of Coffee-house Dialogue. Their intermixture in it, produces an 84 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. fffed the most strikingly dramatic. - — It diverts and enlivens us by the contrast between its turbulent variety, and the sof- tened propriety which ought to prevail in our private and domestic associations. — It rouses one from drowsiness over the insipi- dity of the Newspapers. And, it presents us with pointless jokes, bulls, puns, sole- cisms, cockneyisms, which form a diverting counterpart to those things which are the ilowers of Newspaper wit and eloquence! Sen. It may be, as you affirm. But, you seem to labour a great deal^ in the" at- tempt to make it out. Tcs. Nay; the enjoyments you speak of, are sufficiently to my taste. I have relished them. And, I should be sorry to lose the hope of participating in them yet again and again. Merry, Fairly avowed, Mr. Testy! — You, I think, are qualified either to en- joy these Coffee-house comforts- jrours^elfi or to become an exciting cause to others. Ha! ha! ha! COMFOBTS OF LONDON. 85 (C. 8.) Chear. But, to a mind of a chearful sanguime temperament, London affords innumerable other Comforts, even among those things which to the Over-Testy and the Over-Sensitive might appear to be only causes of misery. Tes, '' Well ! what think you of the com- '* fort of having your new hat exchanged ** for an old one, in the breaking up of ** the company from some public dinner?" ' Ckear. The accident can give no un- easiness to the mind of a person retiring, gay and elevated, from good company, a goo4 dinner, and generous wines. He soars, for the moment, above such petty cares. Perhaps the exchange is the mistake of intoxicated good fellowship. In this sup- position, it excites no sentiment but of gaiety and good fellowship in the mind of the loser. It was, perhaps, the trick of one of those merry fellows who delight in manual j(.kcs% In thii case, it is impos«ible for a 86 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIPK. very good-natured man, not to smile over the petty joke, — or even for a testy one, not to think himself over-paid for the loss he sustains, by the contemptuous self- pleasing pride of superiority which it gives him occasion to cherish. Has it been stolen by a person that ac- tually wanted a better hat than his own, but could not afford to purchase such an one? ^' Why, then," will the exhilarated loser naturally say, — '' fair befal the « thief!" But, whatever may have been the mo- tive or mistake of the man that went off. with the fine new hat ; the old one remains, •with him it has been left with, as a trophy of the convivial joy iu consequence of which he acquired it. He may hang it up in his hall,^ — as the standard of the French soi'disant Invincibles is suspended in honor of their Conquerors. He may display it with the pride with which our tars lately, displayed the Spanish flags over their trea-*, sures. He can preserve it, as the shells of Ossian's heroes were preserved in their halls of hospitality. Or he may put it COMFORTS OP LONDON. 87 •aside to be used with merry recollection whenever he goes to another public dinner. And as long as he retains it — he may boast, in his merry moments — what a nice bit of old hat he has got! Are not these Comforts ? Merry, Aye; Comforts for which any choice spirit would gladly risk the loss of twenty new hats ! (C. 9.) 5"^;/. But, what ^^ cure have you, Mr. ^' Merryfellow, for the fever of several hours attendance in the outer-room of a i'. public office?" Merry. Oh! Abundance of preventives! and, even though these should be neg- lected, enough of specific cures ! • The principal perhaps has no wish to see you : he is too busy to order your admis- sion to his presence till you have wearied him out both of his rudeness and of his j artifices: his attendant messengers carry in your card, with scornful indifference; and announce thai their patron cannot see you, Avith a proud satisfaction. You wait, L 2 88 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. minute after minute, and half-hour after half-hour, in all the impatience of sus- pense: Others who came after you, are admitted before you : You get dissatisfied with being exposed to the gaze of so many persons, — messengers, clerks, and solicitors Hke yourself, — as come and go, from time to time about you : At last, you are informed, that the great man has gone out at another door, ten minutes since; and are left to walk away with your finger in your mouth, in the same suspense of doubt and expec- tation in which you came ! Tes, Very fairly put ! Now, what Com- fort do you know to derive from circum- stances like these? Merry. Oh ! A great deal I There is a pride in being a solicitor or remonstrant at the Offices of the Govern- ment of the Country. The outer rooms at any of those Offices, are a scene in which to study several pecu- liar and interesting modifications of human business and character not to be viewed elsewhere. You have there, for nothing, sights as interesting as the wild beasts at COMFORTS OF LONDON. 89 Pidcock's, the Taylor of Brentford^s su- perfine horse at Astley's, the dancing dogs at Bartholomew's fair, — and, in the Chief of the Office, the personal consequence of the bulky Mr. Lambert, of the Irish Giant, or rather of the Invisible Girl herself ! You have opportunity to qualify your- self for an enlightened commentator on one of the most interesting passages in the works of Shakspeare, by contemplating aud enduring, in real life, — •* The insolence of office, and the spurns •* Which patient merit of the unworthy takes." You learn what an admirable resem- blance there is between the exterior apparatus and effective management of public business, and those beauties of Gothic architecture, so well marked by the Poet Gray, — ** Huge windows which shut out the light,— ** Long passages that lead to nothing." You get into the happiest mood imagi^. nable for unprovement in the fire of anti- L 3 90 COMFORTS OF HUMAN L1F£. ministerial eloquence. Love is said, to make the dullest of men, a Poet:— And, in a similar manner, a due length of attendance in the Outer- Rooms at a Public Office, will kindle in almost any mind, that inspiration, which launched the thunders of a Chatham, and which armed the mortal, unerring, resistless arrows pf a Junius ! You have the happiness to sei-ve an ap- prenticeship in the school of patience, tliat may serve perhaps to raise you to an equality pf fame with patient Grizzel herr During your delay, you have the hap^ piest leisur^e to cultivate that sainted per- fection of the Indian Fakirs,—^' to fix the *' eyes with a direction as sitady and im- ■' changing as possible, on the point of the f' noser The late Mr. Harris of Salisbury taught, that the end of tragic representations in the Drama,, was, to harden the heart gra- dually against all the emotions of terror land of pity. And similar is the use of a (due attendance as a Solicitor, in the outer- . COMFORTS OP LONDON. 91 rooms; at a Public Office. It purifies the breast from the weakness of loyalty, fiom the esteem of ministerial talents, from the ambition of intercourse with men of poli- tical consequence, from foolish attachment to any one form of Government preferably to another, from the sneaking spirit of Depei)dance, from all those sentiments of political idol worship, which unman and debase the heart that holds them. Vou learn the true value of Popk*s sup- )lement to the iJeatitudcs — *' Blessed is he • Kho hath no expcclations—for he sha/l not '* bt disappointed!'* If withheld from penetrating to the pre- sence of the OuRANo-OuTANG that sits '•nthroned within, — yoiv find, at least, he fulfilment of those words in the booU 'f the Kevelations — '^ Without are dogs, " and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whoso- ' ever loveth and mak<3th a lie ! " Tes. Preventives and Cures, these, f'hich I would— much rather administer, lao- take for myself — much rather empty ver the windo\v than in^o my own sto^ 92 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. mach. And yet, I doubt not but if enticed into the fever-giving crisis, I should be glad to have recourse to them. (C. 10.) Sen. Well ! vi^hat should either of you think of ^' a dance along the streets, with '' a mad hull in full pursuit?" Merry. Charming opportunity for the display of agility, courage, dexterity at escape, and a religious antipathy to mad- ness! Charming occasion to join the ad- dress of di picaroon m a Spanish bull-fight with the lightness and the convulsive move- ments of the dancer of the fandango. (C. 11.) Tes, But what comfort is there in the smell of the meat which salutes your nos- trils as you pass through one of the London jriarkets in the dog-days? Chear. Oh! don't you recollect tha Vitellius, the greatest Epicure of the Em perors of Rome, declared, that no smel was so savoury, as that of the putrid caij case of a fallen enemy ? — And, if so gre I COMFORTS OF LONDON. a connoisseur in matters of this nature, wii*» not wrong in his taste; much more savoury, sure must be the smell of carcases which are quite in a condition to make the btst dishes. — Animal food is not in its best perfection till after it has been reduced by keeping, tlie nearest possible to putres- cence, without being absolutely putrid. — And, what connoisseur in good eating, is there, who does not delight to receive the information of his nostrils, that any eata- bles of animal food which fell in his way, ure quite in a way to have the \eryfumtt which he admires, when they shall be put upon the table. Besides, the market of Covent Gardca itself does not present in greater variety, the stimuli to the sense of Smell, than does that of Leadenhall, of Newgate, or of St. James's — These are the true scenes in which to enjoy that Omnis Copia nanum which Horace so elegantly mentions among the highest pleasures of which the human senses are susceptible. Again ihe *' AcutU naribm,'^ the '' naso aduniOy' the ** su^pensu7?i nasufii'-^avQ 94 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. phrases used by the Roman writers, to indicate a carriage of the nose,, that was ever regarded, as a sure indication of Wit in him who wore his nose in that fashion. Now, the fragrance which salutes the nos- trils in passing through any one of our meat-markets in the dog-days, is apt to produce that very arrection and that very suspension of the nostrils which those noted phrases describe. And who would not re- joice to acquire the aspect and the feelings of a Wit, at so cheap a rate as that of a summer's forenoon's walk among the sham- bles? Ah! what a comfort, what a pride it is, to meet the smell of tripe, and cow- heel, in a sunny day in July, when the thermometer indicates eighty degrees of heat in the shade ! You may recollect, likewise, that Dr. Sa- muel Johnson, in conversation with Mrs. Piozzi, was wont to describe Porridge- Island, as a scene, the fumes from which were avoided by many, as a luxury too Tich, too inviting, too grateful to the sense. But if the steams from Porridge- COMFORTS OF LONDON. 95 F^land be so grateful — what is there not to •' • said and feh in favour of those which lie in the heats of July and August from Jie sheds and stalls in Clare-market? Sens. Very well ! very well ! In future^ r shall always, except when I am actually sing through our flesh markets, per- suade myself, upon your authority, that the )dours which they diffuse are inexpressibly II ateful to the imagination and to the sense ! (C. 12.) Merry, But let me particularly recom- jiiend to you, the comfortable dry dust fblown in one's face, in the streets of Lon- •lon la any windy and sultry day in Sum- mer ! Tes, Yes; that is, beyond all contra- diction, most comfortable. It is the work of the Zephyrs condescending to sweep ihe streets. It was a comfort much valued by the men of pleasure who rode their L-urricles in the streets of Ancient Rome— ^ as Horace bears witness — j " Sunt quos curricula /»«/z;ere7«— ColUgisse juvat.'* q6 comforts of human ltfr. (C. 13.) Sen. But pray tell me, bow shall I d(r- rive comfort from the annoyances of an Organ-grinder or a Ballad-singer, when they strike up their Notes before my win- dows; and are so far from being reduced to silence by the halfpence 1 throw out to them, that the more I give, so much the more loudly and pertinaciously they pro* long their discords? Chear. Discords 1 Oh fie! How can you speak so? Are not our Organ-grinders and Ballad singers, the genuine representatives of tlu ancient harpers and minstrels, the admirec authors of all that is peculiarly delightfu in our national music ? Who that reverence the memory of the harper and the min strel, can refuse to lend a delighted ear t the Organ-grinder and the Ballad-singer? Does not the true musical enthusiast tak a pleasure in every species of music how ever simple and rude? And is not the mu thai has not music in him, fit fov treason; COMFORTS OF LONDON. 97 plots, and every other deed or design that is foul and murtherous ? Is not the comic of these itinerant mu- sicians and the mob around them that lis- tens with ravished cars, ever irresistibly diverting ? Shall the Scotsman delight in hjs bag^ pipe? Shall the Irishman join ever with rapture in his natiom^l Coronachl Aqd shall any Englishman confess himself to be with- out a taste for those musical charms of London, the Hallad and the Barrel-organ? \\ hy, my friends, he is no true Englisb- •ip^ii who can listen without r^ipture to the butcher's Concert of J^|arro,w-bones and Cleavers ! Besides, it is not by the natural indepen- .Ifent power of the sounds, — so much hs by the power they derive from t^ssocialion in our loimls with the inteiesiing iniagc^y, ite senvment3 tend^^r, sqblime, or even iMdicrous, wiiieh originally presented tlienv" .selves in connection with them,—that nmsi^ pleaseSv Now, the associations with xl\is •Organ-grinder's Notes ajid the Ballad-sing- .er's Strain, are such, that I should tliink it M 98 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Utterly impossible for either M r. Testy or Mr. Sensitive to hear them without plea- sure either serious or gay. (C. 14.) Tes. But, how should you like the sounds of horns, drums, jews' harps and all the etcsBtera of mob music, by which I was roused from sleep at four o'clock, the first morning after I had taken a wedded female companion to my bed ? Merry. Ha! ha! ha! Oh Mr. Testy! Mr. Testy ! Sure, you were too happy to be awakened to a consciousness that you were in the arms of love and beauty — too hap- py — to dislike the sounds that awoke you — had they proceeded even from a concert of cats, — or from the rumbling of ten thousand milstones. Ckear. Se7i. — Nay! Merryfellow has decisively, the advantage here. Had the same concert disturbed Mr. Testy's morn- ing slumbers, the fiftieth night after his wedding, perhaps he might have had bettei reason to dishke it. But, when music onl) wakes to joy — who shall profess, that he i' COMFORTS OF LONDON. 99 not charmed even by its least skilful sounds ? (C. 15.) Tes. *' Well, then ! what think you of *' the comfort of lying, awake and unwell, tin bed, at night, — wishing anxiously to know the hour, — and hour after hour, for half the night, being by one little incident or another, hindered from it, l)y counting the sounds of the clock, or distinguishing the imperfect articu- " lation of the watchman ?" Chear, Even this is, in truth, a com- fort.— Awake and unwell in bed, one par- ticularly wants something that may fix at- tention, and so amuse the mind. The feverishness, the indisposition of the mind to levity, and its temporary incapacity of serious meditation, with the absence of all the ordinary means of amusement in the light, leave it in a destitution of resources to divert ennui, by which the fever is con- tinually augmented. But as soon as it gets an exterior object of attention, the fever is relieved. Watching to count the M 2 JOO COyttGttiTS OF HUMAN LIFE. hours, — it is diverted from preying upoa itself: it settles into a state of compara- tive composure ; and by the effect of this, it subsides, at last, into sleep. Does the striking of the hour elude one's vigilance a first time? Attention is renewed till, either the hour is satisfactorily counted, or sleep ensues. In either case, there is a gain of ease, of comfort, to him whose sleeplessness put him upon such an expe- dient. — Every orie^ who has ever been i the situation, knows the truth of this.— You yourself, Mr. Testy, must, assuredly have felt it. Your physician, if you chuse to consult him, will tell you the same thing as I. Sen. On my life, I believe, you are in the right. — How I envy you, this art of yours, by which you so constantly convert the driest bones into rich portable soup; extract a precious spirit out of tinder and old rags; change verjuice into capillaire; and deprive the nauseous, the noisome, the rough, the discordant, of all their native power to annoy the senses ! Tes. But, it is now late in the morning : le ■4 ft COMFORT^'^J? WITL^n/' • -**' lOl' and an engagement calls me away. Shall we meet and renew the conversation to- morrow ? — Sen. Most gladly! I am desirous to have the opinion of our friends in regard to the comforts of every department of human life and affairs ? — Chear. Merry. — We will chearfully meet We shall esteem it the greatest hap- piness of life, if we can only restore to our old friends, that which appears to us to be the native tone of the feelings, fancy, and senses of man. Tes. To-morrow, then, you shall take Family dinner with me at Highgate, Sen* &c. — Agreed! M i4i* «'**e©'MP<>»Tb-dF tetJMA^i fclFE. DIALOGUE THE FOURTH. COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. Semitivc, Ttsti/, Chearful, and Merry feUow. iScewe— Testy 's House at IIighgate. Testy. Ty^ELcoME! Welcome to Highgate^ ray friends! — You are late. — I have been in eager expectation of you, these two hours. I almost imagined, that my old cook-maid was to have toiled and broiled herself ia vain, in getting ready a dinner for you. — I began to fear, that you were going to enable me to add to the other Comforts of Life, that of being disappointed of an ex- pected Dialogue about its Comforts. COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 103 Merry, Oli ! Sir ! I must intreat your pardon. I am solely to blame. I had been reading, before breakfast, the printed Dialogue between you and Mr. Sensitive, on the Miseries of Sports and Games. — I was willing to convince Sensitive, that he had mistaken in suffering himself to be j persuaded, that Misery could so poison the best cates of felicity which ingenuity can provide for remedies against sorrow and care. — An Advertisement in the Morning Newspapers told us, that a grand cricket match was, this forenoon^ to be played in Lord's grounds. 1 asked him and Chear- ful to pass that way, — that they might wit- ness the gay excitement of spirits, the I brisk, light exertion^ and the play of lively, vigorous health, with which the contest of the game wa* pursued. They have bchdd it. Sen. Would, that I had been one among the Cricketers ! Clicar, It is a game I have often played — Even now, I retain strength, activity and spirits not unequal to it. Tcs. The time has been when I could 104 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. enjoy it. But^ since I left off playing it, I have seen clearly — what a number of Miseries are unavoidably connected with it. I (C. 1.) Merry, Aye, ay! You have made the discovery, only since you allowed your* self to become too restive and testy to u the game. I, for my part, enjoy still with ardour, every Game and Sport, active or seden- tary, of which I have any knowledge. I need not the excitement of betting, to rouse my spirits, and interest my heart in any of them. I can, still, join the children, in building houses of cards, in playing marbles and chuck-farthing, in pitching and tossing half-pence. I delight in Fives and Trap-ball. 1 can drive a hoop or wind a top with any boy at St. Paul's School. I can fly my kite in the windy weather of Har- vest, and follow it from field to field, over hedges and ditches, orthrough marshes, with as much earnestness as ever Naturalist displayed in the pursuit of a butter-fly. < OMPOlitf? OF SPORTS ANJ> GAMli». lOJ fti U'inter, I am charmed with the diver- sion of* eurlini^. I went to Holland, to enjoy skaitins^ in its true perfection. And when I was in Russia. I took the greatest pleasure i« travelling on a sledge over the snow— and not less in sailing on the ice in a sledge boat. — I can scarce help joining in the contest— of Frenchmen and English- men, whenever I see the boys or peasantry engaged in it, any where in the immediate environs of London. I should like to join the journeymen tradesmen in playing at skittles, were it not for the coarse abuse and the sottish drinking with which they debase and spoil their game. At Edin- burgh, I took the greatest pleasure in joining the Goffers on the favourite scenes for their diversion, called Leith Links and liriuttsjield Links. And I was charmed vvheri thi^y went on the Meadows, there to join the (vonipany of Archers, and to contend for the Silver ^r;oz:7— which I had, once, the ho- nour to win. Many a time, have 1 had iny shins broken in playing at foot-ball, indeed, I know not of any one out-of- door diversion, easy or athletic, that hasf 106 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. ^ not a charm for me. There is a charm in these amusements, that fires every heart, and puts every one's spirits in brisk action. They give the glow of health. They brace every nerve, and corroborate every muscle. There are no miseries necessarily inherent in these games and sports. Those evils which have been ascribed to them, are introduced into them, by the humours, the extravagant eagerness, and the folly, or the imbecility in health or temper, of the persons who join in them. Gaining the game — what a triumph? Not that of a conqueror — nor that of a merchant counting his Cent, per Cent, profits from Buenos Ayres, — more gratifying to the heart! Unsuccessful, — you have, how- ever, enjoyed the contest of emulation, the play of spirits, the exercise of agility and stratagem, the invigoration of the limbs, which it is natural for the active and athletic sports to bestow ! Betts and pecuniary stakes do not belong unavoid- ably to our games and sports. You never yet saw a man who delights much in out- of-doors sports, without pushing them COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 107 to that which is denominated Gambling, — but enjoyed a constitutional chearfulness, gaiety, and vigorous yet light and springy activity. He who has these advantages — « is to the man who loiters and languishes, and turns himself from side to side, on his bed or sofa, and slumbers till he be- comes incapable of sound refreshing sleep, — is to such a person, — as the eagle to the ostrich, — as the leveret to the pig, — as the bounding squirrel to the torpid sloth. No exercise of serious labour ever equals the spirit-stirring, joy-creating, health-giving effects of the games of sport. Care coun- teracts the invigorating influence of the exercise, in every case of serious business- application. It counteracts that influence equally, in every case, in which, by put- ting much money to hazard on the game, you reduce it from its genuine nature, into matter of serious business. It is the lively emulation free from anxious care — it is the airy activity — it is the unconstrained,, un^ forced exercise of all our powers of mind and body in Games of Sport, — that renders them, so eminently, bark and steel to the 108 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. jiiinci,— and that gives, by them^ so much of springy lightness and vigour to every Jimb, joint, bone, sinew, and muscle of the whole corporeal frame ! I'es. A truce with your dissertation-r Within a few minutes, we shall be called to dinner. (C. 2.) Sen, What lMerryfelk)w smys of out- of-doors Sports, is, to my mind, highly satisfactory. — But I have always, regarded the SEDENTARY Games within doors, or those which are little better than seden- tary, as Games in which listlessness, pee- vishness, and torpor, the most remarkably usurped the false name of joy? — Is it no'* so? Chear. No, indeed! Cards! Use them in their genuine subserviency to amuse- ment ; — keeping at a distance, that spirif of gambling which converts the play with them into the dullest of plodding busi- nesses : — »they are one of the most pleasing of the artificial solaces of human care. | How innocent 1 how animatingly pleas COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 109 ng to children! the Games of Pope OAN and Commerce! how simple! how dmirably adapted to compose little folks a satisfied amusement in tliat society with lieir parents and seniors in general, in .hich it is one great art and object of edu- ation, to win them to take delight! How heir eyes glisten! What keen alacrity of ittention! what genuine grace, vivacity, lid pleasure in their smiles! how hearty, ow sweet to the ear, their sudden shouts tid laughter of surprize and exultation! V^hat an accordant sympathy of gaiety Qd joy reigns throughout the little party ! low the old grow young in heart and pirits, amidst the circle! But for the Mrdsj — these sparkling eyes would, at the our of seven or eight in a winter's eveu- , have been sunk unseasonably in sleep drowned in fretful tears. Little self- !i contentions might have been preparing 111 for habits of mutual unkindness in lure life. There might have been none ' that association of amusement between lu and their seniors in the family, iiich is ever neqessary to make the old N 110 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. and the young duly fond of each other's company I And then, are not all their fa- culties invigorated and enlivened by the exercise ? Does it not contribute as much as Arithmetic, or the cranks and points of Logic, to sharpen and inspirit their reason- ing powers ? Catch Honours! At a rustic fireside -—in a winter's evening — when the wind blew loud, the snow fell thick and heavy, the frost congealed all to ice, without,— when the shepherd had returned from ga- thering in his sheep to some sheltered nook, —when the maids had ended their work in the cow-house, at the barn, and almost in the kitchen, — when the thresher laid aside his flail, — when the plowman had ceased for the night, from mending his horse; furniture,— when the smearer had in]ai( -with his mixture of butter and tar, tha number of the fleeces of the living flocl which it was his daily task thus to com from the cold, — when the children of il family were dismissed from their lessons i the school room, — when the old folks we induced to join in the general dispositi( COMFORTS OF SPORTI AND GAMES. Ill ) shut out, by chearfJlness, the chilness, 1(1 the horror of the storm, — while the iirf and logs were piled high on the hearth, id the fire blazed genial, chearful, and right, — Oh, then have 1 seen the game f Catch Honours played with an eager- ess of attention, with a frank and hearty iierriment, with an archness of skill, and a roUery in blunders, with a wit and hu- iiour exciting power, with a joy-creating ifluence, and withal a simple ingenuous [iQOcence and kindness, — which it does [ly heart good to remember, still ! No peevishness, no undue idleness associated liemselves with the Game. It was pro- onged, with universal gaiety, till the arri- al of the hour of supper and of prayer, t seemed, as it were, to hush the noise of he storm. And while it was prolonged, very heart nestled in some manner, closer <> another. Ever since then has the Game f Catch Honours been dear to me. seldom have I seen any thing alike subser- Fient to the excitement and maintenance f genuine domestic joy ! Every voice speaks the praises of Whist. N 2 112 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. — Millions of hearts are, every evening, beguiled, by it, from sorrow. It is one of the most successful of all care-killers. It is the happiest dispeller of Ennui, Ma- ti'ons, widows, and grey -haired spinsters find it, even more than ratafia or cherry- brandy, the consolation of their disap- pointments, petty emulations, and anxie- ties. Parsons, in town or country, invalid captains, shopkeepers retired to otium cum dignitate, Could not live without it. It is the grand resource of the gouty and the bedrid. It cheers the prisoner: it smooths the pillow of sickness. It affords the most seasonable interruption of conversation breaking out into peevishness or sinking into langour. It unites old and young, male and female, rich and poor, the learn- ed and the ignorant, the serious and the gay, round the same tables ; and in amuse- ment in which, as it is accommodated to all tempers and humours equally, they all participate alike. It accustoms the mind tc habits of vivid, chearful attention. It ex- ercises it, in foresight, in vigilance, in ar emulation without envy, in that lively yei COMFORTS or SPORTS AND GAM^S. 113 easy play of the passions which is salutary to the mind, by agitating, and enlivening it, without tempesting it with such storms of emotion as might overset the balance of the soul, and make a wreck of its rea- son, steadiness, and peace. It has, besides, other recommendations, [n its abuse, it often excites admirable dis- plays of female oratory. When made the subject of pecuniary hazards, it often raises to the dignity of gaining money, persons who could not have got a single farthing by their industry in any one of Lhe useful employments of life. It absorbs and deadens love, ambition, and many of those other passions of which the turbu- lence is the cause of so many of the errors and affectations of men in society. It fur- nishes the means of that Much-ado-about- nothingy wanting which, half the world would be left without aught by which to please, or upon which to value themselves. Tes, Enough of Whist! — unless you mean to add, that it is the very Game which the placid Deities of Epicurus, ia their retirement from all inspection of the N 3 114 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE.^ affairs of this world, play ^' from night to '' morn, from morn to dewy eve." (c. 4.) ^m Sen. What have you, Mr. Merryft low, to say of '^ Horse-racing" and the '' Chace? " You omitted the mention of them, in your enumeration of your favour ite out-of-doors diversions. Merri/, I have not very often joined the jovial parties who pursue the fox and stag, and follow the hounds. But, their diversions are, of almost all, the most ani- mated and pleasing. The cruelty of pur- suing a brute animal to death, is lost sight of, while the attention is occupied with the society of exercise and amusement, with the qualities of the dogs and horses, with the difficulties and facihties of the ground, with the contest of activity and swiftness between the pursuers and the animal pur- sued. Amidst the animation of the pur- suit, none thinks of those little incidents as Miseries, which an over-Testy or over- Sensitive spectator might number as such. Horses, hounds, hunters, are excited to the very height of joy and eagerness. I COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 1 15 I'lic capture or death of the hare, fox, or stiig, exalts the amusement and the agree- able agitation of spirits to the utmost pitch. Does the animal pursued, elude, or baffle the pursuit? Admiration of his powers of escape, gives almost as much pleasure, as would have been derived from the triumph of the dogs. — The voices of the do^s resoundina:, in the woods and over the mountains, in the open air, have somewhat the effect of a bold and rich music to ears in any degree accustomed to them. New health, new vigour, new spirits are derived from the exercise, to all who take a part in. k — derived, not for the present time only, but for subsequent hfe. The race, and the activity of the horses and dogs, are highly improved. Even the hazards are more than compensated by the boldness, skill, and activity acquired amongst them. Horse Racing exhibits the noblest of our domesticated animals, in the exercise of their most generous and interesting qualities. It promotes their improvement in the qualities which renders the race in ge-i neral, the most profitable, as a subject of 116 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. commerce, the most useful as assistants to our labours and reliefs to our indolence. The emulation with which they run, the swiftness they display, the manner ii^S which the triumph is held in suspense to the last moment of the race, are unavoida- bly interesting, in no ordinary degree, to the minds of the spectators. Horse-races acquire, likewise, a new interest, from their becoming, in some manner, calls for the assemblage of the healthy, the active, and the gay, to social and convivial amuse- ments in which comedy and farce inter- mingle themselves with the Heroic of these Games. Trade and liberal Intelli- gence are, at the same time, promoted, improved, enlivened. Those trivial inci- dents of less pleasing effect which Mr. Testy might number among the Miseries of the Horse-race and of the Chace, are but the shades requisite to give due effect to the lights in a picture, — the passages* between the grand apartments in a palace, —the contrasts and reliefs in an orna- mented landscape, — that infusion of bitters without having tasted which, we should COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 117 never find the cup of unmixed sweetness, exquisitely delicious. (C. 5.) Sen, I was once, you may remember, fond of Music and Dancing. My taste for Music is, now, the torment of my life. I dance no more. Merri/, Dance no more ! Dance no more ! I dance still with as much agility and vivacity, as when we were together at the Dancing-school Balls, in the recreations allowed us from our early studies. I in- tend to continue to dance, till I shall be hi the condition of the Frenchman mentioned by Goldsmith — *• And the gay grandsire skilled in gestic lore, " lias frisked beneath the burthen of fourscore." Daacing, not intemperately nor unseason- ably pursued, is the most salutary of exer- cises. It puts every joint, limb, and sinew of the body, in free and lively motion. It quickens the flow of the blood, the pulsa- tions of the heart, the performance of all those functions within the frame by which life is sustained and exhilarated. It enlivens the nicer sensations of the body, and 1 IS COMFORTS OFi HUMAN LIFE. widi these, all the more delicate sensi- bilities of the soul. It attempers brisk motion to divine grace of attitude and gesture. It allies amusement to refined and elegant art. It assembles the young in parties of pleasure in which innocence, vivacity, and delicacy necessarily preside. It restores to those who are fast advanc- ing in middle age, all the fresh viva- city and gaiety of their spring of life. It has often made the withered spinster forget her wrinkles; and has made the senior despise his gout and his corns. There is much of native chearfulness in the simple, natural exercise of dancing, by those who are in the prime of their health and their years. To those who fondly at- tempt to shine in it, — though nature and the waste of years have denied them the power, — it must have some secret charm by which it is bewi tellingly pleasing to them. Their intermixture in the dance has, in the most admirable degree, the power to divert the spectators and the junior part- ners i|i the activity of the diversion, with all that is most ludicrous in Comedy and COMFORTS OF SPORTS AND GAMES. 119 Farce. Do the feet of the Dancers beat time to the Music? How charming this consent of the Music of sounds with that of motion ! Besides, how ingenious those imitations, partly natural, partly allegori- cal, of acts in real life, which the dif- ferent species of Dances present ! I love the Scottish Country-Dance and Reel, the English Hornpipe, the French Minuet and Cotillon, the German Walse, the Spanish Fandango, the Morrice-Dance of the Moors, the pretty wanton trippmgs of the Dancing-Girls in Egypt, and all the pantomime movements of the young com- •panies of priestesses of pleasure attached to the temples of Bramah in the East. I am charmed no less with the sight of the -dance than with actually taking a part in it. How I admire the light and varied steps of a Parisot and a Hilligsberg! Much more, however, am I pleased with those Dances, many-figured, and woven in- to a regular Drama ; in the performance of which numbers of Sylph-like figures, male • and female, move, with enchantingly airy •activity, on our Opera theatre; and of 120 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. which the pantomimic power carries ahnost as much meaning to the mind through the eye only, as if the ear were addressed in the Dialogue of a legitimate Drama. Chear, Enough of Dancing ! The ge-r neral principles which have been stated in respect to the Games and Sports we have enumerated may be applied to all the rest. Tes. But, your Joys of Games and Sports do not exclude our Miseries of them ! (C.6.) Merry. What! Call you it a misery " to slip and fall in a ludicrous posture ^^ in skaiting?"— This is the best amuse- ment of the sport. It excites more merri- ment than if one should run ten miles without a fall. It makes those around laugh so heartily, that the person who falls cannot but laugh himself full as merrily as any one among them. Look at boys amidst their diversions — the merriment comes chiefly from the tricks, ludicrous accidents, and surprizes, such as your COMFORTSP OP SPORTS AND GAMES. 121 fall on the ice, which happen as the Game proceeds. (C. 7.) Chear. '^ Angle, without a bite for '* hour after hour, or after a fine Jack is *' on your hook, let him escape." — ^What is all this but — a perpetual renovation of attention and hope — an improvement of patience — bloodless amusement — the en- joyment of all the sport of fishing, without hardening one's heart, or making one's hands dirty with the slime and blood of the fish ? And w hen the great jack once on your hook, slips so dexterously off again — is not this a most interesting re- presentation of the fate by which, when good fortune in the affairs of the world seems caught, — it suddenly glides away again? Is it not a fine warning to the Angler, to be himself on the watch, — even thus to make his escape whenever he shall find himself hooked almost to his ruin by any of the false arts of the world ? — There are comforts in the fruitless angling, ia the loss of the jack, much preferable, for 122 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE, many minds, to whatever could have beea derived from the fullest success. {C. 8.) Tes, " A covey in view — after a \ when they insisted upou their genius for improvements in hus- bandry; and quoted, as instances, tlieir skill — to make horses starve on chopped furze, that might have lived and thrived on corn and hay — and to obtain scanty crops of grey oats on land where grew before, only the nettle, the dock- weed, and the Carduus Benedictus! I know not what I had to do to travel. I am sure that I have learned by it, nothing which it is a pleasure to remember. Chea7\ Oh ! Mr. Testy, you have had a thousand advantages from travelling, if you would only own them to us, or at least to your own heart ! €0;^I PORTS OF TRAVELLING. 131 (C. 1.) 'Hie diversities of Nature and human character may be less numerous and less striking than the inexperienced imagina- tion is willing to suppose them. But, such diversities there are. And it is the most pleasing office of the human intellect to trace them — as in travelling — (C. 2.) The mind has within itself more or fewer resources for enjoyment, in proportion as it possesses a larger or smaller store of knowledge upon which the fancy, the pas-' sions, the affections, and the reasoning fa- culty may be employed. But, the ele- ments of that knowledge are only senti- ments such as have been uttered from an impassioned heart, and imagery such as ^hen presented actually pictures itself on the fancy, and excites new emotions in the breast. Now, where are -we to gain an acquaintance with these sentiments and imagery? Not from books: These but re- rive them, by artificial and arbitrary signs. 152 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. in minds in which they were before pic- tured. — Not from the oral information of others : We can no more understand oral than written information, if we have not in our minds those primary sentiments and images to which it refers, and of which all its combinations are necessarily made up. The sight of the very features of Nature ; con- verse with man in all the native and arti- ficial varieties of the species; can, alone, impart that genuine knowledge which in- vigorates the understanding, enriches the fancy and gives it the true spring of ge- nius, warms, elevates, and expands the heart. This is the grand acquisition to be gained by Travel, It compensates for every petty vexation. It is, in spite of every disagreeable incident, a perpetual spring of pleasure even to the most torpid and peevish minds. (C. 3.) Then, Mr. Testy, think of being able to tell among the untravelled, that one has been in France or Italy! — It is satisfactory to think that no man can stop me short in COMFORTS OF TRAVELLING. 133 a speech, or knock me down in my argu- ment, by appealing to a practice abroad of wlycli he has had opportunity to get a knowledge while I know nothing of it. — Is it not to some testy and patriot tempers, a pleasure worthy to be purchased by a thousand vexations and fatigues — only to curse the French, Spaniards, Italians, and Germans, and all that they have among Uicm, in the plain God-damn-me English of honest John Byll ? — Is it not charming to acquire the privilege of smattering broken French or Italian, with the same authority as if it were the most correct and pure — cMithority which you animate and maintain because you have smattered the gibberish in its native country? Abroad, a young man may sow his wild oats with less loss of character, than if he did the same among the neighbours of his family with whom he is to pass his subsequent life at home. — What a licence of story-telling, too, does not a traveller acquirer He may have feasted on lion's flesh with good Dr, Shaw : With Mr. Bruce, he may have eaten part of a cow, and turned out the 134 COMFORTS OP HUMAN LIFE. rest to grass : He may have wandered in the fairy land of some Juan Fernandez, with Robinson Crusoe — or hved with Le- muel Gulliver among Houynhmns — tra- versed oceans in a canoe with Benjowski- or atchieved even all the mightiest adven- tures of Baron Munchausen ! — ^This is a pride that may distinguish him through life.JJ It will give, perpetually, new fire to his »l imagination; it will enable him often to rouse the wonder of his friends, and often to move their gaiety, if he fail of com- manding their respect. — It is almost worth w^hile for a Londoner to go to Edinburgh—- that he may be enabled — to speak of its savoury smells, — and to insist that all Scotland is scarce bigger than St; PauPs Church- Yard. — He should go to Ireland-— if it were but to satisfy himself whether children there grow out of the ground with potatoes? and whether it be not as common in the Coffee-houses in Dublin, to call for powder and ball, as for coffee and muffms, for two ? A travelled gentleman has, among the other privileges of the character, that of^ with impunity^ — finding nothing right COMFORTS OF TRAVELLING. 135 at home — affecting an admiration of fo- reign policy, morals, and manners — wear- ing his dress in what he may pretend to be a foreign fashion — and furnishing his house with articles of foreign furniture appropri- ated each to uses the most opposite to those for which it was really intended! Besides, his genius is by his travel, quali- fied for all that is great. — If, Thomson observed against the author of Leonidas — " He write an Epic Poem ! he never saw '^ a mountain in his life !" — must not the youth that has traversed the Alps and ascended to the very pinnacle of Mont Blanc be qualified for all that is sublime?— And who knows but the travelled youth may bring home some new inventions to enrich the arts of his country — some im- provement of a cork-screw or a shoe- buckle — a new method of brushing the teeth or of cutting the hair ? — Sir Henry Wotton wrote of an ambassador, — '' That " he was a person sent to lye abroad for ** the good of his country." But, in the present time, our young men of fortune and our commercial travellers seem to go p 2 136 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. abroad precisely for some such purposes. Does not this give a consequence to theij Travels, that should be a consolation an< comfort to them amidst every petty incon^ venience, to which their perigrinations maj expose them ? They are so many specimei of the native excellencies of our country, which we send out, to impress foreigners with opinions in its favour, that may be expected to command their curiosity and reverence. — They go abroad, too, as blocks, on which our broad-cloth and other manufactures, are hung for exhibition, to promote the extension of our trade.— They waste their money, with a profusion adapted to give foreigners an idea, that the streets of London must be paved with gold : And we know, that, to gain wealth to a man or a city, tViere is not, in the world, a better expedient, than to persuade peo- ple, that the man or the place has more than enough of it, already. — How many delectable love-adventures has not a lively young traveller to expect ! — Yorick's inter- view with a fair Flemish Dame in Dessein's coach-yard at Calais ; — or his night-scene COMFORTS OF TRAVELLING. 137 ultli the fair Piedmontese, — in a double-bed room — and curtains fenced and fastened with great pins, in a rustic inn, on the borders of Savov ! Merri/. You say, that you caught the itch in Scotland. Be thankful, that it was iR)t the leprosy— the distemper which so nfflicted the old age of Robert Bruce, the most heroic of the Scottish kings! James the First, you may recollect, pronounced the eulogy of that distemper in saying, rliat the enjoyment, which it afforded of scratching, was too delectable for a sub- ject or 'for any one under the rank of a crowned head to enjoy ! When the Scots spoke of the beauty of their crags and the subhme of their pest-bogs; if you could discover neither the beauty nor the sub- limity; you would, at least, have very comfortable diversion in the contrast be- *tween the natural prepossession and the er- ality of the things. And when they talked, absurdly, of their improvements in Agri- culture; — you could reflect with high self-gratification ; how very much the old husbandry of England excelled in good p 3 1^8 tCOMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. sense and in power to create fertility, al the most boasted improvements of tb Scots! — Besides, you would have the plea sine of surprize in finding, that, however happy to Scotsmen the road which leads, there are other roads and other prospects which Scotsmen full as much admire. Tes. They marched me, with unlucky officiousness, up among their Highlands bogs, moors, and cliffy rocks, in the raina^ of the end of September, and of com- mencing October. I was drenched, chilled, colded, fevered. I could enjoy no distant prospects. Fogs hung over the mountains : cataracts poured down their sides. Chear, This, then, was the very time to enjoy to advantage, the only things in the scenery, on account of which a visit to the Highlands of Scotland is interesting. Go thither when the lakes have shrunk considerably within their banks, when the channels of the mountain-torrents are dry, when no fogs hang over the brows of the hills, when the forests do not hang down their heads dripping with rains, when De- solation does not, as it were, visibly brood COMFORTS OF TRAVELLING. 139 over tlie heath : — ^you might as well stay away I — The objects of true interest in those Highlands,, arc such as can have their interest heightened to the utmost, only by the rains and storms of declining Autumn and opening Winter. We go not there to contemplate softened beauty. It is the wild, the desolate, the sublime, that we go out to see. We go to enjoy such scenery, and to have such sentiments ex- cited in our minds, as those of the poems of Ossian ! When the Scots treated you, as you relate, — they did the honours of their country, as handsomely as possible, in your favour. However you may> now, take pains to persuade yourself, tliat you were unfortunate in the excursion ; I can- not but think, that when it took place, you must have been unable to resist that expansion and elevation of mind which it was natural for such scenery, in such a season, to produce ! Tes, Why, Sir, a man may not be sorry to have for once witnessed an execu- tion, recovered out of a fever, or to have been, by the methods of the Humane 140 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Society, restored from the suspension oM his animation by drowning. Yet, it is not, therefore, to be supposed, that he found a dehght in the drowning, the fever, or the execution. etually to renovate and to heighten all uur joys. Curiosity aims ever at an acqui- Ifiitfjn of knowledge which is the genuine tind natural enjoyment of the understand- ng. The comparisons and discrimina- tions of the Reason, Understanding, or Judgment, are in all circumstances, radir callj/, agreeable. Your feelings of sympa- thy with whether the joys or the sorrows of others, have constantly, in them, some- thing of pleasing self-complacency. Eveiy energy of the fancy, gives a distinctly felt Satisfaction . There is not a single effort pf any power which Man possesses, but is, ^y the very consciousness of its being aa 2 I 146 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. effort of power, agreeable. One has, from ^ nature, or by the aid of art, the means to Hi exclude every access of those things which might to sense or sentiment, become, in any manner painful! You shut the eyes: you cleanse the mouth: you throw away whatever offends the touch, or withdraw frorq it: you move away from disagreeable sounds or offensive smells — if you may not have them put from you, otherwise. Na- ture has so accommodated all the organs, powers, and faculties of man, to one an- other, and to his general condition in life and society, that every one of them is, in its native soundness and proper exercise, a spring of genuine Comfort — and of Com- fort only. What is more — there is not an imperfection of the senses nor the mental faculties and feelings, out of which the human mind is not framed to educe to it- self, certain Comforts either of reality or of delusion! Not a cross accident occurs but there is a natural disposition in the hu- nxan soul to draw good out of it. If one poet have observed PERSONAL COMFORTS. 147 ** — 'Ut nemo quam sibi sortem ** Seu ratio dederit seu fors objecerit, illi ** Conteutus vivat." Hor. Another has as shrewdly made it a poeti- cal maxim, that ** Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pel^ ** No one would change his neighbour for himself.'* Pope. (C. 2.) Tes, A HUMP-BACK ! What Comfort is there in that species of decrepitude ? Merry. A prodigious deal! Who more chatty — who more conceited of their per- sonal appearance — who more hvely in wit and discernment — than the little My Lords'^ The hump appears to the little fellow that bears it, as if it were a knapsack in which be had bundled up all his cares, his follies. Ills absurdities, his uglinesses, and cast J-hem behind him. It seems that very bag of tVie faults peculiar to one's self, which the Grecian Fabulist relates that Jupiter illowed man to cast behind his back, while le took full in sight before him, the satchel !)lown up with the faults of others. He 148 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. who can earn nothing with his hands, may get a fortune by lending out his Hump, if he have one, for a portable writing-desk. It is well known what wealth a little My Lord got, at Paris, during the famous Mississipi rage, by putting his Hump to advantageous use, in this way ! A Hump is something that, by making a man parti- cular, draws the notice of the world upoa him : Now, whatever happens to have this effect, never fails to prove the means of making a fortune. The man, for instance, who was known in Leadenhall-Street, by the name of Dirty Dick, drew the notice of the publick, and of consequence, great sales and gains, by the dirtiness alone of his shop and person. And it is the same with every remarkable peculiarity. — A peerage confeiTcd by the King, has per- haps, nothing in it more gratifying than the address of " My Lord!'' But, he whom Nature has honoured with a Hump on his shoulders, needs no royal creation to enable him to have his ears constantly soothed with this high and flattering ad- dress.— To perform great things with means PERSONAL COMFORTS. 149 omparatively trivial and inadequate — is ver the pride of human ability: Now^ ho that sees the puny hunchback, would pect of him to become the father of a porous, manly progeny, all perfect and lect in their shapes: — Yet_, have I seen as jlne a family of young men as the island vcr produced, the sons of a little ricketty Jier, whose hump was almost equal in I ilk, to all the rest of his body : — He was iiturally much more proud of having be- - otten such sons, than if he had been him- ijfaformas manly and faultless as any )!ie of them. The excrescence of a I lump on the shoulders, too, is not a defi- Ai\cy. It is, on the contrary, something lure bestowed by Nature on him who K ars it, than the same Nature gives to tliers. He is, therefore, to take it, as umething vouchsafed him, that is more iti his due; and to look upon it, as a : k, that he is the peculiar favourite of Power from whose plastic hand his ae has proceeded. At the worst of his , too, —amidst whatever reproaches i be cast out against him, — the hunch- ^ 3 150 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. back may still take comfort to himself^ — and boast that he is not splay-footed, nor blear-eyed, nor lame in his hands, nor loaded with a polypus on his nose, nor with -a wen on his neck! — Besides, it is remarkable, that persons who are hump- backed, have, usually, a corresponding conformation of the breast, by which their voices are rendered particularly mellow and sonorous. Their speech, their music, are eminently strong and agreeable. One shall be called, perhaps, the little Night- ingale; another, the musical Stentor! — An advantage, one of the most enviable; among all the endowments upon which men value themselves! — But, I should never have done, if I were to recount all the Comforts pecuUar to the Hump backed. Sen. Oh! you have said quite enough upon this subject. I am entirely satisfied (C. 3.) Tes, Native Blindness! What ar its Comforts? Merry. Have you forgotten the ol PERSONAL COMFORTS. 151 blind philosopher's question of consolation — *' Are there no pleasures in the dark^^ " — He who is born blind, escapes numberless sights, which are accounted sights of woe. He sees not the altered eye of hard unkind- ness. He gazes not his soul away, in the hopeless love and admiration of- female beauty. He is more capable of the Nil admirari of Horace, than if he had full enjoyment of sight, that sense which is the chief inlet of admiration to the soul. He is not apt to conceive disgust or preju- dice against any one, on account merely of an ugly face or an ill-shaped person. He is not subject to be more afraid of ghosts and hobgoblins by night than by day. He has the felicity, when a boy, to escape the whole torture of poring over School-books, Greek, Latin, or English. His other Senses, those of touch and hearing especially, gain a ten-fold aug- mentation of sensibility, in consequence of this want of the perceptions of sight: And, since it is to the Touch we owe some of our most exquisite sensible enjoyments; who would not, to improve that, willingly 152 COMFORTS OP HUMAN LIFE. forfeit all the advantages of vision ? — ^\Vhat sensibility to sweet sounds, do not the blind universally possess? How easily do they acquire skill to educe ravishing melo- dy from almost every instrument of music? To be blind from infancy, is, almost always, the same thing as to be born with divine genius for music : It is almost to be sure of getting a fortune by music. g| It renders a musical voice, all that is^ lovely and rapture-giving to the mind. Had Jean Jacques Rousseau been blind; — he would never have experienced that disappointment of enraptured expectation at the Cliarity-School at Venice, w^iich he describes in his Confessions. He heard the young girls sing, without having opportu- nity to see their faces ; The voices, the song, were divine : His soul was ravished : He could not imagine but that their forms must be heavenly as their voices: He was an age gone in the wildest delirium of love : Admitted to see them — he found that one was lame, another scarred with the small pox, a third blind of an eye, a fourth crooked like an S_, a fifth with a humped PERSONAL COMFORTS. 153 back and a protuberant breast: He was shocked beyond expression : He returned home in horror, as if he had seen some- thing unnatural : Nor could he, ever after, drive from his mind, the ugly, unpleasant remembrance : — He would ten times rather have wanted his eyes for that bout, than have been so provokingly undeceived by them! — The memory is usually much im- proved by the want of sight. The im- pressions which it receives are fixed deep. They are not lost amidst that tumult of perceptions which embarrasses the mind that has the benefit of sight. They are more simply and intimately connected, one with another. Tliey are more endeared to the fancy and the feelings, than if the di- versity of perceptions for these to work upon, were greater. A blind person re- members with a tenacity of recollection, and a minuteness of circumstances, which can seldom be rivalled by the memory of one that sees. There is, very often, some- thing most interestingly tender, affection- ate, ingenuous, and pensive, in the temper and character of blind men, which gives '15'4 CO'MrORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. them a peculiiir hold on the affections of a parent^ friend, or mistress. It rarely happens^ that a blind man is riot much a 'favourite among the women of his own degree. I have known more than one or two such, whom the loveliest women of their acquaintance preferred to crowds of lovers in all other respects the most en- gaging. You know, I lived at Edinburgh, inthehouseof thelate amiable Dr. Thomas Blacklock: And it was not only on my affections, but on those of almost every intelligent person who came much about him, that the sweetness of his temper, the gentleness of his manners, the ardent be- nignity of his heart, his simple, artless, enlightened rectitude, the variety of his learning and talents, the vivacity of his fancy, the innocent gaiety of his conver- sation, and the unaffected enthusiasm and rapture of his piety, acted with the force of an irresistible spell to bewitch affection, and fix the tenderest friendship. Never man was more tenderly beloved by his friends : Never friend, more faithful or affectionate to those whose kindness his PERSONAL COMFORTS \oS zood qualities had engaged. The recol- Jcction of Black LOCK brings it into my mind to remark — how bUndness has power to triumph over all its natural disadvan- tages, even in regard to the Poetry of visible objects! The powers of his me- mory were evinced in the diversity of his erudition, and in his wonderful command of the language both of poetry and of prose-eloquence. T^ow> in both his poetry, and his prose, he would introduce, with: propriety, and even with picturesque ener- uy, images and colours of local descrip- tion, of which he could have no represen- tatives in his fancy, and which he could know only as a sort of mysterious signs, pleasing by their association with words and with thoughts otherwise agreeable. Very extraordinary must have been the : power of mind which could so combine the elements of local description without having had visual knowledge of them. — The blindness is enviable, that derives from necessity, such an improvement of the hu- man powers. In truth I can scarce, at this moment, remember to have known a blind ^ 156 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LItE* man that had not something extraordinary about him, — ^that was not, in fact, a man of genius. Go to the Institutions for the education of the Indigent Bhnd — you shall be astonished at the ingenuity of their manufactures ! I remember, as the friend and frequent visitor of Blacklock, the blind Dr. Mo yes, who still lives in the enjoyment of a competent fortune which he acquired, as a Lecturer in Experimental Philosophy! Moves could dress his own hair as handsomely as any hair^dresser : and he used to perform every other little personal service for himself, as neatly and readily as any one that had the perfect use of sight. — In truth, when we particularly enquire into the case of the Blind,-— one would almost think, — that it is with the senses, as with pecuniary opulence or the grandeur of ambition, — and that by the want of sight as by the want of either of those envied advantages, — one is only put so much the more in the way to dis- tinguish one's self by genuine virtue, abi^ lity, and those other excellencies which prove the true springs of comfort! — One PERSONAL OOMPORTS. 157 thing more, the remembrance of Black- lock brings it into my mind to add. Pri- vation of the Sight of external things, puts one's knowledge of present things, so much upon a level with that knowledge by faith alone which we have of the future joys and sufferings of Christianity, that a Blind Man is likely to be a much more lively and sincere believer, than are those who see. It was remarkably so with Blacklock. He thought of Heaven with almost as much vivacity of apprehension, as of the things of this sublunary world and of social life. I witnessed his conduct, at the near approach of his last hour. He died of an inflammatory fever, after a short illness. He met death, actually, with the serenity, chearfulness, and even joy of a person emancipated from Trench's dungeon at Spandau, into sudden liberty, enjoy- ment, and honour 1 — But, one more ad- vantage of Blindness — and I have done.— Have you ever witnessed the new feelings of a person blind from his birth, when, by surgical aid, the perceptions of light were let suddenly in upon his sensorium ? You B t.^8 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. have, at least, all, read Cheselden's famous description of the indications by which a young man whose eyes he couched, made known his first sensations and emotions after the new light was let in upon him. To acquire a new science ; to make one's self master of a n^w language, rich in amuse- ment and instruction; to see a scene of squalid desolation, suddenly clothed with fertihty and beauty ; to grasp any important truth which one has long anxiously sought without success ; to find an host of gather- ing difffculties vanish, even as the clouds" are dissipated by a thunder-storm ; gives to the mind a high rapture of new delight. But, it is nothing that even these can give, in comparison with that new world which opens on the blind man when new day is poured suddenly upon his eyeballs. Has^ h^ become previously weary of the sartie- ness of life ? The novelty of existence, fresh even as at the hour of his birth, is suddenly renewed to him. His pleasure is a sort of resemblance and anticipation of that which awaits the saints in passing from earth to heaven. He receives a profusion of new PliRSONAL COMrORTS. 159 ideas : and every one of these becomes by its novelty, and by its association with the other ideas of sight, and with his former ideas derived both from Sight and from the other Senses, a source of joy. Sen, Pray, quit this serious subject. Your conversation, in expatiating upon it, becomes too melancholy and too solemnly sentimental. The discussion is, indeed, not unpleasing. But, the pleasure is of that sober, affecting cast, which diffuses itself over the mind, in speaking of a departed friend for whose loss we have ceased to sorrow with agon}^, though we still re- member his virtues and his kindness with fond regret.— (C. 4.) Merry, What think you of the Comfort of Personal Ugliness ? Tes. Oh ! pray, let me know it ? I could ne- ver yet get much in love with this unlucky phiz of mine. And though Mrs. Testy's good-nature was, at length, enticed to en- dure it ; I can assure you that she shunned me, in the beginning of my courtship, as if I had been the very monster of the tale K 3 l60 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. of Beauty and the Beast, or even the BuU of Beverland himself ! Merry. Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Testy 1 Should we even allow you the merit of deserving to become President of the Ugly Club ; it will be impossible to pity you in your ug- liness. You know how to make merry with it. I'll warrant, you cannot see your own features in a mirrour, without laughing. You, if you chose, might describe, better than any one, the Comforts of being ugly, Tes. Nay, Mr. Merryfellow, be as- sured, those Comforts cannot be beyond the range of your own experience. You, at least, have not personal beauty to ren- der you uncomfortable. Not a Lady of your acquaintance, will so far flatter you, as to say that you have. So, proceed! muster before us the Comforts of Ugli- ness! Merry. Why! Is it not a Comfort to be free from all the petty solicitudes and toils which the consciousness of personal beauty subjects us to ? To brush the teeth twenty times a day; to comb the eye- brows as often ; to watch perpetually the PERSONAL COMPORTS. i6\ changes in the lustre of the eyes, and the flittings of colour in the complexion — what puny, unmanly cares, these ? — and yet how apt they are to engross the mind of a pretty master— miss-youth, — and even to keep jt, continuall}'^, in a fret? — An ugly fellow is free from all these cares. He thinks of his person as little as possible : and, when he does take any pains with it — that is merely for the sake of indispensible clean- liness and secret Comfort. — Beautiful faces are very often unmeaning; and fine persons, deficient in agility, and in active vigour. It is ugliness, or some- thing very near to ugliness, that is the most compatible with strong, manly ex- pression in a countenance : and it is the thickset, broad, coarse form that is usually the most remarkable for active strength. Personal elegance and beauty are flowers which very quickly fade : and the memory of them is a pain to all the subsequent life of tim that has lost them. The fading of ugli- ness is but the witheiingof a thistle, the de- cay of a nettle, the crushing of a toadstool, the extirpation of a wugrcort, the cutting E 3 162 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. down of aknarled birch or crab-thorn. He, to whom this change comes^ joys in it : He feels, for the moment^ as if he were dropping a mask, which he had sometimes felt awk- wardly reluctant to wear before company. He has the pleasure to find, as he grows older, that the difference between the ugly face and the handsome one, is, every day diminished. If he was weak enough to be mortified in thinking of his ugliness ; he h happy to find its disadvantages to vanish gradually. Was he little concerned about the cast of his phiz? He can, however, suffer no uneasiness on account of any eflPect of growing years upon it, unless it become, by age, less powerfully comic. It is cu- rious to observe, though the observation be one often made, that an ugly face is very generally the sign hung out over a witty humorous mind. It suggests innu- merable exhilarating witticisms to the wearer himself: and it is a cause of wit to others, even if the wearer should make nothing of it. It is so much the genuine guise of humour, that he, whom nature has favoured with it, cannot more easily resist PERSONAL COMFORTS. l63 temptations to humour when they come before him, than could the Cat, in the Fairy Tale^ when a fine lady, resist her old appetite for mousing when a mouse came in her way. There is scarce a merry, shrewd, witty fellow, even in fictitious history, but has the honour of ughness attributed to him. -^sop was^ you know, a very ugly little Crouchback. Uglier still, was Socrates, not less a wit and a man of humour, than a philosopher. The heroes of Rabelais were eminent for personal ugli- ness. Sancho Panza, his master, and Ud- Inante were, in their several conditions, absolutely patterns of this interesting qua- ification. Hudibras and Ralpho are still lore conspicuously ugly. Falstaff, Bar- lolph. Ancient Pistol, and almost every [other character of wit and humour in the 'hole Drama of Shakspeare, are emi- lently ugly. Horace was a little punch of ra fellow whose countenance had no beauty in it, but that it was ever shining with wit, good-fellowship, and good-humour. Scar- ron, the favourite wit of France, at one time, was one of the most deformed little 164 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LI?E. figures that ever a lovely woman allowed herself to be matrimonially coupled to. On the English stage, it appears some- thing out of nature, and therefore disgust- ing, for wit or humour to come from anj one that has not the garnish of ugliness to set it off, and make it go down. Wit, humour, and gaiety contribute so much to the charms of social converse, and are the springs of so large a proportion of all which is interesting in it, tliat I know not who would not purchase their advantages even at the expence of almost any imagina- ble diminution of personal charms. What amusement is there not to be derived from any thing peculiarly ugly about the Nose ? Is your Nose excessively long? Comfort yourself with the reflexion, that you have fared as well as if you had been to the promontory of Noses. It is the proboscis of an elephant, an instrument of nice sen- sation, and a type of peculiar wisdom. It is the suspensus Nasus which the Romans held to be so remarkable an indication of acute delicacy in tJie perception of the i-idiculous. PERSONAL COMFORTS. 1^^ Sen. Enough ! Enough ! Nil me pani- Ut hvjus 'Nasi, You have satisfied me, that mj nose is of the best of all possible figures. Sometimes, when in my walking meditations, I have struck it against a post,— or when I have secretly felt it pru- dent to suppress my resentment of imper- tinence lest an impudent short-nosed fellow should seize me by it,— I have suffered a wish to cross my mind that Nature had given me half an inch less of Nose. But, after hearing what you have just repre- sented, — I Avould not exchange Noses, — no, not with old Mr. Shandy himself! Tcs. But, my short Nose! Have you nothing to say in its favour? Persuade me, if you can, that it is the very pride of my existence, the charm of my life, the glory, the dial-cock of my countenance ? Chear, Why, you know, Mr. Testy, that what is little is, always, esteemed ta be smart and pretty. Almost all the words, in every language, which express remark- able diminutiveness, are expressive also of fondness or of mciTy satisfaction. A small hand, a little foot, a httie mouth arc 166 COMFORTS OF HTJMAN LIFE. thought personal beauties — why not like- wise, a little snubbed nose ? The little fin- ger, the little toe, and every other organ of the body, remarkable for littleness, are particular favourites. In any dangers and hair-breadth escapes of the face, an humble nose like yours, is not much more exposed than your clieeks or your chin. You may twist, and pinch, and pull it, and expose it to a thousand perils of soap and a furious adversary's gripe, without fearing, lest it sliould be stretched out to deformity. A pimple, a wart, a polypus, by enlarging, only beautify it. It is ever brisk, alert, erect, and upon the qui vive. — It affords a shortened passage to the brain. It does not put you to the same expence for clean handkerchiefs, as if your nose were larger. And as it is a perfection in Nature to accom- plish all her ends, with the smallest possi- ble waste of means; why should you not be delighted to find yourself adorned with a true natural Nose, at so small an expendi- ture of flesh and blood ? Besides, if, with a nose such as yours, a man should fall into a misfortune not to be remedied with- PERSONAL COMVORTS. 1©7 out the aid of Taliacotius's art, and of a fresh steak from a living porter^s bum ;— a smaller steak will be sufficient,— and there is less dianger of the surgeon's miscarriage in the operation, — than if it was a nose as large as a Phallus-figured Spring Pincush- ion of pink silk, that was to be restored ! Such noses as yours, Sir, are well known to have been much admired among the Romans, as a sure proof that the wearer was a person of shrewd discernment, and of quick, lively, sarcastit; wit. You re- member the acutis naribits of Horace. Sen. But, for all this, you cannot deny. Gentlemen, that all the world are perpe-- tually anxious to be as little Ugly as pos-* sible r Merry. Quite the contrary! All man- kind, aye and women, too, are in per- petual toil to render themselves as Ugly as possible. We eat, to fatten our bellies out of all proportion; and to swell our features to the appearances of pig's cheeks and bull's faces. Do we not drink to render Our bodies dropsical, our eyes dead in the sockets, our noses fiery, our cheeks pallid sCS COMFORTS OF HUMA# LlVt. and flaccid as a bit of spoiled tripe moist^ billed in water, — and yet starred with pim- ples ? We change the modes of cutting and dressing our hair, and the fashions of our wigs, twenty times — almost within the y€ar : and at every change, we ingeni- ously contrive that the new mode shall be, if possible, more at war with natural grace and beauty, than that which it has super- seded. We court the favours of Mercury and Venus, — not for the sake of tlie rap- tures of love, or the brisk animation of wit,— but to taint the breath, to sap the nose, to blear the eye, to exchange the hair for a Corona Feneris, and for skeleton bald- ness, to wither and crumble down the bones, to cover the skin with blotches and sores, to prepare our living carcases for all the tortures and the deformity of le- prosy, gout, and rheum ! — What but an invincible passion for UgUness, could en- gage us in such a conduct as this? — Aijid the Women ! — Their paint, their patches, and their rings, — what are these but the paraphernalia of Ugliness? They are never easy, till the teeth which Nature PERiONAL COMFOKTS. tOg gives are rotten in their mouths, or torn, fresh and sound, from the jaw : — and then they fill their cheeks with the worst substitutes, animal or uuneral, which are to be found, — carrying about as much dead and putrefying matter within their living lips as possible. They pull down their ears with rings, for fear that those naturally charming ornaments of the head should produce their proper effect. They wear their hair in any fashion but that which is natural, simple, and becom- ling. Now with dirt, and now with acrid, 3orrosive washes to remove it, — they con- rive to parch and shrivel their skins, md to jwither their bloom, long before [the natural term of decay. They now Lpaint their cheeks with rouge, and now With ratafia ; in both instances, only to [inake the expression of the features, fierce or stupid. They expose their elbows, till these acquire the dusky red colour of an unboiled lobster's back. They evince no care to accommodate fashions in dress to their respective figures, years, and com- plexions ; Each female adopts, for herself, s 170 COMFOKTS OF HUMAN LIFB. the common fashion, so hlindly, and s6 implicitly, as to demonstrate, that solici- tude to set off or improve her beauty has not any thing to do in the affair. The men, too, are quite of the same mind, as to fe- male beauty and ughness. The beauties are but playthings of an hour, admired, be- loved, caressed but by the inexperienced and the fickle. But the Ugly are they who esta- blish the surest dominion over men's hearts* You shall scarce find an uxorious husband, 9^ Jerry Sneak, but has a wife of distinguished ugliness ; or, among the more licentious, a kind keeper^ the slave of his female com- panion, whose mistress is not ugly to a miracle. — It is not only in society highly civilized and refined, that the rage is so much more for Ugliness than for beauty* The savage^ the barbarian, the simple peasant have, all, the same passion for Ugliness in themselves and others. How do savages squeeze the heads of their new- born infants, and distort their legs, and paint and mangle their countenances to as- pects of hideousness ? Barbarians, equally ambitious to be ugly, disfigure themselves PERSONAL COMFORTS. I7i by dirtiness, and by awkward, inconve- nient gorgeousness of apparel, if they do not absolutely hack their faces and maim their limbs for Uglinesses sake. There in in human nature, thus, throughout all it5 conditions, an aversion for beauty, and a passion for the opposite quality, which fully prove, that eminent Ugliness cannot but be to its possessor, one of the truest Comforts. Even our peasantry, of the most sequestered parts of the country, dis- cover the same passion as others to dis-» iigure themselves. Tes, M^ell! You have said enough to "Teconcile me to my physiognomy, — if I could avoid looking in a glass when I shave lyself — or if Mrs. Testy did not now and len, make me to bethink myself of it^ by >ithets of contempt. (C. 5.) Sen, Disease? Alas! You can never make that, in any of its forms, to appear a source of Comfort? Chear, Why, if Disease be not abso- lutely a source of Comfort — it approacheS| 172 C0M1?0RTS OF HUMAN LIFE. in many instances, very near to that. There are occasions upon which the pangs of a diseased body have the effect to administer relief to a disturbed mind. Men have found a fit of the gout or the tooth-ach to operate as a joyful deliverance from an ennui, a tadium of existence, from the misery of which they w^ere almost ready to fly to suicide. Under the hor- ror of sudden and severe calamity, a friend of mine has told me, that he once found relief in what would, otherwise, have been the tortures of rheumatism. The sensa- tions of a convalescent from a putrid or inflammatory fever, are so pleasing, and give such an idea of the renovation of ex- istence with all the joys it is susceptible of, that one whose feelings w^ere not before lively, would, undoubtedly, rather have had the fever, than want that new vivacity in all his energ'ies of mind and body, which the consequences of the fever, bestow. — The diseases of children are serviceable, to moderate the impatience of their tempers, and to teach them compassion, fortitude, prudence^ and patience. There is an hi^ I PERSONAL COMFORTS. 173 rcbange of mutual tenderness between e person afflicted with disease, and those ho nurse his ilhiess^ that often so much ore than compensates for the pain and xiety of the indisposition, as to change into a Comfort. What poet is it, who eflects with complacency, that he had not " knozon the madness of superfluous htaltliT^ — He had good reason so to reflect. Strong, unbroken health, betrays those who enjoy it, into excesses and follies by which it becomes, often, a mischief, instead of a blessing. Sickliness is the nurse of huma- nity and of wisdom. It has been remarked, a thousand times, that they who are weak in health, — and are, therefore, obliged to avoid robust exercise, careless exposure to natural accidents, and every excess in con- vivial or sensual enjoyment, — usually live longer, and have more true enjoyment of existence, than those whom the bounty of nature tempts to imagine their constitu- tions too strong to be injured by any thing they themselves can do, to hurt them. We never learn the true secret of enjoy- ment, till we are taught it by Disease. s J 174 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. There is no possibility of subduing man by otbermeans, to tbat prudence in tbenianage- nient of health, and the pursuit of pleasure, without which we can have no true Com- fort in life. — What are our truest Comforts in mortal existence? Are they not those which we call the Domestic Ones? But, man, nor woman neither, — never settles to the study and relish of Domestic Comforts, — till the wild oats are sown — till the hey- day of the blood is past— till he has re- ceived the frequent lessons of indisposition and disease. These are the Guides to whose care Nature commits him, to be by them conducted to the best happiness which is, in this world, within his reach. Besides, men seem to court Disease with one gene- ral consent. They abuse health with as much zeal and perseverance, as if it were an invaluable prize, to attain Disease, They use the means to get the gout, the stone, the rheum, with as active and steady diligence, as if those were their most inte- resting objects of pursuit. You can never persuade any man, that the same means will ruin his Constitution which have ruined PERSONAL COMFORTS. 175 to death those of others, till he is actually in the gripe of the Disease which he pre- tended to despise while he was running upon it. Invent certain cures for any Dis- eases, or preventives — Such as is Vaccina- tion for the Small-Pox ; — you shall find it almost impossible to persuade the world, within any reasonable time, to adopt them! Let Quacks, on the other hand, propose remedies, of the efficacy of which there ■can be little or no expectation : — All men filial I contend — who to be the first to give his money far them, — and to trifle with the use of them. It should seem — as if men hated firm and secure health, — and as if they found a singular charm in the suspense and solicitudes of a condition in perpetual un- certainty between health and illness. — When is a lovely woman so truly lovely, as when in the flushed delicacy of feverish indisposition, and in the first softness of her convalescence from it ? — Where Dis- ease has not exalted the genius, refined the feelings, and given its lessons of wisdom, — it is seldom that man attains to the exe- cution of any thing admirably great.— I7t) COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Scarce a man of Genius has distinguished himself in any of the Arts particularly de- pending on the imagination, but had known much of indisposition and disease. How many of the best efforts of human ingenuity do we owe to the Gout? It is, I think, Jean Jacques Rousseau, that men- tions the musical dreams which he had when he w^as almost in the delirium of a fever, as absolutely divine in comparison with any thing of which his waking genius was, in full health, capable ! — ^Take Dis- ease at once out of the world, with the means used to guard against it, with those persons whose profession is to live by it, with those things in our arts, manners, laws, trade, and manufactures, which have a respect to it — how little will there remain, to distinguish man from the brutes, or to render the affairs of social life at all interesting ? Disease, too, has many pri- vileges. The sickly child is ever the fa- vourite of its mother, who, the more trouble and solicitude it givies, feels it to be so much the more endeared to her. We build jalaces for the reception of such of I PERSONAL COMFORTS. 177 ur sick_, as are unable to find the neces- sary means of relief for themselves. la sickness, the mind is admitted to a con- verse with Heaven, to which it can, rarely, in full health, exalt itself — a converse which both elevates and refines the sentiments, while it gives a Comfort which nothing else in this world, can bestow ! (C. 6.) Sefi. I confess, that you have explained certain interesting advantages to be found in Sickness. You might, no doubt, enu- merate a multitude of alleviations, of which its pain and melancholy are suscep- tible. But,— what of Death ? Chear. Why, cannot you be satisfied with the Epicure's consolation ? — " I have '' had my share of the good things of this '^ life; and, now I care not though I be- " gone from it." It is time for the cater- pillar to change its form, and soar aloft on new wings ! — Who would chuse to live to the imbecility, the odiousness, and the satiety of sublunary existence which have been attributed to a Struldbrugg? Deaths 178 COMrORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. -^if not hastened by our own folly, — if not embittered by our consciousness of guilty — seldom affects with agonies so severe, as many of those which have been experi- enced, and triumphantly endured in the progress of life. How many rush to it, voluntarily ! How many boldly face it, in the field, for a shilling a day ? How many lay themselves placidly down in their beds, to receive it, as a kind and welcome friend ? Since novelty and truth are so much the very food and sustenance of our intellec- tual powers ; does not the change of Death promise of those, what itiust compensate ten thousand times for any agonies with which it may be accompanied ? 2es. I am not unwilling to receive your Consolations of Death. But, the subject is too austere for the general tenor of our present conversation. Better leave it with Drelincourt ! Merry. Yes! let us talk of those petty Comforts, which, though each be, in it- self, trivial, yet, by their frequent recur- rence, become highly important to the general happiness of life. rEHSONAL COMFORTS. 179 (C. 7.) Tes. Well ! what say you to the Com- fort, for '' a Lady in sewing, suddenly to '^ prick her finger, with the needle, to the '^bone?" Merry, Oh ! she then shares the glories of that martyr to spinster-virtues. Queen's Elizabeth's maid of honour, who died by the prick of a needle, and whose monu- ment is the pride of Westminster Abby ! It awakens the Lady's attention, season- leasure in meeting an old school- fellow, after many years separation, which is one of the liveliest the human heart is capable of. The books which we read ai school, and at college, become the favour- ite companions of all our following lifer We read them, year after year, with fresli delight: And to have read many books, of instruction and entertainment when one was very young, is, to have acquired al- most the richest of all treasures for future Comfort. We review, with social affec- tion, the scenes where our early sports were followed, and our early instruction received. Even in old age, to try one of the Games in which we delighted when at school, will often give back almost all our boyish sprightliness and activity. — Such are the Comforts which the Education of Social Life bestows ! Are not these, suffi- cient to endear society, as the source of Satisfaction, which, even alone, would leave no just reason to whine and murmur over . life, as abandoned to almost unmixed mi- 192 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. (C.4.) Tes. But, what Comfort has a School- boy when he is called to his task from a game at '' Dog and Hare_," or any similar iversion in which he is engaged with the keenest eagerness of spirits ? Merri/, He has the benefit of being seasonably withdrawn from overheating himself. He derives from this, immedi- ate Comfort ; though perhaps, he may not be over-sensible of it. And, it tends to preserve his health for future activity in the same and other sports. Had he been 'allowed to exhaust his force and ardour, all at once in the sport : — he would have been disgusted with it. But, being com- pelled to break away from it in the middle ; he will return to it, with augmented sa- tisfaction, the very first moment he can escape from his tasks. This secret was well known to the writer of Hudibras, who, to heighten the interest of the story of the Bear and Fiddle, took care_, that it should break off in the middle. It was well known, also, to the Writers of Don Quixote and of Gil Bias, who &o often interrupt the thread of a story, while the COMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. IQS reader's curiosity is in full gallop for the end of it; nor resume that thread, till af- ter a very considerable interval. Besides, the boy, if of a sullen humour, can, re- venge himself, very comfortably, on his master, by being very sulky over his les- son. If his temper be generous, manly, and sanguine ; he triumphs in a different way; and, endeavouring to master his task with rapidity, that it may return him to his sports; is insensibly warmed to an ardent delight in it, that more than makes amends for the lost pleasure, of his out-of-doors diversion. (C. 5.) Sell. But, is it not, the extreme of misery to luckless boys and girls, ''^ when *' pedantic parents or teachers, with some *' smattering knowledge, but with not one *' grain of shrewd common sense, insist '^ upon making all their sports, lessons of '• profound reason and philosophy; their '^ cards, books of Geography and History; '*■ their flying of kites, experiments ta *' electricity?" u 194 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Chear. Thus unseasonably to harrawfi childi^n with a language of abstract ideas, which their minds have not b&evt before prepared to invent or entertain, is, indeed exceedingly foolish. But, k is seldom much an annoyance to the children. The ridicule of the atteraps easily strikes their minds, and makes theim find amusement in the absurd pains of th*? unskilful teacher. Sometimes, new ima- gery and new relations are brought ;th.«<^ into view, which may tal:e the attentiaut -even of idle, waggish children. And, in this cuse, the reason is agreeably improvcxS, iind the inventive faculties are pushed into* activity. When the pupil is not amused either in seriousness or in frolic; he has the Comfort of escaping, in fancy, fra^m the scene ; and is, of course, not so mucli a sufferer as a gainer in amusement, by the annoying and unseasonablx3 philosophy of his instructor. The only case in which he can be truly a loser by the matter, is, when, without due intelligence, he fancies, that he can enter into it; and becomes con amore, aw ujie:ili;_^htened smatterer in eOM FORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. IQS science, a mere Hocus Pocus dealer in experiments, the very fool of words, like bis master. Oh ! how 1 have sometimes been impatient to break the heads of old fools, who were teizing children to death with the repetition of terms which they did not themselves understand, — and in legard to which the Children had no inter- mediate ideas by the aid of which to seize tliem, — as clear illustrations in philosophy? Oh J how I dislike a boy that is scarce sooner in breeches than he begins to figure as a parrot of pedantry or philosophy ! — (C. 6.) Tes. '* Tlie teizings of a Dancing- Mas- ** ter, insisting on a boy or a girl to turn " out the toes, to hold up the head, and ** to beat time with the steps to the mu- ''sic?"-~ Merry. Oh! in this case, the impor- tance of the personage and of his instruc- tions, cannot fail of reconciling the little pupil to every injunction he gives! Every ksson, however otherwise teizing, is com- u 2 KjG COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. fortable as a pre])aration for the joys of s^ dancing-school ball. (C. 7.) iVTes, '^ A raw young lad from a remote •'^^otintry-school with jealous, delicate ^' feelings,, but an entire stranger to the ^' ways of the worlds — harrassed to death ^' by the waggish mischief of his compa-! '^ nions at college?" Sen. Ah 1 that was my fate ! Chear. Ah! and it was mine! But, you know, how I triumphed over it! Sen, Not I, — I was too much occupied with my own distresses and chagrins, to waste a thought upon those of others. Chear. While the rogues, of whom I think Testy was one, did with you, as did the withered old man, in the Arabian Tale, who persuaded the traveller to take him upon his shoulders, then squeezed the luckless bearer, about the neck, almost to suffocation, and would not suffer him af- terwards to lay down his burthen, or to mOve, but as the rider pleased ; — I, on the contrary, rather made myself merry eOMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. 197 with the tricks directed against myself; and thus became able to baffle them alJ; and to retaliate them, with more than equal force, upon their authors. — The first attempts of our merry young friends were upon my dress. There they were successful. They persuaded me to crop, my long queue, to comb my front hair over my eyes, to alter the cut of my whis- kers, to bedaub myself with oat-meal for li air-powder, to hang my head over the left shoulder, and to w^ear my boots and gaiters in a fashion incomparably ridicu- lous. I was unconscious of the ridicule; and thought, that I was thus rendered by my friends' kindness, a young sprig of fashion, even within the first ten days, after my arrival in Edinburgh. The Secret was quickly whispered round: And none of my fellows met me in the streets but with an ambisruous smile on his counte- nance, which was changed instantane- ously into bursting laughter. At last, the ridicule was too strong to escape even mv own notice, i conecied what was the most extravaij^ant in mv dress; and to the I :> IDS COMFOHTS OF HUMAN LIFK. essential benefit of my studies, gave up all pretensions to fashion. I could not, for many months after, hold up my head in the presence of any one of those before whojn I had begun to strut as a beau. But,, the authors, of my shame, failed not to distinguish me by the appellation of Beau ClKiarful, for the rest of tlie winter. — Those same lads of humour were never again able to ensnare me into any similar folly. But, I was assailed by others who conceived, that merriment might be ex- tracted, in a dilFerent way, out of my in- genuous simplicity. They misinformed me, of purpose, in regard to the wishes of the professors and the rules of the college. They excited me to write essays of both poetry and prose on occasions absurdly ridiculous. They engaged me in laughable contests of literary emulation with others who were equally butts of their mis- chievous humour. Naj^, I remember, I was once silly enough to allow myself tobe per- suaded to try the Laputan method of mas- tering a difficult proposition in Euclid — to reduce the leaf of my book that contained COMFORTS Of SOCIAL LIFE. 199 it, to a powder, and to swallow it in a glass of water, on a morning, tasiing. At another time, I was enticed to believe; that, in the neighbourhood of London, somewhere?, and on the banks of the Thames, a young man was wanted to re- side seven years in the solitude of a her- mitage well-stored witli, books; and that his reward, at the end of that time, was to be, certain introduction to a career of rapid advancement to the highest offices in the Church or in the State. The offer was just to my wishes. I was preparing to set out to present myself as a Candidate for the situation, when the affair came to the cars of one of the Professors, whose sea- sonable advice interrupted the progress of this adventure. But, I was more diverted and instructed, than chagrined, by those errors of abused simplicity, and by the ridicule they ex- posed me to. While I was the dupe of the mischievous artifice, you may be sure I suffered no pain from it. When I found it out to be an imposture practised on my ."simplicity, the pain of the discovery was 200 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. suppressed by the satisfaction I felt^ that I had not been later in making it. The lessons which mischievous humour and ri- dicule thus gave, were deep impressed upon my mind, and contributed the most essentially to its improvement in common sense. That momentary offence which 1 could not but fee^ with' the authors of my disgrace, was effaced from my mind, the instant they assured me, it was all a harm- less joke, such as none could have a right to be offended with. Yet, upon reflexion, I secretly discovered so much more of wanton malignity, than of honest merri- ment in the joke, that I resolved never in life, to sport so, myself, with the ingenu- ous feelings of others. My emulation, too, was roused by the praise of cleverness which I heard bestowed on the wags who had so outwitted me. I resolved to keep upon my guard ; and, whenever they should assail me again, to shew myself, if pos- sible, more than a match for them at their own weapons. I succeeded in all. And you will not, I think, deny, that, so suc- ceeding, I had much more comfort than COMFORTS OF SOCIAL MFE. iC^ ^cxation^ iu the tricks the wags played off against inc. Sen. Would, that I had hcen eqnalljr fortunate ! But, our friend Test}^, then the very chief of the wags you mention, took a particular fancy for me, fastened himself upon me, and, under pretence of being my protector against mischievous tricks, contrived to drop a sort of slow poison into every nipperkin of sweets that Nature or Society held out to me. — But, our late conversations have restored me to myself, And, I forgive him. Tes, It is true that I took delight, when a stripling at college, in such pranks of trivial mischief, as you, Chearful, have described. Equally true is it, that I firsi; cultivated Sensitive's friendship, of pur- pose to make him, by the tenderness and despondency of his feelings, the frequent butt of my own wit and ironical humour. — ^ But, to confess the truth, I have since paid too dear, a thousand times, for wliatevei; satisfaction I had in betraying my simplevr fellow-students into ridiculous vexations. That spirit gave me a habit of vieMfkig dB 94 I 202 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. every thing still in the worst light, and of finding out matter of vexation to my neighbours and myself, where almost any other man would have missed it. 1 owe most of the miseries I complain of, to that early habit of sarcastic remark and of growling complaint, which I affected so much when I was at the University. And if I have made Sensitive now and then more tremulously uneasy, than I could have wished; — I have suffered nearly as much myself: while, every day, my un- lucky discernment becomes more sharp- sighted to the detection of evils; and, everyday, I am touched with the discovery in a manner approaching nearer and nearer to Sensitive's morbid sensibility. Well may my old friend forgive me. On him I have long ceased to play by irony or mischievous fiction. And, such is th« force of habit ; and so interesting to me are still the tenderness and plaintive gen- tleness of his spirit; that 1 should not, now, know how to forego his society and converse. Sen. Enough ! enough ! As little should I be able to endure, for any length of COMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. 203 time, the want of your conversation. In future, however, let us be somewhat less industrious in using the microscope for the discovery of matters of vexation and disgust ! (C. 8.) Merry, These expressions of mutual FRIENDSHIP between you, are worthy of the ingenuous integrity of your characters. Friendship is another of those Comforts of Social Life which forbid man to fall out with his fellows, on account of any petty uneasinesses he may suffer among them. However this relation of sentiments may arise between any two persons, it can subsist only where there is a reciprocal es- teem of virtues and abilities, no direct and known competition of interests, a mutual accommodation of tempers, and some- thing congenial in knowledge, habits, and pursuits. Where these pre-requisites sub- sist between any two persons; and they enjoy opportunities sufficiently frequent of mutual converse; it is unavoidable, that they should be much endeared to one an- other. They sympathize more perfectly ia 204 COMFORtS OF HUMAN LlFR, each other's feelings, than it would be pc sible in the relations of slighter acquain- ance. They are united, ever^r day mo- closely, in their interests, tastes, and pi- suits. The idea of the one is, to the oth(, associated with almost every object of Is amusement or regard. They redouble m- tually to one another^ for each, his pow-s of activity, of defence, of research, f communication, and of virtuous enjoym t of almost every species. That appetite r society with which the Author of Nat c has framed us; and the disposition in' - rent in every one to do to others, all - good he can, without a sacrifice of is own interests, real or fancied; evince is to have been destined for friendship, is one of the highest advantages compatilc with our condition. But, such would nc?r have been our native destination, if it ltd not been in the very nature of the thig, that friendship should prove to us, a soice of peculiar Comforts. We enter, in le very dawn of life, into that intimacyof connexion with those who are the nea^st reas€ the attachment to the most elevated enthusiasm. The different parts which be- long to them, in their mutual friendship^ harmonize much more entirely, than the reciprocal good offices in the friendship between man and man. Tlie converse of the woman gives delicacy of taste, of af- fection, of passion, of moral discrimina- tion, to the man : it gives purity, facility^ COMFORTS or SOCIAL LIFE. 20^ and elegant lightness of phraseology and elocution: it gives that inexpressible, irre- sistible grace of manner, quod nequeo mon- strare, et sentio tantiim ! On the other hand, the converse of the man communicates to the mind of the female, new strength of reason, new enlargement of views, a new superiority to trivial interests, and to pas- sionate disturbance of the heart about ob- jects unworthy of its regard, a firmer dis- position to sacrifice small present to great future interests, boldness, fortitude, and, perhaps a more perfect simplicity of man- ner. Gibbon is no where in his works, more elegantly tender, or more truly inte- resting, than, when, in his Memoir."*, he regrets, that he had not had a sister who might have been the domestic friend of his life, and mentions the superior perfec- tion of a virtuous friendship between two persons different in sex, with a preference nearly similar to that with which 1 incline to regard it. The value of such a friend- ship is eminently illustrated in the account, of the correspondence between him, and his aunt and mother-in-law^ and of tlie X 3 •210 COMFORTS OF HUMAN Lli^E. manner in which he lived, when in their society. I might quote yet another instance of a friendship, pure, exalted, and cordial, in which, the strength and delicacy of the sentiment were eminently displayed. Tho friendship between the late Great Lord Viscount Nelson, and a Lady whose genius and virtues were the pride of the Court of Naples, as they are, now, the ornament and charm of the society in which she lives ir\ this country ; I mean Lady Hamilton. Calumny itself has ceased to impeach the purity of that distinguished friend- ship. Testimony, the best informed and the most unexceptionable in integrity, vouches for its sanctity and honour. It was animated by a patriotism in which the Lady, by her influence at the Court of Naples, and by her vigilance for the inter- ests of Britain, contributed, in a critical moment, and in a manner the most es- sential, to the greatest of the Hero's sue* cesses.^ Its honour, no less than its delicacy, * See Mr. Harrison's Life of Lord Nelson. COMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. 2U was attested by the dying remembrances of his Lordship towards his inestimable friend, and by the nature of the bequests which he confided to her tenderness and her vir- tue. The justice and truth of an attesta- tion so solemn and so high, are confirmed by the unambitious elegance of her Lady- ship's life in her present retirement, by the unaffected delicacy, sanctity and graceful propriety of her manners, by that unwea- ried and enchanting goodness of heart with which she, without one grain of os- tention, makes herself so eminently, au angel of mercy and sweet benignity to tlie necessitous and deserving ! Tes, May Cancer consume the tongue that utters a word to the contrary ! — But, if virtuous friendship between man and woman give all these felicities, — what re- mains to be derived from Matrimony ? (C. 9.) Chear. Will yon hear a batchelor upon this topic? or will you not rather declare the result of your own experience? We know well, that it has not beeu unhappy. 212 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. Tes. Na}' ! let us hear a batchelor's praise of the Married State? Sen. Ay ! prithee do, Chearful ! My feelings will not allow me to speak on the subject. 1 have known what it is to have one of the best of wives! and — alas! I have known what it is to lose her ! Chear. In marriage, the characters and interests of any two worthy persons whom it may unite, are more entirely identified, than in the relations of friendship merely. Such friendship as has been described, mai/ exist between Man and Woman. But, it is the peculiar excellence of marri- aa,e that its circumstances tend always to create an unity of character and interests between two persons, such as cannot take place in any of the other relations of life — The child is, a while in dependence on his parents: but, he is destined to be sepa- rated from them even at an early age, to fill his mind with a^ssociations of ideas dif- ferent from theirs, to have other compa- nions, to view as it were a new wo rid and with different eyes, to become himself, in time, the head of a new family having COMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. 213 new and separate interests. The brothers and sisters, children of the same parents, have, — in their common relation to those parents, in the early society which results iVom that association, in their habitual ac- quaintance in early life with the same sub- jects of thought and conversation, in their being nearly of that equality ofage at which we are, all^ much on a level in the res- pects of experience or ignorance, sanguine hope, similarity of passions and pursuits, and in their having been a while in the little domestic circle, almost all the world to one another, — have a multiplicity of interesting ties to bind them inseparably in happy friendship. Nature has even done move to make them live in friendship together, than it is possible for her to accomplish in favour of any whose re- lations of consanguinity or affinity are reciprocally more remote. Yet, their views in life do not proceed within the same lines, arc not circumscribed within the sauic horizon, do not terminate in one point. They are destined to dif- tjeient fiuictions, ditlercnt local situations. 214 COMFORTS OF HUMAN LIFE. separate family-connexions, respectively peculiar duties. Their tender affections are not to be of necessity concentered upon one another. It is in nature, that they should be gradually turned away upon other objects. It is unavoidable, that the fraternal relations^ interesting and impor- tant as tbey are, should, by degrees, give place, to new relations of love, of friend- ship, of conjugal union, and of paternity. They mellow, as it were away, — somewhat — as the oil or alcobol evaporates from the fixing paint which it had served to liquefy, — as the butterfly is, in its new existence, emancipated from the relations of the caterpillar, — as the chemical elements of bodies, are gradually attracted out of one set of combinations into another.— Not such is tbe natural and necessary course of the connexion between husband and wife. Even the spell of love is not dissolved by their union. If it exist between them, with virtue, delicacy, personal cleanliness, and good sense, — the cbarm acquires con- tinually new power, — the longer they live together, under it. Mutual kindness and COMFORTS OF SOCIAL LIFE. 215 mutual partiality of esteem, are the nectar and ambrosia upon which it feeds and grows. Because the young and virtuous wife knows herself to be dearer and more amiable tlian all the world besides in her husband's eyes, for that very reason he i^ dearer and more estimable than all others in the world, to her. These interesting prepossessions tend continually to exalt and intlame one another. Even the ab- scence ui' those solicitudes which are said to be of the essence of love, is not suffici- ent, in this case, to abate the passion. The habit